A City Upon a Hill

Opinion

By Tom Gutowski | April 16, 2022

We all want history taught accurately. But what does that mean? History isn’t “just the facts;” it’s a combination of what some historians think are the relevant facts plus an interpretative framework, like dots on a page plus the lines that connect them to form a narrative. Nor is history a thing of the past. Historians constantly argue about the meaning of historical events, revising the story when new facts are discovered or when someone with a new perspective wants to create a new narrative.

In 1630, supposedly on board the Arbella on the way to the Americas, John Winthrop gave a sermon entitled “A Model of Christian Charity.” Quoting from the New Testament's Sermon on the Mount, Winthrop said the new colony would be “a city upon a hill” and called upon his shipmates to work cooperatively to make it a success. Winthrop’s sermon was all but forgotten for hundreds of years until Perry Miller, who taught history at Harvard from 1931 to 1963, decided that it illuminated an important theme regarding America’s origins. It’s been quoted endlessly since then.

A national origin story is a version of a nation’s history that showcases what’s unique and praiseworthy about it. Besides occasionally containing a degree of fiction, these semi-official histories often follow the “great man” formula, emphasizing the virtue and bravery of the founders and thus the wonderfulness of the nation. Blemishes on the historical record, such as human bondage or the brutal treatment of indigenous peoples, are either ignored or treated as having been successfully overcome as mere speed bumps on the road to national greatness. In this context, Winthrop’s phrase became, in Ronald Reagan’s telling, “a shining city upon a hill.”

These celebratory stories can instill a healthy national pride and communicate shared values, but when overdone they can also get in the way of the other reasons for teaching history. Sticking closely to simplified heroes and villains stories inhibits critical thinking, promotes an unhealthy national chauvinism that easily devolves into xenophobia, and drains patriotism of its substance. If one believes we’ve reached perfection, then there are no legitimate criticisms, there’s nothing to be learned from the rest of the world, and patriotism consists of little more than the wearing of lapel flag pins and questioning the patriotism of anyone who dares point out where we might do better. Instead of national self-improvement, we opt for national self-congratulation.

Perhaps worst of all, overly celebratory versions of national history can result in a destructive nostalgia, a longing for a mythical past when everything was perfect. This backward focus can inhibit progress. Even worse, it can be weaponized by politicians who use hatred to energize their base by invoking a glorious past and then demonizing those who supposedly ruined it.

A better way to teach history—one that better prepares students for citizenship—is to include multiple perspectives, honor complexity, be honest about the not-so-good stuff in our past, and accept the fact that historians will continue to have scholarly arguments about the narratives that, when woven together, constitute American history.

In the U.S., this would mean including the perspectives of Blacks, Native Americans, Asian Americans, and other minorities, which in turn means resisting the temptation to whitewash our past. There is no inherent shame in what one’s ancestors did; the shame is in trying to hide it.

It also means treating the founders as human, rather than as gods. Thomas Jefferson warned that a “blind veneration of antiquity” would render us incapable of thinking for ourselves and successfully adapting to changing circumstances. He was right.

And while we’ve obviously done much good on the world stage, students should also learn that we’ve done some bad things, too, like countenancing torture, supporting dictatorships, and participating in the overthrow of democratically elected governments.

This emphatically does not mean students should be taught that America is an awful place. We can love our country and celebrate its greatness while also squarely facing its flaws and misdeeds. George Washington was a slave owner; he was also a revolutionary war hero, and, among other notable acts, set a historic precedent by voluntarily relinquishing power in 1796 at the end of his second term as president.

American greatness comes not from wealth or power, but rather from our ideals: that we’re all created equal; that everyone, regardless of race, creed, or national origin, has a right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness; that legitimate governments draw their power from the consent of the governed; that everyone has a right to due process; that no one is above the law; and that we all have the right to speak freely, to worship as we please, to be free from unreasonable search and seizure, etc.

We clearly haven’t always lived up to these ideals; in fact we haven’t always even agreed about how to live up to them. But our continued belief in these principles compels us to keep trying. And that, more than anything else, is what supports our claim to be a city upon a hill.

Tom Gutowski is a retiree living in northern Michigan. He holds a PhD in history from the University of Chicago.