Religious right: 'a leaderless army'

In 2004, conservative evangelical leaders in Washington state were in full political force.

In only a few short weeks, they gathered more than 20,000 people to Safeco Field to rally for traditional marriage, then several months later, celebrated President Bush's re-election.

Five years later, though, the movement is deflated and in disarray.

Many of the early leaders have stepped back due to health or age, because they feel burned at being called haters or because they're tired of political divisiveness, saying it gets in the way of saving souls.

At the same time, a new generation of megachurch leaders has emerged and, while some may be as biblically conservative as their predecessors, they are less inclined to get directly involved in politics.

What's more, an issue around which Christian conservatives might be expected to find consensus — repealing a measure that gave same-sex domestic partners the same state benefits as married couples — instead has provoked infighting.

"As a political movement, it is a leaderless army milling about the field," acknowledged Pastor Joseph Fuiten, one of the area's most visible leaders on the Christian right.

That's happening not only locally but nationally.

A leadership vacuum has followed the deaths of prominent national leaders, such as the Rev. Jerry Falwell, and the retirement of others, such as James Dobson.

The economy is trumping the social issues that galvanized Christian conservatives in the past, and many feel the country has become less attuned to their values.

The religious right is in crisis, said James Wellman, a University of Washington associate professor of American religion. "I don't think they know what they're going to do next."

Personal reflection

Fuiten, senior pastor at Cedar Park Assembly of God Church in Bothell, long has been a staunch, articulate voice for conservative Christian values.

But his position on what role the church should play on gay rights is shifting, and he's struggling to understand what God wants him to do next.

He remains against gay marriage, still sees same-sex relations as sinful, and also was against a measure passed by the Legislature this spring that expanded domestic-partnership benefits for same-sex couples.

But he has publicly opposed — and won't sign — Referendum 71, the effort to repeal that measure, saying people are preoccupied with the economy and there's not enough support.

More important, he said, Ref. 71 "drags us backward into a negative fight we're not going to win."

"I don't want the church to be viewed as oppressive, [and] as opposed to people living their lives and eking out whatever happiness they can."

He says he believes that different times call for different strategies and says that now, with the country less in sync with his traditional values, and many hurting because of the economy, people need to hear about hope, not about hell.

"God is not coercive," he said. "The idea that people ought to be free to live their life and live the way they want to — I don't object to that."

Fuiten, 59, had a heart attack in 2004 and was diagnosed a year ago with prostate cancer. His prognosis is good, but he said he wonders if his health or his age are factors in his shift in thinking.

"The older you get, the less willing you are to fight every fight," he said.

Whatever the reasons, Fuiten's actions have been "extremely disappointing to me and disappointing to a lot of people across the state," said Gary Randall, president of the Faith and Freedom Network, which is leading the referendum effort. Signatures for Ref. 71 are due to the Secretary of State's Office by Saturday.

"If he wanted to dissent or not support it," Randall said, "I think people understand that. I don't think people understand why he's trying to undermine the whole effort. Some people have said it's because he's not leading the charge. I wouldn't say that, but that has been said."

Such infighting belies the perception of the Christian right as a cohesive force.

"The religious right in this state has never been together, unified the way we need to be," said another of the movement's longtime leaders, Antioch Bible Church's Pastor Ken Hutcherson, who supports Ref. 71.

The outspoken Hutcherson, 57, has kept a lower profile this year. He, too, is battling prostate cancer, and his condition is serious.

Though 40 pounds lighter, he's as combative as ever, saying the cancer is "trying to kill me. I'm trying to kill it. One of us is going to die."

He already has signed a Ref. 71 petition but has not been especially visible in promoting the referendum.

"I'm trying to see what others are trying to do," he said.

Active but fragmented

About one-quarter of America's adults are evangelical Christians, and about two-thirds of them are seen as forming the conservative base of the Christian right.

"Religious right," a term coined in the 1980s, has come to refer to conservative, politically active and predominantly white evangelicals.

"They're still very much alive and active," said David Domke, a UW communications professor who has written extensively about religion and politics.

But the movement is fragmenting and changing.

In part, that's because evangelicals as a whole have embraced a broader spectrum of issues, from the environment to global poverty.

That's happened even as the builders of the Christian right — including Dobson and Pat Robertson — are no longer as much in the forefront.

"Their time has passed, mostly," Domke said, replaced by less-partisan leaders.

A prayer rally held by dozens of evangelical churches at the state Capitol last week, for instance, was expressly nonpolitical, intended to show Christians in a positive light, organizers said.

That doesn't mean new leaders won't speak out for traditional marriage or against abortion. But they're less likely to identify with one political party or to lobby politicians.

Politics may be "part of their life, but it's not the defining piece," Domke said.

"The main thing is people"

That seems to be the case for a new generation of pastors at some of the state's largest churches.

Mark Driscoll, 38, preaching pastor at Mars Hill Church, which draws 10,000 people to eight campuses, says he's never been particularly vocal or active politically.

"I see myself as a Bible teacher and trust our people to think for themselves and vote according to their convictions," he said.

Judah Smith, 30, and his wife, Chelsea, 31, will take over in September as lead pastors at City Church, which draws about 7,000 people to seven campuses.

While deeply held beliefs may prompt some congregants to take part in campaigns or referendums, "I do feel at times that politics isolates and divides people," he said. "The main thing at City Church is not politics. The main thing is people."

Senior Pastor Emeritus Jan Hettinga, 64, of Northshore Baptist Church, and an organizer of 2004's Mayday for Marriage rally, said many at his church feel they've "been there and done that" on political issues, and "all we got was really, really bad press and a bad image."

Branding the disagreement over same-sex marriage as hatred and bigotry was a smart strategy by gay-rights supporters, Hettinga said. "No Christians I know want to be considered haters.

"I think there's a very intelligent, moral, conservative population in this city and in this state, but they just haven't figured out yet how to let their voices be heard without being labeled."

Janet I. Tu: 206-464-2272 or jtu@seattletimes.com