Apart 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.
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“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.
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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.
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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/
