Glory, Glory Hallelujah? Not So Fast

This past Fourth of July, I did something I’ve done many times before: I watched A Capitol Fourth on PBS, broadcast from the West lawn of the U.S. Capitol. My sister was performing with the Choral Arts Society of Washington, based in DC, for her 27th year. Of course, I had to tune in.

I sat back expecting the usual fanfare: a reliably upbeat host, singers and ensembles decked out in red, white, and blue, and a polished lineup from across genres delivering carefully vetted hits.

But then came The Battle Hymn of the Republic.

And this time, it hit differently.

I’d heard the hymn my whole life, always with reverence. I grew up thinking it was righteous and spine-tingling. That swelling chorus? “Glory, glory hallelujah!” It gave me chills. It felt like the good kind of American patriotism, the kind tied to moral causes like ending slavery.

But this year, I actually listened. Not just to the music, but to the words.

“Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord,

He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored…”

That second line? Straight out of Revelation, where God stomps the wicked like grapes in a winepress of divine wrath. Julia Ward Howe repurposed that imagery in 1861 to rally the North behind a moral cause. These days, her hymn gets lauded by the same crowd that screams about religious freedom while cheering on book bans, forced births, and theocratic power grabs.

Those opening lines were enough to stop me cold. I heard violence baptized as virtue. I heard judgment disguised as glory. I heard the comfort of tradition give way to something far more unsettling.

And I realized that I’d been indoctrinated.

Not maliciously, not even intentionally. Just thoroughly. The kind of slow-drip conditioning that teaches us that violence is righteous, as long as we think it’s on God’s to-do list.

Let me be clear: Julia Ward Howe was an abolitionist. She believed in the moral necessity of ending slavery, and in that context, she saw the Union army as executing divine justice. I don’t fault her for trying to reconcile her faith with the brutality of war.

But abolition is not absolution.

Because what The Battle Hymn of the Republic does, and continues to do, is sanctify violence in the name of virtue. It invites us to see war not as tragedy, but as prophecy fulfilled. It presents bloodshed not as horror, but as holy.

And it’s not the only one. American culture is full of songs and rituals that blur the line between God and government, faith and firepower. From “Onward, Christian Soldiers” to the militarized renditions of “God Bless America,” our hymnals and anthems often reinforce the idea that God not only endorses war, but demands it. Even our national anthem, The Star-Spangled Banner, is essentially a victory lap for surviving a battle.

We rarely stop to question why our most revered civic songs glorify bloodshed, battlefield victories, and the roar of explosives in the sky.

That theology—that America fights because God wills it—echoed through two World Wars. Through Vietnam. Through Iraq and Afghanistan. Through January 6th. Through Project 2025 and every flag-wrapped crusade in between. 

It’s no coincidence that Christian nationalists still belt out this song with burgeoning pride and frenzied flag-waving, or that it resurfaces at conservative rallies where the line between God and government is deliberately erased.

The Battle Hymn of the Republic is the soundtrack of American civil religion: the idea that our nation is not just powerful, but sacred. That our wars are righteous. That our enemies are God’s enemies.

And that’s dangerous.

Because once you believe God is on your side, you stop asking if you’re on the side of justice. You stop questioning who pays the price. You stop listening to the people being crushed under the wheel of that so-called glory.

I wish I could say this realization felt empowering. Mostly, it felt like grief. Letting go of something I once thought was beautiful. Accepting that the chills I used to feel weren’t evidence of righteousness; they were evidence of just how well the myth had worked.

But clarity is a gift. And if a song can glorify war while claiming moral high ground, we owe it to ourselves to call it what it is.

So, no. I won’t be singing The Battle Hymn of the Republic anymore. Not in school auditoriums, not at July 4th singalongs, and definitely not while someone’s waving a cross and a flag like they mean the same thing.

Instead, I’ll be listening. And questioning. And maybe I’ll help write new hymns, ones that don’t need a gun or a scapegoat to feel powerful.

Postscript: This year’s PBS broadcast leaned extra heavy into the spectacle—marching color guards, military service anthems, and elderly veterans from America’s wars staged front and center. The whole nine yards. A tad ironic, considering the same GOP that idolizes militarism is working overtime to gut public broadcasting. Too bad performative flag waving plays better than funding public media for the people.