Writing for Reuters, religion newswriter Ed Stoddard reportsfurniture Bulgaria:

A group of U.S. evangelical leaders called on Wednesday for a pullback from party politics so that followers would not become “useful idiots” exploited for partisan gain.

One in four U.S. adults count themselves as evangelical Protestants, giving them serious clout in a country where religion and politics often mix. Conservative evangelicals have become a key support base for the Republican Party.

But the movement has had growing pains and the statement issued on Wednesday, called an “Evangelical Manifesto,” is the latest sign of emerging fractures as some activists seek to broaden its agenda beyond hot-button social issues such as opposition to abortion and gay rights.

I doubt if there is any other group in American life more promiscuous in their seemingly insatiable appetite to affix their signatures to statements, confessions, manifestos, and declarations than evangelicals. But that said, those interested in American evangelicalism and politics should pause to assess the significance of this one. First, the signatories are a bit more representative of broader evangelicalism and not easily categorized as “liberal” or “conservative” (although the list certainly does include individuals who are easily placed in either category). Second, the list of signatories does not include a number of prominent voices from the Religious Right. This absence should be of no surprise, however. Should we be surprise that those who have a vested interest in maintaining strong ties to the Republican Party or have built their empires based on the culture wars would be uncomfortable with the document?

Many evangelicals will understandably find encouragement in the document. But those of us who take an interest in following the evangelical movement are left with the question as to what the implications of the “Evangelical Manifesto”furniture Elhovo will be. For one, these evangelical leaders want to define evangelicalism primarily in theological categories. And while there certainly was a time when that was an accurate way to define evangelicals, is that still true? A number of observers, David Wells (himself an evangelical insider) being the most vocal, have noted for sometime that American evangelicalism has become marked by anything but theological distinctives. In fact, if American evangelicals understand their identity primarily as one of ethical values (anti-abortion, anti-same sex marriage, nationalistic, etc.) rather than marked by commitment to explicitly theological markers, is this document just speaking over the head of most evangelicals? If the old-guard of the Religious Right are producing a religious/political product that American evangelicals are more than willing to consume, why would those same evangelicals suddenly change their appetites?

In recent years, Jesus has suddenly garnered a relative outburst of attention from religious historians. Most notably, Stephen Prothero and Richard Fox have provided invaluable and complementary studies tracing the ever-evolving identity of Jesus as an American cultural icon. But as helpful as they are, such studies are broad and sweeping, unable to linger within any one religious movement.

Stephen Nichols new book is one attempt to do just that. In Jesus Made In America: A Cultural History from the Puritans to “The Passion of the Christ” Nichols devotes over 200 pages to telling the story of Jesus in the history of American evangelicalism. The book is clearly written by an evangelical for evangelicals and will thus be of limited scholarly appeal. But it will be of immense value to a segment of American Christians who are remarkably prone to lacking in self-criticism and analysis. But even outsiders, those scholars and readers who do not identify with evangelical religion, will benefit from Nichols’ work and for the insight it gives into the oft-studied evangelical movement.

The first four chapters of Jesus Made in America are a fair overview of the cultural history of Jesus from the time of the Puritans up to the twentieth century. For those unfamiliar with Prothero and Fox, Nichols provides an adequate introduction to the very fluid role Jesus has played in American culture. Some will take issue with his clear lack of objectivity–he clearly admires the Puritans, Jonathan Edwards, and Gresham Machen–but, frankly, it is also somewhat refreshing. The idea of objective history is now largely understood as something of an intellectual unicorn, so Nichols’ own honesty about his sympathies and convictions is often helpful.

It is the final four chapters of the book that are the most fascinating, however. Analyzing the place of Jesus in contemporary Christian music (CCM), American film, mass marketing, and American politics, Nichols provides an account that is captivating and painful. The chapters are captivating due both to Nichols’ clear and flowing prose as well as by the sheer oddity and inherent paradox that seems to pervade much of evangelical subculture. Perhaps this is what makes it also rather painful. As Nichols is keen to point out, American evangelicals are generally well intentioned in their efforts to brand Jesus on everything from CDs and t-shirts to political platforms. But the results of the commodification of Jesus have generally not produced the sort of cultural renewal that evangelicals have hoped for. For example, I recall one evangelical marketing group who touted Mel Gibson’s The Passion of the Christ as “perhaps the best outreach opportunity in 2,000 years.” And while Gibson’s film certainly did a lot of reaching out and cashing in at the box office, it seems hard to believe that American churches received any significant or sustained bump in attendance/membership.

The final chapter is sure to be the most provocative of the book. There will be many conservative evangelicals who will share Nichols’ discomfort with seeing Jesus branded on t-shirts and “Jesus is my girlfriend” Christian pop tunes. But Nichols argues that the Religious Right has just as easily appropriated (co-opted?) an “American Jesus” that suits its commitments to fiscal conservatism and a particular brand of neocon foreign policy. Here he commends Darryl Hart’s proposal in A Secular State: Why Christianity Favors the Separation of Church and State, one that has a lot of merit to it. As Nichols notes (following Hart), evangelicals on both the right and the left have exhibited a tendency to co-opt Jesus as a medium for their political ideologies and policies. In the end, however, the otherworldly nature of historic Protestantism is largely subsumed.

One suspects that evangelicals of every stripe will find something that makes them squeamish. But then again, perhaps that’s just what Nichols is going for here. If American evangelicals are to recover any cultural capital and religious credibility, they will likely have to dispense with their penchant for sentimentalized caricatures of Jesus and mass-marketed religion. Whether or not that will happen is hard to say. After all, America is a religious marketplace where supply and demand are in play just as strongly as on Wall Street.

Most of us grew up watching Looney Tunes and were thus regularly exposed to a healthy dose of point-blank canon explosions, stealthily ignited TNT, and body-flattening anvils. No big deal, right? Well, gratuitous animated violence aside, cartoons are actually an interesting lens through which to study Americans’ values and ideals in the post-war era (trust a graduate student in American history to suggest doing research on cartoons).

It’s uncomfortable to watch, but perhaps no other Looney Tunes release is more telling than “Southern Fried Rabbit,” released in 1953. The cartoon recounts Bugs Bunny’s journey south to Alabama, seeking relief from a carrot famine in his northern homeland. And, regrettably, the episode is full of schtick at the expense of America’s shameful history of white supremacy and slavery. It’s inconceivable to imagine something like this airing today. Of course, in recent history the cartoon has been censored for reruns to remove one particularly offensive scene where Bugs Bunny, attempting to cross over the Mason-Dixon line, is stopped by Yosemite Sam, the quintessential son of the Lost Cause. Bugs, in costume as a caricature of a rural African American, crosses over the border plucking “My Old Kentucky Home” on his banjo and implores Sam not to beat him when the southern firebrand pulls out his whip.

We can watch this now and quite literally feel the discomfort of such a scene. But it’s a good reminder of how far we have come in America on the question of race in the last fifty years. One can only wonder what cultural artifact of our time will one day be looked at with such bewildered moral regret.

It’s easy to discount Pat Robertson’s influence among American evangelicals as waning. Much has been made of a supposed new generation of evangelicals who reject the Falwell/Robertson Religious Right for the alternative of a more moderate political vision. But Falwell’s empire before his death was as far-reaching as ever and Robertson’s doesn’t appear to be slipping either. Those interested in telling the history of the Religious Right will inevitably have to include Robertson in their narrative. And those concerned with projecting the future course of religious conservatives in American politics must grapple with his legacy and longterm influence.

In the most recent issue of the Virginia Quarterly Review, journalist Bill Sizemore has penned a lengthy essay on Robertson, an essay built on years of investigative reporting for the Virginian-Pilot. It’s well worth reading, although it certainly does not present a terribly heart-warming portrait of Pat Robertson.

Since Jerry Falwell’s death, Robertson is the most visible evangelical leader in America. A recent public opinion survey conducted by Christian pollsters the Barna Group found that Robertson was the only religious figure besides Billy Graham–who has retired from preaching–known to at least half the population. Perhaps of most import for the nation and the world, he has pioneered a unique marriage between theology and politics. This is a man who ran for president because, he said, God told him to, but that brief campaign twenty years ago would be merely a footnote in American political history were it not for the potent legacy it spawned.

Interestingly, Mr. Sizemore’s article elicited a response from Robertson’s attorney, Louis Isakoff. It seems both sides in the debate are more than adept at telling the story as best suits their interests. No surprise there, that’s human nature at work. Let’s just hope that future historians will have ready access to archived materials that will give us a more complete picture.

In case you missed it, NPR’s Morning Edition had an interesting story on the South Carolina’s awkward public history efforts, largely centered around Ben Tillman, perhaps the most inveterate racist demagogue in the history of southern politics. As you can imagine, his legacy is one that many in the Palmetto State struggle to come to terms with.

Frankly, the “if we go there, where do we stop?” argument against historical honesty and full disclosure is both offensive and intellectually crippling. And to my good friends from Clemson, don’t worry. No need to demolish Tillman Hall; let’s just tell the truth.

You can listen to all of Julie Rose’s report here.

I haven’t had a chance to comb through all the county returns from Tuesday’s Pennsylvania primary, but did find one especially interesting. Has anyone noticed that Obama took Lancaster County by an eight-point spread? I spent my high school years in Lancaster County, a longtime hotbed of social conservatism and GOP loyalty. So what does it mean that he was able to take a county like this, but not Montgomery Co.? What does it mean that he lost York Co. by nearly 11 points?

The Clinton campaign certainly did get a shot in the arm from their success in PA. But it looks like the boost Clinton received in the state will not ultimately be reflected in significant delegate numbers, but in media coverage and casting the image of success.

Writing in the Boston Globe, Peter Canellos recently noted the impending class divide within the Democratic Party that appears to be emerging within the party’s Pennsylvania primary. Over the next 48 hours we should get an idea of how real this phenomenon is in Pennsylvania, but it does seem to be a significant development.

It is a division that seems to have widened as the pri maries moved to blue-collar states such as Ohio. And it’s just one of several fractures in the Democratic coalition: Obama and Clinton have split the Democrats along age and some racial lines as well.

But the class issue looms the largest in Pennsylvania, which will go to the polls on Tuesday. And party leaders - including roughly 300 undecided “superdelegates” nationwide who will probably provide the winning margin for either candidate - will be looking at more than who wins and who loses: They will look for whether either candidate can penetrate a class barrier that has seen lower-income white Democrats go for Clinton while higher-income voters generally prefer Obama.

Increasingly, the fear among Democrats is that one group or the other might opt for Republican John McCain, should their favored Democrat not get the nomination. And in places like Lawrenceville, a section of Pittsburgh, preferences have only hardened as voters have gotten to know more about the candidates.

So what do you do if you’re running for the highest elected office in the nation and you want to assert your “salt of the earth” identity? Apparently, you dive in deep and make a video appearance on “Monday Night RAW” and let the wrestling banter fly. You know, “elitism” has become something of a dirty word in American politics. But I’m not sure that there is a word in the English language for the degradation of American government and political discourse that inevitably accompanies this sort of schtick.

Anyone who wants to understand Kentucky history and politics during the twentieth century inevitably has to turn their attention to two giant figures, Alben Barkley and Albert “Happy” Chandler. I’ve done more work on Barkley (longtime U.S. Senate Majority Leader and Vice President), but Chandler is just as fascinating. Not only did he serve as governor of Kentucky and U.S. Senator, but he was also the Commissioner of Major Leage Baseball during the beginning of the league’s attempts at racial integration.

Barkley died in 1956, but Chandler remained active in Kentucky life until his death in 1991. One of my favorite “Happy moments” is Chandler’s appearance at the 1988 UK men’s basketball Senior Night. A vibrant ninety-year-old, Chandler deliverd a knockout rendition of “My Old Kentucky Home.” Even if you have no interest in Kentucky or twentieth-century political history, this is worth watching.

Charton Heston may have died on Saturday night, but his infamous (and emblematic) promise to resist gun control legislation still rings true with a significant number of Americans. In fact, Heston was, for many of the New Right, a leader just as influential in the movement as any political figure (save Ronald Reagan, perhaps). Heston’s own political evolution and involvement is an important story that historians of twentieth century American politics and culture must come to term with. Many Americans are familiar with Ronald Reagan’s own evolution and eventual identification with the Republican Party. But Heston’s story is similarly helpful in charting the evolution of the conservative movement, the Democratic Party, and the politics of race and status.

Although imperfect, Emilie Raymond’s recent From My Cold Dead Hands: Charlton Heston and American Politics is a valuable contribution to the study of American politics in the twentieth century and the rise of the New Right within the Republican Party. For his part, Heston had supported LBJ in the 1964 general election. Years later, however, he recounted a dramatic–nearly religious–conversion while driving past a Goldwater billboard in the wake of the election. The billboard, touting Goldwater’s “In Your Heart, You Know He’s Right” suddenly made an impact on the actor and activist. “I’d try not to look, or at least not think about it. But one morning there was a convoy of trucks coming throigh the crossroad. . . . As we waited, I experienced a true revelation, almost an epiphany, like St. Paul on the road to Damascus. I looked at that photograph of Goldwater and said softly, ‘Son of a bitch . . . he is right!’ And I knew he was.”

The rise of the New Right in American politics was anything but a monolithic experience for individual Americans. As the movement experienced various waves of growth, Americans found the cause to be a welcoming environment for their own concerns and common sense of cultural frustration and disenfranchisement. Whether it was issues of foreign policy and anti-Communism, the southern reaction to federal civil rights legislation, or the legalization of abortion in Roe v. Wade, the coalition that pushed the New Right to the fore of American politics (and into the White House) was comprised of Americans much like Heston. They may not have been intellectuals, but they knew that their country had changed and that they did not approve.

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For more on the rise of the New Right, see Lisa McGirr, Suburban Warriors: The Origins of the New American Right and Dan T. Carter, The Politics of Rage: George Wallace, the Origins of the New Conservatism, and the Transformation of American Politics. Although McGirr and Carter have very different interpretations of what constitutes the foundational element in the phenomenon of the New Right, they are valuable pieces of scholarship and well worth reading.

Forty years ago today, a sniper’s bullet ended the life and work of Martin Luther King, Jr. Of course, Americans will hear endless clips of King’s famous “I Have a Dream” speech today. But, for my money, this is an example of King at his strongest. Its pairing with footage of the civil rights movement is especially moving. Stand up for righteousness, justice, and truth indeed.