Faith and power and fear in the Trump era

 

Sunday's New York Times featured a huge story about the town where we lived for more than forty years, a long story about Christianity and politics that the Times titled "'Christianity Will Have Power,'" a line from a speech which then-candidate Trump gave in the B. J. Haan Auditorium on the campus of the college where I spent so many years. You can read the story here. It's not short. 

Only the most loyal Trumpsters would call it a great read. In sometimes long and often emotional Facebook fracases, most voices were sorely disappointed because they felt, with good reason, that the picture which the writer, Elizabeth Dias, created of our neighborhood was pretty darn ugly. 

I'd spoken to Ms. Dias--she called me--for some time, two hours or so. She asked me great questions about Dutch-American history and Dutch Reformed theology. I was fascinated, really, by her interest in the fundamentals of Reformed theology as well as the history of Dutch Americans. She wanted to know how the Dutch got out to the far corner of Iowa, why they came, and who they were in pedigree. It was an enjoyable conversation about subjects which most Dutch-Americans who live here don't really care all that much about. 

I'm sure she mentioned Donald Trump, sure we talked about politics, but he wasn't the burden of the conversation. She wasn't particularly interested in my take on his presidency, and that was fine. What I remember best was her persistent questioning about really esoteric matters, matters that I find fascinating and important. 

I was in a motel room in Murdo, South Dakota, when I opened up the NY Times on Sunday morning, clicked on the title without even seeing the cover picture (above), then started reading and realized this was the story she'd told me she'd been working on for some time, a story she said took its own leave-of-absence when Covid-19 took over the news. She was finishing up now, she said, and wanted to understand some history.

That Murdo morning I had to be among her most eager readers. I charged through the entire story, as you can imagine, looking for my name. I picked up enough to have a sense of what she was arguing, but when, finally, I came to the end and hadn't found my name, I was greatly relieved. She didn't quote me. Thank goodness.

Then I read the story over closely and, like so many others, got depressed because Elizabeth Dias found MAGA caps all right, sources who, as they themselves confessed, "live in a bubble" so endearingly protective they cannot imagine Trump won't win come November. She found slaves to Fox News, clearly racist young couples who are sweet, hard-working, patriotic Americans, who pray at every meal and don't mow their lawns on the Sabbath, the kind of people Trump insisted were "good people," and, in certain definable ways, are. 

They love Trump because they believe Trump has empowered them. They bought into the man because on the playground of life today, they believe they need a bully. They believe him when Trump says that Biden will "hurt the Bible, hurt God," that Biden and Democrats are "against God." They can't help but think Democrats these days are the very root of all evil. 

Elizabeth Dias found her main subjects, understandably, from the most conservative faith fellowships in the area--the Netherlands Reformed, and the United Reformed churches, where, had she asked, I'd have been likely to tell her to look for real Trumpsters. She created the substance of the article from places she was most likely to find what she was looking for. 

When I read the piece slowly, it just plain made me sad. I didn't want to believe that young-ish couples here might buy the fear that comes with demographic change. The only subject in the story who garnered sympathy was the Hispanic pastor who said he gets along locally, but he doesn't tell his Anglo neighbors what he thinks of the President. 

When I finished it, I was angry--not at her for finding exactly the shoe size she needed  (evangelicals who love Trump because he promises them power), nor at the locals who walked so willingly into her argument. I was mad at myself for breathing a sigh of relief when I didn't find my name. It made me angry to realize that I was cowering, hiding, ducking, lest people like her Trump supporters discover I don't share their passionate righteous politics.

In 2008, I wore an Obama t-shirt to the gym early in the morning. Several times, people I considered friends, fellow profs from the college, engaged in debates that got angry really fast because they couldn't believe I could vote for a baby-killer. 

Another couple, like me, there just after six, was the retired President of the college, John B. Hulst, and his wife, Louise, who heard, more than once, the harangue. If Hulst had enemies during his presidency, I don't know who they would have been. He was highly respected, a man who carried himself with strength and seriousness and a passionate Christian faith. 

The Hulsts took me aside one morning and told me that whatever else I might think, I should know that the two of them "were on my side," not on the side of those who opposed the candidacy of Barack Obama. But, they told me they really couldn't be open about it.

At the time, I respected that position. They knew that people would be soured and angry at the wolves in sheep's clothing. That's what they wanted me to know.

It took me some time to weigh out their words, but eventually I came to the point where I could do nothing but shake my head. They were so conscious of reputation that, in America, the home of the brave, they couldn't speak their mind.

On Sunday morning, when I finished Ms. Dias's story, I was relieved not to have seen my name on the page because, like President Hulst, I didn't want to upset those who believe, like Trump, that Joe Biden is "against God."

I was relieved I wasn't there on the page because I was scared. I was afraid. 

And now I'm disappointed, no, angry--at me.