Swarens: Religious freedom bill pulls us apart

Let me tell you about two groups of my friends, and their reactions to passage of Indiana's religious freedom bill this week.

Each group consists of smart, compassionate, mostly middle-aged Hoosiers who care deeply about their families and communities. As individuals, they tend to be highly engaged professionally and personally in trying to improve Hoosiers' lives.

Yet, the two groups couldn't be more different.

The first circle of friends leans mostly to the political and social left. They don't consider themselves particularly religious and filter most issues through a secular lens. As I spoke with several of them this week, I heard a lot of outrage over the General Assembly's decision to approve the Religious Freedom and Restoration Act.

They're deeply worried by what they see as the damning message sent throughout Indiana and beyond by the bill's passage. And they used words such as "embarrassing" and "backward" to describe Republican lawmakers and Gov. Mike Pence.

When I raised the prospect that the real world effects of the bill might not be as destructive as some fear — 19 states and the federal government already have similar laws in place — the conversations usually didn't go well. There's a lot of anger at the moment.

So I backed off. Shifted the conversations. Moved on for the sake of peace, and friendship.

Group number two consists of evangelical Christians. Many of them support the legislation out of concern that the government will one day force them or their families — in the name of tolerance and inclusion — to violate core Christian beliefs, beliefs that inform and inspire every aspect of their lives.

Yet, they used words like "afraid" and "cautious" to describe their approach to conversations about the bill.

Afraid they would be labeled as bigots. Cautious because they genuinely don't want to send an angry or hateful message to gays and lesbians. As one said, "I don't want to be unloving."

So they tend to be silent. Except inside Christian circles. Except in the privacy of the voting booth.

Two groups of friends. Two sharply different world views. Both frustrated and ill at ease in a state that is wrestling, like other states, with the complexities of a rapidly changing culture.

I've struggled to bridge those two worlds this week.

To listen with empathy to those who are outraged. But also to raise the possibility that things might not be as bad as some critics have portrayed.

To converse with fellow evangelicals about their fears. But also to issue a caution about ambiguously worded legislation and the potential damage it could cause our state.

A decade ago, I would have been far less torn. Back then, like most conservative Christians, I had enlisted in the culture wars. The fight was to defend the faith, to stand for truth, to push back against a liberal secularism that trumpeted "tolerance" but showed none to those who didn't fall in line with the new orthodoxy.

For some that fight still goes on. We saw a skirmish — a loud and painful skirmish — in that war this week in the Indiana Statehouse.

But somewhere along the way, I laid down my sword. It was not so much a conscious decision to leave the fight, but an evolution, a growing belief that building friendships, working cross-culturally, "doing" faith rather than talking about it, was the better way.

To strive, but often fail, to obey a leader who said, "Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons of God."

I am far from alone in that approach. It's one an increasing number of conservative Christians, especially younger evangelicals, have adopted. We've done so largely because we don't want to be defined by what we are against. But rather by who we follow.

Yet weeks like this one continue to arrive with disturbing frequency. Like it or not, the culture war still rages, and the voters of this state have seen fit, in overwhelming numbers, to give one side the clear advantage.

For now.

Is it naive to believe that we can ever live together in peace, with divergent beliefs but shared respect?

Maybe. In politics, power tends to crush such ideals.

Still, there is hope. I have two circles of friends — same state, different worlds. I pray that one day all of us can talk openly and honestly together.

Swarens is The Star's Opinions editor. Email him at tim.swarens@indystar.com. Follow him on Twitter: @tswarens.