Life in the Mainline

A Third Order Post

I spent my entire adult life (so far) attending either evangelical (Nazarene) churches or mainline (Methodist) churches. I have long joked that it is easier to be a theologically conservative Methodist than a politically liberal Nazarene. The former maintains a sense of belonging, even if some differ, where the latter pushes you to the fringes.

I called this a Third Order post because I’m focused on Holly Berkely Fletcher’s post this week about Diana Butler Bass’ work. So I’m writing about Holly writing about Diana. I invite others to keep the chain going.

Holly’s Tuesday post was titled “The ‘other’ white Christians have a lane” and explored Bass’ journey from evangelical college professor to mainline crusader. She references the Southern Lights Conference held in Georgia this past January where we met. She says this about Diana:

And while one version of white Christianity in large part has brought us to the brink, another version, in conjunction with other faith communities, could help bring us back, by articulating and publicizing a faith does not shirk from a direct confrontation with authoritarianism, speaks with moral clarity, strengthens human connection in a pluralistic context, and reclaims the Gospel from those who have perverted it. It's too early to say if this is a mantle mainline Protestants are ready to seize or if doing so will inspire a resurgence in mainline Christian adherence.

Bass herself is steadfast in her own calling and is encouraged by the community she's created, but she worries mainline denominations as institutions will miss the moment. On a recent episode of the Convocation podcast, she bemoaned the timidity, relative to the crisis facing the nation and the church, that she still sees from mainliners. She contrasted their response with the religious ferment in the lead-up to the Civil War, when almost all Protestant denominations formally split over the evil of slavery.

"I do not want your quietude anymore," she said, with rising conviction in her voice. "I've had it up to here with, oh, no more division, how to heal our divides. That is not Christianity in this moment. That is what you call cowardice."

I can't speak for mainline Christianity as a whole, but I can speak for myself, a now mainline Christian who spent decades in white evangelicalism. And something in me is stirring. I feel emboldened and more committed, both in my Christian adherence and in my responsibility to my country and community. More than ever before, I can see a broader rationale for my faith that is positive, vital, and inspiring.

Holly’s reflections made me pull Diana’s Christianity for the Rest of Us off my shelf. I’ve had it for over a decade. I hadn’t looked at it for some time, yet I found this paragraph particularly apt for our current moment.

Many people think mainline Protestantism is dying, that it is going the way of the dodo in favor of a more lively form of conservative Christianity found in suburban evangelical megachurches. I do not deny that mainline Protestantism is in trouble. Some of its institutions, unresponsive to change, are probably beyond hope of recovery or repair. I also believe, however, that lively faith is not located in buildings, programs, organizations, and structures. Rather, spiritual vitality lives in human beings; it is located in the heart of God’s people and the communities they form. At the edges of mainline institutional decline, some remarkable congregations are finding new ways of being faithful — ways that offer hope to those Americans who want to be Christian but are wary of the religion found in those suburban megachurches.

Diana would no doubt be uncomfortable with me calling her a prophet. But what she wrote in 2006 is ringing true today for a variety of reasons. When we see evangelical congregations embracing Christian Nationalism, voting overwhelmingly for Donald Trump in three straight elections, and pursuing policies designed to enhance their political prowess at all levels of government, it’s no surprise that we need an alternative vision. We’ve gotten to the point where public opinion polling shows that the levels of agreement that White Evangelicals have with conservative policies is virtually identical to those of Republicans in general.

Much has been written about the decline of the Mainline. Some of it is demographic as those who flocked to the churches in the 1950s and 1960s die off. Some has to do with the distinction between membership and attendance — the former has fallen much more dramatically than the latter. People don’t need to say they belong to a church just to be respectable members of society. Some argued that it was because Mainline clergy were too involved in the Civil Rights Movement and opposition to the Vietnam War.

But things are shifting. I spent part of yesterday afternoon trying to make sense of the differences between the Pew Religion Landscape Survey and the PRRI Census of American Religion. Pew says that evangelicals now make up 23% of Americans, down from 26% in 2007, while Mainlines make up 11.5%, down from 18%. PRRI separates religious groups by race/ethnicity. Their most recent data shows White Evangelicals and White Non-evangelicals each make up 14% of the population. Both surveys agree that the rise of the Nones has been the most significant shift in American religion.

Part of the difference between the two surveys is how they define evangelical. Pew uses a denominational filter and puts everyone who attends an evangelical denomination into the evangelical bucket. PRRI uses the self-Identification question: “Are you born again or evangelical?” So people at an evangelical denomination who answer “no” are counted as non-evangelical and mainline folks who say “yes” are evangelicals. It’s pretty messy.

So what does life look like in the mainline congregation? Here’s Holly again:

I grew up as an evangelical being told that mainline "liberal" Christians were not really Christians at all, but rather deluded people of nominal faith whose devotion amounted to showing up to Christmas and Easter services. And to be honest, in my experience, the collective level of religious commitment amongst mainliners is weaker than that of evangelicals.

But the Trump era has exposed the weaknesses and dangers of the zealous, self-assured Christianity of my childhood. And as I reckon with what it has wrought, I feel a push toward the doors of my Methodist church and a longing for its warm community, its respite amidst chaos, and its simple yet profound focus on the teachings of Jesus Christ, the real ones, the ones concerned with lifting up the least of these in the midst of injustice and oppression.

This rings true for me as well. My congregation, Belong UMC in Denver, lives true to its name. It makes community a core value and its pursuit of justice flows from that. It draws from queer and straight, young and older, backgrounds as exvangelicals, lifelong Methodists, and nones. It is socially and politically active, not because that’s what the pastor does, but because of grass-roots efforts by members of the congregation. It is scripturally focused and theologically grounded. And the music is great.

I think about how Belong would endorse the work of groups like Christians Against Christian Nationalism, the American Values Coalition, and the Moral Mondays movement. It works to support immigrants under threat from the authorities .

The Trump Administration’s is now focused on what it calls “anti-Christian bias”. The examples given, as this story on the VA illustrates, seem designed to highlight “anti-Conservative Evangelical bias”. It will be interesting to see the Mainline church use this same rhetoric to support their religious views. I recently read that mainline groups are using the Burwell v. Hobby Lobby decision to defend their policy preferences.

I’ll wrap this up by quoting a wonderful essay David French wrote in the New York Times on Easter. French is clearly no flaming liberal, but he’s had his own differences with Trump supporters and faced attacks as a result.

When I talk to Christians who are struggling with their faith, one of the first things I ask them is, “Were you raised in a fear-the-world church or a love-your-neighbor church?”

Most people instantly know what I’m talking about. The culture of the church of fear is unmistakable. You’re taught to view the secular world as fundamentally a threat. Secular friends are dangerous. Secular education is perilous. Secular ideas are bankrupt. And you’re always taught to prepare for the coming persecution, when “they” are going to try to destroy the church.

The love-your-neighbor church is fundamentally different. It’s so different that it can sometimes feel like a different faith entirely. The distinction begins with the initial posture toward the world — not as a threat to be engaged, but as a community that we should love and serve.

To be fair, there are certainly “love-your-neighbor” churches within evangelicalism. Yet, I fear that this will be harder to maintain in the coming years. The “fear-the-world” approach is an easier sell.

Maybe the mainline church has more to offer in our current moment than we have realized. Meeting the other attendees at the Southern Lights conference gives me hope. So does reading Holly Berkley Fletcher, Diana Butler Bass, and even David French. And so does my experience each Sunday in the congregation that celebrates the fact that I Belong.