by | Sep 12, 2024 | Uncategorized
Christine Johnson is the type of American who kisses her ballot and thanks God whenever she votes.
Johnson has volunteered as a poll worker in Minnesota for over 20 years; she currently serves as an election judge in a blue district.
“I love being a part of the process,” Johnson said. “I love helping my neighbors vote.”
One of her favorite sights is when parents bring their children to learn about the voting process. It’s touching to see the reverse as well, she said—adult children helping their elderly parents who are determined to vote in person navigate the polling site.
To Johnson, Election Day feels like a holiday. She knows what this November 5 will look like for her: She’ll start the day before the sun rises, getting dressed and packing a change of shoes, “because you know you’re going to be in a church basement or a bad chair or a bad cement floor all day long.”
She will brew a thermos of coffee to get her from 5 a.m. to 10 p.m., when she and her Democratic counterpart will drive the completed paper ballots from their polling site—sometimes a school gymnasium or house of worship—to city hall.
There may be 15 or so election workers, mostly volunteers, working at her site. They set up the machines, post signs directing voters where to go, and go through a checklist of their duties. Then comes another special moment. The group will get in a circle, raise their right hands, and recite an oath “to be impartial and to follow the law and to get it right,” Johnson said. “I get kind of choked up when I do that oath every election.”
Her civic involvement stems from her faith. Shortly after becoming a Christian as a teen, Johnson started taking more interest in the world around her. In college, she was the lone freshman subscribing to periodicals to learn about political theory and systems of governance.
“This is such a rare and precious thing that we get to choose our leaders, and I don’t take that for granted at all,” she said. “I feel for people who … don’t have a constitutional republic or any form of say [in their government]. That just hurts my heart.”
The US election system relies on hundreds of thousands of volunteers like Johnson. But the role she has long seen as an opportunity to serve is now the target of a maelstrom of suspicion from a vocal segment of Americans, including some of her fellow conservatives and fellow Christians.
Partisan attacks on election administration methods, election results, and election officials are not new, but they have become a defining feature of today’s political landscape, with the “stop the steal” rhetoric and claims of election fraud that emerged after Joe Biden’s victory over Donald Trump in 2020. It seems harder than ever for election workers trying to keep the process fair and trustworthy.
In a recent poll of election officials, more than one-third said they experienced threats, harassment, or abuse due to their work. Half voiced safety concerns for their staff, and nearly all have been forced to improve their safety measures.
“It has become more normal, if you are a public servant, to endure threats of intimidation and harassment at pretty significant levels,” Elizabeth Neumann, former assistant secretary for counterterrorism and threat prevention at the Department of Homeland Security, told CT.
Even formerly innocuous roles—city council, county clerk, election workers, or volunteers in civic service “as retirement jobs”—have “these horror stories of [getting] voicemails of somebody threatening to kill their grandchildren,” she added.
Christians called to serve in these roles have found some comfort in their convictions—but they’ve also felt the sting of neighbors and churchgoers demonizing their work.
Kentucky secretary of state Michael Adams recalls his wife and daughter peeling his campaign sticker off their cars after dealing with public confrontations in the parking lots of grocery stores, pharmacies, and even their church.
Secretary of state was supposed to be a relatively boring office. Wonky. Administrative. At least that’s what Adams told his wife, Christina, when he was eyeing the position after years as an attorney working in election law.
He was elected in 2019. He took office weeks before a global pandemic turned routine questions of election administration into fraught public health and safety concerns. Misinformation and deepening institutional distrust inflamed the country’s partisan tensions.
“What used to be a very boring office, and what he assured me was going to be just a very boring term, turned out not to be,” Christina Adams told CT. “It was definitely not what he pictured going in.”
Michael Adams worked across the aisle with Democratic Gov. Andy Beshear during the early months of the pandemic to give voters more time and options to vote. With bipartisan support in the state legislature, Kentucky expanded absentee and early voting access and opened countywide polling centers. Turnout was up, with three-quarters of voters in the June 2020 primary voting absentee.
Some Republicans criticized the changes. Social media trolls did their worst. Hate mail arrived in Michael Adams’s inbox and at his house. Even a false alarm by his new home security system had the family initially terrified that one of his online attackers had decided to follow through on the barrage of death threats.
“We were on edge, a bit more than I’ve ever been in my entire life,” Christina Adams said. “That was the first time I was actually nervous for our safety.”
It was hard for Michael Adams to watch all the politics around his job—a job that was supposed to be boring, a job that was supposed to combine his legal expertise with his Christian calling to public service—disrupt his family’s life.
The controversies around the tight presidential vote in battleground states like Arizona, Michigan, and Georgia in 2020 are well-known. But even in deep red states, and even in the years since, the work of state and local officials continues to be shaped by election-related conspiracy theories brought by concerned voters.
Adams said it used to be that only a handful of secretaries of state faced intense pressure and controversy, often because they were in purple states with close races. “The rest of us kind of thought, Well, there but for the grace of God go I,” Adams said. But by the 2022 midterms, “We all felt that way.”
The Heritage Foundation, a conservative think tank, has found 1,546 proven cases of election fraud. These include anything from mailing an absentee ballot for someone who has died to voting despite being ineligible to tampering with or damaging ballot drop boxes.
More than 1,313 of the cases tracked by Heritage resulted in criminal prosecution, while the rest led to civil penalties, judicial findings, or other actions. That tally spans over a decade of elections—meaning in any given state, in any given year, there could be up to a handful of illegitimate ballots in a particular race, nowhere near the level needed to swing an election.
The think tank notes that the database is nonexhaustive. But even based on Heritage’s numbers, “the amount of proven election fraud is miniscule,” the Brookings Institution wrote.
Yet it seems like there’s more distrust than ever around the election system. Americans hear more about suspected or alleged fraud. In Colorado, former county clerk Tina Peters claimed she was “called” to expose election fraud in 2020 by revealing voting machine data; she lost her job and faced 10 charges of official misconduct and tampering with the election.
Former president Donald Trump’s allies filed 62 lawsuits following the 2020 election, mostly in battleground states that Biden won. All but one of the lawsuits, including those that reached the Supreme Court, failed, according to one USA Today analysis.
The outlier was a case in Pennsylvania where a judge ruled that voters could not return and “cure” their ballots in the days following an election if they had failed to provide proper identification at the time of voting. The ruling did not affect the outcome in the state, where Biden won by over 80,000 votes. But that hasn’t always slowed the suspicion and vitriol.
Claims of a rigged election have continued to feature prominently in Trump’s reelection bid. And the lawsuits, allegations of wrongdoing, and misinformation have convinced a sizable share of the GOP that Trump’s loss was illegitimate: In a poll from last year, only 57 percent of Republicans believed Biden legitimately won.
Threats to poll workers and election officials have gotten so bad that the Justice Department launched a task force to deal with them. Workers have reported more than 2,000 threats in the past three years. Around 100 are being investigated.
One prominent case from 2020 involved two officials in Georgia, Ruby Freeman and her daughter Shaye Moss. They were accused by Trump ally Rudy Giuliani of committing election fraud. Freeman received over 400 threats and had to move from her home. Last year, they won a $148 million defamation case against Giuliani. But as for all the threats, only one person ended up facing charges.
Freeman, who is a Christian, said upon winning the lawsuit that “my friends say that God knew who to give this assignment to because ain’t no way we could do this. God chose me to go through this because he knows that I would tell everyone whose path I cross about Jesus.”
In Kentucky, Michael Adams also found faith to be a lifeline.
“I can’t imagine doing this job, or any job, without having faith,” Adams said. He described one incident where people marched outside the state capitol with AR-15 rifles during a protest over COVID-19 restrictions. “I do think a lot of people have prayed really, really hard for me the last several years.”
While he was in the thick of the online hate, several people from his family’s church reached out, even a few who were on the opposite side of the political spectrum.
“I felt like that was probably the Spirit encouraging us,” Christina Adams said. “It was actually encouraging to know how many homes were open to us, should we need to leave ours. That’s what really touched me. I mean, maybe five or six said, ‘You need a place to stay, come on over.’ … That meant the world.”
When Adams ran for reelection, Republicans recruited two challengers for the primary, both of whom campaigned on claims that the 2020 election was fraudulent. Adams won 118 out of 120 counties in 2023. In the months since, things have settled down—somewhat. As a keepsake of more turbulent times, in one corner of his office he keeps a red posterboard sign: FIRE MICHAEL ADAMS.
Adams said he’s worried less about threats than about whether his office will have enough poll workers or polling locations. It takes 15,000 people to run a statewide election. Adams’s staff is around 35.
“You do the math. I have to rely on volunteers, thousands and thousands of volunteers,” he said. “I think it’s healthy for our system that it’s, number one, primarily citizen operated, volunteer operated. And, number two, that it’s citizens from both sides of the aisle.”
But that means relying on people’s willingness and civic-mindedness to step up to the plate and volunteer. This becomes harder in a fraught atmosphere. After Kentucky voted to allow abortion protections in the state constitution in 2022, some Kentucky churches serving as voting locations faced enough scrutiny that they decided not to do it again.
Church doors are still open to voters in Glendale, Kentucky, population 2,227.
Mike Bell—called Brother Mike Bell by congregants and townspeople alike—dreamed of being the mayor growing up. He’s as close as you can get in his tiny unincorporated town. He’s on steering committees, chairs the Hardin County Water Board, is chaplain to the chamber of commerce, and is also probably one of the most famous voices in town.
Bell calls basketball and football games, trading his preacher cadence for drawn-out vowels—“Te-e-rrrrry Buckle!” he demonstrated at his office—and rhythmic cheers. Kids love it so much they use clips of his voice as their ringtones.
Bell’s office at Glendale Christian Church is dotted with references to It’s a Wonderful Life: Behind a coffee cup with a picture of George Bailey on it is a certificate of Bell’s baptism, very faded, along with a few dollars—the first $15 he ever made from preaching.
“Glendale is kind of like Bedford Falls,” he said. “And I’ve lived a wonderful life. You know, sometimes I wonder if God’s already given me heaven.” (He added with a chuckle, “But then the next day he gives me a little hell, so I know it’s not.”)
Bell’s life demonstrates one of his core beliefs: that Christians are called to serve their neighbors and communities, not exist apart from them. “To be a real preacher, you got to be down there with them,” he said. “Jesus walked among them. You got to walk among them.”
So he’s opened the church’s doors to the Lions Club, the town’s business association, a local quilting group—and, again this November, to voters.
The church has served as a polling site on and off for over three decades, a commitment that costs them about a week with all the setup and teardown of equipment. Bell would bring doughnuts and coffee for poll workers.
“It’s a great opportunity, because you’re being a part of the community,” he said. He wants to see more Christians be active in politics—not necessarily talking politics from the pulpit but serving at the ballot box and taking the time to vote.
Hardin County clerk Brian Smith agrees. Being a Christian in public life is his way of trying to make his community better. When concerns around election processes or results come up, he says his faith motivates him to respond to people’s concerns with respect, try to get things right, and be transparent about mistakes and human error when they are made.
But when he’s not buried in records or working on election-related duties, he can often be found chatting with people lined up to renew their license plates or update their driver’s licenses.
In his office, he keeps packs of water bottles to hand out when the line gets long.
Smith believes addressing election-related tension and regaining trust will require more civic involvement. And he’s starting early, wheeling the county’s voting machines into elementary schools for mock elections.
Second graders voting for superhero candidates—say, Hulk for sheriff—vote on the machines, print their ballots, and scan them in. Officials go through the process with them as if it’s Election Day.
When kids filled out the wrong spot, Smith’s staff showed them how to document a spoiled ballot. When characters like Wonder Woman and Captain America tied for county clerk, they double-checked the results and went on to a coin flip (in Kentucky, tied races are decided by the casting of lots).
“It was a great lesson that every vote counts. If a vote can end in a tie, you better believe that your vote counts,” Smith said. “We used that same equipment and then we hand-counted the results, and it matched our machine results. The kids got to see from a very early age what election integrity is all about.”
The civics lesson was such a hit that a nearby middle school invited the clerk’s office to operate their student council election.
“I gotta tell you, those kids took their jobs seriously,” Smith said. “They made sure everybody got just one ballot.” After ballots were counted, Michael Adams made an appearance to certify the results.
In Minnesota, Christine Johnson also wants to repair the rifts in trust, for the sake of poll workers’ safety and for the sake of democracy.
When people accuse the process of being rigged, Johnson recalls the checklists volunteers follow, how they make sure people from different parties tag-team on all the key tasks, the layers of audits, and the way the paper trail is double- and sometimes triple-checked.
“I can’t speak for every state,” Johnson said, “but when it comes to the care for the ballots and the process where the voter is having their input, it’s like, oh my gosh, our city clerk, she just runs such a tight ship.
“I just tell people, well, my experience is that you have nothing to worry about.”
Johnson has found that her firsthand experience is rarely convincing.
“They’ll say, ‘Well, maybe that’s okay there, but how do you know it’s good everywhere else?’ Or they’ll bring up other states. Or they’ll go, ‘Well, you know, they would be able to trick you too. They’re going to do it secretly behind the scenes and you wouldn’t even be aware of it.’”
She’s not sure what election officials can do to combat the distrust. “Sometimes I’ll even say to some of the more skeptical friends, ‘You know what, you should sign up. You should have your own experience.’
“And you know,” she added, “no one’s ever taken me up on that.”
Harvest Prude is Christianity Today’s political correspondent.
The post The Christians Trying to Restore Our Faith in Elections appeared first on Christianity Today.
by | Sep 12, 2024 | Uncategorized
In a special episode of The Bulletin, Christianity Today’s senior director of CT Media, Mike Cosper, interviewed New York Times columnist Frank Bruni about his book The Age of Grievance. Where polarization has split churches, families, and friendships, Bruni suggests that the root of this polarization is grievance, an animating impulse in our culture that focuses on scarcity instead of abundance. This conversation offers a way forward for Americans or anyone who looks at the culture and wants something better.
Frank Bruni and Mike Cosper
Mike Cosper: There was one element in the book that I was a little surprised by, and I’m curious for your thoughts on this.
A notion that’s missing from the book is the idea of forgiveness. And I don’t mean that in a religious sense but in the interpersonal sense, in the cultural sense. I remember years ago reading Hannah Arendt in The Human Condition. She makes the claim at one point where she says we can’t have a culture without forgiveness.
She says vengeance encloses both the doer and the sufferer in this relentless automatism of action, which will never come to an end. In contrast, forgiving is the only reaction which doesn’t merely react but acts anew and unexpectedly. And the idea is that forgiveness is this moment where we can start fresh.
I’m curious: Is there a role for forgiveness in our culture to do the constructive kind of things you talk about in the book to move things forward?
Frank Bruni: I do think there’s a role for forgiveness.
It’s one of the things we must work our way back toward. It’s the opposite of cancel culture. In various passages, I do talk about how we must get away from this tendency to judge people too quickly. In the last chapter of the book, the concept I explored at great length is humility. I think forgiveness and humility are more than kissing cousins. I think they’re conjoined twins.
MC: I love the idea of how we carry ourselves into forgiveness. In public conversations—whether it’s online or face to face—when we think about our politics, can we carry ourselves, our positions, our convictions in a way that we’re humble enough about them that we don’t have to react so viciously when we encounter an idea that’s different than our own?
That comes back to the fundamental issue—maybe it’s a shrinking appetite. Certainly, it’s a shrinking space for a kind of vision of pluralism. It seems you’re saying we must try to carve out this space that says we have to live in a world where people are fundamentally opposed to many things that you might think and believe. We still must find a way to live at peace with them. We don’t talk or think like that; the tendency is to think in terms of winning and losing.
FB: There are even aspects, I think, of modern child rearing. Certain economic groups send the message that you deserve a world precisely to your liking. You deserve a world purged of offense and insult.
It’s not an accident that Jonathan Haidt and his coauthor titled their book about this The Coddling of the American Mind. They were talking about a generation of students being led to believe that they should never encounter anything that unsettles them or complicates their lives.
When I talk about humility, what I mean, in part, is recognizing that we do not get circumstances that are always exactly to our liking. Other people’s dissenting views have as much right to exposure and discussion and oxygen as yours do.
We have somehow come to a political culture right now where people believe the minute we say, “Maybe you have a point,” we’ve lost the argument. We have too many actors in our politics and outside of our politics who think that impassioned equals virtuous, everything is overwrought, everything is all or nothing; and in fact, they end up doing damage to their own cause as they also do damage to the fabric of public life and the fabric of our culture.
MC: In the church, we often talk about first-order and second-order issues. First-order convictions are things like the Nicene Creed, the Apostles’ Creed—our fundamental sets of convictions. And then second-order issues are the things that divide Christians from one another, like the way we think about baptism or church polity or women in leadership versus men in leadership.
One of the things that is frightening in our moment is the way infighting in the church over second-order issues is rising to a first-order level. We are becoming a people who are saying, “This is the hill I must die on.”
FB: Whether it’s in churches or other segments of society, we really don’t seem to value and recognize the importance of coming to some sort of truce and having the collective peace that we used to. In some ways, it’s individualism run amok.
We’ve not only evolved into being a surprisingly and depressingly pessimistic people, but we’ve also turned into a surprisingly and depressingly narcissistic society. As I said, we don’t get circumstances that conform exactly to our liking. At no point in our lives should we be told to expect that.
We should be told to absolutely work toward justice. While we’re doing that, we also have to recognize dissenting opinions and not automatically see those people as evil.
Often, if you met them and talked to them, you would understand there’s a life story. There are reasons why they believe what they believe, but we’ve become extremely and toxically individualistic. In most cases, the price of waging this fight within the church or the public square is not worth it.
MC: You give a lot of space toward the end of the book to some visions for how we solve this. A lot of it comes to education, and the two things that struck me were the way you talked about civic education and the way you talk about media literacy, which I think is a huge issue in our moment.
The underlying question that I found myself asking after reading it is, Are you optimistic that solutions like that could be adopted and work? Could those kinds of things really be transformative? And what does a road map for that kind of transformation look like?
FB: I don’t think those two things can save us on their own in and of themselves, but I think that they can be part of a much longer recipe of getting to a healthier place as a country.
What’s so difficult about this is we have the tools to improve in all the ways we need. But one of the daunting things about it is it’s not just one thing. It is political reforms coupled with educational reforms coupled with spiritual investigation coupled with a whole lot more.
But I do think that it should not be that difficult to do something. One thing I do with my students at the university level is talk about where they get their information. We talk about what they’ve bookmarked, who they followed, what they like. And then we discuss where that has led them.
Some questions I ask them include:
Did you set that up intentionally, or did you make a couple of decisions and then the algorithms kicked in?
Does your media diet represent what you really intended?
Is it aligned with your values? And if the answer is “not exactly,” how about taking a moment right now and rearranging the pieces a little bit?
I’ve had this conversation with every class of students I’ve taught. It needs to begin when they’re much younger, and I think it needs to happen at the kitchen table as well as in the classroom. If we’re going to solve this, we all must look at how we behave in our private lives. We must ask if we are living as we would like other people to live, if we’re modeling the behavior to which we want young people to aspire.
Frank Bruni has been a journalist for more than three decades, including more than 25 years at The New York Times as op-ed columnist, White House correspondent, Rome bureau chief, and chief restaurant critic.
Mike Cosper is the senior director of CT Media, host of The Rise and Fall of Mars Hill, and cohost of The Bulletin.
The post Humility in the Age of Cancel Culture appeared first on Christianity Today.
by | Sep 12, 2024 | Uncategorized
I grew up in a small evangelical church in California’s Central Valley where there were more blue collars than white. About 25 families filed into the pews each Sunday; they were loving, generous, and thoughtful. We camped the Sierra Nevadas, backpacked Yosemite, and set crab traps in Half Moon Bay. We studied the Word, shared meals when misfortune struck, and made more after-church trips to Taco Bell than any human being should be able to withstand. It was evangelicalism of the sunny California variety that wore its conservatism with T-shirts and surfer shorts and a breezy, convivial disposition.
When I think about that church, imperfect though it was, I am immensely grateful. It inoculated me against the poisonous caricature I would hear so often in the years following—especially in secular universities—that evangelical churches were fortresses of ignorance and prejudice.
When I left academia in 2009, it was partly out of disillusionment. The humanities departments seemed less interested in intellectual inquiry than ideological conformity. I distinctly remember a doctoral seminar where one of my colleagues dismissed the entire history of Christian missions as nothing but rapacious colonialism. There’s much to lament in that history, I agreed, but surely there were some missionaries, some of the time, who had some good intentions?
As a matter of intellectual honesty, it seemed the least my interlocutor should accept. Instead, she had me hauled in front of the professor for the thought crime of “defending an evil institution.”
This was only one in a long series of such experiences. Too many lectures felt like recruitment for political programs, too many seminars like competitions for who could be the first to take offense. Advance a thesis that defied the trends sweeping through the humanities departments, and no amount of evidence and argumentation were sufficient; advance a thesis that served a favored cause, and very little evidence and argumentation were necessary. After all, once you have abandoned the concept of a unitary truth, why not choose a story that serves your tribe? Who cares about accuracy when you can deliver “justice”?
So I left academia to help launch a new media enterprise. It’s ironic now to remember the idealism that accompanied the emergence of the blogosphere and social media in those years. The digital landscape was a wide-open expanse where we could reimagine a public conversation that was charitable, informed, and willing to challenge partisan conventions. Perhaps Christians could shape a form of public engagement that simultaneously defended Christian values and exhibited Christlike virtues. Perhaps social media could be what the university should be: an open marketplace of ideas where the best arguments win on the merits.
Over the years that followed, however, new media businesses established financial models that incentivized the worst in human behavior. The road to wealth and influence led through virality, and the surest path to virality was to stir up tribal animosities. Technology ethicist Tristan Harris calls it a “race to the bottom of the brain stem.” Affirm your audience’s prejudices and presuppositions, stoke their fears, heap scorn on the other tribe, and you collect a passionate and growing following, which you can monetize through speaking and writing engagements.
Put differently, the quickest way to build a readership was not to establish expertise and credibility over a long career of faithful work, but to achieve viral fame by playing into the tribal antipathies of one group or another. What started as attention harvesting became rage farming.
In the early years of virality culture, the dividing lines cut between large groups of people, such as conservative evangelicals and progressive mainliners. Eventually, it became clear that social media platforms could increase engagement further and deliver more finely targeted advertising (which is to say, make more money), by funneling readers into ever-narrower subcategories. Larger communities of common conviction became divided and subdivided into warring camps; each camp was served by its own information sources and united in shared hostility to those around them. The anger we feel for so-called betrayers of our tribe is far greater than the anger we feel for those who never belonged to our tribe in the first place.
So we arrive where we are today, where evangelicals are bought and sold in the scorn markets and pitted against one another for profit. Where writers and readers alike are addicted to the dopamine of division. It is like the humanities departments where I once lived and worked.
Everything is reduced to the political. Facts don’t matter if the story serves your tribe. Careers are made not by loving and understanding others but by mocking and mischaracterizing them.
To be clear, Christianity Today has never argued that Christians should withdraw from political life. Although the dead are not raised by politics, the living are served by it.
The problem is not when the Christian is in the conflict. The problem is when the conflict is in the Christian. Our engagement with one another and with society should follow the pattern of Christ and not the culture.
Christianity Today has never fit neatly into anyone’s political agenda because we are more committed to the kingdom of God than to the interests of any party or country. This frustrates those who would patrol the boundaries of political conformity, but we view it as essential to our calling. And we decline to participate in the outrage cycle.
Our calling is to advance the stories and ideas of the kingdom of God. We tell those stories when they are encouraging and when they are hard. We invite orthodox Christian voices to make their arguments for contrary points of view. We seek to understand and exemplify what it means to follow Jesus in our time. CT is comprised of directors, executives, staff, writers, and readers who hold different political stances. We view this as a strength and not a weakness.
One of the songs we sang in that church in California’s Central Valley was “They Will Know We Are Christians by Our Love.” Experiencing the love of the body of Christ left its mark on my soul. As Jesus said in John 13, “By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another” (v. 35). And as he prayed to the Father in John 17, it is because of the unity of the church that “the world will know that you sent me and have loved them even as you have loved me” (v. 23).
This is a weighty thing. The love we show one another, the unity we show to the world, bears testimony to the divinity of Christ and the reality of the love of God. The Church bears the image of Christ to the world, yet today that image is contentious and fragmented.
The kingdom of God is always confounding the expectations of the world. It takes what the world has turned upside down and inverts them back to their right order. It lifts the humble over the proud, the meek over the mighty, the powerless over the powerful. It is profoundly countercultural.
Perhaps the most countercultural thing Christians can do in this present moment is to refuse to demonize one another. Christians with sound hearts and minds will reach different conclusions on what love requires of them in the upcoming election. Support whom your conscience bids you support. But let your first love be your first love, and let our love for one another be our witness to the world that Christ is alive and at work among us.
Timothy Dalrymple is president and CEO of Christianity Today.
The post Against the Culture of Demonization appeared first on Christianity Today.
by | Sep 12, 2024 | Uncategorized
Daniel Bourdanné, a scientist from the central African nation of Chad who inspired young evangelicals around the world as the general secretary of IFES and a longtime champion of Christian book publishing in Africa, died on September 6 at age 64 as a result of cancer.
After years of ministry to students, Bourdanné became general secretary of IFES (International Fellowship of Evangelical Students) in 2007, serving in this role until 2019. An avid reader (and sometimes writer) from 2018 until his death, Bourdanné worked with Africa Speaks to promote Christian book publishing across the continent.
Bourdanné spent much of his life in Francophone nations including Togo, Cameroon, and Côte d’Ivoire before moving to Oxford, England, when he became IFES general secretary. At the time of his death, he was living in Swindon, England.
“God sent me into the world from this continent, and he brings me back with the world to this same continent, so that I may complete my role as a missionary of the African church,” Bourdanné said in his farewell speech in South Africa in 2019 at the IFES World Assembly.
“Daniel was proud to be African,” said Tiémoko Coulibaly, general secretary of the IFES national affiliate in Mali. “Though he lived in the West, his heart remained in Africa, the continent of his birth that he never gave up on.”
The son of a pastor, Bourdanné was born on October 18, 1959, in Pala, Mayo-Kebbi Ouest, Chad. At age 10, he lost his father, whose death forced Bourdanné to begin working in the fields, chopping wood, and raising vegetables for his mother to sell. These responsibilities were compounded by a civil war that lasted from 1965 to 1979 and took the lives of thousands.
A few months before the war ended, Bourdanné won a scholarship to pursue studies in animal ecology at the Université du Tchad. He then earned a bachelor’s degree in natural science at the Université of Lomé, Togo (formerly Université du Bénin).
In 1983, Bourdanné moved to Abidjan, Côte d’Ivoire to pursue a doctorate in animal ecology. In 1990, he defended his dissertation on millipedes, subsequently becoming a member of the International Society of Myriapodologists.
As he pursued his education, Bourdanné began working as a high school biology teacher. However, his passion to share the gospel with students had been sparked much earlier. “At the age of 14 in a Bible study on Revelation 1, I first grasped the vision and passion to see students saved for the Lord,” he once said.
“Directly or indirectly, universities profoundly influence and guide the future of human societies,” he wrote in an article on student evangelism published in the Dictionnaire de théologie pratique in 2011. “Students are often at the forefront of social change around the world. Indeed, when they move together, fueled by their energy, vitality, determination, passion, imagination, and creativity, they have the power to move society.”
In 1990, Bourdanné began working with IFES as a traveling secretary; he was named regional secretary for IFES Francophone Africa (GBUAF) in 1996.
When he became general secretary in 2007, succeeding Lindsay Brown who had held the position since 1991, the IFES movement was 60 years old and established in over 150 countries. Still, during his 12-year tenure, the movement grew significantly, especially in the diversity of its leadership.
Under Bourdanné, IFES gave more space to theologians from the Global South. In 2007, he appointed Christy Jutare of the Philippines as the first female regional secretary of IFES to lead the Eurasia region. In 2011, he appointed the first two student representatives to the IFES board of trustees. In 2016, he revived a global theological and missiological reflection journal (Word and World).
When asked about the highlights of his tenure, Bourdanné stated that they included witnessing God “take the unusual path” when inviting unexpected people to join the walk with him, along with the joy of seeing God opening doors in difficult contexts.
He also noted a key challenge. “We celebrate our unity,” he wrote in his farewell email to the fellowship, “but we are human, so it is not surprising that sometimes someone may try to promote their agenda or preferences. … Having grown up myself in a context of war and tribal conflict, I was perhaps more sensitive to how this could become a threat to IFES unity.”
One of Bourdanné’s greatest passions was to enable the global church to hear from more African Christians. He did so by encouraging them not to follow a unique school of thought but to become prominent voices in the theological field.
“Some of us may side with Billy Graham,” he stated at the same 2019 speech. “Others [align] with John Stott, or with John Piper, and these differences enrich us more than they divide us.” But he added, “Among these three names, there is no African. Nor is there anyone from Latin America or Asia.”
Bourdanné’s love for students was only rivaled by his love of books. The scientist owned hundreds if not thousands of them, carefully housed in three different libraries—one in his home in England, one in his Oxford office, and one at a residence in Côte d’Ivoire.
At one point, Bourdanné’s passion for the written word led him to start a magazine. He and four friends pooled their resources to fund the first issue and invest in the publication. The magazine ran debt-free until the group disbanded, and aside from a one-time $80 donation from missionaries, they never relied on external help.
In 1995, Bourdanné became the director of the Presses bibliques africaines (African Biblical Press). In 2018, he joined the board of Africa Speaks, where he continued to serve until his passing, promoting the growth of the Christian publishing industry in Africa by encouraging African Christian writers to write and publish and by promoting their books.
Bourdanné believed that for African Christians, books could be catalysts for transformation. “Africa will not experience its publishing revolution until we win the battle for the love of books,” he wrote. In turn, this passion would “contaminate” Africa positively from the inside, he asserted, his metaphor inspired by Jesus’ words in Mark 7 that what contaminates (or defiles) a person comes from the inside out.
Bourdanné firmly believed that Africa needed to equip itself for its own progress, which required, in his view, a shift in mentality accompanied by fruitful collaborations with the West.
“What is the use of Africa’s Sunday fervor if the demons of corruption, conflict, and genocide resurface on Monday?” Bourdanné preached in Geneva in 2006 to an audience of primarily European evangelical leaders. “What is the point of our worship and prayers in Europe if our lives are still driven by the pursuit of maximum profit and if our churches remain divided?”
He called on European Christians to fight for change: “Our actions speak louder than our words. Victims of injustice must see the commitment of Western Christians in this area.”
Though he was more involved in promoting Christian literature in Africa than in writing it himself, he authored Ces évangéliques d’Afrique, qui sont-ils? (Who Are African Evangelicals? 1998), and L’Évangile de la prospérité, une menace pour l’Église en Afrique (The Prosperity Gospel, a Menace to the African Church, 1999), among others.
In 2018, Calvin University awarded him the Abraham Kuyper Prize for Excellence in Reformed Theology and Public Life, noting his work in Francophone Christian publishing and his ministry with IFES.
“A quarter-century ago, Daniel saw a need for Christian students to have guidance, from a Christian worldview, on a variety of topics that were of great concern to them, and so he took action,” said Jul Medenblik, president of Calvin Theological Seminary.
Timothée Joset, a missiology professor at the Faculté libre de théologie évangélique (FLTE) in France and member of IFES Global Resource Ministries, said his friend Bourdanné introduced him to the complex issues facing Francophone Africa and global North-South relations.
“What also impressed me was his resilience. He was never resentful, even though he experienced a great deal of racism,” Joset said, noting an example so egregious that theologian N.T. Wright even mentioned it in an Easter sermon.
After IFES hired him as general secretary, “the British High Commission in Accra dragged its feet over Daniel’s application to come here, and then turned it down with minimal explanation,” said Wright. “Daniel then asked for permission to travel to the UK on his current visitor’s visa, and was told he could. But when he arrived he was detained for 22 hours, his mobile phones were seized, and he was flown back to Africa.”
Despite these incidents, Bourdanné inspired his peers through his consideration and humility. One of his students remembered fondly how Bourdanné personally sent him books, after the English postal system kept confusing his address with one in another country. Another international colleague recalled how he preferred sitting on the floor during conferences, to allow others to have a chair.
This modesty never kept Bourdanné from challenging his fellow Christians on issues he cared deeply about, such as evangelism. He served the Lausanne Movement as International Deputy Director for French-speaking Africa (21 countries), leading up to Lausanne’s 2010 conference in Cape Town, South Africa. When he left that position, he was appointed to the Lausanne Movement’s board.
“Can we be credible while proclaiming a gospel that ignores the exploitation of the weak by the strong? Can we continue to care only for the salvation of African souls while turning a blind eye to their social situation?” he asked in 2016. “In what way is the gospel good news for communities struggling to meet their basic needs? How can we remain silent in the face of rising social inequalities in Africa, or environmental issues? Proclamation and action must go hand in hand.”
Daniel Bourdanné leaves behind his wife Halymah, originally from Niger, and their four children.
The post Died: Daniel Bourdanné, Millipede Scientist Turned IFES Leader Who Loved Christian Books appeared first on Christianity Today.
by | Sep 12, 2024 | Uncategorized
Donna Freitas’s spiritual autobiography, Wishful Thinking: How I Lost My Faith and Why I Want to Find It, stands in the tradition of the “dark-night-of-the-soul” memoir. But unlike mystics such as St. John of the Cross, who found their way through dark times into the light of faith, Freitas is unsure whether she ever believed in God to begin with.
A successful scholar and author of teen and adult fiction, Freitas was raised in a devout Catholic home in Rhode Island. She writes nostalgically about a childhood surrounded by spiritual memorabilia, such as angel figurines and Virgin Mary statuettes, beloved by her grandmother. Attending mass every Sunday was central to family life, especially for her Italian American mother, whose faith was simple, constant, and enduring.
However, belief didn’t come so easily for Freitas, who began to struggle with doubt from an early age. When an acquaintance described her as a “precocious atheist,” the label stuck. And despite going through the motions of confirmation in the Catholic church, she failed to inherit the devout faith of her mother. She writes with toe-curling embarrassment about her “angry atheist” phase as a young adult, including phone calls from college in which she told her mother that “your God is nothing but another Santa Claus.”
Philosophy to the rescue
As you may already suspect, this is as much a story about Freitas’s relationship with her mother as it is about her search for a relationship with God.
Despite a wealth of academic credentials—her research on the lives of young people has yielded notable books like Sex and the Soul and The Happiness Effect—the story Freitas tells is not primarily an intellectual quest. You won’t find any examination of core apologetics arguments, like attempts to reconcile science and faith or address the problem of evil. Belief in God is simply presented as something you either have or you don’t. And Freitas says she doesn’t have it. But she wishes she did, writing,
I may have lost my faith as a child, misplaced it very young. But I have never stopped searching to find it again because if my mother taught me anything, she instilled the notion that our belief in God is precious.
Freitas movingly describes how any hope of holding on to God seemed to disappear when she entered a period of deep depression in her early 20s. Although the darkness lifted eventually, it would return many times throughout her life. She knows that for many people, faith in God is the only thing that makes sense in the midst of such suffering. But the fact that she felt so alone in her “bottomless abyss” was the final confirmation that there was no divine hand waiting to pull her out.
Instead, something else came to the rescue: philosophy.
Freitas’s joyful discovery of the work of existential philosophers is an enchanting part of the book. She describes the emotional thrill of finding intellectual soulmates in Sartre, Camus, and Heidegger. Their works not only spoke to her frequent encounters with the existential void within but also gave voice to her experience (or lack thereof) of faith.
The book describes Freitas’s attempts to find peace and wholeness through academia and philosophy, which are both touching and agonizing to read. Time and again, she reminds us how much she longs for the simple faith of her mother, and why it seems to remain tantalizingly out of reach.
The memoir is also instructive in framing how Freitas’s journey has been shaped by the Catholicism she inherited. Aware that her readership will likely contain more evangelicals than Catholics—her publisher, Worthy Books, caters largely to this audience—Freitas devotes a chapter to the wildly different assumptions about Scripture and practice embodied by the two groups.
She contends that evangelicals read their Bibles and examine issues like sex and relationships in ways that are rarely encouraged among lay Catholics. I’m sure there are plenty of exceptions to this rule, but her analysis probably reflects the type of cultural Catholicism that dominates a university like Georgetown, where she studied as an undergraduate.
Ironically, despite her own unfamiliarity with Scripture, Freitas’s love of philosophy led her to pursue a PhD in theology. The avowed atheist found herself studying alongside Catholic ordinands and theologians. This turned out to be both a blessing and a curse in her ongoing search for God.
Tragically, Freitas became the target of an obsessive sexual pursuit by an abusive academic priest. When she reported him to the authorities, she says, the church was only interested in protecting the professor and its institutional reputation. It left her devastated.
Yet much good came out of her theological studies. She discovered the lives and writings of female mystics, such as Julian of Norwich and Teresa of Avila. They struck Freitas as proto-feminists of the medieval age—as torchbearers who dared to approach God in ways that transcended the norms of their era.
Unexpectedly, the nearest thing to evidence for God came as Freitas’s mother was dying from cancer. As she considered the countless acts of kindness shown during and after her mother’s illness, she found herself compelled to revise her opinion of the Catholic church: Institutionally, its record might be deeply flawed, but its local members could still minister great healing and love.
“During those months,” she writes,
When my mother was first receiving treatment, God took the form of sausage and meatballs and big pots of tomato sauce and God was in those sick days offered by my mother’s colleagues. God was in the prayers answered that we didn’t need to utter because the parish community got there first and made it so we didn’t have to pray for those things at all.
Faith in others’ faith
Wishful Thinking is a beautifully written memoir in which the journey is more emotional than theological. This will doubtless result in frustration for some readers, as it leaves the author’s search for God frustratingly unresolved.
Ultimately, however, those female voices from centuries past and the continuing influence of her own mother (and grandmother) helped Freitas to retain some form of Catholic identity, despite having every reason to reject it. As she reflects: “Maybe it seems a little weird to call myself Catholic given how the jury is still out—kind of way, way out—on the belief front for me.”
The closest we get to a final resolution is a moving description of how, despite struggling to find God in church, Freitas now finds that the familiar words, actions, and rituals of the Catholic Mass allow her to connect emotionally with the memory of her mother and grandmother. If she has any belief at all, it is faith in their faith.
This is a personal journey, honestly told. But, as a Christian myself, I wanted to reach through the pages of the book and encourage Freitas to give up searching for the same experience of God that her mother found comfort in. Far better to go to the source, seeking the image of God found in the Jesus of the Gospels.
Perhaps Freitas would tell me that’s the evangelical in me speaking—always fixated on Scripture. But I was struck by how rarely the figure of Christ featured in a book about someone trying to make sense of Christianity. If you want to find God, surely that’s the place to start?
A notable exception comes when Freitas describes a sudden moment of clarity while reading Sartre during her philosophical awakening. The philosopher’s concept of “bad faith” refers to the danger of investing our self-worth in temporal things—careers, relationships, love—that will inevitably let us down.
Freitas acknowledges that, for Christians, Jesus must be the answer to Sartre’s “bad faith” dilemma. But, when plunged into the abyss of depression by relationship breakdowns and traumatic life events, she says she has simply never found Jesus waiting for her:
This is where the difference between a believing Christian and a faith-challenged person like me reveals itself. I plunge into that darkness and wish for someone to carry me to the other side of this hell. But the only way I ever get there is if I somehow find the way out again alone.
For a season, Freitas tried to implement Sartre’s solution—surrendering to the meaninglessness of life and perhaps finding a way to live above the maelstrom of the storm. But she struggled to make it work in practice.
However, I believe Jesus has a better response to nihilism than Sartre. In his famous story about the wise and foolish builders (Matt. 7:24–27), he pointed out how easily life lets us down when we construct it on the shifting sands offered by this world. Instead, he advised his hearers to weatherproof their souls against the storms of life by building on the rock of his own life and teachings.
That may sound like wishful thinking to some people, but it has proven a solid foundation for countless lives and even whole civilizations. I hope that Wishful Thinking (beautifully written as it is) won’t be Freitas’s last word on her search. In my experience, Jesus often surprises those who keep seeking.
Justin Brierley is a writer, broadcaster, and speaker in the UK. He is the author of The Surprising Rebirth of Belief in God: Why New Atheism Grew Old and Secular Thinkers Are Considering Christianity Again.
The post Meet the ‘Precocious Atheist’ Still Pining for a Misplaced Faith appeared first on Christianity Today.
