Given that I was raised Evangelical and have resided in the United States of America for the whole of my life, it is an unsurprising—though not inconsequential—realization that the word “freedom” has been deeply embedded in my basic ideology. It’s a common occurrence in Christian idioms and sermons, it’s on wall posters and t-shirts, it’s prominent in social media posts of various intentions—especially around holidays such as today. Yet, in my experience this word has fallen to the fate of many lovely words: endlessly repeated and lazily varied such that its uses are bound to a plethora of other meanings and social signals, leaving whatever was attractive about the word diluted and hollow, if not entirely incorrect. As a result, it becomes difficult to understand or value something like freedom (to say nothing of “love,” “truth,” or many others) or to argue with its uses, even if they don’t feel quite right or as rich as they should.
I am at a moment in my life where I am trying to rehabilitate the word “freedom” (along with the others), and perhaps embrace it for the first time. Because even as these two contexts, my faith and my country, have so often used the word, rarely have I experienced freedom. Even as it seemed (and still seems to me) that the general thrust of the Bible was to offer me freedom and (apparently) being fully American meant worshiping some kind of freedom, I have only been told that I am free, but not what that is for.
Perhaps this is the result of two strands of idiom. The first, an American holiday classic and pro-military talking point: freedom isn’t free. That despite the freedom I get or have or am owed (I’m not sure which one the founding fathers meant) it comes at a price, be it swatting away overseas enemies or just going to work everyday because even if I am free, I still need to eat and that certainly isn’t free. Freedom is something that could immediately be taken from me by foreign threats or capitalism, and so I must live in a constant state of simultaneous worry about my freedom’s continuity and guilt that someone else acted on behalf of me.
The other idiom is specific to the church I was raised in, a “baptist” (read: non-denominational) megachurch where it was touted that “our greatest freedom is the freedom to not be free,” falling in line with the Apostle Paul’s suggestion that he is a slave to gospel. While Paul meant (in my opinion) that the love of God and its subsequent mercies were so great he could not help but commit his life to sharing them, what the megachurch most often meant was that I needed to tithe, volunteer, and participate in only pro-church (read: pro-that church) activities regardless of whether I would find those things to be edifying. My freedom was only such that I should wish it away to the internal work of the church. I think it’s plain to see that these idioms aren’t complications or helpful nuances of freedom; they’re contradictions. Neither of these is freedom, but instead are submissions to a larger social structure where freedom demands specific things from you.
But even as these two idioms suggest that to have freedom is to automatically concede it to something else—the government, capitalism, Evangelicalism, etc—they are incorrect in that especially infuriating way, which is to say they are not totally incorrect. I think frequently when others are confronted by the senses of freedom I have just explained, they react to its dogma by blowing the doors open for purely individual thinking, for embracing freedom as infinite permission to behave according to or on behalf of themselves. This is, in my mind, an equally egregious treatment of freedom, not only because it can be irresponsible but living only to prove your own agency makes nothing of that agency but spite, which I have never found to be freeing in any sense.
But once again I don’t think this is totally wrong, but like the two idioms prior it leans too far in a single direction—in this case, away from the rest of the world. Let me suggest that real freedom does both simultaneously: it uses my agency both to make allegiances and to embrace my own sense of direction. In my own life the greatest sense of freedom has come when these two facets of freedom become one, when my personal trajectory is increasingly oriented towards the lives of those around me. Even as we are often enabled by the abundant life we enjoy in America to pursue it towards whatever self-improvements or pleasures hold our attention on a given day, I do not think this is what freedom is for or where it really lies. Rather, it is in using my freedom to both receive and transfer the tangible and intangible goods of my life out towards others.
It isn’t that my freedom imposes moral demands, or that it actually comes at a cost that I should feel ashamed that someone else paid. Instead, it frees me to interact safely, hopefully, and with genuine loyalty towards others, knowing that perhaps the greatest thing I have been freed from (both by my faith and my residence in the U.S.) is the need to protect myself. I don’t have to use my freedom to enjoy and know others, but I get to because I am free to do so, both in the legal and spiritual sense. As I continue to rehabilitate the word, and take this colorful, loud, truly American holiday (cue the national anthem and an overly-solemn salute) as an opportunity to do so, I am trying to hold this close and remain close to others. My freedom is for me, but it is not best used on me.
Kipp De Man graduated from Calvin University in 2023, having majored in film and media studies. He is currently working towards a master’s degree in the same discipline at Washington University in St. Louis. He enjoys reading and writing poetry, rock climbing, and Coke Zero.
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I was just talking about the perceived illusion of freedom in spirituality and also in capitalism the other day with a friend. Sending them this article rn!! Thank you for putting words to what have, for so long, been a jumble of thoughts for me!