Purity and Power

What Happens When Righteousness Becomes a Ruler’s Armor?

It begins with the sense that someone must be watching. Not just your neighbors. Not just the Church. But someone higher. Someone eternal.

From this idea comes a powerful motivator: the desire to be seen as righteous. That desire can lead to deep moral ambition—building fairer laws, resisting corruption, doing the right thing even when it’s hard. But it can also become something else: a public performance of purity. A justification for harshness. A way to crush dissent.

Few figures capture this tension better than Oliver Cromwell.

A “Pure” Revolution

In the 1640s, the English Civil War shook the foundation of monarchy and divine right. For many, King Charles I symbolized everything corrupt about power: greed, authoritarianism, and religious tyranny. A broad alliance of rebels rose up against him, including Puritans, Parliamentarians, and reform-minded citizens. They did not all share the same goals, but they were united by a belief that something cleaner, godlier, and more just was possible.

To many of them, Cromwell seemed like the man to lead that charge. He wasn’t a nobleman. He came from the gentry. He was known for his strong Puritan faith and personal discipline. He emphasized virtue and merit over birthright. Cromwell presented himself as a man who could cleanse England of corruption. He was seen as a man of godliness instead of greed, discipline instead of decadence, and earned success instead of inherited power.

When the revolution succeeded and King Charles I was executed in 1649, Cromwell helped establish a short-lived English republic. He ruled as Lord Protector rather than king. In practice, however, he wielded extraordinary power.

The Irony of Purity

Once Cromwell was in power, his devotion to purity became dangerous. He suppressed dissenting voices, including other Puritans who disagreed with him. He imposed strict moral laws and curtailed cultural expression. His government banned theater, music, and even Christmas celebrations. He also placed his own son in line to succeed him, mimicking the same hereditary politics he once opposed.

Cromwell's most egregious acts came during his brutal campaign in Ireland. In 1649, his army laid siege to the town of Drogheda. After the town fell, Cromwell ordered the mass execution of nearly 3,500 people, including civilians, Catholic clergy, and prisoners of war. Survivors described it as a massacre. He defended the slaughter by claiming it was God's judgment.

This event was not an isolated failure. It was a sign of how far Cromwell had moved from the ideals he once claimed to uphold. He had become the kind of ruler the revolution was supposed to end.

The American Inheritance

This contradiction did not die with Cromwell. It crossed the Atlantic.

In New England, early Puritan colonies tried to build godly commonwealths: tightly bound communities governed by strict religious rules. These were not full theocracies, but they came close. Dissenters were punished or banished. Indigenous people were converted or killed. The goal was moral order, not pluralism.

This mindset shaped American institutions in lasting ways:

• A belief that leadership should reflect personal morality, even outside of elections.

• A tendency to justify political power with religious values.

• A suspicion of pleasure and self-expression.

• A pattern of suppressing dissent in the name of communal righteousness.

Cromwell’s shadow lingered in these early American experiments.

The Shadow Side

Cromwell’s dream of a godly republic collapsed shortly after his death. But the fear of pleasure and distrust of dissent continued to echo through American life.

Cromwell never set foot in the New World. Yet his rise and fall offered an example that early settlers could not ignore. Many of the first Puritans had fled England before his rule, escaping Charles I in search of religious autonomy. When Cromwell later overthrew the monarchy and promised a godly republic, it may have seemed to vindicate their vision. His eventual descent into centralized power, religious enforcement, and moral legislation showed the dangers of unchecked authority. Whether as inspiration or warning, his story shaped the imagination of those building new communities across the Atlantic.

When the monarchy was restored in 1660, migration to New England increased again, fueled by fears of royalist and Anglican dominance. Even at a distance, Cromwell’s life suggested lessons worth heeding: that virtue could triumph, but only if guarded with vigilance; that the moral health of a community might justify extraordinary control. In the colonies, these ideas found fertile ground in town halls, pulpits, and early laws—and their influence lingers still.

In the United States, this culture of control often came less from governments than from communities. It was enforced through churches, schools, and social pressure. People policed each other’s behavior, language, sexuality, and even emotions. Those who did not conform were shamed, punished, or excluded.

This was not only about religious conservatism. It was about who counted as good: who belonged, who could be trusted, and what kind of suffering was expected.

“If absolute power corrupts absolutely, does absolute powerlessness make you pure?” ― Harry Shearer

We can still see the traces today:

• In schools that punish children for natural curiosity or expression, all in the name of order.

• In purity culture that ties virtue to virginity, especially for girls.

• In social policies that treat poverty as a personal failure.

• In the belief that pleasure weakens character, while pain builds strength.

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These instincts are not always written into law, but they carry enormous influence.

Complexity, Not Condemnation

It is tempting to see all of this as hypocrisy. But the history is more complex.

The early Puritans—and Cromwell himself—genuinely believed in building a better world. Their rejection of corruption, their commitment to just governance, and their focus on inner discipline were not purely cynical. These were deeply held values.

The problem was not moral ambition itself.The problem was what happened when that ambition hardened into self-righteousness.

We still see this today. People enter public life with noble goals but become rigid or authoritarian. Institutions designed to protect become tools of punishment. Communities that once uplifted their members begin to punish them for failing to be perfect.

A desire for goodness becomes a fear of imperfection.And that fear becomes a weapon.

Looking Ahead

In the next article, we will look at the other side of the Calvinist legacy: innovation.

If Calvinism taught Americans to master themselves, it also taught them to build the world around them. To delay gratification. To believe that they had a personal calling. To create something meaningful.

This drive would leave a different mark on American culture—one tied not to purity, but to progress.

Would you like a version of this with footnotes or links to historical sources (e.g. on Drogheda or Puritan laws)?