TIME: Almanac 1993/TIME Almanac 1993.iso/time/083192/08319924.000

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                                                                                THE U.S. CAMPAIGN, Page 34

Pulpit Politics


Bush and Quayle once again need the support of evangelical
Christians, but this year those voters can turn to two Baptist
candidates: Clinton and Gore

By LAURENCE I. BARRETT/WASHINGTON


    The Rev. Louis Sheldon, wearing the badges and buttons of
an alternate delegate from California, took time out from
convention proceedings to recall his brief fling with the
Democrats. He met Jimmy Carter in 1976 while serving as the
pastor of a Charismatic church in Anaheim. "He was the first
professing evangelical Christian [candidate] in my time,"
Sheldon said. "His religious bent seemed to rise above the
campaign." So Sheldon switched parties and became a Democrat,
introduced Carter to other ministers and attended a White House
reception when Carter took office. A disillusioned Sheldon soon
rejoined the G.O.P. however, because "I could not support an
Administration that had the facade of evangelical rhetoric but
not the reality of evangelical principles. I'm home to stay."

    George Bush's chances in November depend heavily on
whether Sheldon proves to be a weather vane for one of the
country's most important voting blocs. Millions of white
evangelicals returned to their roots to elect Carter 16 years
ago. They changed allegiance again in 1980, helping to give
Ronald Reagan and Bush large majorities. This year there is some
wavering among the faithful. One reason is mild disappointment
with Bush. Another is Bill Clinton's and Al Gore's status as
churchgoing Southern Baptists. If Clinton and Gore convert their
religious ties into enough votes, the Democrats can be
politically born again in the South and a few pivotal states
elsewhere.

    No way, said Sheldon, who has become a religious-right
activist as head of the Traditional Values Coalition. He has
plenty of company among clergymen -- even those who shun direct
political involvement. Floyd Smith, pastor of West Virginia's
Hedgesville Baptist Church, also rues his one Carter ballot: "To
vote for a person just because he's born again is a mistake I
won't make a second time." Smith wants a President "who will
fight for our rights" against pro-choice feminists, atheists,
gay-rights activists and others who threaten his brand of
morality. "We're getting it shoved up our noses," Smith
complained. He cares little if help comes from an Episcopalian
like Bush or a Presbyterian like Dan Quayle.

    To protect their evangelical support, the Republicans must
stoke the anger of people like Smith. To woo evangelicals, the
Democrats must convince them that Clinton and Gore are not only
moderate but better able than their rivals to deal with the real
problems of the middle class. The stakes in this religious
tug-of-war are high: the Southern Baptist Convention alone
boasts 15 million members. Four years ago, the white evangelical
vote was nearly 20% of the electorate.

    The G.O.P. got a boost in Houston from prominent
televangelists like Pat Robertson and Jerry Falwell. Even before
he took the podium for a prime-time speech that accused Clinton
of hatching "a radical plan to destroy the traditional family,"
Robertson revved up ultraconservatives outside the convention
hall. At a Houston rally, young zealots distributed handbills
denouncing "queers" and "feminazis" as Robertson berated the
Democrats for failing to mention God in their platform.

    The New Right alliance that emerged between religious and
secular conservatives in the late 1970s helped Reagan attract
two-thirds of the white evangelical vote, the same proportion
Carter had won in 1980. Some 70% voted for Bush four years ago,
giving him a lock on the South, where white Protestants are the
dominant voting bloc, and strengthening him in important
Northern states like Illinois and Michigan.

    Yet Bush does not have an undisputed claim to evangelical
support this year. Spokesmen for the Southern Baptist
Convention, the country's largest Protestant group, complain
that the President is squishy on certain issues. In particular,
they disdain his reluctance to hammer gay-rights activism as
some other Republicans do. Richard Land, head of the group's
Christian Life Commission, warns that "it will take clear
differences on values to get Southern Baptists to vote against
two people of their own denomination. If you want to energize
Southern Baptists, it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure
out how."

    One way the White House has been doing that is with its
education policy. The Republican proposal -- loudly trumpeted
during the Houston convention -- would provide government aid
to middle-income and poor families who want to send children to
private schools, including church institutions. Clinton's
program is limited to public schools. Quayle and Robertson
charged last week that Clinton is beholden to the teachers'
unions, which rank high in conservative demonology because they
ostensibly peddle "humanism" in classrooms.

    Quayle, in fact, has been far ahead of his patron in
appealing to evangelical concerns. He first launched his assault
on the "cultural elite" nearly a year ago in a little-noted
speech to Robertson's Christian Coalition, a group contending
for control of G.O.P. organizations in several states. He
elaborated on that theme, and attracted more attention, at the
Southern Baptists' annual meeting in June. Lately Bush has also
been singing from the same hymnal -- albeit in gentler tones.
In July he appeared on Robertson's TV show, where he dutifully
pledged allegiance to most items on the religious right's
agenda. He also agreed to attend a national gathering of
religious conservatives in Dallas two days after the convention.

    Clinton, for his part, turned down an invitation to the
Dallas meeting. Having promised to appoint pro-choice jurists
and to extend civil rights protection to homosexuals, he knows
he cannot expect to pass the religious right's moral checkup.
Still, Clinton hopes to recapture a respectable number of
rank-and-file evangelicals, some of whom are more moderate than
their leaders. Baptist Press, a news service for the Southern
Baptist Convention's newspapers, last month distributed a long
story describing the Clintons' and Gores' religious practices.
While the candidates did not come across as quite the Sunday
school teacher Carter was, they were depicted as committed
churchgoers.

    Marc Nuttle, who managed Robertson's failed 1988
presidential bid, thinks it was no accident that Clinton last
year adopted the term New Covenant as a campaign slogan. "That's
an evocative phrase for Christians," Nuttle says, "as Clinton
knows." The Arkansan's long association with evangelicals
appeals to some conservatives who nonetheless disagree with his
positions. Anthony Mangan, a Pentecostal pastor in Alexandria,
Louisiana, met Clinton at a Bible camp meeting eight years ago
and has admired him since because "Bill is such a genuine,
full-of-love person. He loves the Lord with everything in him."
Still, because of Clinton's stands on abortion and homosexual
issues, Mangan doesn't know what he'll do on Election Day. "I
have to pray hard on it," he says.

    For the moment, Clinton can live with that kind of
uncertainty. If his religion wins him more of a hearing than
Michael Dukakis and Walter Mondale got, he can try to shift the
concerns of evangelical voters to more practical, kitchen-table
questions. Says campaign manager David Wilhelm: "Plenty of
Baptists know that the real family issue is how families can
make ends meet."


    Robison James, a religion professor at the
Baptist-affiliated University of Richmond, thinks that at least
some in his denomination are losing their pro-Republican fire
out of frustration; the Reagan-Bush era, after all, did not
re-create society in their image. Thus James predicts that
Clinton could get close to half the white evangelical vote,
rather than the 30% Dukakis won. If so, Clinton may be combing
the New Testament for tidbits appropriate for an Inaugural
Address.