Come Sunday gets the theological focus right. A God who would consign the unsaved to eternal punishment, even if they had never heard the gospel, comes off looking like a monster.
Darwin’s theorizing has always been more popular with public intellectuals eager to dispense with Christianity than it has been with the scientific community.
By Alan Bean
Ever since the 2016 election, America’s white evangelicals have been savaged by liberals and moderates who can’t believe that Donald Trump is president. How could 81 percent of white evangelicals cast their votes for a serial adulterer and compulsive liar?
The revulsion against white evangelical hypocrisy is particularly common on social media sites like Facebook where the latest outrage (real or fabricated) from Franklin Graham, Jerry Falwell Jr. or Robert Jeffress is presented as evidence that the evangelical tribe has lost its collective mind.
But there is a powerful logic at work here. White evangelicals are best understood as custodians of traditional American values, so it is no great shock that they would be attracted to a man promising to “Make America Great Again.”
The real mystery is why so many non-evangelical white folks lined up behind the 45th president.
Trump’s victory suggests that the influence of white conservative Christians extends far beyond the borders of evangelical culture. Not everybody outside the white evangelical camp is bashing that tribe. Especially in the South and Midwest, white evangelicals are valued as custodians of traditional sexual ethics and old school national identity by white folks who attend Mainline Protestant or Roman Catholic churches.
Evangelicals are best understood as custodians of a lost America. By “custodian” I don’t mean “janitor”. Custodians, in the sense I have in mind, are more interested in preserving valuable, but endangered, institutions, traditions and practices. Think of a curator or a tour guide at a museum of American history who kindles a vision of the future by reminding visitors of past glory.
I will discuss white American evangelicalism under three overlapping heading: Faith, Family and Fatherland.
If you assumed that Jesus Christ stands at the heart of white evangelical theology you would be wrong. Jesus is important because a sinful world needs a Savior, but white evangelical theology begins and ends with an inerrant Bible. Some evangelicals have a hard time with inerrancy, but they keep their reservations to themselves, especially if they are teaching at an evangelical school.
Liberal Christians ask why evangelicals disagree on so many points of doctrine (especially on election and the end of the world) if everybody reads an inerrant Bible. But it doesn’t really matter if evangelicals differ on the details; they are united by their faith in a perfect Bible authored by a perfect God. Regardless of the question, the Bible has an answer rooted in the very mind of God (even if we can’t agree about what that answer is). Properly interpreted, an inerrant Bible produces a “biblical worldview,” a way of seeing, a lens that brings the world into sharp focus, a web of principles teaching us how to live as individuals, families and churches and as a society.
Since the Second World War, the biblical worldview has been expanded to embrace the values of the corporate world and the American military, and this move has had a huge impact on the way the Bible is interpreted. If American evangelicals took their primary cue from the words of Jesus, militarism and organized wealth creation would be problematic ideas. But when you have the entire Bible at your disposal, you can find a biblical basis for virtually anything.
This strategic expansion of the biblical worldview has given evangelicals a fan base much broader than the aggregate membership of evangelical churches. Many white Americans appreciate the custodial work white evangelicals have done by providing a spiritual basis for capitalism and patriotism.
Christians who live outside the evangelical camp will tell you that the notion of biblical inerrancy is indefensible. Christian Smith speaks for many when he argues that evangelical biblicism has made the Bible “impossible.” The Bible is a spirited conversation riddled with dissent and disagreement, critics of inerrancy argue.
Inerrancy may be indefensible, but for American evangelicals, it is indispensable.
The Bible must speak with a single voice on every issue. It was inspired by a God who doesn’t contradict himself and, secondly, a Bible riddled with contradiction would make the evangelistic mission of the church impossible: “If the trumpet give an uncertain sound, who shall prepare himself to the battle?”
This explains why R. Albert Mohler, president of Louisville’s Southern Baptist Theological Seminary, argues that the earth is roughly 6,000 years old. God must have created the earth with “apparent age,” Mohler explains, because the Bible speaks of a young earth. A biblical worldview allows Christians to build on a solid foundation; all other ground is sinking sand.
Non-evangelical Christians are skilled at mocking the doctrine of biblical inerrancy, but they have yet to produce a working alternative. The Bible creates more consternation than inspiration in liberal Protestant churches because liberal preachers appear to be suggesting that only the good bits of the Bible retain authority. Fresh ways to read the Bible are discussed among America’s theological cognoscenti, but at the congregational level there is little consensus on the subject of biblical authority.
American evangelicals, therefore, have good reasons for making biblical inerrancy the one indispensable doctrine. Evangelicals can’t rethink gay marriage, for instance, without changing the way they interpret the Bible (this seems to be what happened to David Gushee). But is it possible for the average person to change their thinking about the Bible when they live within the echo chamber of American evangelicalism?
James Dobson didn’t call his radio program Focus on the Family on a whim: the family unit (mom, dad and the kids) is fundamental to evangelical identity. Evangelicals talk a lot about evangelism; but conservative churches grow by keeping their children in the fold. With the advent of the Internet and smart phones, this has become a daunting task.
American evangelicals believe that little boys and girls thrive when they have a mother and a father and flounder when they don’t; that’s why divorce is still a big deal. In recent years, the tribe has embraced “complementarianism,” a fancy way of saying that men and women are fundamentally different and must have different, but complementary, roles to play in the family and in the family of God. A mother can’t be a father and a father can’t be a mother. Women can’t preach or teach men, but their unique contributions to church and family are celebrated.
The American evangelical view of marriage is defiantly patriarchal. Men are called of God to serve as the head of the household and terrible things happen when this call is ignored. Evangelicals can quote reams of scripture in defense of patriarchy and it’s a critical aspect of the biblical worldview.
American evangelicals are convinced that home trumps hormones. Children suffer horribly when adults elevate their personal desire for sexual gratification over the needs of their children. Deadbeat dads, feminist mothers and the abortion debate are viewed through this lens.
So is the gay rights movement. Because heterosexuality is God’s will for all his children (evangelicals have chapter and verse on that point as well) homosexuality is decried as an anti-family life-style choice. This interpretation is non-negotiable and those who fail to reach the right conclusions about gay marriage and abortion are disowned by the evangelical family.
When I entered the world 65 years ago, the “family values” endorsed by American evangelicals were rock-solid Americana. Recent changes to the ethical code may seem obvious and long overdue to liberals, but if you see feminism, the gay rights revolution, and the erosion of the nuclear family as contrary to the biblical worldview, panic is the natural response.
Viewed through an evangelical lens, American society is a network of families. If the family is in trouble, the nation cannot prosper.
I have a number of reasons for using the term “Fatherland.”
For one thing, it begins with an “f,” so it goes nicely with “faith” and “family.”
Secondly, white evangelicals see America as the prized possession of God the Father Almighty; it is, quite literally, the Father’s Land.
Finally, white evangelicals often speak of the U.S. Constitution as if it shared a divine origin with the Bible. “Founding fathers” like John Winthrop created the United States of America to be “a city upon a hill.” It is essential to popular evangelical historians like David Barton, the unofficial historian of white American evangelicals, that the signatories to the U.S. Constitution were all evangelical Christians.
This explains why 2 Chronicles 7:14 is constantly being quoted by American evangelicals:
If my people, which are called by my name, shall humble themselves, and pray, and seek my face, and turn from their wicked ways; then will I hear from heaven, and will forgive their sin, and will heal their land.
Like Israel of old, America is the unique creation of God and this is the source of her exceptionalism. America is God’s idea; God inspired the rule book (otherwise known as the U.S. Constitution), and, like ancient Israel, America is accountable to God.
When evangelical leaders like Billy Graham and Pat Robertson compare America to Sodom and Gomorrah, they speak as latter day Jeremiahs calling the nation back to her original greatness. For the white evangelical tribe, “Make America Great Again” has a deliciously familiar ring. The dramatic arc of Deuteronomic theology is applied to the United States: we have prospered when faithful; we have been punished when we have rejected our calling; we will regain our former glory if only we can recapture our spiritual roots.
The biblical worldview gives white evangelicals a way of seeing America. The flag celebrates and symbolizes America’s covenant with God. So, when Colin Kaepernick takes a knee while loyal Americans, hand-over-heart, face the flag, a sacrilege has been committed.
When we are talking about the evangelical perspective on faith and family, race doesn’t enter the discussion. All evangelicals, regardless of race, are biblicists with strong patriarchal tendencies who take a dim view of abortion and gay marriage.
But when Kaepernick takes a knee to protest police brutality, evangelicals divide along racial lines.
Black evangelicals agree that America is exceptional, but not always in a good way. When white evangelicals reflect on America history they talk about Plymouth Rock and a U.S. Constitution rooted in Holy Writ. When black evangelicals wax historical, they reflect on the slave trade, Jim Crow segregation and the civil rights movement.
Which explains why 81 percent of white evangelicals voted for Donald Trump while 88 percent of black evangelicals supported Hillary Clinton.
When pollsters refer to “evangelicals” or “born again voters” they are talking about white people. When they speak of “liberal” voters they are also talking primarily about white people. Nationally, Trump carried the white vote by 21 points, and that’s when the pro-Clinton West Coast and New England are included in the tally. In the American South and in large swaths of the Midwest, Trump was the overwhelming choice of white voters of whom most don’t identify as evangelicals.
White evangelicals punch above their weight because their custodial work is appreciated by millions of people who wouldn’t be caught dead in a white evangelical church.
When white evangelicals realize that their brand isn’t working at all for Millennials, they can see themselves as an embattled minority. This anxiety is reflected in the popularity of end time theologies that picture evangelicals rocketing up to heaven while the liberals are left to stew in their own juice.
But when American white evangelicals consider the popularity of their custodial work among non-white evangelicals, the conservative segment of the Protestant Mainline, the military, the business community and the Republican Party, they can envision themselves as the vanguard of a movement to take back America. This renewed confidence is reflected in the resurgence of Dominionism, a postmillennial vision of the end times in which evangelical Christians take charge and the biblical worldview is unchallenged.
The custodial work of America’s white evangelicals has given them power far beyond their declining numbers. But there’s a downside (and a dark side) to the white evangelical vision. Trump will go down as the most embarrassing president in American history, and the white evangelical brand just might go down with him.
If John Wesley felt his heart “strangely warmed” at Aldersgate, and if Fanny J. Crosby had visions of rapture bursting on her sight, I was happy for them; but I was beginning to fear (or hope) that I wasn’t cut out for that sort of thing. But I wanted very much to be a Christian. In the Gospels, Jesus just walked up to people and said, “follow me.” And they followed. That’s what I was looking for.
By Alan Bean
The Cooperative Baptist Fellowship came to life in the early 1990s, a traumatized gaggle of southerners disowned by Mother Church (also known as the Southern Baptist Convention). The fight for control of the SBC was over the Bible: was it a faithful guide in matters of faith and practice, or was it the inerrant Word of God.
Both sides took the Bible seriously, but the losing side couldn’t swallow the doctrine of biblical inerrancy, especially when if it meant refusing to ordain women.
At first, the CBF was led by former Southern Baptist preachers who had survived by shoring up their conservative credentials. Determined to keep the SBC hardliners from howling “I told you so”, the CBF turned thumbs down on GLBTQ inclusion.
But as the original generation of pastors was replaced by younger men (and a significant group of women) who didn’t grow up in the SBC, this policy began to feel like an embarrassment, and then like a sin.
As tension built along generational lines, the CBF launched a listening tour dubbed “the illumination project”. Since member churches were hopelessly divided on the subject of gay inclusion, the CBF settled on a compromise solution. The “denominetwork” would continue to send out missionaries who were single and celibate or in heterosexual marriages, but some non-ministry positions would be opened to GLBTQ persons.
No one was excited by this policy tweak. Some church leaders saw it as the best semi-solution the CBF could manage under the circumstances; but most church leaders who have bothered to state an opinion are very unhappy. And, as you probably guessed, the unhappiness breaks in equal and opposite directions.
Conservatives take their stand on the Bible. The Good Book might not talk a lot about homosexuality, but the handful of relevant passages appear to associate same-sex attraction with willful godlessness (Roman 1 is cited as the clearest example).
Christians have been excluding and condemning homosexuality for two thousand years, the argument goes, because the Bible gives them no option. If we must choose between the Bible and the shifting sands of secular opinion, conservatives conclude, we will stick with the Bible.
Progressive Baptists take their stand on the Christian gospel: “for all are one in Christ Jesus.” The kill-and-eat vision in Acts 10 went against the clear teaching of Peter’s Bible, but the Apostle learned that when the Bible and the gospel appear to point in different directions, you go with the gospel.
For conservatives, there can be no juxtaposition of Bible and gospel. Since we learn the gospel from the Bible, how can the two be in tension? When progressives talk about “the gospel”, conservatives say, they are really talking about radical inclusion, a concept they borrowed from the political left.
Traditionally, evangelicals view the gospel as God’s answer to human sin. We sin because Adam sinned and it’s driving us straight to hell. Furthermore, there’s nothing we can do about it. The gospel, the good news, is that Jesus died in our place, and if we accept him as Savior our death sentence will be annulled and we will one day sing with the choir celestial.
It takes a lot of cutting and pasting to come up with a gospel like that. It also requires ignoring most of what the Bible says about the gospel.
In the synoptic gospels, the good news (that’s what “gospel” means) is always closely tied to the in-breaking of God’s kingdom. Here’s Mark’s introduction:
Now after John was arrested, Jesus came into Galilee, preaching the gospel of God, and saying, “The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God is at hand; repent, and believe in the gospel.”
And here’s Matthew:
And Jesus went about all Galilee, teaching in their synagogues and preaching the gospel of the kingdom and healing every disease and every infirmity among the people.
In Luke, Jesus embraces the gospel mission laid out in the kingdom vision of Isaiah 61:
The Spirit of the Lord is upon me,
because he has anointed me
to bring good news (gospel) to the poor.
He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives
and recovery of sight to the blind,
to let the oppressed go free,
and to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.
The healing miracles of Jesus and the preaching of the gospel are tightly linked in the Gospels. The gospel is that, despite surface appearances, the kingdom of God is breaking into the world.
The gospel of the kingdom is thoroughly utopian and utterly realistic. The shadow of the cross hovers over the wedding banquet.
In the letters of Paul, the gospel is all about the fusion of Jew and Gentile into a miraculous new family of faith.
How did we get from the utopian realism of the New Testament to the Four Spiritual Laws? That’s a story for another time, but the Bible didn’t get us there.
Nobody in the CBF wants to be called a fundamentalist, and everybody in the CBF takes the Bible seriously. Real fundamentalists like R. Albert Mohler are delighted with the squabble erupting within the CBF.
Once the truthfulness and trustworthiness of the Bible are abandoned, theological revisionism is inevitable . . . The same negotiation and “reinterpretation” of the biblical text that allows for the service of women pastors will logically lead to the acceptance of the LGBT revolution. How can it not?
CBF conservatives are willing to reinterpret Paul’s teaching against women preachers, Mohler suggests, but they don’t want to apply the same logic to GLBTQ inclusion.
Mohler has a point. The older generation of Baptist moderates grew up in a Southern Baptist world in which, in theory, the Bible was the sole and supreme authority in all things. Moderates and fundamentalists used different proof texts, but they employed the same hermeneutic. To survive in the old SBC you were forced to argue from the plain text of Scripture; the fight was over which texts you emphasized and which you ignored.
The younger crop of Cooperative Baptist pastors has moved beyond Biblicism. They live in a world inhabited by flesh and blood members of the GLBTQ community who cannot be dismissed as theological abstractions. Maybe Paul really believed that same-sex attraction is a symptom of godless despair; but what if you know gay men and lesbians who are living in stable, committed relationships, who love Jesus, and who long to follow him, with or without the blessing of Mother Church?
Al Mohler says that we believe the Bible or we don’t. Our new crop of preachers puts the matter a bit differently: the gospel is good news for everybody, or it’s good news for nobody.
We get our gospel from the Bible, no question. But we must read our Bibles through a gospel lens. It is anti-gospel to tell women, lesbians, African Americans, or any other segment of the human family, that they cannot be fully functioning members of the boy of Christ.
Maybe Paul isn’t saying what we think he’s saying. Or maybe he was simply mistaken about women and GLBTQ folk. Either way, the gospel of Jesus Christ remains the gospel of the kingdom, a way of viewing the world that is rooted in the Hebrew vision of shalom.
“They shall neither hurt nor destroy in all my holy mountain: for the earth shall be full of the knowledge of the LORD, as the waters cover the sea.” (Isaiah 11:9)
The incarnation gave us a sneak preview of what this shalom looks like.
“The blind receive their sight, the lame walk, lepers are cleansed, and the deaf hear, the dead are raised up, the poor have good news preached to them.” (Luke 7:22)
Non-violence, enemy love, and radical forgiveness are indispensable elements of the Christian gospel because backlash is inevitable. And it is this gospel, not the Bible, that we dare not “negotiate” or “reinterpret”.
We get our gospel from the Bible, and then we read out Bibles through the gospel.
Most significantly for the present discussion, we get our gospel from Paul, and then we read Paul through the gospel.
The gospel is a wild, healing, reconciling dream planted in the real pain of a hurting world.
For christ followers, there can be no accommodation to the easy way of the world. Gospel inclusion is not for the faint of heart.
Will that kind of gospel put butts in the seats? I don’t know, and I really don’t care. The great majority of people, religious and secular, may hesitate to follow Jesus down his rocky gospel road, but where else are we supposed to go? He has the words of eternal life.
The recent celebration of Martin Luther King Jr. Day has me thinking about Tommy Douglas, my father’s pastor and Sunday school teacher. Douglas is the MLK of Canada. Disparaged and vilified in his day (he was investigated by the Royal Canadian Mounted Police for decades and frequently excoriated by the mainstream media), Douglas was voted the greatest Canadian of the 20th century in 2004.
Canadians enjoy universal health care because Douglas, then premier of Saskatchewan, refused to yield to a violent backlash that was financed by the medical establishment (including the American Medical Association) and culminated in a 23-day doctors strike.
My father was conservative in religion but progressive politically. You find a similar mix among African Americans and Latinos in the United States, but it is exceedingly rare among white Christians. To understand why my father loved Billy Graham and typically voted for the socialist New Democratic Party you will need some historical background. But let not your heart be troubled, this stuff is fascinating.
The Great Depression encouraged religious and political experimentation. The old formulas weren’t working and everyone knew it. The Cooperative Commonwealth Federation (CCF), a union of farmers, unionists and socialists, was organized in Alberta in 1932 and social gospel preachers played a pivotal role.
That same year, Calgary’s William “Bible Bill” Aberhart started preaching Social Credit philosophy on his popular “Back to the Bible” radio program. Bible Bill promised to end the depression with a monthly distribution of $25 (the equivalent of $400 in today’s money) to every family in Alberta. The British North American Act (Canada’s constitution at the time) kept Aberhart from acting on his impulses when his Social Credit Party swept to power in 1935, but his proposals made for great political theatre.
In his own way, Bible Bill was just as radical as the socialist CCF. Like all populist politicians, Aberhart needed a devil, and the eastern banking establishment and big money boys in Toronto fit the bill. He once suggested that incomes should be capped because no one should be able to earn far more than his family could spend in a lifetime while others went hungry.
Aberhart was a Calgary high school principal who learned his religion from the prophetic Bible conferences that proliferated north and south of the border in the late 19th century. His theological education consisted of the correspondence courses Aberhart received in the mail from Cyrus Scofield. He was a popular preacher in Presbyterian, Methodist and Baptist churches, but denominational leaders always shut him down when they caught wind of his fascination with the end-times. Bible Bill started preaching on the radio in 1925 and, two years later, founded the Calgary Prophetic Bible Institute to promote the dispensational religious theories he had learned from Scofield and his famous Reference Bible.
Gordon Ernest Bean was born in in Weyburn, Saskatchewan, in 1919 and Tommy Douglas became pastor of Calvary Baptist Church in 1930, just as the Depression was beginning to shred the farm economy. Douglas turned his congregation into a relief agency, organizing local farmers in danger of losing their farms to foreclosure and meeting the survival needs of starving families.
Douglas preached the social gospel he had learned at Brandon College and the University of Chicago. Like his hero Walter Rauschenbusch, Douglas believed that, given half a chance, the teaching of Jesus could work a social revolution. His rhetoric was simple, his humor was disarming and, like Jesus, he was a terrific storyteller. His revival preaching combined evangelical piety with a call for social reform.
Tommy Douglas raised eyebrows. In a 1934 letter to the Weyburn Review he savaged capitalism:
The profit system has defiled whatever it has touched; and the profit system has touched everything. It has corrupted governments, debauched politicians, degraded morals, devitalized religion and demoralized human nature.
My father’s Sunday school teacher helped organize the socialist CCF in 1932 and, two years later, launched an unsuccessful bid to represent Weyburn in the Canadian Parliament. Alarmed by this radical blend of politics and religion, representatives from the Baptist Union of Western Canada told Douglas he could be a pastor or a politician, but not both.
My father’s preacher chose politics over the pastorate and represented Weyburn in Parliament between 1935 and 1942 when he shifted his attention to Saskatchewan politics.The CCF won 40 of 52 seats that year and Douglas became the first socialist leader of Saskatchewan (or anywhere else in North America).
In 1981, my father heard Douglas preach to a rapturous gathering at Weyburn’s Calvary Baptist Church. He returned with a commemorative plate (which now hangs in my home) and a terse evaluation: “I love Tommy’s politics, but I’ve never cared for his theology.”
My father arrived in Alberta shortly after Bible Bill died and was succeeded by Ernest C. Manning, the first graduate of Aberhart’s Prophetic Bible Institute. The new leader of the Social Credit Party shared his mentor’s fascination with the imminent end of the world but quickly distanced himself from the radical aspects of depression-era politics. A major oil discovery was made in the Alberta town of Leduc in 1947 and it was widely speculated that the province would soon be swimming in petro-dollars.
When the Bean family moved to Yellowknife in the Northwest Territories in 1956, Dad always listened to Billy Graham’s “Hour of Decision.” When we settled in Edmonton in 1964, he tuned in to Ernest Manning’s “Back to the Bible Hour.” To my adolescent ears, Manning was an even dorkier version of Graham, and that’s not surprising; the two men had been good friends since the 1940s and, unbeknownst to practically everybody, were now business partners.
During the first half of the 20th century, the progressive religion taught at Union Theological Seminary in New York and proclaimed in the pages of the Christian Century was closely aligned with the Washington political establishment. John D. Rockefeller and his heirs had a lot to do with that. The Rockefellers used their vast wealth to bankroll the University of Chicago, support the National Council of Churches, build Riverside Church in New York City for Harry Emerson Fosdick, and make it possible for Union Seminary to attract the likes of the Niebuhr brothers and Paul Tillich.
In the late 19th century, American Protestantism was much less polarized than it is now. John D. Rockefeller followed evangelists like Dwight L. Moody and Billy Sunday with interest and cautious approval even as he poured millions into the “modernist” University of Chicago. But when control of the family fortune passed to social gospel liberals like Frederick Taylor Gates and John D. Rockefeller Jr., the family philanthropy was slowly redirected to ecumenical religious endeavors like the National Council of Churches and, increasingly, to research universities, hospitals and the League of Nations.
Just as the money bankrolling the liberal Protestant establishment was beginning to dry up, evangelical Christians were energized by a new brand of philanthropy.
In 1948, for instance, J. Howard Pew created the Pew Charitable Trusts to counter the influence of Rockefeller largesse. A conservative Presbyterian appalled by the leftward turn of his denomination, Pew was eager to assist conservative politicians, preachers and those willing to mix the two. Billy Graham wanted a piece of the action. Pew wasn’t the only oilman willing to write big checks. During a 1953 crusade at the Cotton Bowl, Graham joined W.A. Criswell’s First Baptist Church in Dallas so he could spend quality time with wealthy oilmen like H.L. Hunt of Dallas and Sid Richardson of Fort Worth.
In the mid-1950s, J. Howard Pew became fascinated by the Athabasca Tar Sands and started reaching out to Ernest Manning. Vast oil reserves were being discovered throughout the Arab world and Manning was touting Alberta as an attractive alternative for American investors.
The Pew-Manning relationship got off to a rocky start. Manning told Pew that Albertans wouldn’t get excited about foreign investment unless they believed the project would benefit all Albertans. Pew was having none of it. Like any good American independent oilman, he thought it was nobody’s business what he did with the money God alone had given him.
In 1964, Billy Graham talked Pew and Manning into playing golf in the mountain resort town of Jasper, Alberta. In the course of a weekend dedicated to golf and theological reflection, Graham brokered a deal. By the mid-1960s, Pew had invested a quarter billion dollars in the tar sands project. The controversial Keystone XL Pipeline running from Northern Alberta to Houston and Port Arthur in Texas, is a natural development of this marriage between conservative religion and big oil.
In his formative years, my father encountered two religious options. One was forward-looking and optimistic, hoping for better days ahead; the other was nostalgic and pessimistic, resigned to the imminent end of the world. One was cooperative and ecumenical; the other exclusive and hyper-individualistic. One focused on win-win solutions; the other played a zero-sum game. One vision was shaped by men (and the occasional woman) with Ivy League educations; the other depended on independent Bible schools and an endless procession of Bible conferences. One embraced the civil rights revolutions of the 1950s and ’60s, the other criticized it. Both religious visions hitched their wagons to different stars in the political firmament and were far more dependent on the generosity of fabulously wealthy families than is commonly realized.
Like most North American Christians, my father was a product of both visions: one influenced his religion, the other his politics. Dad learned their religion in church and on the radio. He never had the luxury of attending college and, like virtually everyone else in Christendom, never studied theology. His worldview was thus an awkward compromise between Tommy Douglas and Ernest Manning.
But there is a reason why Tommy Douglas was voted the greatest Canadian of the 20th century and why men like William Aberhart and Ernest Manning were never in the running. Like Martin Luther King Jr., Tommy Douglas paid a dreadful price for speaking truth. Douglas and King are far more popular in death than they ever were in life. Come to think of it, so was Jesus.
Dr. Sam was not amused. “Re-write this Mr. Bean,” he said as he handed my paper back, “and, this time, there’s only one Isaiah.”