Reclaiming Loss—How the Pull of the Past Explains The Rightward Turn of Young Voters

photo-1473448912268-2022ce9509d8Apart from Reagan in ’84 and Bush in ’88, voters in the 18-29 demographic have decidedly gone Democratic. Even as early as April of this year (2024) polls showed that 66% of those who were 18-29 were leaning Democratic.[1] But the actual election showed something quite different, especially amongst young men. In 2020 41% of men 18-29 voted red, that number climbed to 56% in 2024.

Anecdotally, this is not shocking to me. I’ve been seeing this shift for a couple years now. Journalists seem to be baffled, wondering how this happened. Why are young men moving to the right? And some of them to the far-right?

I recently heard an explanation from Richard Mouw. Mouw gives a brief history of evangelicalism—persuasively arguing that in the 19th century the white evangelical owned the “table” of public discourse. But that shifted through the years and evangelicals were increasingly pushed away from the table. Now he believes, “evangelicals grieve the loss of a table that they are convinced they once ‘owned.’”[2] While I find Mouw’s argument persuasive for those 60+ embracing far-right ideology, I do not think it explains those who are 18-29. They have never had a seat at the table. To understand this demographic, we need a different story.

“Can I go to grandma’s house!?!?!?”

My parents probably heard that statement thousands of times. I loved going to my grandparent’s farm. It was 17-acres of adventure. Much of my time was spent on one of several makeshift baseball fields—pretending to be Ken Griffey Jr. or Bo Jackson, hitting homers against the gracious pitches from my uncle. On occasion, though, we’d explore the woods around their house.

When you take the boring rows of soybeans out of the equation, they had about 8-10 acres of woods to explore. Well, 8-10 acres that they still owned. In some directions it was only a short walk before you were on government property. On their land there was still a big rock with mysterious openings that invited my imagination to assume a hidden world underneath. That was my favorite place to play. Those little caverns made a great place to stash my toy guns and hide them from the quickly approaching Germans of Hitler’s army. I was continuing the legacy of fighting the Nazi’s which my grandpa had battled on D-Day in World War II.

There was also the pond where I caught my first fish. We called it the government pond. You could always hear a tinge of sadness mixed with anger when they had to call it that. Prior to the late 70’s that wasn’t the government pond. It was grandpa’s pond. Along with another 100 acres or so. But the government took the land. Okay, took might be a minor overstatement. They did pay him a paltry amount for his property and kindly left him 26 acres to farm—though that 26 was soon dropped to 17, when they decided they needed a bit more for their project.

If you’ve heard of the Mark Twain Lake in Northeast, Missouri that was the culprit. My grandfather’s land, by the way the crow flies, was only a few miles from the Cannon Dam. Once they put in the dam, it would stop up Lick Creek and create this massive lack for tourist from all around to come and enjoy themselves. But it took my grandfather’s land. And they paid him pennies for what it was actually worth.

Growing up I heard stories of shelf rocks and fields of sink holes. I heard about beautiful creeks, driving vehicles in the bottoms, leading horses through beautiful pastures, big hills to sled down, verdant land to explore and enjoy. To me they were only stories. Stories of a land that I would never be able to see or enjoy. (Technically, I saw some of it. I went for a last walk around the property when I was only a baby in my mother and father’s arms).

I often heard the story of how the land was taken, sorrow swelling and dreams drowned by a lake that everyone else enjoys. They, to use the language of Mouw, had the bitter disappointment of watching as others enjoyed a “table” they once owned. And there were moments of anger too. Signs that said “you can’t hunt here anymore”. Fees for trapping on a creek you once owned. And water covering places where you had a first kiss, or remembered your dad packing you on his shoulders, or the place you were bucked off that horse. Whole childhoods were submerged by that damned lake.

My experience was different though. I was able to enjoy the 17 acres. I didn’t have the same heat of passion when I crossed over that imaginary border of grandpa’s land and onto the government property. It didn’t hurt quite the same. But I still carried around with me a deep resentment towards those who took my grandpa’s land. Beauty which I was never able to see was engulfed in that water. I suppose that holds a different kind of weight, a different disappointment, but anger still.

I felt the disappointment the most when my family would gather around and tell stories of what had been. I was frustrated that I’d never get to play in the shelf rock, where my dad likely still had toys hidden. I wanted to see the footprints of their childhood with my own eyes. It always felt like a part of me had died too. But more than anything I felt sadness for them. I’d have given anything if I could somehow heroically drain all the water and give them that land back. Sadness, I was certain, would turn to delight. I would, to use a tired phrase, have made grandpa’s place great again.

I can only imagine the fervor I’d have felt, and the loyalty I’d have promised, if there were a wealthy man who promised me that he could do just that. As an 18-year-old, trying to discover who I was, I’m pretty confident I’d have sacrificed quite a bit if that man promised we could get all of the farm back. All my anger, discontentment, and disillusionment would converge on the man who could solve it all.

That might be closer to understanding the 18-29 demographic. They’ve only heard stories of a land they once owned. And when you match that with disillusionment (massive unemployment rates in some areas) and ideologies shoved upon you, you get the anger that we see among these young men.

Part of my own anger was the injustice of it all. If my grandpa would have received a fat check, and they’d have been well above the poverty line, able to thrive on that 17-acres we might not have felt the sting as bad. These young men feel similarly, hearing of others thrive and flourish on land that’s supposed to be yours. (It’s why some of the immigration rhetoric is so effective—whether true or not, doesn’t matter).

I think many of these young men feel as if a world which they never were able to see has been taken from them. And they are forced into a world they don’t want to be in. A world in which they are told by their very existence they are offensive. A world in which they aren’t able to voice thoughts—even thoughts they’ll later deem foolish—without great repercussions. Their “17-acres” feels smothering. And the anger only swells. Wouldn’t it be great to be able to play on that land?

As I’m writing this, I’m also having memories of growing up hating boaters. My family never told me to do this. They’d have been appalled to even think it. They taught me to love and honor all people. But I also knew that those boats didn’t belong on my grandpa’s land. I was never told to cringe when I heard a boat speeding down the lake, or parked in a cove—drinking and partying and making a mess of what used to be our land. But cringe I did. I never had a conversation with one of these people (notice my language, there), but that didn’t keep me from being angry with them. I can only imagine how deep-seated that anger would be and how potentially violent it could have been if my family had been stoking those flames and taught me to hate the “other”.

I think putting all of this together at least explains in part why we are seeing a movement towards far-right ideology amongst 18–29-year-olds. I think its why we saw so many voting for Trump. (And the two aren’t synonymous, to be clear). Trump is very skilled in knowing how to tap into these fears and hurts and points of anger and disillusionment. He positioned himself as the man to give you your dream back.

When you have someone who is disenchanted with what is, that is invited into a noble cause of taking back something which they view as rightly theirs, and when dehumanizing has taken root, all it takes is a passionate invitation to help in a restoration project and they’ll buy in.

As much as I can identify with this demographic, I’m also deeply concerned from a gospel perspective. I don’t say that in a “I’m biblical and you’re an idiot” type of way. I say that with a heart filled with sorrow watching as someone seems to be inevitably drinking poison that they think will save their life.

My biggest concern with all of this is that it all centers us away from the gospel. I understand when secular people might respond as they do. I’m baffled when Christians do. As much as losing grandpa’s land hurts, I know that it was never really “ours” anyways. None of it belongs to us. We cannot cling to things of this earth. And when we do, we lose sight of what really matters. We start fighting for fallen kingdoms and lose sight of the kingdom that is unshakeable.

It also moves us off of mission. It creates enemies out of those made in the image of God. It distorts the way we view the world. Take that little boy who hated boaters—even though I didn’t know them—and take it to its extreme end. It’s dangerous to think of what might come. And how far away one can get from the ethics of Jesus whilst thinking you are involved in some noble cause. And that’s my deep concern.

This is why I get so frustrated with political stuff. It’s practically impossible to have conversations because so many are no longer thinking through the lens of the gospel. I know that when I speak of the dangers of Trumpism and how I’m concerned it’s going to swallow up a whole generation of young men, and I can hear as a rebuttal, “What, would you rather them vote for Kamala and not know the difference between a cat and a child?”

But I’m not even talking about that stuff. I’m talking about the gospel. I’m not talking about getting back grandpa’s land anymore. It is what it is. Even if all the water receded, the dam shut down, and the government gave the land back, it’d never be the same. It can’t be. Those dreams wouldn’t emerge out of the deluge happy and smiling. They’d be water-soaked, pruny, and wildly disappointing. You can’t make the past your present no matter how much you try.

If you’ve lost a seat at a table your grandfather once owned, I suppose you can fight for it, but you need to know that once you wrest control again the table won’t be the same and your blood-stained hands won’t be able to appreciate it anymore anyways. Because it won’t just be a table anymore, it’ll be a wish-dream. And wish-dreams aren’t reality. And in order to sit at a phantom table you’ll have to become someone you aren’t meant to be.

It’s better to realize that you were made for far more than seats and tables. Even the beauty of shelf-rocks and sink holes are not worth comparing for the beauty which awaits us. And when we’re captivated by that and overwhelmed by the love of Christ it changes our posture towards others. We start to view those “boaters” with a different lens too. Yeah, he’s enjoying the table that once belonged to you—but you now realize that it’s really an empty table. And all his longings will not be fulfilled by a wild-weekend on the lake. He too needs the rest which only Christ gives.

And suddenly, I want to tell him—who was once my imaginary enemy–about this world to come. And I want to tell him about the Christ who lived and died and loves us and give us far more than we deserve. The gospel does more than restore land and dreams that once were. The good news of Christ is about something entirely different and entirely better.

What happens with our gospel is my chief concern. Trying to restore a land that is fading and fallen is a noble cause, but it isn’t the one we’ve been called to give our life to. In our quest to do that lesser calling we’ll miss out on the story that is unfading, if we don’t engage it with hearts and hands soaked in the love of the greater story.

I’m seeing scores of young men falling for this false hope and some even taking the name of Christ upon themselves as they do it. Bonhoeffer called it cheap grace. It’s cheap because it doesn’t hold a candle to the real thing. And my prayer is that the church will realize this growing movement and rather than celebrate how they’ve helped a political party rise, we’ll see the whole thing as the missional opportunity it is.

Jesus answers the hurt of loss.


[1] https://www.pewresearch.org/politics/2024/04/09/age-generational-cohorts-and-party-identification/

[2] https://www.thepublicdiscourse.com/2024/02/92553/

On Cognitive Decline

cognitive_decline
The year was 1806. John Newton, the author of Amazing Grace, was 81 (almost 82). He vowed that as long as the old African blasphemer had breath in his lungs he’d ascend to the pulpit and proclaim the Jesus who saved him.

But there was one problem. Newton could barely string together coherent sentences at this point. Always an extemporaneous preacher, Newton would begin one point and then launch into an entirely unrelated point. His eyes were so dimmed that he couldn’t even read the scant notes he brought into the pulpit.

He was no longer helping his congregation.

When he was in his mid-30’s Newton had been struck by this quote from Cotton Mather: “My usefulness was the last idol I was willing to give up; But now I thank the Lord, I can part with that also, and am content to be anything or nothing, so that His wise and holy will may be done!”

In his 70’s Newton wrote to a young John Ryland, Jr. about this “trial” of old age. He believed that stepping away from “usefulness” required even more grace than being active in ministry. Newton couldn’t bring himself to step down from the pulpit, though. A group of men in his church had to lovingly force him out of the pulpit. Newton would die a little over a year later.

Cognitive decline isn’t something to mock, it’s something to mourn. And it’s something for us to reflect upon for ourselves. I’ve watched as that first realization of cognitive decline falls upon a person. It is scary to them, and to those who love them. And they want to hang onto usefulness to the very end—you likely will too.

Yet there is also a path to loving a person in this position. There is a time when we must pull them away from their “pulpit”. For the sake of others, and for their own sake. That idol of usefulness must also be slain.

“You and I were never meant to repent for not being everywhere for everybody and all at once. You and I are meant to repent because we’ve tried to be.” -Zack Eswine

I suppose we could use this moment of the cognitive decline of an American president for political expediency. We can mock and meme, or we could press into the humanity of the situation. First and foremost, Joe Biden is a person made in the image of God. He’s likely battling fear, pride, and a swirl of other emotions. My prayer is that he will find his rest in Christ. And that those on the right and left will restrain from dehumanizing him–either by propping him up because of their own political calculations or by mocking him in the hopes it will help their opposing party.

Eisegesis, Exegesis, and Wonder

At-Home Support for a Limping Dog - Ortho Dog
A dog, limping and whimpering, hobbles over to a preacher. He’s seen this before and knows that the poor pup has been hit by a car. Having a well-oiled imagination, this preacher is quick to concoct an enchanting origin story for his new pet, Lucky.

He’s hosting the prayer meeting for local pastors this week, he’ll joyfully bring his new pup and tell everyone about how he rescued it after it was clipped by that speeding teenager. It might even give him an opportunity to wax eloquent about the need for a speed trap in that area.

When the morning of the prayer breakfast comes our pastor begins to weave his tale. His excitement soon turns to horror as the Reformed pastor informs him, and the rest of the crowd, that this dog hasn’t been hit by a car. It has a thorn in its foot.

Our Reformed pastor had taken a closer look. All of the context clues surrounding that dog told him that it hadn’t been clipped by a car. “Lucky” seemed to be favoring his paw—not what you might expect if he’d been drilled by a fender. Rather than simply pulling a story out of thin air, he was able to rightly diagnose the issue and help the dog.

Eisegesis and Exegesis

This is the difference between eisegesis and exegesis. Those are fancy words for saying that the first pastor imposed a story onto the “text” (eisegesis) and the other pastor started with the “text” itself (exegesis) and was able to discern an accurate meaning. By doing this he was able to help the dog and guard everyone else from the silly story concocted by the rambling preacher.

Thankfully, we’re training our pastors these days to focus upon exegesis and leave eisegesis dying on the side of the road where that first preacher should have left his imagination. “It doesn’t matter what you think about the text”, we say. “It only matters what the text meant to the original author.”

We exegetical preachers can be disheartened when seeing sanctuaries swarming with people to hear the story-teller. They lack substance, often leaving people entertained instead of helped. But we have to confess, a narrative like “Lucky the dog who miraculously limped his way to a benevolent pastor after being struck by a speeding teen” will invariably attract a larger crowd than a straightforward account of “Lucky the dog who stepped on a thorn.”

We console ourselves by remembering our calling. We aren’t supposed to attract a crowd. We’re just supposed to be truth-tellers. And because of this commitment we become highly skilled in magnifying glass usage. We’re able to spot thorns and thistles and save all the puppies of the world from the fluff of eisegetical preaching.

The Need for a Third Preacher

The only problem is that after years of this focus you begin to lose sight of the dog itself. You can go back to that prayer breakfast and listen in to how the story shifted off Lucky and onto the danger of thorns. Soon, everybody is telling their own thorny tales, save for the embarrassed preacher who is silently licking his wounds.

Nobody has noticed that Lucky, no longer having the thorn in his paw nor being the topic of conversation, has now wandered off. The first preacher not only lost his story but also his pet. And even our exegetical preacher seems to have lost the plot. He’s left holding only the thorn he picked out—and somehow missed that there was ever a dog there.

We might change a word here or there to get it to fit our theme, but I think all of this is why Os Guinness speaks of appealing to “thinkers” instead of “intellectuals”:

Too many so-called intellectuals think solely within their own minds. They leave their conscience out of the discussion, and they have lost all sense of wonder. They are one-tool thinkers who have blindly devoted themselves to what can be discovered by reason, and by reason alone. As a result, they’ve become as shortsighted as mole. (Guinness, The Great Quest, 35-36)

Guinness is telling us that we need a third pastor at that prayer breakfast. This is a pastor who also noticed the thorn but after pulling it out he keeps his focus upon the dog. His sense of wonder is not satiated simply because he has now solved the riddle of the dog’s pain. He wants to know how that dog came to get a thorn in it’s paw. He’s still intrigued by the dog and the story it has to tell.

That third preacher, still firmly in the school of exegesis, adds to the equation a dedication to wonder. He realizes that the point of exegesis isn’t about thorns, or even making sure preachers don’t spin yarn, but his purpose is to grab that dog by the scruff of its neck and joyfully play with it. Lucky enjoys stirring up joy and dogs stick around for these things.

Spotify and Biblical Counseling

spotify-logo-1920x1080The other day I listened to about 20 minutes of Billy Joel.

It’s more Billy Joel than I’d like to listen to. Don’t get me wrong, I can jam to We Didn’t Start the Fire and it’s hard to beat She’s Got a Way as a love song. But Summer, Highland Falls is a song that makes fingernails down a chalkboard seem like a welcome relief.

It was that song that finally jolted me out of my stupor. Spotify’s newer feature, an AI DJ, decided that I wanted a set of Billy Joel songs. Not a horrible suggestion—but not really a good one. I can maybe name 300 other artists I’d rather listen to than Billy Joel. And yet, here I was enduring not only Billy Joel but the absolute worst song he has ever sang.

How does this happen?

It’s because Spotify, for some unknown reason, has decided it will only add a “I don’t like this song” button to its Discover Weekly. And even then, it’s really only deleting the song off your playlist for that week.

This has led to some rather irritating moments in my relationship with Spotify. They still think that King, by The Bundy’s, is one of my favorite songs. I’ve requested it zero times. Every single time it played it was because of a recommendation from Spotify. I don’t like the song, but it kept playing on my radio. And the more times it played, the more Spotify became convinced that this song is my jam.

How Does This Relate to Biblical Counseling?

Now, why am I telling you about my eternal battle with Spotify? Because I think it can teach us something about pastoral counseling—or really any kind of discipleship relationship with other people.

The central problem with Spotify is that they do not have a feedback loop. There is no way for me to communicate with them that I absolutely do not like Summer, Highland Falls. They think they know me, but without having the ability to tell them when they get it wrong—it’ll never be as accurate as it could be.

The same can be true if we aren’t good listeners when it comes to engaging the inner world of another. Without a feedback loop we can confidently lock a person into a perceived position and throw away their keys.

Entry Gates and Feedback Loops

I get why Spotify might think I like some of the songs that I do. I’m pretty eclectic in my musical tastes. If I’m having a kick where I’m listening to quite a few songs from the 80’s or soft rock, then an assumption that I might want some Billy Joel isn’t far off base.

Let’s consider a friend who lost his job. Just like with Spotify, your “algorithm” will bring to mind a host of suggestions. He’s probably worried about finances. Maybe I could point him in the direction of the local food bank. Or perhaps let him borrow some Dave Ramsey material. That’ll help…

Other things might come to mind. How will he tell his wife? Will this impact his relationship with in-laws? What will his kids think? Will they worry?

Given these assumptions you chart your course for “counsel”. You make your suggestions and talk about some of these various themes to provide help. This is your way of saying, “I think you really want to listen to Billy Joel…”

True, you’re probably somewhere in the ballpark in understanding what this person is struggling with. You’ve maybe been at this long enough that you can see patterns and where dots are connecting. But what if you’re off base? Do you have a feedback loop? Have you created your own entry gate into this person’s inner world?

Paul Tripp, in his book, Instruments in the Redeemers Hands, talks about entry gates. These are avenues where we can enter into another person’s world. Tripp notes that the problem, the situation, or even another person is not an entry gate. But rather, “An entry gate is a particular person’s experience of the situation, problem or relationship.” He then informs how to recognize an entry gate:

To recognize an entry gate you do not ask, ‘What are the problems in a person’s life?’ Instead you ask, ‘What is this person struggling with in the midst of the situation? Or, ‘What has this person in its grip right now?’ The entry gate is not what you think the person is struggling with; it is the struggle the person confesses. People will tell you how they are struggling, and their struggle will give you common ground with them and a door of opportunity into a deeper level of ministry. (Tripp, Instruments in the Redeemers Hands, 127)

As you listen for how your friend is dealing with this job loss, you’ll pick up on emotional words he is using. Is he angry with a boss? How is he interpreting this situation? What is he saying about himself? Is he saying he’s a failure? What’s he saying about God in all of this? Is he even mentioning God?

You’ll listen for some of these and start to pull on the threads. “Would you like to listen to Billy Joel today…?”

If you’re a Spotify-type of counselor you’ll lock them into this theme. No, I think you really do want to listen to The Piano Man. Here are 5 songs…Or, rather here are 5 tips for breaking this news to your wife. And you’ll have no off-ramp.

Conclusion

Can I tell you how frustrated I am with Spotify when it does this? I know its silly but I feel unheard. I feel a little trapped. My AI DJ isn’t listening to me and I’ve given up hope of trying to “train” him into dropping songs like The Bundy’s off my playlist. I’m just stuck in this cycle until Mr. DJ gets something else in his mind that he’d like to chase with me.

How much worse is this when we do this to someone who has come to us for help? How horrible does it feel when you get to that moment to open your heart up to another person and they don’t actually listen?

That’s why we would do well to ask good “entry gate” questions. (Tripp has a great list of these in his book). Ask questions to find that entry gate. And when you think you’ve found one see if you have the right ticket to enter. Have a feedback loop. Am I right that this is a thread we should pull on?

Our primary goal isn’t to make sure we are heard. It’s to make sure they are heard.

I hold out few hopes that Spotify will get this. Perhaps believers can do this better…