Author: Chris Boyd

New study projects that the religious identity in the US will drop below 50 percent by 2070.

Pew Research Center isn’t ruling out a future religious revival in America.

But given the country’s steady trends away from faith affiliation, experts don’t know what it would look like to see a return.

Analyzing surveys about religious identity and religious “switching” going back to 1972 and trying to project the American religious landscape out to the year 2070, they can’t say what demographic signs might indicate a coming swell of conversions.

“We’ve never seen it, and we don’t have the data to model a religious reversal,” Pew senior researcher Stephanie Kramer told CT. “There are some who say that revival never happens in an advanced economy. After secularization, you can’t put toothpaste back in the tube. But we don’t know that. We just don’t have the data.”

The data they do have, from 50 years of research by the General Social Survey and Pew’s own survey of 15,000 adults in 2019, indicates the current trend is inexorable. People are giving up on Christianity. They will continue to do so. And if you’re trying to predict the future religious landscape in America, according to Pew, the question is not whether Christianity will decline. It’s how fast and how far.

In a new study out today, Pew projects that in 2070, Christians will likely make up less than half the US population.

Currently, 64 percent of people say they are Christian, but nearly a third of those raised Christian eventually switch to “none” or “nothing in particular,” while only about 20 percent of those raised without religion become Christian. If that ratio of switching continues at a steady pace, then in roughly half a century, …

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Isaiah 6 filled me with world-changing zeal. But I needed to reckon with the whole passage.

I am of the “Don’t waste your life!” generation, a generation of young people in the church who believed their greatest call was to not settle for mediocrity in their Christian life.

I will never forget going to a young adult conference in my early 20s where we heard Isaiah 6 preached with such a fervor that even if we were saved already, we got saved again. Passion was the proof of salvation, zeal was the evidence of our faith, “Send me!” was our mantra, and “world changers” was our identity. We all wanted to be used by God, but none of us wanted to fold up the chairs afterward.

By the time I reached my late 20s, I was so worn out from trying so darn hard to be used by God that I felt, literally, used by God. Used up by him, so emptied out by him that I had nothing left to give anyone, including my own self. I beat my fists against my steering wheel, shouting expletives at him on my drive to work at a church. I sobbed on my bedroom floor at night and showed up to serve at our college ministry. I penciled question after question to him in my notebooks and then pretended to have the answers at Bible studies. I was the definition of the whitewashed tombs Jesus spoke about in Matthew 23:27: pretending to be clean on the outside but rotting to death on the inside.

We love the “Here am I. Send me!” part of Isaiah 6 (v. 8). We even love the vision of the throne room, the cherubim and seraphim flying back and forth, eternally singing the praises of the Holy One. Of course we want to serve the Lord God Almighty. Of course we want to be sent out by him. Of course we wouldn’t dare say anything else in the sight of that holiness.

Except Isaiah does. And if we miss what Isaiah …

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Q&A with Jewish scholar Steven Fine on the history of a biblical minority.

The Good Samaritan shows up in the Gospels as an apparent exception to his people, since he’s the “good” one. Then he exits the stage, presumably to go back to life with the rest of the Samaritans, with little explanation of what a “Samaritan” is or why that might have mattered to Jesus and his first followers.

A new exhibit at the Museum of the Bible in Washington, DC, opening on September 15, promises to expand our understanding of these biblical people. CT spoke to Steven Fine, a Jewish scholar at Yeshiva University, about the history of the Samaritans, their relationship to Jews and Christians, and how they can help us better understand the Bible.

If a regular churchgoer knows one thing about Samaritans, they know there was one good one. When Jesus tells that story, why does it matter that the Samaritan is a Samaritan?

What Jesus does in the story is miscast the part. The Samaritan should have been stereotypical bad guy in the first century, and here he is, he stops to help.

The story takes place in a horrible dry place in the Judean desert. It’s very uninviting. The priest has a reason for not stopping. Then the Levite, who helps in the temple, walks by and doesn’t help. You would expect the next stage of the story to be an Israelite. But it doesn’t go that way. It’s the Samaritan.

He’s the guy who is least likely to do the right thing, in the popular imagination. But he stops to help! That’s completely unexpected. That breaks the story. That’s why it’s such an interesting story.

Now I got to tell you, in Jewish literature not too long after, there is a rapprochement between Jews and Samaritans.

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I was a narcotics officer on the brink of suicide when God began his mighty healing work.

About 12 years ago, I was parked on a dark frontage road in the San Francisco Bay Area. It was about 9 p.m., and I had just finished helping another city’s narcotics team serve search warrants.

I was writing a letter to my wife—a suicide letter. I placed the notepad on the passenger seat and clipped my badge onto it. I cleaned my department-issued undercover car, removing the empty bags of fast food—a cop’s diet. (I didn’t want the responding officers to think I was a pig—no pun intended.) Then I pulled out my gun as I contemplated the most effective way to ensure a quick and painless death.

As a police officer for over 25 years, I had responded to calls that few could imagine, and I had investigated dozens of suicides. How had my life spiraled out of control to the point of wanting to commit one myself?

Suppressed emotions

I grew up in a middle-class family, working for my dad in his auto repair shop. I loved working on cars, but I didn’t want to do it for a living. One night, I went on a police ride-along. I loved it! I knew I had found my calling.

Police protect the thin line between good and evil. They witness the worst that Satan has to offer. The job requires the patience of a pastor, the wisdom of a judge, and the strength and stamina of a professional athlete. One minute, you are driving a patrol car eating donuts; the next, you’re chasing a burglar over fences. Few can endure the emotional stress and physical wear and tear.

I was taught at an early age to suppress my emotions. Looking back, I don’t know how I did it, but I was good at it. Never in a million years did I think that those emotions would surface at some point. Yet after 10 years, PTSD had taken hold. Outwardly …

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Our historic, global faith tradition connects sanctity of life with social justice.

There was a time in the not-too-distant past when opposition to abortion united evangelical Christians across the political spectrum. Along with political conservatives, left-leaning advocates for the poor like Ron Sider spoke out against abortion.

In 1987, he published Completely Pro-Life as an explanation for why Christians should support a consistent life ethic. Sojourners magazine, the leading periodical of the evangelical Left, published several pieces against abortion in the 1980s.

But that moment is gone. This summer, when the Supreme Court’s decision to overturn Roe v. Wade ignited a political firestorm, the abortion debate became even more partisan than it already was, and some progressive evangelicals found it difficult to harmonize their social justice commitments and defense of women’s rights with antiabortion advocacy.

Though still claiming to be “consistently pro-life,” Sojourners reacted to the SCOTUS decision by publishing an editorial titled “Women’s Needs Are Holy. Overturning Roe Ignores That.” Another one of their editorials called for churches to help women find safe spaces for abortion.

If this is true of some Christian magazines and organizations, it’s probably even more true of Christians in the pews. Evangelical pastors who believe in the sanctity of unborn life know this better than anyone.

Those with urban congregations in blue states (or blue cities) have progressive-leaning attendees who now associate the pro-life label only with red-state Republicans, whom they sometimes view as Trump-supporting misogynists. Those church leaders may wonder if it’s even possible to talk about unborn life in a way that won’t drive their churches’ social …

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In her seven-decade reign, she spoke regularly of the importance of her personal faith.

Queen Elizabeth II, the longest-reigning monarch in British history, has died at the age of 96.

Throughout the course of her unprecedented reign, Queen Elizabeth II spoke frequently about her personal Christian faith. Delivering her first Christmas Address in 1952, a tradition started by her grandfather, King George V, the Queen requested prayer for her upcoming coronation.

“I want to ask you all, whatever your religion may be, to pray for me on that day,” she said, “to pray that God may give me wisdom and strength to carry out the solemn promises I shall be making, and that I may faithfully serve Him and you, all the days of my life.”

As one of the world’s most recognizable and celebrated leaders for more than seven decades after that Christmas, the Queen demonstrated how to keep one’s Christian faith personal, private, inclusive, and compassionate while serving in a global, public role under intense scrutiny from virtually every sector.

Queen Elizabeth II inherited religious responsibilities as the Defender of the Faith and Supreme Governor of the Church of England, titles vested in the reigning British monarch since Henry VIII renounced the Papacy in 1534. At her coronation in 1953, Her Majesty took an oath to “maintain and preserve inviolably the settlement of the Church of England, and the doctrine worship, discipline, and government thereof, as by law established in England.”

Her duties included appointing archbishops, bishops, and deans of the Church of England as advised by the prime minister. In 1970, she became the first sovereign to inaugurate and address the church’s General Synod in person, a practice she continued every five years after diocesan elections.

Three …

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The Porter’s Gate offers an album of “Climate Vigil Songs.”

Deckers Creek, an Appalachian tributary that runs through Morgantown, West Virginia, was once clean and clear. These days, it often has an orange hue.

“That’s the heavy metals leaching into the creeks and ground water,” said Zac Morton, a pastor at First Presbyterian Church, a nearby congregation of roughly 250. “It’s notorious as an acid mine tributary.”

In Appalachia, Morton says, addressing climate change and weaving the theme of environmental justice into liturgy reflects the experiences of his community. His church members live in an area littered with reminders and effects of exploitative land use, from higher rates of childhood asthma linked to coal-powered plants to poor water quality due to runoff from nearby mines.

“People here are dealing with the consequences of mismanagement and exploitation of the land,” he said.

The global church is entering the Season of Creation, observed from September 1 until October 4, the Feast of Francis of Assisi, patron saint of ecology. Millions of Christians from various traditions will focus on creation and stewardship, including in their musical worship.

Music that meditates on beauty and laments its destruction can be a call to action and an antidote for despair. New resources from The Porter’s Gate Worship Project—the album Climate Vigil Songs (released in July 2022) and an accompanying worship guide—aim to help congregations make time for exultation, lament, and action.

When creating the album, The Porter’s Gate artists initially struggled to find a sense of hope amid the news of extreme weather disasters and uncertainty for the future.

“The vibe was, ‘This is all so dark.’ Is this whole record …

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To become who God is making us takes time and trust.

I bought my Santa Cruz acoustic guitar a few years ago at a used music shop in Tennessee. As I pulled it down, the sunny Adirondack spruce face smiled back at me. It is sturdy and well made, crafted by hand.

A close look at the grain of the wood of my guitar reveals a catalog of past experiences. Similar to a Steinway piano or an heirloom violin, the instrument’s smoothed surface is a visual timeline, tiny stripes shaped by years of rain and drought. An instrument’s sound tells us something of its origin, whether it is made from new or old or sunken or recycled wood.

Some luthiers and others still construct instruments the old-fashioned way. Ben Niles’s 2007 documentary Note by Note follows the making of a single Steinway concert piano from the Alaskan forest to the concert hall. Technicians from New Jersey describe their work on concert grand No. L1037, which, at one stage of the manufacturing process, rests on its side for 12 patient months as the wood of its frame conforms into a piano-shaped curve.

In the film, we appreciate that wood from a forest is beginning a new chapter, being refined in form and function. But in real life, transition can foster impatience, like wearing braces or anticipating a wedding after a proposal. During the slow work, we may wonder who we are as we wait for what’s yet to be revealed in us.

But there is a grain written in our design, and we have a skillful designer who first made us and is now forming us into who we are meant to be. During our gradual transformation, we become acquainted with God, who personally and graciously tends to us. He is both the creator and luthier, shaping instruments of his glory. “We are God’s handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to …

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In today’s hybrid work culture, Christians should recommit to the biblical rhythms of work and rest.

Over the past few years, many of us have unfortunately become familiar with descriptors like the Great Resignation and the Great Disengagement. Even if you have not heard these terms, you are likely familiar with their meaning.

The former describes the onslaught of people quitting their jobs due to all sorts of current socioeconomic and mental health reasons, while the latter points to people keeping their jobs but having a profound sense of emotional disengagement with their work. Sometimes referred to as “quiet quitting,” such disengagement is especially prevalent in the “helping professions” like the medical industry, the education field, and some forms of ministry.

Both trends are, to some degree, part of what author Jennifer Moss calls the “burnout epidemic” in her book on chronic stress. This problem has accompanied a wider acceptance of hybrid work culture in response to the COVID-19 epidemic—which has further blurred the boundaries between our professional and personal lives.

As a professor of organizational communication, I am fascinated with the way people communicate about work and how that impacts their overall quality of life. And as a Christian, I am especially interested in the degree to which believers understand work as part of our callings.

For those of us who feel especially called to a particular kind of work or who seek to bring a sense of calling into our work, a hybrid work culture can be even more complex. That is because there’s the added pull of holy responsibility on top of structural complexities—a relational commitment to the Caller that can drive us to ignore healthy boundaries.

This year, Labor Day celebrates 140 years of seeking to recognize …

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In a performative age, brazenness gives an illusion of strength.

For most of the year, a friend in England and I have debated whether his country’s politics are becoming more American. Much of it had to do with the roiling scandals around Prime Minister Boris Johnson. My friend was constantly telling me, “This time, Boris is done for,” but I was never quite sure. Ultimately my friend was right, and Johnson’s Conservative Party forced his resignation. But critics agreed that he stuck it out as long as he did because, as many put it, “Shamelessness is a superpower.”

A sense of personal disgrace used to lead those whose scandalously bad character was exposed to voluntarily step aside in contrition. When the tabloid publishes pictures of the senator with a model on his lap, he would announce that he was going to spend more time with his family. When the tobacco company CEO’s notes are found about how to conceal the addictiveness of nicotine, he would “seek other opportunities.”

This was about more than just a public sense of right and wrong. Most people couldn’t bear the humiliation of the public knowing about their sexual exploitation of an intern or hearing their own recorded voice bragging about how their star power allowed them to grab women by the genitals.

But then the people with this sort of shame were sorted out, leaving behind those who didn’t blush when they said, “It depends on what the meaning of is is” or “This is just locker-room talk.” Those who don’t feel shame have learned that, eventually, most people will be exhausted and move on while their hard-core “base” will learn to normalize whatever the character flaw is.

This is not just in government. If Billy Graham or Mother …

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