KENYON, Minn. (AP) — Handing out coffee after Sunday services outside Holden Lutheran Church, Jeff Davidson said he remains attached to the church his Norwegian ancestors helped establish in a cornfield in 1857 because “it’s full of really supportive people.”
An hour’s drive north, at San Pablo Luterana Church in a rough neighborhood of Minneapolis, Lizette Vega echoed the sentiment as her husband helped prepare a post-service taco lunch: “This is a place where I feel like I belong.”
A welcoming, open-minded community is how sixth-generation farmers, Mexican immigrants and many other Minnesotans, with characteristic understatement, describe the foundation of their faith. A Progressive Legislative RecordHe will join the Democratic Party nominee as Vice President Kamala Harris’ running mate.
But on important socially and politically charged issues, from immigrant integration to LGBTQ+ rights, the way Midwestern Lutherans practice their faith in public can be as different as marshmallow-topped hot dishes and prickly pear salad.
And that’s true even within the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America, which is more liberal and by far the largest Lutheran denomination in the U.S., with about 3.3 million members. Waltz has occasionally noted that he attends an ELCA church in St. Paul, Minnesota, but a spokesman declined to elaborate on his faith.
In congregations, by contrast, believers far prefer to talk about faith and service rather than politics.
“You can’t just come for coffee after church and talk about politics or anything,” Davidson said as he handed out chocolate chip cookies and cheese slices for a freewill donation the church uses to buy Christmas presents for needy families. “I think we all need to put that stuff on the back burner for a bit and leave it there.”
Pastors, too, are keeping partisanship out of the pulpit because they know their congregations are ideologically divided.
“People are trying to hear where you stand, whether the prayer is conservative or liberal. People are always trying to interpret it as, ‘Oh, what is the pastor really saying?’ or, ‘Is she on my side or not?'” said the Rev. Elise Poeckel of Transfiguration Lutheran Church in suburban Bloomington, who sees her church as split 50-50 politically. “And my allegiance is to Jesus.”
Lutheranism came to the upper Midwest with Scandinavian and German immigrants in the 19th century and remains a major faith alongside Catholicism, with potlucks and the traditional Midwestern dish of lutfisk (dried cod pickled in lye) still a part of rural church life.
Lutheran social service agencies, particularly refugee resettlement programs, have a large presence in Minnesota.Hmong the Somali community (the latter best known in politics through the United States);Rep. Ilhan OmarHe is from Minneapolis and is a Muslim member of the “brigade” of progressive House Democrats.
Mark Granquist, a history professor at St. Paul’s Lutheran Theological Seminary, said Lutherans themselves are relatively underrepresented in politics, likely because of their theological “two kingdoms” thinking.
Inspired by the view that political and social life are governed by a different set of principles than religious life, Lutherans tend to be less keen to apply religious understanding to secular institutions.
They’re also divided ideologically: A recent PRRI survey found that 68% of ELCA clergy identify as liberal, compared with just 23% of white mainline Protestants. The ELCA leadership has issued doctrinal statements that lean toward liberal positions on a range of issues, from racial justice to LGBTQ+ rights.
That could create tension, especially among politically mixed “purple” congregations, said Bishop-elect Jen Nagel of the Minneapolis Area Congregation, one of 65 ELCA congregations nationwide.
Nagel, his pastors and their congregations are trying to navigate this deeply divisive election season by considering how to respond to Jesus’ call to serve others — the “liberty and service” doctrine of Martin Luther’s Reformation theology — while humbly accepting disagreement.
Like Pokel, the Rev. Dustin Hyder, who serves both Holden and another church in the farmland surrounding the hamlet of Kenyon, knows his congregants may be listening to polarizing code words: Even preaching “social justice” can sound like a Democratic talking point.
“Where is justice needed in our society?” is how Haider approaches outreach.
A quilt club, a long-standing tradition in Holden, has also started in San Pablo, and during a recent Sunday service, the first blanket was donated to a young Latino immigrant who had just moved to Minneapolis.
Founded by Swedish immigrants in the late 19th century, the church now serves a mostly Latino congregation and offers bilingual Mass in English and Spanish. A newly painted mural on the church’s front steps features two traditional Swedish Dala horses between the Spanish words “sanación” (cure) and “resiliencia” (resilience).
A pride flag also hangs in the chapel, signifying that San Pablo recently became a “Reconciling in Christ” congregation, which welcomes LGBTQ+ members and blesses same-sex marriages.In 2009, he ordained gay and lesbian people as pastors.This was long before the U.S. Supreme Court legalized same-sex marriage nationwide.
San Pablo’s inclusiveness pleases Vega, who was raised Catholic with nine siblings in a small village in Mexico. After her father emigrated to the United States and her mother got divorced, she and her siblings felt isolated in church, only sneaking out to pray when no one else was around.
“We all have the right to belong somewhere. People cannot make us feel inferior,” Vega said. “Faith is love. It’s loving us just the way we are.”
San Pablo’s pastor, who was born in New Jersey after his family fled El Salvador’s civil war and is married to another male pastor, has made belonging a central theme at his church. A 13-foot-tall banner hangs on the side of the church featuring portraits of parishioners next to the question: “When was the last time you felt a sense of belonging?”
“I’ve experienced what it feels like to be rejected and despised,” said the Rev. Hierard Osolt. “I serve a God who says everyone should belong, and if we think that and say that, then we have to live it out in a practical way.”
Transfiguration Church is also a “Reconciliation in Christ” church, and while not all members embraced the process, they stayed, said Pokel, a mother of two from Fargo, North Dakota, who became the church’s lead pastor after serving in rural and Minneapolis churches.
At a recent Sunday “Ministry Fair,” all the Transfiguration clubs gathered in the lobby, while next door, a club tasked with quilting “memory bears” for grieving families handed out pride bracelets and beads.
“(Jesus) loved everyone, and everyone should mean everyone,” said Ryan Hanisch, leader of the Transfiguration Church’s Reconciliation in Christ group, which also attends the suburb’s annual Pride festival, where many are surprised by the church’s presence.
“They can understand that not all churches are going to be judgmental,” Hanisch said.
What unites these Lutheran congregations across geographic, ethnic and political divides may simply be a willingness not to judge.
“We can’t be judgmental. We need to be mindful of those who need help,” said Patrick Leahy, who has been a member of San Pablo with his wife for more than 12 years.
“We don’t always have to insist that our way is the only way,” Davidson agreed. “Those strong-willed opinions aren’t always going to get us where we want to be.”
There is a political but transpartisan lesson there.
“The church can be an example to America,” Pokel said. “We have a place for everyone. We’re not called to be the same, we’re called to love.”
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