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Showing posts with label cajka's posts. Show all posts

7 Questions with Lilian Calles Barger: The World Come of Age

Cover for   The World Come of Age       I corresponded recently with Lilian Calles Barger about her new book, The World Come of Age: An Intellectual History of Liberation Theology (Oxford University Press). Lilian is a historian, author, women and gender consultant. She is currently a podcast co-host for New Books Network covering women and gender, religion, intellectual history and American Studies. Her research interests include the historical development of social, religious and feminist thought in modern America with a particular expertise in women and gender history. Visit her website (www.lilianbarger.com) or follow her on twitter (@lilianbarger)

Tell us about how you became interested in liberation theology

I have been thinking about the history of theology in general for a long time. Women’s history and feminist theory was something I was interested in and reading in the 1990s. I found feminist theologians referring to Black and Latin American liberation theology and curious to find out more about that connection. My own background as a Latin American immigrant to the U.S. and my interest in feminism gave me two legs of a three-legged stool. The exposure to African American history completed the triad and deepened my interest in the question of how and why these three theologies of liberation emerged independently and yet simultaneously in the late 1960s. That was a historical question no one was addressing and I found intriguing.



Because I have read a lot of theology across traditions I know it’s not nailed down or unchanging. The theological field is one that since the early twentieth century has gone on its merry way largely ignored by other humanistic disciplines. I think that is a mistake because of its vast influence over individuals and communities. We tend to concentrate on the social and political effects rather than on the source. As historians, I think we can bring some outside accountability to that field through our critical examination. I say this with all due respect to the many professional theologians I know.

Could you tell the blog readers a bit about your method? You call your work a "cultural history of liberationist ideas" and also "a cultural history of thought." The method hones in on specific texts written by liberationists, but it also provides deep political and social context going all the way back, in some places, to early modern political theology. The chapter on the social sciences and liberation theology engages pragmatism, Comte, and Marx. I found this very effective. It would be great to hear more about how you developed this approach.

I went into history, and specific intellectual history, because I was interested in how ideas, emerge, change, adapt and influence people’s lives socially, politically, and culturally over long spans of time. This interested arose from a life-long practice of observation. A cultural history of thought was a method I gained from my brilliant graduate advisor Daniel Wickberg. It fit with my already formed interest in the history of ideas.

A cultural history of thought supported my interest in getting beyond abstracted philosophical or theological arguments of a few “great “ thinkers. It allowed me to view ideas in the context of lived culture giving them concrete on the ground significance.  My other influence came from the sociology of knowledge in which ideas are cultural artifacts or create the environments in which we all live. It does take a strong anthropological approach to historical change. This way of approaching the continuous generation and regeneration of ideas is something that I will continue to apply.

The origins of liberation theology are geographic, chronological and intellectual. In your chapter “The Political is the Total” you also show that the origins of the movement are in the realization that theology is not autonomous from the political and that “politics constituted all theology.” Tell the blog readers about this realization among thinkers like Cone, Gutierrez, and others.  How does this connect to the argument that God is with the oppressed?

The idea that all theology is political is one of the most significant challenges to modern theology that the liberationists as a group took up. They did not believe that elite white male thinkers, who constructed modern theology in Europe and the U.S., could read the Bible with pure openness. Their position of social power created a bias. They found in the text what they were looking for to justify their political and social position.

Liberationists turned it around. They did not believe that theologians, like anyone else, could escape ideology (capitalist, racist, or sexist) that colored their reading. Recognizing that ideology was inescapable, what mattered was the nature of ideology and whether it furthered freedom or subjugation. As liberation theologians, they brought to the text a prior commitment to the oppressed and applied Marxist and critical race and feminist theories and found within the text the idea of a holistic salvation for blacks, women and the poor overlooked by other theologians.
During the turmoil of the 1960s and 70s, liberationists came to identify the oppressed as knowing something about God arising from their own experience. What oppressed people heard or read in the Bible was significantly different because of the situation of oppression. An example I like to give: If two people are praying and one is a rich and male Wall Street banker and the other a poor single black mother, how are their prayers different? What they find by way of religion differs because of their individual social positions. This is obvious to us now, but theology had virtually ignored it believing that classic and modern hermeneutical tools were sufficient to discover the meaning of the text.  Liberationists sought to validate a reading “from below” by recognizing it as a valid theology. For them, a theology that ignored oppressed people in their struggle was ultimately an abstraction that made it irrelevant to the social or political situation and could not bring about the radical social change they saw as necessary.

How would taking theology more seriously change the fields of American Religious History and US Intellectual History?’

Religious history and intellectual history are close siblings. When we think of historians of American religion such as Perry Miller, Sydney E. Ahlstrom and Mark Noll, they are all concerned with religious ideas and how they shaped the nation’s political and social life. Recently, Molly Worthen and Christopher Grasso have followed in those footsteps. For historians of religion attending to theology in both formal and popular forms, not just lived religion or institutions, can expand the field to demonstrate how religious ideas combine with other systems of thought to bring about disruption and continuity.

As the work of applying a specific hermeneutic to the biblical text, Christian theology, particularly of the Protestant kind, is continually changing and adapting to social and political environments and influencing them in return. For example, the Protestant Reformation’s doctrine of the priesthood of all believers and justification by faith became a basis for the ascendancy of modern democracy. It’s not the whole story, but surely part of it.

It’s easy to think that the theology of a conservative evangelical like Carl F. H. Henry, considered the theological father of the Christian right, remained strictly within an unchanging dogma. More attention needs to given to Henry and how his theology changed and its political ramifications. I only touch on this in my book but intrigued by its possibly for illuminating the theological foundation for the rise of the Christian right. Like any other field of thought we might investigate, the language of theology is learned.

The field of intellectual history has experienced a revival in the last couple of decades but it has also narrowed by often excluding theological thought in understanding movements like pragmatism, critical theory, feminism and political conservatives and radicals. We tend to understand these in non-religious terms. By attending to change in theological thinking, intellectual history can offer a fuller more robust description of the constitution and dissemination of ideas. Maybe because the fields of intellectual and religious history have produced a huge amount of scholarly work they have forgotten that they need each other.  We need to bring these back closer together and I see good signs this is happening.

Of all the thinkers you write about, both secular religious, both more contemporary and distant, do you have a favorite?

I don’t think much about individual thinkers but rather I pay attention to ideas and always have. Asked if I have any intellectual heroes, my answer is generally no, but I’m impressed by the power of certain ideas and their eloquent expression. I admire a probing mind that offers insight for understanding the social world especially that of William James, Karl Mannheim, Simone de Beauvoir, Juan Luis Segundo, Rosemary Radford Ruether, and James Cone. I’m generally interested in how cultures are constructed and the embeddedness of individuals so I have a keen interest in social theory. Those thinkers who take that on have my full attention.

Your book recovers a very important and unexpected chapter in the history of secularization. Tell the blog readers about how the liberationists' efforts to secularize religion changes the way we think of modernity. 

Our work in intellectual and religious history needs to be continually suspicious of the categorical secular/sacred split. Asking what counts as religion, or theological thinking, is the first step. That’s not settled. Instead of seeing religion as under assault by secularizing forces or of religious incursions into the secular state, I think the main story is about them being mutually constitutive. Modernity has been a movement toward a unified political order in which there is no room for a challenge by any other realm or interest. The field of political theology is critically examining the phenomena and offers historians a theoretical scheme.

Liberationists, as political theologians, marked a critical historical junction as theology was breaking through its artificial sequestering and  “secular” thinkers were recognizing its power to both legitimate social structures and challenge them. This was the end of private religion and the start of recognizing that religion(s) offered competing social visions for society that often clashed with the goals of a liberal state. America is now again at another critical point in which a new “war of religions” has emerged between the religious right and the religious left. The religious left has gained strength and visibility. This is a political conflict in which different views of God and God’s will is at the center in regard to human sexuality, the meaning of social justice and the nation’s self-definition. The question now is whether the liberal state can negotiate that conflict and maintain its preeminence.

What are you working on next?

I’ve started a research project on the long cultural history of feminist thought and how it led to the gender revolution we are experiencing today. I have wanted to do this work for a long time. I set it aside for the topic of liberation theology for a variety of reasons.

Of course, the relationship between feminism and changing gender norms is both one of affinity and conflict in which the political, scientific and philosophical come into play. I believe that religious ideas play a significant part in redefining what it means to be a woman, a man or non-binary. Ultimately, questions of gender equality are moral questions on how we will live and organize society as gendered and sexual being. There is much to do in the way of research but the field literature is vast and extremely fruitful.

Thank you!

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5 Questions with David Endres

I corresponded recently with Fr. David Endres about his new book, Many Tonges, One Faith: A History of Franciscan Parish Life in the United States. Fr. Endres is Associate Professor of Church History and Historical Theology at the Athenaeum of Ohio where he also serves as Dean. He is also the hardworking  editor of the US Catholic Historian.


(1) Writing a history of Franciscan parishes is a huge undertaking. As you note, at the height Franciscan parish ministry in 1968, the order ran around 500 parishes and missions in the US. Tell the blog how you approached this challenge and why you settled on writing the history of fourteen specific parishes. 

Unlike the Jesuits and Dominicans, among other religious communities, there have been almost no studies of US Franciscanism to date. That was the impetus for the United States Franciscan History Project under the direction of Jeffrey Burns and the Academy of American Franciscan History: to bring together scholars to reflect on different aspects of the US Franciscan story. In addition to my book on Franciscan parishes, there has been one other monograph published in the project series: Ray Haberski’s Voice of Empathy: A History of Franciscan Media in the United States. Hopefully, additional forthcoming volumes will address other topics.




One 1950s survey of the Franciscans’ US presence blamed factionalization within the Franciscans on the lack of national or international studies that go beyond a given Franciscan province or branch of the order. He (a friar himself) lamented that he would never be able to please his confreres -- the Conventuals, Third Order Regular, and Capuchins would feel overlooked if he concentrated on the more numerous OFMs (Friars Minor) and all the priests and brothers would resent being chronicled along with the secular Franciscans and the numerous women’s branches.

I tried to keep some balance, and perhaps since I am not a Franciscan myself, I was a bit freer to shape the book around specific parishes – no matter the branch or branches of Franciscanism represented.  I looked for compelling stories that related to broader developments in the history of the Church and nation, but also attempted to provide a diverse representation of parishes – ethnically and geographically, large and small, active and now closed or merged. I knew that to tell such a large story, I had to be selective in choosing parishes to detail. The number “fourteen” was somewhat arbitrary, but I think it provides enough case studies to derive some general conclusions.

To achieve this diversity of place and kind, I made use of numerous archives. The archives of the St. Barbara Province in Santa Barbara, California and the St. John Baptist Province here in Cincinnati provided a wealth of information. Even though Cincinnati is 800 miles from New Orleans, friars from the Cincinnati province ministered in Louisiana (along with Michigan, Indiana, Kentucky, Arizona, and New Mexico) so archives helped extend my research reach. Other holdings were consulted in person or with the help of kind archivists and librarians.

(2) You show how Franciscans very much became tied to place in America. Tell the blog how the order was shaped by American realities. 

I think that too often scholars (who do not necessarily focus on religious history), see Catholic history in particular as not having much to do with the US historical narrative. But in addition to being tied into major developments in American Catholic history, the book, I hope, helps explore major demographic and social trends that transcend the US Catholic experience.

Those developments included the realities of frontier life, massive European immigration, and the emergence of ethnic-predominate cities. These geo-demographic shifts propelled Franciscans into pastoring parishes in the nineteenth century, though this was not part of their experience in Europe.

In the latter half of the twentieth century, the Franciscans were again shaped by new American realities – the interstate highway system, growth of suburbia, the Baby Boom, feminism, and protest movements of the 1960s and beyond. All of these impacted parish life, affecting how Franciscans ministered and how they assessed their ministries.

By engaging some of these broader developments in American life and the American religious experience, I hoped to situate Franciscan parishes within the US historical narrative, not as an aberration, but as a nexus of local institutions and communities that help compose the “American story.”

(3) Many Tongues, One Faith is as much a global story as it is a national story. How does the story of the Franciscans compare to other orders? I'm thinking here of John McGreevy’s work on the Jesuits. Both orders were shaped by the secularization policies of Europe and their coming to the US, but did they respond in different ways? 

It is certainly a global story. The first Franciscans to the US – whether Irish, Italian, German, or Polish – all came from European provinces, bringing with them their own ideals and expectations about being Catholic, being Franciscan, and being ministers of the Gospel. This was not unique to the Franciscans, but I think that friars and religious sisters responded in different ways from the Jesuits and others, partly because of the distinctiveness of their charism.

In the conclusion of the book, I discuss the Franciscan charism: to be poor among the poor; to foster fraternity and community; to be ministers of reconciliation, healing, and peace; and to serve where there is the greatest need, often among those on the margins of society. Their charism, especially the commitment to ministering to the underserved, impacted the locus of their ministries. While the Jesuits had a lively Euro-American exchange of personnel among their colleges, the Franciscans were missioned to the frontier, or urban centers, or Native American missions. Though some returned home later in life, most stayed in America.  Consequently, their lives were significantly shaped by their local experiences of ministry and the people they encountered. More so perhaps than other orders, the Franciscans seemed to stay close to the people, identifying with them, no matter if their own ethnic, racial, or socioeconomic backgrounds were dissimilar.

The work of John McGreevy and others now provide some interesting possibilities for inter-“religious order” comparisons. The Jesuits, more so than the Franciscans, traveled to and from Europe – even after many years of ministry in America – and maintained a close connection to the Jesuit superior general in Rome. The order overall maintained a greater top-down, military model. Overall, my reading of the Franciscan story is that they were more decentralized in their identities and decision-making. The provinces and the semi-autonomous Franciscan “custodies” emphasized local governance. This helped them to respond to local situations and needs in ways different from other orders.

(4) Of the fourteen parishes you wrote about, do you have a favorite? 

Of those that I detail in the book, the one that has resonated most with me is the Shrine of Our Lady of Consolation in Carey, Ohio, located about three hours north of my home. As a Marian shrine that remains popular among pilgrims, it is a place where the present is linked to the past. In Carey, an image of Our Lady of Consolation was imported from Luxembourg and brought in procession to its new home at the church in 1875. On the day of the procession, rain threatened on all sides but did not fall on the statue or procession. The safe passage of the statue through the storm was viewed as miraculous. At the same time, unbeknownst to those in the procession, a little girl whose family had taken part in the procession was healed from an incurable illness. It was the first of many miraculous healings, which many believe continue at the shrine today. Dozens of artifacts lining the shrine’s walls stand as testimony to the claims: crutches, casts, splints, and even a six-foot-long wicker basket.
The history of the shrine is full of fascinating stories – some of which are outside the scope of Many Tongues, One Faith or could only be discussed briefly therein. I am particularly interested in the healings said to have occurred there and how they were publicized, especially in the first decades of the twentieth century. The healings shed light on ethnic and devotional Catholicism and how “holy places” operated within the psyche of American Catholics. And as much as believers venerated the location as a place of special intercession by the Blessed Virgin Mary, the shrine also has been the target of anti-Catholicism: a Ku Klux Klan demonstration, an arson attempt, and a successful theft of the famous statue. The vacillations of belief and doubt provide an interesting lens to view religious devotion, reported miracles, and the advancement of science.

My study of the shrine has developed into a near book-length manuscript, “America’s Lourdes: Devotion and Healing at the Shrine of Our Lady of Consolation.” I hope to further develop the topic over the coming years and ready it for publication.

(5) Your book builds on the social history tradition of Jay Dolan and Patrick Carey’s classic studies of parish life. One might say the parish is where “the rubber meets the road.”  Why is the parish still a great lens to use to study US Catholic history?

I am indebted to earlier scholarship that helped focus on lay Catholics and their involvement in parish life. Today, as in the past, most Catholics’ experience of the Church is at the level of the parish.  More so than any diocesan structure or specialized Church-run institution, the parish is primary to a community’s religious experience. The correspondence of bishops, their sermons, and financial ledgers readily available at diocesan archives tell part of the story, but only part of it. Getting beyond institutional records to tell the stories of communities is the challenge and also the benefit of researching parishes.

I attempted to use various sources to find the “voice” of friars, women religious, and lay Catholics, utilizing local and parish histories, newspapers, bulletins, and occasionally, interviews. My hope is that it has helped flesh out the lived experience of everyday “people in the pews.” Of course, a selective, case-study approach offers some insights into that experience, but also implicitly points to the need for further studies. If my research has provided an impetus or avenues for future research, it will have achieved part of the goal of the United States Franciscan History Project.

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Do Catholic Historians Need to Define Catholicism?

Image result for bebbington quadrilateralHistorians of evangelicalism are very interested in defining evangelicalism. It would seem obvious that scholars of a certain field would be dedicated to defining their object of study, but historians of evangelicalism go about this task with an admirable gusto. The act of defining is central to the field. Historian David Bebbington’s famous definition, the Bebbington Quadrilateral – evangelicalism as biblicism, crucicentrism, conversionism, and activism – has framed the conversation since 1989. As I listened to the excellent papers delivered by historians at the Noll Conference in March 2018, I began to wonder why Catholic historians do not seem so interested in defining their object of study, Catholicism.

Certainly we do not have quadrilateral. But should we have one?



Two answers to the question about the lack of enthusiasm for defining Catholicism pop up immediately. First, Catholicism does not appear to be as controversial in American politics, and as a result, the stakes of defining it are not as high. The conference suggested there is a pressing need to define evangelicalism in order to understand present day voting patterns. The second factor easing any pressure to define Catholicism is the structure of the Church itself. The centralized nature of the Church relieves scholars of the need to define Catholicism. At the conference I asked two colleagues who study evangelicalism why historians of Catholicism are not interested in definitions. Basically, the response I received was that the structure of the Catholic Church – a Pope and a hierarchy – means that less is up for grabs.

We should pause to ask if having a debate about the definition of Catholicism would be productive. I imagine some will think that having such a conversation would only serve as a distraction. But I found the debate about evangelicalism at the Noll Conference to be fascinating and generative. Is it a theology? Is it a politics? Is evangelicalism the media you consume? Is it a set of ideas? Is it worship? Is everyone who likes Billy Graham an evangelical? Is the scandal of the evangelical mind still scandalous?

It is possible to conclude that Catholic historians have been debating the definition of Catholicism implicitly in their books for years. The closest our field comes to The Scandal of the Evangelical Mind might be William Halsey’s classic study, The Survival of American Innocence: Catholicism in an Era of Disillusionment, 1920-1940. Halsey argued that a neo-scholastic worldview allowed Catholics to imagine themselves as existing outside the tragedy of twentieth century American history (the rise of ethical relativism, psychoanalysis, and subjectivity). It is tragic in Halsey’s tale, and rather a scandal, because the static mentality of Catholicism made it obtuse. Other scholars followed his lead and defined Catholicism as static because of the intellectual freeze brought on by the condemnations of Americanism and Modernism. But Halsey makes the important point that Catholicism could be construed as a set of mental categories. He does define his object of study. Jay Dolan’s work implied that only the methods of social history could move scholars of Catholicism closer to a useful definition of what they study. John McGreevy’s Catholicism and American Freedom would say Catholicism is an assent to a set of ideas. His Parish Boundaries would locate institutionalism at the center of what it means to be Catholic. His latest work on the Jesuits suggests any definition of Catholicism must consider the global. Robert Orsi’s work defines Catholicism as a religion of practice replete with longings for connections to the “real presence.” Relationships between heaven and earth are also at the heart this Catholic identity. As is gender, as works by Amy Koehlinger, Kathleen Sprows-Cummings, and Mary J. Henold make clear. The essays in Habits of Devotion on confession (James O’Toole), the Eucharist (Margaret McGuiness), prayer (Joseph Chinnici), and Marian devotion (Paul Kane) identify Catholicism as profoundly ritualistic and sacramental. Peter D’Agostino argues that Rome and trans-nationalism are key to defining American Catholicism. Younger scholars are contributing to this debate and taking it in new directions. Matthew Cressler has raised the question of how the definition of American Catholicism changes when we locate black Catholics at the center of our story. Catherine Osbourne’s new book suggests professionalism and professional identities are important to Catholic life in the twentieth century. Jack Downey makes the point that Americanization of Catholicism and its entrance into mainstream of American life should not stand as the ultimate end point for defining the men and women of the Old Faith. Not all Catholics wanted mainstream status because such an “achievement” entailed an ensnarement in modern materialism.

Catholic historians debate definitions of Catholicism without a central framing device.


This blog post raises the question of whether Catholic historians need a device like a quadrilateral to shape this debate and give it some structure. The question assumes, perhaps incorrectly, that scholars can, in fact, define Catholicism. It also pushes past any reservations about debating a definition rather than figuring out how Catholics shaped American History. But what if we synthesized the works in the field to produce a four-pronged definition?  What would rise to the surface if we made it goal to boil it all down to four categories? Or could we define Catholicism with a broader categorical move? Is it a theology? Is it a set of institutions? Is it an imagination? We might return to some classic sources written by theologians and social scientists. David Tracy’s Analogical Imagination or Andrew Greely’s The Catholic Imagination both spring to mind. Historians might walk the path hewn by the editors of the recently published The Anthropology of Catholicism: A Reader. Scholar of religion Kate Dugan, in her useful review, teases out the questions asked across the volume’s essays: “What counts as a Catholic idea and a Catholic person? Why does Catholicism continue to have influence the twenty-first century? If there is a Catholic imagination, or Catholic imaginations, who acts in it?” Historians of Catholicism might follow the lead of evangelical historians and these anthropologists and then ask a pack of similar questions. Then, of course, we should deliver a satisfying answer.


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5 Questions With James Chappel about How the Catholic Church became Modern in the 1930s

I recently corresponded with historian James Chappel about his new book, Catholic Modern: The Challenge of Totalitarianism and the Remaking of the Church (Harvard, 2017). Chappel is the Hunt Family Assistant Professor of History at Duke University. For more information on his research and teaching visit his website

You define modern as accepting “the split between the public sphere of politics and the private sphere of religion.” You argue that Catholics accepted this spilt between public and private in the 1930s. How did you come to see what it means to be “modern” in this split of public and private?

For years, I avoided the term “modern” altogether. It seemed too normative and value-laden to bear much interpretive weight. The concept has a gravitational pull to it, though, and over the years I circled back to it. It helped me to solve a particular problem that arose in the course of my research. As I immersed myself in the archive of mid-century Catholicism, it became increasingly clear that something dramatically transformed in the 1930s (I hope that readers will understand that my book focuses on France, Germany, and Austria—I’ll say “Catholicism” as a shorthand, but I can’t say that the story was the same everywhere). Texts written in the late 1930s inhabited a different conceptual universe from those written ten years before. Through the 1920s, Catholic intellectuals were still dreaming of some kind of Catholic restoration, which might save Europe from the wounds of World War I. A decade later, this project had fizzled. Catholics were no longer struggling to convert a continent, but to save some semblance of their Church in a continent that was playing host to dangerous new political forces. A new set of keywords came into vogue: human rights, anti-totalitarianism, human dignity, and a few others. And a new set of commitments arose, too. Most prominently, many Catholics were more concerned with the health and security of the family than they had been before.




I struggled for a long time over how to characterize this shift, which seemed to me monumental. This led me back to the concept of modernity. I started reading scholars of religion like Elizabeth Pritchard, and queer theorists like Michael Warner. This helped me to three realizations. First, “modernity” can be a useful heuristic so long as it is rigorously defined as a real and imagined split between a private sphere and a public sphere. Second, this split is always contested, and can be investigated as a historical problematic. Third, and maybe most importantly, this split is always gendered, insofar as the modern split between public and private tends to code both the familial and the religious into the private sphere. Understood in these ways, the concept of “modernity” came to seem like a useful rubric to understand what was going on with my figures. It helped to explain both the shift towards human rights and individual dignity, while also allowing for a conceptual integration of the concomitant turn towards a particular familial order.

Your book helpfully identifies two different strands of the Catholic modern. A paternal modernism that accepted a robust state that protected and promoted the family, and a fraternal modernism that envisioned the private sphere as a space for civic associations governed by solidarity. Can you offer a brief explanation of the two modes of Catholic modernity for our readers? Where do the two modes overlap and where do they diverge?

This goes right to the heart of the book, and also to the explanation of the “modern” that I just gave. If we imagine that the split between public and private can be negotiated in all sorts of ways, we can tell a story of Catholic “modernization” that allows the Church to remain a space of contestation—as it has always been, and always will be. One of the most surprising aspects of my research is that I found surprisingly little contest between anti modern and modern Catholics. What I found, instead, was a long set of debates about how to oppose modernity, coming to a close around 1930, and a new set of debates about how to shape modernity, which began around 1930 and continue into the present. By the end of the 1930s, in other words, most Catholics accepted that a truly Catholic society was off the table, and that the Church’s mission was to influence a modern, interfaith world.

The basic theoretical question was this one: how do we define the private sphere? If we accept that religious jurisdiction only directly applies in private, then how is “private” to be defined? This framing of the question helped me to see what was really going on in the 1930s debates. The majority solution at the time, and probably still today, was to define the private sphere as the space of reproductive families. States and economies, in other words, can be left to their own devices, so long as the Catholic family is secured, and so long as Catholic teachings about the family are translated into law. As this already indicates, this understanding of the private authorized an activist politics (the privatization of religion never counsels an abandonment of the political, but only shapes what sorts of public action is legitimate). According to this view, the Catholic mission should focus on the health of the heteronormative family, and should call on the (secular) state to ban abortion, divorce, and homosexuality, while also adopting substantial welfare measures to provide a living wage (one that would allow the mother to stay at home).

I called that view “paternal Catholic modernism,” drawing attention to its gendered and hierarchical account of the private sphere. It has been extremely influential, and it has allowed the Church to play a significant role in shaping modern societies. Specifically, it helped to legitimate the curious mixture of robust family welfare and conservative family legislation that we see in postwar Europe, where Christian Democratic parties mobilized some version of paternal Catholic ideology.

As we can see in the headlines today, other Catholic visions are afoot. I refer to their competitors as “fraternal” Catholic modernists. They were always in the minority, but it’s important to recover their stories because they show that there have always been multiple, legitimate ways to conceptualize a Catholic modernity. They argued, and quite rightly, that the focus on the family to the exclusion of all else had led the Church into unsavory alliances with all sorts of evil political doctrines (most notably, fascism). They did not reject Catholic family teachings, and they were not feminists in the contemporary sense. They did argue, though, that family ethics should be seen as only one part of a more capacious and emancipatory Catholic vision. Healthy families, they argued, were impossible to imagine in a world of war, racism, and capitalism—Catholics, therefore, could not focus on the family alone. In some ways, they were more beholden than their competitors to the ancient Catholic dream of conquering society and redeeming the age. They hoped to do so, however, in a more modern and interfaith key, forging alliances with socialists, Protestants, and Jews in a struggle for justice.

 You introduce readers to a wide range of fascinating characters. You deliberately make your book a history of lay Catholic thinkers. Which was your favorite to write about and why?

This is an interesting question. I’ll answer it in two ways, saying first whose story was most interesting to track, and then whose ideas I found most compelling. To the first question: one of the characters I follow was a German Catholic economist named Theodor Brauer. I found him to be a sympathetic figure: he was one of the first working-class Catholics to receive a doctorate in economics, and his early writings (from the 1910s and 1920s) show us a man who was genuinely trying to see how modern capitalism could be made compatible with the ethical demands of the faith. He was a major figure in the Catholic trade unions, in an era when the very idea of trade unions was still controversial in some circles. Then the Depression hit. For reasons that I go into in the book, but can skip over here, the Depression made all of the old Catholic solutions to economic injustice seem inappropriate. Catholic social thinkers, Brauer included, were casting about for new solutions. And Brauer, specifically, was prolific enough, and enough of his archives were salvaged, that we can watch him month-by-month grapple with the realities of a Germany that was falling apart. He ended up becoming a Nazi sympathizer, before being thrown into prison by the Nazis themselves. The brevity of his affiliation does not save him, morally: the Catholic flirtation with Hitler, however short-lived, was crucial to his coming to power. He does, though, help us to see how a basically humanist Catholic thinker could be pulled into the fascist orbit. It was sad to watch, but it was instructive to see in granular detail how an apparently decent man could be pulled towards fascism, even if only briefly.

Brauer was not, though, my “favorite.” The answer to that question might be an unsurprising one for readers here. Over the years, I became entranced with the figure of Jacques Maritain. At first I did not want to write about him at all. He seemed too well-studied, too banal, and too enamored with America. Those preconceptions were all wrong, especially for the Maritain of the 1930s. Maritain has, I think, been misremembered as a liberal democrat with a vague interest in social injustice. From his first (monarchist) writings to his last ones, in which he grappled with the Cuban Revolution, he was much more radical and mercurial than that. The Maritain of the 1930s was an absolute firebrand, as excoriating towards liberal democracy as he was towards the paternal modernism that was, in his view, leading the Church towards heretical alliance with sovereign authorities. Maritain arrived at a form of Catholicism that was rigorously anti-racist and anti-capitalist, and one that was more in dialogue with Marx than with Mussolini. It took, I think, incredible creativity and bravery to arrive at such a position at such desperate times.

You describe Catholic Modern as a conceptual history. What does that mean? How did you track the changes in ideas over time?

I am trained as an intellectual historian, and there is no getting away from the fact that my book is mainly a study of intellectuals and texts. I think, though, that the Catholic Church is especially amenable to this type of study. Because what is the Church, in the end? Especially in the twentieth century, it relies for its power on the plausibility, attractiveness, and utility of a certain set of ideas about what it means to live a good and moral life. The historian of the Church, therefore, can focus on those ideas. I came to prefer the term “conceptual” history, though, because this is not really a story of particular “ideas” or “philosophies” (neo-Thomism, say). I tried to tell a richer story of how the meaning of the Church, and of the faith, evolved along multiple dimensions: race, sex, gender, and citizenship evolved together. One of my findings was that neither the papacy nor famous theologians were as important to this process as I thought they would be. Catholicism lives and breathes in local contexts, and the ideas are forged in spaces and venues that the Holy See cannot control very well.

My project began as a history of theology, but became a conceptual history of Catholic modernism. This inflected my method in two ways. I focused, first, less on monographs than on periodical literature and newspapers, which in an era before television and Twitter seemed to me to be the crucial venues. I gathered together literature from trade unions, women’s groups, youth organizations, employer’s associations, and more, in an effort to gather as capacious of a source base as I could. This begs the question, secondly, of what to do with such an unwieldy archive. I focused less on specific debates and controversies than on the slower, but more certain, introduction of a new set of assumptions and keywords into the debate. Conceptual change does not really happen via “debate.” It is not as though Catholics wrote books in favor of, and against, human rights. And yet, over the course of a few years, human rights became a lingua franca of Catholic discourse. I was more interested in that process, and contextual reconstruction of its motivations, than I was in genuinely intellectual or theological change.

What are the implications of your study for US Catholic modernity? Did American Catholic thinkers embrace modernity on similar terms?

I recognize that this is a blog in US history, but I am firmly a historian of Europe. I sincerely hope that my approach casts some light onto what is happening in American Catholicism. One thing I learned, though, is that it is perilous to make claims about a context that you have not specifically studied in depth. The story that I tell in the book is not the story that I set out to write. The European sources surprised me, in a way that I have not allowed American sources to do. My hunch is that some version of this story did take place in the United States. It squares with what I’ve learned from historian like Lizabeth Cohen, Kenneth Heineman, and John McGreevy. The stories were certainly connected: as McGreevy shows, European émigrés like Maritain had outsized influence in Catholic circles, and journals like Commonweal and the Catholic Worker are clearly in dialogue with European ideas. Meanwhile, the economic and political crisis of the 1930s was global in nature, and it seems to me that Catholics like John Ryan and even Charles Coughlin responded in ways not dissimilar to their peers in Europe. Catholics were entering the Democratic coalition in the USA just as they were entering similar political alliances in Europe (and with similarly complex alliances between economic progressivism and racial nativism). But do the models of fraternal and paternal modernism that I uncovered in Europe exist, in the same ways, on this side of the Atlantic? Were the 1930s as crucial to American Catholics as to European ones? I could hazard guesses to these questions, but if I’ve learned one thing in studying Catholic history, it’s that the guesses we hazard are likely to be wrong. I would be very interested, then, to hear what American historians make of the story I tell in the book.
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New and Improved ACHA Graduate Student Summer Research Grants

 At its Jan 2018 meeting, the Executive Council of the American Catholic Historical Association, under the leadership of President Kathleen Sprows-Cummings, approved an increase in the number of Graduate Student Summer Research Grants to be awarded each summer and the Council authorized an increase in the amount of money per award.

The ACHA is happy to offer 4 grants for the summer of 2018, each for a total of $2500.



In taking this measure, the Executive Council wished to continue the ACHA’s long-standing commitment to graduate student research. The increased amount of support per award was also designed with the goal of funding more graduate student research in archives and libraries abroad.
Dr. Carolyn Twomey conducts research with a
Graduate Student Summer Research Grant from the ACHA
at the Parker Library at Cambridge University, Corpus
Christi College.

Graduate students who have completed their coursework and are researching topics related to the history of Catholicism broadly defined are encouraged to apply.

Applications are due on April 30. More details can be found here.


Many thanks,
Carolyn Twomey and Peter Cajka 


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9 Questions with Matthew J. Cressler

I recently interviewed Matthew J. Cressler about his new book Authentically Black and Truly Catholic, published in 2017 with New York University Press. Matthew is no stranger to this blog -- he wrote regularly for RiAH for a few years -- and we are pleased to see his book in print. He is currently Assistant Professor of Religious Studies at the College of Charleston. 


PC: Your book tells the story of a profound transformation of what it meant to be Black and Catholic. Where does Authentically Black and Truly Catholic begin?

MC: Though the introduction provides some background in Black Catholic history, the story really opens with encounters between Black southern migrants and white Catholic missionaries in the Gre
at Migrations in the 1920s. It is hard to overstate the significance of Black migrations in the making of the twentieth-century U.S. Catholic history. Cities across the urban North were veritable Catholic metropolises at the start of the twentieth century. So when Black migrants from the rural South, most of whom were evangelicals and many of whom had been touched by the Holiness-Pentecostal revivals sweeping the South, began arriving cities like Chicago by the hundreds of thousands it had a profound impact on the urban religious landscape. The first three chapters of the book tell the story of what happened when predominantly white and Catholic neighborhoods on the South and West Sides of Chicago became predominantly Black and non-Catholic in a matter of years. It focuses on the fraught relationships missionaries and migrants forged in these years. Missionaries reimagined these neighborhoods as “foreign mission fields” full of heathens in need of conversion and worked to repopulate empty pews with Black converts. And many migrants also found Catholic rituals and relationships quite compelling, especially as they and their children were introduced to them in parochial schools. This resulted in a period of unparalleled growth. There were approximately 300,000 Black Catholics in 1940. By 1975 there were almost 1 million, a 208% increase, and the Black Catholic center of gravity had shifted from the coastal South to the industrial North.





PC: One of the key interventions you make in your book is showing how historians need to focus less on white interracialists and more so on white missionaries. You bring to our attention the missionary priests and sisters who worked to convert African Americans in the twentieth century and you unpack the strategies they used to accomplish these ends. On page 12 you write: “White missionaries had a far wider impact on Black Catholic communities than white interracialists.” Explain what you mean by this. Why are white missionaries in Chicago so important? 

MC: To be a bit more precise, I think that if we want to understand the lives of Black Catholics themselves (and, frankly, the lives of innumerable Black people who encountered Catholics and didn’t convert themselves), it is more important to focus on white missionaries than interracialists. “Interracialists,” a term often used interchangeably with “Catholic [racial] liberals,” were white and Black Catholics committed to the fight for an interracial, integrated America. Since John McGreevy introduced us to them in his ground-breaking book Parish Boundaries (1996), interracialists have been the main focus for studies on Catholics and race. And this is understandable. They set the terms of Catholic engagement with race, such as there was any, from the 1930s through the mid-1960s. As such, they’ve represented an attractive subject for scholars searching for Catholic models for racial justice. However, I argue that an overemphasis on interracialists has obscured the lives of most Black Catholics. Most Black Catholics didn’t engage in interracialist activism. (As a sidebar, this shouldn’t come a surprise. The vast majority of Catholics didn’t engage in interracial activism. Activism is, by definition, the exception rather than the rule.) If we want to understand why so many Black people became Catholic in the first half of the twentieth century, we are better served by studying the relationships between missionaries and migrants. Now, this can bring us face-to-face with uncomfortable truths like, for instance, the fact that most missionaries were more concerned with the eternal salvation of Black souls than with the alleviation of “temporal ills” like poverty and racism. This discomfort, the fact that white missionaries may be unpalatable to twenty-first century scholars and readers alike, may have something to do with why they’ve gotten short shrift (they’re present in Parish Boundaries, for instance, but certainly not the heroes of the story). But I think that if we want to understand why so many African Americans converted to Catholicism in this period, we have to dive deep into the fraught relationships migrants and missionaries formed in neighborhoods, in parishes, in parochial schools. Missionaries are so important to the story of Black Catholics in Chicago (and across the country) in the Great Migrations because it is missionaries (an exceptional few, but missionaries all the same) who invited Black women, men, and children into Catholic churches and schools, who introduced them to Catholic rituals and relationships, and who facilitated the conversion of tens of thousands of Black Catholics.

PC: African Americans converted to Catholicism in large numbers in the mid-twentieth century. But Chapter 2 slows the reader down to show how the subjects you study help us to understand the nature of conversion. Conversion is not just a choice, you argue, but a process of coming to feel and know – in one’s body – that the Catholic Church was “the One True Faith.” How does your book help us to understand conversion? How does it provide an alternative to previous understandings?

MC: Though this is starting to shift among scholars, popular conceptions of conversion still tend to imagine it as a choice among religious options. This stems from still deeper assumptions about what “religion” is in the first place, assumptions that real religion is rooted in sincerely held and deeply personal beliefs that then manifest out in the world in the form of ritual, worship, etc. What I found in my research, especially in a treasure trove of the letters written by Black converts to Catholicism collected in the Sisters of the Blessed Sacrament archives, was almost the opposite. Conversion didn’t begin with intellectual assent to propositional beliefs, after which came a commitment to new rituals and relationships. Actually, most converts decided to, in the words of one letter-writer, “do what others were doing” first. They learned new prayers, they attended Mass, they formed relationships with Catholics as well as with Catholic saints, they practiced new ways of moving their bodies – all of which, along with catechetical classes, eventually contributed to a deeply embodied sense of knowing that the Catholic Church was the “One True Church.” This was especially true in parochial schools, where Catholic and non-Catholic children alike were disciplined (literally and figuratively) in new ways of living in the world. Parents of parochial school children, Catholic and non-Catholic alike, were required to attend religious instruction classes and Mass so as to assure that the educational work of the women religious and priests were not being undermined in the home. Together this lead to mass conversions, often with entire families being baptized on the same day. Now, a natural critique of this arrangement (and one forwarded by both contemporaries and later scholars) is that it coercive. That the missionary model that required students and parents to practice Catholicism (even if they were not themselves Catholic) precludes the free choice that is necessary for a conversion to be sincere and true. What I’m trying to do here – and I’m drawing on Catherine Bell and Talal Asad and Robert Orsi and others – is move us away from thinking about conversion as either choice or coercion and, instead, to think of it as an educative process by which people are inculcated in a new way of being in the world.

PC: What were some of the costs and anxieties that came with an African American’s conversion to Catholicism?

MC: This is directly connected to my comments on conversion above. First of all, certain costs and anxieties might lead someone to convert in the first place. Perhaps you’ve fallen in love and your fiancé is insisting you become Catholic or the marriage is off. Maybe you fear your children will not receive an adequate education in a public school setting and so parochial schools are the best options for you and your family. Or, like many a parent, you worry about losing relationships with family members if they become Catholic and you don’t. So costs and anxieties and all the contingencies and coincidences that make up human life can and do play an essential part in the making of conversion. (And, again, this does not render their conversions less authentic. It simply allows converts to be human.) Now, once you became Catholic, a whole new set of costs and anxieties came with it. Becoming Catholic in the first half of the 20th century, in the age of the “One True Church,” meant that you were committing (at least in theory) to never stepping into a Protestant church (since Protestants were heretics). Considering the fact that most African Americans who were religious were evangelical Protestants, this could mean severing familial ties. Not attending weddings, funerals, and reunions. Not being able to be buried in your family cemetery – there were quite a few conflicts between Catholic priests and the surviving families of deceased Catholic converts who refused to give their family members a “proper” Catholic burial. If you converted to Catholicism and your immediate family members had not, this could lead to even greater anxieties about nothing short of the salvation of your father or mother or brother or sister’s soul.

PC: Catholicism offered African Americans a different regime of rituals, doctrines, and bodily exercises than, say, Pentecostalism or the Holiness Movement. Why is this important, especially in the urban context of Chicago?

MC: I like that way of putting it – “different regime of rituals, doctrines, and bodily exercises.” This different regime is important because it was happening at precisely the same moment (i.e. in the midst of the Great Migrations) that another regime was not only becoming more popular in Black churches across Chicago and the urban North, but also coming to be understood by scholars and popular audiences alike to be the essential way of being Black and religious. As Wallace Best put it in Passionately Human, No Less Divine, the Great Migrations gave birth to a “new sacred order in the city” as southern evangelical Black Christianity – distinguished by what W.E.B. DuBois characterized as “the preacher, the music, and the frenzy” – came North and combined with the exigencies of the city to produce new ways of being Black and religious. This new sacred order spread through storefronts and institutional churches, transforming the religious landscape of the Black Metropolis. A significant minority of Black religious communities sought to distance themselves from these new religious lifeways. Black Muslims, Black Hebrews, Moorish Americans, and, yes, I would argue Black Catholics all shared in the same impulse to create alternative ways of being Black and religious beyond the boundaries of what has traditionally been conceived as “the Black Church.” I dive into this argument in depth in Chapter 3 by highlighting a particularly dramatic example of this, a Black Catholic performance of the Living Stations of the Cross on the South Side of Chicago. For the better part of 30 years, Black parishioners at Corpus Christi Catholic Church performed a silent pantomime of the passion of the Christ and drew pilgrims (white and Black, Catholic and non-Catholic) from across greater Chicagoland. This performance, built on scripted silence, disciplined movement, and the recitation of wrote prayers, was contrasted with (sometimes self-consciously) the growing sense that “authentic” Black religious life was about ecstasy, emotion, and spontaneity. Black Catholics, for this reason, provide a great case study in what Curtis Evans called “the burden of black religion.”

PC: Okay, if the Great Migrations and conversion is where the book begins, where does it end? What explains the momentous shift in what it meant to be Black and Catholic over the course of the twentieth century? 

MC: If the first half of the book is a story of conversion, the second half is a story of revolution. One of the things that is so remarkable about this history is that the Catholicism that so many Black converts found so compelling in the 1940s, ‘50s, and ‘60s no longer existed by the end of the century. This is because the Black Power movement and the Second Vatican Council transformed about what it meant to be both Black and Catholic. This is what Chapters 4 and 5 are about. Black Power galvanized a generation of Black Catholic activists who fought for control of Catholic institutions, representation in the U.S. Church, and incorporation of what they took to be “authentically Black” ways of being religious in Catholic life. Vatican II provided these activists with the resources (theological, liturgical, political) to make these arguments within the Church. This convergence revolutionized what it meant to be Black and Catholic in the U.S. On the national level, it gave rise to an unprecedented wave of Black Catholic institution building – the Black Catholic Clergy Caucus, the National Black Sisters’ Conference, and the National Office for Black Catholics were all founded between 1968 and 1970. These institutions and the activists that gave them life came to be known as the “Black Catholic Movement.” On the local level, it sparked struggles for the control of Catholic institutions and produced some surprising alliances – uniting, for example, the young revolutionary Fred Hampton’s Illinois Chapter of the Black Panther Party with Concerned Black Catholics fighting for the pastorate of activist-priest Fr. George Clements. And on an individual level, it led to bitter debates about whether it was even possible to be both Black and Catholic. On one side, the Catholicism that attracted converts in the first half of the twentieth century came under attack as a “white religion.” On the other side, many of the biggest critics of those activists were Black Catholics themselves. The result was that, over the course of the 1970s, much of the Black Catholic Movement was devoted to “converting,” as it were, fellow Black Catholics to a new way of being Black and Catholic. The book effectively ends in 1984 when the ten Black bishops in the United States (whose rise to power is indebted to this very movement) famously declared that Black Catholics had “come of age” and that it was possible to be both “authentically Black” and “truly Catholic.” This bishops’ statement, “What We Have Seen and Heard,” is where the title of my book comes from.


PC: How did the Black Power movement in the Catholic Church change its relationship with the Black Church? How does your study of Black Catholics challenge or force us to revise some of this history?

MC: Great question! In the first half of the book, Catholics really see themselves as the “One True Church” in contrast to, to quote one particularly provocative missionary, the “religious quackery” of the plethora of Protestant churches proliferating around them. This went for Black Catholics as well. Converts understood themselves to be joining the Church Universal, a church that transcended the vicissitudes of the temporal world and the particularities of race. So converts very much did not see themselves as part of the Black Church. With the rise of a particular mode of Black consciousness in the Black Power era, this all changes. Activists in the Black Catholic Movement start to argue that Black Catholics, by virtue of being Black in America, are inheritors of a distinctively Black spirituality with roots in Africa as well as of the legacies of the Black Church. They engage in conversations with Black Catholics across what could be called an Afro-Catholic diaspora – from North America to the Caribbean to the African continent – about what it means to be “authentically Black,” whether that is compatible with being “truly Catholic,” and how best to go about actualizing an “authentically Black” Catholicism. They turn to Black Protestant leaders and emergent programs on Black Church studies to be educated in new ways of understanding what it means to be Black and religious, whether that means worshipping in different ways or reorienting one’s sense of the past in connection to the present. They experiment with new Black liturgical practices and repopulate parishes with Black saints and African iconography. All of this makes it possible, really for the first time in their history, for Black Catholics in the U.S. to think of themselves as Catholic and as members of “the Black Church.” (Though, by no means did all Black Catholics conceive of themselves this way. As I’ve mentioned, many actively resisted this reading.)


PC: You note in the final chapter the fascinating story of how the Black Power movement within Catholicism continued to draw upon the tactics of missionary Catholicism. These churches, specifically Holy Angels, were unapologetically Black churches, and integrated Black pride into the official curriculum. Yet they required the parents of the children to attend mass and catechism classes! Could we say that there is profound continuity within this profound transformation?

Yes, I found this fascinating too. On the macro level, when we’re talking about the Black Catholic Movement, what comes to the fore is a critique of the “missionary mentality” the Church had in regard to Black Catholics – how the U.S. Church treated Black people as “foreign missions” to be converted, rather than as full-fledged members. This critique is spot-on, historically speaking, and remained quite compelling for Black Catholics on the local level as well. But what is interesting is that, strategically speaking, it is clear that many of the missionary “tactics,” so to speak, remained essential to the thriving of Black Catholic communities even as they rejected other logics of the missionary mentality. So students attending Holy Angels School on the South Side of Chicago learned both about transubstantiation and about who Angela Davis was; parents whose students enrolled at Holy Angels had to attend religious instructions and Mass and, in a sense, take ownership of the life of the parish, even if they were not themselves Catholic; the community celebrated a Catholic Mass dedicated to the memory of assassinated Black Panther leader Fred Hampton. So yes, I think you’re right. If you’re focusing on the macro-level, it would be easy to read the rise of Black Catholicism in the Black Power era as an outright rejection of the (white) Catholic past. But when you examine Black Catholics in the idiosyncrasies and contingencies of particular communities, the answers become more complicated. Yes, this period gave birth to new ways of being Black and Catholic. But, no, this did not entail a wholesale rejection of all that came before it. Often, it involved the creative combination of the missionary past with the Black Power present.

What are you working on next?

I’ve got a few things going right now, but the most immediate one is an article manuscript tentatively titled “Categorizing Catholic Racism.” It draws on an extensive archive of Catholic hate mail collected in archdiocesan archives across the country. It seems that whenever the Catholic Church engaged in (or, even more so, was perceived to be engaging in) efforts to desegregate parishes, homes, and schools, slews of white Catholics wrote letters to their archbishops that expressed rage, disgust, and a deep sense of betrayal over the direction of what they took to be their Church. This piece seeks to take the voices of these white Catholics seriously as central subjects in U.S. Catholic history and categorize the different dynamics (social, political, theological, etc.) that shaped the contours of white Catholic racism, in particular. I’m also engaged in a collaborative project on “Colonialism, Catholicism, and Race in the Lands that Became the United States.” This project has gathered a number of scholars, from across different disciplines, who study Catholics in a variety of different times and places in the history of North America. What unites us is a commitment to thinking through how the study of Catholicism might shift if we were to consider colonialism and race as constitutive categories for the field of Catholic Studies, rather than as merely isolated interests of those of us who study non-white Catholics.

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Religion at the Ninth Annual Meeting of the Society for U.S. Intellectual History



Image result for 9th annual s-usih conference
I did not attend all of the panels on religion at the Ninth Annual Meeting of the Society for U.S. Intellectual History. My brief reflections here are in response to the panels I did attend (including my own) but I also make mention of the many projects of interest to our readers. I left with two questions and bring attention to two trends.

 S-USIH offers a space for historians of religion from various organizations – the ASCH, the ACHA, the AAR, etc.  – to meet and explore common interests. The common thread at the 9th Annual S-USIH is an interest in how the study of religion overlaps with the study of thought more broadly.



Two Questions: Synthesis and Lived Religion

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The Mapparium 
Can intellectual history provide us with tools to build a coherent narrative of America’s religious history even in the face of tremendous pluralism? What themes can intellectual history offer historians of religion? Panels offered familiar conceptual devices to gather religion under the umbrella of “Civil Religion” or “The Public Sphere.” Papers approached these canopies from a diversity of angles. Sarah Georgini considered the message sent by the Christian Scientists with the construction of the Mapparium. Her paper made the important point that the craftsmen and architects who labored to materialize a religious vision are the subjects of American intellectual history. David Mislin examined the concept of evil in liberal Protestants’ midcentury theology. Rachel Gordon analyzed middlebrow Jewish literature published in the 1940s and 1950s, weighing its effects on Jewish citizenship. In a panel on Civil Religion, audiences explored John Foster Dulles’s Manichean worldview (John D. Wilsey); the supra-national thought of Jerry Falwell (James M. Patterson); Congress placing “In God We Trust” on its rostrum to spite the Supreme Court’s decision in Engel v. Vitale (Fred W. Beuttler); Protestants and Catholics using human rights language to shape politics in Latin America (Lauren F. Turek); and a linguistic analysis of American exceptionalism from George W. Bush to Barack Obama (Hilde Eliassen Restad). Pluralism, one of the cornerstones of our field, was on full display in Dallas. Panels ran across the denominational (Presbyterians, Jews, Catholics, Christian Scientists) and trans-denomination (evangelical, liberal protestant) axes. Panels also implied that “anxiety” and “crisis” shaped religious life in the US. A panel featuring Daniel Williams, John Compton, and Benjamin Leavitt – chaired by Molly Worthen – considered mid-century religious thought in an “Anxious Age.”

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In God We Trust, Congress's Rostrum 
We might permit ourselves a moment to dwell on the ability of intellectual history to bring the congeries of religious history under a synthetic roof.  All of these religions enter into public space from their own institutional positions. Hence, there is utility in bundling religion into a broader Public Sphere or a Civil Religion.


We might also dwell on how religious pluralism feeds into the broader theme of “The Culture of Democracy.” James Kloppenberg’s Toward Democracy makes the case that the ethical teachings of Christianity, and the small Protestant towns of New England, facilitated the rise of our current democratic political horizons. Papers by Benjamin E. Park, Matthew Bowman, and Lily Santoro considered “Protestant Democratic Culture,” “Civic Religion,” and the concept of “Fit Christian Citizens.” My own paper looked at how Catholics fit into culture of democracy: culture, meaning a series of practices, ideas, and ideals to work towards.Gale Kenny ended a roundtable on the state of the field of religious history with a provocative question: is US Intellectual History Protestant history? 

How will intellectual historians address the issues raised by historians of lived religion? The theory of lived religion – and its emergence out of archival sources – poses a serious epistemological challenge to intellectual historians. Cultural history dwells on the incongruous nature of religion or its eclectic nature. Religious thoughts are seen as provisional and experimental. At the state of the field panel, Erin Bartram raised the question about the relationship between sources in the intellectual history canon where religion appears organized and sources like diaries in which subjects feed off multiple fonts of religious ideas.  The panel considered the issue at length but never shied away from the suggestion that the archives – and certain methods of social history – are a boon to intellectual history and the history of religious thought. Rendering religion into a systematic body of thought with the tools of intellectual history remains a productive endeavor for our field and for understanding religion more broadly. Dan Hummel’s paper raised the question of how the historian of religion – while “taking religion seriously” – also considers how religion is shaped by other realms of behavior: social, cultural, economic, and political.  Ben Wright responded with a question of what it might mean to be seduced by religious subjects who wanted the people around them to think they were religious. The state of the field panel considered how to balance the fairly streamlined content of doctrine next to the messiness of religion in the lives our subjects. How should intellectual historians approach these problems?

Trends: International History and Gender 

American religion is very much “out in the world,” as panels in Dallas amply demonstrated.  S-USIH conference presenters operate in the jet stream of Andrew Preston’s Sword of the Spirit, Shield of Faith: Religion in American War and Diplomacy and David Hollinger’s Protestants Abroad: How Missionaries Tried to Change the World but Changed America. Woodrow Wilson’s social gospel now plays an important role in American empire (Cara Burnidge), missionaries imbued science in Hawaii with the divine (Tracy Laevelle), and religion, of course, also challenged empire (Ray Haberski). As mentioned above, Lauren Turek’s work brings the fields of American religion and international human rights history into conversation. Emily Conroy-Krutz’s paper on the state of the field panel considered how recent books by Christine Heyrman and Michael Altman study religion abroad to illumine religious issues in America. Conroy-Krutz makes the important point that recent scholarship has portrayed missionaries both as purveyors of bias and important sources of cosmopolitanism.  The subjects we study in the field of American religious history go out into the world and think about a wide range of issues. Religion is exported as well as imported.



Image result for mike altman hindooImage result for christine heyrman islam

Women’s and gender history intersected with long-standing research trends in the field of American Intellectual and religious history.  These approaches are producing new insights into old questions. Erin Bartram offered an analysis of how gender shapes the construction of the female self in the nineteenth century. Religion and religious questions are involved in the construction of the self and the recognition of boundaries between the individual and society. Elesha Coffman discussed the ways the legacy of Betty Friedan occluded historians’ understandings of Margaret Mead, the subject of her new book Oxford’s Spirited Lives series. Andrea Turpin’s paper considered women from both sides of the Fundamentalist-Modernist controversy. Elizabeth H. Flowers asked why women were so involved in spreading the doctrine of inerrancy in the late twentieth century. Karen K. Seat looked at how ideas of women’s labor helped to explain the general turn towards neo-conservative policy during and after the Reagan era. These papers demonstrated that women thinkers and ideas about gender shaped key trends in American history: the rise of the self, fundamentalism, the rise of the right, second wave feminism, and neoliberalism.





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Crossings & Dwellings: Restored Jesuits, Women Religious, American Experience, 1814-2014 (book preview)

This post offers a very brief preview of a volume of essays on post-restoration Jesuits edited by Stephen Schloesser and Kyle Roberts of Loyola University and published with Brill.


As readers of this blog are well aware, the Jesuits were “restored” in 1814 by Pope Pius VII after being suppressed by Pope Clement XIV in 1773. The men who remained in the order went underground for over forty years. Historians have noted that the Society of Jesus that emerged from that crucible held a deep aversion towards liberalism and nationalism. Yet, for this reason and others, the essays in
Crossings and Dwellings: Restored Jesuits, Women Religion and American Experience make the case that a study of post-Restoration Jesuits (1814-1965) can provide historians a useful lens for studying American modernity.

Post-Restoration Jesuits inhabited a tension: they were loyal to the papacy and fierce critics of nationalism, yet they respected the separation of Church and State and built a range of institutions help Catholic immigrants become democratic citizens. How can this tension (one studied by John McGreevy in American Jesuits and the World) help historians to understand America between Jacksonian Democracy and the Great Society?




One of the innovative features of Crossings in Dwellings is an organization schema linked to Tom Tweed’s theory of religion. “Tweed offers a theory of religion,” the editors Kyle Roberts and Stephen Schloesser note, "that addresses the centrality of movement, the interdependence of relation, and the importance of position in understanding the religious life of transnational migrants. His formulation is well suited to the experience of thousands of Jesuits who have come to the United States from  Europe and around the world since the restoration."The first section, “Crossings I”, examines post-restoration Jesuits interactions with indigenous people and immigrants. Section two, “Dwellings I,” looks at a series of “urban hybrids” such as city religions, medical schools, and universities. “Dwellings II” then looks at the tension between the Jesuit’s appreciation for the nation and their continued critiques of the nation-state in college curricula, the work of Jesuit playwright Daniel Lord, and activist Daniel Berrigan. And “Crossings II” meditates on a series of borderlands and boundaries between institutions of higher learning, Jesuit John Ford and obliteration bombing, Native Americans, and ecumenism.

The essays offer an empirical grounding of the tension between critique and sympathy and Tweed's theory helps the reader to see these conflicts in a continuous push of crossing, dwelling, and bubbling. Jesuits not only traversed the Atlantic Ocean, they moved domestically between New York and New Orleans, Washington D.C. and Alaska. Along the way they interacted with women religious from a range of orders. They took trunks, bags, books, spoons, chalices, bibles, pens, paintings, and all sorts of other materialities with them wherever they went. The continued motion was matched with the continued conflict between nation and faith. Nineteenth century Jesuit hospitals insisted on maintaining a commitment to the early modern curricula even as they adapted their institutions to the new standards of professionalism. Orestes Brownson, the most important American Catholic intellectual of the nineteenth century, lambasted the Jesuits for their lack of enthusiasm about the Union. Holy Cross College had three goals for their students in the nineteenth century: (1) produce a devotional tendency focused on the pope; (2) help students embrace the liberalism of the constitution; and (3) foster a spirit of service to non-Catholics and even anti-Catholics. How would an undergraduate come to terms with those tensions? E. Boyd Barret SJ insisted on studying and teaching psychoanalysis at the start of the twentieth century, much to the growing dismay of his superiors. Yet, he was sent back and forth between London and New York for further studies of psychoanalysis. He eventually left the Jesuits in 1925.  Daniel Berrigan SJ, it is worth recalling, moved from a reverence towards the US to a deep critique of its violence as the twentieth century pressed on.  Crossings and Dwellings places these stories in the deeper context of the post-Reformation Society of Jesus.

How does the post-restoration Jesuit imaginary, a tension and a thing in motion, help us to understand American history in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries? As the essays show, American history has a cast of characters, the Jesuits – with a wide range of institutions at their disposal – who don’t see the nation-state as the end of history. In other words, the nation-state in American modernity is a contested entity, as we know, but it does not define the mental horizons of an important contingent of priests who were deeply transformed by the democratic revolutions of the late 18th century. They might be unique in their hesitation towards nationalism, one of the most important characteristics of modernity. Yet the Jesuits also show us, through the case studies, that the nation-state remained an important layer of reality. Jesuits developed institutions to help immigrants become citizens; to assist Catholics in accessing the corridors of power; and they created curricula to foster a connection between faith and nation. These essays give us a view into the tension-ridden worldview of American Jesuits. This should help historians of religion to think more clearly about the relationship between faith and nation.

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Historiographic Saints


Isaac Hecker, circa 1890
In the spirit of RiAH's 10 year anniversary, we welcome a guest post from historian William Cossen. You can follow him at www.williamscossen.com and on Twitter @WilliamCossen.

What do historians of Catholicism owe to the saints about whom they write?

This question has been on my mind since the American Catholic Historical Association’s Annual Meeting in Denver this past January.  Two moments at the conference together served for me as the genesis of this question.  The first moment took the form of a comment from Thomas Rzeznik during his presentation for the ACHA’s presidential roundtable, about which I have written in more detail on John Fea’s Way of Improvement Leads Home blog.  Rzeznik noted that scholars of Catholicism should remain mindful of the multiple audiences they serve through their research and writing: the academy, the institutional church, and interested laypeople.

The second moment emerged following my own panel on Catholicism and Americanism.  I had a conversation on the state of the field of Catholic history with the panel’s organizer, Erin Bartram.   Both of our papers dealt with Isaac Hecker, a central figure in the study of mid- to late nineteenth-century U.S. Catholic history, and we briefly pondered the nature of writing about an individual such as Hecker, who is presently being investigated for potential canonization.

It is obviously not uncommon for historians of Catholicism to write about men and women who have been recognized as saints by the Catholic Church.  This may be somewhat rarer in scholarship on U.S. Catholicism, which reflects the fewer canonized saints from the United States than from other countries with longer histories of an extensive Catholic presence.  There are, however, several fine examples of recent historical scholarship that include canonized (or soon-to-be canonized) Catholics as central figures in their narratives.



Why this has been on my mind is that my research on Hecker could have the potential to turn up what may be, at least to present-day observers, unflattering information on this Servant of God (an initial step in the process of canonization).   While Hecker’s life has been examined as part of the history of transcendentalism, the religious conversion experience, and the Americanist controversy within late nineteenth-century Catholicism, my research on Hecker explores how his writings and their intellectual legacy intersected with ideologies of race and growing American imperialism during the same period.  Remaining mindful of the multiple audiences of a scholar of Catholicism, I want to employ a rigorous methodology befitting an academic historian.  I also want to provide a more detailed picture of Hecker that is neither hagiographical nor exaggeratedly critical, recognizing that the institutional church and Hecker’s canonization promoters may be undertaking the simultaneous process of writing their own histories of Hecker.  Following Pope John Paul II’s reform of the canonization process in 1983, religion journalist Kenneth L. Woodward writes, the Catholic Church’s saint-makers began “employ[ing] the academic model of researching and writing a doctoral dissertation.  Hereafter, causes would be accepted or rejected according to the standards of critical historiography.”   In contemporary saint-making, individuals involved with the formal canonization process as well as academic historians operating outside the church’s institutional structures are all involved in creating saintly historiographies that may or may not exist at odds with one another.

Subsequent to the ostensible historicizing and de-hagiographizing of the saint-making process, can non-church-affiliated, academic historians now function as unofficial and even unwitting promoters of a would-be saint’s canonization (if the history produced depicts saintliness) or as devil’s advocates (if the narrative produced depicts something else entirely)?   To what extent should (or even can) academic historians of Catholicism, when aware of an ongoing sainthood investigation for one of their scholarly subjects, let this knowledge play a role in shaping their narratives?  Can such a consideration be avoided once this knowledge has been attained?

It can be easy to lose sight of the constructedness of saints and especially of historians’ roles in the work of such construction.  Sociologist Pierre Delooz argues that “all saints are more or less constructed in that, being necessarily saints for other people, they are remodelled in the collective representation which is made of them.”   This project, though, did not cease in some remote past when the stories of saints were being written by hagiographers but rather continues to the present with the stories of saints being written by historians.  Saint-making and saint-unmaking are not discrete moments with discernible temporal boundaries but are rather ongoing projects of which historians are a part.  “Hagiography,” religion scholar Robert A. Orsi writes,” is best understood as a creative process that goes on and on in the circumstances of everyday life.”  It is not just devotees of the saints, however, who participate in this “creative process.”  Historians also play a central role in contextualizing the saints, separating myth from fact, revising the narratives of their lives, and at times recreating their hagiographies.  This scholarly production of saints is a reason why, as Orsi describes, “holy figures get caught up and implicated in struggles on earth.  They bear the marks of history.”   In describing the emergence in the early modern period of professional medical expertise as a required component of canonization investigations, historian Bradford Bouley explains, “[J]udging a prospective corpse during a canonization proceeding was not a simple act where the evidence at hand was easily reduced to a comprehensible category.  Rather, it was a process of negotiation in which the various demands of the community, the faith, and the practice of medicine conditioned the ways in which the truth of the saintly body was understood.”   The ongoing practice of saint-remaking is similarly a negotiated undertaking carried out as a dialogue between historians, their subjects, and their various audiences.

Related image
The canonizaiton of John Paul II and John XXIII


And what about that third audience that Rzeznik mentioned?  Interested laypeople.  Not only does the religious order Hecker founded, the Paulist Fathers, still operate actively, but Hecker must remain for some a figure of veneration with a fama sanctitatis (reputation for holiness) that would justify his cause for canonization.  The balance I am trying to strike between respect for Hecker the historical figure, respect for lay and clerical Catholics who may venerate him, and respect for the historical method, is a tenuous one.  I do not want to alienate this third audience if my scholarship casts Hecker in a negative light, but I also owe this audience, my other audiences, and Hecker an honest review of the primary sources wherever they may lead.  This consideration gives me pause to think about why a religious figure and their present-day admirers should command any more historical respect than their secular counterparts.  Is this just an unconscious blinder worn by historians of explicitly religious figures?  That is, do we ever adopt an additional degree of caution when analyzing religious subjects compared to non-religious subjects, even though the categories of religious and non-religious are themselves continually made and remade historically and historiographically?

In 1918, a piece in The Catholic Historical Review reflected on the effect of techniques of higher criticism being brought to bear on the histories of saints.  The unnamed author wrote that “American Catholic history thus far is largely biographical, and it is from the published lives of the leaders of the Church here that the future historian will be compelled to gather the larger part of his materials.”  They maintained that “if American Catholic history is to be protected against historiasters of the future,” historians of Catholicism must adopt a modern, rigorous, “technical method of research, of criticism, and of composition.”  This methodology applied equally to the lives of avowedly religious figures as it did to ostensibly non-religious figures.  The author argued that such a scientific method of historicizing necessarily entailed “criticism,” which, although “not the chief end of historical research,” was essential for the creation of an accurate narrative of the history of American Catholicism.”

This Progressive Era methodology of historical criticism of the church and its leading lights, however, was fraught with dangers to the historian.  Jesuit author Hippolyte Delehaye, a specialist in the study of hagiography, wrote in his 1907 book The Legends of the Saints: An Introduction to Hagiography, that “[r]eligious-minded people who regard with equal veneration not only the saints themselves but everything associated with them,” were appalled by historically critical interpretations of saints’ lives.  Delehaye was aware, then, of the multiple audiences of a historian of Catholicism; in this case, these audiences were academics practicing critical analysis and religious readers disturbed by an apparent undermining of saints’ cults.  The historian writing from a critical perspective about a saint or potential saint is therefore open, Delehaye argued, to charges of irreligiosity and of harboring an anti-saint attitude.  Delehaye thought this to be most unfortunate since many such historians, seeking only to treat their subjects and their discipline with respect, had been painted as “iconoclasts.”

Contemporary historians engaging in critical readings of figures regarded by some or many Catholics to be saints or at least saintly may face a difficult double bind: writing too positively about these individuals could lead to charges from fellow academics that they are writing hagiographies, and writing too negatively about them may lead to charges from these figures’ institutional and lay promoters that the historian has insufficiently respected the lived religious experiences of their subjects and their subjects’ devotees.  This is essentially the challenge facing any scholar, historian Jill Lepore explains, when he or she is “[f]inding out and writing about people, living or dead.”  In her 2001 article “Historians Who Love Too Much: Reflections on Microhistory and Biography,” Lepore writes, “It is necessary to balance intimacy with distance while at the same time being inquisitive to the point of invasiveness.  Getting too close to your subject is a major danger, but not getting to know her well enough is just as likely.”   For scholars of Catholicism, these difficulties may be rooted in the sense that hagiography and history can be neatly dichotomized, a position which would reveal a somewhat hubristic view of modern historians operating above hagiography and older hagiographers being incapable of writing accurate history.  I would like to suggest that there exists a finer line between the two narrative forms than may be acknowledged at first glance.  Jesuit scholar Michel de Certeau argues in The Writing of History that hagiography’s “combination of acts, places, and themes indicates a particular structure that refers not just primarily to ‘what took place,’ as does history, but to ‘what is exemplary.’”   From this perspective, the hagiographer is grappling just as much as is the historian with the challenge of creating for readers a usable past.

Whether a scholar of religion approaches her or his subjects from a position of methodological atheism or agnosticism or out of the belief that the presence of the supernatural in the world is a historical fact, this same scholar must reckon with the reality and associated responsibility that her or his scholarship can play a role, whether directly or indirectly, in shaping the historical memory, the prospects for canonization, and the nature of the veneration of a figure regarded by people of faith as a saint transcending history.


Bill graduated with a PhD in history from Penn State University in December 2016. He serves as the book review editor for H-SHGAPE (Society for Historians of the Gilded Age and Progressive Era) and is a member of the faculty of The Gwinnett School of Mathematics, Science, and Technology. His articles have been published in American Catholic StudiesThe South Carolina Historical Magazine, and U.S. Catholic Historian, and he has an article on Catholic labor schools forthcoming in The Catholic Historical Review. Cossen is currently revising his first book manuscript, which is titled Making Catholic America: Religious Nationalism in the Gilded Age and Progressive Era.



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Notes

 Dr. Bartram gave me permission to mention this conversation.  See author’s personal correspondence, June 23, 2017.

Examples include Anne M. Boylan, The Origins of Women’s Activism: New York and Boston, 1797-1840 (Chapel Hill: The University of North Carolina Press, 2002), 101-109, 118-124 [on Elizabeth Ann Bayley Seton]; Allan Greer, “Natives and Nationalism: The Americanization of Kateri Tekakwitha,” The Catholic Historical Review 90, no. 2 (April 2004): 260-272; Greer, Mohawk Saint: Catherine Tekakwitha and the Jesuits (New York: Oxford University Press, 2005); Robert A. Orsi, Between Heaven and Earth: The Religious Worlds People Make and the Scholars Who Study  Them (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2005), 110-145 [on Gemma Galgani].

On the historical development of the saint-making process, see Pierre Delooz, “Towards a Sociological Study of Canonized Sainthood in the Catholic Church,” in Saints and Their Cults: Studies in Religious Sociology, Folklore and History, ed. Stephen Wilson (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 1983): 189-216; Kenneth L. Woodward, Making Saints: How the Catholic Church Determines Who Becomes a Saint, Who Doesn’t, and Why (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1990); Fernando Vidal, “Miracles, Science, and Testimony in Post-Tridentine Saint-Making,” Science in Context 20, no. 3 (Sept. 2007): 481-508; Bradford Bouley, “Negotiated Sanctity: Incorruption, Community, and Medical Expertise,” The Catholic Historical Review 102, no. 1 (Winter 2016): 1-25.

Woodward, Making Saints, 91.

The formal power of the promotor fidei (popularly known as the devil’s advocate) was substantially diminished by the 1983 reform.

 Delooz, “Towards a Sociological Study of Canonized Sainthood in the Catholic Church,” 195 [emphases in original].

Orsi, Between Heaven and Earth, 4, 113.

Bouley, “Negotiated Sanctity,” 25.

“Historical Criticism,” The Catholic Historical Review 3, no. 3 (Oct. 1917), 368.

Hippolyte Delehaye, The Legends of the Saints: An Introduction to Hagiography, trans. V.M. Crawford (London: Longmans, Green, and Co., 1907), vii, viii.  Delehaye defines “hagiography” as a form of writing of “a religious character” that “aim[ed] at edification” (2).

Jill Lepore, “Historians Who Love Too Much: Reflections on Microhistory and Biography,” The Journal of American History 88, no. 1 (June 2001), 129.

Michel de Certeau, The Writing of History, trans. Tom Conley (New York: Columbia University Press, 1988), 270.

On methodological atheism and agnosticism, see Michael A. Cantrell, “Must a Scholar of Religion Be Methodologically Atheistic or Agnostic?,” Journal of the American Academy of Religion 84, no. 2 (June 2016): 373-400.

On historical presence, see Orsi, Between Heaven and Earth; Orsi, History and Presence (Cambridge, MA: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2016).  This scholarly reckoning represents an example of “abundant historiography,” which Orsi describes as “approaching events that are not safely cordoned off in the past, that are not purified, but whose routes extend into the present, into the writing of history itself.”  See Orsi, History and Presence, 71.

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