Barack Obama: On Faith and Politics Wednesday, June 28th, 2006
Good morning. I appreciate the opportunity to speak here at the Call to
Renewal’s Building a Covenant for a New America conference, and I’d like to
congratulate you all on the thoughtful presentations you’ve given so far about
poverty and justice in
But today I’d like to talk about the connection between religion and politics
and perhaps offer some thoughts about how we can sort through some of the often
bitter arguments over this issue over the last several years.
I do so because, as you all know, we can affirm the importance of poverty in the
Bible and discuss the religious call to environmental stewardship all we want,
but it won’t have an impact if we don’t tackle head-on the mutual suspicion
that sometimes exists between religious
For me, this need was illustrated during my 2004 face for the U.S. Senate. My
opponent, Alan Keyes, was well-versed in the Jerry Falwell-Pat
Robertson style of rhetoric that often labels progressives as both immoral and
godless.
Indeed, towards the end of the campaign, Mr. Keyes said that, “Jesus Christ
would not vote for Barack Obama. Christ would not vote for Barack Obama because
Barack Obama has behaved in a way that it is inconceivable for Christ to have
behaved.”
Now, I was urged by some of my liberal supporters not to take this statement
seriously. To them, Mr. Keyes was an extremist, his arguments not worth
entertaining.
What they didn’t understand, however, was that I had to take him seriously. For he claimed to speak for my religion – he claimed knowledge of
certain truths.
Mr. Obama says he’s a Christian, he would say, and yet he supports a lifestyle
that the Bible calls an abomination.
Mr. Obama says he’s a Christian, but supports the destruction of innocent and
sacred life.
What would my supporters have me say? That a literalist reading of the Bible
was folly? That Mr. Keyes, a Roman Catholic, should ignore the teachings of the
Pope?
Unwilling to go there, I answered with the typically liberal response in some
debates – namely, that we live in a pluralistic society, that I can’t impose my
religious views on another, that I was running to be the U.S. Senator of
Illinois and not the Minister of Illinois.
But Mr. Keyes implicit accusation that I was not a true Christian nagged at me,
and I was also aware that my answer didn’t adequately address the role my faith
has in guiding my own values and beliefs.
My dilemma was by no means unique. In a way, it reflected the broader debate
we’ve been having in this country for the last thirty years over the role of
religion in politics.
For some time now, there has been plenty of talk among pundits and pollsters
that the political divide in this country has fallen sharply along religious
lines. Indeed, the single biggest “gap” in party affiliation among white
Americans today is not between men and women, or those who reside in so-called
Red States and those who reside in Blue, but between those who attend church
regularly and those who don’t.
Conservative leaders, from Falwell and Robertson to
Karl Rove and Ralph Reed, have been all too happy to exploit this gap,
consistently reminding evangelical Christians that Democrats disrespect their
values and dislike their Church, while suggesting to the rest of the country
that religious Americans care only about issues like abortion and gay marriage;
school prayer and intelligent design.
Democrats, for the most part, have taken the bait. At best, we may try to avoid
the conversation about religious values altogether, fearful of offending anyone
and claiming that – regardless of our personal beliefs – constitutional
principles tie our hands. At worst, some liberals dismiss religion in the
public square as inherently irrational or intolerant, insisting on a caricature
of religious Americans that paints them as fanatical, or thinking that the very
word “Christian” describes one’s political opponents, not people of faith.
Such strategies of avoidance may work for progressives when the opponent is
Alan Keyes. But over the long haul, I think we make a mistake when we fail to
acknowledge the power of faith in the lives of the American people, and join a
serious debate about how to reconcile faith with our modern, pluralistic
democracy.
We first need to understand that Americans are a religious people. 90 percent
of us believe in God, 70 percent affiliate themselves with an organized
religion, 38 percent call themselves committed Christians, and substantially
more people believe in angels than do those who believe in evolution.
This religious tendency is not simply the result of successful marketing by
skilled preachers or the draw of popular mega-churches. In fact, it speaks to a
hunger that’s deeper than that – a hunger that goes beyond any particular issue
or cause.
Each day, it seems, thousands of Americans are going about their daily round –
dropping off the kids at school, driving to the office, flying to a business
meeting, shopping at the mall, trying to stay on their diets – and coming to
the realization that something is missing. They are deciding that their work,
their possessions, their diversions, their sheer busyness, is not enough.
They want a sense of purpose, a narrative arc to their lives. They’re looking
to relieve a chronic loneliness, a feeling supported by a recent study that
shows Americans have fewer close friends and confidants than ever before. And
so they need an assurance that somebody out there cares about them, is
listening to them – that they are not just destined to travel down a long
highway towards nothingness.
I speak from experience here. I was not raised in a particularly religious
household. My father, who returned to
It wasn’t until after college, when I went to
The Christians who I worked with recognized themselves in me; they saw that I
knew their Book and shared their values and sang their songs. But they sensed a
part of me that remained removed, detached, an observer in their midst. In
time, I too came to realize that something was missing – that without a vessel
for my beliefs, without a commitment to a particular community of faith, at
some level I would always remain apart and alone.
If not for the particular attributes of the historically black church, I may
have accepted this fate. But as the months passed in
For one thing, I believed and still believe in the power of the
African-American religious tradition to spur social change, a power made real
by some of the leaders here today. Because of its past, the black church
understands in an intimate way the Biblical call to feed the hungry and cloth
the naked and challenge powers and principalities. And in its historical
struggles for freedom and the rights of man, I was able to see faith as more
than just a comfort to the weary or a hedge against death; it is an active,
palpable agent in the world. It is a source of hope.
And perhaps it was out of this intimate knowledge of hardship, the grounding of
faith in struggle, that the church offered me a second insight: that faith
doesn’t mean that you don’t have doubts. You need to come to church precisely
because you are of this world, not apart from it; you need to embrace Christ
precisely because you have sins to wash away – because you are human and need
an ally in your difficult journey.
It was because of these newfound understandings that I was finally able to walk
down the aisle of Trinity United Church of Christ one day and affirm my
Christian faith. It came about as a choice, and not an epiphany; the questions
I had did not magically disappear. But kneeling beneath that cross on the South
Side of Chicago, I felt I heard God’s spirit beckoning me. I submitted myself
to His will, and dedicated myself to discovering His truth.
The path I traveled has been shared by millions upon millions of Americans –
evangelicals, Catholics, Protestants, Jews and Muslims alike; some since birth,
others at a turning point in their lives. It is not something they set apart
from the rest of their beliefs and values. In fact, it is often what drives
them.
This is why, if we truly hope to speak to people where they’re at – to
communicate our hopes and values in a way that’s relevant to their own – we
cannot abandon the field of religious discourse.
Because when we ignore the debate about what it means to be a good Christian or
Muslim or Jew; when we discuss religion only in the negative sense of where or
how it should not be practiced, rather than in the positive sense of what it
tells us about our obligations towards one another; when we shy away from
religious venues and religious broadcasts because we assume that we will be
unwelcome – others will fill the vacuum, those with the most insular views of
faith, or those who cynically use religion to justify partisan ends.
In other words, if we don’t reach out to evangelical Christians and other
religious Americans and tell them what we stand for, Jerry Falwell’s
and Pat Robertson’s will continue to hold sway.
More fundamentally, the discomfort of some progressives with any hint of religion
has often prevented us from effectively addressing issues in moral terms. Some
of the problem here is rhetorical – if we scrub language of all religious
content, we forfeit the imagery and terminology through which millions of
Americans understand both their personal morality and social justice. Imagine
Our failure as progressives to tap into the moral underpinnings of the nation
is not just rhetorical. Our fear of getting “preachy” may also lead us to
discount the role that values and culture play in some of our most urgent
social problems.
After all, the problems of poverty and racism, the uninsured and the unemployed, are not simply technical problems in search of
the perfect ten point plan. They are rooted in both societal indifference and
individual callousness – in the imperfections of man.
Solving these problems will require changes in government policy; it will also
require changes in hearts and minds. I believe in keeping guns out of our inner
cities, and that our leaders must say so in the face of the gun manufacturer’s
lobby – but I also believe that when a gang-banger shoots indiscriminately into
a crowd because he feels somebody disrespected him, we have a problem of
morality; there’s a hole in that young man’s heart – a hole that government
programs alone cannot fix.
I believe in vigorous enforcement of our non-discrimination laws; but I also
believe that a transformation of conscience and a genuine commitment to
diversity on the part of the nation’s CEOs can bring quicker results than a
battalion of lawyers.
I think we should put more of our tax dollars into educating poor girls and
boys, and give them the information about contraception that can prevent
unwanted pregnancies, lower abortion rates, and help assure that that every
child is loved and cherished. But my bible tells me that if we train a child in
the way he should go, when he is old he will not turn from it. I think faith
and guidance can help fortify a young woman’s sense of self, a young man’s
sense of responsibility, and a sense of reverence all young people for the act
of sexual intimacy.
I am not suggesting that every progressive suddenly latch on to religious
terminology. Nothing is more transparent than inauthentic expressions of faith
– the politician who shows up at a black church around election time and claps
– off rhythm – to the gospel choir.
But what I am suggesting is this – secularists are wrong when they ask
believers to leave their religion at the door before entering into the public
square. Frederick Douglas, Abraham Lincoln, Williams Jennings Bryant, Dorothy
Day, Martin Luther King – indeed, the majority of great reformers in American
history – were not only motivated by faith, but repeatedly used religious
language to argue for their cause. To say that men and women should not inject
their “personal morality” into public policy debates is a practical absurdity;
our law is by definition a codification of morality, much of it grounded in the
Judeo-Christian tradition.
Moreover, if we progressives shed some of these biases, we might recognize the
overlapping values that both religious and secular people share when it comes
to the moral and material direction of our country. We might recognize that the
call to sacrifice on behalf of the next generation, the need to think in terms
of “thou” and not just “I,” resonates in religious congregations across the
country. And we might realize that we have the ability to reach out to the
evangelical community and engage millions of religious Americans in the larger
project of
Some of this is already beginning to happen. Pastors like Rick Warren and T.D.
Jakes are wielding their enormous influences to confront AIDS, Third World debt
relief, and the genocide in
To build on these still-tentative partnerships between the religious and
secular worlds will take work – a lot more work than we’ve done so far. The
tensions and suspicions on each side of the religious divide will have to be
squarely addressed, and each side will need to accept some ground rules for
collaboration.
While I’ve already laid out some of the work that
progressives need to do on this, I that the conservative leaders of the Religious
Right will need to acknowledge a few things as well.
For one, they need to understand the critical role that the separation of
church and state has played in preserving not only our democracy, but the
robustness of our religious practice. That during our founding, it was not the
atheists or the civil libertarians who were the most effective champions of
this separation; it was the persecuted religious minorities, Baptists like John
Leland, who were most concerned that any state-sponsored religion might hinder
their ability to practice their faith.
Moreover, given the increasing diversity of
And even if we did have only Christians within our borders, who’s
Christianity would we teach in the schools? James Dobson’s,
or Al Sharpton’s? Which passages of Scripture should
guide our public policy? Should we go with Levitacus,
which suggests slavery is ok and that eating shellfish is abomination? How
about Deuteronomy, which suggests stoning your child if he strays from the
faith? Or should we just stick to the Sermon on the Mount – a passage so
radical that it’s doubtful that our Defense Department would survive its
application?
This brings me to my second point. Democracy demands that the religiously
motivated translate their concerns into universal, rather than
religion-specific, values. It requires that their proposals be subject to
argument, and amenable to reason. I may be opposed to abortion for religious
reasons, but if I seek to pass a law banning the practice, I cannot simply
point to the teachings of my church or evoke God’s will. I have to explain why
abortion violates some principle that is accessible to people of all faiths,
including those with no faith at all.
This may be difficult for those who believe in the inerrancy of the Bible, as
many evangelicals do. But in a pluralistic democracy, we have no choice.
Politics depends on our ability to persuade each other of common aims based on
a common reality. It involves the compromise, the art of the possible. At some
fundamental level, religion does not allow for compromise. It insists on the
impossible. If God has spoken, then followers are expected to live up to God’s
edicts, regardless of the consequences. To base one’s life on such
uncompromising commitments may be sublime; to base our policy making on such
commitments would be a dangerous thing.
We all know the story of Abraham and Isaac. Abraham is ordered by God to offer
up his only son, and without argument, he takes Isaac to the mountaintop, binds
him to an altar, and raises his knife, prepared to act as God has commanded.
Of course, in the end God sends down an angel to intercede at the very last
minute, and Abraham passes God’s test of devotion.
But it’s fair to say that if any of us saw a twenty-first century Abraham
raising the knife on the roof of his apartment building, we would, at the very
least, call the police and expect the Department of Children and Family
Services to take Isaac away from Abraham. We would do so because we do not hear
what Abraham hears, do not see what Abraham sees, true as those experiences may
be. So the best we can do is act in accordance with those things that are
possible for all of us to know, be it common laws or basic reason.
Finally, any reconciliation between faith and democratic pluralism requires
some sense of proportion.
This goes for both sides.
Even those who claim the Bible’s inerrancy make distinctions between Scriptural
edicts, a sense that some passages – the Ten Commandments, say, or a belief in
Christ’s divinity – are central to Christian faith, while others are more
culturally specific and may be modified to accommodate modern life.
The American people intuitively understand this, which is why the majority of
Catholics practice birth control and some of those opposed to gay marriage
nevertheless are opposed to a Constitutional amendment to ban it. Religious
leadership need not accept such wisdom in counseling their flocks, but they
should recognize this wisdom in their politics.
But a sense of proportion should also guide those who police the boundaries
between church and state. Not every mention of God in public is a breach to the
wall of separation – context matters. It is doubtful that children reciting the
Pledge of Allegiance feel oppressed or brainwashed as a consequence of
muttering the phrase “under God;” I certainly didn’t. Having voluntary student
prayer groups using school property to meet should not be a threat, any more
than its use by the High School Republicans should threaten Democrats. And one
can envision certain faith-based programs – targeting ex-offenders or substance
abusers – that offer a uniquely powerful way of solving problems.
So we all have some work to do here. But I am hopeful that we can bridge the
gaps that exist and overcome the prejudices each of us bring to this debate.
And I have faith that millions of believing Americans want that to happen. No
matter how religious they may or may not be, people are tired of seeing faith
used as a tool to attack and belittle and divide – they’re tired of hearing
folks deliver more screed than sermon. Because in the end, that’s not how they
think about faith in their own lives.
.
So let me end with another interaction I had during my campaign. A few days
after I won the Democratic nomination in my U.S. Senate race, I received an
email from a doctor at the University of Chicago Medical School that said the
following:
“Congratulations on your overwhelming and inspiring primary win. I was happy to
vote for you, and I will tell you that I am seriously considering voting for
you in the general election. I write to express my concerns that may, in the
end, prevent me from supporting you.”
The doctor described himself as a Christian who understood his commitments to
be “totalizing.” His faith led him to a strong opposition to abortion and gay
marriage, although he said that his faith also led him to question the idolatry
of the free market and quick resort to militarism that seemed to characterize
much of President Bush’s foreign policy.
But the reason the doctor was considering not voting for me was not simply my
position on abortion. Rather, he had read an entry that my campaign had posted
on my website, which suggested that I would fight “right wing ideologues who
want to take away a woman’s right to choose.” He went on to write:
“I sense that you have a strong sense of justice…and I also sense that you are
a fair minded person with a high regard for reason…Whatever your convictions,
if you truly believe that those who oppose abortion are all ideologues driven
by perverse desires to inflict suffering on women, then you, in my judgment,
are not fair-minded….You know that we enter times that are fraught with
possibilities for good and for harm, times when we are struggling to make sense
of a common polity in the context of plurality, when we are unsure of what
grounds we have for making any claims that involve others…I do not ask at this
point that you oppose abortion, only that you speak about this issue in
fair-minded words.”
I checked my web-site and found the offending words. My staff had written them
to summarize my pro-choice position during the Democratic primary, at a time
when some of my opponents were questioning my commitment to protect Roe v.
Wade.
Re-reading the doctor’s letter, though, I felt a pang of shame. It is people
like him who are looking for a deeper, fuller conversation about religion in
this country. They may not change their positions, but they are willing to
listen and learn from those who are willing to speak in reasonable terms –
those who know of the central and awesome place that God holds in the lives of
so many, and who refuse to treat faith as simply another political issue with
which to score points.
I wrote back to the doctor and thanked him for his advice. The next day, I
circulated the email to my staff and changed the language on my website to
state in clear but simple terms my pro-choice position. And that night, before
I went to bed, I said a prayer of my own – a prayer that I might extend the
same presumption of good faith to others that the doctor had extended to me.
It is a prayer I still say for