My friend Sam Rocha issued a challenge for those of us who grew up conservative who no longer identify that way to write about it (his challenge specifically relates to leaving the conservatism of American Catholicism, but he extended his invitation to non-Catholic readers as well, a group of which I am still a part).
Those
of you who have studied these things far more than I have know that there are
many “conservatisms,” and the depth of the conservative intellectual tradition
will not be explored here. This is only an account of my own brush with one
such conservatism that influenced my childhood, as well as some other
conservatisms that I have personally encountered throughout my life. So forgive
me for all over-simplifications and areas of my own personal ignorance. In
fact, I welcome reactions to this, especially informed ones. I’m interested in
what you have to say.
I was born in a family that owned Harvest House Publishers, a conservative evangelical publishing house in Eugene, Oregon. The founder of Harvest House, my grandpa, Bob Hawkins, Sr., did so based on the desire to spread the gospel through the written word, which was also out of a desire to “help the hurts of people.” The evangelical voices my grandpa elevated earlier in his career were people like James Dobson and Tim LaHaye, now iconic representatives of evangelical conservatism.
I don’t really remember when I first learned that our family was “conservative”—it was probably more from gradual exposure to how I was not supposed to like Bill Clinton. My grandma on my dad’s side introduced me to talk radio conservatism as she would glowingly talk about Rush Limbaugh and bash the Democrats, but I don’t think I got a full sense of what “conservative”—the term itself—meant until much later.
I was born in a family that owned Harvest House Publishers, a conservative evangelical publishing house in Eugene, Oregon. The founder of Harvest House, my grandpa, Bob Hawkins, Sr., did so based on the desire to spread the gospel through the written word, which was also out of a desire to “help the hurts of people.” The evangelical voices my grandpa elevated earlier in his career were people like James Dobson and Tim LaHaye, now iconic representatives of evangelical conservatism.
I don’t really remember when I first learned that our family was “conservative”—it was probably more from gradual exposure to how I was not supposed to like Bill Clinton. My grandma on my dad’s side introduced me to talk radio conservatism as she would glowingly talk about Rush Limbaugh and bash the Democrats, but I don’t think I got a full sense of what “conservative”—the term itself—meant until much later.
This
was probably when I began to develop my understanding of the particular kind of
theological conservatism my family espoused. Theologically, we were
conservative because we wanted to “conserve” certain beliefs we inherited from
earlier traditions about the Christian faith, such as our belief in the literal
resurrection of Jesus from the dead and that Jesus is God.
This is probably when I was introduced to the word “liberal”—not primarily in its political sense, but in its theological one. Liberals, I was taught, do not believe Jesus to be God, or they de-emphasized the virgin birth or thought that Jesus didn’t actually perform miracles. I learned about the “Jesus Seminar” at a pretty young age through all the books we would read.
It was really only later, when I became a teenager, that I started linking the word “Republican” with “Christian,” as that seemed to be what everyone in my circle of friends at church were doing, and it seemed to be what my family and people in the evangelical publishing industry expected. I was supposed to be a Republican, I thought, because Republicans represent Christian values—we saw being gay as a sin, we were against abortion, and we were suspicious of environmentalism.
Of course, all of this created much angst over my secret.
My secret was that I was transgender.
I did not know how to talk about this in the world in which I lived. The fascinating part about this is that even long before “transgender” was a word most Republicans knew, I grappled with this secret identity of mine. It was hidden, sealed up inside me. I didn’t know if it would ever be unveiled.
If that sounds like apocalyptic language to you, good. Because that’s what I’m getting at.
By “apocalyptic,” I mean it in its biblical sense. I don’t mean “destructive” or “end-of-world.” I’m not talking about the X-Men comic book character. I mean the word as the Greek word on which it is based—ajpoka/luyiß—is used in the Bible. It shows up in Revelation 1:1, and its cognates also show up in other parts of the Bible, especially where it says that the secrets of people’s hearts will be revealed. It means “unveiling.”
So in that sense, something was hidden for a major part of my life. Mostly it was because I was afraid it was “not conservative.” And then it was because I was afraid it was “not Christian.”
This is not a post about my trans identity primarily, though. That story, which is too long to be retold in this post in its fullest sense, will have to be saved for another post.
But I bring this up because this was one of the things that was already challenging my privatized sense of myself as a “conservative”—something sealed up inside me wanted to be unveiled, but for the longest time, I was afraid to unveil it. It did create an early feminism in me that I sprung on people occasionally, when I felt that women were being treated poorly or that their voices were being marginalized. This already created a conflict with some of the anti-feminist voices I was hearing in the conservatism with which I grew up. So I still kept this thing about me hidden.
I think that at least in part, I wanted to keep this hidden because it conflicted with the hard views of gender in many circles I was part of. It’s like I thought I needed to conserve the presentation I was giving to the world, because if I didn’t and unveiled this secret hidden in my heart... I did not want to think about what would happen.
Even in college, when my views were already beginning to shift, and when I was already frustrated with many aspects of the conservatism I was being fed, I still hid this part of me, afraid of rejection from the conservative Christian communities I had so long been part of.
Much of my conservativism had begun dissipating by the end of college and the beginning of grad school. I was willing to at least be open about my frustrations with populism in the Republican party and some of the anti-intellectualism I was seeing there.
It took me finally coming out as trans to fully sever ties with the idea of being a Republican. I still hung onto the word “conservative” for a while, but even that word began to feel like an insufficient descriptor of who I am now.
I just found myself growing ever distant from the official values espoused by the most prominent figures of the Republican party in the US. Coming out as trans helped me be more honest about this too, and better able to express my empathy toward people who did not fit the Republican party’s ideologies, as far as I understood them.
So am I a liberal now? Well, no, not really. I suppose some may consider me that. I do have positions that are “liberal” relative to other positions, and some views that are “conservative” relative to others. John MacArthur would have already started calling me liberal when I became convinced in high school that Catholics were Christians. I’m probably off-the-charts liberal to him by now.
But I don’t like using either the word “liberal” or “conservative” to describe myself. The main thing that led me to finally be able to come out as trans was the value of vulnerability, something that is expressed in the life and ministry of Jesus. I saw this in the community of Christians who ministered to me at that time in my life.
Increasingly, though, I saw the rhetoric of American conservatives shift toward seeing vulnerable people as “losers” because of their “weakness,” particularly with the rise of a certain billionaire toward his current status as the Republican nominee for the 2016 election.
Didn’t Paul say that Christ’s power is made perfect in weakness? This is something that of course many conservatives in my formative growing up years exposed me to, but I don't think it was because they were conservative—it was because they were Christian.
This is probably when I was introduced to the word “liberal”—not primarily in its political sense, but in its theological one. Liberals, I was taught, do not believe Jesus to be God, or they de-emphasized the virgin birth or thought that Jesus didn’t actually perform miracles. I learned about the “Jesus Seminar” at a pretty young age through all the books we would read.
It was really only later, when I became a teenager, that I started linking the word “Republican” with “Christian,” as that seemed to be what everyone in my circle of friends at church were doing, and it seemed to be what my family and people in the evangelical publishing industry expected. I was supposed to be a Republican, I thought, because Republicans represent Christian values—we saw being gay as a sin, we were against abortion, and we were suspicious of environmentalism.
Of course, all of this created much angst over my secret.
My secret was that I was transgender.
I did not know how to talk about this in the world in which I lived. The fascinating part about this is that even long before “transgender” was a word most Republicans knew, I grappled with this secret identity of mine. It was hidden, sealed up inside me. I didn’t know if it would ever be unveiled.
If that sounds like apocalyptic language to you, good. Because that’s what I’m getting at.
By “apocalyptic,” I mean it in its biblical sense. I don’t mean “destructive” or “end-of-world.” I’m not talking about the X-Men comic book character. I mean the word as the Greek word on which it is based—ajpoka/luyiß—is used in the Bible. It shows up in Revelation 1:1, and its cognates also show up in other parts of the Bible, especially where it says that the secrets of people’s hearts will be revealed. It means “unveiling.”
So in that sense, something was hidden for a major part of my life. Mostly it was because I was afraid it was “not conservative.” And then it was because I was afraid it was “not Christian.”
This is not a post about my trans identity primarily, though. That story, which is too long to be retold in this post in its fullest sense, will have to be saved for another post.
But I bring this up because this was one of the things that was already challenging my privatized sense of myself as a “conservative”—something sealed up inside me wanted to be unveiled, but for the longest time, I was afraid to unveil it. It did create an early feminism in me that I sprung on people occasionally, when I felt that women were being treated poorly or that their voices were being marginalized. This already created a conflict with some of the anti-feminist voices I was hearing in the conservatism with which I grew up. So I still kept this thing about me hidden.
I think that at least in part, I wanted to keep this hidden because it conflicted with the hard views of gender in many circles I was part of. It’s like I thought I needed to conserve the presentation I was giving to the world, because if I didn’t and unveiled this secret hidden in my heart... I did not want to think about what would happen.
Even in college, when my views were already beginning to shift, and when I was already frustrated with many aspects of the conservatism I was being fed, I still hid this part of me, afraid of rejection from the conservative Christian communities I had so long been part of.
Much of my conservativism had begun dissipating by the end of college and the beginning of grad school. I was willing to at least be open about my frustrations with populism in the Republican party and some of the anti-intellectualism I was seeing there.
It took me finally coming out as trans to fully sever ties with the idea of being a Republican. I still hung onto the word “conservative” for a while, but even that word began to feel like an insufficient descriptor of who I am now.
I just found myself growing ever distant from the official values espoused by the most prominent figures of the Republican party in the US. Coming out as trans helped me be more honest about this too, and better able to express my empathy toward people who did not fit the Republican party’s ideologies, as far as I understood them.
So am I a liberal now? Well, no, not really. I suppose some may consider me that. I do have positions that are “liberal” relative to other positions, and some views that are “conservative” relative to others. John MacArthur would have already started calling me liberal when I became convinced in high school that Catholics were Christians. I’m probably off-the-charts liberal to him by now.
But I don’t like using either the word “liberal” or “conservative” to describe myself. The main thing that led me to finally be able to come out as trans was the value of vulnerability, something that is expressed in the life and ministry of Jesus. I saw this in the community of Christians who ministered to me at that time in my life.
Increasingly, though, I saw the rhetoric of American conservatives shift toward seeing vulnerable people as “losers” because of their “weakness,” particularly with the rise of a certain billionaire toward his current status as the Republican nominee for the 2016 election.
Didn’t Paul say that Christ’s power is made perfect in weakness? This is something that of course many conservatives in my formative growing up years exposed me to, but I don't think it was because they were conservative—it was because they were Christian.
