As the COVID pandemic receded in my town, the Mainline Protestant churches were the last to resume worship in person. Months earlier, the Catholics and the Evangelical Protestants had applied their will to find a way to worship together in their church sanctuaries without experiencing COVID outbreaks. Meanwhile, the members of the liberal, or Mainline, Protestant churches were satisfied to tune in to Sunday services on their laptops in the privacy of their own homes, not unlike logging on to a TED talk. Clearly, they did not have the same sense of urgency to literally gather together. Why not? Were there doctrinal or theological reasons to explain why the Catholics, Evangelical Protestants and Mainline Protestants assessed the risk-to-benefit ratio differently?
While I was pondering this, Gallup released their annual poll on church membership. For the first time since Gallup began asking the question, less than half of Americans—47%— said they belong to a church, mosque or synagogue. Church membership has been declining for 80 years— imperceptibly until 1980, gradually until 2000, and precipitously during the past two decades. And since Christianity has been the predominant religion in the United States, Christians make up the bulk of those Americans who are leaving their religious membership behind. Catholics, Evangelical Protestants and Mainline Protestants have all lost members, but the Mainline Protestant denominations have declined the most. This is particularly remarkable given that for three centuries, America was culturally Protestant, with the Mainline churches as central institutions. What happened?
I think the Mainline Protestants got a little wobbly on the idea of God.
Darwin’s Origin of the Species may have been the opening salvo. And while everyone was all atwitter over those Galapagos finches, other European academics began questing for the historical Jesus. They busily interpreted Jesus into their own images, thereby reducing him to an eccentric guy. Meanwhile, across the Atlantic, the American industrialists were transforming the economy with electricity, steel, and mass production. The immediate side effect of that technology revolution was a surge in poverty, crime, filth, ignorance, and sickness. As the 20th century dawned, Walter Rauschenbusch, a New York minister, decided enough was enough. Clearly God and Jesus were insufficient to vanquish human misery. People needed to take matters into their own hands if the Kingdom of God was ever going to arrive. And thus the Social Gospel movement was born—an interpretation of the Gospel that would focus on fixing earthly problems, instead of redeeming individual souls. Over time, the Social Gospel movement evolved into the secular concept of social justice.
To this day, the seminaries of the liberal Mainline Protestant denominations are focused on Christianity as applied to society in the here and now. So it is not surprising that during my 60 years as a member of the liberal Mainline Protestant tradition, the calls for social justice have permeated every aspect of the Church: sermons, adult education, national meeting agendas, denomination websites. The liberal Mainline Protestant denominations have advocated changes to public policy in the name of social justice. They have preached that their members should use political means to redistribute power, money and access in American society. The primary focus in the liberal Protestant church is not the mystery of God and eternity, nor is it the transformation of individual souls. Rather, we are encouraged to lobby our legislators, march in protests, and pass resolutions telling everybody else to feed the hungry, welcome the stranger, clothe the naked, heal the sick, and visit the prisoner. (As Joseph Bottum observes in his book, An Anxious Age, the liberal Protestants—descended from the Puritans—“…remain puritanical and highly judgmental…and like all Puritans they are willing to use law to compel behavior they think right.”1 I digress, but this is ironic, given that liberal Protestants become indignant when Evangelical Protestants—the Religious Right—attempt to use law to compel a different set of behaviors.)
But didn’t Jesus tell his disciples to go into the villages to cast out demons and heal the sick? Didn’t Jesus prophesy that those who did not feed the hungry or welcome the stranger would be thrown into eternal punishment? Aren’t Christians supposed to love and serve their neighbor? Of course.
However, before Jesus commissioned his disciples, he preached to them and taught them. In the Gospel narratives, chapters are devoted to the training Jesus gave his disciples before he turned them loose. After he sent them out, they constantly returned for continuing education credits. The core curriculum was about the nature of God, the disciples’ relationship to God, and the interpretation of the ancient scriptures. Jesus wanted his disciples well-grounded in theology before they began their internships. Even after his resurrection, the book of Acts says that Jesus spent another forty days coaching the disciples before the Holy Spirit’s tongues of flame conferred their final degrees.
The Mainline Protestant churches today remind me of a medical school that pushes students into their residency without first teaching the basics of organic chemistry, microbiology, anatomy, and the nervous system. Or perhaps the liberal Protestant tradition is like the university that, instead of training civil engineers, for example, decides to simply get into the business of building bridges and skyscrapers.
A church becomes unnecessary when God is not essential to the coming of His Kingdom, and social, political and moral issues become the primary mission. Secular service organizations, civic movements, or political office will accomplish the same thing. Ross Douthat, in his book, Bad Religion, argues that “…the more firmly the (liberal Mainline Protestant tradition) defined itself by taking sides in (secular issues), the more it came to be seen as just another faction…with nothing particularly transcendent to offer anyone. And transcendence, it turned out, was still what people wanted from religion.”2
In the Gospel of Matthew 14:22-32, Peter and the other disciples were out on the Sea of Galilee when the winds came up and pushed them farther and farther from shore. Jesus came to them, walking on the water. But they did not recognize him, and cried out in fear. Jesus spoke to them, “It is I. Do not be afraid.” Peter answered, “Lord, if it is you, bid me come to you on the water.” And Jesus said, “Come.” So Peter got out of the boat and walked on the water and came to Jesus; but when he saw the wind, he was afraid and began to sink.
Everything was fine, as long as Peter was focused on Jesus. But as soon as he saw the wind—when Peter started paying attention to his surroundings instead of paying attention to Jesus—he struggled. Today members of the Mainline Protestant traditions are encouraged to focus on their surroundings. Continually we are urged to stop the wind. We play the role of God without a good grasp of who God is, let alone an intimate relationship with God. No wonder we are sinking.
So I guess it’s not surprising that as the COVID pandemic eased, the Mainline denominations in my town were the last to return to their sanctuaries to worship. The liberal Mainline Protestant mission can be fulfilled in other ways. It doesn’t require people to belong to a church, let alone attend one.
1. Joseph Bottum. An Anxious Age. New York, New York: Image, an imprint of Crown Publishing, 2014
2. Ross Douthat. Bad Religion. New York, New York: Free Press, a division of Simon & Schuster, 2012
