How was the Treaty of Tripoli used in twentieth- and twenty-first-century church–state litigation and advocacy?
Executive summary
The 1797 Treaty of Tripoli—specifically Article 11’s line that “the Government of the United States of America is not in any sense founded on the Christian religion”—has been repeatedly mobilized in twentieth- and twenty‑first‑century debates as both historical evidence and rhetorical anchor in church–state litigation and advocacy [1] . Advocates for strict separation cite its unanimous Senate ratification and presidential proclamation as a contemporaneous governmental statement about religious neutrality, while opponents downplay its legal weight and stress diplomatic context and translation disputes [2] [3] [4].
1. How an eighteenth‑century naval treaty became a twenty‑first‑century courthouse exhibit
Originally negotiated to secure safe passage for American shipping against Barbary corsairs, the Treaty was ratified unanimously by the Senate and proclaimed by President John Adams in 1797, which gives Article 11 the unusual status of an executive‑legislative foreign‑policy text that later advocates could point to when arguing about the founders’ intent on religion and government [5] [2] .
2. Separationists’ use: a constitutional Rosetta stone for secularism
Organizations and scholars arguing for strict church–state separation have long cited Article 11 as clear contemporaneous evidence that the federal government did not self‑identify as a “Christian nation,” and they have used its plain language in public education, amicus briefs, and advocacy to rebut claims that the Constitution establishes Christianity [6] [7] [1] .
3. Litigation: from district courts to the Supreme Court docket
Litigants have tried to convert the treaty’s declaratory language into legal leverage in modern cases; for example, a petitioner invoked Article 11 in challenge to Jackson County commissioners’ religious displays, arguing the treaty prohibited officials from representing the U.S. as Christian and that it should count under historical‑tradition tests the Supreme Court sometimes employs [8] . The record shows the treaty is invoked as evidence of historical practice and understanding, but available reporting does not show Article 11 itself operating as a dispositive constitutional rule in a Supreme Court holding [8].
4. Counterarguments: context, translation, and diplomatic purpose
Critics and pro‑establishment commentators emphasize that Article 11 was diplomatic reassurance to a Muslim state and not a constitutional manifesto; some trace authorship to consul‑translator Joel Barlow and argue the phrase was meant to calm Tripolitan fears, or that translation or textual context undermines broad constitutional claims drawn from it [9] [3] [4] . That debate—legal significance versus diplomatic context—drives why advocates cite the treaty rhetorically while courts treat it cautiously.
5. Broader advocacy coalitions and unexpected users
Beyond secularist groups, other actors have used the treaty opportunistically: American Jewish organizations cited it to oppose antisemitic discrimination, and historians and civil‑liberties groups have placed it in narratives about early American religious pluralism; scholars also note both Christian nationalists and emergent secularists have invoked Tripoli as an “other” against which American identity has been defined [7] [10] .
6. What the record shows—and what it does not
Primary reporting establishes the treaty’s ratification and persistent rhetorical power in advocacy and litigation, and it documents attempts to press Article 11 into evidentiary role in court filings [5] [8] [2] . What the provided sources do not show is any Supreme Court decision treating Article 11 as a controlling interpretive precedent that resolved a church–state constitutional question; instead, courts and scholars treat the treaty as persuasive historical evidence subject to competing contextual interpretations [8] [11].
Conclusion: a diplomatic sentence that became a constitutional cudgel
The Treaty of Tripoli’s Article 11 has served in the modern era less as an independent legal hook and more as a politically potent piece of founding‑era evidence: embraced by separationists and minority groups as proof of early federal secularism, contested by Christian nationalists and contextualists as a conciliatory diplomatic text or mistranslation, and occasionally pressed into litigation where it functions as historical support rather than dispositive law [1] [4] [8] .