**3. The Cruel Optimism of Religious Attachments: Immunity of Community**

With the dangers presented by COVID-19, why then do white Evangelical Christians, in particular, continue to resist vaccination as a matter of principle? Lauren Berlant's idea of cruel optimism and Roberto Esposito's ideas on community and immunity are helpful in formulating a provisional and insightful response to this phenomenon. Religious identity in itself is not harmful, and in fact, is often beneficial in its community building. Rather, it is when religious identity cannot adapt in the face of crisis that the attachment becomes cruel. Embracing an identity that requires one to expose themselves to harmful situations, such as the increased potential of contracting a communicable and severe disease such as COVID-19, is clinging to an optimism that is cruel. In white Evangelical Christians, such attachment is rooted in, and exacerbated by, sociohistorical clashes between their theology and scientific findings. The presumed loss of the community in exchange for immunity is what thwarted many Evangelical Christians from following the risk-minimizing guidelines put forth by the CDC. This common behavior was propagated by two different means, or two different shared laws. First, the allegiance to a respected leader such as a pastor may result in the decision to respect the relationship and prescriptions given at the expense of other potential choices. In the case of the COVID-19 pandemic, spiritual leaders became role models in behaviors that extend beyond faith. Second, an enactment of shared and specific religious beliefs motivated the rejection of masking and social distancing, and in the second and third years of the pandemic, the use of vaccines. The optimistic promises attributed to being an in-member of the white Evangelical Christian group, for many, led to the turn from science, which could arguably be explained by science's (and its spokespersons') failure to adapt and appeal to these shared values.

Let me turn to a hypothetical case study posed by Sandro Galea in his book, *The Contagion Next Time*, to further illustrate the turn from scientific to religious institutions. Galea presents the story of Jean, who grew up in an abusive home and found church to be a place of refuge—a place that spread a message of harmony and shared purpose among people. When COVID-19 struck, Jean continued to attend church with much of her congregation. Galea frames this story in terms of a hierarchy of perceived health needs of an individual; in Jean's case, the communal nature of church held more importance for her mental and spiritual health than the threat of COVID-19 held for her physical health (Galea 2022). While Galea's explanation of Jean's decision to continue going to church is certainly part of the story, the motivation to attend goes beyond a weighing of health needs. It also entails cruel optimism. While mental and spiritual health are indeed important, achieving this spiritual health did not need to come at the expense of incurring the potential risks to physical health. The attachment to the church as a life-changing space becomes cruel when risking a life-threatening communicable disease becomes the real cost of attending. Mental and, to an extent, spiritual health are moot points if one is dead. In Galea's case study, as well as in many actual churches, masking was uneven and social distancing guidelines were not followed. Rather than attempt to strike a balance between the new circumstances of COVID-19 and mental/spiritual health, many churches and white Evangelical Christians refused to adapt to meet both sets of needs.

They also used their religion as the justification for not taking risk-mitigating measures against the virus. In one New York Times interview, "Lauri Armstrong, a Bible-believing nutritionist outside of Dallas, said she did not need the vaccine because God designed the body to heal itself, if given the right nutrients. More than that, she said, 'It would be God's will if I am here or if I am not here'" (Dias and Graham 2021). The logic behind Armstrong's assertion is that God determines all, and would ultimately decide the fate of those exposed to COVID-19. Following this reasoning to its extreme conclusion, supporting and participating in risk-mitigating behaviors would go against God's will. It is worth noting that there are a number of white Evangelical Christians who were hospitalized with COVID-19 and are now advocating publicly for the vaccine, with the argument that if God made COVID-19 he also made the vaccine. At the same time, those from this cohort who are not vocal about their beliefs maintain a low profile in public forums so as not to attract ridicule or engage in public debates. Yet, many espouse beliefs like Armstrong's, finding (or remaining a member of) a community of like-minded religious people. Yes, individuals who get vaccinated and wear a mask are one step closer to immunity, but in doing so they are "break[ing] the circuit of social circulation by placing himself or herself outside of it" (Esposito 2013, p. 59); in essence, they are trading their community for immunity. They are not just betraying their religious beliefs, but in doing so are also removing themselves from the community that shares their religious identity, a community to which they are attached, and which can fulfill the desire of redemption and eternal life. Though such individuals would be at less risk of losing their life to COVID-19, they often feel they are at a higher risk of losing the life they built within their community and the promises which they believe that community makes possible. While loss of community is not the language that many anti-vax and anti-maskers use when expressing their reasoning for their actions, which is often rather complex, we can trace back these behaviors to a base of in-group reasoning that stems from their religious affiliation.

Ironically, in avoiding the immunity that comes with preventive measures against COVID-19, white Evangelical Christians were simultaneously and inadvertently stymying the potential for community in the long term. Esposito suggests that for these individuals "The idea of immunity, which is needed for protecting our life, if carried past a certain threshold, winds up negating life. That is, immunity encages life such that not only is our freedom but also the very meaning of our individual and collective existence lost" (Esposito 2013, p. 61). This sentiment is reminiscent of the arguments against vaccination and mask wearing, along with the belief that mandating such behaviors is a violation of personal freedom which, for many who espouse this logic, is analogous to the integrity of their community and relationship to God. In the case of white Evangelical Christians, the threshold for determining which steps to take to increase safety or establish herd immunity, steps which would have the consequences of negating life-as-normal in evangelical communities during the COVID-19 pandemic, was lower than in many other religious communities, such as Catholicism.

Why might this be so? Stemming in part from the overlap between political and religious identity groups, many of the arguments for the WEC position are made in the name of religion, but mask a deep and abiding allegiance to a political ideology that may have little to do—historically or substantively—to commitments to Christian faith and morals. As an example, loving thy neighbor has been used since the earliest decades of Christianity as a nonnegotiable touchstone and framework to encourage actions on behalf of the neighbor. During COVID-19, getting vaccinated was often framed as an act of care for those who are at greatest risk of the disease. While loving thy neighbor is a Christian ideal, statistically evangelicals are the least likely of any denomination to appeal to this reasoning when it comes to vaccines (Religious Identities and the Race Against the Virus: American Attitudes on Vaccination Mandates and Religious Exemptions (Wave 3) 2021), and white Evangelical Republicans even more so (Jackson 2021). Yet, not masking or vaccinating and continuing to hold large in-person gatherings in prayer settings puts the entire community at risk. Without preventive measures, COVID-19 can quickly spread through a community and have serious consequences, including death. Paradoxically, in focusing on immunity rather than community in an unbalanced way, the community is endangered.

Yet, such paradoxical beliefs are not unusual in partisan thinking. As social psychologist Johnathan Haidt (2013) points out, humans are both selfish, focused on what benefits the individual, and groupish, focused on what benefits groups to which they belong. Decisions are made not based on reason alone, but on an emotional level as well. When groupish thought becomes polarized and partisan—as with religion and science, or with left and right political parties—it is our emotional response that kicks in first, especially when receiving information contradictory or harmful to the group. Rationalizing

such information releases dopamine, and as Haidt points out, "Like rats that cannot stop pressing a button, partisans may simply be unable to stop believing weird things. The partisan brain has been reinforced so many times for performing mental contortions that free it from unwanted beliefs" (Haidt 2013, p. 88). The rhetoric used in anti-mask debates is especially, and sometimes aggressively, partisan, positioning individual freedom to not mask against the tyranny of an oppressive government. Further, much of the rhetoric draws not just on political identity, but also on a Christian identity appealing to individual freedom as "God given rights" and holding politico-religious festivals such as Bards Fest, which featured several prominent Evangelical Christian speakers. It becomes easy for white Evangelical Christians to react groupishly, and justify not wearing masks as protecting collective existence, rather than interpreting this as a way to protect that very same ideal.

The imbalance and paradox in the COVID-19 response is not the fault of religion alone. Rather, white Evangelic Christians are caught in a double bind of neither religious nor scientific institutions adapting fully, as Esposito and Gehlen suggest is necessary, to relieve the burden placed on the individual. In the debate over vaccination, many Evangelical Christians cite the use of fetal stem cells acquired from an elective abortion as the reason they refuse vaccination. The development of the Johnson & Johnson vaccine did, in fact, use a cell line derived from a fetus aborted in 1985, while Moderna and Pfizer used the same cell line to confirm the viability of their vaccines (Schimelpfening 2021). Fetal cell lines are lab-developed stem cells that originated in fetal tissue, but do not contain actual fetal tissue. These cell lines are used in laboratory testing of the viability of many drugs, including common over-the-counter drugs, the usage of which is not opposed by white Evangelical Christians. Catholicism, whose teachings also oppose abortion, has, in contrast, adapted to the COVID-19 pandemic. Catholic religious leaders have publicly advocated for the vaccine, stating that it is morally sound to use any of the three vaccines approved by the FDA for use in the United States. Yet, leaders of the Evangelical Christian community continue to push back against vaccination and mask wearing on social media and television, while research has suggested that members of a religious community have a higher trust in such informal media sources (Olagoke et al. 2021). Even white Evangelical leaders who support vaccination are hesitant to speak out regarding the matter due to fear of alienating members of their congregation (Dias and Graham 2021).

On the other hand, clear communication of scientific concepts coupled with outreach and representation towards religious identity is where public health scientists were (and still are) lacking. From the Trump administration's downplaying of the seriousness of COVID-19, to the inconsistencies in messaging and personal compromises in integrity made by some health officials in order to maintain jobs and stability, to the decrease in CDC telebriefings during the Biden administration, public health officials, save for a couple of familiar faces, have not connected with the public, communicating primarily via text on the internet (Simmons-Duffin 2022). Rather than establishing a basis of trust between those most often in the public eye, (i.e., the professionals researching and acting on such research), and the peoples affected by those reactions (the population sheltering in place, glued to the television for any new information), those on whom we depended to fortify public trust dropped the ball. The nation was bombarded with conflicting messages and left to sift through dispassionate data and bureaucratic guidelines. Indeed, during COVID-19, science communication was marked by the speed at which circumstances changed. With rapidly unfolding new information regarding the spread of COVID-19, scientists took to Twitter to share data and information. Still, much of the communication regarding public health guidelines was too focused on data, and not enough on acknowledging the needs of the citizens that those guidelines affected (Galea 2022; Nabi 2021). For individuals who already have a distrust in scientific findings, sharing data alone is likely not going to suffice when asking them to make major lifestyle changes, even for a limited time. While scientific communication did adapt to the speed of the changing circumstances, and to the shift to social media as a major outlet for spreading awareness, it did not adapt enough to persuade those Evangelical Christians who were most likely to disregard risk-mitigating

practices. How can public health officials and scientists be more effective at reaching such individuals?
