Benjamin E. Park

I must admit that I have a fascination with the development of the Mormon scholarship enterprise. In other words, the birth of the (sub)field known as Mormon studies. I’ve published a number of articles on the topic, and have blogged many more. As someone who was raised Mormon, was introduced to American history through a fascination with the LDS past, and am now a practitioner of the historical craft, it’s an issue that’s close to me. And a crucial part of the story relates to audience: for whom is this scholarship written? That is a question that has proved slippery for a lot of LDS authors. 

I explore this question a bit in a chapter found in a newly published collection, Perspectives on Mormon Theology: Apologetics (Kofford Books), edited by my friends Loyd Ericson and Blair Van Dyke. This is an odd fit for me, because I don’t see myself as participating in Mormon apologetics. But my essay explores the fraught relationship between apologetics and the academy within the history of Mormon scholarship. Why was there so much animus between historians and apologists during the 1980s and 1990s? Some have even referred to this as the “history wars.”

In my article, “A Wall Between Church and Academy,” I argue that part of the problem was they were both fighting over the same audience: Latter-day Saints. It was a turf war. New Mormon History, the scholarly movement that used secular tools to understand the LDS past, was still mostly devoted to answering Mormon questions for a Mormon audience. But this was contested ground. Authors with competing goals took offense and fought back. It was genuinely unpleasant. 

I believe that the rise of Mormon studies—which uses Mormonism to understand broader context, rather than using broader context to understand Mormonism—helped relieve the tension. This led to two new arenas: “Mormon scholarship,” which uses scholarly tools to speak to a Mormon audience (this includes crucial institutional history, responsible devotional work, and, yes, apologetics) and “Mormon studies,” which draws from the LDS tradition to address academic questions (this includes all the different disciplines that fits under its broad interdisciplinary umbrella). One approach is not more important than the other—indeed, works in the former category can have a more noble purpose and address a larger audience—but they are more clear with their focus and audience. 

I give more detail to this scholarly evolution, as well as examples of each approach, in the essay. If you’re interested, I encourage you to read it. (It’s the shortest essay on the volume!) I’d also love to hear feedback. 

I’ve slacked a bit on my book reviews here on the blog—though I have a couple queued for the next two Wednesdays—but a couple more formal reviews have appeared in recent weeks that should make up for it.

First, I had the great honor to review Laurel Ulrich’s A House Full of Females: Plural Marriage and Women’s Rights in Early Mormonism (Knopf) for the most recent issue of Dialogue: A Journal of Mormon Thought. It won’t come as any surprise that I loved the book. It is, I’d argue, the best book in Mormon studies to appear in at least a decade. Here’s a brief excerpt of my review:

The subtitle for the book, however, is somewhat misleading: Plural Marriage and Women’s Rights in Early Mormonism. Though the introduction and final chapter that frame the text indeed focus on Mormon women arguing for “women’s rights,” that particular theme is much subtler and, at times, subservient throughout the story. Ulrich is, of course, arguing that the notion of “rights” is much more malleable than traditional, male-centric definitions, but that tension is never explicitly investigated. And while the jolting paradox of the title—how could women who participated in polygamy simultaneously believe in women’s rights?—is readily apparent, “rights” seems a bit too restrictive for what Ulrich is doing. Further, plural marriage is not always the sole focus of the volume: the early chapters that precede Joseph Smith’s introduction of the practice, as well as the later chapters that focus on male missionaries abroad and missionary wives at home, are as interested in monogamous relationships as they are polygamous ones. This is to say, the subtitle of A House Full of Femalessells the volume’s importance short: more than a history of polygamy and women’s rights, this is a revisionist social history of Mormonism between Kirtland and 1870, as seen through the eyes of the women who lived it. Ulrich is asking a provocative question: what would the history of Mormonism during the tenure of its first two prophets, Joseph Smith and Brigham Young, look like if its leading men were re-cast as supporting actors?

I had a few critiques, but overall the review is quite positive. I conclude by saying that,

A House Full of Females is a master historical work by a master historian. This is a narrative of the LDS tradition deserved by an age that is focused on inclusion and diversity. Laurel Thatcher Ulrich demonstrates what Mormon history can look like when we integrate women’s voices, concerns, and experiences into our larger narratives. And in doing so, she issues a clarion call for how Mormon history should be written in the future.

You can download the pdf of the review here.

I also wrote a review of John Bicknell’s America 1844: Religious Fervor, Westward Expansion, and the Presidential Election That Transformed the Nation (Chicago Review Press, 2015) for the recent issue of BYU Studies Quarterly. The book offers a kaleidoscope view of 1844 and covers the political, social, and religious developments of a tumultuous year. Mormonism plays a small, yet colorful, part of that story, which I focused on given the journal’s interests. I praised Bicknell’s attempt to tell such a broad tale, but I came away somewhat disappointed, for a couple reasons. A taste:

America 1844 is at its best when teasing out the political developments in a year where Congress and the White House were facing crucial national issues: a presidential campaign, the Texas annexation, and the future threat of war. Subtler anxieties included the decline of the Review of America 1844 V 155 Whig Party only four years after its first presidential victory, the bubbling controversy over slavery, and the Machiavellian machinations of politicians attempting to save their careers. Yet Bicknell struggles when he attempts to connect these activities to broader cultural evolutions like William Miller’s millennialism and Joseph Smith’s prophecies. Mere chronological overlap, geographic proximity, and occasional correspondence do not narrative connections make. As a result, the book is often more a scrapbook of events taking place throughout a momentous year, while the interpretive overlap is more assumed than proven.

You can read the full review with this pdf download.

[Today is Thoreau’s 200th birthday. (Happy birthday, Henry!) As such, it was worth writing something about his work while relaxing on a beach in Hawaii. Also, make sure to check out the brand-new and exquisite biography by Laura Dassow Walls.]

I recently completed a two-week-long NEH seminar on “Transcendentalism and Social Reform,” which took place in idyllic Concord, MA. It was superb. I was excited for the opportunity, especially as I commence a book project on the political theologies of the Transcendentalists. It was also beneficial in another way: it made me develop more appreciation for Henry David Thoreau, perhaps the Transcendentalist I’ve mostly ignored thus far in my scholarship. His literary work is well known, but I was taken by his political writings that demonstrated a depth of which I had been ignorant. The evolution from his “Civil Disobedience” (1849) to “Slavery in Massachusetts” (1854) and, finally, to “A Plea for John Brown” (1859) embody much of my project’s thesis: the role of religion in radicalizing Americans’ response to slavery. I left Concord more dedicated to including him in my work than I had before.

Of course, neither Thoreau nor his political writings were completely new to me. I’ve assigned his “Civil Disobedience” each time I’ve taught the American survey class. It usually prompts excellent discussion on the mix of patriotism, nationalism, and justice. The essay took on a new hue, however, when I taught it Fall 2016: by sheer coincidence, we were scheduled to discuss it the week after Trump’s election and on the heels of the #NotMyPresident protests throughout the nation. My students, typically shy to discuss anything political, jumped at the opportunity to defend or denounce rioters. What are the avenues available to those who deeply disagree with democratically elected officials? How do we balance a society of “law and order” on the one hand, and equal justice on the other? Thoreau’s essay, written in response to his opposition to America’s conquest of Mexico, proved a potent launching pad for discussion.

When Thoreau wrote in the essay that, “under a government which imprisons any unjustly, the true place for a just man is also a prison,” he was speaking from experience. In protest against the Mexican-American War, Thoreau refused to pay the poll tax and was subsequently imprisoned. If the federal government was participating in activities one deems immoral and indefensible, then it is illogical to financially support them with taxpayer money. Though he only spent one night in jail—much to Henry’s chagrin, his sister bailed him out quite quickly—the episode proved the catalyst for his writing.

In the resulting essay, which drew from an 1848 public lecture, Thoreau outlined the dangers of democratic governance. The voice of the people does not always lead to equal justice and fair representation. “When the power is once in the hands of the people,” he wrote, “a majority are permitted, and for a long period continue, to rule is not because they are most likely to be in the right, nor because this seems fairest to the minority, but because they are physically the strongest.” This was an argument many made during the 1830s and 1840s, including Native Americans, suffragists, and Mormons, but was particularly prominent amongst abolitionist arguments. Democracy was still an experiment, and the results were not as favorable as many wanted to believe.

Further, to Thoreau, paying taxes and participating in elections only validated the political structure. These actions perpetuated the very evils that activists were supposed to be working against. Blind allegiance did not serve the agitator’s purpose. “It is not desirable to cultivate a respect for the law,” he reasoned, “so much as for the right.” There are laws higher than those prescribed in a man-made government. Because citizens are expected to blindly follow their civic leaders, “the mass of men serve the state” only “as machines, with their bodies.” Such blind patriotism “command[s] no more respect than men of straw or a lump of dirt.” True principles required, at times, radical action. Patriots must stand up for their principles and be willing to suffer the consequences.

This position is not justified on banal disagreements, of course. The circumstances must be dire. For Thoreau, America’s defense of slavery was such a cause.

How does it become a man to behave toward this American government today? I answer, that he cannot without disgrace be associated with it. I cannot for an instant recognize that political organization as my government which is the slave’s government also.

The essay is powerful and poignant. I strongly recommend it. You can read the entire thing here.

So what relevance does Thoreau’s message have for today? Plenty, I’d argue. Though circumstances are not as dire as in Thoreau’s time, his message of separating patriotism from nationalism is apt. The citizen’s duty is not to be a machine in the cog of government, but a living organism evolving, adapting, and responding to their climate.

Further, the prioritization of principles over pragmatism is one that I, someone who is naturally conciliatory and non-confrontational, often struggle with. But in Thoreau’s world there are principles that should never be sacrificed.

If we revisit and resurrect his thoughts on the limits of democratic governance and patriotic action, I believe that Thoreau might serve as a modern-day prophet two-hundred years after his birth, and over a hundred and fifty years after his death.

And to make it more resonant with today’s discourse, perhaps we can resurrect the original title of the essay as it appeared in 1849: “Resistance to Civil Government.”

#Resist

The LDS Church announced last week a series of important revisions for employment policies. Among other changes, Women will no longer be forced to wear skirts or dresses, and men can wear colored shirts. (Though still no beards!) More importantly, mothers are assured six weeks of paid maternity leave after the birth of their child, and both parents get another week for “parental leave.” This is the latest in a series of evolutions over the past few decades. Until 2014, mothers were not allowed to teach full-time seminar or institute. Until this year, many women in other full-time positions had to accrue enough weeks of sick leave vacation time in order to recover from giving birth and bond with their new children. The Church is creeping closer toward the standards expected in the twenty-first century workplace environment. For more context, see the SLTrib’s column.

To give some context for how far LDS employment has come, here’s a story from the 1970s Church History Department, when it was under the leadership of Leonard Arrington. The details come from Gregory Prince’s recent biography of Arrington.

For a long time, female Church workers were expected to end their employment once they had their first child. This matched the ideal of women staying at home to raise their children while their husbands remained the primary breadwinners. Maureen Ursenbach (soon-to-be-Beecher), a researcher in the History Division who has since become one of the foremost historians in the field, was worried the policy might apply to her when she became engaged in 1973 and was pregnant two years later. Here is her recollection:

“When I came on board, a lot of married women were working for the Church,” recalls Beecher, “but the policy was that you were asked by your supervisor, on a regular basis, if the policy about children was keeping you from having a family. In order to stay working there, you had to assure the supervisor that you were not preventing having a family just so that you could keep your job.”

Arrington, as her boss, had to fight to keep her job. He pled with Apostles Delbert Stapley and Howard W. Hunter, the designated supervisors of the department, and they eventually promised to carve out “a special exception” for Beecher. But that would not be enough. Several individuals, including Beecher and other women, fought to change the rule in total. Beecher employed a lawyer to write a memo explaining why her termination, were it to occur, would be illegal. The Church’s legal department eventually informed leaders that the policy was likely in violation of the Civil Rights Act of 1972. Undeterred, the Church continued to solicit more legal advice in hopes that they could retain their practice of not employing mothers with young children. Eventually they gave in and issued a reversal of the policy.

While Prince highlights Arrington as the hero in this story, it is important to emphasize the role of women—both over the years, as well as in this particular episode—in bringing this change. Their both silent and loud forms of resistance put pressure on male leaders. Here’s Beecher’s memory of the victory:

There were colleagues downstairs in the library part who were so grateful, because they wanted to have children, and they had husbands who were not employed. It was either, “I work and don’t have a baby, or I have a baby and don’t work.” . . . My case changed the whole regulations and the insurance, and the ramifications of this change in policy went down through all the whole Personnel Department positions.

This week’s policy changes were of a similar quality. I wish I could have been there to see female employees not only rush over to City Creek Mall to purchase new dress pants in accord to the new dress standards, but also make future familial plans with the relief that they’ll be assured maternity leave.

(I’m sure nobody has noticed, but this blog has been silent for the past month as I’ve been on the road for a conference, research, and now an NEH institute. Alas, I’ll still be on the road for another month—gotta escape the Texas heat!—so my entries here will continue to be sporadic, though I do hope to put up a few book reviews and reflections on the NEH transcendentalist institute. I’ll return to weekly blabbering and book overviews in August.)

Thomas Kidd is one of those prolific authors who make you feel lazy. He puts out a book a year, most of which deal with religion in early America. (I hope to do an overview of his recent and brief survey of colonial America, which has a focus on religion and conflict.) His most recent book is on Benjamin Franklin’s religious life. Though typically depicted as, in Franklin’s own terms, a “thorough deist,” Kidd argues that eighteenth century America’s foremost renaissance man had a much more nuanced relationship to faith. A good summary of one of the book’s major points is found in a WaPo essay today in which Kidd argues that Franklin was a predecessor to contemporary America’s “doctrineless, moralized Christianity.” Though Franklin might not have been committed to particular Christian creeds, he was committed to a Christian ethic of living.

Let me first outline what I like about Kidd’s argument, and then egotistically push back a little bit.

As I wrote in one of this blog’s first posts over a year ago, I am all for expanding the boundaries of “religion” and, especially, “Christianity” in early America. The narrow definition popularly assumed by those arguing that America was founded as a “Christian nation”—which presumes fervent faith, dogmatic beliefs, and pious actions—is the product of twentieth century fundamentalism. The most persuasive and accurate critique, I think, is not to adopt a radically secularist framework that eschews all religiosity, but rather to problematize the notion of religion itself. Early America was profoundly religious, just not in the way that many assume. I’m not willing to forfeit the title of “Christian” to modern evangelicals who are ignorant of the tradition’s diverse past.

That’s what I like about Kidd’s project: depicting Franklin as religious, and even nominally Christian, broadens the definition’s parameters. Even if some superficial readers might use the book to reaffirm a naive Founders-as-Christian narrative, I would hope this image of Franklin will emphasize the porous nature of religious thought and practice.

But in the spirit of academic dialogue, let me push back a bit on Kidd’s Franklin. Or at least, offer a more pessimistic interpretation. As I wrote in an article a few years ago (published in this collection), I see Franklin as not only a deist, but perhaps closer to an atheist. At least, I think he held more atheistic beliefs earlier in his life, and I haven’t seen enough evidence to convince me that he ever changed his mind. Instead, I think his pragmatic political philosophy enabled him to appropriate religious language in order to curry cooperation. Franklin’s request for a prayer at he Constitutional Convention, an event Kidd highlights in his WaPo essay, was not made out of a sincere providentialist belief, but a hope to diffuse a tense political situation. Perhaps I am most influenced by David Waldstreicher’s work, but I see Franklin as a brilliant opportunist who can mold his image into whatever fits the circumstances. This isn’t a negative–we need more flexible politicians eager for compromise–but I’m not sure it matches the puzzled yet pious model of Kidd’s work.

So while I’m all for exploring the complexities of the founding period’s religiosities, I’m not sure Franklin is the best case study.

But there is certainly room for disagreement. Religion and politics is an endlessly fascinating point of intersection in early America, and I look forward to more Franklinian dialogue.