New Church-State Storm in Colorado

Looking at a map, it's obvious that warm, volatile masses of religiosity rolling out of the Bible Belt will sooner or later hit the icy, skeptical air of the wide-open West.

The fronts often collide near Colorado Springs -- home base for dozens of national and international Christian ministries -- creating awesome church-state storms.

"I think of it more in terms of tectonic plates," said State Treasurer Bill Owens. "It's like Colorado's where these two great forces come together and the earth starts buckling and shifting. ... Obviously, they've hit critical mass down in Colorado Springs."

So pick a metaphor -- any metaphor. The key issue is whether Colorado is a sign of what's to come elsewhere.

The next battle is the Nov. 5 vote on Amendment 11, which would give Colorado the nation's first state constitution requiring most religious institutions and other non-profit groups to pay property taxes.

"People say the vote's too close to call," said John Patrick Michael Murphy, a radio talk show host, attorney, Colorado Springs iconoclast and mastermind of Amendment 11. "Personally, I think we're going to flip this thing over like a flapjack."

One Murphy manifesto says that since non-profit groups use "police and fire protection, they should pay taxes to support these services along with schools. ... If this proposal passes, taxpayers can then contribute the extra money from their decreased tax bills ... to the church or non-profit of their choice. It would be their choice, not the government's!"

Supporters argue that, in terms of dollar values, religious groups own 80 percent of Colorado's tax-exempt property. They say Amendment 11 would raise about $70 million.

Opponents note this is only 3 percent of Colorado's annual property-tax revenue. Also, complexities in state laws may funnel the savings to commercial property owners, while resulting cuts in non-profit social services could force residential-tax increases.

Recent polls suggest the amendment will fail, said Owens. Still, this new church-state showdown raises crucial issues.

"Right now, anyone who knows anything about what's going on knows that government officials are having to ask churches and non- profits to step up and take a larger role in social issues," he said. If Amendment 11 passed, and inspired others to use the same strategy, "we'd be sending precisely the wrong signal. If you tax something, you get less of it. ... We need churches and community groups to do more, not less."

On one level, this isn't just a fight over religion. By threatening the wallets of both secular non-profit groups and religious groups, Amendment 11 created one of the most bizarre coalitions in recent American history. The opponents literally range from Planned Parenthood to Focus on the Family.

Still, it's impossible to gloss over the church-state implications. Supporters insist that making churches pay property taxes will promote the separation of church and state. However, Amendment 11 clearly attempts to reward some religious activities while taxing others. It would allow exemptions for property owned by some non-profit institutions, such as schools, orphanages and facilities to help the elderly, abused, homeless and disabled.

While this sounds good, the result would be to hopelessly ensnare the state in religious affairs, said Joseph Conn of Americans United for Separation of Church and State. Colorado would be saying that some forms of religion are good for the community, and thus worthy of tax exemptions, while other forms are not as good for the community, and thus deserve to be taxed.

"This is a fatal flaw and reflects a basic misunderstanding of the law," said Conn. "Think about it: this would allow religious schools to be tax-exempt, but not the actual buildings in which people worship, while the whole point of religious schools is to support what's being taught in those churches. What kind of sense does that make? ...

"We can't allow the government to get tangled up in religion like that. The state has no right to tell us what is good religion and what is bad religion."

Billy Graham and the Age of Altar Calls

Billy Graham always reminds his listeners that they don't know if they'll live another day or have another chance to repent.

A decade or so ago, variations on this theme began appearing in news reports after his crusades. A kind of "last altar call syndrome" developed, with reporters reminding readers that this would probably be the evangelist's last visit to their region.

Certainly, no one missed the symbolism of June's crusade in Minneapolis -- the Billy Graham Evangelistic Association's home since 1950. And last week, the 77-year-old evangelist preached to 336,100 in Charlotte, N.C. Once again, people came forward -- 22,249 in four days.

"It's not too late. ... You have a moment before God that may never come again," he said, ending his last rally in the city in which he was born and, 16 years later, born again. "I'm going to ask you to come and say `yes' to Christ. You don't understand it all, or have to. You just say, `Lord ... I acknowledge that I have sinned. I believe that Jesus is the only way.'"

Graham says he'll preach until God makes him quit. Parkinson's disease has weakened him so much that crusade planners provided a hydraulic lift to take him on and off the high stage in Charlotte. Still, he plans to lead 1997 crusades in San Antonio, Tex., and in the San Francisco Bay area. Aides are studying invitations from South Africa and Brazil.

Many say Graham's finale will end the era of mass evangelistic meetings in North America. Truth is, his own work points to changes that began years ago. For two decades, Graham has stressed the need to find new Third World evangelists, saying that his true heirs will be found there. Also, his crusades have increasingly used advertising and media to target single adults, teens and children. His son, Franklin, has found his largest audiences in another "niche" -- Promise Keeper rallies for men.

Evangelism will evolve, if people have faith that God can still change lives, said the manager of the Charlotte crusade. The "altar call" will only pass away when church leaders become too timid to challenge people to repent.

"There is a certain foolishness to this kind of evangelism in what is supposed to be such a sophisticated age," said Richard Marshall, who has worked in 50 Graham crusades. "There's a kind of intolerance to the Gospel and people today pride themselves on a certain kind of tolerance."

This is even true in Bible Belt cities such as Charlotte. Not long before this crusade, the veteran publisher of the city's newspaper went so far as to write a series of editorials blaming many of the world's problems on Christian orthodoxy.

"It intrigues me that many speak with such certitude -- such choking, stifling, judgmental certainty" on eternal issues, wrote Rolfe Neill of the Charlotte Observer. He offered waves of critical quotes, such as this from a freethinking Presbyterian: "The belief that ... salvation comes only through Jesus Christ, that all other religions are false -- is not the whole Gospel."

Graham has kept preaching his basic message in the face of such criticism, while many others have surrendered, said Marshall. Even conservative "megachurches" may avoid altar calls and clear calls for repentance for another reason: fear of scaring those seeking less pushy ways to turn around their lives.

Too often, preachers become obsessed with people's problems, which seem to have "increased tenfold" amid blitzes of media and the sheer pace of life, said Marshall. The goal is to address the "felt needs" of today's religious consumers. The result may be sermons that substitute personal growth for conversion. Altar calls become anachronisms.

"You end up with churches built on murmurs of the past, murmurs of the faith of your grandparents," he said. "You take out the altar call. Then you take out the confession of sin. Soon, you are left with a kind of religious show. It looks good. It feels good. But does it have any power to inspire people to make decisions that can change their lives?"

Persecution? What Persecution?

The dominoes began falling when Haik Hovsepian-Mehr dared to start a global campaign to save a fellow Iranian pastor.

Mahedi Dibaj was on death row in 1994, charged with apostasy for converting from Islam to Christianity. He was released, to the joyful surprise of Iran's tiny Protestant community.

Then Hovsepian-Mehr was kidnapped, tortured and murdered. Then Dibaj disappeared. Then Tateos Machaellian, who followed Hovsepian- Mehr as leader of Iran's Protestants, was murdered. Police said they had discovered Dibaj's body while hunting Machaellian's killers. These crimes remain unsolved. Since then, 20 Christian leaders from Iran have fled for their lives. The U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Service has denied their pleas for asylum.

"This is just one tragic example of what's going on," said Faith McDonnell of the conservative Institute on Religion and Democracy. "There are many other cases just as bad."

The falling dominoes in Iran, China, Kuwait, Sudan and elsewhere officially reached Washington, D.C., during the past two weeks. After months of lobbying, religious conservatives and human- rights activists convinced Congress to call for action -- including the appointment of a White House specialist and a thorough review of all U.S. policies affecting "persecuted Christians."

A Sept. 17 Senate resolution noted: "In the past, the United States has used its international leadership to vigorously take up the cause of other persecuted religious minorities. Unfortunately, the United States has in many instances failed to raise forcefully the issue of anti-Christian persecution."

The House resolution this week said more Christians have been martyred in the 20th century than in the previous 19 combined. In one blast of politically sensitive text, it noted that China's Communist leaders have called underground Evangelical and Catholic congregations "a principal threat to political stability."

Meanwhile, the White House braced for criticism during this Sunday's "International Day of Prayer for the Persecuted Church" in thousands of churches linked to the Worldwide Evangelical Fellowship. Earlier this week, the administration began circulating its plans to heed the advice of more liberal religious groups and appoint a study commission linked to the State Department, instead of taking more confrontational actions.

"From day one, the White House position has been that this isn't really about the persecution of Christians," said Nina Shea of Freedom House, who has verbally agreed to serve on the new commission. She was, at mid-week, awaiting written confirmation of the panel's existence and details of its mandate.

White House officials, said Shea, are "especially interested in what they call the positive uses of religion, like finding ways for religious groups to work together. ... That's fine, but it would be tragic if issues of religious persecution turn into one item on some commission's long list."

The political and theological lines in this debate can be seen in this weekend's first annual "Persecution Sunday" activities. Supporters include the Southern Baptist Convention, the Assemblies of God, the National Association of Evangelicals and a host of Episcopal, United Methodist, Lutheran and other oldline Protestant groups that have rebelled against their hierarchies by taking conservative stands on moral and social issues.

Meanwhile, National Council of Churches leaders say persecution reports are being overstated. The council's Asian specialist, for example, told a religious news agency that he "would definitely not use the word `persecution'" to describe recent events in China.

Another NCC official, Albert Pennybacker, opposed the naming of a special presidential advisor and called for a commission on global religious issues. He told a House subcommittee: "What may appear as `persecution' and indeed resistance may in fact be the wish to preserve authentic religious and cultural traditions. ... If it is true that the persecution of believers of all faiths is pervasive, it is rightly a cause for deep concern and lament."

This stance stuns McDonnell and other conservatives.

"`If'? `If' there is persecution of believers?", she said, sarcastically. "We don't need some kind of Howdy-Doody commission to know that Christians are dying for their faith. It's time for action, not more politically correct talk."

Yom Kippur, sin and Dr. Laura

On Yom Kippur, Jews are asked to meditate on their sins, vow to make changes and then soberly face the future.

For 10 million-plus radio listeners, this probably sounds like calling in to talk with Laura Schlessinger. While most radio counselors offer moral cosmetic surgery, "Dr. Laura" has stormed ahead of the pack by performing radical operations -- with little or no anesthesia.

It all comes down to the Ten Commandments, she said. Basic moral laws are becoming even more relevant in an age of easy excuses and smorgasbord religion.

"Lots of people say `I'm not religious,' but when you ask them to describe their values they basically start quoting you the Ten Commandments," said Schlessinger, who last weekend delivered a Rosh Hashanah address entitled "Why Bother Being Jewish?" at the synagogue she attends. The High Holy Days end with Yom Kippur, which begins at sundown Sunday.

"Most of our moral laws come from religion," she added. "There's something above us that says some things are right and some are wrong. ... I find it hard to take anyone seriously who won't admit that."

Most moral mavericks quickly change their tunes when the tables are turned, she noted. Truth is, they "want the freedom to hurt other people, but then they don't want to be hurt."

Schlessinger has both a Columbia University doctorate in physiology and a post-doctorate certificate in marriage and family counseling. While many call her a conservative, she shuns labels and has even declined to create her own -- other than to call her blunt style "preaching, teaching and nagging."

Social liberals knock her because she attacks premarital sex, adultery and easy divorces. She says abortion is wrong and that children should be raised by their mothers and fathers -- at home. Most of all, she grills adults who put their own interests ahead of those of children. Meanwhile, some conservatives are not sure she's pure enough. Many question her acceptance of some gay and lesbian relationships. Others wonder about the sources of her moral code.

While baptized as a Catholic, Schlessinger converted to Judaism as an adult. She also has said that meditation and martial- arts training -- she has a karate black belt -- played roles in her "philosophical evolution." She recently offered this on-air summation of her faith: "I am as religious a Jew as I can struggle to be at this point."

Her personal strategy for handling tough issues is to match wits with her rabbi. She also keeps a file of letters and telephone numbers sent in by other clergy -- a valuable resource when handling religious issues on her show.

But most callers already know what's right and wrong, she said. The problem is that they just don't want to do it.

A self-proclaimed born-again Christian once said he was separated from his wife and shacked up with another woman. Yes, he knew this was sinful. His problem? Pangs of guilt. Another caller admitted that he felt guilty having sex with his girlfriend. He didn't want to marry her because she wasn't a Christian "like he is." An Orthodox Jewish woman asked for help solving a problem linked to driving on the Sabbath, which is forbidden in Orthodoxy. She got upset when asked to explain her statement that she already was living with her fiance.

Clergy must realize that it isn't enough, these days, to talk about "sin," said Schlessinger. At some point they will have to risk making sustained arguments in favor of virtue. In her bestseller, "How Could You Do That?", she noted: "I am saddened that too many pulpits don't challenge the folks in the pews (lest attendance drop?) about their personal behaviors in the context of moral choices, which ultimately give dignity to fundamentally animal behaviors."

Her show's popularity may be evidence of this sad silence. If people can't find practical answers in places that were once moral sanctuaries, they may turn to other forums -- such as talk radio.

"I guess," she said, "my program is filling that gap, somehow, for a great many people."

Climbing out of CCM Purgatory

Bonnie Keen was on stage doing what she does best -- singing harmony -- when she heard an alarm clanging in her soul.

As a member of the trio First Call, she was singing behind one of gospel music's superstars. While Sandi Patty held the spotlight, Keen found herself paying especially close attention to many details of the concert.

Everyone talked about freedom and letting God take control, while the tightly choreographed show marched in lock-step with studio backing tapes. The stars sang about praising God, while bathing in the crowd's adoration. The show looked like entertainment, while people called it worship.

"It was like something hit me," said Keen, recalling the scene. "I thought, `What is this supposed to be? Is this a concert? Is it a worship service? What is this?'"

These soul-searching questions remain just as relevant today, as Keen and her veteran vocal partner Marty McCall begin climbing out of gospel-music purgatory.

It has been two years since the tabloids went wild covering First Call member Marabeth Jordon's extramarital affair with Michael English, who was gospel's rising star. Jordon was pregnant. Then came the divorces and news of a miscarriage. Gospel retailers yanked English's recordings off shelves and he has since begun a secular career. Jordan has quietly returned to studio work.

Keen and McCall were blindsided. While most stores kept selling the trio's music, one insider's words to an industry journal captured the mood: "As far as we know, two-thirds of the group is still on solid ground, as far as ministry goes." All outsiders need to know about the Twilight Zone called Contemporary Christian Music, or CCM, is summed up in those words, "As far as we know." That was the bottom of the pit.

"We were changed forever by what happened," said Keen. "The majority of people in the industry pulled away and that hurt -- deeply. ... Our experiences just didn't fit into anyone's little pigeonholes for how things were supposed to go."

After two years of silence, Keen and McCall recently finished a new album as a duo, with the simple title "First Call." Its opening song talks about life's burdens, while the chorus is both hopeful and defiant: "You gotta trust in the power of God, when nothing makes sense. ... In the wake of the tears of the innocent, let the healing begin."

The tears began long before 1994's scandal tore the roof off the sanctuary. In the early 1980s, First Call toured with the young Amy Grant. In recent years, Grant and her husband, singer Gary Chapman, have openly talked about how they saved their troubled marriage. Meanwhile, many Christians still attack Grant's profitable leap into pop music. First Call also sang with Russ Taff, who rose to stardom while doubting his faith. Even Sandi Patty got a divorce and married her lover.

Keen has watched the drama unfold in a business in which revelation can be part of the stagecraft. Industry leaders continue to debate where "ministry" ends and "performing" begins. Some insist that CCM is about "evangelism," while others admit that most of the music is entertainment for a Christian niche market.

It all comes back to that question: "What is this?"

Obviously, CCM artists are professionals who make their living performing on stage and in the studio. But for whom are they performing and why? They are not ministers. Yet it's clear many listeners look to them for spiritual inspiration and insights. They are rarely evangelists. Yet, like most clergy, they spend most of their time preaching to people who already believe.

"I think we're Christians who speak to other Christians ... about our own faith and what it means to try to live out that faith," she said. "But we're going to have to be honest about that. If we've suffered pain, if we've suffered loss, we need to admit that. ... Maybe the fact that we're still here -- after all we've been through -- can serve as an encouragement to people who have suffered loses of their own."

Tips for the Truly Pro-Life

The back of the Anaheim Hilton ballroom was lined with news crews, but the cameras were turned off while Cathy Brown and Laurie Wideman shared the spotlight.

They weren't "the news" on this day. The American Life League was honoring Pat Buchanan and, since this was his next-to-last speech before the Republican National Convention, reporters were dispatched to see if he would endorse, or attack, Bob Dole.

So this was a Religious Right rally, with all the trimmings. Singers belted out gospel and patriotic anthems, backed by cassette-tape orchestras. Talk-show hosts strafed the White House. Buchanan joked about this being a non-political gathering.

All Brown and Wideman did was talk about realities that lurk behind the politics of sex, abortion and single mothers. Their words last month may not have been big news, but they spoke volumes about life in millions of homes and churches. Their message: Parents still don't want to talk about sex. Thus, many respond poorly when a crisis pregnancy forces candor.

Brown said she was fortunate. She feared that her conservative Christian parents would reject her, since sex outside of marriage clashed with everything she had been taught. Still, part of her was excited about being pregnant.

"My mom didn't cry out `Congratulations!' But she didn't scream and yell, either," said Brown. "She gave me a big hug and said we'd get through this somehow. ... Then -- and this is what I'll never forget -- she started talking about the baby. We both started talking about the baby."

Today, Brown has a 3-year-old son.

Things were different for Wideman. Her mistake had botched everyone's plans and they told her so. Still, she decided not to have an abortion, after struggling with the decision. Her parents took her to the clinic, anyway. When she insisted that she didn't want to go through with the procedure, Wideman said the abortionist slapped her and said: "You spoiled little brat. Don't you know that your mother is only trying to give you a future?"

Today, Wideman is married and has two children. Her aborted daughter, who she named Sonya, would have been 22 this year.

Both women admitted that it's a challenge for churches and parents to deliver two messages, simultaneously. No. 1: Premarital sex is sinful. No. 2: Pregnancy is not. What can people do, when asked to walk their talk?

• Be positive, yet realistic. A surprising number of parents angrily vow to force the young woman out of the house. Others act as if the pregnancy is a bad dream, caused by the mother-to-be. Others simply cannot hide their sadness. "Don't be sad," said Brown. "To feel sad means something is wrong. ... Kill a young mother's joy and you may kill that baby."
• Traditionalists know that young people have been baptized in mixed messages about sex outside of marriage. Thus, many fear that embracing those who become pregnant will only add to the confusion. It is impossible to hide this moral issue. "There will be a time and a place to talk about that," said Wideman. "But when someone tells you they are pregnant, that isn't the time and the place."
• While Brown is single, she still has an intact extended family. Instead of "single mothers," many others could more accurately be called "solo mothers." Churches must help fill this gap, providing both emotional and practical support.
• Remember that most young women who consider abortions are not selfish, evil or self-centered. Usually, they are scared and feel coerced. Often, they have been manipulated by an older male. "Remember," said Brown, "they're more afraid of not being loved than they are of being pregnant."
• Above all, pay close attention to what is said, because words inspire actions. Mere words -- such as "mistake" -- can "delegitimatize" unborn children, said Brown.

"We can say that premarital sex and single-parenting are not part of God's plan," she said. "But that doesn't mean that God considers my baby a mistake. ... My baby wasn't a mistake. For me, he was a wake up call. He was a wonderful surprise."

Where are the Catholic Voters?

It's time for Mass: do you know where the Catholic voters are?

This used to be an easy question. All but a few Catholics were found in pews in rock-solid Democratic parishes, part of a national political coalition that blended populist economics and working- class family values. Those days are gone.

"There's more than one Catholic vote now. All of the polls show that," said former Pennsylvania Gov. Robert Casey, a 30-year veteran of politics in a state in which 30 percent or more of the voters are Catholics. "Today you have to ask, `What kind of Catholic voters are we talking about?'"

Today, most researchers use labels such as rural, suburban, blue-collar or Hispanic when describing Catholics. But signs of another dividing line could be found buried in data gathered after 1994's political earthquake, when GOP candidates -- for the first time -- won a majority of Catholic votes. The best indicator of how someone voted in '94 was his or her "religiosity."

"Cultural issues were driving the nation's politics," said Casey, whose strong opposition to abortion has caused nasty clashes with other Democrats. "Average Americans seemed more concerned about the moral deficit than they were the fiscal deficit. ... My fellow Democrats may not want to talk about it, but the more voters go to church, the more likely they are to vote Republican."

Most researchers are focusing on the Religious Right. The Pew Research Center for the People and the Press, for example, noted that white evangelical conservatives have become the most powerful religious force in American politics, making up 24 percent of registered voters, up from 19 percent in 1987. The number of registered Republicans in these pews rose 9 percent from 1978 to 1987 and another 7 percent between 1987 and 1995.

Populist Southern Protestants were another key piece of the old Democratic coalition. But ballot-box massacres of Southern Democrats in '94, and a string of retirements, showed that millions have switched parties or are poised to jump. The big question: What about frost-belt Catholics?

"There's much more to this than the Christian Coalition. That's too simplistic," said Casey. "The real story is an underlying restlessness out there among church-goers of all kinds. ... This is linked to the issue of moral decline and, I would say, to the (right to) life issue."

But while the 1994 elections demonstrated some Catholic restlessness, the Pew study made a crucial distinction when describing "Catholic voters." On the pivotal abortion issue, it noted that 70 percent of liberal Protestants, non-religious people and "progressive Catholics" support abortion rights, while "traditional Catholics," blacks and evangelicals are much more likely to be pro-life. Political leaders who covet the votes of America's 60 million Catholics must face this reality.

On a typical Sunday, millions of Catholics sleep late, read the newspaper, jog and enjoy the rituals that unite the unchurched. These cultural Catholics hold progressive views on both economic and moral issues. They identify themselves as Catholics, but most vote like secularists and liberal Protestants.

Millions of other Catholics go to church. They tend to be economic populists and moral conservatives. In the 1980s, many became "Reagan Democrats" and their loyalty to their old party remains strained. They are traditional Catholics and, more and more, they vote like evangelical Protestants.

Catholic voters -- both kinds -- still matter because millions vote in crucial "swing" states such as New Jersey, Illinois, Ohio, Michigan and Pennsylvania. Almost all of them reject the GOP's "economic elitism," said Casey. However, church-going Catholics have begun rejecting the "cultural elitism" of modern Democrats.

"Wags have been saying that the ideal presidential candidate right now would be a pro-life, New Deal Democrat who believes in school prayer," said Casey, whose fragile health canceled his plans to challenge Bill Clinton. "That kind of candidate would scare the Republicans, as well as many Democrats. But that candidate would be able to address the moral and economic concerns of millions of people -- Catholics, evangelicals and a lot of others, too."

Is Your Pastor a 'Tame'?

They are the worker bees who cluster in ecclesiastical hives.

They are the faithful company men who thrive in the downsized world of denominational bureaucracies.

Call them what you will, but an anonymous Roman Catholic priest has written an insider's guide -- a kind of "Primary Liturgical Colors" -- to understanding many modern priests. According to "Father X," too many shepherds are quietly guiding their flocks toward major changes in how they live and worship.

The key word is "quietly," because he calls these priests and bishops the "tames."

"In most controversial situations tames hedge their bets by showing mild support for both sides, ... only declaring allegiance when it is clearly to their advantage to do so," writes the priest, an educator writing in The Latin Mass, a conservative quarterly. "Tames are capable of professing directly contrary opinions within a matter of hours. ... Tames are liberal in liberal dioceses and conservative in conservative ones, but are willing to sing the same song as whatever group they find themselves part of -- whether it be a carload of fellow priests on the way to a beach house or a dozen older women at a communion breakfast."

The only thing the publisher would say about Father X is that he teaches in Europe and has had "quite a bit of exposure" to the American scene. The Latin Mass -- based in Ridgefield, Conn. -- has published a dozen or so previous anonymous articles by priests.

"I don't even tell my wife who half of these Father Xs are," said Roger McCaffrey. "In this case, it's a pretty delicate situation and I don't want to blow his cover."

• While the article focuses on Catholic priests, many of its details will apply to others. Tames are found wherever leaders stifle painful debates and promote gentle compromises. They make fine politicians and poor judges. So how does one detect a tame?
• Tames exhibit highly refined "people skills," yet, paradoxically, avoid the ties that bind, writes Father X. Why? Tames are, above all, ambitious and strong friendships "draw one apart from the crowd, and being out of the mainstream, on the margins, is something a tame cannot tolerate."
• It's impossible to discuss the priesthood without mentioning sexuality, since homosexual activists now claim that 50 percent or more of U.S. priests are gay. "Being tame is not itself a sexual orientation," stresses Father X. However, when gays and straights clash, tames dwell in an "emotional No Man's Land. This is not because tames waver between competing appetites like bisexuals, but because any definitive involvement risks isolation, and isolation terrifies them."
• Tames skillfully change their opinions and tastes to blend in. They may, for example, change clothes four or five times a day. But they are not true "chameleons, because in a sharply contrasted environment they will not adapt themselves to the majority if the minority clearly has greater power and prestige. Always and everywhere, tames will go with a winner."
• Because they are both energetic and highly flexible, tames easily slip into the ranks of diocesan management and often become bishops. In short, their single-minded emphasis on career gives them staying power. "If tames make up only 30% of a seminary entrance class, they may well compose 70% of those still working as priests 10 years after ordination," writes Father X.
• Tames may clash with loud liberals as well as traditionalists. But in an age in which orthodoxy is under cultural attack, the tame tendency to compromise usually produces incremental victories for progressives, writes Father X. When push comes to shove, tames act as if peace and quiet matter more than creeds and clarity.

"Tames have a morbid lack of curiosity about the first principles of things: metaphysics, the grounding of moral arguments, dogma," he concludes. "A tame may hold an office that obliges him to defend some moral or dogmatic principle as inviolable and he may do it competently, but always with an eye to the occasion; even defense of principle ... is itself not principled but simply a means to realize some practical good."

Rising Star on the Religious Right

SAN DIEGO -- As Star Parker faced the Republican National Convention, she struggled to stay calm and focus on the tightly scripted version of her life flowing across the teleprompters.

"Thirteen years ago I was on welfare, an unwed mother doing drugs, going to the spa and collecting my welfare check," she said. "As a teen-ager when I got into trouble with the law my white guidance counselor told me it wasn't my fault. I was the victim of institutional racism. ... Sounded good to me."

Then she reached the words GOP stage managers used to describe the time when some "people of faith" told her to quit cheating. She briefly considered rebelling and editing in the dreaded phrase "born-again Christians."

"Maybe I should have done that," she said, after her brief speech. "My whole story turns on that born-again conversion experience. ... Some people love my story and they love the American dream and all that, but they want me to cut out the born- again part."

Parker's on the rise. True, she was one of the only platform speakers whose biography was missing in action at the convention press office and one official schedule called her "Star Porter." But out in the hallways, society matrons in red, white and blue swooped in to kiss her cheek. The timing was right for a young, black, female, pro-life, talk-radio populist who can belt out gospel hymns. The line to shake her hand started on the right.

"We need to be listening to real people, right now, and Star is clearly a star," said Sen. John Ashcroft of Missouri, before Parker drew waves of cheers during a GOPAC panel on welfare reform.

Parker grew up in an Air Force family, before a "joyride" with friends in New Jersey took her to Los Angeles. The arrival of a baby didn't stop her from careening through years of drugs and multiple abortions.

"I was reckless and promiscuous and I had a good time. I didn't cry about any of it," she said. "The culture told me that you were supposed to do whatever you wanted to do. I did. That's an approach to life that fits right in with welfare."

In addition to working odd jobs, she sold chunks of her government medical benefits "under the table" to round up more spending money. Finally, she tried to get a job with a company that frowned on that sort of thing.

"They said my lifestyle was unacceptable," she said, and began acting out the scene in multiple voices. "So I was rather obnoxious to them. I said, `Says who?' They said, `God.' I said, `What?' So they got out a Bible and showed me. For some reason, I listened."

A year later, she decided that welfare was a sinful crutch. So she wrote her social-worker and asked to be taken off the welfare rolls. Next, Parker found three other welfare mothers to share an apartment and child-care duties. Later, she started a magazine for single Christians, before the 1992 Los Angeles riots shut down many of her best advertisers. Then she turned to radio.

Now she's married to a priest in the Charismatic Episcopal Church and they have a second daughter. Lately, Parker's wit and fiery opinions have landed her television work, including appearances on "Oprah," ABC's "20/20," "Politically Incorrect" and GOP TV projects. The British Broadcasting Corporation called the other day, too. Things are looking up for her advocacy group, the Coalition for Urban Affairs, and she has finished an autobiography, tentatively entitled "Pimps, Whores and Welfare Brats."

Parker said she has no idea what will happen next, but she has no plans to stop speaking her mind.

"As a black, conservative, woman, there are things I can get away with saying that other people can't," she said, watching another round of convention speeches begin on a nearby television monitor. "I made some big changes in my life because I wanted to please God. It may not make people happy to hear me say that, but that's what happened. That's the truth."