On the evening of July 17, 1980, in Detroit’s Joe Louis Arena, Ronald Reagan delivered his acceptance speech for the Republican Party’s presidential nomination. Addressing a crowd of typically raucous delegates and a national television audience, Reagan was approaching the end of his speech when he departed from the prepared remarks he had supplied to the news media, a move certain to capture journalists’ attention. Reagan abruptly said: “I have thought of something that is not part of my speech and I’m worried over whether I should do it.” He paused, then continued:

Can we doubt that only a Divine Providence placed this land, this island of freedom, here as a refuge for all those people in the world who yearn to breathe freely: Jews and Christians enduring persecution behind the Iron Curtain, the boat people of Southeast Asia, of Cuba and Haiti, the victims of drought and famine in Africa, the freedom fighters of Afghanistan and our own countrymen held in savage captivity.

He went on: “I’ll confess that”—and here his voice faltered momentarily—“I’ve been a little afraid to suggest what I’m going to suggest.” A long pause ensued, followed by this: “I’m more afraid not to. Can we begin our crusade joined together in a moment of silent prayer?” The entire hall went silent, and heads bowed. Reagan then concluded: “God bless America.”

It was grand political theater. It was a moment when religion and partisan politics were brought together through mass media as never before. It was a moment when religious conservatives became a political force in the United States. It was, simply put, a moment when a new religious politics was born.

It also was strategic to the hilt. Modern political communications are carefully scripted and rehearsed, with meticulous management of every detail—from the knowing smiles and poignant pauses to the clothes worn, backdrops used, and words chosen. The Reagan campaign and presidency did not create this dynamic, but they perfected it.

The 1980 campaign was Reagan’s third run for the White House, and his message was sharp this time out. His advisers had put his convention speech through five drafts over six weeks to make sure it appealed simultaneously to Christian conservatives—fundamentalists and evangelicals who had come together to form a crucial voting bloc—and to the broader American public. When the moment arrived, the former Hollywood actor and two-term California governor offered a vision of America grounded in faith and morality, punctuated by his closing words and polished delivery. All of it came through.

Consider the reaction of Newsweek magazine: “In a rite as peaceful and as triumphal as a beatification, the Republican Party finally anointed Ronald Reagan as its Presidential nominee last week and sent him forth on what he called a ‘crusade’ to save America from its recent past.”

In a similar vein, Washington Post media critic Tom Shales said: “A more than faintly religious tone is being maintained by the Reagan candidacy. He has spoken repeatedly of leading a ‘crusade,’ and beginning a crusade with prayer is not exactly unheard of in the old history books. At times, the convention resembled the new breed of evangelical talk shows carried on TV stations throughout the country.”

Reagan’s message found both of its intended audiences. In a poll of the general public taken in the days following the GOP convention, 67% expressed a favorable reaction to the event. Four months later, Reagan won the presidency with a coalition that included a significant number of evangelicals. In succeeding years, conservative Catholics joined them, drawn by the same blending of morality, faith, and nation that Reagan offered. A new era of religious politics had arrived—to the delight of many, to the chagrin of others, and with enduring impact on all.

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Twelve years later, it was the Democratic Party’s turn. Having endured three terms of Republican rule in the White House, Democrats in 1992 saw an opportunity for revival in a sagging economy and an election season turned on its head by the on-again, off-again saga of Ross Perot’s third-party candidacy.

For three presidential elections, Democrats had done little to publicly appeal to religious Americans. In his party nomination acceptance address in 1980, the pious Jimmy Carter made no mention whatsoever of God. Walter Mondale in 1984 and Michael Dukakis in 1988 made between them only a handful of religious references.

In 1992, however, Bill Clinton, the Arkansas governor upon whom Democrats had pinned their hopes, decided to travel a very different pathway in his challenge to Republican president George H. W. Bush. Clinton selected Al Gore as his running mate to produce the first all–Southern Baptist presidential ticket in the nation’s history—a choice that captured the attention of this traditionally conservative religious community.

Further, from the opening gavel, the Democratic Party’s national convention at New York’s Madison Square Garden struck a decidedly religious tone. Speakers from Jesse Jackson to Mario Cuomo wove faith into their addresses. The result, one commentator put it, was that the convention felt “like a cross between the Academy awards, a Las Vegas nightclub act and a religious revival meeting.”

On the convention’s final night, July 16, 1992, Clinton brought it to a crescendo. He centered his acceptance speech on “the New Covenant”—a phrase rich in biblical grounding, most notably in the words of Jesus at the Last Supper. The New Covenant, Clinton said, was to be “a solemn agreement between the people and their government” that would undergird his plans to address the nation’s economic woes, balance the budget, improve education, and expand health care. Clinton also quoted Scripture, spoke of the importance of religious faith, and invoked God several times.

The address reached its peak when Clinton expressed his desire for a more inclusive U.S. society, saying: “There is no them, there is only us.” With the audience chanting “us,” Clinton’s pacing became more deliberate. “One nation,” he began. Each word came slowly: “Under God”—and here he let slip enough of his Southern drawl to momentarily extend the word God—“indivisible.” The audience took its cue, and joined Clinton for the exclamation point: “With liberty and justice for all!” As the crowd erupted, Clinton hammered home his vision for America: “That—That, is our Pledge of Allegiance, and that’s what the New Covenant is all about.” Twelve years nearly to the day from Reagan’s 1980 address, Clinton had delivered a speech with a similar combination of faith, morality, and nation.

Clinton’s message was impossible to miss. The New York Times characterized the speech as “steeped in the values of faith and family,” and a Chicago Sun-Times commentator quipped that Clinton “quoted Scripture almost as much as [evangelist] Robert Schuller on Sunday morning TV.”

Conservatives were immediately concerned. Vice president Dan Quayle accused Clinton of taking a page out of the Republicans’ book, fundamentalist preacher Jerry Falwell charged Clinton with “misquoting and manipulating the Holy Scripture for political purposes,” and televangelist and one-time GOP presidential candidate Pat Robertson said Clinton’s use of the phrase New Covenant was a sort of “pseudo-Christianity” that bordered on blasphemy.

Clinton was not cowed. Within days, he was in a Presbyterian church in West Virginia fielding questions about his faith—a conversation broadcast over the Vision Interfaith Satellite Network to more than 15 million homes nationwide. All of this prompted the Boston Globe to declare, “After years of secular squeamishness, the Clinton-Gore ticket is bringing God and country back to the Democrats.”

It is no coincidence that the only successful Democratic presidential candidate since 1976 was one willing and able to present himself to the public in religious terms. Clinton had well learned what has become perhaps the most important lesson in contemporary American politics: to compete successfully, politicians need not always walk the religious walk, but they had better be able to talk the religious talk.

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