The Way of the Outlier: A Search for Truth in Faith and Politics

I was raised in a loving, compassionate, and stable Christian Science family. Growing up in this faith meant existing on the fringes of mainstream Christianity. Even within this outlier denomination, I was an outlier—no Sunday School teacher was safe from my questions. For me, logic and religion rarely mixed, and despite witnessing and experiencing healing through Christian Science, many of those childhood questions still shape my journey today.

My family has deep American roots. I descend from a long line of Republicans and am a humble member of the Sons of the American Revolution. Both my mother and paternal grandmother belonged to the Daughters of the American Revolution. Patriotism ran strong in my upbringing—my mother even worked on Nixon’s re-election campaign before his resignation. But I was always troubled by the idea that political power was tied to party loyalty. Didn’t all Americans want the best for the country? I quickly learned that the answer was more complicated, and that dualism is an inherent part of politics.

In tenth grade, I attended an evangelical Christian high school, where the “good kids” weren’t my crowd. I wasn’t a bad kid, but my biblical questions and unconventional perspective didn’t sit well with my peers. When my girlfriend invited me to join her family at a revival meeting—with my parents in tow—I experienced a broader view of Christianity beyond my upbringing and the rigid rules of biblical literalism. But standing with my parents in that stadium and contemplating an altar call felt like too much. The evangelical mainstream offered no answers to the essential questions that had followed me since childhood.

I went on to attend a Christian Science liberal arts college, complete Christian Science Class Instruction, and become an active church member. As my understanding deepened—contrasting the Old Testament’s law with the New Testament’s love—so did my questions. After my divorce, many in my church took sides, revealing a painful hypocrisy: love without kindness. I could no longer belong to a faith that proclaimed “God is Love” while practicing exclusion, so I left organized Christian Science behind and became what we now call a “Done.”

This shift opened me to broader spiritual exploration, a study I continue to this day. I discovered that my questions weren’t unique—they had been pondered by great thinkers throughout history. The Greeks gave us dualism; the Taoists defied definition; the world’s monotheistic religions waged endless wars over doctrine.

New Age thought was emerging, but it failed to offer meaningful answers. Even the greatest physicists wrestled with these mysteries, often concluding, “We think this may be true, but we can’t prove it.”

In the late 1980s, a friend introduced me to The Advocates for Self-Government and The World’s Smallest Political Quiz. Out of respect for him, I explored libertarianism. Around the same time, the Republican Party was championing its pro-life stance, and I struggled with the government’s coercive role in such personal decisions.

This led me to the principle of “do no harm.” Regardless of one’s stance on abortion, isn’t harm involved either way? If coercion is added to the equation, doesn’t it magnify the harm? Shouldn’t individuals have the right to make choices based on their own circumstances? Most importantly, what spiritual value is gained by aligning with a political party that enforces coercion?

I still cannot reconcile a personal decision such as abortion with a legal mandate restricting that choice. The individuals involved—mother, father—carry the emotional weight; a government or a church can’t share or absolve that. Any law attempting to define “conception” is a distraction from the personal reality of that choice.

So, I left the Republicans for the Libertarians, where I remained a voting member until recently. Libertarians, at least, lacked the temptation of coercion. Their platform offered more evolved ideas than the two-party system, giving an outlier like me a tentative political home. I could finally vote my conscience without misgivings.

Today, I still identify as a “Done,” though since the mid-2010s, Contemplative Christianity—especially the teachings of Richard Rohr and mystics such as John O’Donohue and Brother Stedl Rast—influences my faith. I focus on practicing at the micro level: one-on-one, with compassion and grace. The macro level—where religion often becomes doctrinally rigid and political—is of little interest to me. Mercy matters more to me than justice.

I believe Jesus’ teachings are meant for those engaging in The Way on a personal level. Attempts to institutionalize Jesus’ message seem often to lead to justification and legalism, the same way biblical literalism alienates metaphysical seekers like me. Many of us became “Dones” because we got lost in debating the precise meaning and provenance of spiritual words, rather than embodying the spiritual meaning behind them. The metaphysical depth of the Aramaic translations of the New Testament—when viewed through the lens of a First Century Follower of The Way—is far more inspiring to me than mainstream doctrine or politically driven religious movements like Project 2025.

As one who prefers to keep his politics and faith separate, the only viable political home for me was and is libertarianism. I still play in a praise band at a Contemplative Christian church, but even there I remain an outsider. I feel a kind of kinship with many “recovering Christians.” And I continue to seek answers to the same lifetime questions that have shaped my journey.

Christ’s emphasis on the individual has influenced my views on abortion, diversity, equity and inclusion, social justice, and human rights, as well as defense of the homeland and active human respect. Compassion must outweigh coercion— period. Libertarian principles, at least, encourage individual action and persuasion at the grassroots level, rather than seeking to impose rigid laws that shift with each election cycle.

I do not believe Christianity—or any faith tradition—is inherently libertarian. I feel that Christian Libertarians embrace a somewhat broader view of compassion, for example, than their two-party colleagues, and do so beyond a strictly Christian framework. That is, I have seen up close and personal the serious harm done by so-called Christians to individuals in marginalized groups, even in their own congregations. Many diverse religions around the world practice a version of the Golden Rule—how do I practice it? Jesus gave us two great commandments—how well do I follow them? How well do the organizations to which I subscribe perform on those metrics?

While still libertarian, I now lean more toward voluntarism. The Libertarian Party is grappling with its relevance, and I have no interest in sorting that out. Nor am I interested in convincing anyone of how politics and faith should mix. I am drawn to political perspectives that value individuals and refuse to sacrifice anyone’s convictions for a shot at political power. Unfortunately, today’s political climate thrives on coercion, which is not a process nor a path grounded in the Golden Rule or Jesus’ teachings. But voluntary, grassroots commitment to do-no-harm principles? That works both personally and politically.

I’ve critiqued the Republican stance on abortion, but both major parties have become increasingly coercive about their beliefs. It is shameful that authoritarianism now dominates American governance. As a voter, I am disheartened by the lack of respect for human dignity across political and religious lines. Libertarianism allows me to align my voluntary political choices with my spiritual convictions and, occasionally, to have offered safety to others whose convictions put them on the wrong side of their party or church doctrine.

This has, of course, subjected me to the same social alienation I once experienced inside the church of my youth and young adulthood. I am not a pariah, and I avoid political fights, but one question remains: What justification does anyone have for

supporting a cause that publicly seeks to harm others who do not share their beliefs? History has shown us the tragic consequences of that path, even in this young experiment in self-governance we call America.

For now, voluntarist libertarianism is the best fit for me—not because it has all the answers, but because it aligns with my values. Contemplative Christianity continues to provide spiritual insight, as long as I can pursue it with occasional fellowship and minimal biblical literalism.

Ultimately, I feel that no single faith will unify civilization, and I believe that’s as it should be. To me, following The Way as Jesus actually taught it means welcoming everyone on their personal journey toward God in whatever way they pursue it, provided their doing so doesn’t harm others. Exclusion just feels wrong to me. Besides, I’d rather spend time with the “bad kids”—the ones without a church or party to call home. They tend to ask the best questions. And, like me, they’re outliers.