Making Moral Citizens: How Faith-Based Organizers Use Vocation for Public Action

Making Moral Citizens

Where Religion Lives

Kristy Nabhan-Warren, editor

Where Religion Lives publishes ethnographies of religious life. The series features the methods of religious studies along with anthropological approaches to lived religion. The religious studies perspective encompasses attention to historical contingency, theory, religious doctrine and texts, and religious practitioners’ intimate, personal narratives. The series also highlights the critical realities of migration and transnationalism.

A complete list of books published in Where Religion Lives is available at https://uncpress.org/series/where-religion-lives.

Making Moral Citizens

How Faith-Based Organizers Use Vocation for Public Action

JACK DELEHANTY

The University of North Carolina Press Chapel Hill

This book was published with the assistance of the Authors Fund of the University of North Carolina Press.

© 2023 The University of North Carolina Press

All rights reserved

Set in Charis by Westchester Publishing Services

Manufactured in the United States of America

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Delehanty, Jack (John D.), author.

Title: Making moral citizens : how faith-based organizers use vocation for public action / Jack Delehanty.

Other titles: Where religion lives.

Description: Chapel Hill : The University of North Carolina Press,

[2023]

| Series: Where religion lives | Includes bibliographical references and index.

Identifiers: LCCN 2022036512 | ISBN 9781469673158 (cloth : alk. paper) | ISBN 9781469673165 (paperback : alk. paper) | ISBN 9781469673172 (ebook)

Subjects: LCSH: Faith-based community organizing—United States. | Social justice—Religious aspects. | LCGFT: Ethnographies.

Classification: LCC HN90.C6 D43 2023 | DDC 303.3/720973—dc23/eng/20221007

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022036512

Cover illustration: Continuous line drawing of people in conference room © Ahmad Safarudin/Dreamstime.com.

To Katy Kvale

and Jim Delehanty

with love and gratitude

Contents

Acknowledgments

Introduction

1 The Contexts of Faith-Based Community Organizing

2 Inside ELIJAH

3 Stoking Moral Vocations

4 Self-Interest and Collective Behavior

5 Relational Culture and Political Action

6 Challenges of Moral Citizenship

Conclusion

Appendix A. Research Methods

Notes

References

Index

Acknowledgments

This book is the product of many people’s work, support, care, and kindness. My deepest gratitude is to the people who make up the organization I call ELIJAH, particularly the ELIJAH core team at the church I refer to as St. Martin’s. I am humbled by the trust they placed in me and their willingness to share their stories, motivations, and aspirations. Several people at ELIJAH and St. Martin’s went out of their way to help me and push me when I needed it. I cannot name them, but they know who they are. Organizing is demanding, intensive work, and allowing an outsider into it is no small matter. I am more grateful than I can say to all who let me follow them as they poured their hearts into joining with others to improve the world for everyone. Special thanks to those who took additional time to sit with me for interviews.

The arguments in this book were developed through conversations and collaborations with mentors, colleagues, and advisers. Chief among these was Penny Edgell. Penny is a model scholar: rigorous yet caring, demanding yet affable, and intelligent beyond description. Besides being an incredibly productive researcher and a brilliant teacher, she is steadfastly devoted to helping young academics launch their careers, and extremely good at it. Without her, my research agenda would never have gotten off the ground. I was lucky enough to work with Penny only because of the generous wisdom of the late Erik Olin Wright, a giant in the field of sociology who, despite his stature, was willing to meet with me, a student he’d never met, to talk about graduate programs. When I told Erik I wanted to do research on religion and activism, he immediately said, You should go to Minnesota and work with Penny Edgell. It was one of the most straightforward pieces of advice I have ever received, and one of the best. That a social stratification scholar like Erik knew that Penny was the best possible mentor for someone studying religion, a sociological world away from his own subfields, is evidence of how strong—and deserved—her reputation is.

A few other people deserve special mention. Elaine Maisner and Mark Simpson-Vos at UNC Press, along with series editor Kristy Nabhan-Warren, saw promise in my work and helped it come together as a publishable manuscript. Letta Page helped polish the writing, and Kate Weigand provided the index. Ruth Braunstein has always been eager to provide insightful commentary and sound professional advice. Michelle Oyakawa became my friend and collaborator at just the right time to help me understand and process what I was seeing and hearing in the field. Many of the key points herein developed in conversations with her. Richard Wood and Gerardo Martí each went out of their way to support this project and ensure it was as sharp as it could be. Patty Ewick and Shelly Tenenbaum read and reread drafts of each chapter and helped me navigate the academic publishing process. Along with Sarah Barry, Parminder Bhachu, Debbie Merrill, and Rosalie Torres Stone, they made me feel welcome at Clark University as I adjusted to a new job in an unfamiliar region. Ron Aminzade, Lydia Bean, Kraig Beyerlein, Tricia Bruce, Jonathan Coley, Kathleen Collins, Jennifer Cossyleon, David Forrest, Jacqui Frost, Todd Nicholas Fuist, Brad Fulton, Teresa Gowan, Yagmur Karakaya, Jaime Kucinskas, Amy Levad, Paul Lichterman, Wes Markofski, Liz McKenna, Rory McVeigh, Dana Moss, Margaret Post, Ryan Steel, Evan Stewart, Caty Taborda, and Grace Yukich all contributed in various ways to the ideas that became this book. Parts of this research were funded by the Institute for the Study of American Evangelicals at Wheaton College and the Society for the Scientific Study of Religion.

I owe my interest in the complexities of the social world to my parents, Katy Kvale and Jim Delehanty. It began when I was very young: no conversation, question, or book was off-limits. From the moment I could, they taught me to read everything in sight and to question why the text said the things it did. They sometimes told me that I would thank them later for banning cable and video games from our home when my brother and I were young. I am thanking them now. Later, my mom married Tom Schirz and my dad married Jo Ellen Fair, who have both provided love and support beyond measure. My brother, Tony, has always been ready with a laugh and a smile anytime anybody needs one. Long may he keep it up.

Above all, thanks to Tania, the source of my joy and strength and my partner in whatever life may bring us, and to Sylvie, who amazes and inspires me in every moment.

Making Moral Citizens

Introduction

Broadway Apostolic, a large Pentecostal church in a poor urban neighborhood in the Midwest, welcomes a mostly Black congregation for worship every week, but on this Saturday in late January 2017, the faces were a roughly even mix: Black, white, and brown. Catholic nuns in habits sat alongside pastors in robes. Jewish and Islamic head coverings punctuated the rally’s interfaith nature. Headsets translated remarks coming from the altar. As people settled in, a gospel choir sang, danced, and clapped in joyful rhythm, enthusiastically joined by large sections of the audience. Every seat in the massive sanctuary was full, as was every aisle and corner. Fifteen minutes before the proceedings were to begin, more than 2,000 people, representing 171 different religious congregations, were crammed in. Not a single space to sit or stand was unoccupied.

The setting oozed faith, but this was not just a religious gathering. It was also a political demonstration. President Donald Trump had been inaugurated eight days earlier, and those assembling at Broadway had tasked themselves with plotting ways the faith communities they represented could come together to resist the new administration’s rhetoric and policies. Behind all this was ELIJAH, a faith-based community organization (FBCO) dedicated to uniting people across race, class, and religious lines to build power for social change.¹ FBCOs are local and regional networks of religious congregations that work together to confront racial injustice and economic unfairness. ELIJAH is one of more than 220 FBCOs in the United States.² Collectively, their member institutions represent more than 5 million people.³ This makes the FBCO field one of the largest venues of grassroots civic activity in the country.

Though many people associate religious commitment with political conservatism, these coalitions have long been at the forefront of a different kind of social movement. For at least the last forty years, they have been working to improve the lives of marginalized, working-class, and middle-class people. In the 1980s, the East Brooklyn Congregations spearheaded the Nehemiah Project, one of the most successful affordable-housing programs in U.S. history.⁴ More recently, FBCOs were at the center of grassroots coalitions responsible for the wave of paid sick time and $15 minimum wage laws that swept through cities from Seattle to Philadelphia in the 2010s. In these and many other instances, FBCOs have injected movements for socioeconomic and racial equity with the faith-inspired voices of everyday people organized through religious communities. ELIJAH, founded in 2000 in a large city in the Midwest, is among the largest and most effective regional FBCO federations in the United States.

The Broadway gathering was an impressive event, one of the largest rallies ELIJAH had ever put together. But everything about it except the size—the diversity, the focus on using the political system to advance an ambitious faith-infused social justice agenda, and the atmosphere of religious and racial unity emanating from the proceedings—was typical of what FBCOs across the country strive to do every day.

How does a movement like this come together? What makes it possible for FBCOs to not only unite people across race, class, and religious differences but also engage them in sustained, time-consuming, and complex political projects aimed at bettering everyday people’s lives?

This book explains the strategies ELIJAH uses to engage religious communities in collective action for racial justice and economic fairness. During my three-plus years of research in ELIJAH, I observed how its leaders make solving big public problems into a matter of personal religious meaning for people of different backgrounds, using religious commitment in creative and unexpected ways to foster a sense of togetherness and commitment to action that can alter the terms—and sometimes even the outcomes—of policy debates, as well as transform religious identity and renew religious community for participants.

This book adds to a growing conversation about religion and progressive activism in the United States by revealing the mechanics of how religion works in this kind of social movement organizing. Scholars analyzing religion’s contributions to social movements have typically focused on how it provides material resources, such as funds, meeting spaces, and communication networks; the beliefs and doctrines that provide fodder for persuasion about what is right, just, or godly; and the frames used for moralizing social problems—for example, connecting Jesus’s status as a poor migrant to the challenges migrants to the United States face today.⁵ Without denying the importance of these widely noted contributions, this book explains how some of the most influential activist leaders in the United States are doing something different with religion: something more intimate and personal, using emotional and sometimes confrontational interactions to make individuals’ faith commitments into a basis for rethinking who they are, what they care about, the responsibilities their faith confers on them, and how they can live up to those duties. ELIJAH’s organizing, I will show, leans on personal transformation to engender social change.

I did not begin this project intending to write about personal transformation, nor about emotions, introspection, or deep one-to-one conversations—all central in the analysis to come. In fact, early in my research I was taken aback by how many conversations I heard about emotions, especially pain, shame, and guilt. To my unaccustomed eyes and ears, many of these discussions seemed unnecessarily personal, unfriendly, sometimes even hostile. Often, facilitators of the meetings I was attending opened proceedings by demanding that participants relive some of their toughest moments, publicly recount personal stories of grief and distress, explain how their perspectives on past trauma had developed over time, and process what their experiences meant in view of others’ stories. As meeting after meeting revolved around intense interactions like these, I wondered what the discussions had to do with the policy fights about issues like criminal justice, wages and worker protections, housing, voting, health care, the environment, and education that had drawn my interest to the FBCO world in the first place. Why was a group concerned with changing society spending so much time on how people felt? It was only with repeated exposure to and participation in this organizing model, the benefit of time to reflect on it, and a lot of guidance from ELIJAH leaders that I was able to see how the political action ELIJAH carries out, as well as the religious unity its participants display, depends entirely on the deeply personal, emotionally demanding practices its leaders have developed for channeling faith into commitment to social change—a process hinted at but not explained in depth in previous research on progressive religious organizing.⁶

Making Moral Citizens explains that religion’s contributions to this kind of organizing hinge on the interplay between deep personal introspection and sweeping structural critique—dynamics that I call moral vocation and moral citizenship, respectively. Moral vocation is a person’s ambition to enact a morally worthy self amid a chaotic social world. It is not just a sense of what is good but an ongoing, evolving life project that relies on probing reflection and interpersonal conversation to develop a sense of what a person cares about and how they can achieve it. In turn, moral citizenship is a sense that people’s moral goals and aspirations are linked, and that achieving them requires collective action rooted in sound social analysis that identifies the public root causes of people’s seemingly personal problems. Moral citizenship is a collective commitment to confront the racial injustice and economic unfairness that impede people’s ability to live secure, prosperous lives—a shared commitment to fulfilling moral vocations through joint public action. When leaders bring people to perceive that enacting their moral vocations requires embracing moral citizenship, they can achieve things like putting more than 2,000 people in a room together to confront the Trump administration and, more importantly, keeping them engaged afterward.

Of course, people’s moral vocations don’t all look the same. Faith, race and class background, life experiences, and other factors intersect. Few would expect a Black Pentecostal mother, an immigrant Catholic father, a white Methodist grandfather, and a childless twenty-something white Protestant with fluid gender and sexual identities—all common in ELIJAH—to have identical or even substantially similar visions of what is good and how best to pursue it. Differences like these are meaningful, but they only obscure, rather than neuter, what people from different backgrounds often share: an underlying impulse to authentically live out their values by making good choices as an individual. This ambition to choose to do good is nearly ubiquitous in American religious practice, and it creates a cultural foundation that skilled leaders can tap into.⁷ By asking people to reflect on their formative moments, traumatic experiences, and future ambitions, then showing how their stories are connected across different life situations, ELIJAH leaders make moral vocation into the religious fuel for an iterative process of deep reflection about what one’s faith means, and what responsibilities it confers, in a society plagued by deep inequality.

When activist leaders link these personal and public ways of thinking, they make the collective embrace of moral citizenship into an appealing way for people of different backgrounds and faith commitments to live out their distinct moral vocations together—building the foundation for a powerful multiracial, multifaith social movement organization. This happens, I will show, through relational practices: intense, emotionally charged, and often challenging interpersonal interactions that reveal commonalities among different people’s experiences and goals. While relational practices have drawn plenty of attention in prior research, this book focuses on the dynamics that make these practices central in forming people’s identities, religion’s role in supporting them, and how they enliven the particular style of political action FBCOs employ. In revealing these cultural undercurrents of faith-based organizing, Making Moral Citizens shows how religious activist leaders bridge social divisions to foster a sense of common moral purpose and fuel a movement for racial justice and economic fairness.

The Personal, the Public, and the Practices in Between

The rally at Broadway, titled For Such a Time as This: Building our Prophetic Resistance, provides some useful examples of how ELIJAH leaders synthesize the personal and the public. In one sense, my job at Broadway that day was to help things run smoothly. In the prior weeks I had spent evenings with people from ELIJAH working on turnout: sitting in church basements, hunched over laptops with spreadsheets, making calls and sending texts to people from congregations across the region. I spent the morning of the rally setting up folding chairs wherever they could be crammed in. As the crowd arrived, my job was to help parents find the childcare room. I did that until I was abruptly tasked instead with shooing people away from a block of seats in the front that had been reserved for members of a consortium of local mosques who would enter together ceremonially, wearing traditional dress, to visibly demonstrate ELIJAH’s cooperation across religious, racial, and ethnic lines. But these tasks aside, I was there to watch and listen and learn. I had spent hundreds of hours in the field by this point, and interviewed more than two dozen of ELIJAH’s leaders, but the stories I heard at Broadway that afternoon still stand out as a clear example of how moral vocation and moral citizenship come together through relational practices.

Just like nearly every other ELIJAH meeting I had attended, the rally, despite its size, was infused with a surprisingly intimate, emotional feel, as everyday people shared how the sources of shame, pain, fear, and guilt in their lives reflect structural problems that transcend any one person’s situation. A Black man explained how stress over car detailing and his constant fear of being pulled over strain his day-to-day life. He maintains his car obsessively, at substantial cost relative to his meager income, to avoid putting his life at risk by being stopped for a broken taillight or some other minor problem. He described seizing up with anxiety every time he saw a police car near him on the road. His story made it clear that even though anxiety and stress can seem like personal problems, his struggles are not his alone. Rather, they are the result of a society that tolerates and normalizes police violence against people of color.

The stories continued one after another, different people with different backgrounds and experiences invoking the same themes. A white man explained how a prior felony conviction affects his confidence while looking for jobs, since he knows most employers will reject him. A white woman, a corporate manager whose company had recently been acquired, described the horror she felt when the new ownership team implemented a policy requiring all departments to fire 10 percent of their employees each year in order to promote excellence, regardless of how the company was doing overall. A fifty-something immigrant from Mexico shared that over her thirty years of living and working in the United States, she had gladly paid more than $50,000 into Medicare and Social Security, even though undocumented people like her cannot benefit from these programs. Sniffling back tears, she relayed the emotional toll it takes when people tell her that she and the people she loves are drains on society’s resources and should be sent back to countries they left long ago—or, in her children’s case, have never set foot in.

These storytellers, only a few examples among many who spoke that afternoon, came from starkly different backgrounds. One could hardly find work; another was financially secure enough to quit her high-paying job in protest of corporate policies she found immoral. Often, differences like these impede cooperation in social change projects, as divergent life experiences make it hard for people to empathize and work together, even when they want the same things.⁸ But in this case, these stories highlighted the personal and emotional consequences of racial and socioeconomic inequalities and showed how these consequences impede the deep cultural ambitions that many people share, like wanting to live and work with dignity, free of fear and shame while supporting one’s family. As people described these basic human desires and identified the barriers that stand in their way, their shared emotions fostered a sense of connectedness that transcended social boundaries.⁹ Taken together, their stories exposed the mutual threats to their mutual desires.

Their ability to construct empathy across difference is why relational practices like storytelling and similar activities, much more than policy analysis or even theological discussion, are at the core of every ELIJAH event. Planning meetings of four or five leaders in coffee shops or living rooms, training sessions with twenty or thirty people in church basements, and press conferences and rallies at the state capitol all foreground the emotional consequences of structural inequities. As activities that encourage reflection about how one’s life and challenges are similar to other people’s, especially people from different backgrounds, relational practices are designed to identify concrete ways a person’s life has been molded by structural forces, illuminate commonalities across different people’s experiences of those forces, and use those connections as the foundations for relationships that can be transformed into collective power. Through storytelling and other relational practices, such as one-to-one conversations, collective lamentations, and interactive songs and prayers, people in ELIJAH learn to identify the deep human interests that drive them; recognize that others share these interests, even if their immediate situations are different; and name the structural impediments to achieving their personal goals. Technical conversations about policies and strategies, and even discussions of religious texts or beliefs, no matter how detailed or persuasive, can rarely match the connection-building power of relational practices.

This book uses the case of ELIJAH to show how relational practices can enliven moral vocations and anchor them to moral citizenship: a shared sense of moral duty to confront the systemic problems that put a life of prosperity, freedom, and dignity out of reach for tens of millions of Americans, especially but not exclusively poor people, members of the working class, immigrants, and people of color. Moral citizenship is not just my term; it is one ELIJAH leaders sometimes use to describe the ongoing act of taking responsibility for creating a just society for all. Although I borrow this term from ELIJAH’s own language, I argue it has additional utility as a sociological concept that transcends my case study for two reasons. First, it plays a central but previously unrecognized role in social movement organizing by providing a shared cultural project with the capacity to span social differences while preserving participants’ core personal commitments and respecting their roots in rich cultural and religious traditions. It is not hard to imagine that the diverse group of storytellers at the rally might not only have different goals but also have different ways of understanding and enacting what it means to be a good person, as well as different symbolic traditions for describing their goals and how to pursue them. Moral citizenship provides a shared language and vision that can connect these otherwise distinct moral vocations. It is commonly argued that the progressive sphere lacks powerful cultural visions of how society should work that have the potential to unify its diverse constituencies.¹⁰ Moral citizenship is such a vision—or can be, when it is promoted skillfully and persistently through relational practices.

The other reason moral citizenship is sociologically interesting is that it is not a religious or political ideology but a shared social commitment that must be learned through interaction with others. No person, whether Catholic, Protestant, Muslim, or atheist, can become a moral citizen in isolation, no matter how much time is spent studying religious texts or reading political or activist literature. Rather, moral citizenship must be taught and learned cooperatively, and my long-term observations of ELIJAH and other organizations in the FBCO field suggest that relational practices are among the best ways to accomplish this teaching and learning. Relational practices can make ordinary people into moral citizens who see working with others to advance racial and socioeconomic equity as a core element of their broader moral commitments—whatever those commitments may be. Among ELIJAH and other FBCOs, these commitments are religious, but they do not necessarily have to be. As we will see, moral citizenship and the relational practices that engender it have roots in religious traditions, but they have the potential to be effective in nonreligious spaces, too.¹¹

Ultimately, ELIJAH aspires to build a movement of moral citizens who work together to dismantle systemic racism and promote economic fairness. But my analysis reveals that achieving these political goals involves intense emotional work that drills deep into each participant’s psyche and identity, which involves discussing the usually unspoken sources of anger, pain, and guilt that many people feel in their lives, and acknowledging fear, regret, and concern for potential loss. As sociologist Michelle Oyakawa explains, developing and telling personal stories can transform individual concern about an issue hampering one’s life into engagement in collective work toward building power for change.¹² This is because interests are not static but culturally situated.

Before being exposed to others’ stories through relational practices, many people understand their interests narrowly, thinking of their troubles as individual problems with individual solutions. Consider Marco, a Latino in