The City on a Hill and Its Shadows

America has always been a nation of ideas. Among the most enduring is the notion that we are a special people: blessed, chosen, set apart. This idea appears again and again in our politics, our culture, and our self-understanding. Few moments crystallize it as clearly as the 1630 sermon given by Puritan leader John Winthrop aboard the ship Arbella, bound for New England.

In that sermon, Winthrop urged his fellow travelers to live righteously and in covenant with God, warning that “we shall be as a city upon a hill—the eyes of all people are upon us.” The phrase, lifted from the Gospel of Matthew, placed these settlers not just in a new land, but in a divine drama. Their success or failure would be witnessed by the world.

That vision became part of the American mythos. Over time, it would be reinterpreted, expanded, and applied far beyond Winthrop’s original context. Presidents have quoted it. Political parties across the spectrum have embraced it. It shows up in schoolrooms and speeches, in war propaganda and Silicon Valley mission statements. We still imagine ourselves on a hill, watched, exceptional, meant to lead.

But every light casts a shadow.

The Roots of the Vision

Winthrop’s “city upon a hill” speech came from a Calvinist worldview: a theology shaped by the Protestant Reformation, especially the writings of John Calvin. In this worldview, God is sovereign and unknowable, salvation is predestined, and human beings are naturally sinful and in need of divine grace.

These beliefs had emotional and social consequences. If salvation is predetermined, how can anyone be sure of their standing with God? For many Calvinists, the answer became visible righteousness: a disciplined, upright life was not a guarantee of salvation, but it might be a sign of it. The community watched itself closely. Behavior mattered. Discipline mattered. Success, even material success, could be interpreted as evidence of divine favor.

This logic shaped the early Puritan colonies. These were not places of laissez-faire freedom. They were communities structured around a shared religious mission. Dissent was punished. Morality was communal. The world was a test, and the eyes of all people, especially God, were upon them.

The Emotional Inheritance

Centuries later, most Americans are not Calvinists. Many don’t even know what Calvinism is. But the emotional architecture of Winthrop’s world remains.

We still believe in visibility. We still equate success with virtue and failure with moral flaw. We still imagine that if we behave correctly, we will be rewarded not just by society, but by something higher.

This belief system rewards discipline and punishes deviation. It fuels American ideals of self-reliance, grit, and achievement. It also creates immense pressure: to perform, to succeed, to be visibly good. And when people fall short, through poverty, addiction, illness, or other human struggles, we often treat them not just as unfortunate, but as morally suspect.

We are still trying to prove we belong in the city on the hill.

Shadows at the Edge

The shadow side of this vision is exclusion. If righteousness is visible, then those who don’t conform must not be righteous. If success is proof of worth, then failure must be proof of unworthiness. And if we are a chosen people, then others must be unchosen.

These ideas have justified enormous harm. The persecution of dissenters in the colonies. The dispossession of Indigenous peoples. The enslavement of Africans. The suspicion of immigrants. The harshness of our criminal justice system. The way we treat poverty as a personal failure rather than a social reality.

Calvinist theology didn’t cause all of this, but it provided a frame, a way of seeing the world that made exclusion seem morally justified.

Why It Still Matters

Winthrop’s sermon was delivered almost 400 years ago. Why should it matter now?

• Because we are still living in the house he helped build.

• Because our political rhetoric still draws on these old ideas.

• Because our debates about welfare, policing, education, and identity are still shaped by questions of who is worthy and who gets to be seen as part of the city on the hill.

  
  

Understanding the emotional and theological roots of American exceptionalism doesn’t mean rejecting all of it. It means interrogating it, asking what it includes, what it excludes, and who gets to decide.

Looking Forward

This is the first in a series of essays tracing how these ideas have evolved over time and how they’ve shaped American identity, policy, and power. We’ll explore how Calvinist logic shows up in everything from capitalism to racial inequality to modern self-help culture.

This history is not neat. It is not always comfortable. But it offers insight into why we believe what we believe, and what might be possible if we chose to believe differently.

Because if we truly are a city upon a hill, then we are also its architects. And we still have time to build something more just.

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Author’s Note: A Cultural Outsider’s View

I’m not a theologian, nor am I a Christian. I write as a cultural observer: someone deeply interested in how ideas ripple out into institutions, expectations, and everyday life. This article doesn’t critique Calvinism as a religion, but explores how certain Calvinist ideas, once exported to early America, were repurposed into a broader cultural logic.

If you're a practicing Calvinist, you may disagree with my framing, and I welcome that. Scholars like Tim Keller or Michael Horton, for example, present very different interpretations of Calvin’s legacy, emphasizing grace, humility, and the rejection of self-righteousness.

History shows that theology, like all belief systems, doesn’t live in a vacuum. It gets filtered through politics, ambition, fear, and cultural evolution. And sometimes, ideas meant to uplift get twisted into tools for control. That’s what this series explores—not what Calvin intended, but what America built in his shadow.