I Thought I Hated This Thing…

I really don’t like guns. I was, therefore, genuinely shocked to find myself conflicted as our trek through the Constitution arrived at one of our nation’s more infamous principles: the right to bear arms. I was particularly stunned to find myself actually feeling empathy toward those who originally called for this right. 

To make sense of the Second Amendment, we need to look back at the moment it was penned. The United States had just finished fighting a bloody revolution against the British. With the wet work over, Americans turned to cementing their values in the form of a Constitution. The original text of this document, however, included no protections for the rights of the people—it merely framed how our government would function. Seven states refused to ratify the Constitution unless the document was amended to clarify those rights. In a wonderfully trusting moment, the founders promised they would do so, and the states then signed on before said rights were even actually written. 

James Madison—doubtless consulting with other framers—was then handed the task of articulating the rights that would define what it meant to be an American citizen, powerfully shaping our relationship with our government. Drawing heavily from Virginia’s Declaration of Rights, Madison drafted and presented his proposed amendments to Congress. With some slight modification, these became the Bill of Rights, fulfilling the promise made to those states who were only willing to accept the Constitution if their individual liberties were guaranteed. 

Importantly for our purposes, each of these rights was chosen because of a specific historical context. The First Amendment’s freedoms of expression spoke of a people long kept silent by their imperial masters. The Third Amendment explicitly addresses the fact that the British forced colonists to house the very soldiers who oppressed them. The Fourth through Eighth Amendments all echo a time when the British abused both law enforcement and the courts to suppress their American colonies and deny them justice. 

Considering this fact: how should we interpret the Second Amendment? To me, it seems like a powerful statement of suspicion on the part of Americans toward their new government. Historical precedent certainly would have raised concerns over a central power potentially seizing citizens’ weapons. After all, the American Revolution arguably started over such an incident. By including this  in America’s earliest enumeration of individual rights, I see a continuation of this worry. Americans wanted to know that they would retain the right to armed resistance against their government. We wanted to make sure our militias could keep their guns because we didn’t trust our new nation to resist the temptations of tyranny that had beset Great Britain.

Considering these points, I’ll admit that I’m as surprised as anyone to find that I actually agree with the earliest sentiment surrounding this amendment. I, too, do not feel the United States is deserving of an abundance of trust. My methods differ from those who are bigger fans of their right to bear arms: I’ve chosen to write a blog instead of buying an AR-15. Still, both I and those who first advocated for the Second Amendment seem suspicious that the United States will keep its promises. 

At the same time, this all makes me quite sad, particularly for those who still cling to this right. I can more easily understand this impulse for the first generation of Americans. They had just watched their supposed mother country butcher their comrades, and desperately fought for independence. But today? It saddens me to think I share this country with people who spend each day wondering if they’ll have to kill in order to stay free. Living with that constant suspicion—and the fear that accompanies it—sounds absolutely exhausting.

It’s around this time that my more firearm-inclined friends would probably accuse me of being naive. They argue they are just being practical. “We live in a dangerous, broken world,” one of them might say: “It only makes sense that we are prepared to defend ourselves and the people we care about.” Again, I’m a bit surprised to find myself empathizing with this point. It can seem very reasonable when put in those terms. 

I would just rather trust God than a gun.

I’ll admit, there’s a lot to unpack in that statement. Writing this has mostly revealed that my positions on guns—and our supposed right to them—is much more complicated than I thought. 

For now, I’ll focus on the fact that by choosing to trust God, I get to trust him completely. 

This stands out to me as an important difference from Americans’ faith in the Second Amendment. The historical essence of this right was to protect us from our government. We are relying on a right provided by a worldly nation to protect us from that same nation’s potential tyranny. I hope we see the contradiction in that logic. 

By contrast, God does not promise me I can retain the right to defend myself from him. He doesn’t need to. He already showed he would give everything if it meant freeing me from sin. Further, he showed how deserving he is of my trust through not just my life, but all of history. Indeed, a “great cloud of witnesses” attests to his faithfulness. 

To be clear, God does not promise me a life of constant safety: Jesus promised as much. Yet none of the hardship I endure or challenges I face diminish the promises of God. I never have to spend another day in fear, because I know that my Lord has conquered death. The very worst this world can do to me—the very reason so many of us want to own a gun—pales in comparison to the power, goodness, and victory of my God. 

Taken together, that all sounds like a much better place to put my faith.