Keeping track of the Jacksonians, Reformicons, Paleos, and Post-liberals.
I like to start my classes on conservative intellectual history by distinguishing between three groups. There is the Republican party, with its millions of adherents and spectrum of opinion from very conservative, somewhat conservative, moderate, and yes, liberal. There is the conservative movement, the constellation of single-issue nonprofits that sprung up in the 1970s —
right to work
— and continue to influence elected officials. Finally, there is the conservative intellectual movement: writers, scholars, and wonks whose journalistic and political work deals mainly with ideas and, if we’re lucky, their translation into public policy.
The history of evangelicalism in America is shot through with fear—but it also contains an alternative.
White conservative evangelicals in America are anxious people. I know because I am one.
Our sense of fear, perhaps more than any other factor, explains why evangelicals voted in such large numbers for Donald Trump in 2016 and continue to support his presidency.
The Pulitzer Prize-winning novelist and essayist Marilynne Robinson once wrote, “Fear is not a Christian habit of mind.” The great poet of the Jersey shore, Bruce Springsteen, sings, “Fear’s a dangerous thing, it can turn your heart black, you can trust. It’ll take your God-filled soul and fill it with devils and dust.”
Robinson and Springsteen echo verses in nearly every book of the Bible, the sacred text that serves as the source of spiritual authority in evangelical life. Moses told the Israelites to “Fear not, stand firm, and see the salvation of the Lord, which he will work for you today.” The Hebrew God told Job: “At the destruction and famine you shall laugh, and shall not fear the beasts of the earth.” The Psalmist wrote: “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff they comfort me.”
The Gospel of John teaches Christians that “there is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear.” St. Luke writes: “Fear not, little flock, for it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom.”
Despite all these scriptural passages, it is still possible to write an entire history of American evangelicalism as the story of a people failing miserably at overcoming fear with hope, trust, and faith in their God. But it is also possible to find evangelicals, drawing deeply from Christian theological resources, who sought to forge an alternative history.
A history of evangelical fear might begin with the 17th-century Puritans in Salem, Massachusetts, who feared that there were witches in their midst threatening their “city upon a hill” and their status as God’s new Israel. They responded to this fear by hanging 19 people.
But other evangelical options were available. As Puritans began to lose control over Massachusetts Bay, they might have turned to their sovereign God for guidance and trusted in his protection to lead them through a new phase in the history of the colony. Or they could have heeded the warnings put forth by those—such as Roger Williams, Anne Hutchinson, or the growing number of Baptists in the colony—who saw potential problems with such a close relationship between church and state.
Our history of evangelical fear might also include a chapter on the early 19th-century Protestants who feared the arrival of massive numbers of Catholic immigrants to American shores. They translated their panic into political organizations such as the nativist Know-Nothing Party and religious tracts cautioning fellow believers of the threat that such “popery” posed to their Christian nation.
But other evangelical options were available. Biblical faith requires evangelicals to welcome strangers in their midst as a sign of Christian hospitality. While some of the most prominent evangelicals of the era, such as Charles Finney and Lyman Beecher, were spewing anti-Catholic rhetoric, other evangelicals could not reconcile such hatred with Christian love. These evangelicals, as the historian Richard Cawardine has written, “could be found in all evangelical denominations” in the 1840 and 1850s.
A history of evangelical fear might also note that Catholics made up just one front in the battle for a Protestant America. “Infidels” made up the other front. At the turn of the 19th century, evangelicals went to war against unbelievers, deists, skeptics, freethinkers, and other assorted heretics who threatened the Godly character of the republic.
Elias Boudinot, a former president of the Continental Congress, agonized that unless he and his team of evangelical Federalists curbed the influence of the followers of Thomas Paine, the United States would end up like the Church of Laodicea in the Book of Revelation: “Because you are lukewarm [in your faith] … I am about to spit you out of my mouth.”
Jedidiah Morse, a Massachusetts minister and the author of geography textbooks, worried that the Bavarian Illuminati, a German anti-Christian secret society, had infiltrated America to “abjure Christianity, justify suicide, advocate sensual pleasures agreeable to Epicurean philosophy, decry marriage, and advocate a promiscuous intercourse among the sexes.”
When “godless” Thomas Jefferson was elected president of the United States in 1800, frightened New England evangelicals thought the Virginian’s henchmen would soon be arriving in their towns and homes on a mission to take away their Bibles.
But other evangelical options were also available. While Federalists like Boudinot and Morse railed against Jefferson and his followers, frontier evangelicals—mostly Baptists and Methodists—flocked to Jefferson in droves. They understood that Jefferson’s defense of religious freedom would allow evangelical faith to flourish in America. They were right. When religion in America was separated from state sponsorship, it resulted in a massive religious revival which historians have described as the Second Great Awakening.
In the antebellum South, evangelicals, according to some historians, made up close to 80 percent of the region’s population. Southern evangelicals were caught up in a slave system that kept them in constant fear for their lives and the lives of their families. Slave rebellions against their white masters were relatively scarce, but when insurrections did take place they brought paranoia and panic. One South Carolina widow claimed to lie in bed each night fearing that at any moment one of her slaves would break into her house and hack her to death with an axe.
The aggressive moral rhetoric and publishing campaigns of Northern opponents of slavery threatened the white Southern evangelical way of life and prompted fears of a race war. In response, some of the South’s best evangelical minds went to work constructing a complex biblical and theological defense of slavery.
But other evangelical options were available. Modern-day attempts by Southern evangelicals—especially those in the Southern Baptist Convention—to come to terms with its slaveholding and racist past imply that the Northern abolitionists, the thousands of evangelicals who came to South during Reconstruction, and those who fought for racial equality during Jim Crow, were on the religious high ground. They represented a much more consistent evangelical ethic on this moral problem.
The very short history of evangelical fear would certainly need to spend some time in the decades following the Civil War as evangelicals waged intellectual and religious battles against Darwinism and the higher criticism of the Bible. Some of the worst aspects of American evangelicalism converged in the Fundamentalist movement of the early 20th century. It was stridently anti-Catholic, and on occasion worked closely with the Ku Klux Klan to guard the white Protestant character of the country.
Fundamentalists, committed to the otherworldly teachings of the Holiness or “Higher Life” movement, chose to separate from the world rather than engage it. They promoted a theology of the “end times” that led them to spend considerable energy trying to identify the appearance of the Antichrist on the global stage.
In defending the “fundamentals of the faith,” these anti-modernists relied on authoritarian clergymen. These fear-mongers gained followers, built large congregations, and established national reputations by sounding the alarm of the modernist threat whenever they saw it rearing its ugly head. They took on the role of ecclesiastical strongmen, protecting their congregations from outsiders who threatened to destroy their faith and the Christian identity of the nation.
But once more, other evangelical options were available. Those concerned about doctrinal drift could have learned something from the biblical virtues of love and humility. The sense of certainty that defined the fundamentalist movement in America might have been replaced with a sense of mystery and the embrace of a God who could not always be confined to man-made doctrinal formulations and end-times speculations. Perhaps such an approach might have tempered the militancy of the movement and provided fundamentalism with a more respected public platform in the decades following the 1925 Scopes Trial.
Since World War II, evangelical anxiety has intensified. In 1947, in the landmark case Everson v. Board of Education, the Supreme Court announced a “wall of separation between church and state [that] must be kept high and impregnable.” The court drew on this decision when it banned prayer and mandatory Bible reading in public schools in 1962 and 1963 respectively.
The demographic makeup of the country was also changing. The Hart-Cellar Act of 1965 opened American shores to millions of Africans, Asians, and Middle Easterners. Many of these new immigrants brought their non-Christian religious beliefs and practices with them, creating unprecedented religious diversity.
In the late 1960s and early 1970s, Supreme Court efforts at desegregating Christian academies and colleges led to fierce resistance from Southern evangelicals who viewed the federal government as taking away their local autonomy and the religious freedom to control their own admissions policies. (These arguments were not unlike to those put forth by the Southern states that seceded from the Union in 1860 and 1861.) By the late 1960s, the feminist movement was posing a threat to the long-held conservative evangelical commitment to patriarchal households, and in 1973 the Supreme Court legalized abortion in Roe v. Wade. For those who saw all these things contributing to the decline of a Christian culture in the United States, there was much to fear.
Any effort to make sense of the 81 percent of evangelicals who voted for Donald Trump cannot ignore evangelicals’ fear of the Barack Obama administration. Obama was an exotic figure to many white conservative evangelicals. He grew up in Hawaii and spent time as a child in a predominantly Muslim country. He was the son of a white woman and an African man. He had a strange name; that his middle name was “Hussein” did not help.
Obama had a Christian conversion story, but it was not the kind of conversion story from which many white conservative evangelicals would find inspiration. His embrace of Christianity took place in a liberal African American congregation in Chicago under the guidance of a pastor, Jeremiah Wright, who was not shy about calling America to task for its past sins of slavery and racism.
Obama’s social policies alienated conservative evangelicals. Though “pro-life” could be used to describe his views on immigration, health care, the death penalty, the fight against poverty, and civil rights for racial and ethnic minorities, Obama was “pro-choice” on abortion and, for most evangelicals, that was all that really mattered.
And then there was gay marriage. When Obama ran for president in 2008, he supported same-sex unions, but defended marriage as a union between a man and woman. During his first two years in office, he supported the Defense of Marriage Act, a law that prohibited married same-sex couples from collecting federal benefits.
But in February 2011, he changed his position on the Act and instructed Attorney General Eric Holder to stop defending it in court. In a May 2012 interview with ABC News, Obama announced that he had gone through an “evolution” on the issue. He was now willing to affirm that “same-sex couples should be able to get married.”
In 2013, the Supreme Court, in United States v. Windsor, declared the Defense of Marriage of Act unconstitutional and the Obama administration began extending federal rights and benefits to same-sex married couples. By 2015, when the Court ruled in Obergefell v. Hodges that the United States government would recognize same-sex marriages, the practice was legal in 36 states and Washington, D.C. On the evening after the Obergefell decision, Obama showed his appreciation by illuminating the White House in rainbow colors.
The LGBT community saw the Obergefell decision as the culmination of a long struggle for civil rights. Conservative evangelicals cringed. For them it all happened too fast. In the hours after the decision they turned to their blogs, websites, and media outlets and wrote apocalyptic opinion pieces on how to cope in a post-Christian society.
This history of evangelical fear would come to an end, at least for the moment, with a chapter on Hillary Clinton. After a recent lecture on Trump and his evangelical supporters, a woman approached me at the lectern and identified herself as an evangelical who voted for Trump. “I am part of the 81 percent,” she said, “but what choice did I have?” I have heard something similar many times from evangelicals who voted for Trump.
Evangelicals are not supposed to hate. But many hate Hillary Clinton. The history of that antipathy is long, reaching back at least to Bill Clinton’s first presidential campaign in 1992. But it was solidified among white evangelical baby boomers when revelations of her husband’s marital infidelities surfaced in 1998. Conservatives who challenged Bill Clinton’s character were outraged when Hillary attacked her husband’s accusers and went on The Today Show and claimed that the impeachment charges against her husband were part of a “vast right-wing conspiracy.”
Hillary Clinton did not help herself among evangelicals in the 2016 election campaign. She lied about using a private email server in her role as secretary of state. She placed Trump supporters in a “basket of deplorables.” She made no effort to court evangelical votes, a strategy that the progressive evangelical writer and Clinton supporter Ronald Sider called “dumbfounding and incredibly stupid.”
On the policy front, Clinton was, for most white evangelicals, an extension of the Obama presidency—a candidate who would steamroll their long-cherished conservative values.
Faced with a choice between Clinton and a race-baiting, xenophobic, lying adulterer who promised to support conservative Supreme Court justices, white conservative evangelicals chose the latter. In 2016, American evangelicals were looking for a strongman to protect them from the progressive forces wreaking havoc on their Christian nation. Donald Trump was the strongman.
Most evangelicals did not believe more traditional candidates of the Christian right such as Ted Cruz, Marco Rubio, or Ben Carson could protect them as well as the bombastic big-talking New York real-estate tycoon. As Robert Jeffress, the pastor of the First Baptist Church in Dallas and early Trump supporter put it, “I couldn’t care less about a leader’s temperament or his tone of his vocabulary. Frankly, I want the meanest, toughest son of a gun I can find. And I think that’s the feeling of a lot of evangelicals. They don’t want Casper Milquetoast as the leader of the free world.”
Ironically, some evangelicals have found a savior. They sought after Trump, he answered them, and he delivered them from all their fears.
But other evangelical options are available. Evangelicals are people of hope, not fear. The practice of Christian hope points us to a life beyond this world, but it also requires us to act in such a way that models God’s coming kingdom. The Kingdom of God is characterized by the love of enemies, the welcoming of strangers, the belief in the human dignity of all people, a humble and self-sacrificial posture toward public life, and a trust in the sovereign God of the universe. Fear is a natural human response to social change, but evangelicals betray their deepest spiritual convictions when they choose to dwell in it.
The Trump era presents a host of new challenges for evangelicals who believe in the Gospel—the “good news” of Jesus Christ. The first step in addressing these challenges must come through a reckoning with our past. Evangelicals have taken many wrong turns over the decades even though better, more Christian, options could be found by simply opening up the Bible and reading it. We must stop our nostalgic gaze into a Christian golden age in America that probably never existed to begin with and turn toward the future with renewed hope. It is time, as the great theologian of hope Jurgen Moltmann taught us, to “waken the dead and piece together what has been broken.”
In their dissenting opinions in Obergefell v. Hodges, Justices Roberts and Scalia lamented the way in which the Supreme Court’s ruling would close off public debate about same-sex marriage.
That debate, though, has been increasingly lopsided and narrow. It is increasingly lopsided because public opinion has moved dramatically in favor of legal recognition of same-sex marriages in recent history. It is increasingly narrow because, at least in the case of Christian discourse, opposition to same-sex marriage has abandoned Biblical argumentation and relied more exclusively on natural law arguments.
The American Family Association increasingly appeals to “natural marriage,” rather than “biblical marriage” in its attempts to stem the tides of sin and relativism. The Republican Party’s 2016 platform praises “natural marriage” and never appeals to the Bible in its opposition to marriage equality. And today the most influential scholarly arguments against same-sex marriage also come from natural law thinkers, such as Sherif Girgis, Ryan T. Anderson, Robert P. George, not from scholars who rely on biblical texts.
How to explain this phenomenon? Perhaps opponents of gay marriage believe Biblical arguments have little traction in a pluralistic society. Perhaps they have been persuaded that the biblical cases against homosexuality are unpersuasive.Or perhaps there is general embarrassment at the prospect of being associated with Westboro Baptist Church’s protestors and their lewd signs invoking Leviticus.
Whatever the causes, Christians’ shift toward natural law argumentation calls for deeper consideration. It is not at all clear to me that the natural law must lead one to oppose legal recognition of same-sex marriage. In fact, I want to suggest that the basic premises of the natural law can lead us to endorse same-sex marriage as a matter of legal policy.
The public debate Roberts and Scalia sought to protect is not as vibrant as they presumed in part because the natural law is the last vestige of Christian opposition to marriage equality. And even this last remaining source of opposition cannot ultimately provide stable intellectual grounding against same-sex unions.
Natural law cases against same-sex marriage frequently have at their core high regard for the nuclear family as both an institution that allows for the full flourishing of individuals and also a foundation for a functional society. Let’s accept that idea, and also the basic natural law concept that rational reflection on the natural order of creation yields a network of moral norms with which human beings can and should align their behavior.
Even accepting those premises, it is not clear that one must oppose the legal recognition of same-sex marriage, because it is not “homosexuality” that threatens to destroy families, but rather “homophobia” that does so. I follow the meaning of “homophobia” Dale Martin offers in Sex and the Single Savior. By “homophobia,” I mean “the loathing of homosexuality that arises from a deep-seated…fear of homosexuality.”(61)
This fear of homosexuality destroys families by causing conflict between parents and children. Nuclear families are torn apart when children realize that they have same-sex attractions or that they deviate from commonly-accepted standards of masculinity and femininity in any way. Realizing this, children face the terrible decision: they can either keep their secrets to themselves, or they can reveal them to parents who may condemn them. Indeed, many parents do condemn and ostracize children who fail to live up to social norms surrounding sex and gender.
Vast literature exists about how to “come out” to parents, how parents can overcome fear, grief, and anger conjured by encountering a child’s homosexuality, and how parents can move to greater acceptance of their gay children. (cf. Carolyn Griffin et. al. in Beyond Acceptance and Robert Berstein at. al. in Straight Parents, Gay Children). All of this literature is a testament to the terrible fact that fear and hatred of homosexuality destroy familial bonds by estranging gay kids from their parents. This phenomenon ought to be of great concern to any natural law thinker, given that the basic premises of the natural law prioritize whole, unified, and loving nuclear families.
How would natural law thinkers advise families in the throes of such crises? What can parents and children do when faced with the threat of familial estrangement? One option is for gay children to try to change their sexual desires and identities in order to gain acceptance from homophobic parents. Typical natural law objections to homosexuality might once have counseled young people to defeat their impulses to same-sex attraction, admit that opposite-sex attraction is the norm for all humans, and simply live in accordance with that norm. But this option has been widely discredited.
Today, I do not consider myself “ex-gay” and I no longer support or promote the movement. Please allow me to be clear: I do not believe that reparative therapy changes sexual orientation; in fact, it does great harm to many people…From the bottom of my heart I wish I could take back my words and actions that caused anger, depression, guilt and hopelessness. In their place I want to extend love, hope, tenderness, joy and the truth that gay people are loved by God.
We should heed Paulk’s reversal on the possibilities of changing homosexual desire to align more closely with opposite-sex attraction. Social scientific research and trustworthy human experiences, two sources that natural law thinking can accommodate, are increasingly leading us to the conclusion that familial estrangement caused by homophobia cannot be solved by forcing kids to conform to hetero-normative social custom.
Another option for gay kids who have been ostracized by their parents is simply to sever ties with their families. They can live with alienation from their parents by moving away from them, avoiding discussions of their sexuality, and/or cutting off contact altogether. Sadly, this is a common way of dealing with familial rifts created by homophobia. Literature on homosexuality abounds with stories in which parents and children live with some level of alienation following a child’s decision to come out of the closet.
The phenomenon of familial estrangement following a “coming out” moment should be troubling to all natural law thinkers, in light of the basic commitment to the importance of the nuclear family for individual flourishing and social functioning. And yet, I have never read a natural law case against this sad reality. Most natural law engagements of homosexuality purport to “defend the family” by arguing that same-sex partnerships cannot sustain this institution, without noticing that parental homophobia bears significant blame for destroying families.
A third option for healing familial estrangement is for parents to accept their gay children without condemning same-sex attraction as such. This means letting go of a moral vision of homosexuality as sinful and disordered. It means letting go of the idea that the best way to relate to one’s gay child is to “love the sinner and hate the sin.” It also means supporting children in their encounters with homophobia in society at large. Parents of gay and lesbian children who initially rejected their children’s sexual identity report that acceptance is the most effective way to reunite families torn apart by this revelation.
In their book What is Marriage? Man and Woman: A Defense, Girgis, Anderson, and George attempt to develop a natural law case against same-sex marriage that does not denounce same-sex relationships as such. They try to argue that they have no moral objection to homosexuality. They claim a natural law position that ostensibly accepts same-sex attraction and relationship, while at the same time denying the legitimacy of same-sex marriage.
Same-sex relationships can be valuable, they say, in the same way that friendships can be valuable. Such an admission apparently qualifies as acceptance. The problem with their argument, though, is that they cannot both accept same-sex attraction and relationships while also denying the legal right for people in such relationships to marry. Despite the fact that they want to appear “accepting,” the moral reality, for Girgis, Anderson, and George, is that same-sex love is inferior to heterosexual love for the purposes of sustaining families and society. As natural law thinkers, they base this judgment on the possibility of procreation.
Heterosexual couples can engage in coitus, while homosexual couples cannot. Coitus is supremely important for our society, given its role in producing offspring. Because homosexual couples cannot engage in coitus, their love and relationships cannot be classified as “marriage.” Thus, Girgis, Anderson, and George undermine their posture of acceptance by writing that homosexual partners “merely touch or interlock” (25-26, 36).
Denigrating same-sex activity in this way reaffirms the idea that homosexual love is inferior to heterosexual love. Add to this denigration the condescending argument that same-sex partners should think of themselves only as “friends,” and the conclusion that these partners should not be given the right to marry, and it becomes clear that, protestations aside, the authors view homosexuality as inherently inferior. However much Girgis, Anderson, and George want to develop an “accepting” natural law account of sexuality, their arguments still constitute homophobia.
How would Girgis, Anderson, and George have a parent respond to a child who summons the strength to come out of the closet? If such a parent responded by saying, “You can still form valuable bonds of friendship!” or “Your bodily touching and interlocking may fall short of coitus, but I’m sure it can be pleasurable!” a reasonable person would conclude that this response is not fully accepting. Full acceptance would, at the very least, regard same-sex love as equally valuable and fulfilling as its heterosexual counterpart.
One would think that natural law ethicists would welcome such acceptance, as it promises to reunite estranged families, and whole, loving families are—at least ostensibly—of great value to natural law theorists. And yet, one looks in vain for such theorists to advocate parental acceptance of gay kids in the interests of keeping families together. Natural law thinkers may not want to admit that accepting homosexual kids is better for families than condemning such kids because such an admission would lead to major revisions of basic natural law ideas about human sexuality. Recognizing that we may have been wrong in discerning the natural order of human sexuality can be a difficult thing to do.
Of course, a natural law case for moral acceptance of homosexuality in the interests of keeping families united has strong implications for our thinking about the positive law. Specifically, the civic laws in states affected by the Supreme Court ruling in Obergefell v. Hodges become relevant.
Based on this natural law argument that families can be repaired by accepting rather than condemning homosexuality, natural law thinkers should welcome the Supreme Court ruling in Obergefell v. Hodges. This is because, consistent with a natural law account of legislation, the civic law can train us in the virtues necessary to participate well in social life, including family life. In the natural law theory of Thomas Aquinas, one of the effects of the human law is to make people good (ST I-II, 92).
On the specific question of homosexuality and familial stability that I have been addressing here, the relevant virtue is parental acceptance of a child’s same-sex attraction, toward the good end of familial reconciliation. Following the Supreme Court’s elimination of state bans on same-sex marriage, I predict that many parents will come to accept their children’s sexual identities and families will recover from estrangement.
Such virtuous acceptance should be both welcome and unsurprising to natural law theorists who already believe that human law makes us grow in virtue. The shifting rhetoric in psychiatric discourse around homosexuality may be a good predictor of the way law will influence parents’ acceptance of gay children. The American Psychiatric Association’s decision to declassify homosexuality as a mental disorder has fostered greater acceptance of same-sex attraction, especially among parents struggling with a child’s “coming out” moment.
Institutions such as the APA and the Supreme Court have enormous influence over individuals’ perception of homosexuality. Natural law theory will recognize that their definitions and rulings can and do shape us. I submit that these definitions and rulings are currently shaping us toward the virtue of acceptance and the good of familial reconciliation.
But the challenge to natural law engagements of homosexuality and same-sex marriage that I offer goes deeper than mere reflection on a specific Supreme Court ruling. On the one hand, natural law opposition (exemplified by Girgis, Anderson, and George) to same-sex marriage is based on a selective and incoherent evaluation of the nuclear family. On the other hand, though, it seems inevitable that natural law theory will have to revisit some basic commitments as it moves to greater coherence on questions of sexuality and the family.
The easiest ways for natural law theorists to achieve greater coherence on these questions will be to abandon their reverence for anatomical complementarity and to relax the ethical requirement that sexual partners intend procreation for sex to be permissible. Departing from these two positions will allow natural law thinkers not only to accept same-sex attraction and reunite families, but also to avoid awkward and unconvincing responses to questions about infertility. (For example, Girgis, Anderson, and George say that infertile heterosexual couples can still engage in coitus, which is socially beneficial, but they never consider the case of erectile dysfunction.)
Although letting go of these long-standing evaluations of anatomical complementarity and the intent to procreate may be difficult, it is not impossible with a small dose of humility. Indeed, humility is necessary for religious people who face the unsettling reality that sources like the Bible and the natural law cannot deliver specific moral norms that are timeless and universal.
Martin makes this point effectively in the context of sexuality and biblical interpretation. “We should remember,” he writes, “that Paul begins invoking Scripture only after appealing to other kinds of arguments and ‘sources’ of knowledge, including his own and the Galatians’ experiences.” (152)
Martin’s point is that we cannot read the Bible for moral guidance without already having our reading informed by our experiences and those of others. The same is true for natural law reflection: in reasoning toward moral precepts in light of what we think is the natural order of creation, we necessarily bring our experiences and those of others to bear on our reasoning processes. As we consider a wider and wider circle of experience (that is, one that includes LGBTQ+ people more than it used to), we may find that our ideas about order and our specific moral norms need revision.
Such recognition would not weaken the natural law’s moral authority. On the contrary, it would gain integrity by demonstrating enough humility to admit fallibility. The only thing natural law accounts of human sexuality have to lose is their dual status as the last holdout against marriage equality and as the last voice against the full dignity of people who do not conform to heternormative social standards.
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