The Fertility Divide: What It Really Says About Us

I’ve written before about the alarming decline in birthrates around the world, but there’s a layer
to this issue that deserves sharper attention: the role of religiosity.

We’ve all seen the data. Birthrates are plummeting across the developed world—including herein the United States. And no, it’s not just economics or policy shifts. What we’re looking at is a civilizational divergence—one that cuts along worldview lines. More specifically: secular vs. religious.

According to the National Survey of Family Growth, one of the most powerful predictors of
whether someone will have children isn’t income or education—it’s how religious they are.
Those who regularly practice their faith tend to have more children. Those who don’t? Smaller
families, or none at all.

This isn’t just a demographic quirk. It’s a signal—one that tells us something deeper about how
we view life, purpose, and sacrifice.

Religiosity, by nature, orients people outward. Life isn’t just about personal gain or fulfillment;
it’s about serving God, loving others, and contributing to something eternal. In this framework,
children aren’t seen as inconveniences or lifestyle accessories—they’re seen as blessings, as
covenant responsibilities, and as eternal relationships that shape our purpose in mortality.

Secularism, on the other hand, tends to lean inward. It emphasizes autonomy, personal
expression, and self-actualization. In that mindset, children are often viewed through the lens of cost—financial, emotional, professional. And let’s be honest: in a culture steeped in
individualism and instant gratification, why would anyone choose a path that demands long-term sacrifice?

But low birthrates aren’t just statistics—they’re symptoms. Symptoms of what President Nelson  might call a kind of cultural myopia—an obsession with the present moment at the expense of the future.

And the consequences are real. Below-replacement fertility brings with it aging populations,
social instability, and economic stagnation. Fewer children mean fewer caregivers, fewer
innovators, fewer people to carry the torch forward.

Contrast that with families grounded in faith. These families see life generationally, not
transactionally. They think in terms of legacy—of ancestors, of posterity, of covenants stretching across time. Within the Church, we’d call that the Spirit of Elijah—turning hearts to the fathers and the fathers to the children. This isn’t just poetic language. It’s how civilizations are sustained.

Religious communities, despite facing the same modern pressures as everyone else, tend to carry a vision that makes sacrifice make sense. Faith offers a reason to stretch, to endure, and to hope. In fact, many people of faith would say sacrifice is the point—that in raising children, they find a level of meaning no career or lifestyle perk could ever provide.

And let me be clear: I’m not saying that secular people don’t love their families. Many
do—deeply. But the difference is in the framework. If your worldview centers around personal
freedom and fulfillment, children are more likely to be seen as a risk or disruption. But if your
worldview sees family as the foundational unit of eternity, then parenting isn’t an
interruption—it’s the very heart of life.

We tend to love most what we sacrifice most for. And there is no greater sacrifice—and no
greater joy—than raising children.

So when we look at the fertility divide, we’re not just talking about numbers. We’re talking about two radically different ways of approaching the world: One that gives, one that withholds. One that reaches toward the eternal, one that clings to the temporal.

Christ, in His life and ministry, showed us the beauty of looking outward—of losing yourself in
love and service and finding in that very sacrifice the greatest joy imaginable.

If we want thriving communities, lasting families, and a future worth handing down—we’d do
well to follow that same path.