My synagogue, the same one I have attended for most of my life, puts a huge emphasis on social justice. Some of my earliest religious memories involve delivering Passover food to lower-middle class elderly Jews. Indeed, most of the volunteering I did growing up was organized by various Jewish organizations in the Chicago area. My religion taught me that we are all created in God’s image, and that we all deserve to be treated with respect. I also learned that the value of giving lay not in some emotional or heavenly reward for oneself, but in the happiness it provided for someone else. These lessons have translated into an urgent desire to make the world a better place, even at the expense of narrow self-interest.

I also attended a Jewish summer camp for six years. My last summer there, I was part of a bi-weekly seminar with the director of the camp. He was a Reform rabbi who grew up Orthodox, the strictest sect of Judaism, and one day he explained to us the reason for his conversion to the Reform movement. He said that, as a Reform Jew, he could observe all the same traditions as when he was Orthodox, but that he now had to decide why he was observing them and choose whether they made sense to him. My upbringing in the Reform tradition, in contrast to the popular caricature of religion as inherently opposed to critical thinking, in fact welcomed challenge and debate, and I became a more open-minded person for it.

Finally, those familiar with the Passover Seder will recognize a phrase that goes something like, “Remember that you were strangers in the land of Egypt.” The story of the Jews’ escape from slavery, at least in my household, always came with a command that we remember the stranger in our midst and inveigh against oppression wherever it may be. And the key saying, “Never forget,” contains a call to vigilant protection of others that we abandon at our, and humanity’s, peril.

For these reasons and others, progressive politics and religion, or mine at least, have more in common than most people care to realize.

However, the past few years have certainly constituted a politically transformative period for me. This is not to say that I have completely pushed myself to one side of the spectrum or that I am completely confident in the permanence of my 19 year-old self’s political views. Meanwhile, various things have taught me to remove myself from the frenzy of politics at times and examine the true roots and meanings of the two communities I love so much. At the end of the day, I have ended up, at least in my opinion, a better Catholic and a better Democrat.

In line with the Catholic faith, I do believe that there is a higher power guides our lives and I truly mean it when I recite the Nicene Creed. However, my respect for the Bible as a “holy” text or for the Ten Commandments as the cardinal rules of living would continue even without the concept of the Holy Trinity or the voice of God that rings through the Bible. To me, Catholicism (and other religions including the various other Christian sectors, Buddhism, Islam, and Judaism) is a representation of our effort to work towards a more decent world. What is truly holy to me is not necessarily the storyline of the Passion or a flawless mass attendance record; rather, it is the idea that through these things, we engrain in ourselves the messages of “Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself” and develop ourselves into more decent members of society. God to me is a representation of the more perfect world we can create as human beings who truly love and care for each other.

I must admit that there are several obstacles that get in the way of signing onto this idea. First (and I say this with all due respect possible), not everyone necessarily takes this step backwards and sees the larger implications of what they consider to be their personal relationships with God. I have too often watched in regret as fellow Christians treated fellow human beings without what is in my opinion proper respect, especially for their choice of whom to love. I do not want to discount the views of other political parties on the subject of gay rights as incompatible with the Christian belief in love. However, I do believe that the manner in which certain groups have decided to state their opinion in this matter have been un-Christian in all ways possible.

Yet it is not as if all of the ideals of the Democratic Party are entirely consistent with Catholic ideas either, especially in the areas of abortion, gay rights, and stem cell research, just to name a few. I do not lean to one side for all of these issues myself. However, I still attend mass because I see it as an opportunity to escape the frenzy of a crazy, selfish, and iCal-centered world and reconnect with the decent side of me that still believes it is important to love the person sitting next to me. And simultaneously, I can call myself a proud Democrat because to me, it is the best political channel through which I personally believe that a change for the better can occur.

The important disclaimer in this article is that I am 19 years old and that the plasticity of my political (and perhaps religious) views still remains quite high. However, one thing that I hope will not change from the way I am right now is my sincere belief that what brings any religion and political view together should be the idea of working towards a better, more decent world. My intuition is that in a world where every single human being sincerely and selflessly loves and cares for each other, we would not need governments or laws. The least we can do in a world that apparently does not run this way is to hold a conscious belief that that world should be our highest and holiest ideal.

The question of whether one’s religion should influence his politics has never really interested me. If he is truly religious, I don’t see how it possibly could not. Political opinions are inherently formed based on a personal value system. Even if one’s opinions are driven by the motivation to do what’s best for everyone, it is impossible to define “best” without establishing a moral basis. For many, this ethical foundation is derived from, or at least in concert with their choice of religion.

However, the question of whether one’s religion should dictate his politics is entirely separate. I think the answer to this question is an unequivocal no. The difference lies in the definition of one’s underlying, core beliefs. If your core beliefs are derived from a sense of morality, however you choose to define it, then you might join the religion that embodies these values, and then vote for the politicians that do that same. In contrast, if one’s core beliefs are derived from the exact phrasing of a book that he did not write, or the tone of a leader who he follows unquestioningly, then in my eyes, that person is a religious fanatic. Such fanatics abandon rationality and cannot be expected to meaningfully contribute to politics.

To those who have browsed the aggressive atheist culture that pervades the Internet, my acceptance of the influence of religion in politics might surprise you. Further, if I understand religion to be the embodiment of moral ideals for many, why would I not subscribe to one myself? The answer is that ever since I declared myself to be an atheist in fourth grade, I have never felt the need for religion. I construct my own ethical framework using logic and philosophy, and I try to revise it everyday. I make moral decisions based on this evolving foundation, and I make political decisions in exactly the same way.

I’d like to leave you with a relevant song by my favorite band:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u4tZlHqBe5Q

Half of my family is from Egypt, where Sharia Law (Islamic law) is now becoming central to the judicial system and the newest constitution. My family is Christian, so how could they or any other non-Muslim Egyptians expect to receive justice in a trial or other legal proceedings if the system supports religious values that disadvantage Christians and other minorities? Sharia Law also does not offers any protection of equality between men and women, so it produces a system of justice that is fundamentally unjust to fifty percent of the population. The affects of theocratic rule can be seen in the persecution of religious minorities, the subjugation of women, and the lack of political representation for minorities and women across the Middle East. My family’s personal experience with this kind of political oppression has undoubtedly shaped my own beliefs that government cannot be tied to religious doctrine. Two of the most important rights in the U.S., freedom of speech and freedom of religion, are protected by the fact that our government does not favor one belief system over another, and so I believe theocracy is fundamentally incompatible with democracy.

At the end of the day, Obamacare might cost some money, but it will save lives—which matters more to you? Immigration reform might make some Americans lose their jobs while giving other people a better life—is that a fair trade? More progressive taxes might “punish” success while letting the poor buy food—is that how you define justice? The logic that reaches these choices isn’t cut and dry, but at the end of the day everyone can look at a bill and predict various outcomes; some good, some bad, and a choice that needs to be made.

Our morality defines how we choose what we want, and a big part of that stems from religion. I’m not “religious,” per se—just a typical non-practicing Catholic—but the hours I’ve spent reading the Gospels inform how I view the world.  The preferential option for the poor, “treat others how you want to be treated,” love thy neighbor, and all the other Christian viewpoints are ingrained in me. This isn’t to say that any other religion has it wrong; from karma to the five precepts, each makes equally valid claims—they’re just different.

This is not, of course, to say that religion should be the entire cause of political views. For example, I’m pro-choice. Though my religious upbringing argues against this view, enough other life experiences (and even some Christian morals) have convinced me that I have no right to tell others what they can or can’t do with their bodies. Religion does not wholly define anyone. As President Kennedy said so eloquently, “where the separation of church and state is absolute, where no Catholic prelate would tell the president (should he be Catholic) how to act, and no Protestant minister would tell his parishioners for whom to vote.” Anyone wishing to live in a nation where the political law equals their religious law should reconsider their mixing of public and private life. Religion ought to be an influence, not an absolute.

Thus, within the realm of politics, I see a middle ground for religion; between the extreme evangelical Jerry Falwell and the strongly secular Bill Maher, religion can help us understand fundamental aspects of our lives. These help define choices we make, and are so foundational to who we are—whether Christian, Jewish, Mulsim, atheist, or otherwise, it’s impossible to separate religion completely from any aspect of life, and politics is no exception.

I have been asked this question at college enough times to be puzzled by it. Am I really that cryptic about my political affiliations? Do I unintentionally rattle off conservative talking points?

The real reason becomes clear with further probing.

“I just figured, what with the whole Catholic school thing…”

So that’s what it is. For some reason, speaking openly about my thirteen happy years in the Catholic school system and my own Catholic faith puts me squarely in the Republican column in the eyes of my peers. I am not petty enough to be insulted by this assumption, but its frequency makes me wonder how American Catholicism became synonymous with the Republican Party platform, especially considering that Catholics broke for Obama in both 2008 and 2012. But more importantly, the conflation of Catholicism and conservatism confounds me because my own political ideology is fundamentally shaped by my religious beliefs.

My political philosophy boils down to one maxim: Love thy neighbor. Across the United States, there are people who embody this principle every day—the people Mr. Rodgers famously called “helpers”. But we can do better. We can fix the crisis of mass incarceration. We can ensure that mothers receive full support with mandatory paid maternity leave. We can address illegal immigration in a way that upholds the dignity of people who risk everything to come to America. We can advocate for life by reducing gun violence in our communities through sensible regulation. We can guarantee that every child, not just the brightest, receives a world-class education. We can make sure nobody is denied access to the healthcare he or she needs. We can apply the radical spirit of egalitarianism that Jesus embodied toward his disciples to every policy we implement. We can feed the hungry. We can give drink to the thirsty. That is what I believe my faith asks of me, and that is why I consider myself a progressive Democrat.

Not every Catholic draws the same political conclusions from their faith, and I don’t ask that they do. The beauty of a God-given intellect and a two-thousand year tradition of scholarship and debate is that we can each develop our own political conscience. That’s precisely why Catholics should not be pigeonholed into a single end of the political spectrum.

The progressive Catholic movement is not as vocal as other political-religious groups, but it exists and it is thriving. Until we become more prominent, I’ll have to wear a button: “Ask Me About My Progressive Catholicism.”

Turkey is ruled by an Islamist party. This is their second term. Not quite surprisingly, they use the religious arguments and images to earn the votes of the majority of the middle and low class. Due to the outside funding they get through a religious cult, they are able to remain economically relatively stable. Moreover, the face of the party, Prime Minister Recep Tayyip Erdoğan, is very good at targeting non-followers: there is a clear distinction between people who support the party, and those who do not. This distinction is shown as a difference in the level of religiosity and faith rather than plain political views. Anyone who criticizes government policy faces consequences as drastic as getting jailed.

My understanding of religion contributing to my political beliefs can better be described as politics interfering with my religious beliefs. In a country where religion is manipulated, it is very hard to establish an objective sense of religion for oneself.

photo: urbanchristiannews.com

House of Cards, Netflix’s $100 million project and the brainchild of Beau Willimon and David Fincher, invites viewers in for a ride in the ruthlessly ambitious mind of a South Carolina congressman. Underwood, who specializes in the backroom politics of Capitol Hill, is the epitome of Cards’ central duality. He exemplifies the nuanced view of politics Fincher’s work presents: a heavy dose of contemporary cynicism dulled by a steady stream of age-old idealism. Painted as both the most corrupt and the most powerful man in Washington, Underwood is simultaneously the immoral bureaucrat of today and the commanding congressman of yesteryear.

Underwood is the point man for Fincher’s Washington critique. Although much of the show’s initial publicity was directed towards the ways that Netflix altered the consumer experience—automatically shortening credits and optimizing episode times to fit trends in its consumer viewing database—the show itself also demonstrates a careful attention to public opinion. Choosing salient political topics as episode fodder (education and environmental policy frame two of the show’s large story arcs), Cards plays directly into contemporary political cynicism. Fincher’s illustration of Washington satisfies every pessimistic vision held by Washington outsiders, sparing no prey in his caustic portrayal of journalists, lobbyists, executives, and even the military.

The Ends Justify the Means

Underwood’s blatant exploitation of both family and friend to reach the top dominates the series’ plot, but the objects of Frank’s wrath are often Fincher’s most frequent targets. The congressman manipulates media coverage through Kate Mara’s Zoe Barnes, a redheaded fireball of ambition whose curt language and je m’en fiche attitude make her the show’s most compelling character. Barnes’ raw lust for prestige jumps off the screen as Mara perfectly balances the professional and edgy aspects of Zoe’s character. Underwood uses Barnes as a media microphone to leak valuable stories; through her, he pens articles that torpedo a secretary of state nomination and release valuable White House documents.

Barnes is the focal point of the show’s derogatory treatment of the news media. Working at the Washington Herald, Barnes’ breaking news stories are treated with suspicion by her coworkers and managing editor. The White House correspondent, Janine Skorsky (Constance Zimmer), cavalierly asks her whom she seduced to get her scoops—pre-empting a later conversation at indie publication Slugline where Skorsky tacitly asserts that a female journalist who doesn’t exploit her body for stories isn’t doing her job correctly. Barnes, who had been maintaining a sexual relationship with Frank that his wife Claire (Robin Wright) was perfectly aware of, reflects on this conversation and discontinues her dalliance with Underwood, who immediately cuts her off from breaking news. The harsh message about female journalists resonates loudly, but Fincher isn’t done. Zoe’s next hookup? Her former colleague at the Herald, a news reporter she exploits in her new quest to unearth the truth behind a dead congressman.

That dead congressman is Pennsylvanian Peter Russo (Corey Stoll), a youthful representative who lives with little regard for those around him. Coming up from working-class South Philadelphia, Russo’s drive to Capitol Hill should be a redemption story. Instead, Fincher conveys Russo’s identity through his addictions to alcohol and cocaine. Caught driving while intoxicated with an escort, Russo is backed into a corner when Underwood pulls up, absolving him of all legal harm at a steep price: a debt to Frank. The debt to Underwood traumatizes Russo throughout the series. While Frank convinces him to get clean by dragging him into myriad political no-win situations, the former alcoholic is forced to swap political integrity for its personal counterpart.

Not only do Russo’s struggles with alcoholism and substance abuse fit into larger suspicions about the morality of elected officials, the way he prioritizes individual goals over his constituency matches contemporary political cynicism. His tragic ending, with the tantalizing twosome of alcohol and ample cleavage ruining the six months of sobriety he built up while running for office, preys on common conceptions about the immorality of politicians.

In an age when satisfaction with the legislators of Capitol Hill is at an all-time low, Cards taps into a reservoir of resentment in its spare-no-prisoners treatment of politics. Claire Underwood’s management of a nonprofit involves about as much emotion as her husband’s management of the country. She begins by firing half of her staff; later, at the expense of torpedoing her husband’s prized energy bill, she accepts money from a company specializing in oil production to fund projects overseas. Her noble intentions are tainted with the unmistakable stain of corruption. Much like every other character in the show, her morals are contingent on her goals and ambitions—she unscrupulously sacrifices integrity in her means to achieve the desired ends.

Claire is not Zoe, in whom Fincher exploits the inconsistency between puerile features and her aggressive and cavalier sexual presence in emotionally unsettling ways. However, Claire’s apathy as she makes her husband into a cuckold while simultaneously maintaining a detachment from her new lover is downright eerie. Her intimacy with Frank resembles more of a business partnership than a marriage; their union is predicated on mutual support and romantically falls apart when business interests conflict. Employing a cynical view of Washington that extends to the bedroom, Cards gives no room for love in sex, only a predominating thirst for power. Here, Frank quotes Oscar Wilde, “everything in the world is about sex except sex. Sex is about power.” Desires for power drive sexual relationships and even the sanctity of marriage is a tryst broken in Fincher’s consummate cynical portrayal of Washington.

An Archaic Conception

For all of its political criticisms, Cards simultaneously harkens back to a forgotten ideal about the America political realm. Although the show preys upon the immoral conceptions Americans hold about Congress, it offers a tacit reassurance of the predominant worry about politicians; namely, that is, Fincher’s characters get things done.

Like the legislators of yore, Underwood is brutal but undeniably effective. Viewed through one lens, the congressman cleverly uses the death of an impoverished schoolchild for political gain, forcing the hand of his union boss opponent. Seen through another, the plea is another ruthless Washington power play. Frank’s tactics are of dubious morality but highly effective. A no-nonsense former militiaman from the South, Underwood presents a brusque tone and aggressive rhetoric that conjure up images of legislative titans like Lyndon Johnson and John C. Calhoun. His syrupy Southern drawl is at odds with his menacing attitude and creates a persona seemingly in tension with itself but also self-serving in his single-minded pursuit.

Frank’s persona reflects the dominant overtone of the series: the quest for power. It manifests itself in Zoe’s endless pursuit of the story and Claire’s emotionless abuse of both her husband and her own employees to further her own ambitions. It manifests itself in Russo’s dogged quest for the governorship and the almost-tangible hunger of Underwood’s ambition. Referenced ceaselessly in his monologues to the audience, Underwood’s preference for power over fame and fortune dominates his personality. In the series’ penultimate episode, locked into war with a billionaire as he is vetted for the vice presidency, Frank makes a haughty comment about his opponent—noting that his wealth is more important as a measure of power than material well-being.

A Reassuring Discomfort

In this way, Cards skirts a tenuous line. At the same time that it fulfills the audience’s skepticisms about politics, it aims to satisfy idealistic beliefs about what politicians can truly be. House of Cards specializes in providing us a moribund version of what we, at our core, want to see. Although Fincher satisfies every deep fear we have about politics in a reassuringly horrific sense, the director assuages our concerns with strong central characters conjuring up utopic ideas of past politicians. Immorality and the thirst for power in Washington may be the dominant themes of Cards, but Spacey’s captivating and dominating Underwood is not long behind. In more ways than one, Netflix tailored the show to the psyches of an American conscious deeply suspicious of politics, simultaneously exploiting our fears while providing a light at the end of the tunnel.

Mormonism Before Romney 

Mitt Romney’s nomination for president of the United States represented the triumph of much more than an individual candidate. The heir to a long history of Mormons in American politics, Mitt Romney represented the culmination of American Mormonism’s ascendancy to acceptance in American culture.

Mormons were persecuted and mistreated throughout most of U.S. history.  During much of the 19th century, the Mormon community was functionally at war with the United States. After a mob killed Mormon leader Joseph Smith in 1844, many Mormons moved westward to escape the American borders of the time. Mormons, one might say, simply left what was then understood as the United States.

Mormon reintegration into American society was long and difficult. The first Mormon elected to Congress was held up for four years before being seated, and charges of polygamy continued to plague the church well into the 20th century (even though the Church outlawed it in 1890). Through a long campaign for acceptance, however, the Mormon community has moved from America’s margins to its center. Mormons now account for 15 sitting members of Congress, the Senate majority leader, and the most recent Republican nominee for President.

Despite enormous progress, American Mormonism continues to face hostility and skepticism. Public polling places Mormons as the third least trusted group in American society, trailing only Muslims and Atheists. In 2007, one-sixth of Americans polled indicated that they would not vote for an otherwise well-qualified Mormon candidate for public office. In a conversation with the Harvard Political Review, Luke Perry, author of Mormons in American Politics: From Persecution to Power called Mormons “the most disliked Christian group in America.” Many Mormons hoped that Mitt Romney’s emergence as a national figure would help to put an end to the prejudices and distrust that continue to plague members of the faith.

The Evolution of Mitt Romney

As he was preparing to run for President in 2008, Mitt Romney and his advisors made the conscious choice to foreground his commitment to cultural conservatism. Opposition to gay marriage and abortion, they hoped, would help Romney connect with Iowa primary voters. As an almost inevitable corollary, his faith, in broad and general terms, formed an important part of his stump speech. The appeal, however, was far from direct in its use of Romney’s Mormon faith.

Conscious of the need to appeal to white evangelicals, a segment of the electorate that polls identify as being among the most skeptical of Mormonism, Romney was careful to focus on cultural conservative credentials rather than specific theological issues. In fact, much of his rhetoric fit more with Evangelicalism than with his own Mormonism. Ben Crosby, a professor at Iowa State University who writes about the intersection of rhetoric and religion, told the HPR that “rather than trying to connect with voters through [Mormonism], Romney tried to paint himself as someone with a more traditional faith.” He hoped his faith was not be disqualifying, but shied away from using it as a lens through which to view his life and values.

The Romney campaign entered the 2012 election with a very different strategy for dealing with the presidential perennial’s faith. Painfully aware of the failed attempts to endear himself to Evangelicals, Romney decided to avoid talking about his religion altogether. He avoided the topic on the trail and requests for comment on his faith went unanswered. “He made a conscious effort not to go that route,” Crosby argues. Gifted with the implosion of a battery of potential opponents, Romney largely managed to skate through the primary process while dodging the topic.

Religion remained a secondary concern throughout most of the general election, as well. Although Romney included some witnesses to his church service at the convention, he kept them out of the valuable primetime slot. Perry and others have concluded that white evangelicals’ overwhelming dislike for the incumbent pushed them into Romney’s corner with minimal need for outreach. Quin Monson, director of the Center for the Study of Elections and Democracy at Brigham Young University, offered the HPR a simple reason why Romney no longer needed to attempt to appeal to skeptical social conservatives: “because the alternative was Barack Obama.”

A Mormon Al Smith?

In the aftermath of the 2012 election, McKay Coppins, the only Mormon reporter to travel with the Romney campaign, published a long-form article on BuzzFeed in which he argued that the campaign had been transformational for how journalists and the country as a whole, viewed the Mormon faith. Referring to Mitt Romney as a “Mormon Al Smith” (Smith was the Catholic 1928 presidential candidate widely credited with demystifying Catholicism for large parts of the country and paving the way for future Catholic candidates), Coppins argues that Romney’s mere presence in the national spotlight forced conversations about Mormonism that have increased America’s comfort with Mormons in politics.

Others take Romney’s approach to religion in 2012 as a sign of increased comfort with Mormonism in general. “He was able to break some ground in 2008,” Perry argues, “so 2012 was easier.” Monson sees a similar effect on the media, noting that by 2012 many journalists had become tired of covering Romney’s religion. Romney was finally free to ignore his faith, like any other Christian candidate, and talk about his real focus, economic issues.

Still, some empirical evidence suggests that talking about his faith wouldn’t have hurt Romney as much as he feared. Matt Chingos, a Brookings Institution fellow, told the HPR that some polls suggest that “among white evangelicals, mentioning any information [about Romney’s Mormonism] seemed to make no difference … among Conservatives, some mention of his faith seemed to increase their support for him quite a bit.” Notably, however, Chingos acknowledged that other studies suggest a Mormon candidate might make voters more likely to support a different candidate, even though his or her faith is not considered disqualifying.

Perhaps most promising for those who hoped the Romney campaign would increase acceptance of Mormonism was the mere symbolism of the election. Romney’s mere existence as a Republican nominee and Mormon might, they hoped, normalize and validate the faith to skeptical audiences. Maybe, Monson mused, the fact that Romney had “run a national campaign where religion wasn’t a big deal makes it easier for the next Mormon with national appeal.” Robert O’Brien, a Romney advisor quoted by Coppins, put the hope succinctly: “it’s going to be a non-event the next time a Mormon runs.” The Mormon transformation from national outcasts to political force seemed complete.

Enduring Challenges

And yet, despite Mormonism’s clear reversal from exodus, Romney’s unwillingness to talk about his faith in open and honest terms might have prevented the sort of progress Coppins and others desired. A Gallup poll asking whether people would support an otherwise qualified Mormon indicates no movement since 1999. Seventeen percent of the country still reports an unwillingness to do so, the same as reported in 1999 and 2007. Despite their willingness to support Romney’s candidacy, white evangelicals remain heavily suspicious of his faith. Half say Mormons are not Christians and two-thirds report feeling that Mormons are “very” to “somewhat different” from the faith.

Romney’s inability to make serious inroads with the evangelical community leaves Mormons facing the same tactical problem that Monson refers to as a “two front war for Mormons.” On the right, any Mormon candidate must contend with significant skepticism from evangelical Christians who aligned with Romney more out of a desire to beat Obama than reconciliation with his beliefs. The left offers a similarly mistrustful secularist constituency, as a group distrustful of Mormonism’s cultural conservatism and religious commitments. Romney’s campaign, which endeared the community neither to the secular left nor the evangelical right, does little to help a future national Mormon candidate navigate this significant disadvantage.

Some blame Romney’s unwillingness to talk about his faith for the lack of movement in Americans’ perception of Mormonism. Americans may have become more comfortable with Mormons as individuals, but they were offered no new narrative to understand the unfamiliar faith in friendlier terms. Terryl Givens, a professor at the University of Richmond who has written extensively on anti-Mormon rhetoric through history, argues that “we’re still left with a horse and buggy problem.” Just as the Amish are reduced to the symbolic horse and buggy, Mormons are “identified with polygamy and magic underwear.”  The election, Givens concludes, “was a missed opportunity for the Mormon people as a whole.”

While the fact that Romney was able to choose to run while avoiding the topic of his faith might represent a positive step for Mormonism, future retrospectives on the campaign will most likely agree that the 2012 election was a lost opportunity for Mormonism and America.