“All Pretend an Holy War”: Radical Beliefs and the Rejection of Persecution in the Mind of Roger Williams

Beliefs are potentially dangerous—and they are also unavoidable. Every reader of this article holds beliefs on important issues like the existence or nonexistence of God, human worth, justice, group-identity, hierarchy, interpersonal-obligation, the use of legitimate force, and what it means to live the good life. It is likely that someone, somewhere has used beliefs similar to one’s own towards disastrous ends. The dangerous potential of beliefs, thankfully, is only one side of the coin. There are few things as powerful and as beautiful as a well-articulated, human-dignifying conviction. A person who upholds human dignity may share core beliefs with one who denigrates it.

This article is about Roger Williams (c.1603–1683)—a zealous Protestant Christian in the 17^th century who held many beliefs that modern scholars might find dangerous. Given his beliefs and the circumstances of his life, he seems a likely candidate for justifying killing and coercion through his faith. Williams, however, is remembered today for tirelessly advocating freedom of conscience, toleration, and the rejection of fighting over faith. Most of his contemporaries dismissed his ideas—though “an ever-growing chorus” of like-minded thinkers joined him (Cookson 2001, 57). He shared core beliefs with those who persecuted him. What made the difference? Miroslav Volf comments:

Both [Williams and John Winthrop] were devout Christians, and both were religious exclusivists. Yet Winthrop’s religious exclusivism led to political exclusivism, and Williams’s to political pluralism. The content of faith—what in the repertoire of the Christian faith each found important to emphasize and how each fitted what he emphasized into the whole—made the difference, not the force or exclusivity of conviction. (2015, 151–152)

This article shows how minor adjustments in what Williams believed and how he held these beliefs made a significant difference.

Bringing the claims of modern scholarship into conversation with a historical figure is fraught with complications. Williams was certainly not addressing his works to the modern situation and most modern scholars of religion and violence do not interact with him. Violent cults or militant Islam occasions much of their work. Christian coercion and killing occasioned Williams’ work. The qualifications could go on.

Monumental works like the Blackwell Companion to Religion and Violence, The Oxford Handbook of Religion and Violence, and the four-volume The Destructive Power of Religion endeavor to parse the relationship between religion and violence (Ellens 2004; Juergensmeyer, Kitts, and Jerryson 2013; Murphy 2011). Contributors employ a plethora of definitions of both “religion” and “violence” while making hundreds of claims about the relationship between the two. With reference to the term “religion,” William Cavanaugh is the foremost challenger—with good reason—of the very category of “religious violence” (2009; cf. Nongbri 2013). Ephraim Radner helpfully engages with the strengths and weaknesses in Cavanaugh’s argument (2012, 1–61). Religious violence is often assumed to be irrational, groundless, and unlimited in scope while secular violence is rational, just, and restrained. Cavanaugh argues that categorizing something as “religious violence”—besides being linguistically and historically problematic—allows the observer to marginalize the religious while simultaneously letting “secular” killing go unquestioned. On the other side, the New Atheists are well known for their assertion that religion is irrational and especially prone to harmful behavior. “Religious violence” seems to be simultaneously ubiquitous and non-existent. In what follows, I make many claims about modern scholarship on religion and violence. Due to the constraints of this paper, I refer the reader to my summary article in The Journal of Religion and Violence (Rowley 2014).

This article reconsiders both “religion” and what it means to be “radical.” One biography of Roger Williams is entitled The Gentle Radical and a recent work, Radicals in their Own Time, places Williams alongside the likes of Thomas Paine and W. E. B. Du Bois (Covey 1966; Lawrence 2011). However, “radical” and “moderate” are problematic categories. In The Rule of Moderation, Ethan Shagan challenges assumptions concerning moderation—as people claimed moderation in order to justify coercion (2011). Those who believed they stood between popery and anarchy banished Williams. Williams, on the other hand, positioned himself between coercive Puritans and licentious Quakers (CW V:1–503). As with “religion,” the terms “radical” and “radicalism” are problematic when applied historically—particularly due to issues of anachronism (Burgess 2007).

Historiography

By one estimate, more biographies have been written about Roger Williams than any other American prior to Benjamin Franklin (LaFantasie 1987, 95–96). A recent biographer credited him with giving rise to half of the American soul (Barry 2012, 346). Miroslav Volf recently said one could “plausibly describe [him] as the father of political pluralism” (2015, 151–152). Williams not only theorized about toleration, he practiced it by extending rights to others (Nussbaum 2008, 355). His principles were repeatedly tested—especially when balancing individual freedom and group security. Scholars debate his overall impact, especially with reference to John Locke. However, it is clear that decades before Locke, Roger Williams and William Penn (founder of Pennsylvania) “offered more ambitious theories, with a more robust understanding of the individual conscience and a broader range of protected beliefs and behaviors” (Murphy 2016, 252).

L. Raymond Camp divides the historiography on Williams into three periods: “the negative, the romantic and the revisionist” (1989, i; cf. Rubertone 2001, 3–66). Though Williams had friendly relations with many prominent people in his own day, his overall reception was that of rejection. In the “romantic” period, Williams was made to advocate positions he categorically rejected. Historians often downplayed the religious and scriptural roots of his thought. In the middle of the 20^th century, Perry Miller helped return Williams to his 17^th-century context by emphasizing theology and scripture (1963, 5–25). In the six volumes of Williams’ collected works (abbreviated CW 1963) and the two volumes of correspondence (abbreviated CRW 1988), he rarely goes a paragraph without citing from, alluding to, or making an inference from scripture or theology. In the words of James Calvin Davis, Williams “was a Puritan, and a rather orthodox and extreme one at that, with a theological stringency that sometimes made” other Puritans “look like capitulating religious liberals” (2004, xi).

Biography

Living though much of the tumultuous Stuart period, Williams was an interesting man who lived in even more interesting times. At a young age, he was apprenticed to the eminent Sir Edward Coke, educated at Cambridge, and, under increasing ecclesiastical pressure, fled to a welcoming New England. Once there, he was banished for taking the logic of Puritanism (and even Separatism) further than most felt comfortable. He established Rhode Island as a haven for those seeking freedom of conscience, and engaged (in person and print) in some of the most important discussions in Old and New England.

Upon banishment from Massachusetts Bay Colony, Williams eventually made his way southwest into Narragansett land in what is now the state of Rhode Island. Having developed good relations with the Narragansett sachems (tribal leaders), he was given permission to settle (Bartlett, Records of the Colony of Rhode Island I:18). He founded “a shelter for persons distressed of conscience” (Recs. RI I, 22). Though he worshiped a “God of order,” most thought his community would descend into anarchy (LaFantasie 1988, 673). The very idea of “toleration” was not only counterintuitive—it was often considered abhorrent, God-dishonoring, and dangerous (Coffey 2000, 21–46; Walsham 2006, 39–105; Zagorin 2003).

Rhode Island established a “Democraticall” government—a rather controversial arrangement since many Europeans still viewed democracy itself as a perversion of order (Recs. RI I, 156). The use of legal as opposed to scriptural reasoning in Rhode Island is striking (Recs. RI I, 160–208). In many cases, Rhode Island and Massachusetts arrived at a similar law, yet they grounded the conclusion very differently. A charter from Charles II described the Rhode Island colony as “a livlie experiment.” They were testing if “a most flourishing civill state may stand and best bee maintained” if it allows for “full libertie in religious concernements” (Charles II 1663). Many had their doubts and were more than willing to watch—and even help—the experiment fail.

Radical Beliefs and the Rejection of Persecution

Before examining Williams’ beliefs about coercion and killing in the name of God, we will consider his more practical and observational—though no less theological—arguments. This is not because his arguments were primarily pragmatic. Rather, Williams believed his theological conclusions accorded with the observable world.

There was, in Williams’ mind, no clear, direct, and consistent connection between godliness and a politically or financially stable society. Neither was victory in battle proof of divine affirmation, since Protestants had comparatively few (CW III, 189–190). Many heathens enjoyed success and had stable governments (CW III, 72–73, 250–251; IV, 170, 189, 200; VII, 215). The tolerant Dutch were prosperous while intolerant nations shook with instability (CW III, 285–286). He believed forced uniformity threatened all and lead to civil unrest (CW III, 80, 96, 237; VII, 229). Rather than blaming dissenters, he believed persecutors were primarily the peace-breakers (CW IV, 69–71, 113).

Williams believed all humans had the capacity to arrive at many similar laws, eschewing “Murther, Adultery, Theft, Lying.” Upon transgression, they “are easily convinced and ashamed” (CW VII, 263). He hated religious and political chaos and injustice and he believed there were legitimate uses for the civil sword (e.g. CW III, 108–109, 129–132; VII, 38–39; CRW II, 408–416). He even said that the armed defense of the “innocent” could be “godly” (CW III, 59). He denied, however, ever putting forward “an infinite Liberty of Conscience” (CRW II, 423–425). One should prevent or punish certain harmful acts—even when done in the name of religion (CW IV, 90–91). Williams’ illustrated the role of legitimate authority in his famous “ship of state” letter. The captain has every right to require passengers of any faith to pay for the service, perform certain duties, and act with civility. The captain has no right to compel them to pray or attend worship (CRW II, 423–425).

He observed that his opponents, in reality, tolerated many persons and behaviors. If toleration was a sin, then the godly should coerce or kill more people—in fact, most of the world (CW III, 270, 282). By pushing the logic, he hoped they would abandon the original premise. Force was also counterproductive. It frequently hardened and confirmed opinions (CW III, 139). It also created hypocrites and fair-weather believers (CW III, 138–139, 258–259, 291, 354, 369; IV, 208–209). A “Protestant” hypocrite was more dangerous than an outright “Jew, Turke or Papist” (CW IV, 208). Conversely, a mystical and spiritual wolf could be a good leader, subject, or citizen (CW III, 142, 246–247; IV, 174–175). Williams flagged the illegitimate nature of religious coercion through his word choice. It was “a soul-rape, and tyranny, and a meer policy of Satan” (CW VII, 210). However, God delights “in a willing people” (CW VII, 269). Not only was it “Soul-rape” en masse, it also forced the godly into an ecclesiastical bed with the spiritually filthy (CW VII, 268).

Williams believed people were the foundation of government (CW III, 249, 297, 366; VII, 236). Every servant of the people—in all the world—was also a servant of God. Yet it did not follow that this servant had any right to decide spiritual matters (CW III, 161–164; IV, 187, 198–199). Separating church and state respected both and led to peace (CW III, 232). Long before Thomas Jefferson, Williams argued for a “hedge or wall of Separation between the Garden of the Church and the Wilderness of the world” (CW I, 108). This was mainly to protect the Church’s purity. The higher spiritual power did not need the lower civil power to fight its battles (CW III, 148–150, 160, 201; IV, 165–167). As history evidenced, the church actually thrived under pressure (CW III, 244–245). It was well supplied with spiritual weapons to fight spiritual enemies (CW III, 90–91, 144–146, 262–264; VII, 263–264). Christians who resorted to physical coercion lacked confidence in God’s ability to convert and protect (CW III, 138–139; IV, 146).

Toleration and the Accumulation of Convictions

Any treatment of Williams’ ideas should begin with the certainty of his convictions. Certainty, of many varieties, lies at the bottom of most conflicts. He hated false teachers who taught damnable heresy. Leading a soul astray was worse that blowing up Parliament or slitting a King’s throat (CW III, 125). He devoted his life to supplanting a teaching—“the bloody Doctrine of Persecution”—because he thought this teaching was wrong (CW III, 11). Though many exegetical discussions seem needlessly verbose, lives were literally at stake. This is nowhere more evident than in his reinterpretation of the parable of the wheat and tares—a misunderstood parable that undergirded centuries of coercion and killing (Byrd 2002, 231–232; cf. 87–127).

Williams argued forcefully against coercion, in language full of indicatives: “It is the will and command of God, that (since the comming of his Sonne the Lord Jesus) a permission of the most Paganish, Jewish, Turkish, or Antichristian consciences and worships, bee granted to all men in all Nations and Countries” (CW III, 3). Later, he addressed Parliament and affirmed the words of Maximilian II: “There is no sin ordinarily greater against God …  then to use violence against the Consciences of men.” Elsewhere he asserted: “I doe humbly concieve, that it is the will of the most High, and the expresse and absolute Duty of the civill powers to proclaim an absolute freedom in [England, Scotland and Ireland], yea in all the world” (CW VII, 174). Williams tempered his certitude with humility and a realism concerning human nature. He recognized that differences were normal and not likely to go away (CW III, 217–218; LaFantasie 1988, 238–240, 353–355). When fighting, everyone believes their side right: “all pretend an Holy War … . He that kills, and he that’s killed, they both cry out, It is for God, and for their Conscience” (CW III, 58; cf. VII, 204, 222, 270). Only an act of God could bring perfect agreement—and coercion was not an appropriate means of breaking the stalemate (CRW I, 238–240).

The New Testament commands Christians to keep themselves pure (Eph 5:27) and remain unified (I Cor 1:10). However, unity and purity seemed to work against each other. The Puritans wanted a pure church—Williams wanted it purer (Morgan 2006, 28–61). He pushed the purity principle so far that he gave up finding a completely pure church. The ideal church was humanly unattainable—and the bloodshed caused by striving after it could only be lamented. Williams’ two most influential works, The Bloudy Tenent of Persecution (1644) and The Bloudy Tenent yet more Bloody (1652), were structured as a conversation between two friends—Truth and Peace (CW III; IV). These friends are seldom found together. At the end of the conversation, Patience joined Truth and Peace (CW III, 424). Though certitude features in intractable conflict, Williams used it to extend freedom to others.

Toleration with Rejection

According to John Coffey, tolerance—as understood in the early modern period—involved putting up with disapproved and rejected practices or beliefs. He identifies five types of toleration: civil, ecclesiastical, social, polemical (engaging in debate), and divine (God’s patience) (2000, 10–14). Williams had much to say about all five types. Scholars frequently distinguish between tolerance as a “set of attitudes” and toleration as “social or political practices.” One could be intolerant while advocating toleration. Andrew R. Murphy considers Roger Williams an “Intolerant Tolerationist” (1997, 593–623). Miroslav Volf classifies him as a religious exclusivist who advocated political pluralism (2015, 151–152).

According to Teresa M. Bejan, “Williams clearly thought that it was possible to behave civilly towards others in the absence of respect for them or their culture, and hence civility was for him perfectly consistent with quite a lot of disapproval, disgust, and even abhorrence” (2011, 414). His relationship with Native Americans evidences this simultaneous rejection, toleration, and embrace (CW I, 77–282; CRW I, 53, 72, 82; II, 392, 408, 413, 594–609). God would judge adherents of false religions (CW VII, 242). This belief did not hinder him from advocating full toleration for Jews, Muslims, and Catholics (CW III, 92–93, 196–197; VII, 136–137). Williams evidences how personal rejection of another’s beliefs and practices can be coupled with the relentless advocacy of their fair treatment.

Toleration and Conversion

Some scholars believe monotheism and the mandate to evangelize the world produces enormous amounts of inter-group friction. This seems to be the case in southern New England where some Algonquian leaders felt threatened by aggressive evangelization. According to some, Williams never tried to convert Algonquians (Nussbaum 2008, 47). However, recent scholars have shown his life-long commitment to evangelization (Bejan 2015, 65–81; Fisher, Lemons, and Mason-Brown 2014, 37–47). According to Teresa Bejan, Williams thought toleration was “a partner to evangelism” (2015, 78). Genuine conversion was only possible when divergent beliefs were truly tolerated (CW III, 94–95).

Forced conversions, he thought, were easy (CW VII, 36). It was difficult to honor someone else’s conscience by allowing a free and informed choice. He thought his neighbors in New England were too heavy handed:

I beseech You consider how the name of the most holy and jealous God may be preserved betweene the clashings of these Two: Viz: The Glor[ious] Conversion of the Indians of N. Engl. and the Unnecessary Warrs and cruel Destructions of the Indians in New Engl. (CRW II, 408–416)

Further, toleration provided more opportunities to convert. Those who seem to be “Soule-killers to day, by the grace of Christ may prove (as Paul) Soule-savers tomorrow” (CW III, 208). Here he balanced the desire for conversion with a respect for the freedom of others.

Toleration and the God of Mercy

Some scholars claim that perceptions of God are important when considering why some turn violent. One’s view of God influences the way in which they perceive reality, history, and their role in the divine drama. Williams’ letters offer a window into how he viewed God. The Bible provides believers like Williams with a variety of possessive genitives (e.g. God of … ) that describe God’s person and work. Williams was not afraid to use a Puritan favorite, “Lord of Hosts” (Armies)—though he used it sparingly (CRW I, 82; cf. 8). He frequently used the God of peace, mercy, truth, or order—often employing the divine name to help the reader consider justice and love mercy (e.g. CRW I, 74, 84, 108, 150; II, 673). It is hard to miss his special advocacy for mercy. In a letter discussing the fate of enemies, he closed as follows: I “humbly beg of the Father of mercies to guide You in mercy. For his mercy sake … ” (CRW II, 728–730). Though Williams recognized the full range of divine attributes, he encouraged the recipients of his letters to think of how the peace, mercy, truth, and order of God should influence their actions and attitudes.

Toleration and Scriptural Killing

It is commonly claimed that descriptions of violence in scripture facilitate some form of post-scripture imitation. If God allowed or commanded something in the past, a believer might think he commanded something similar of them. Williams believed that God required life-taking obedience from those in ancient Israel. He also believed the precedent of ancient Israel was a central pillar on which contemporary coercion and killing rested (CW III, 316). His solution was to quarantine the example of ancient Israel so no one could apply it directly to another nation (e.g. CW I, 332–361; II, 259–275; III, 89–401).

Williams was critical of many attempts to draw political lessons from scripture. There were many biblical characters one could identify with in any given conflict—Abraham, Moses, Saul, David, Solomon, Job, Daniel, Elijah, or Jeremiah. Even a godly king like David was at times “abominable and monstrous” (CW IV, 212). These biblical characters were individuals situated in a particular historical context. Post-biblical interpreters have wanted to identify with them all—sometimes simultaneously. This creates decision-making problems. How does one decide which exemplar fits best? Williams not only distanced Christians from direct imitation of biblical killers, he also foregrounded new exemplars—the persecuted in the Hebrew Bible and those who extended toleration to others (Byrd 2002, 53–86). Thus, he replaced one set of biblical exemplars with another as he moved his readers away from identifying with those who coerced.

The Hebrew Bible also contains a storehouse of commands and precedents. Navigating them could be a matter of life or death. This is nowhere more evident than in the treatment of civilians during the Pequot War in colonial New England (1636–1638). John Underhill was one of the leaders responsible for an early morning assault on a Pequot village that took hundreds of lives—many of them women, children, and older men. In Underhill’s published account of the war he engaged an interlocutor who questioned the lack of mercy:

Why should you be so furious (as some have said) should not Christians have more mercy and compassion? … . [S]ometimes the Scripture declareth women and children must perish with their parents; some-time the case alters: but we will not dispute it now. We had sufficient light from the word of God for our proceedings. (Underhill 1638, 35–36)

Clothed with the fig leaf of scriptural precedent, Underhill felt no need for shame. Though another scriptural precedent might have preserved lives, “we will not dispute it now.” The synod could be called after the cemetery was filled.

Though Williams largely agreed with the justice of the Pequot War, he tried to bend the English towards mercy by contesting the disproportionate use of force and the mistreatment of captive Pequot. He wrote a letter to John Winthrop thanking him for restraint. Here Williams navigated the same biblical examples:

Many things have been spoken to prove the Lord’s perpetual war with Amalek extraordinary and mystical; but [2 Kings 14:5–6] is a bright light discovering the ordinary path wherein to walk and please him … .. [It shows that] the fathers only perish in their sin. (CRW I, 101–103)

According to Williams, the English passed over a clear command—do not kill the child for the crimes of the father—through inhabiting the “extraordinary and mystical” Amalek narrative. There was one thing that Underhill and Williams agreed on—the Hebrew Bible put forward multiple examples. But whereas Underhill used this ambiguity to justify killing, Williams extended mercy.

Toleration, Miracles, and [the] Desacralization of Authority

One does not need to look hard into Christian history for claims about supernatural agency or miracles in warfare. The “discovery” of the Holy Lance of Antioch during the First Crusade and the Angels of Mons in the First World War are two well-known examples. Roger Williams, to some extent, also viewed warfare supernaturally. God was active in all things, or, as he asserted, “nihil sine Providentia” (CW IV, 54; CRW II, 527). Warfare was an important—though regrettable—part of “all things.” Thus, it is not surprising that he mentions God in relation to killing. Sometimes he articulates the belief that God not only assented to or approved of killing—he believed God participated in it. This is because, wherever Christians or non-Christians furthered justice, God was active. Williams used the belief in miracles as a handmaiden to toleration by taking the miraculous claims in the Bible more seriously than his contemporaries.

When God rescued Israel from Egypt, he accomplished it “by many strange signes and wonderfull miracles” without human agents wielding the sword (CW III, 325). Though “The English, Scotch, Dutch, &c. are apt to make themselves the parallels,” in light the actual claims in the text, one must ask “whether the Lord hath now so miraculously redeemed and brought unto Himselfe any Nation or people as he did this people of Israel” (CW III, 325; cf. VII, 264). Because Israel was an “unparalled’d state” there were fundamental differences between their wars and all other wars (CW III, 360–362; cf. IV, 181). He mentioned miraculous deliverances associated with Moses, Joshua, Gideon, and Hezekiah—“sometimes without a blow given” (CW III, 362). Can any nation say their deliverance was “attended with extraordinary, supernatural, and miraculous Considerations? Further, may we not as well expect, to pass over Ireland, France, or Holland, on dry Land (as Israel from Egypt toward Canaan-land) and to tumble down City-Wals and Castles, with the sound of Rams-Hornes” (CW III, 362). Similarly, Elijah’s “commission” to kill was validated by a huge fireball from heaven (CW III, 211). When asked by his disciples if they should call down fire on enemies, Jesus rebuked them (CW III, 29, 129–137).

Ancient Israel—its prophets, laws, covenants, established religion, and divinely appointed kings—were utterly inimitable because they were miraculously validated (CW III, 24, 358; IV, 42–43; VII, 266; CRW I, 106, 202–206, 305–309, 316–321). “But what Commission from Christ Jesus had Henry the eight” (CW III, 343)? Christ has inaugurated something far better than Israel’s national covenant. He charged that those who reverted to the Hebrew Bible exhumed Moses and acted as if the incarnation of Christ never happened (CW III, 181, 221, 287). Those who turn away from it and “erect new Lands of Canaan” will find instead that they are living in “meer Skeletons, Shadows and Carkases, without those living Demonstrations, and miraculous appearance of God” (CW VII, 238).

Williams referred to Israel as “that so much imitated, yet most unimitable State” (CW III, 316). Due to the grandeur and frequency of Israel’s miracles, it was not only exegetically questionable or theologically suspect to try to imitate Israel—it was actually humanly impossible to imitate them. One could not conjure such miracles as described in the text. Williams’ argument was both epistemological and experiential. Were Mosaic miracles to take place in England or New England, they would have been observable. Further, since many of the miracles in the Hebrew Bible were described as reoccurring over decades (e.g. manna, pillar of fire and cloud), they would have provided daily evidence of God’s special care. Since everyone in Old and New England acknowledged that such miracles had not occurred, they should cease thinking they are like Israel. Though miracle claims frequently invest authority with a sacred quality, Williams used biblical miracles to desacralize authority and invalidate killing in the name of God.

Toleration and Future Judgment

Eschatology—or the study of the last things—is frequently associated with apocalypticism, millennialism, and cosmic war. Scholars consistently relate these viewpoints with conflict. The 17^th century witnessed an explosion of eschatological thinking (Gribben 2008). Though Williams differed from his contemporaries, eschatological beliefs were no less central (Davis 2004, 42–45). He cited Revelation with more frequency than any other biblical book. According to James Byrd, Revelation 2–3 and 17 “were crucial to Williams’s arguments against religious persecution and in favor of separation of church and state and religious liberty” (2002, 157). As with his approach to Hebrew Bible exemplars, Williams identified with the persecuted who gained spiritual victory by remaining steadfast. Persecutors, on the other hand, aligned themselves with the paragons of evil (Byrd 2002, 155–182). He also emphasized discontinuity between the present civil order and the eschatological community of God (Davis 2004, 42–45). Because of this discontinuity, it was harder to view martial activity as bringing about the reign of God.

Williams’ beliefs concerning future rewards or judgments (personal eschatology) were an integral part of his argument for toleration. When people tried to bring about perfect justice, they frequently created more conflict and hurt the innocent. Far worse, fallible “Christian” magistrates and armies frequently persecuted Christ when they fined, jailed, maimed, and killed those they thought in error (CW III, 82–83; IV, 178; VII, 277–279). If one persecutes enough people, they might have “persecuted Jesus in some of them” (CRW I, 344). Far from acting out the will of God, Christians who coerce were under the sway of the devil. Williams believed Satan practiced a two-fold deception—tricking people into coercing and deceiving them into thinking this pleased God (CW III, 133). His love for Christ in the Christian caused him to dread wrongfully persecuting his Savior. There was a future judgment where God would personally and perfectly judge persons and nations (CRW I, 199–200; CW III, 278; IV, 200). God would set things right—and this allowed Williams to background the need for judgment in this life.

Tolerance and the Experience of Persecution

Those who were persecuted, intellectually marginalized, physically isolated, and routinely harassed after isolation, frequently pass along such treatment when Fortuna turns her wheel. Williams’ experienced all of this—deeply. Those who banished Williams were similarly intolerant when empowered. However, he advocated the extension of toleration even when it hurt. In a letter to the town of Providence he encouraged them to extend the freedoms: “after You have gott over the Black-brooke of some Soule Bondage Your Selves, You tear not downe the Bridge after You” (CRW II, 525–527).

Most people can imagine (or have experienced) being without power. They can also imagine (or have experienced) being in power. Williams went one step further: He imagined being marginalized by his own regime. This helped him expand his empathetic horizon. When arguing for toleration, he frequently noted violent reversals of the English long Reformation (CW III, 309–311; VII, 36, 133–135, 183, 205, 250). He described this change as a swinging “Weather-cock,” the changing of garments, the reshaping of wax, and the back and forth of “Tenis-bals” (CW III, 137, 345; 7–168, 189–190). Each return of the tennis ball cost lives, created hypocrites, and corrupted the church. Williams’ coreligionists wanted a decisive hit that ended the match. The whole game saddened him. Though marginalization and persecution frequently fuel new oppressions, Williams used these experiences to break the cycle.

Conclusion

By many counts, our world is becoming more religious (Berger 2007; Stark 2015). World religions are also splintering—so there are more practicing people with increasing variegation in practice. These beliefs are often deeper and more robust than many advocates of the secularization thesis predicted. Some belligerents claim sacred justifications for life-taking—though many might question the role “religion” actually plays. In contrast, most in Western nations have figured out how to kill people without trumpeting divine sanction. This might be a historical achievement, but it is not without dangers. Though some articulated justifications for war might have changed, many in the West are no less convinced of the righteousness of their cause—and are often unaware of the harm done in the name of high ideals. Further, they may be tone-deaf at best and hostile at worst to religious utterances in the public square. Since some use religion to terrorize, others say society should ignore, avoid, ridicule, or marginalize it. Since theologically informed geopolitics seems to be part of the problem, such beliefs seem out of place in public discourse. The ubiquity of religion coupled with the widespread fear that it is especially prone to harmful behavior increases the importance of understanding the complex relationship between beliefs, sacred texts, and actions performed in the name of God (Rowley and Wild-Wood, 2017).

The mind of Roger Williams was not in step with most in his generation and his life has aptly been described as a series of exiles (Gaustad 1999). And he would likely feel a sense of exile in contemporary America. Williams is not a 17^th-century mirror in which a modern individual can see her own ideals and values reflected. He was not aiming at furthering our agenda. What he provides is far more valuable than an image of ourselves. Among other things, he evidences the complex relationship between beliefs and coercion. Further, he gives hope that solutions to today’s problems might lie in the discovery, recovery, or re-articulation of robust faith. He lived in a coercive and violent world. Through his theological critiques, he endeavored to uphold justice while bending his peers towards mercy. With full conviction, he declared a controversial belief that he took to be the will of God—“Christ calleth for Toleration” (CW III, 43).

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Matthew Rowley

Matthew Patrick Rowley is a Ph.D. Candidate in early modern religious and political history at the University of Leicester and a graduate research associate at the Cambridge Institute on Religion & International Studies (Clare College, Cambridge). His thesis is titled “Godly Killing: Military Providentialism in the British Atlantic World, 1620–1680.” This study traces Puritan interpretations of providence in military victory over enemies in England, Ireland, Scotland, and colonial America. He holds an MDiv and ThM from Bethlehem College and Seminary in Minneapolis where he wrote his thesis on the imitation of biblical violence.