Tag: Election 2016

Christian Nationalism and Our Political Moment

Preface: I think this is the longest I’ve every gone between blog posts. I could say I was busy, but the reality is that I wasn’t sure I had anything compelling to add to the various crises swirling around us. That changed the last couple of days as I read Andrew Whitehead and Sam Perry’s Taking America Back for God: Christian Nationalism in the United States. And so I’m back!

I have been following Andrew Whitehead and Sam Perry on social media for some time. I have read with interest the pieces they posted online and heard their presentations at conferences. It is good sociology that adds far more to our social and political moment that nearly all of the “Why did the white evangelicals support Trump?” opinion pieces.

In my own work on the question, I come to the same easy conclusion that Ryan Burge reports: White Evangelicals are Republicans. What has nagged at me for years is the motivation behind that correlation. Is it because white evangelicals are more likely to be rural or Southern? Less likely to have a college degree? More likely to hold a certain social class position? Concern over morality? A deep application of theological/scriptural understandings to their voting preferences?

It has proven nearly impossible to disentangle the mess of causal factors (which, admittedly, we are doing with correlational data). The search for a Grand Theory keeps failing us in the data. And so I was very excited to finally get Andrew and Sam’s book last week and put it on top of my things to do with my spring break.

It’s a quick and compelling read. The data is rich but easy for a lay reader to interpret and there’s an entire appendix on regression stuff for those who want the details.

Andrew and Sam argue that there is something of a central thread that begins to make sense of what we saw not just in 2016, but a host of things related to contemporary society. That central thread is support for Christian Nationalism. This is not a historical understanding of the nation’s founding, although it is related. It is a belief about the primacy of Christianity in our society’s social organization.

They measure Christian Nationalism through a scale made up of six questions. The measures of agreement with CN are 1) the government should declare the US a Christian nation, 2) the government should endorse Christian values, 3) separation of church and state should be minimized, 4) display of religion (read Christian) symbols should be allowed on state property, 5) American success is part of God’s plan, and 6) the government should allow prayer in public schools. They then divide the scale into four groups: Rejectors, Resisters, Accommodators, and Ambassadors.

Using data from the Baylor Religion Studies, they explore the relationships between these four groupings and a host of contemporary issues. They supplement the quantitative data with 50 personal interviews representing the four orientations.

Notice the division in the chart above. Those distancing from Christian Nationalism make up just under half of their study population (48.1%) while those in favor are just over half (51.9%). It is also interesting that the two extreme categories (Rejecters and Ambassadors) are also nearly equal in size (21.%% to 19.8%, respectively). In the very first chapter, then, we have data that roughly mirrors the polarized socio-political moment we find ourselves in.

The authors unpack this data looking at three broad areas: Power, Boundaries, and Order. The first has to do with voting, legislation, and rights. The second has to do with in-group protections and out-group exclusion. The third has to do with issues of family structure and heterosexuality.

In the Power chapter, they provide a powerful counter narrative to the “white evangelicals and Trump” arguments. They show that Rejectors were very unlikely to have voted for Trump (around 5%) and Ambassadors were overwhelmingly likely to have done so (around 75%).

Moreover, this pattern repeats across a variety of subgroups (though with different percentage magnitudes). For example, 85% of evangelical Ambassadors (regardless of race) voted for Trump but so did 82% of Mainline Ambassadors and 79% of Catholic Ambassadors. Among white evangelicals, there is nearly a 60% gap between support for Trump between Ambassadors (90%) and Rejecters (31%). Even within political parties differences emerge — while 92% of Republican Ambassadors voted for Trump, only 31% of Republican Resisters did

The same patterns hold for attitudes toward refugees, military spending, and gun control. Interestingly, when they examine how a scale of religious practices relates to these same topics, the find that the more religious one is the more positive they are toward refugees, for example. So Christian Nationalism isn’t a mask for religious practice but a separate dimension altogether.

The Boundaries chapter deals with issues of immigration, race, and non-Christian religious groups. In each case, Ambassadors take the most conservative position and Rejectors the relatively liberal one. Again, these patterns are tested against religious practice with the same opposite effect as the previous chapter.

The Order chapter has a “focus on the family“. It deals with questions about mens’ role in leadership, stay at home mothers, opposition to same-sex marriage, opposition to transgender rights, and belief that divorce laws should be more stringent. In each case, the Ambassadors are highest in these measures and the Rejectors are lowest. In this chapter, as opposed to the others, religious practice does not move in a counter direction. As Sam Perry’s other books (on evangelical adoption and pornography use) show, this may because the family taken a central role in understanding contemporary religious practice.

As I was reading the book, a couple of questions kept recurring. I found myself wanting to do much more about the Accommodators. Are they conscious participants in Christian Nationalism or do they simply take its assumptions as background noise and implicitly act upon them? The same is true about the Resisters. Are they taking their objection to Christian Nationalism seriously or are somehow mildly annoyed at the Freedom Sunday celebration at church?

In the introduction, Whitehead and Perry describe Christian Nationalism as “a complex of explicit and implicit ideals, values, and myths — what we call a ‘symbolic framework’ — through which Americans perceive and navigate their social world.” I think is an apt description, yet the social psychologist in me wants to know how that symbolic framework is activated and how it is addressed by those whose ideals are at odds with an Ambassador or Accommodator. Specifically, are there mechanisms through which Accommodators become Resisters?

Furthermore, if the church is to be an active yet not fearful part of the social discourse surrounding contemporary politics, how do pastors and congregations begin to reshape these implicit understandings. The data on people leaving the church due to what I would consider inappropriate political posturing is pretty clear. As Ryan Burge pointed out on Brad Onishi’s podcast last week, the alternative is to suffer in silence.

What do I mean by “inappropriate political posturing”? I mean the assumption that 1) we are all on the same side and 2) we can’t talk about broad social issues because that would be “divisive”. If the church is to the body of Christ in the contemporary word, it must be able to model church-state relations in a way that goes beyond hoping our side wins.

Andrew and Sam have provided us with an excellent starting place in terms of conceptualizing Christian Nationalism and how it is operating in contemporary society. Now it falls to other sociologists, political scientists, and religious leaders to figure out how to take their ideas into our everyday worlds in search of a more compassionate society.

On Being Left Behind: Hillbilly Elegy and Evicted

Over the last few days, I listened to Hillbilly Elegy by J.D.. Vance and finished reading Evicted by Matthew Desmond. Reflecting on these two books has me thinking about the nature of inequality and public policy in the light of our recent election campaign. My takeaways are likely a little different from what you may have read in the media but I think they point to some large issues we need to confront as a society.

Vance’s book is a personal reflection on his own journey from an Appalachian family to a Yale law degree. Many have used it as a lens for interpreting the “forgotten America” that disproportionately supported Donald Trump in the election. If you live in Manhattan, it’s probably a different world. But it’s really a fairly common story of family disruption passed along intergenerationally.

While the roots of Vance’s family run to Eastern Kentucky, most of the action takes place between Dayton and Cincinnati, Ohio. The grandparents, Meemaw and Papaw, had left “the holler” when they were very young. The combination of an unwed pregnancy and factory recruiters aggressively looking for workers for the steel plant set them on their course. There are issues with alcoholism, anger, and family disruption that extend to J.D.’s mother. Vance describes the challenges that came with her prescription drug dependency, loss of steady work, serial relationships, and trouble with the police. The instability of his life would appear to set him up to be yet another generation in the long pattern of generations.

Vance makes much of “Appalachian culture” — with a focus on self-sufficiency, keeping family business private, an individualized sense of religious life, and a limited focus on schooling. Meemaw’s approach to religion is interesting. They never go to church because they were taken advantage of once but she reads the Bible every night and says her Christianity is very important to her although she swears excessively and threatens troublemakers with violence. As she says, the Bible tells us that God helps those who help themselves (which is Ben Franklin and not Jesus).

It’s worth mentioning that the books Vance mentions in support of his argument come from a culturist viewpoint (the lessons he takes from Charles Murray’s Coming Apart give that away). But the cultural argument needs to be more robust than it is usually made. It is often framed in a deficit model — the lack of established cultural expectations is used to explain the unwed pregnancy, the lack of schooling, the drug and alcohol dependency, the isolation. 

Vance becomes successful due to some specific interventions: he moves in with Meemaw instead of bouncing around with his mother from place to place, he is encouraged by a caring high school teacher who gets him thinking about college, and he joins the Marines. Then he succeeds at Ohio State (while overworking himself), gets admitted to Yale Law, and works for a hedge fund. (There was a story this morning that he’s returning to Ohio to start a non-profit.)

I want to be fair to J.D. Vance. He didn’t set out to write a book about “the people the media doesn’t understand.” He didn’t try to write a sociological treatise or an anthropological ethnography of a people group. He’s just a guy reflecting on his own upbringing who borrows from some sociology and family systems theory along the way. In that light, it’s really a story of intergenerational family dysfunction and the way in which that creates challenges to success in future generations (something about the sins of the parents being visited about children and grandchildren sounds almost biblical).

I’d love to know more about how Appalachian families were recruited to support industrial concerns and then abandoned when the plants eventually automate or close their doors. I’d love to know more about how politicians of both political parties have used them to further their own electoral ends. I’d love to know why their communities were the ones most likely to deal with effluent from the very plants that provided their livelihood.

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I heard about Matt Desmond’s book in an NPR story this summer and then again in a Chronicle of Higher Ed update. I bought it right away and got about halfway through it before my crazy semester started. I was able to finish it once grades were in.

Desmond is a Harvard sociologist who did his graduate work at Wisconsin. Partly for his dissertation and partly because of his commitments to the people he met, he lived in substandard housing for a long time. He does a deep ethnography on people who struggle to solve their housing issues. They seem to be in a continuing pattern of renting a ratty apartment for way too much money, having trouble getting the landlord to respond to issues, having family crises, falling behind on the rent, being evicted, and starting all over again. 

With each eviction, finding the next place becomes that much more difficult. Rents on substandard apartments in crime-ridden areas would go for over half my mortgage. A “good deal” meant someone could get a place for $595 a month. Because of prior evictions or criminal records, housing vouchers were not available and public housing was denied. People living on limited incomes might spend up to 80% of monthly income just on housing. And there are no tax incentives for renting.

The landlords may want to be good people who are providing housing, but they depend upon the court protecting their rights to make return on their investments. Besides, they know that another desperate potential tenant is ready to move in at a moment’s notice. They aren’t malicious but they are blind to the ways in which their very livelihood is dependent upon  planned exploitation. There’s a point in the book where he argues that the owner of the dilapidated trailer park made 51 times what his renters made.

There were some occasional success stories in the book but more often past patterns repeat in something of a downward spiral. It’s a remarkable book but hard to come away hopeful. It’s a look inside an economic segment of society we rarely look at.

I guarantee you that not one politician in 2016 ran on the lack of affordable housing in America’s cities. There were no republicans looking to advance tax incentives for developers to expand affordable housing and no democrats looking to change the Byzantine regulations governing access to getting a roof over one’s head. Desmond’s book doesn’t explore politics directly but I’d confidently guess that the renters Matt profiles didn’t vote: could be due to the criminal record, the voter ID laws, or more likely because they have more immediate issues to deal with like making sure their kids eat something.

No one has written a post-election story about why inner city residents are not engaged in civic life. The cynic in me thinks that it’s because we don’t want them engaged (history buffs know that this is why we used to tie voting to owning property). No one has challenged the Trump administration or Governor Walker or the mayor Barrett of Milwaukee to find a way to respond to the renters’ needs.

Desmond argues that it’s not part of our sociological and political discourse because we fail to see the linkages that connect our economic success as a society with the fact that these folks (Appalachians as well as inner city renters) are at the mercy of economic forces that depend upon them being where they are. Here is a long passage where he makes this point explicitly:

When I began studying poverty as a graduate student, I learned that most accounts explained inequality in one of two ways. The first referenced “structural forces” seemingly beyond control: historic legacies of discrimination, say, or massive transformation of the economy. The second emphasized individual deficiencies, from “cultural” practices, like starting a family out of wedlock, to “human capital” shortfalls, like low levels of education. Liberals preferred the first explanation and conservatives the second. To me, both seemed off. Each treated low-income families as if they lived in quarantine. With books about single mothers, gang members, or the homeless, social scientists and journalists were writing about poor people as if they were cut off from the rest of society. The poor were said to be “invisible” or part of “the other America.” The ghetto was treated like “a city within a city.” The poor were being left out of the inequality debate, as if we believed the livelihoods of the rich and middle class were intertwined but those of the poor and everyone else were not. Where were the rich people who wielded enormous influence over the lives of low-income families and their communities – who were rich precisely because they did so? Why, I wondered, have we documented how the poor make ends meet without asking why their bills or so high or where they money is flowing?

In my Spirituality, Faith, and Justice class we read Michael Sandel’s Justice. He wrestles with what it means to have a good society and explores whether it is based on utilitarianism, libertarianism, or virtue. At the end, he comes away with a commitment to the common good — a recognition that when people are left behind we are all worse off. It’s a bit of an idealistic vision, as my students point out, and struggles to make a securely argument on why we should even care about cases like the ones Vance and Sandel show us. But that isn’t the only book we use in the class. Books by Christena Cleveland, David Fitch and Geoff Holsclaw, and Andy Crouch remind us that we are part of something larger called the Body of Christ and that we have a personal obligation to pay attention to God’s work in the world around us.

Maybe the point is that nobody is supposed to be Left Behind.