Give Me That Old-Time Religion

I am a member of a dying breed in America. No, not Republicans under the age of thirty, or straight men who care about how they dress (though both are applicable). I am speaking instead of the proud tradition of mainline Protestantism. In the 1950s, the “mainline” denominations included a majority of Americans; their market share has declined precipitously since the 1960s to their current 15 percent of the adult population. This might be shocking to some, since in the last half century it seems that Christians’ voices have grown louder in the national conversation. Again, probably true, but that increase in volume has not come from my compatriots in the United Methodist Church. The rise in Christian activism in American politics in the late 1970s is instead correlated with a rise in the prevalence of evangelical and fundamentalist denominations.

While both groups are Christian, there are critical differences between evangelical and mainline Protestants, which are well-reflected in an informative 2009 survey by The Barna Group. The mainline churches are disproportionately old in comparison to the national population and face difficulties attracting young adults. They also lack significant representation from minority groups, especially Hispanics. (Remind anyone of a certain political party?) Perhaps most significantly, only 31 percent of mainline Protestants “believe they have a personal responsibility to discuss their faith with people who have different beliefs.”

Now, there are both good and bad things about that emotional reticence. One neglects a Christian duty when one avoids these conversations—my religion tells me I have an obligation to share the Word. Yet one is also more likely to make and keep friends outside the faith. When it comes to being an American—a full and active participant in the oldest continually functioning liberal democracy in the world—I do think that there is a right approach. I may not always know the best way to convey my Christian beliefs to my non-Christian friends, but I am positive that actively working to enshrine those beliefs in federal law is a bad idea.

The First Amendment guarantees both freedom of speech and freedom of religion, and as a classical liberal I am skeptical of attempts to infringe those rights. In recent years, the left has tried this in the name of “tolerance” and “pluralism.” But the right has advanced particular social policies in a way that feels like a Crusade, with a capital C.

There are plenty of Christian ideas, such as the beneficial social effects of a child being raised by two loving parents, that are backed up by statistical data. There are others, however, that only make coherent sense if you ascribe to a Christian worldview. If one does not see value in maintaining the purity of the human body as a temple of the Holy Spirit (or even rejects the ideas of “purity” or “spirit” as a whole), then it is difficult to justify the criminalization of marijuana or the dangers of premarital sex. We are simply arguing from different planes of understanding, and while acceptable in private conversations among friends, it becomes increasingly dangerous when it morphs into a “my rights versus yours” kind of argument.

Too many American Christians believe that their two identities—“American” and “Christian”—are synonymous. While the two groups might share a few ideals, they are surely not the same, and I cringe at the thought of political parties based solely on religion and nationality. I encourage American Christians to continue to be vocal about their faith, while also comprehending that a large number of Americans are not Christian and that theocracy is evangelism done wrong. Try making a new friend instead of passing a new law; I guarantee that you will get further that way. As for myself, how do I reconcile all of these labels–Christian, Republican, American–in my own life? Well, as a Christian I invite you to join me for Bible study on Thursday afternoons with Harvard College Faith and Action. As a Republican, I similarly extend an invitation to our meetings on the first Tuesday night of every month in Adams House. And as an American? To quote the great cultural icon Rhett Butler, “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.”

Andrew B. Pardue ’16 is a government concentrator in Mather House. His column appears on alternate Tuesdays.