Anyone looking to drench themselves in the 1950s nostalgia currently favored by the religious right in America should consider watching “Leave It to Beaver” stoned. Which is what I did with an old friend in the 1980s while attending graduate school at the University of California-Berkeley.

Nostalgia for the ’50s — that land beyond time where Catholic traditionalists such as Notre Dame political theorist and post-liberal prophet Patrick Deneen dwell — idealizes imaginary communities of yore such as Mayfield, the setting for “Leave it to Beaver,” where the values of faith, family, friends and flag all flourished.

According to this narrative, late-stage liberalism and the globalization of markets, with their characteristic rootlessness, dissolve this communal existence.

When I was at Berkeley in the 1980s, a large number of my childhood friends from Princeton, New Jersey, somehow found their way to the Bay Area. One afternoon, one of my Princeton buddies was house-sitting for an uncle in a Bay Area suburb. The uncle, whom I’ll call Uncle Jim, had been my Cub Scout pack leader in Princeton when I was in elementary school.

One sun-drenched afternoon, my friend and I settled into a couch, he rolled some joints and we flipped the TV to “Leave It to Beaver” reruns. The series, on the air from 1957 and 1963, is a resonant symbol of ’50s nostalgia, one to which conservative Catholics have returned as a template for modeling natural law.

To Catholics who moved to the suburbs in the ’50s and ’60s, “Leave It to Beaver” was a “medieval morality play,” as Jerry Mathers, the Catholic actor who played young protagonist Theodore “Beaver” Cleaver, put it. The show was a guide for young souls more tethered to television than to the suburban church.

Michael De Sapio, writing in the online journal The Imaginative Conservative in 2017, states that, according to Mather, Beaver Cleaver “repeatedly succumbed to temptation, suffered the consequences, and was guided back on the path of virtue.” In other words, these archetypal storylines and characters represent a moral imagination that “elevates us to first principles as it guides us upwards towards virtue and wisdom and redemption,” in the words of American philosopher Russell Kirk.

De Sapio continues: “The emphasis on decorum and good manners in the Cleaver family conveyed a vision of the good, true and beautiful.”

Mathers shared that the casting directors for the show selected him to play Beaver when they asked where he would prefer to be after they noticed he was uneasy at the audition. His guileless reply: his Cub Scouts den meeting. Notably, the mission of the Scouts is to “prepare young people to make ethical and moral choices over their lifetimes by instilling in them the values of the Scout Oath and Law.”

Which returns us to Uncle Jim, my former Cub Scouts leader. He was an electrical engineer who ended his first marriage and moved to California in the 1970s, where he married a woman several decades younger and shed the trappings of his formerly decorous identity.

“Leave It to Beaver” mirrored and shaped the aspirations of millions of Catholics moving to the suburbs after World War II, and it has lingered as an idealized — and exclusive — depiction of the American Dream. The only nonwhite characters to appear in the show’s 234 episodes were a Black man exiting a dairy truck in the episode “Eddie, the Businessman” (1962) and a Black actress who plays a maid in the 1963 episode “The Parking Attendants.”

Within months of its final episode in June 1963 — following the March on Washington, D.C., in August led by the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. and the November assassination of President John F. Kennedy — “Leave It to Beaver” had become a charming artifact of mid-century optimism, more a product of nostalgia and romantic imagination than a realistic model for America’s future.

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Peter H. Schwartz writes at the broad intersection of philosophy, politics, history and religion. He publishes the Wikid World newsletter on Substack.

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