The Case for Christian Localism

Originally published at From the Desk of Jon Harris.

The reason for favoring the proximate, or local, over the national and international stems from the nature of society itself. Robert Lewis Dabney said that “Government is not the creator but the creature of human society.”1 Instead, society preexists government, and communities make up society. It is on the community level where children are born, trust is forged, and leaders are shaped. Man is a social being and cannot be programed the way a computer is programmed. He needs virtue transmitted to him in natural ways exemplified by real world figures. This is where he finds identity, belonging, and direction. Thus, a preference for the local flows out of the nature of man himself.

Home in Our Hearts

Three primary factors make a local approach essential for any conservative movement. First, all politics is local, requiring a rooted connection to communities to sustain any political movement. Second, local ties foster stability and cultivate virtue. Third, within the Anglo-American tradition, Christians have historically embraced, and still uphold, a pastoral ethos grounded in local communities and regional identity. Thus, the goals of American Christian conservatives remain tied to a vision of local life. Without a localist foundation, there is little substance to inspire or sustain meaningful political action.

This deep sense of home has long characterized archetypal leaders in the Western tradition, from Odysseus to King Arthur. Modern ideologues must necessarily cloak their causes in the familiar imagery of home life to rally soldiers to their innovative causes. Recently, I examined propaganda for the World Wars which compelled Southern soldiers to join the American cause in honor of their regional forebears such as Robert E. Lee and Stonewall Jackson. In recent years, military recruitment has declined significantly, as messaging has shifted from emphasizing duty and patriotism to focusing on DEI initiatives. A conservative movement that disregards the home, or substitutes it for abstract principles, is not a conservative movement and will give way to its own revolutionary impulses.

Home is our prime motivator, our essential ingredient, and the natural setting for our deepest affections. The English novelist George Eliot once wrote that “a human life . . . should be well rooted in some spot of a native land, where it may get the love of tender kingship for the face of earth, for the labors men go forth to, for the sounds and accents that haunt it, for whatever will give that early home a familiar, unmistakable difference amidst the future widening of knowledge.”4

You will not find the meaning of home on a map. It lives in the smiles and tears, the celebrations and sorrows, the triumphs and failures, and in every meaningful sentiment God chose to bestow on humans. It is where real people live with whom we share the deepest joys of connection. It is the place where our stories never die and our secrets are always kept. It is that formative place that shaped us, and continues to shape us still. In the end, home is where we belong. And somehow, we know it—not through reason, but through memory and the gravity of our own heart.

Understanding this is not just what it means to be a localist, or even a conservative, but what it means to be a human being living in God’s mysterious order. In this chapter, I intend to argue that regional identities are inescapable, that the virtue necessary for ordered liberty to flourish flows in part from our local identities, and that a localist political project is a more authentic, prudent, and distinctly American path than more totalitarian alternatives.

Regional Identities are Inescapable

A human longing for rootedness in a tangible place is even evident in more nomadic professions. For example, truck drivers often form attachments to their vehicles, sometimes naming them. Soldiers hold onto cherished items, providing a sense of home and stability while overseas. Herman Melville wrote about the sea-faring Nantucketers who, while raised on the shore, made their homes in their ships at sea.6 These examples highlight the deep human desire for a unique place to call one’s own, offering grounding in a world of constant change.

Possessing a place of belonging is fundamentally different from merely occupying a space. I have often noticed that subtle linguistic shifts—such as from “neighborhood” to “development,” “person” to “individual,” or “place” to “space”—carry an element of deracination, reducing the vibrant, lived realities of life to mere abstractions. Who, in their right mind, would equate an impersonal prison cell with a childhood bedroom adorned with personal touches, memories, and tastes, even if both occupy the same square footage and contain the same person? A true sense of place emerges from a rich interplay of personal experiences and the cultural inheritance that shapes us. We are all born into a place we did not choose, yet in a well-ordered world, that place fosters a deep sense of belonging and possession. It is “our” place, and this fact alone justifies its preservation.

God gave Adam dominion “over all the earth,” yet his home was a specific garden into which God placed him. It was there he was to make his own mark in the world by cultivating and keeping it.7 Adam’s descendants were commanded to “fill the earth,” carving out their own domains—something God ensured by confusing their language at the Tower of Babel, thus scattering them across the world.8 God then promised the land of Canaan to Abraham and his descendants, dividing it among the tribes of Israel and instituting the Year of Jubilee to preserve each tribe’s inheritance within their allotted territory.9 On a broader scale, the Apostle Paul taught that the boundaries of every nation’s habitation have been providentially set by God as part of His mysterious plan.10 Homelands, therefore, are not simply places people choose to live from a vast array of market choices, but an inherited stewardship that takes time to develop a connection to. There are no shortcuts in this process.

One of the destabilizing features of modern life is how often people relocate. The average American moves nearly twelve times over the course of a lifetime.11 Frequent moving is linked to things like chronic stress and can even foster a clinical condition known as “relocation depression.”12 It is not hard to see why pulling away from local relationships, investments, and cherished landmarks with their smells, sounds, and tastes can have a negative impact on someone. This has likely prompted many who are disconnected from an ancestral homeland to seek it through things like DNA evaluation tools.

I felt this connection in a real way as a teenager when I visited the old homestead where my grandpa grew up during the Great Depression in rural Mississippi. Even though I was a generation removed from the family farm, something about the place spoke to me in a deep, almost intuitive language—despite having no personal memories of it. Standing where my ancestors were buried, I felt an undeniable pull to be laid to rest beside them. Though I never knew most of them, as they died before I was born, and though life choices made long before my birth placed me far from their land, I still felt a profound link to their lives. It was as if the land itself had woven me into their history in some mysterious way.

This experience clearly runs counter to the ideals of a modern liberal society that prioritizes individual self-actualization through limitless choice and an ever-expanding array of market goods. In such a society, we are told that people should be free to be whoever they want, unbound by traditional elements of identity such as religion, language, ancestry, custom, or land. Yet, for some groups, this connection to place seems undeniable. For example, many Jewish people who have never set foot in Israel, feel deeply tied to it as their ancestral homeland. Such longings are not only understandable but also natural. People will always seek a place to call their own, linked by the enduring factors that have historically bound people to a shared land.

The Bible often speaks of certain regions as inhabited by particular peoples with claims on the land they live in. When God gave Mount Seir to Esau, for example, it included his descendants who constituted the nation of Edom. Frequently, lands are demarked as belonging to the “sons” of a particular person such as Israel, Lot, or Ammon.13 People are expected to dwell in places for generations and make an impression on the land, even as the land makes an impression on them. Israel would plant vineyards, drill wells, and build alters, monuments, walls, and cities that reflected their presence indefinitely.

In Albion’s Seed (1989), historian David Hackett Fischer examines four British folkways that shaped distinct regional cultures in what became the United States: the Puritans in New England, Cavaliers in the Chesapeake, Quakers in the Delaware Valley, and Scots-Irish in the Backcountry. Fischer compares factors such as religion, cuisine, family structure, architecture, speech, politics, work, education, and social customs to highlight regional differences. For instance, the Puritans built a society rooted in a covenantal community, emphasizing shared faith and mutual responsibility, while the Cavaliers established a hierarchical society reflecting nobility, birthright, landed wealth, and paternal class distinctions. This contrast partly explains why the South, influenced by Cavalier culture, often resists egalitarian reforms and retains religious, local, and familial hierarchies longer than other regions.

As the United States’ population grew through birth and immigration, new arrivals brought their distinct regional differences with them while adapting to original British folkways. It is self-evident that someone from Massachusetts generally harbors different assumptions about life than someone from Texas, regardless of their class interest. These differences play out in both political and sports rivalries. I am currently reading a book about the Catskill region in New York, which describes a “great division” between urban New Yorkers who saw the Catskills as a summer retreat and local residents who lived there year-round, including through harsh winters.14 The duration and quality of time people spend in a particular place impacts regional differences.

While human actions can improve a place, they can also impact the land in a negative way. For example, as a result of the Canaanite’s sexual immorality, “the land [had] become defiled . . . [and] vomited out its inhabitants.” The Prophet Jeremiah warned Judah that their idolatry “defiled [God’s] land.” The Law of Moses warned that if Israel’s judicial system did not punish murder they would “defile the land.”15 The enduring consequences of sin on a place underscore that God is the ultimate owner of the land, which people hold as stewards under His moral law, entrusted with its care as a divine gift. People who trash their home through vice are not only devaluing their home, but the One who gave it to them.

This reveals a third dimension that makes regional identity inescapable: its spiritual significance. Beyond the physical necessity of occupying space and the social bonds formed through that occupation, there is also a deeply rooted spiritual connection to place. Humans are inherently religious beings, and throughout history, they have built places of worship in prominent locations—often aligned with distinct topographical features. In the United States, for example, church steeples once dominated the skylines of cities and towns. Today, however, the tallest structures in major cities are typically skyscrapers dedicated to commerce, perhaps reflecting a shift in religious priorities from the church to the market.

In ancient Israel, Solomon’s temple stood atop Mount Moriah, and became a symbol of divine presence and national unity. Every native Israelite understood what it meant to ascend to the temple in Jerusalem, especially during religious festivals. Even in exile, during the Babylonian Captivity, the people of Judah remembered their pilgrimages with longing. Yet they could not bring themselves to sing the joyous songs of Zion in a foreign land.16 Places like the spot where Jacob wrestled with God or where the Israelites crossed the Jordan were not merely geographic locations, but enduring symbols of divine encounter that made their way into national memory. Sacred pagan sites, often referred to as “high places,” also marked locations associated with spiritual significance.

In the United States, many national landmarks carry spiritual significance. These include the National Cathedral, Plymouth Rock, and First Landing State Park in Virginia Beach, where Rev. Robert Hunt erected a cross to mark the place where the first permanent English settlers established their home. Sites of pivotal battles—such as the Alamo Mission Church, Gettysburg, and the resting place of the U.S.S. Arizona in Pearl Harbor—are honored as sacred ground, serving both as burial sites and as enduring symbols of national memory and sacrifice. The natural landscape also speaks to a sense of divine grandeur and meaning. Many geographic features were regarded as spiritually significant by Indigenous peoples before European colonization, and they continue to be recognized today for the way they reflect God’s divine grandeur and beauty.

It is misguided to think of people as fully autonomous individuals, detached from the land in which they live. Every person is born into a world not of their choosing and must learn to navigate it through the customs, traditions, and rhythms they inherit. While a person’s connection to place can be distorted, suppressed, or even corrupted, it cannot be entirely severed. No one transcends place altogether, because all of the experiences that shape us occur somewhere, within a context shaped by God’s providential design. Rather than resisting this bond, the wiser path is to embrace it. We bear a natural responsibility toward the places we inhabit, and in accepting that responsibility, we cultivate the virtues needed to care for them, both now and for the generations to come.

Localism and Virtue

This principle of human scale extends beyond architecture. Popular books tend to be around 200–300 pages, and most films run between 90 minutes and two hours. Outliers stand out precisely because they push the limits of our attention and endurance. British sociologist Robin Dunbar famously proposed that humans can comfortably maintain around 150 stable relationships. Whether or not this exact number holds, we all recognize the limits of our time, memory, and emotional capacity.

The land we live on is no exception. Human beings are social creatures who attach meaning to place. For someone who has moved frequently, parts of their identity are shaped by the various places they have lived. Conversely, those who remain in one place over time and participate in the regular rhythms of community life, economic exchange, recreation, and religious practice, are profoundly shaped by that single place and it binds them to that region in ways they may not even be aware of. And because it is their home, they are more likely to care for it. Attachment to a place and a sense of community are closely related.17

Ideally, this sense of duty to place should be rooted in more than just conviction. A father who discovers a child later in life can still be generous and supportive, but a father who raises a child from birth often develops a deeper, more organic sense of responsibility. The same is true for our relationship to land. The more we live on it, the more we love it, and the more it stirs us to act on its behalf. A person might reform their life upon learning they will soon be a parent. They are now motivated by a new identity that strengthens over time spent with their child. Similarly, identity tied to place matures through shared experience and deepening commitment.

As finite beings, our primary obligations naturally fall to those with whom we share proximity—family, neighbors, and nation. We favor our homeland not simply because we live there, but because it is ours in a possessive, meaningful sense. Our identity is interwoven with the people, the customs, and the geography of that place. We drive through our “old stomping grounds” and recognize things like where our parents went to school or where we first began to love our spouse. This attachment only grows deeper over generations, especially when communities maintain a continuous connection to their land.

Economists often speak of the “tragedy of the commons” to argue for private property on the grounds that people take better care of what they personally own. But public land is a reality that cannot be avoided. It must be managed by some form of public trust, whether governmental or through a responsible private entity. In some parts of Europe, communal grazing lands have endured for centuries, sustained by long-standing social bonds, mutual benefit, and even intermarriage. These shared public places work not because of regulation alone, but because trust has been cultivated through generations of cooperation.

Children learn to respect the rules of their household not simply because the rules make sense on their own, but because they belong to that family. In my own home, we had family-specific rules that reflected our values, routines, and heritage which fostered a strong sense of shared identity. The same is true of regions. Communities often share similar features such as economic reliance on certain industries, religious commitments, or political leanings. Manners and customs naturally arise not because of arbitrary taste, but because they serve to preserve a distinct social order. People act (or refrain from acting) a certain way simply because, “that’s how it’s done here.” As the saying goes, “When in Rome.”

Ideally, this sense of kinship should inspire virtue. Dishonesty undermines trust in the community. Foolishness diminishes a region’s dignity. Cowardice threatens its survival. Intemperance degrades its integrity. Those who love their home will strive to improve it. People who carry the accents, customs, and cultural marks of a place will either be ashamed of them by seeking validation from outsiders while risking alienation and rootlessness, or they will embrace their heritage, acknowledge its imperfections, and work to strengthen it from within. True loyalty does not mean blind pride, but the commitment of a trusted insider who seeks to protect, refine, and preserve what is theirs.

Edmund Burke championed the influence of landed interests in governance, arguing that, unlike the less rooted monied interests or men of letters who were prone to disruptive innovation, those tied to the land through generational attachment were motivated to steward their inherited estates responsibly, preserving and enhancing them to pass down to future generations with the same blessings they received, enriched by improvements they deemed just. He famously stated in his Reflections on the Revolution in France (1790): “To be attached to the subdivision, to love the little platoon we belong to in society, is the first principle (the germ as it were) of public affections. It is the first link in the series by which we proceed towards a love to our country and to mankind.”18

The challenge we face today, in an age dominated by global markets, international media, and universally applied political ideologies, is not to replace one set of impersonal systems with another that are merely controlled by a different class of global elites. Rather, the task before us is to rekindle the spirit of localism that once upheld ordered liberty, reinforced Protestant-informed moral customs, and cultivated virtuous leadership in America.

The neoevangelical movement, with its polished appeal to urban elites and its production of leaders aligned with managerial agendas, has failed to form the moral character necessary for sustaining a healthy civilization.19 Like all systems driven by managerialism, it has contributed to growing public mistrust toward elites across every major institution. As local ties weaken and leadership becomes increasingly disconnected from place, the only force left to hold society together will be a coercion backed by state power and sustained by fear. Such a society may still function, but it will be stripped of the virtue that once bound communities together at the local level.

Avoiding this descent requires a serious reevaluation of how leaders are formed and how loyalty to them is cultivated. True respect for leaders does not come from media polish or institutional credentials but from familiarity, shared life, and proven character. This is inextricably linked to place. Jesus transformed the world, but He ministered within a region smaller than the state of Rhode Island. The Apostle Paul planted churches in influential cities along trade routes, yet he stayed in those physical locations, sometimes for years, to raise up leaders who were embedded in the life of the community. His qualifications for leadership focused not on institutional prestige, but on traits recognizable to those inside and outside the church who shared daily life with these men.

Ties to podcasts, seminaries, or celebrity conference circuits are, at best, secondary and often dangerously overvalued. Sadly, many churches today select leaders not on the basis of known character, but on credentials shaped by a penchant for specialization that Richard Weaver once warned against. The “specialist,” Weaver argued, has replaced the gentleman as society’s model leader. He is valued not for wisdom, but for technical expertise devoid of moral substance.

The postwar liberal order encourages a leadership class of carpetbaggers who move from region to region, and institution to institution, through the revolving door of managerial bureaucracy. Proposed solutions like meritocracy often fail to address the problem. Children do not prefer a housekeeper over their mother simply because she is more efficient. They may enjoy the babysitter who gives them candy and lets them watch television, but that is not a preference born from loyalty or love. Neither efficiency, nor membership in transnational organizations alone, should qualify someone for a vote of public trust.

What American Christians and conservatives ought to do is reenforce networks grounded in shared custom, heritage, and land. We should favor leaders we know, leaders who arise from our own natural aristocracy, and men and women formed by the place and people they serve, over strangers who may appear impressive but have no meaningful connection to us. This might mean calling an overlooked trusted Bible study leader to become a pastor, promoting a reliable local clerk to manager, or encouraging someone whose family has lived in the area for generations to run for public office. It also means choosing to spend more time involved in local life than consuming distant, impersonal content from other places on the internet.

These changes will not fix every problem, but they will begin to restore the mechanisms of accountability and virtue that once characterized our communities. Virtue, after all, flows from identity. People act in ways consistent with how they see themselves. This is why Scripture places so much emphasis on the new identity Christians receive in Christ. The believer’s distaste for sin and desire for righteousness springs from knowing who they are. When Christians sin, it is often due to a kind of spiritual amnesia where they forget their own identity.20 But sanctification is ultimately a return to and deepening of that identity, grounded in a relationship with God through Christ that takes place over time.

Our obligations to others, including parents, spouses, and neighbors, operate in a similar way as our obligations to God. Jesus affirmed these responsibilities as fundamental to social life.21 Likewise, our connection to place is not incidental but part of our calling. My encouragement to the citizens of any particular community is this: be involved. See yourself as inextricably linked to the place God has called you. You are obligated to your fellow locals because you are one of them. Love your place, love your people, and act in the best interests of your community, not just out of duty, but because that is who you are. It is a central part of your identity and your calling.

A Local Political Vision

The Soviet Union is an example from the recent past of a vast empire who tried to legitimize itself in Eastern Bloc countries through “People’s Assemblies” and rigged elections while leveraging local distaste for Nazi influence in order to smear their opponents as outsiders. Ultimately, it was local populations who contributed to its demise of the U.S.S.R. when people in member states were forced to choose between their home and the empire. For example, the 1989 Romanian Revolution was sparked by the Socialist Republic of Romania’s attempt to evict a local Reformed pastor from his church. Local sentiments which respected religion were stronger than a Soviet puppet government.

Leaders of every empire from the Babylonians to the modern United States know that control becomes more difficult the greater the size and diversity of the region an empire encompasses. Technology and modern transportation make propaganda that attempts to bind the nation together using general slogans easier, but nature cannot be denied. Humans still operate on a local scale even if distracted by global markets and social media. It is not difficult to understand why states like Alaska, Hawaii, and Texas are known for their secessionist sympathies, why Puerto Rico resists statehood, why some in Northern California seek independence from Southern California, and why Eastern Oregon wishes to join Idaho. In 2024, the southeastern part of Baton Rouge formed its own incorporated city called St. George because of dissatisfaction with the government of Baton Rouge.

Currently, a “great sort” is reshaping local identities as people migrate to align with shared political values, temporarily diluting traditional regional character but laying the groundwork for new identities within a generation or two. For example, in the past decade, Florida has become a solid “red state” and Colorado a firm “blue state” due to internal migration, with newcomers expecting alignment with their political beliefs. This has shifted local laws and cultural norms, blending political outlooks with regional markers to form a new sense of identity that will likely strengthen over time.

Colorado and Florida have long had distinct cultural identities, but as their differences become more pronounced along political lines, the challenge of governing them together grows. During the Cold War, the shared sense of unity against the Soviet threat, that was anchored in common values like belief in God and personal freedom, helped hold the United States together. This unity extended into the era of fighting Islamic terrorism, but now, without that unifying external threat, the bonds are weakening. People are increasingly realizing that the true challenges to their way of life come not from distant enemies, but from within their own country, where different regions pursue their own social and political visions. This shift may be fueling a renewed interest in localism.

This presents an opportunity for traditional American conservatives to reapply their vision of a federal decentralized government bound together for mutual defense and trade regulation in which States are treated as sovereigns and regional interests preserved. In his First Inaugural Address, President Thomas Jefferson championed “the support of the State governments in all their rights, as the most competent administrations for our domestic concerns and the surest bulwarks against anti-republican tendencies.”22 This was the American arrangement, but became more associated with the agrarian South particularly after the War.

More organically rooted local communities are desirable because they can more easily vet leaders, resist tyranny, and preserve high trust societies. The need for such communities has grown as people increasingly recognize that distant authorities often fail to prioritize their interests. In 2020, for example, red states and counties resisted stringent COVID measures due to strong local support, showcasing the power of community-driven decision-making. Similarly, with global supply chains vulnerable to disruptions from trade wars or disasters, ordinary people, even those outside agrarian roles, are finding ways to support one another in crises. This spirit was recently demonstrated in Appalachia’s response to Hurricane Helene in 2024, where communities united to fill gaps left by the inadequate government response. Appalachia, with its distinct Scots-Irish heritage and fierce independence, exemplifies the local spirit every region could cultivate for resilience and self-reliance.

However, despite public schools often overlooking local history, global markets flooding communities with endless products, and corporate hubs like Nashville and Los Angeles shaping entertainment trends, a distinct local spirit persists in the United States. This is evident in the rise of locally sourced food and farmers’ markets, the rise of homeschooling and homeschool coops, passionate support for local sports teams, and the organic ways people come together for volunteerism, hobbies, and spiritual fellowship.

Most Americans still seem to see value, even if driven by nostalgia, for county fairs, small-town Christmas traditions, and Norman Rockwell’s idyllic paintings. As long as this American spirit endures there is hope that those whose birthright is a heritage of small places which produced larger than life heroes, such as George Washington, Clara Barton, and John Glenn, will continue to do so as they remember where they live and who they are.

Conclusion: Localism in a Revolutionary Age

In 1837, John C. Calhoun declared, “because I am a conservative I am a State rights man.” But he also said, in the same speech, “While I thus openly avow myself a conservative, God forbid I should ever deny the glorious right or rebellion and revolution—Should corruption and oppression become intolerable, and cannot otherwise be thrown off.”23

An advocate for small government, regional interest, and minority rights like Calhoun knew there were times for last resorts. If indeed, the deep state is too deep, it may take someone able to defeat it who is also, like a Cincinnatus, able to return power when the time for it has expired. Even in this scenario, it will take someone grounded in a love for a local to defeat the forces afflicting America.

America still exists in the churches, small businesses, fire departments, and other local associations that dot the map. Her future continues as long as her people continue to pass their own baton to the next generation. Progressives use force to transform America from this, while conservatives use it to restore her to this. The work of restoration is multi-faceted, but it must begin and ends in particular places with particular people.

Because all politics is local, local ties foster stability and cultivate virtue, and our tradition embraces the local, we should work to restore our country from the bottom up—one family, community, state, and region at a time.

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Jonathan Harris

Jonathan Harris is a student at Southeastern Baptist Theological Seminary.

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