June 17, 1986

The major political event of 1986 has been the emergence of the Christian right as a disciplined voting bloc within the Republican party. While television evangelist Pat Robertson may be its initial beneficiary, the ride of these white fundamentalist Christians could help push the Republicans further along the road towards majority party status. And in the process it broadens the ideological base for the right, some of whose leaders have been identified with fundamentalism and who have been the stalwarts of the Reagan Revolution.

Inspired by Jerry Falwell's Moral Majority (recently renamed the Liberty Federation), and unscathed by derisory press, the Christian right has shown itself to be a disciplined political machine this spring. Recently, Christian candidates in Michigan loyal to Pat Robertson outnumbered those pledged to George Bush. The caucuses are the first step in picking delegates to the Republican national convention in 1988. After the Michigan vote, Robertson and Bush were roughly even in delegate strength—about 30 to 40 per cent. Robertson campaigned as if he were in the final stage of a presidential election, making half a dozen personal appearances and spending $100,000 to stage a political rally that was televised across the state. Overall, Robertson's supporters spent far more than his rivals.

Right-wing Christian candidates also dominated last month's Republican Party delegate and platform process in Des Moines, Iowa. In two Indiana House districts, avowedly Christian candidates recently scored upsets to gain Republican nominations, and in Oregon a fundamentalist Baptist minister drew 43 per cent of the vote in the GOP primary against Senate Finance Committee chairman Bob Packwood. Robertson has hosted fund-raisers for Christian Republican candidates in Tennessee and New Mexico. And fundamentalists in Minnesota are battling to win the Republican gubernatorial candidacy.

The term evangelical encompasses Protestant individuals and groups with different political views who share a belief in the authority of the Scriptures. Some are Republicans, some are Democrats. There are significant groups of evangelicals in the South and Midwest. And within these communities, right-wing, white Christian fundamentalists of the Robertson stripe account for a small but active bloc.

If it could ever be organized, the so far amorphous and conflicted evangelical vote could be an important factor in politics. Twenty years ago the Gallup poll, which probes evangelism, found that 20 per cent of the public claimed to have had a born-again experience (the gauge of evangelism used by Gallup). In 1984, the figure rose to 34 per cent. If accurate, this means there are more than 65 million adult evangelicals and potential voters. And while these figures often are dismissed as too high, they may actually underplay the strength of the evangelical movement. Two-thirds or more Americans side with Christian fundamentalists in favor of tougher pornography laws, against homosexuals teaching in public schools, and in the belief that prayer is important, according to Gallup. Over 50 per cent were opposed to abortion. All of these have been hotly debated issues on the campaign trail this spring.

Pat Robertson's victory in Michigan last week makes it all the more likely that he will run for president. He now is a real threat to Jack Kemp, whose natural constituency he is attracting, and a serious obstacle to George Bush. Like Jesse Jackson in the Democratic Party, Robertson could become a major, if not decisive, factor in who gets the nomination and in the setting of party priorities.

The Christian right poses a severe problem for George Bush, who in 1980 was widely portrayed on the right as an East Coast establishment figure who was both ineffective and soft on communism. Bush has since gained grudging respect from the right. But Robertson, like Reagan, is charismatic, and his right-wing credentials are unquestionable. Whatever the result of the presidential campaign, Robertson has and will act as a corrective influence on Bush, moving debate within the party further right.

When Bush's advisers warned him recently that Robertson was moving up fast in Michigan and could wipe him out, the vice-president brushed them aside. Since the vote, Bush agents have been attempting to put their best face forward, insisting that the vice-president and Robertson equally split the vote. Privately, one Bush operative acknowledged that Robertson "got it all."

Robertson is all the more powerful in these early stages because Bush has no real strategy for winning the evangelical vote. Jerry Falwell's early support of Bush, once thought to be an asset, has turned into a hindrance. "There's not one single plus in Falwell," says a Bush adviser, who argues the Moral Majority leader has been discredited among fundamentalists because of his inflexibility (i.e., his unyielding defense of apartheid). Bush still has supporters among fundamentalists—TV evangelist Jim Bakker, for one. And he has good friends, including TV evangelist Billy Graham and Robert Schuller. In an effort to remedy his diminished stature among evangelicals, Bush will soon distribute a videotape in which he explains his position on various matters of faith. Some advisers hope Bush will ingratiate himself with evangelicals by making the protection of their political rights a campaign issue. But after Michigan, the vice-president's advisers are glum. They acknowledge that Bush must move fast or face a cohesive fundamentalist bloc of Roberson supporters.

The rise of the Christian right within the Republican Party could be the galvanizing event that organizes the evangelical vote. Or, if the Democrats have their way, it could tar the GOP as the party of Jesus freaks. "The religious right is now institutionalized in the Republican Party . . . they have gained more influence over hitherto moderate candidates," says Kevin Phillips, the political analyst. Having to address the interests of a fringe within the party, he says, "is likely to cause trouble for the Republicans rather than being an almost unmitigated plus."

Up the hill from sterile downtown Des Moines lies the political redoubt of the new Christian right—the large complex that houses the First Federated Church, its offices, and its Christian school. A few blocks away stands the equally impressive First Assembly of God Church. Within these buildings, fundamentalist churchmen preach both the Bible and politics. First Federated, which has a Sunday television worship program and a congregation of over 2000, has contacts with Falwell's Moral Majority and Robertson's Freedom Council. The church is active in voter registration and issues report cards on how politicians stand on issue that matter to its members. Recently, officials of the churches and members of their congregations have begun to organize the priorities of the city's Republican Party apparatus.

Iowa is in the news these days because of the farm crisis. But it may turn out that religious conservatism will play a stronger role in the state's politics than the demise of the family farm. The social issues of the Christian right have had a thorough airing in Iowa. The state, for example, has been the center of a fight to win equal time for creationism in the public schools.

The center of the Christian movement is in Des Moines (Polk County) and its suburbs (Dallas County). In mid-January, some two dozen fundamentalists in Dallas County met to organize for precinct caucuses. Both Republicans and Democrats were scheduled to hold 22 caucuses where they would elect delegates for county conventions and begin work for political platforms.

"God is giving us one last chance to get our act together," Steve Scheffler told the group of fundamentalists in Dallas County last January. Scheffler is the state coordinator for the Freedom Council, the Virginia Beach-based organization, founded by Pat Robertson and dedicated to restoring "traditional" American values in government. The Freedom Council is a tax-exempt organization and refrains from overt political endorsement. Scheffler never mentioned Robertson's campaign; instead he encouraged the group to form a Christian caucus to plan for the precinct meetings.

Scheffler himself has little experience in political organizing. He previously ran unsuccessfully for state office in Iowa; then last summer he took a training course in political organizing at the Freedom Council's headquarters. This past winter in Des Moines, Scheffler became the catalyst for fundamentalist organizing.

"So many times we holler, but we don't take a stand," Scheffler told the Dallas County group. "If we want those Christian values returned, we have to get out of the pew."

Two weeks later, 50 fundamentalists caucused informally at the Dallas Country Christian School and, taking Scheffler at his word, broke into 22 groups, one for each precinct in the county, decided who to nominate at the upcoming caucuses, and discussed possible platforms. Having shown their strength at the precinct caucuses, the Christians moved on to the county conventions and, in Dallas County, easily established dominance. Marc Stiles, a reporter for the Dallas County News who covered the event, gave a description of the debate: Moderate Republican attempts to water down a plank against abortion were easily beaten; an effort to weaken a plank supporting stronger laws against pornography, on grounds that such a law would infringe on the First Amendment, was quickly silenced. "Pornography," said one fundamentalist delegate, "is stench on the nostrils of the holy God."

A motion to strike the word "prayer" from a plank supporting a return to prayers and the Pledge of Allegiance in the public school system drew the ire of the Christians. "Removing prayer from the public school system was the same as removing God," said one. The motion was decisively beaten. Next was a platform supporting the rights of business people and landlords not to accommodate gays. "Everyone thinks it's cute to see two men kiss," said another Christian delegate. "I think it's sick." The plank that labeled homosexual acts as "perverted sexual deviations not socially acceptable by American society" easily passed over objections by a man who said it was against the law in the U.S. to discriminate against people on the basis of race, religion, and lifestyle.


Don Morris, the associate pastor of the First Federated Church in Des Moines, began to preach politics during the presidential campaign in 1984. This year he was a delegate to the Republican district convention. Morris says he was drawn to politics by other fundamentalist ministers he admires, and by the examples of Falwell and Robertson. Like many of the fundamentalists I spoke with in Des Moines in late April, Morris voted for Jimmy Carter in 1976, then, realizing the error of his ways, supported Reagan. Morris now supports Bush for president in 1988, as do, he says, many members of his church. In Morris's view, Bush has been a loyal Reagan-supporter, and he is a more realistic candidate than Robertson.

"For the longest time we blamed the politicians for stealing our rights," he says. "Then we finally woke up and realized that we hadn't spoken out when we should have, and said instead of complaining, let's do what is right as citizens and use our God to bring back to America the Judeo-Christian ethics it was founded on." Morris is especially concerned with social values. In a pamphlet, "The Battle for Our Children," he attacks Smurf dolls, whose magical games make them agents of Satan. "If the pulpit does a good job," Morris says, "the Christian community will always be involved in having a voice in government and legislating morality."

At the county convention in Des Moines in March, Christian activists distributed a set of principles that revealed how thoroughly they had thought out the political situation. "When you have control of a party," read one, "it might not be wise to place 'our' people into any and every position. Get the counsel of wise Christian politicians when in doubt."

As the Christian right's organizing drive in Iowa picked up steam, it made allies among nonreligious conservatives. Among them is Ian Binnie, a fiscal conservative, former member of the Des Moines school board, and secretary of the Polk County Republican party. "There is an evangelical vote in this area, and it is based on some very clear-cut issues," Binnie says. "I am not a religious conservative by any means, but I consider them natural allies . . . I diverge with them on the abortion issue. I wish it would just go away. I concede them the high moral ground." On prayer in schools: "I'm not sure it did me any good, but it didn't do me any harm. I can't get excited about the idea of a minute of silence."

"Robertson is a real force, but I don't see him as a viable candidate," Binnie says. "Kemp is not as strong here as theoretically he should be. These people are all for Reagan now, and Bush has a loyalty to Reagan. Bush is very powerful here."

Having successfully gained control of precincts in both counties, then asserting themselves at the county conventions, the alliance of newly active Christian fundamentalists and fiscal conservatives went on to easily dominate the district convention. By margins of two-thirds, they adopted social policy planks attacking abortion and pornography and endorsing family values. The Des Moines Register said the coalition fielded 400 of 450 delegates and attributed the large attendance to the evangelical turnout. Operating with the precision of a political machine, the fundamentalists sought to widen their coalition, supporting moderate Republicans for the party central committee and voting down audacious amendments from their own ranks (i.e., proposals to make committing an abortion a capital crime.)

Bob Dole, the Senate majority leader from Kansas, who is unofficially campaigning for president in 1988, was in Iowa during the county conventions last month. Seeking support from where he could find it, he embraced the Christian right; "the evangelical movement in the GOP is welcome," Dole said. "There is lots of room in the party . . . If we want to be the big national party, then we have to be diverse."


Christian fundamentalists around Des Moines believe their ideas are misrepresented by the press, which often depicts them as intolerant kooks. So it was with some uneasiness that Jim and Kathy Michael agreed to sit down with me over breakfast in their DeSoto home one recent Saturday morning. We sat in the kitchen over coffee and doughnuts and talked about politics, AIDS, communism, and Christian rock as an antidote for rock 'n' roll.

Kathy was brought up in the Baptist Church and, as a child, Jim attended Methodist Church. He left the church early, but became religious as an adult. Jim Michael works for the Des Moines power company. Kathy is a housewife, bringing up their five children—four boys and a girl. Both are fundamentalists and are active in Republican Party politics. Jim has served as a member of the DeSoto planning and zoning commission and most recently spent a four-year stint on the town council. Last year, he ran for mayor and came in third. Over the last four years, Kathy has been a poll-watcher at local elections. Both Michaels were active in previous precinct caucuses, but this year they ran as delegates and won. When asked who they'd support for the presidency, both said they hadn't made up their minds. "If they were running tomorrow, I'd be in trouble."

On abortion their views were similar to those of most Christian fundamentalists: "We recognize the amoeba as a primitive form of life," says Jim. "If scientists can do that, then what is their problem in recognizing that two cells are tying into one and creating life." Unlike some pro-lifers who oppose the death penalty as inconsistent with their support for sanctity of all life, Kathy Michael was adamant in her support: "An eye for an eye," she says. "I don't mean that if someone kills my child I should go out and take his life. I feel that we have laws and that people should abide by them."

AIDS has intensified the Michaels' fear of homosexuals. Both Michaels believe the population at large should be tested for AIDS antibodies, and, "until we know" more, Kathy is for a quarantine. "It even crossed my mind when one of my children had something," says Kathy. "He kept getting sick. I don't know how in the world he would have gotten such a thing, but once in a while the thought will cross your mind."

"I am against homosexuality because God says 'no.' But I am not against the homosexual, and there is a difference," Kathy says. "It's just like when I tell my children I love them very much, but I do not love everything they do."

Should homosexuals be denied certain jobs? Should they be permitted to teach in public schools? "I have a hard time with that," Kathy says. "How do I know if this person keeps his private life to himself. If a person chooses to be a homosexual, that is his right. Does he have the right to molest small children? Many of them do. I'm not saying all of them do."

"It's hard to say these people don't have the right to teach," says Jim. Kathy disagreed: "My instincts would tell me no because of fear for the children."

In the Des Moines area, fundamentalists increasingly have turned to Christian schools, and there is considerable support for teaching children at home. The Michaels support the trend. "I am 100 per cent behind it," Kathy says. "We have to be careful of the textbooks being used today . . . [they] have socialism in them—material on Russia versus our own country and Marx versus George Washington."

The Michaels are opposed to communism, not only because they are fearful of aggressive war launched by the Soviet Union, but also because it runs counter to their Christian values. Jim wants to roll back communism.

"I'm not saying we should go into every place with guns," Jim says. "I'm just saying that they [anti-Communists] may need help and we should aid them. But Communist nations mostly don't go in and take over militarily. They go in and start educating people. They take their own agents in and begin to cause turmoil. I believe this is happening on our campuses today, that there is a certain amount of turmoil and unrest that is being bred on our campuses. They are putting a lot of questionable doubt in the minds of these future parents and leaders."

Because they have teenage kids, rock 'n' roll music presents a real problem for the Michaels.

"I don't want rock music in this house," says Kathy. "I don't even like this Christian rock music, but we have compromised on that. But now you've got back masking. You can take records and play them backward. They've got hidden messages . . . The new thing is political rock with Bruce Springsteen. I like the music, I just don't like the words. I think he's teaching rebellion across the country."


Behind the politics of the Christian right lies the powerful engine of Armageddon theology, which lends an emotional intensity to the movement. Numerous fundamentalist leaders—Jerry Falwell and Pat Robertson to name but two—preach the doctrine of "premillennialism," which holds that the world is entering a period of indescribable devastation and suffering. Its climax will be the battle of Armageddon and the return of Christ.

Premillennialists have been wrong in prophesying Armageddon at various points in history. Under President Reagan such prophecies have gained new currency. The president himself speculated on the subject in a 1981 interview with People magazine: "Never, in the time between the ancient prophecies up until now has there been a time in which so many of the prophecies are coming together. There have been times in the past when people thought the end of the world was coming, and so forth, but never like this."

Jerry Falwell told the Los Angeles Times in 1981, "All of history is reaching a climax, and I do not think we have 50 years left." And when Falwell was asked whether Reagan agreed with him on such matters, he replied, "Yes he does. He told me, 'Jerry, I sometimes believe we're heading very fast for Armageddon right now.'"

The right often pictures the farm crisis in the Midwest as a sign of the end times. Pornography, homosexuality, and AIDS are all viewed as signs of God's judgment on sinners. The increasing conflagration in the Middle East, Libya's threatening acts, and Communist aggression in the third world are all seen by some fundamentalists as part of an Armageddon countdown.

In the story of Armageddon, the Middle East becomes the world's last battleground, with God saving Israel from destruction by invading armies. In the 1980s: Countdown to Armageddon, Hal Lindsey, by far the most popular writer on the meaning of the end times, unaccountably concludes that, although he believes the U.S. will decline in power, it can still survive. "If some critical and difficult choices are made by the American people right now," he writes, "it will be possible to see the U.S. remain a world power." The choices Lindsey has in mind amount to embracing a right-wing political program.

Tim LaHaye, self-proclaimed "Christian ambassador to Washington, D.C.," is president of the American Coalition for Traditional Values, which supports fundamentalist politics. He says he represents 45 million "born-again, Bible-believing Christians." LaHaye argues that God will rout the Communists: "Some Bible teachers say when God rains fire and brimstone on the armies around Israel, gathered to destroy this nation, he is also going to send a similar fire on the coastlands. Now these coastlands could be the nations of the Western Empire, so that wherever the Marxist spies are entrenched they will suddenly drop dead . . . That would mean in a practical sense that the Marxist spies in America, on the university campus, in the State Department, wherever they are moled out, and in Great Britain, Canada, and Australia, where they are doing their devious work—suddenly they will be eliminated by fire."

Other fundamentalist writers counsel that survivalist techniques can help true believers make it through Armageddon until God rescues them in the Rapture. "We are considering the time when Christians will not be able to buy and sell, and will want to be independent of the utility system," writes Jim McKeever, who says he is a computer expert, consulting economist, and Bible teacher. "You must do whatever God tells you to do at the moment." McKeever's brand of survivalism is popular in Christian circles. Pat Robertson wrote the forward to one of his books, and the 700 Club, Robertson's television show, has promoted the stockpiling of food and other survivalist preparations.

Survivalism is also the connecting link between Christian fundamentalism and far-right anarchism. Some fundamentalists fear that the Antichrist will take over the world economy. National identification cards will be a warning of such an eventuality. Mary Stewart Relfe in When Your Money Fails proposes that Christians should avoid as many financial transactions as possible. They should work hard, remain free of debt, buy land in the country, and learn to live independent of city conveniences. Liquid assets should be turned into gold and silver. All this, according to Relfe, should help Christians fend off Armageddon until God can save them.


It's too soon to tell whether the Christian right can organize the evangelical vote and help assure the GOP majority party status. In all likelihood, the Christians will be most successful in exerting their influence within the narrow boundaries of precinct caucuses and party primaries, where small numbers of activists can have a substantial impact. On a larger scale, their influence may be more circumscribed. Though they have pushed debate over party priorities further right, forcing the presidential candidates to heed their interests, they, in turn, will be pulled by the political process toward the middle. If what happened in Iowa is any gauge of the future, the Christians themselves will moderate their program to gain power and eventually form coalitions with fiscal conservatives and even moderates. The ultimate question for Robertson and the Christian politicians is whether they can maintain their ideological program while playing electoral politics.


Research: Marcia Ogrodnik; Andrew Lang at the Christic Institute. See Timothy Weber's Living in the Shadow of the Second Coming for more on the politics of Armageddon.

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