Kevin DeYoung and the Westminster Standards
Over the past month, James Baird has carefully guided readers through the differences between the original (1646) and revised (1788) Westminster Standards and has forcefully argued that no study committee is necessary to investigate on behalf of the Presbyterian Church in America (PCA) what the Standards teach on church and state. The work has already been done, and the texts themselves are clear. Needless to say, Baird’s explanation for the changes to the American version of the Westminster Confession contradicts Kevin DeYoung’s account. For Baird there is continuity, for DeYoung, discontinuity. DeYoung has now responded which is to say, doubled down on his insistence that the two versions teach radically different things on the role and authority of magistrates in matters of religion (chapter 23), and that the American revisions basically teach a modern doctrine of religious liberty and prohibit the magistrate from preferring or promoting any particular religion much less punishing irreligion, impiety, and infidelity. DeYoung recognizes and laments that, at the time of the revisions, a preference for Protestantism still pervades American life. Yet, the seeds of our pluralistic religious liberty were present, just waiting to be worked out more expansively. We know this because the magistrate was effectively cut out of the religion game by the revisions, or so DeYoung says. All the revisions charge the magistrate with attending to is a general, if fundamentally Christian, decorum. Otherwise, it was all about letting a thousand flowers bloom with that big, beautiful hedge of separation surrounding them, protecting them from the wilderness of the world.
In turn, Ben Dunson, Zachary Garris, and Baird have all rebutted DeYoung’s double down in their own way. I commend all their essays to the reader, will not reiterate their arguments, and am pleased such a rousing discussion is unfolding in the pages of American Reformer. This is exactly what we are all about: equipping churches and pastors with our rich Protestant heritage for the cultural and political challenges of the day. Confessional fidelity, in each orthodox Protestant denomination, is high on our list of priorities. We want Anglicans to be good Anglicans, Baptists to be good Baptists, and Presbyterians to be good Presbyterians. Make no mistake, at bottom, this debate is about what confessional fidelity in the PCA requires on matters of secular authority and public religion. That is, what ministers have vowed to uphold and teach their congregations. Based on reactions to what Baird, Dunson, Garris, and others have said, I would wager that more than zero PCA ministers have either adulterated or ignored what the Standards teach in their own ministry.
It is my observation that DeYoung is not only rewriting the Confession; he is also rewriting his primary source, John Witherspoon. So that I may not be misunderstood or misrepresented, I impute no ill-motives to DeYoung, only sloppiness or ignorance. That this is the case has already been sufficiently demonstrated by Dunson, Baird, and Garris. I will only add further evidence that has not yet been offered by them. (I also recommend this commentary on the Confession and Preliminary Principle by Garris and will also not reiterate what he covered there.)
None of the responses to DeYoung have constituted attacks on his character or sincerity, and this one will be no different. What is at stake is simple but important, namely, the proper understanding of the confessional standards that guide our denomination. For all his appeal to Witherspoon, DeYoung’s position is more aligned with nineteenth-century Dutch, Kuyperian sentiments, both in his reading of the eighteenth-century American context and his positive prescriptions.
Sources and Nuance
In his latest essay, DeYoung relies entirely on David Dickson for the original meaning of chapter 23. Dickson was a Scottish minister alive during the drafting of the Confession. Noteworthy but not disqualifying is that Dickson was not a member of the Assembly and, therefore, not involved in or present for the drafting of and deliberations on the Confession’s language. This is a little bit like getting Thomas Jefferson’s commentary on the meaning of the Constitution when he was abroad during its formation. Obviously, our courts have depended on Jefferson’s musings to interpret the First Amendment for decades and look where that has gotten us. Jefferson is, of course, not quite irrelevant but also not reliable or authoritative in interpretive matters. Surely out of the more than 120 men at the Assembly someone else could have been cited, and James Baird has already cited two (George Gillespie and Stephen Marshall). Would not the words of the London Presbyterian Ministers have been better? What about John Dury, or Obadiah Sedgwick, or William Spurstowe, or the host of others Assembly Divines who wrote and preached on the role of the magistrate?
In any case, Dickson’s rather sparse commentary affirms that “it is the duty of the civil magistrate, to take order, that all blasphemies and heresies be suppressed, all the ordinances of God duly settled, administered, and observed; all abuses in worship and discipline reformed,” and that all idolaters and “obstinate dissenters” be “forced” to conform to “the true worship and service of God, according to his law.” That is, God’s law, or scripture. Indeed, as Dickson relates elsewhere, the mere commandments of men cannot bind the conscience. The Assembly was not calling for a Romish implicit faith, but neither was a free-grace libertinism sanctioned. The censures of the church and magistrate against practices that contradict the light of nature, and the word of God are, therefore, valid. Liberty was not an excuse for license, and the Assembly guarded the rights of conscience properly understood.
DeYoung concludes that, per Dickinson, “the Westminster Confession requires the civil magistrate to exercise a coercive power in matters of faith. The magistrate is obliged to reform religion and should force all his subjects to conform to the true worship, sound doctrine, and discipline of the church.” No nuance is provided by DeYoung as to the means of reform or the exercise of prudence in varying scenarios, neither does he explain his insertion of “matters of faith” into the equation nor appropriately outline the distinction between in sacra and circa sacra in the seventeenth century (though he does mention it in passing). The debate at the time was over sacred matters which is different than matters of faith.
The revised chapter 23 of the Confession refers to both “sacred functions” and “matters of faith.” But the original confession (23.3) does not say that the magistrate has power over matters of faith (or worship), quite the opposite (see Chapter 20 which was not revised). The American revisions simply adds that he does not have power to “interfere in matters of faith.” It cannot be inferred that because the revisions include this in 23.3, which was completely rewritten, that the original was saying otherwise.
Even the Erastians did not advocate encroachment on internal belief of individuals, nor the work exclusive to the ministry. The question was, what constitutes in sacra and did this include discipline for sins? What was the remit of ecclesiastical jurisdiction? So on and so forth. That men cannot look into the souls of other men is a tautology that no one questioned. That gospel ministry had specific duties that the magistrate could not perform was also not questioned. External regulation of both the church and individuals was another matter. It was not as if the remit of in sacra and circa sacra were at all stable at the time, as William Parker’s critique of the Westminster Confession evinces.
In any case, what is the chief avenue of such religious reform according to Dickson? Calling upon the ministry to convene synods, as Constantine did. In other words, spurring on the ministers to reform the doctrine and worship of the people. This is hardly an usurpation of sacred function (or matters of faith) just as instructing physicians to attend to patients during a plague is no encroachment on the art of medicine.
Neither were adherents to the original confession zealous coercers. (Perhaps, a serious discussion of what the actual remit and meaning of coercion is, is what is needed.) The Westminster Divine, Anthony Burgess advises that magistrates first look to persuasion from scripture to direct their subjects: “Truth persuades a man by teaching, it teaches not a man by persuading: it is much more true then of threatening, and of outward violence.” Hence, why Althusius and Martin Bucer instructed magistrates to supply their realms with preaching, education, and catechesis. If men remain obstinate, added Burgess, then the magistrate does have the power to compel “to the external means of faith,” for he obviously cannot compel belief. “Parents may do it, and ought to do it: and then why should it be denied unto a Magistrate?”
But even here a distinction was to be made between types of errors. Only those errors that “overthrow fundamentals” of the faith should be dealt with swiftly, but especially those that threaten public peace. Nevertheless, a good magistrate goes to great lengths to persuade his people before he punishes them. A godly magistrate is a moderate magistrate, immovable in his aims but meek in his measures.
Moreover, a distinction must be made between established and non-established scenarios, as Althusius did. The London Ministers understood that in a non-established (i.e., pluralist pagan) scenario, the magistrate may be limited in his ability to implement true religion. But he may still seek justice and the public good, profess Christ himself, execute laws according to the moral law of God, otherwise glorify God, and hold Christians to their baptismal vows. And he may still maintain the church according to the word of God. Yet, he cannot govern a pagan people the same as a Christian people and expect stability and peace. He cannot effectively reform a people absent an orthodox ministry.
The point being that, contra what DeYoung implies, the original Confession did not represent impractical rigidity; it was not insensitive to political realities. Nor did the Confession introduce an ecclesial or synodical negation of the magistrate’s discretion in religious reform. To do so would have been to contradict a central Protestant contestation, namely, that the Papacy had gravely erred in its subjugation of the magistrate, inter alia, by assuming power to force magistrates to execute heretics and suppress heterodoxy according to the dictates of Rome. Insofar as the Confession was saying that the magistrate must do anything, it is merely relating the character and duties of a magistrate according to the word of God. It does not prescribe particular policies. A godly magistrate should suppress heresy and otherwise remove threats to true religion in his realm. How and when exactly this is accomplished is a matter of discretion and prerogative which, in turn, is framed and limited by the magistrate’s relative power within the fundamental law and constitution of his nation, as Richard Baxter well considered in the Holy Commonwealth. DeYoung’s neglect of these nuances and background hampers the reader’s understanding of the original text and what it entailed.
Before turning to Witherspoon, we must notice one other misuse of source material by DeYoung. In his attempt to articulate the meaning and purpose of the “nursing fathers” language retained by the American revisions, he turns not to a member of the synod nor even a Presbyterian generally. Rather he employs Elisha Williams’s The Essential Rights and Liberties of Protestants (1744). Williams was a Connecticut Congregationalist who was writing more than 40 years before the Confession was revised. DeYoung wrongly refers to the text as a sermon. William’s most famous work was an extended letter written pseudonymously. DeYoung is yet again performing a similar maneuver to his invocation of Dickson. Williams is hardly irrelevant to the American context of the mid-eighteenth century, but since our present debate is over the meaning and purpose of the late-eighteenth century revisions to a Presbyterian confession, the veiled thoughts of a minister of different denomination in a different state from 40 years prior are less than authoritative, or about as authoritative as Jefferson’s letter to the Danbury Baptist is for interpretation of the First Amendment. Or more similar might be ascribing constitutional authority to Roger Williams. Very strange historiography indeed.
Upon further examination, it would appear that Elisha Williams is quoted by DeYoung because, as we will see, Witherspoon does not say what DeYoung needs him to. Noteworthy too is that the views of Williams are not representative of the founding generation generally. Williams reduces the nursing fathers language to protection of private judgment and liberty of conscience for a reason. I have already described what nursing fathers entailed in the late eighteenth century. If DeYoung wanted to cite a Connecticut Congregationalist, why not Edward Dorr who was more proximate to the founding period? Perhaps, because Dorr held that a nursing father not only suppressed immorality and vice but protected the church from enemies and to provide for the “public exercise” of religion by public expense. Dorr doesn’t fit DeYoung’s narrative.
We can go further, however, to limit Elisha Williams’ relevance on this subject. Williams held that the sole purpose of society was mutual security of “person and property.” The singular origin and impetus of government is discovered in this contract. This belief was not shared by, for example James Otis or James Wilson or Nathaniel Chipman, all of which were of the founding generation. Nor was it the view of John Witherspoon. While Witherspoon recognized security as one reason men enter society, it was the nature of man, as created by God, that draw him into society. It is both nature and necessity that lead men to society, as Aristotle said. Natural liberty should be protected but “the public good has always been the real aim of the people in general, in forming and entering into any society.”
What one thinks about the origin and purpose of society and government matters, as I have explained elsewhere. It is not mere scholastic exercise. If these things spring simply from convenience and for protection of property, then society and government, political life generally, is limited to a materialist scope, as Williams makes clear. If, however, society and government spring from the nature of man, and by God’s design, then that scope extends to immaterial concerns, namely, religion and morality given that man’s nature is more than matter. Implications for liberty, law, and rights necessarily follow. That Elisha Williams firmly rejects the more classical, two-fold view of the origins of society—the one more commonly held in Witherspoon’s day—makes his minority position on government vis a vis religion less instructive and certainly does not tell us anything about what Witherspoon thought or what the revised Confession meant. In William’s mind, because society and government are born for protection of life and property, there is no basis for attention to religion whatsoever. (It is not clear that Williams even thought that ministers had a right to determine anything in sacra or circa sacra not explicitly handed down in scripture.) Not so with Witherspoon et al.
Decorum and Piety
So much for DeYoung’s supplementary sources. We will focus now only on DeYoung’s use of Witherspoon. Citing Witherspoon’s 1782 thanksgiving sermon, DeYoung rightly concludes that the revised Confession “still expected the civil magistrate to be a supportive friend of the Christian religion.” Eighteenth century Presbyterians did not envision a neutral, pluralist, naked public square. But DeYoung reduces all this to a mere maintenance of “public decorum” and restraint of “public wickedness.” It was certainly no less than that, to be sure.
DeYoung goes further, however. The maintenance of decorum cannot be confused, he says, with the old duties under the original confession. Basically, public decorum had replaced religion. In America, all the magistrate was to do was ensure non-interference with ecclesiastical proceedings and that without prejudice or preference. For Witherspoon, DeYoung says, all the magistrate was permitted to do in terms of “promotion” of religion was to guard the rights of conscience, set a Christian example, and restrain “open vice and impiety.”
Is this what Witherspoon really taught regarding the magistrate’s duties vis a vis public religion? Hardly. Let’s consider Witherspoon’s commentary on the magistrate generally. Was he merely committed to protecting conscience, personal example, and quashing vice? Or was he also committed to the maintenance of true religion as such?
Witherspoon repeatedly relates that civil liberty cannot be maintained without virtue and true religion is the fountain of virtue. Hence, the maintenance of civil liberty requires the maintenance of true religion. Decorum cannot be promoted simply absent what undergirds it. A monarchy, said Witherspoon, can endure through good and bad kings. But a republic survives only according to the virtue of its members. John Adams knew this as did all the other proponents of the classical republic ideal. The maintenance of a republic required “pure religion, or austere morals.” Love of God and love of neighbor, said Witherspoon, is the sum of religion. These must be upheld.
Witherspoon observed that a good form of government can cover a multitude of sins but, eventually, the bottom falls out. More essential to national endurance are pure manners and true religion.
“What follows from this? That he is the best friend to American liberty, who is most sincere and active in promoting true and undefiled religion, and who sets himself with the greatest firmness to bear down profanity and immorality of every kind. Whoever is an avowed enemy of God, I scruple not to call him an enemy to his country.”
Witherspoon was not advocating for a wild and unscrupulous zeal for “the circumstantials of religion” (i.e., adiaphora) or the advance of one denomination (i.e., sect) over another. What he wanted was for every man, according to his power and station, to suppress vice, but also to “promote the knowledge of God, the reverence of his name and worship, and obedience to his laws.” No exception is provided for the magistrate.
On the contrary, “if all men are bound in some degree, certain classes of men are under peculiar obligations to the discharge of this duty.” He lists magistrates, minsters, and parents. All these are “called to use their authority and influence for the glory of God and the good of others.” In America, he said toward the end of his sermon, “true religion and civil liberty” were inseparable.
How can the magistrate make his people virtuous? What are his means? Witherspoon does not advocate for passivity or indifference. “If, as we have seen above, virtue and piety are inseparably connected, then to promote true religion is the best and most effectual way of making a virtuous and regular people.” When these are present in a people, reasons Witherspoon, there will be little need for civil laws, which is not to say that civil laws to such ends are invalid. A religious people will behave virtuously and piously.
What can the magistrate do to promote such sentiments? 1) He should encourage piety though his own example. 2) He ought to be tolerant of varying religious judgments so long as these are not injurious to others. Religions of subversive tenets, like popery, are intolerable and yet, the magistrate “ought in general to guard against persecution on a religious account as much as possible,” and this because “absurd tenets are seldom dangerous.” 3) “The magistrate may enact laws for the punishment of acts of profanity and impiety.”
Notice that Witherspoon does not limit this last means to the mere restraint of vice. In view are offenses against the first table of the law, not merely drunkenness or theft. This is not mere decorum. As if a polite society conditioned by the vestiges of Christian morality was sufficient, as Abraham Kuyper seemed to think.
Witherspoon follows this discussion by holding that there is “a good deal of reason” for the magistrate to “make public provision for the worship of God, in such manner as is agreeable to the great body of society.” Dissenters should be tolerated, but such provisions are agreeable because by this means the magistrate provides for religious instruction “for the bulk of the common people, who would, many of them, neither support nor employ teachers, unless they were obliged. The magistrates right in this case, seems to be something like that of a parent, they have a right to instruct, but not to constrain.” Support of the predominate worship was a basic common law view, namely, that the historical and majority religion of a people must be respected, supported, and protected. Joseph Story considered such activity entirely consistent with the First Amendment.
Think of the provisions of the Massachusetts Constitution, for example, which, as John Adams explained, required tax support for Protestant ministers and building churches but specified no particular denomination. Again, the analogy between magistrate and parent is relevant here: “Children are no doubt to judge for themselves in matters of religion when they come to years, though the parents are under the strongest obligation to instruct them carefully to the best of their judgment.” To leave children to their own devices without instruction is “impracticable and absurd.” DeYoung fails to mention Witherspoon’s acceptance of this kind of public provision for worship and downplays Witherspoon’s focus on restrain of first table violations opting instead to reduce Witherspoon’s vision for the magistrate to that of locking up petty thieves and foul-mouthed drunkards.
In the section of Witherspoon’s thanksgiving sermon cited by DeYoung, Witherspoon not only mentions the obligation of magistrates to “promote religion, sobriety, industry and every social virtue.” It is not only that the magistrate must himself exhibit piety (and cannot be a blasphemer or infidel). Witherspoon is not satisfied with this. Magistrates should “reform or restrain that impiety towards God, which is the true and proper cause of every disorder among men.” The corrupt governments of Europe, reflects Witherspoon, may be strict on morals and impartial in the administration of justice, but “there is a total and absolute relaxation as to what is chiefly and immediately a contempt of God.” Unlike today, for Witherspoon, the state of Europe was not an argument against attentive magistrates but proof of their necessity. It is this laxity that permits all subsequent indecency, namely, theft, sabbath breaking, lewdness, drunkenness, and the like. As Witherspoon says repeatedly, these things are connected. Decorum cannot be expected from irreligious, impious people. What is clear from all this is that Witherspoon supported a kind of state sponsored religion—a general Protestantism—and that laws were intended to lead men to virtue which can only be accomplished by the presence of true religion, and that a general toleration did not subvert any of that. But what of the conscience?
Liberty and Conscience
In Witherspoon, we find no indication of our modern idea of the conscience as trump card. Consciences can err; hence, it is that conscience informed by the word of God that that is truly at liberty. As the Confession says,
“God alone is Lord of the conscience, and hath left it free from the doctrines and commandments of men which are in any thing contrary to His Word, or beside it in matters of faith or worship. So that to believe such doctrines, or to obey such commandments out of conscience, is to betray true liberty of conscience; and the requiring an implicit faith, and an absolute and blind obedience, is to destroy liberty of conscience, and reason also.
They who, upon pretense of Christian liberty, do practice any sin, or cherish any lust, do thereby destroy the end of Christian liberty… And because the powers which God hath ordained, and the liberty which Christ hath purchased, are not intended by God to destroy, but mutually to uphold and preserve one another; they who, upon pretense of Christian liberty, shall oppose any lawful power, or the lawful exercise of it, whether it be civil or ecclesiastical, resist the ordinance of God.”
So, Witherspoon said,
“But no action, in itself evil, can be made lawful or laudable by a good intention. A man is obliged to follow the dictates of conscience; yet a mistaken conscience does not wholly absolve from guilt, because he ought to have been at more pains to obtain information.”
It is the “church of Rome [that] has expressly claimed a power of making laws to bind the conscience, different from the laws of God.” But the true laws of God do, in fact, bind the conscience.
A man may have a right of “private judgment in matters of opinion,” said Witherspoon in his Lectures on Moral Philosophy. For this would exist for him in a “state of natural liberty.” But it does not follow, within the common association of society, that man has a right to promulgate and enact private judgments that contradict religion and piety. Conscience, in other words, is not in itself a moral standard; the word and law of God is. Witherspoon would not have agreed with Kuyper that the invocation of conscience must stop civil authority in its tracks at every turn.
Liberty and Citizenship
What did “liberty” entail more generally? For Witherspoon, consistent with his generation, it is clearly that “liberty which pervades the British constitution, and came with the colonists to this part of the earth… liberty and equal laws.” Elsewhere, Witherspoon reiterates. The liberty of the colonists was entitlement to the “rights and privileges of freemen under the British constitution.” An English Protestant liberty with due toleration and liberty of conscience for dissenters but in no way averse to establishmentarian preferences which, in turn, was in no way contradictory of equality under the law and impartial administration of justice.
The New Jersey Constitution is a perfect expression of this balance that is also present in the revised Confession. On the one hand, all citizens would be protected by the laws regardless of creed. On the other hand, clear preference for a general Protestantism was present insofar as rights to full participation in the government would be reserved for Protestants. Witherspoon described New Jersey in this way, “There is no profession of religion which has an exclusive legal establishment… All professions are tolerated, and all Protestants are capable of electing and being elected, and indeed have every privilege belonging to citizens.” What was such a requirement other than assurance that magistrates would present an instructive, pious example to the people? DeYoung regularly cites the New Jersey constitution but conveniently forgets these portions.
The scope of “all professions” tolerated in New Jersey was slim: “English Presbyterians, Low Dutch Presbyterians, Episcopalians, Baptists, Quakers.” Witherspoon relates that the Presbyterians (English and Dutch) had the most power, as indicated by the two colleges, whereas the latter three groups were small in number and possessed commensurately little power on their own, but that the Baptists, politically speaking, threw their weight behind Presbyterians. The obvious shift between, say, Dickson and Witherspoon is that, for a host of historical reasons, Quakers had settled down and were no longer considered politically subversive, at least not in the middle colonies. They had, for the most part, been accepted in America. Albeit, even Washington reminded them that their conscientious pacifism would be accommodated only to the extent that the safety and national interests would permit.
In any case, there was in the early republic a high degree of toleration but a tiered citizenship favoring Protestants. In the classical understanding of citizenship, which conditioned the minds of the founding generation, rights of citizenship were not defined by an adversarial relationship between commonwealth and citizen, but by the privilege of participating in the governance of the affairs of the commonwealth, contribution to its moral deliberations. Paul Rahe describes this expertly in his meditation on Athens, as does James Hankins in his unparalleled study of Renaissance Italy.
The Christian Prince and the Protestant Cause
We have spoken of liberty, conscience, and magistrates. To get a better feel for how Witherspoon thought about Christian rulers–to really wrap your mind around Witherspoon— consider his sermon, Prayer for National Prosperity and Revival of Religion (1758). Therein he applies the song of Moses, “Thy right hand, O Lord, is become glorious in power; Thy right hand, O Lord, has dashed in pieces the enemy,” to Protestant rulers. We should not depend on human means as such. God alone gets the glory. Nothing provokes God like men who “arrogate to themselves the honor of what they have done” by God’s help. And yet, “This doth not hinder the diligent use and application of outward means.”
What’s an example of this?
“I cannot conclude this branch of the subject without observing, that we have had in the course of Providence a very recent instance, both of a singular appearance of the hand of God in defense of a righteous cause, and a modest ascription of it to the power of the Highest. That prince, who appears now to be the chief outward support of the Protestant cause in Europe, has been enabled literally (according to the ancient promise) ‘with five to chase a hundred and with a hundred to put ten thousand to fight.’ The greatest earthly potentates had combined against him and conspired his ruin. Assured of victory, they were forging chains for his followers, and dividing his inheritance by lot. But in the name of the Lord he set up his standard. The Lord turned the counsels of his enemies into confusion. His victories have been numerous, extraordinary and important. And he hath all along avoided boasting and vain-glory, and piously acknowledged that ‘Salvation belongeth unto God.’”
Witherspoon is talking about Frederick the Great, King of Prussia. Austria, France, Russia, Sweden, and the Holy Roman Empire were allied against him, but Britain supported him. Likely, Witherspoon is referring to Frederick’s defeat of a much larger Franco-Austrian force at the battles of Rossbach and Leuthen in late 1757 as part of the Seven Years’ War begun the year prior by Frederick’s invasion of Saxony. Frederick was viewed as a liberator of Protestants, especially in Poland where they had been oppressed. Religious toleration was extended to Catholics and Jews, but Protestants were evidently preferred. This was “religious liberty,” a Protestant liberty. Even in the eighteenth century, the Papacy still represented oppression by man-made, idolatrous doctrine and worship.
Preaching in 1758, Jonathan Mayhew called Frederick’s cause “righteous.” There was good reason for expecting great things of “a monarch so truly great,” for “What may not be hoped for from a Prince, so visibly upheld by providence, to vindicate the rights of mankind against the invasions of tyranny, and the usurpations of the papal see?” Considering the alliance between Britain and Prussia, and the legitimacy of Frederick’s aims, “we may justly look upon all the successes and victories of his Prussian Majesty as our own.” Truly “this illustrious Prince” was the “right hand of the Most High” revealed.
Later in his sermon of the same year, Witherspoon warned of the “combination of anti-Christian power” amassing against Protestant nations. His audience was to pray for their own king George and that his successors would continue to secure “our civil and religious liberty.” Witherspoon then spoke again of that “eminent prince in Germany” who was the “head of the reformed interest,” instructing listeners to pray for his protection and victory. “[L]et us pray for the speedy accomplishment of the prophecy, whoever shall be the instrument of it, of the downfall of Antichrist, when the cry shall be heard, “Babylon the great is fallen, is fallen, and shall arise no more.” Christian princes like Frederick were the instruments of God’s Providence to accomplish such things. And for both Witherspoon and Mayhew, the “anti-Christian” agents of the Papal See were the antichrist, and Protestant magistrates were defenders of “the church of our common Lord,” even abroad.
In this light, the agreement between 23.1, 23.3, and 23.4 with 20.1-4 from the perspective of late eighteenth century Protestants becomes clear. Magistrates are nursing fathers. They may make war for the sake of piety. The bishop of Rome, the oppressor of conscience and true religion, may not exert jurisdiction over them or deprive them of their dominions. And the liberty bought by Christ and regulated by scripture must be preserved. All this is easily held in tandem from that vantage point if not so easily resolved from ours. A good magistrate does not coerce the conscience with false religion, he can even tolerate false religion, but he also promotes and defends Protestantism, true religion that provides true freedom according to the word of God and best instills public virtue and piety.
The Anti-Christ and Establishment
Speaking of the Antichrist. Chapter 25 in the American revisions deleted the line about the Pope being the Antichrist. Given what we’ve seen above from Witherspoon it is obvious that said deletion did not entail negation. Witherspoon clearly still entertained the idea that the Pope or at least Popery was Antichrist. It simply was not a requirement of subscription. Perhaps strangely, this leads us to the question of establishment which DeYoung insists is negated by the revision—a massive change. Query what Witherspoon thought about all this.
In his Lectures on Divinity, as James Baird has pointed out, Witherspoon confronted the excessive and novel idea that established churches were the antichrist, that “whatever has the approbation and authority of the civil government in any state interposed in its behalf, not only may, but must be contrary to the gospel.” Witherspoon’s response:
“I do not see how this sentiment can be supported either from scripture or reason, as it would seem to make it impossible for the kingdoms of this world to become the kingdoms of our Lord and his Christ: or for kings to become nursing fathers, and queens nursing mothers to the church.”
Meaning, and as we have already said, Witherspoon was not at all against establishment in principle and, clearly, the idea of a nursing father entailed establishment. The only remaining question was one of degree, means, and prudence in a particular context. We might say that Witherspoon directly engaged and refuted the common evangelical presumption that establishments are per se contrary to the gospel. In his day, that was an exotic view. Today it is common, even predominant and, apparently, held by subscribers to the confessional revisions that Witherspoon handed down.
Conclusion
What is now clear is that no amount of historic gymnastics can change this fact or relieve this tension. Faithful subscription to the Westminster Confession requires affirmation of religious establishment, not of any particular variety, but in principle. The magistrate can and should promote true religion, protect Protestant churches, provide for public worship, and punish violations of both the first and second table of the Decalogue. And if Witherspoon is to be our interpretive guide, the Confession may very well require a more elevated view of the Christian prince, the nursing father of the Protestant cause. More to the point, at issue is a matter of subscription. It is not the “Christian nationalists” who need to take a confessional exception. As John Fea has shown, every American up through the nineteenth century would have fallen into that category. Rather, it is those who are trying to smuggle modern pluralism into the Standards that are in a tight spot. As a matter of subscription, teaching, and preaching this conclusion is unavoidable. When, for example, Joshua was told to sanctify his people, what did that mean? I will leave the practical implications of it all to the proper authority: the magistrate.
Image: Battle of Zorndorf, by Alexander Kotzebue, 1852. Wikimedia Commons.
