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More God, Less Crime

Why Faith Matters and How It Could Matter More

Templeton Press

The Last Acceptable Prejudice

IN AN UNUSUAL but relevant twist, I want to begin this book by sharing in this first chapter a personal experience of mine as a college professor very early in my career. Though I have rarely discussed the experience, it is relevant and informs my predictions regarding the reception—negative and positive—I expect to receive for More God, Less Crime.

I come from a large, close-knit Christian family where faith was paramount and the role of education was highly valued. My father was a college professor, and my mother an elementary school teacher. As long as I can remember, the expectation in our home was that each of my siblings (four sisters and two brothers) and I would not only go to college but also to graduate school. And we did.

After graduating from college in three years with a degree in psychology, I immediately enrolled in graduate school and began working on a master's degree in psychology at Middle Tennessee State University (MTSU). After completing my first year of graduate studies, I took a job as a parole officer working for the Tennessee Department of Corrections. I enjoyed the work, and I quickly realized that I needed to shift my educational pursuits from psychology to criminology.

My newfound interest in criminal justice caused me to consider entering a second graduate program in criminology at the University of Tennessee–Chattanooga (UTC). I had to quit the probation job in order to enroll as a full-time student at UTC while completing my thesis at MTSU. I would graduate with a master's degree from MTSU and UTC on consecutive weekends in August 1980.

I moved to Tallahassee two weeks later to begin work on a PhD in criminology at Florida State University (FSU). The choice was an easy one for me. FSU is in the same region of the country as my hometown of Cleveland, Tennessee, and the School of Criminology was widely recognized as offering one of the top programs in the country. I quickly stood out among the cohort of graduate students entering the program as someone who was devoutly religious and had a clean-cut image. I got along well with my fellow graduate students and liked the professors whom I would study under for four years. Though I never felt discriminated against because of my faith, it's fair to say that a few faculty eyebrows raised when I selected religion as my substantive area of study within criminology. Why would anyone select religion as an area of research to pursue? No one had selected this area before, and research on the topic was virtually nonexistent. To his credit, my major professor, Dr. Marc Gertz, fully supported my interest in religion, and he agreed that the scarcity of research on religion and crime was reason enough to pursue the topic.

In 1984 I married, completed my dissertation, and received a tenure-track job appointment in criminal justice at the University of Dayton. I thoroughly enjoyed teaching at Dayton, but a heavy teaching load (four courses per semester) made it difficult to make research the priority I knew it needed to be. After teaching for two years I accepted a tenure-track job at Memphis State University (now the University of Memphis). When I told the dean of Dayton's College of Arts of Sciences, Frank Lazarus, of my job offer at Memphis, he asked if I would consider staying at Dayton, and that he was ready to counter the Memphis offer. I explained that the decision wasn't based on money, but a reduced teaching load and the opportunity to be in a department with a graduate program—factors I was certain would enhance my research productivity. Dean Lazarus indicated he was sad to lose me, stating that while I wasn't of their religious tradition (Dayton is Catholic), I affirmed their tradition and would be sorely missed.

I became a member of the Criminal Justice Department at Memphis in the fall of 1986, and was actively engaged in research, teaching, and service—the three criteria for determining tenure and promotion decisions. Although these three activities are theoretically equal, it is widely understood that far more weight is given to research than teaching or service. "Publish or perish" is an adage commonly accepted within the academic community, especially research universities. Indeed, very few people are denied tenure because they teach poorly or provide little service. Most research universities now instruct junior faculty to avoid service and regularly provide reduced teaching loads initially, making it easier for young faculty to get a quick start on publishing, and hopefully improving the likelihood they won't perish.

My wife and I fell in love with Memphis and planned to stay there. By all accounts I was doing well as an assistant professor. I had very high teaching evaluations, was publishing one or two articles per year in refereed journals, and, to my knowledge, received the first federal grant in the history of the Criminal Justice Department. I was involved in a number of departmental committees and got along with faculty colleagues in my department.

Though my progress seemed to be superior, the department chair's evaluations of me were only average. It became increasingly obvious that being an outspoken Christian agitated the department chair. Forming a Christian faculty fellowship accented his frustration, especially when it became a vibrant presence on the campus. My religious activities, coupled with my research on religion, became an increasing source of resentment for the chair. He told me emphatically that none of my publications appearing in sociology journals focusing on religion would count toward tenure. It did not matter that the journals were peer-reviewed or had excellent standing. As a result, for the next several years I only submitted articles for publication having nothing to do with religion. I changed my entire research agenda for two years—forgoing studies on religion and crime—in an effort not to jeopardize my case for tenure. Colleagues at other universities, some who were religious and others who clearly were not, uniformly expressed shock that a department chair would say an article published in a scholarly journal would not count toward tenure because the subject matter involved religion. They assured me it would be impossible not to have those publications considered during the tenure review process.

In early May 1990, after turning in final grades for the spring semester, the department chair walked into my office with a big smile on his face and handed me a letter from the university president. He stood there and watched me open and read the letter. He stayed in my office until I was finished reading the letter. It was a nonrenewal letter. I had been fired. With a victorious grin, he then turned and walked out of my office without saying anything. I was stunned and devastated. Though I had known the chairperson would not do me any favors when I applied for tenure in the fall—just three months away—I never remotely suspected something like this was possible. I immediately drove home to break the news to my wife. We were heartbroken. We had three kids (ages five, three, and twenty-two months) and had not planned on ever leaving Memphis, much less having to leave academics altogether. After all, how would I be able to get another academic appointment after being fired?

Reading the faculty policy manual I discovered that in the event of termination, there was still the opportunity to meet and discuss the nonrenewal with one's respective dean as well as the university provost. I immediately scheduled an appointment with the dean of the College of Arts and Sciences. The meeting lasted every bit of two minutes. I simply asked why I was terminated considering that my student evaluations were high, I had been publishing journal articles in refereed journals, had been awarded a federal grant, was active in university and community service, and had received average evaluations from the department chair. He simply said, "I don't need to have a reason."

Bewildered, I responded, "You're not going to give me a reason?"

He answered, "I can let you go if I don't like the color of your eyes."

The department chair and dean had obviously talked at length about my situation, and I was certain my religious beliefs and activities had frustrated or embarrassed the dean as much as the chairperson.

I next scheduled an appointment with the provost, the second most powerful person on campus. I was optimistic about meeting with the provost because he had on occasion attended the Christian Faculty Fellowship I helped start, and I considered him a friend. As a result of our interaction through the Christian Faculty Fellowship, at his request I agreed to teach a Sunday school class at his church several years earlier. I was certain that meeting with the provost would clear any misunderstanding, and he would quickly realize my termination was a mistake and could not be supported since I had excelled in teaching, research, and service—the three criteria used for evaluating faculty.

I was heartened when he started the meeting by stating he felt bad about the termination and that he hadn't been sleeping well because of it. He indicated he had essentially signed off on a decision that the department chair and the dean of the College of Arts and Sciences supported. I reviewed my record with the provost and indicated I was confident of getting tenure if allowed to apply for it in three months. I also indicated that if he would agree to reverse the termination decision, I would even be willing to waive all rights to appeal, in the event I was turned down for tenure. He said he would consider the matter and get back to me. I left the provost's office feeling like my prospects had improved dramatically and that he was going to reverse his earlier decision.

I waited to hear from the provost and told colleagues, friends, and family I felt the decision would be reversed. As it turns out, I never did hear back from the provost. With the fall semester just days from starting, I scheduled an appointment to see him again. This meeting had a far different feel from the first. He started the meeting by saying he had considered the matter and his previous decision to terminate would stand. He then said, "Byron, I really like you. You're a very nice guy—an honorable person. But the reality is you simply don't fit in here." He then asked if he could give me some personal advice. "I think you need to consider getting a job teaching at some small Christian college, because that's where you'll really fit in."

I responded, "I don't want to teach in a small Christian college. I've done a good job here, and I'm qualified to teach here or another major university."

The provost then added, "Can I be honest with you? If you do end up at another state university, you are going to have the same problem you've had here."

I remember thinking to myself at that moment, He's essentially saying the "problem" has nothing to with my research, teaching, or service. It was all about my visibility as a Christian. The pivotal point of the conversation happened when I responded, "If I were a Marxist we wouldn't even be having this conversation, would we?"

The provost nodded in agreement and stated, "You simply run against the grain ... and you need to end up at a place where your beliefs are a better fit than they are here."

Somehow I mustered up enough nerve to say, "I disagree completely. I am going to get hired at another state university, and I am going to be successful."

Looking back, I genuinely think he hoped I was right, but I knew he thought I was wrong. We shook hands, and the brief meeting was over. Following the meeting with the provost, I was already second-guessing my bold prediction about being able to land a job at another state university. I thought to myself, Who would want to hire someone who got a terminal contract without even getting the opportunity to apply for tenure?

Despite my fears I did go on to fulfill my promise to the provost. Within nine years I had helped to establish a major research center at the University of Pennsylvania to study the role of religion in urban society. Although my story took place twenty-one years ago, I tell it here because it exemplifies the kind of antipathy toward religion that unfortunately still pervades secular institutions and prevents them from acknowledging the positive role that religion can play in public life.

And even though my experiences at Penn were largely positive, I believe much of the research we produced made Penn colleagues and administrators uncomfortable. This was because the research we produced continued to find that religion mattered in important and beneficial ways. I believed then, as I do now, that if we could have at least produced some studies documenting religion to be associated with harmful outcomes, Penn would have more intentionally supported the work. As I show in chapter 5, scholars have a hard time documenting that religion is harmful. Thousands of published studies across a diverse range of disciplines find religion, no matter how it is measured, consistently related to positive and beneficial outcomes.

In 2004 I decided to come to Baylor, which was certainly the right choice. Having directed research centers at five different universities, and having interacted with colleagues at scores of other university research centers, I have come to understand that the only way to build and sustain a major research center is to have (1) significant core funding, (2) the unequivocal support of the university administration, and (3) direct and intentional access to donors. Baylor has enthusiastically provided all three, and as a result we continue to expand aggressively our research. With seven distinguished professors, postdocs, graduate students, and close to one hundred resident and nonresident research fellows, the Institute for Studies of Religion (ISR) has become, in less than seven years, the most muscular research center in the world dedicated to the scientific study of religion.

Though it may sound strange, I rarely think back to those days at Memphis State, and I have never been bitter about the experience. How could I? If I hadn't been fired, I might still be there! Writing this chapter has caused me to revisit some of these matters for the first time in twenty years. Looking back, I believe the provost at Memphis State was both spineless and correct in his advice to me. His counsel was essentially this: go teach in a small Christian college because any major university was going to discriminate against me in the same way Memphis State had. This was not only an admission of a very real religious hostility among administrators at Memphis State but, from his point of view, also an indictment of most other major universities.

My twenty-five years of experience within the academy at a wide range of schools confirms that the provost was actually right to suggest that hostility exists toward religion at many American universities. He was right to indicate that a professor who was outspoken about his or her faith would face discrimination. Although I'm no less committed in my faith today than when I received my termination letter in 1990, I am much more careful about how I communicate my faith.

My counsel to young assistant professors is to wait until they have tenure before they become very visible with their faith. Although professors have every right to carry their religious beliefs with them on the college campus, my advice is based on the fact that a distinct antireligious sentiment exists on many campuses, which is especially ironic since so many of our universities started out as religious institutions. The subject of religious discrimination within the academic community is a real one that goes well beyond the scope of this book. However, it is relevant because the hostility I have experienced and observed within the academy looks painfully similar to the discrimination I have witnessed for years against faith-motivated individuals, faith-based organizations, and their faith-infused approaches to any number of social ills.

As a young assistant professor I was making a positive contribution to my discipline and to the life of the university. In the end, it didn't matter because my faith made a few key people uncomfortable. After my departure from Memphis State, I went on to receive recognition for excellence in teaching; my scholarship became recognized within criminology. As evidence of this observation, I was recently asked to write a paper on religion and crime as part of the Presidential Panel series of the 2010 annual meeting of the American Society of Criminology. Francis T. Cullen, a major figure within the field of criminology and former president of the American Society of Criminology as well as the Academy of Criminal Justice Sciences, offered a response to our paper. Cullen admits that despite the empirical evidence indicating religion is important, criminologists have had a blind spot with regard to religion. Cullen states, "The genius of Johnson and Jang's essay, however, is that they ask fellow criminologists to set aside any preexisting predilections and to consider religion in a very secular scientific way."

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Excerpted from More God, Less Crime by Byron R. Johnson. Copyright © 2011 Byron R. Johnson. Excerpted by permission of Templeton Press.
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