[Cross-posted to By Common Consent]
Jonathan Rauch’s Cross
Purposes: Christianity's Broken Bargain with Democracy, the latest book by the longtime policy journalist and
public thinker, argues three things:
--first, that throughout American history Christian
churches have played an essential role in enabling our liberal democracy to
properly function;
--second, that America’s Christian churches (mostly,
though not exclusively, Protestant ones) have of late abandoned this role, and
by so doing have contributed to the breakdown of liberal and democratic rules
and norms in American life;
--and third, that the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints has continued to
model exactly the sort of role which historically American Christian churches
had once played, and that therefore, the more the rest of American Christianity
can learn from and perhaps even emulate the Mormons–very specifically, the room
which he believes LDS doctrines and practices make for a pluralistic civic
theology–the healthier America’s democratic culture and institutions will be.
Given the praise contained in that third point–and given the philosophically
liberal presumptions which underlie it–it’s not surprising that Rauch and his
book have received a positive, bordering on enthusiastic, reception among
intellectually-inclined mainstream American Mormons, while a small
philosophically (as opposed to merely politically) conservative minority have
viewed Rauch’s arguments far more suspiciously. Who is right? Assessing that
requires considering Rauch’s claims in somewhat more detail.
Rauch is well-known as an advocate of classical liberalism and political moderation; indeed, a large part of his reputation as a writer has been built on the fact that he is both an unapologetic atheist and a gay activist, yet neither reasons nor votes the way most Americans would stereotypically assume a gay atheist would. Throughout his career, Rauch has presented himself as a consummate pragmatist, always asking careful questions and eschewing any kind of controlling ideology. Of course, as with pragmatism generally, this kind of evidence-based, practical-minded worldview does tend to support a particular ideological position–namely, a classically liberal, utilitarian, and secular one, in the spirit of John Locke, Adam Smith, James Madison, Jeremy Bentham, and John Stuart Mill. Early in Cross Purposes, he describes his ideological preferences (though without calling them that) succinctly: “the modern tradition of freedom, toleration, minority rights, and the rule of law.” In support of such aims, he sees “three linked social systems” as essential: “liberal democracy to make political choices; market capitalism to make economic choices; and science and other forms of open critical exchange to make epistemic choices” (p. 12). He is and long has been a consistent defender of responsible, thoughtful, but nonetheless total individual choice, in matters of politics and economics and religion, unfettered by custom or community.
Still, he's no libertarian. He
knows that there are things that he does not and perhaps cannot know, and thus
needs reign in his drive for individual autonomy and trust at least to a certain degree in
the slow, patient work of ideas and options through society and culture. It is
that conservatism in his nature which has led him, a non-believer, to take
seriously the historical role that Christianity has played in the development
of the American democratic system that he prizes. In the book, he repents of
his one-time intellectual over-reliance upon the separation of church and state
when addressing social and political problems; he now views his youthful
celebration of “apatheism”–the ideal of simply “not caring very much one way or
another about religion”–as “superficial” (p. 5). Instead, he now believes “not
just that secular liberalism and religious faith are instrumentally interdependent but that each is intrinsically reliant on the other to build a morally and
epistemically complete and coherent account of the world” (p. 21).
In his view, since secularism and freedom of choice cannot fulfill the human need for belonging and meaning, and since the Christian religion cannot escape its inability to account for the physical laws and the moral horrors of the universe, what is necessary–and what he believes that “the United States has been generally good” at for most of its existence–is for both American Christianity and liberal democracy to do their part in holding up the walls of our civic home. Creating
an environment wherein this balance can be maintained requires “that the
Constitution be interpreted in a way which is consistent with the well-being of
law-abiding faith communities, and that God’s work be interpreted in a way
which is consistent with the well-being of democratic pluralism” (p. 33). The
rule of liberalism in matters of politics and law must always accommodate
religious exceptions, he affirms–but at the same time, the rule of Christian
faith in society and culture must always give way to liberal protections and
rights. This is a complicated balance, but it is one Rauch has confidence in,
and one that he seeks to persuade his secular readers to be confident in as
well.
Having laid his foundation, Rauch proceeds to build an argument that aligns with a good deal of other contemporary
sociological research and political observation. First, that over the 20th century, mainline Protestant churches became less culturally distinct, losing
their ability to mold their parishioners and implicitly direct them towards the
virtuous role they had historically played in America’s civic order. And
second, that Protestant churches which rejected the mainline’s compromise with
secular liberalism gradually moved in an ever more partisan direction, adopting
a paranoid and conspiratorial version of Christian teachings which Rauch refers
to as “the Church of Fear.” This transformation led them to
acquiesce to–and eventually triumphantly embrace–the vulgarity, immorality, and
cruelty of Donald Trump’s paranoia and defensiveness as their perfect
political avatar. And while I will not deny that my personal political judgments are a factor here, I would still insist that the passages where Rauch brings receipts, showing how thoroughly un-Christian it is to support Trump and the party he has built in his image, are really the best in the whole book.
Rauch shows how evangelical (again, primarily Protestant) Christians have dismissed their previous insistence upon personal character in judging candidates, and in so doing ignored Trump’s criminality; how their gleeful identification with Trump as a cultural fighter has underscored how little faith they actually have in God’s providence; and how their embrace of what Rauch calls “sharp Christianity” has prevented them from articulating even a semblance of adherence to the Christian imperative to forgive and love, rather than fight and punish. It is, frankly, a damning indictment–and since he believes that those imperatives have been central to the develop of the civic culture within which American democracy developed, it is an indictment of Trump’s Christian supporters as un-American as well. All of which leads him to conclude:
[S]ecular
liberalism and Christianity have separate purposes. They do not need to ally (and should not); but they do need
to align, at least well enough so
that democracy’s wheels don’t come off. . . . In that respect, we seculars are
entitled to hold the church accountable to the democracy of which it is part.
We are entitled to hold it accountable for the choices it makes. While the
church’s relationship with God is its own business, secular Americans are
justified in reminding our Christian friends that the Church of Fear is toxic
for them and for us. We are not out of our lane to suggest that what Russell
Moore calls 'confident Christianity'–one which 'constantly reminds us that this
life is less important than the next [and] demonstrates something of what it
means to forgive and serve one another'–needs repair for all our sakes. In
short, we have standing to hope, perhaps even insist, that Christians get their
act together (p. 89).
As I wrote at the beginning, Rauch believes American Mormonism provides a model of action that Christians could use a blueprint to repair themselves. But should we accept as accurate his overarching historical account of American civic pluralism? Should we accept as correct what he sees within the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints as contributing to it? And if we do not accept one or both of these, does that mean the conservative critique of Rauch is correct?
Let’s begin with what I assume to
be the most obvious problem (at least for the likely readership of this essay;
were I a Roman Catholic, Rauch’s Protestant-centric account of America’s civic
culture would probably rankle even more). Any Mormon who is remotely familiar with our own history ought to be prompted to
ask Rauch why his initial description of the American bargain between
Christianity and democracy doesn't incorporate an explanation for the profoundly
anti-pluralist attacks on Mormonism that defined its nineteenth-century
development. After all, perhaps the single greatest argument that
America’s liberal democracy was not,
in fact, built within the liberal civic walls he describes was the official
exclusion and persecution that violently drove the Church of Jesus Christ of
Latter-day Saints out of the United States entirely. And this is not a parochial point; placing
nineteenth-century anti-Mormonism alongside slavery and Know-Nothingism as
clear signs that America’s Protestant Christian civic culture was heavily
dependent upon racial, ethnic, religious, and gender exclusion is broadly accepted as a key component of any historically honest consideration of America’s
civic identity.
Yet the only discussion of this
defining example of religious oppression in American history which is present
in Cross Purposes isn’t to be found
Rauch’s description of the intellectual components of America’s liberal
democratic culture, as it should be; rather, it appears as one of the
motivating reasons why Mormons–on Rauch’s reading–are so supportive of that democratic culture: “the modern church’s...memory of persecution has bred sensitivity to the importance of religious
freedom and pluralism” (p. 108). Contrary examples from Mormon history–like
Brigham Young’s politically illiberal State of Deseret or the economically
illiberal United Order of Enoch–receive no mention in the book. Joseph Smith’s
Council of Fifty does get a mention,
but even that rhetorical embrace of religious authoritarianism–however quickly
abandoned–is instead presented entirely in terms a defense of freedom and
religious choice, emphasizing how “Smith went so far as to...propose
constitutional revisions requiring ‘the armies of the government’ to enforce
‘principles of liberty’ for all people, not just the Protestant majority” (p.
110). That Rauch passes over the complications of Smith’s not-always-coherent embrace of both
religious authoritarianism and republican freedom, to say nothing of
other explorations of very real authoritarian alternatives present throughout
American history is, perhaps, predictable, but still unfortunate.
My point here is not to claim that
LDS church members (like myself), or Americans generally, necessarily must have
some secret, ambiguous authoritarianism historically buried in our belief
system. (Not that the rise of Trump hasn’t led some historians of American
religion to suggest exactly that.) Rather, it is to claim
that Rauch’s understanding of America’s liberal democracy and its relationship
to expressions of religious faith, both as a matter of history and a matter of
theory, is simplistic, and it requires papering over many ideas and actions
that cannot be neatly arranged into a straightforward argument against the
terrible choices which Christian churches that have embraced Donald Trump’s
person and agenda have made, however worthwhile such an argument may be.
Rauch
makes a good deal of the LDS doctrine of agency, and connects that doctrine
(one which, under Rauch’s reading, stipulates that, as all of God’s children
have the ability to make choices, the process of choice–if not necessarily the
end result–must be respected and tolerated and negotiated with) to several
passages in sermons and speeches of President Dallin H. Oaks: “Oaks argues for
an alignment between God’s moral constitution and Madison’s political one.
Speaking for the church, he sees patience, negotiation, and compromise...as
social and spiritual ends unto themselves” (p. 96). Rauch’s discussion of
Oaks’s ideas is thoughtful, and his connection of them to larger LDS
perspectives on matters dear to Rauch’s heart (he describes the
surprise passage of the “Utah Compromise” in 2015, which provided protection
against housing and employment discrimination to Utah’s LGBTQ population, as
“inspirational”–p. 100) is obviously sincere. But it is difficult to square his
praise of Utah Governor Spencer Cox for apologizing to LGBTQ Utahns for his
past offenses in 2016, with his silence regarding Cox’s vocal support for
Donald Trump and opposition to the interests of trans individuals in 2024, or
his quotation of polls from 2016 and 2020, showing comparatively low levels of
support for Trump among LDS Republicans, while failing to note more recent
polls which show that support for Trump increased among all Mormon demographics
in 2024. To be sure, these snapshots are part of a complicated story. But a complicated
story about LDS history and culture–one where our appreciation of personal
agency and public spiritedness is deeply entwined with our own particular,
prophet-idolizing Church of Fear–is not what Rauch wanted to tell.
In some ways the critique of Rauch
made by conservative–or “post-liberal”–Mormons is thus correct here. Ralph Hancock’s pointed challenge--“how can
religion ‘align’ itself with liberalism...without at some level in or some
way ‘supporting’ Rauch’s liberal (that is, atheistic and ‘scientific’)
understanding of truth and of humanity?”–is a hard one for those desirous to
accept Rauch’s conflation of being a good Mormon and being a good (that is,
non-Trumpist) modern American to deal with, and his fierce dismissal of Rauch’s
key theological claim about Mormonism–“his understanding of ‘agency’ is neither
a remotely adequate phenomenology of human choice nor a serious rendering of
LDS belief”–is undeniably true. Unfortunately, Hancock’s conservative rebuke of
Rauch’s longed (and simplistic) for rapprochement between liberal principles
and Christian churches in America is also, in it’s own way, superficial.
Rauch’s summation of the message of Christianity as “Don’t be afraid. Imitate
Jesus. Forgive each other,” is obviously incomplete, and designed to point out
an easy alignment between Jesus and his hero James Madison. But it is a substantive message, nonetheless,
one grounded in a deep conviction of and commitment to Jesus’s loving,
sacrificial gift of grace. To claim, as Hancock does, that the characteristics
of Christianity which Rauch correctly condemns many Christian churches for having
abandoned in their partisan, paranoid embrace of Donald Trump--namely humility, forgiveness, and tolerance--are somehow
actually insufficient to allow for a “substantial participation as Christians in
public life” is pure nonsense (or at least, nonsensical assuming one accepts such
giants of liberal Christianity from Dorothy Day to William Sloane Coffin to
Fred Rogers to Eugene England as Christians, which I assume Hancock would, though perhaps only with large, grudging asterisks beside their names).
To be fair to Hancock, none of
those Christian leaders had to explicitly confront what he considers to the
primary challenge to maintaining a substantive Christian anthropology today: namely, gay marriage
and other assorted LGBTQ issues. Rauch himself frequently underscores how
difficult these concerns–or indeed, his own marriage to his gay partner–are for
certain Christian believers, which is again what brings him back to the LDS
church, and how he believes its chastening failure in the fight against
same-sex marriage made it re-dedicate itself to its supposed inner liberalism:
“After its Proposition 8 debacle in 2008, the Church of Jesus Christ of
Latter-day Saints has foregrounded those elements of its faith which harmonize
with America’s constitutional order” (p.120). Rauch believes, in short, that
even Mormonism’s illiberal elements (which he does not theologically explore) point in the direction of a Christianity at peace with pluralism and
negotiation. The LDS church changed regarding plural marriage and the priesthood ban
on Blacks, after all, and yet it remains a substantive, in no sense “thin”
church. So why shouldn’t the rest of Christianity follow its example, and make
its way through a culture supportive of gay rights respectfully too? And it is
this prospect which most horrifies conservative critics of Rauch’s vision of
Mormonism–in Hancock’s words, the fear that “LDS church members have been insufficiently appreciative of the positive cultural and evangelical effects of the church’s alliance with Roman Catholics and others” in opposing gay marriage; the fear that the institutional church, in its drive to “participate in the fashioning of legislative compromises” over LGBTQ issues, will not fully attend to the “trade-offs of these compromises and their long-term effects”; and the fear that Mormons will take a little too seriously the idea of “peacemaking,” which comes “perilously close to endorsing not only the fundamental dignity of all God’s children, but even the ideological self-understanding of those with whom we find that we must compromise.” These are the sorts of terrors that will keep those who find the substance of their Christian faith mostly fully defined by few passages from Paul’s Letter to the Romans and a few pages from Spencer W. Kimball’s The Miracle of Forgiveness awake at night, that’s for certain.
Surprisingly to me, I find myself thinking
that President Oaks’s words provide a better guide to the complexities of
maintaining a binding Christian faith in the midst of a world of individual
choice, as well as a better guide to the doctrinal imperatives behind such
supposedly banal principles as showing respect to and non-violent acceptance of
those whom one disagrees with, than do either Rauch or his critics. Rauch
celebrates Oaks’s comments from the University of Virginia in 2021, “Going Forward with Religious Freedom and Non-Discrimination,” but that speech leaves aside explicit consideration of LGBTQ issues, mentioning them only in passing, preferring to avoid any explicit reference to doctrines or ideas, and instead endorsing the view of a colleague that practical, informal, non-rule-based trade-offs often work well in addressing questions about compromise where “abstract principles sometimes cannot.” Hancock describes Oaks’s General Conference sermon “Balancing Truth and Tolerance” as a “classic address,” highlighting its martial language “We are cast as combatants in the war between truth and error. There is no middle ground.” However, he seems to fail to fully appreciate the sermon’s very next sentence: “We must stand up for truth, even while we practice tolerance and respect for beliefs and ideas different from our own and for the people who hold them” (italics added). The post-liberal rejection of Rauch’s version of Mormonism appears to insist upon a supposed distinction between respect and tolerance, between people and the beliefs they hold--Hancock in fact goes so far as to state that it simply isn’t possible for religious believers to function honestly in an environment of democratic compromise while holding to a doctrinal understanding that their opponents are “profoundly and disastrously wrong.” Yet that admittedly hard, deeply Christian thing is pretty much exactly what Oaks is calling the Mormon faithful to do.
Rauch is too much of a secular liberal, too committed to open inquiry, to automatically assume that any one view is “profoundly and disastrously wrong.” In contrast to the paranoia of the post-liberals, Rauch’s view of Christianity–even that Christianity which he believes has been horribly twisted into an advocacy for authoritarianism–is neither dismissive nor domineering; on the contrary, he holds up the minority position, what he calls the “exilic mindset,” as something profoundly honorable (p. 135). Like Oaks, Rauch understands the virtue of those see the world in accordance with a different truth than he. (In his General Conference address, Oaks insisted that, even when believing Mormons enjoy a majority position in a community, “they should always be sensitive to the views of the minority,” something that those members of the LDS church who have become convinced that they, and their conservative Christian allies, stand alone, defending Western Civilization, against the woke and LGBTQ hordes, perhaps ought to be reminded of.) So while Rauch’s articulation of that virtue is far from philosophically complete, he has nonetheless perceived something about kindness and respect, compromise and forgiveness, something that too many Christians in America have forgotten. If this gay atheist has found a way to use Mormonism–or at least one small, perhaps insufficiently developed part of it–to call those Christians (including some members of our own tribe) back to those principles, we owe him our thanks, and ought to listen to him as well.
