Edwin S. Gaustad

Society and the Great Awakening in New England

-C ONTEMPORARIES of the turbulent religious upheaval which took place in New England in the years 1740 to 1742 described it as a great and general awakening. Later historians, less ready to admit either its greatness or its generality, have in concert described the revival as limited to this area or that, to this social class exclusive of that, and as brought about by this or that socioeconomic force. We have come a long way from the economic interpretation of religion, when all felt obliged to excuse the obtrusion of churches and pious sentiments by explaining that this sheeps clothing of religion concealed an economic wolf within. Yet the phenomenon known as the Great Awakening is of such proportions as to lead to its interpretation as something other than a religious movement. It would be folly to suggest that the Awakening was completely divorced from the culture of eighteenth-century New England, from the shortage of specie, from the growth of trade, from the greater leisure and less crudity of life, from the vigilant struggles for popular representation and the increasing degree of political independence. To admit its connection with these secular developments is, however, vastly different from cataloguing the revival as a deep-rooted social movement, as a lowerclass uprising, or as a revolt of the backcountry producers. John Chester Miller viewed the movement as riding on the wave of hostility between rich and poor created by the Land Bank uproar, and producing a full and permanent cleavage between the social classes. The uninhibited and fervent James Davenport, according to Miller, divided the

Thomas Jefferson, Danbury Baptists, and `Eternal Hostility.'

W Tr TH the decline and fall of the Federalist Party, Thomas Jefferson might well have thought that his troubles were over. But the twentieth century had several surprises in store for him. In I974, Fawn Brodie, with considerable skill, made her case for a sexual affair, and, in i996, Conor Cruise OBrien, with considerable animus, made his case for a different kind of affair. Then, in i998, the combined forces of DNA and FBI trained their weapons upon the sage of Monticello.1 Jefferson has learned now, if he did not know before, what it is like for a sinner to fall into the hands of an angry God. James Hutsons article on a controversy rejoined is actually quite benign. It is well researched, well expressed, nicely nuanced, reasonable, and restrained. He does not, for example, propose tearing down the Jefferson Memorial or defacing any of the words inscribed thereon. His thesis is a modest one: The Danbury Baptist letter must be understood in the political context in which Jefferson wrote it and . . . it was designed by the third president to respond to a malignant and persistent Federalist campaign of political defamation. One should immediately concede the overall political milieu-more, the intense partisanship-in which Jefferson thought, wrote, and spoke in the early years of his first term. The campaign of i8oo had been, to put it simply, brutal. It was time for reconciliation, a reconciling made more likely if all could agree that every difference of opinion is not a difference of principle, as Jefferson stated in his First Inaugural.2 But his opinion regarding the proper relationship between the church and the state did rest upon an unshakable principle: namely, that religious tyranny was the most vicious of all tyrannies, the one most to be feared, the one most zealously to be guarded against. As history so clearly demonstrated. Parenthetically, it should be noted that persons polarize around Jefferson, and around the First Amendment, to some degree based on their sense of the liveliness, on one hand, or the

When in the Course

1 F I was destined to be a historian, the winding path that led me there does not say much for the doctrine of predestination. Too many wrong turns, false starts, and even a cul de sac or two. But then maybe the ways of providence are not all that straightforward. When I went to high school in Houston, Texas, history was not much on my mind. Joining in public speaking contests and editing the yearbook demanded more attention. Besides, history in that locale meant Texas history and very little else. The only thing that I was absolutely sure of was that I would not major in algebra. Going to college at Baylor was, since I was a Baptist, about as clearly predetermined as anything could be. Given the environment, the decision to major in religion and prepare for the ministry had something of the flavor of destiny about it. The freshman and sophomore years were marked mainly, however, by keeping enough outside jobs going just to stay in school. Then came World War II, which represented a three-year recess from college and an additional detour from history: out of Texas, out of the country, out of academia. A career as bombardier/navigator in the Army Air Force took me no farther down the road toward history, but it did allow time (while waiting in army lines) to rethink long-term goals. When I returned to Baylor at the end of 1945, it was to prepare for a vocation in college or university teaching. My initial plan was to major in philosophy, but Baylor had only a single professor in that field. So to history, at last, though with distractions: love and marriage, debating tournaments, and yearbook editing again. Compensating for distractions was the happy availability of the G. I. Bill, which meant that graduate education-even outside of Texas-was now a distinct possibility. Baylor, moreover, had a designated scholarship to Brown, and when I was awarded that additional money, Brown seemed as determined as Baylor had been. At Brown, where I was part of the returning veteran horde, I enjoyed coming to know many budding historians whose names are familiar to the readers of these pages: John Selby, Thad Tate, David Lovejoy, Malcolm Freiberg, William Stanton, Mack Thompson, Lucille Griffith, John Sproat, and Charles Crowe, among others. I also profited from close contact with a young faculty, some hardly older than their students. Most helpful in every way was Edmund Morgan, even though I was not directly in his department, for I pursued a degree in history of religions in the Department of Religious Studies. Morgan suggested that my dissertation deal with the Great Awakening in New England. I thus worked both sides of the street, history and religion, as I have continued to do in succeeding decades. I also profited enormously from the libraries in the area: Houghton at Harvard, Beinecke at Yale, the Massachusetts and Connecticut historical soci-

History of the Churches in the United States and Canada

The religious histories of both the USA and Canada contain many dramatic themes, such as the Great Awakenings, the triumph of religious freedom, the clashes between Catholics and Protestants, the tensions of racial and ethnic differences, the forming of church unions, and the contentions between Christians who seek to express their faith in the thought patterns of their time and those who cling to traditional formulations. The way the churches faced the movement of peoples into and across a vast continent tells much about their present size and characteristics in both Canada and the United States.

Religion in the Old South

A major study of American cultural history, a book distinguished both for its careful research and for its innovative interpretations. . . . Professor Mathewss book is an explanation of what religion meant in the everyday lives of southern whites and blacks. It is indispensable reading not just for those who want to know more about the Old South but for anyone who wants to understand the South today. David Herbert Donald, Harvard University A major achievement a magnificently provocative contribution to the understanding of the history of religion in America. William G. McLoughlin, Book Reviews A meticulous and well-documented study . . . In the changing connotations of the word liberty lie most of the dilemmas of Southern (and American) history, dilemmas Dr. Mathews analyses with considerable penetration. Times Literary Supplement The most compact and yet comprehensive view of the Old South in its religious dimension that is presently available. This is a pioneering work by one who is widely read in the sources and is creative enough to synthesize and introduce fresh themes. . . . He makes a unique contribution to southern historiography which will act as a corrective upon earlier works. . . . Boldly stated, every library that consults Choice should purchase this volume. Choice Mathews presents us with the findest and grandest history of old southern religion that one could imagine finding in so short a book on so large a topic. . . . Here stands in its own right a masterpiece of regional historiography of religion in America. William A. Clebsch, Reviews in American History