THE GREAT DIVIDE : In the Fight for the Soul of the Southern Baptist Convention, Fundamentalist Convictions Have Vanquished a long Tradition of Individual Belief

IT IS A TORRID SUMMER FRIDAY in Atlanta. The Rev. Richard Lee wheels into the asphalt ocean that surrounds Rehoboth Baptist Church and parks his car in a reserved space by the front door. He steps out, smoothes his silver hair and adjusts his dark blue suit. Above him, the huge brick church looms like an island fortress. Lee steps inside, greets an armed security guard and skips lightly up the steps to his office.

Not even Atlanta heat could ruin this week for Lee. On Monday, he brought his friend retired Marine Lt. Col. Oliver North to speak at the annual Southern Baptist pastors’ conference. Standing ramrod straight before a huge American flag and looking every bit like George C. Scott in “Patton,” North ranted against “Sodom and Gomorrah on the Potomac.” It was a victorious moment for Lee and his fellow fundamentalists, who have finally won control of the 15 million-member Southern Baptist Convention. Lee didn’t and doesn’t worry about the thousands of moderate Baptists who boycotted the meeting and now threaten to break up America’s largest Protestant denomination. This shepherd of souls believes that those sheep may be better left lost.

“It’s not people, but God’s literal word that is important,” Lee says as he leans back into a sofa in his office suite. His fine suit and perfect smile give him an air of success. So does the office, which is furnished in expensive reproductions and a green carpet as thick as bluegrass. These trappings of success prove that God favors fundamentalism, he says. “And there can be no reconciliation with the moderates,” he declares, “unless they repent.”

ON THE SAME AFTERNOON, A FEW MILES away, the pastor of Oakhurst Baptist Church climbs creaky, wooden stairs to a cluttered office filled with castoff furniture and thousands of well-worn books. Dressed in khaki shorts, a red T-shirt and sandals, the bearded Rev. Lanny Peters still looks like a student at Berkeley, where he did graduate work in the 1970s. Peters didn’t attend the pastors’ conference. He hasn’t gone in years. Lately he’s begun to worry that he is losing his Southern Baptist heritage.

“Being a Southern Baptist has always been an important part of who I am,” Peters says as he moves about the office, shuffling papers and shelving books. He grew up in Lexington, N.C., listening to a pastor so conservative that one of his most memorable sermons was an attack on rock music titled “Jeremiah Was Not a Bullfrog.” Peters decided to follow in his footsteps. But, in seminary, he learned to critique the church he loved. “My dad was a textile worker who earned the minimum wage and died when he was 59,” he recalls with some bitterness. “The people who ran the church also ran the mill.”

Peters most recently visited Lexington when his old church was moving to new quarters. When church officials asked him to say the last prayer that would be delivered from the pulpit, he couldn’t resist a little rebellion. “Joy to the world,” he recited to the congregation, “all the boys and girls. Joy to the fishes in the deep blue sea. Joy to you and me.”

This is the difference between moderates and fundamentalists. Fundamentalists such as Richard Lee combine a literal reading of the Bible with a negative view of modern society and rigid political conservatism. Moderate Southern Baptists, such as former President Jimmy Carter and Bill Moyers, view certain parts of the Bible as metaphor and hold more liberal social views. Some even like rock ‘n’ roll. “A lot of us came to challenge the simplistic way (the fundamentalists) use the Bible to support what they do,” Peters explains. “But that challenge has led to a lot of sorrow and a lot of conflict.”

Indeed, the conflict between moderates and fundamentalists has brought the Southern Baptists to the brink of a historic divorce. Like every other major American church, the Southern Baptist Convention has been troubled by the conflict between liberals and conservatives, as much a clash of culture as theology. Through the 1980s, most churches struggled to hold together as the liberals and conservatives battled over many of the same issues that vex Southern Baptists: the ordination of women, homosexuality, abortion and whether the Bible should be taken as literal truth.

Only the Southern Baptists have reached the breaking point. It has come after more than a decade of civil war, in which conservatives organized a precinct-style campaign to dominate the elections for the Southern Baptist Convention presidency. Although the margin of victory often has been slim, the conservatives have won every year since 1979. Along the way, they have systematically replaced moderate church officials--from those who run educational programs to those who run the foreign missions--with fundamentalists. In one infamous case, the editors of the Baptist Press, a convention news organization, were fired in a secret meeting that was guarded by five armed men. Moderates were also outraged when the conservatives destroyed all but one copy of a history of the convention written by a prominent Baptist historian because it contradicted conservative views.

The conservatives control the convention and all of its national programs. They decide how to spend the denomination’s $140 million budget, who gets convention jobs, even what will be printed for use in Sunday schools. They also have redefined what it means to be a Southern Baptist, making fundamentalism and conservative politics all but requirements for membership. Where once Southern Baptists stood for freedom of conscience and led the fight for separation of church and state, they now advocate a mixture of Bible literalism and Republican politics that would make their forebears shudder.

But the fundamentalist victory is not as complete as it may seem. About 40% of Southern Baptists, among them most of the better educated, are moderates, and they still hold some power. Moderate trustees have taken control of the most prestigious Baptist colleges--including Baylor, Furman, Wake Forest and Richmond--whose boards are not appointed by the convention hierarchy. The moderates also run many state Baptist organizations, and they have formed a new national independent body: the Cooperative Baptist Fellowship. The breakaway group seems to be the beginning of a new denomination that could eventually claim millions of Southern Baptists--and the millions of dollars that thousands of moderate congregations now give the Southern Baptist Convention.

“This is a major historical moment in America’s religious culture,” says Joe Edward Barnhart, professor of religion at North Texas State University and author of a study of the schism called “The Southern Baptist Holy War.” “The fundamentalists have been changing the definition of Baptist and alienating a large part of the denomination. I think we’re going to see a significant number break away. But it’s going to involve a whole lot of pain, every inch of the way.”

NOWHERE ARE THE DIVISION AND THE PAIN OF SOUTHERN BAPtists more evident than in Atlanta. Although it’s the South’s most cosmopolitan city, old-time religion is still deeply ingrained. It was front-page news when a woman saw the face of Jesus in a picture of spaghetti on a Pizza Hut billboard, which became an instant attraction for religious pilgrims and caused traffic jams on busy Memorial Drive.

More typical of Atlanta’s religious roots are the scores of Southern Baptist churches that bustle with activity every day. On the weekend after Lee’s triumphant pastors’ conference, as many as 8,000 people will come to Rehoboth Baptist, a “mega-church” that occupies a sprawling complex of brick buildings just off Highway 285. They may play basketball in the gym, work out in the exercise room or attend one of dozens of Bible classes in the huge, new Children’s Building. On Sunday, they will pack the sanctuary to hear the 300-voice Rehoboth choir and orchestra and Lee’s sermon, which will be broadcast on TV stations in 38 states. Many will return that night to hear gospel stars Gary McSpadden and Babbie Mason in concert.

About 200 people will worship at the Sunday service at Oakhurst, a nondescript brown brick building on the east side of the city. Bible classes and summer children’s programs will be conducted in the church basement, where homeless men sleep every night. The congregation won’t hear from any big-name gospel stars. There is no orchestra. But many church members will be on the altar this Sunday, taking part in an unorthodox service built around a parody of the prodigal son story that was first broadcast on Garrison Keillor’s “Prairie Home Companion” radio show.

On the Saturday before the service, the basement at Oakhurst echoes with the squeals of a dozen grade-schoolers as volunteer Doris Griffin shows them how to weave hundreds of rubber bands into what she calls “Thai jump ropes.” The 28-year-old daughter of missionaries, Griffin has a strong claim to Southern Baptist tradition.

“I am dyed-in-the-wool Baptist,” she says, pronouncing it “Babtist” in true Southern style. “I don’t know if all other religious affiliations are felt so strongly, or even if it’s healthy to feel this way. But that’s the way I have always felt. I am a Southern Baptist, and I’m proud of it.”

Griffin says she’s most proud of the Baptist tradition of individualism and independence. Generations of Baptists have believed in the “priesthood of the believer”--the notion that each member of a church is autonomous in matters of faith. This individualism distinguished early Baptists and explains why they did not establish a church hierarchy that would have power over local churches and believers. Under fundamentalist leadership, however, this independence has been restrained. In 1987, the Southern Baptist Convention adopted guidelines requiring all denomination officials to believe in a literal reading of the Bible. Fundamentalists see the statement as a way to purge the convention of reckless biblical interpretation. Opponents say it is anti-Baptist.

“I couldn’t pass the test, and my parents couldn’t pass it either,” says Griffin, who sits at a long table beside 5-year-old Jakea and 7-year-old Takeesha, knitting rubber bands. Griffin says that the fundamentalist test violates the priesthood of the believer and challenges generations of Baptist tradition.

“I hesitate now when I say I’m a Southern Baptist because the Southern Baptist community I knew is disappearing,” she adds. “It seems like an awful lot of people have been hoodwinked by a minority of fundamentalist preachers. But even though that explains what is happening, it doesn’t get rid of the feeling that I’ve lost my church.” As a child, Griffin listened to traditional hymns and Bible stories that shaped her very identity. “Always, that identity included being a Southern Baptist,” she says, her voice shaking ever so slightly. “It’s a hard thing to give up. But I don’t feel welcome anymore, so maybe I have to.”

As Griffin talks, Takeesha, Jakea and the others tease and scuffle with each other. Griffin brings them to order with a clap of her hands. Soon she has them singing “Jesus Loves Us, Every One,” and afterward, she shows them Thailand on a map to preface a story about a 5-year-old girl named Boom-boom who had been her friend when Griffin’s family was based in Thailand. In the story, Boom-boom brings her mother to church so that she, too, can become a Christian.

“She told her that God loved her!” Griffin says excitedly. She may be sad about leaving the Southern Baptist fold, but Griffin still finds power in basic Christian faith. “This was an idea that Boom-boom’s mother had never heard before! She went to Sunday school and heard about God and felt wonderful. So when you go to Sunday school, think of Boom-boom and remember that God loves us and cares about us and wants us to love one another.”

SUNDAY SCHOOL, FOR ADULTS AS WELL AS CHILDREN, IS THE heart of Southern Baptist life. At Rehoboth, more than 50 classes meet every weekend in a modern classroom building that is bigger than many of the area’s high schools. There are classes for every imaginable group: single men and single women, toddlers and kindergartners, teens, senior citizens, the recently divorced and the newly married.

In a class for newlyweds, one of eight assistant pastors helps couples apply the Bible to everything from the family budget to sex. The Rev. David Self, a young man with a thin mustache and a linebacker’s build, greets his 24 students with a broad smile as he passes out pastry and coffee. They assemble their chairs in a circle in a brightly lighted classroom with walls the color of broiled salmon. All the women wear bright summer dresses--pastels and flower-prints. The men all wear ties.

Self begins with a prayer to “the blessed controller of all things,” thanking Him for the success of the pastors’ conference. Then he announces that he’s going to talk about “how we get our needs met in marriage.” The language of pop-psychology--”get our needs met”--is used freely by Baptist ministers, especially those who hope to build huge congregations by providing services to church members. Lee knows the concerns of the young adults with families who pack his church and preaches often on matters relating to individual self-esteem and relationships.

In the class, Self cites the case of a hypothetical unhappy couple. The wife complains that her husband spends much more time at work than he does at home, and she’s becoming resentful. Several women in the class nod knowingly. Their husbands sheepishly stare at their shoes. When the story is finished, Self asks the class to give the Christian solution to the couple’s problem. Before anyone can speak, he reminds them that there are only a few correct answers because “the platform of truth is not all that wide.” After an uneasy silence, a woman named Kelly shyly offers an answer.

“If he’s not there, your husband, I mean, there’s always God. You always know that God will listen to you. Sit yourself someplace alone and talk with God. Christ alone can give you security.”

Self likes this answer. He suggests that the biblical solution to such problems lies in doing more to meet our spouses’ needs, even if we feel wronged. “Remember, that ring means we’re in this for life,” he says. “Withdrawal from your mate is falling off the narrow platform of truth. Christ is going to meet every one of our needs, if we just let Him.”

When Sunday school ends, the newlyweds file out, joining the men, women and children who are leaving other brightly lighted classrooms and heading for the huge Rehoboth sanctuary. A wide, quiet river of well-dressed people flows down a long hallway and empties into the broad expanse of the church, with its vaulted ceilings and high windows. The choir is taking its place. So is the orchestra.

This Sunday’s service is typical for Rehoboth and other conservative mega-churches throughout the South. With TV cameras recording every moment of Lee’s weekly national broadcast, the musicians and singers perform with professional style. Then Lee offers a sermon that might be called a “faith-builder.” He describes a loyal Baptist whose faith is wobbling on the edge of doubt. He suggests that the Christian in doubt open his mind to accept God, and then close it to keep out the devil.

“I want you to listen if you’re in that valley of doubt, in that valley of fear,” Lee says in a cadence that recalls classic Southern preaching. “Listen to what God said. Faith starts in the mind. The mind is the gateway to the heart.” But because the world is filled with unchristian ideas, Lee suggests that the gateway be guarded at all times. “Protect your mind from the world and the things that Satan may bombard your mind with,” he says.

Lee has no doubts about the evils of the world and Satan’s presence in everyday life. And he sees strict fundamentalism, presented forcefully, as the best antidote. “In the 1960s, Christianity became subjected to the pseudo-intellectualism of academics,” Lee had said in an interview before the service. Liberal theology professors have cast doubt on the Bible’s stories of creation, the virgin birth, even the Resurrection. They suggest that much of Scripture should be taken not as literal truth but as story. “But the fundamentals don’t change, and people knew that,” Lee said. “That’s why they are drawn to the conservative churches and to conservative pastors who are bold men--men without fear of challenge. Most of those who are moderate to liberal are not such men.”

The strength of Lee’s leadership is apparent in his church. When he cites a Scripture, hundreds of pages flap as the faithful quickly look it up. This minister operates according to a framed quotation that hangs on his office wall, one that describes the pastor’s pulpit as a throne. “He stands in Christ’s stead,” says the rest of the inscription. “His message is the Word of God.”

Later in the afternoon, as hundreds return for the Gospel music program, a handful of church members sit at a table in one of the classrooms. Asked about Lee’s confident, even forceful, teaching style, 36-year-old Michael Schmid says he finds it a refreshing change from the uncertainty of life.

“There’s been a lot of change; life is much tougher nowadays with things like divorce and two-income families,” Schmid says, touching the arm of his wife, Debbie. “I was relieved to find a place where people knew that everything in the Bible is literally true. It gives you something to hold onto. The world has enough problems. The Bible has answers.”

The Schmids and the others in the room say that abortion, teen pregnancy, social acceptance of homosexuality and AIDS are evidence of a society run amok. AIDS and homosexuality may be prominent in the minds of the Rehoboth Baptists today because they are part of the top story in the morning news. A local chapter of the gay-rights group called Queer Nation had staged a protest at a restaurant that refused to hire anyone who appeared to be gay. More than a dozen people were arrested. Many fundamentalists consider AIDS as God’s punishment for homosexuality and, they argue in this meeting, the epidemic confirms their literal belief in the Bible.

“People need to be told, clearly, the basics of what’s right and wrong,” adds Debbie Schmid, a petite 36-year-old woman. “It’s not good guidance for children to be told to figure things out for themselves.” Debbie, a former Methodist, also finds that the people at Rehoboth support her decision to be a full-time mother. She has four children and does not work. “Feminism pushed women to be like men,” she says. “I wanted to be a wife and mother. I think there’s value in that, too.”

No one in the room expresses remorse about the Southern Baptists’ impending breakup. Larry Blenk, who, like Michael Schmid, is a former Catholic, says the moderates “have been trying to drag down God’s word.” As he talks, Blenk, 33, holds a packet labeled “Survival Kit for New Christians.” It is filled with booklets and tracts that Rehoboth gives to new members. “I desire to do the right things in life, and in order to know what that is, I need to be where the Bible is taught as truth,” he adds. “The moderates were confusing things. We don’t need them.”

For the most part, these members of Rehoboth are like the winners of a real war. They are convinced that the fundamentalists’ dominance proves that they are on the side of right. “Southern Baptists love God and love their country,” Schmid says. “Our support for Republicans or for Operation Desert Storm isn’t really political. It’s just that patriotism and conservative politics are closest to Christianity. The moderates departed from that. It would be better if they just left the convention.”

That evening, the peculiar blend of patriotism and religion that distinguishes the remade Southern Baptist Convention is displayed at the gospel concert. Hundreds of people come to hear McSpadden work his way through some religious standards. The concert is a rather bland affair until McSpadden, a tall man with thick black hair, begins talking about the recent war in the Persian Gulf.

“I love this country,” he says, his voice cracking with emotion. “We’re the most blessed people that ever lived on the face of this earth.” As the recorded background music swells, McSpadden begins to sing the Lee Greenwood hit, “God Bless the USA.” Suddenly the audience comes alive, and a thousand voices join the chorus: “And I’m proud to be an American, where at least I know I’m free.” They can be heard outside, even in the farthest reaches of the parking lot.

ON A DAY WHEN REHOBOTH RINGS WITH PATRIOTIC SONG, THE American flag is conspicuously absent from Oakhurst Baptist Church. The pastor and members of Oakhurst are as firm in their commitment to the separation of church and state as Schmid is in his belief that Christianity and right-wing politics are one and the same. Oakhurst parishioners are also dedicated to experimenting with Sunday services. One Sunday a month, for example, Pastor Peters sits in the congregation, ceding his pulpit to a lay person. The church also allows children to participate in services.

“Oakhurst is as liberal as a Southern Baptist congregation can be,” observes Albert Mohler, editor of the Christian Index, an Atlanta-based newspaper for Southern Baptists. “If you visit Rehoboth and then Oakhurst, you will see the difference. It’s theological, and it’s cultural, as well. These two groups don’t read the same books or watch the same movies. They really can’t even talk to each other.”

If bumper stickers are any measures, Mohler is right. At Rehoboth, the cars in the parking lot are plastered with Desert Storm bumper stickers and others such as “God Said It. I Believe It. That Settles It.” At Oakhurst, the cars in the tiny lot sport stickers such as “Think Globally, Act Locally” and “Pray for Peace.”

In the church, the differences between Oakhurst and Rehoboth are even more apparent. The congregation at Oakhurst is smaller than the choir at the church across town. It is also less formally dressed. While some older members arrive in their Sunday best, the younger men wear jeans and ponytails. Young women come to pray in sports clothes and sneakers. Although they are an informal group and their numbers are small, they are more active than their conservative counterparts in the service. A dozen people are gathered around microphones on the altar, ready to perform the “Prodigal Son” radio play.

“This parable is one of a series that was written when the scribes noticed that Jesus tended to hang out with a lot of unsavory characters, like publicans and harlots,” Peters explains as he introduces the play, which has a special poignancy for Baptist moderates, especially during a week when they felt unwelcome at their own denomination’s annual convention.

In the Oakhurst version of the story, a young man named Wally leaves his father’s farm to enjoy the bright lights of the big city. “Wally is the groovy and sophisticated son who says that life is a feast if you know where to find it,” the narrator says. When his party-animal lifestyle runs amok and the only work he can get is as an “intern swine feeder,” Wally returns to his father. He brings with him Wanda, a young lady of questionable virtue, and a gaggle of young women he introduces as “the Five Foolish Virgins.” The father welcomes them all with open arms. Ernie, the responsible son, protests.

“It’s crazy to reward Wally’s foolish behavior,” he whines.

Nevertheless, the father provides a feast--complete with fatted calf--for Wally, Wanda and the virgins. And he explains to Ernie that the repentance of a single sinner is as much an occasion for rejoicing as the loyalty of a steadfast son.

When the play is over and the applause fades, children pass baskets for the collection. When they are done, two of them, little girls, say a brief prayer--”God, please take these gifts and use them to help other people.” On any Sunday, Oakhurst may take in $2,000 or so. Rehoboth will collect $75,000 or more.

After the service, the aisles of the church jam with people who don’t seem eager to leave. One of the older members, 67-year-old Walker Knight, looks around and notes that many in this flock came to Oakhurst after being disenchanted with more conservative churches. “That’s why some people call us ‘Last Chance Baptist Church,’ ” he says, smiling. Knight says that many congregation members are college professors, teachers or health-care workers. “They are in the caring professions,” he says. “They need the support they get here.”

The members of Oakhurst represent the intellectual class in Southern Baptist life. Many come from families with deep Baptist roots. Historians generally agree that two streams of Southern Baptist culture developed when Northern and Southern Baptists split over the issue of slavery. Sociologist Nancy Ammerman of Emory University found one group to be represented by conservative rural and suburban churches, where the preacher is likely to be self-educated or trained in a Bible college and the congregation tends to be middle class. The other side of the Southern Baptist culture is made up of more liberal, urban congregations where the pastors are likelier to have degrees from prestigious seminaries. Their members tend to be more highly educated and to hold white-collar jobs. Inspired by the civil-rights movement, this liberal wing engineered some dramatic changes in the 1960s. Under its leadership, the convention dropped its opposition to integration and funded black activists in inner cities. Many pastors even criticized America’s involvement in Vietnam. In recent years, moderates and liberals have distinguished themselves from conservatives by welcoming women ministers and openly homosexual members and by providing direct services to people with AIDS and the homeless.

“We led the churches to be more open, to be more socially aware,” recalls Knight, who was editorial director for one of the Baptists’ most widely read magazines through the ‘60s and ‘70s. “We pushed and we pushed. Perhaps it was too much, too soon. Now we have to deal with what’s happened since the backlash. The Southern Baptist Convention was home for us, but it’s gone now. It’s not even there for us to go back to,” he says sadly.

Knight, a respected observer of the denomination for 30 years, expects that as many as 3 million Southern Baptists will leave the convention to join the Cooperative Baptist Fellowship, which holds its national meeting next spring in Fort Worth. “These are my roots. Leaving would be like denying my mother and father,” Knight says. “But we all need a church that can be a nurturing place. There’s been enough hurt.”

WHEN THEY LEAVE THE Southern Baptist Convention, Walker Knight and his moderate friends will take with them not only the best Baptist universities but also many of the denomination’s better-known theologians and the histories of hundreds of older congregations such as Oakhurst, which have helped shape Baptist culture and Protestantism in the South. In forming a new denomination, the moderates may become more powerful, especially if they follow through on plans for an alliance with black Baptist churches and the American Baptist Churches, which represents the Northern Baptists who split from the South before the Civil War. With these allies, the moderates may offer a new definition of Baptist and a voice for their version of Christianity.

For their part, the fundamentalists can claim an historic victory: They have created a purely conservative Southern Baptist Convention that is now the dominant force in the American Christian Right. They also have the opportunity to guide an entire major denomination by fundamentalism. And they intend to use their power and authority to build more and larger conservative institutions--they want to influence legislation, elect politicians, outlaw abortion and the teaching of evolution and reinstate prayer in schools. And within Christianity, they hope to push all denominations, at home and abroad, toward biblical literalism, rolling back the gains of feminism and the gay-rights movement. Ultimately they hope to create, for their convention members and the rest of the country, a 1950s America.

Other American churches have had to deal with similar internal conflicts. The Episcopalians, Presbyterians, Lutherans, Methodists and others have struggled to find ways to cope with diversity. But only the Southern Baptist Convention has rejected diversity in favor of fundamentalist certainty. With the fundamentalist revolution complete, Lee says the convention will enter an era of “peace and soul-saving.” He may be overly optimistic. As author Barnhart says, fundamentalists “tend to war among themselves.” Already there are conflicts brewing among those who disagree over finer points of belief, such as whether God created heaven and earth in seven 24-hour days, or if the world is more than 10,000 years old. As different factions seek to further purify the denomination, they may splinter the convention even more. The result would be an even smaller Southern Baptist Convention, one that ultimately would have less influence on the American religious scene.

With the apparent strength of the fundamentalist movement, it is hard to imagine its decline. But as James Wall, editor of the Protestant magazine Christian Century, says, “Religion moves in cycles, just like history.” The time will come when, as in the civil-rights era, old certainties no longer work. The Southern Baptists will need the creative spark provided by those who can question tradition and interpret an ancient religion in modern terms. “The conservatives won’t be able to admit it now,” Wall says. “But there is strength in diversity, and they will miss it one day.”

There is also strength in sheer numbers: During another time of crisis, when the battle over teaching evolution ended with the Scopes monkey trial and left conservative Christians feeling battered and belittled, they took solace in their still-substantial community of faith. Now, with an increasingly secular society posing even more difficult challenges, Christians need shelter as much as ever. Like a divorced couple who come to regret their breakup, the Southern Baptists could find themselves yearning for the days when they fought among themselves but faced the world together.