The last fourteen months have been great for scholarship on Mormon women. Primary source compilations in Mormon Feminism: Essential Writings and The First Fifty Years of Relief Society were published early to much acclaim, and each volume is a significant resource for tracing not only LDS women’s traditions but American religious history in general. And then in the summer we received Women and Mormonism: Historical and Contemporary Perspectives (University of Utah Press, 2016). Edited by established scholars Kate Holbrook and Matthew Bowman, this is a volume of articles that explore the wide gamut of Mormon women’s experience. Most, but not all, were born as papers delivered at a conference on the topic several years ago. Together, they demonstrate a level of methodological, chronological, and topical heft rarely seen in such a project. The scope itself is impressive.

There is something about edited collections that make them the primary hallmarks of scholarship on Mormon women. Previously, the arguably three most important titles in the field were Claudia Bushman’s Mormon Sisters: Women in Early Utah (Emmeline Press, 1976; reprint, Utah State University Press, 1997), Maureen Ursenbach Beecher and Lavina Anderson’s Sisters in Spirit: Mormon Women in Historical and Cultural Perspective (University of Illinois Press, 1987), and Maxine Hanks’s Women and Authority: Re-Emerging Mormon Feminism (Signature Books, 1992). Women and Mormonism now joins that esteemed list. In many ways, the volume captures the strengths of the previous books while still avoiding some of their flaws: it has the historical rigor of Mormon Sisters, but is not limited in period and scope; it is as interdisciplinary expanse of Sisters in Spirit without becoming too abstract; and it has the cultural awareness of Women and Authority without coming across as overly activist. And more than any previous volume on the topic, Women and Mormonism addresses race and internationalism in sustained and sophisticated ways.

The volume circles around Catherine Brekus’s significant article “Mormon Women and the Problem of Historical Agency,” which was originally delivered as a Tanner Lecture at MHA a few years ago. (It is reprinted as the lead-article in this volume.) By focusing on the potentials and limits of “agency,” Brekus’s essay argued, historians can engage the work that women have performed within their cultural conditions. How do we understand those who worked inside of patriarchal institutions, rather than break away from them? Mormonism and Women is filled with possible answers. Some are much more positive, like Rachel Cope’s article on three women who struggled, and eventually came to terms, with polygamy; others are more skeptical, like Amanda Hendrix-Komoto’s overview of women, particularly wives of Mormon missionaries, whose possibilities were drastically curtailed. More contemporary approaches include political scientist David Campbell who examines how modern LDS women have become not only accepting but defensive of conservative practices, as well as Melissa Inouye’s thoughtful meditations on cross-cultural perspectives. The final section, which is more reflective, includes personal essays from modern Mormon women trying to make sense of their surrounding world(s). Even if a majority of the essays lean toward the positive, and few really critique the limits of Brekus’s interpretive framework, the end result is a diverse cast of experiences and insights.

The strength of this volume is found in its multivocal, multi-perspective, and multi-disciplinary perspectives. There are more traditional historical treatments by Matthew Bowman on women and social reform, Quincy Newell on the ever-fascinating Jane Manning James, and Jonathan Stapley on women and priesthood authority. (Indeed, Stapley’s careful and exhaustive analysis should be required reading, and I consider it a definitive take on the slippery topic of “priesthood” during the early period.) But there are also more textual- and material-based work, like Laurel Ulrich’s call for historians to be more aware of non-traditional formats of records, Kristine Wright’s analysis on women and routinized ritual, and Jannifer Reeder on Relief Society artifacts. The national and racial diversity presented in this volume is unprecedented in Mormon history. (Which, to be honest, isn’t that high a standard.) The perspectives from Carine Decoo-Vanwelkenhuysen, Melissa Inouye, Jane Hafen, and Mariama Kallon are not only intriguing and well-written, but they provide material for future historians to analyze.

But does the thematic focus of “agency” always hold together? Not necessarily. Like any volume centered on one particular issue, the theme is stretched wide and, at times, beyond recognition. While some approaches are especially prone to exemplify the possibilities of “agency” as a framing concept, like the lived religion essays by Wright and Reeder, others are an odd fit, like the ritual history by Stapley. And by enabling such a broad range of methodologies, some chapters are just odd neighbors: Mariana Kallon’s confessional, if moving, personal account seems awkwardly placed in the same volume that contains essays that dissect those very narrative functions. But that’s perhaps just the cost that comes with such an elaborate and inclusive project. In many ways, it’s a reflection of the community it studies.

Women and Mormonism is the most important essay collection on Mormon women in over two decades. No other book comes close to capturing the topical breadth and analytical depth. Even if it doesn’t receive the type of cultural “splash” that came with Women and Authority in the early-1990s, when several of the participants received ecclesiastical sanction, this volume is just as significant. Scholars of Mormonism would be foolish to not engage the many arguments found within its pages, and the Mormon community would be amiss if it didn’t come to terms with its lessons.

This is a small book with a big argument. Steve Pincus, a noted expert on seventeenth century British history, claims in his new book, The Heart of the Declaration: The Founders’ Case for an Activist Government (Yale UP), that scholars have fundamentally misunderstood America’s founding document. Rather than a call for limited government, the Declaration of Independence was actually an appeal for an energetic federal power. The litanies against King George III were more critical of what he failed to do rather than what he actually did.

To justify this paradigm shift, Pincus argues that the Glorious Revolution in 1688-89 introduced a new, modern imperial state that was both energetic and participatory. As the empire became rich through economic dominance and diversification, it also became more invested in improving the lives of its subjects. While some maintained that the best way to retain national prosperity was to free wealthy landholders from property taxes, others wished to capitalize on the federal debt by cultivating growth in the manufacturing sectors. These were modern issues. Pincus traces the origins of what he calls he “Patriot politics,” which insisted that the government subsidize immigration, develop colonial infrastructure, and stimulate economic exchange. Focusing on economic consumption rather than production was key. (The state-sponsored project of Georgia was the best example of this initiative.) Problems arrived when imperial powers decided to reverse these principles and instead attempt to pay off the national debt through austerity and extraction. That is, the patriots eventually rebelled because the British government flipping their imperial priorities by merely raising taxes rather than playing the role of a modern, energetic state that invests in the local economy. In other words, the problem was when Britain ceased to be a “progressive” state, if one were to impose modern language.

If this sounds like a political argument, you’d be right. Pincus is up-front with his belief that the Declaration was one of the first and most powerful documents to inaugurate a modern government, and many of the issues it addressed are just as relevant today. Most notably, the role of government in promoting immigration, confronting the implications of the African diaspora, and artificially instigating economic growth. Rather than forcing more historical distance between us and the founding document, Pincus urges, we should insist on less. Switching the modern roles typically assumed in today’s culture wars, progressives should attempt some form of originalism. This book is nothing if not provocative.

Historians might get uncomfortable with what might be seen as presentism. And indeed, there are points in the text where Pincus seems overly eager to recast founding figures in progressive roles. This is especially in stark contrast to recent scholarship on the American founding, which present founding elites as anything but exemplary. Pincus’s argument about the patriots pursuing a more energetic argument doesn’t fully square with the fact that the Articles of Confederation, which they drafted shortly after the Declaration, implemented a profoundly weak government, as David Hendrickson’s book details. Pincus’s epilogue takes a shot at this dilemma, and he claims the Articles “created a much stronger confederal government than any that had gone before” (146), but the argument is not totally convincing. (The book’s attempt to downplay the anti-government ideas in Thomas Paine’s Common Sense is similarly limited.) Also relevant is Eric Nelson’s provocative work that argues Americans rejected (or at least ignored) the lessons of the Glorious Revolution, and rather than celebrating parliament’s power were instead keen on returning the king’s prerogative as a disinterested umpire. And then, of course, there is the mountain of scholarship that portrays the Revolution as a conservative affair in which elites, especially in southern colonies, rebelled to preserve their rights to expand westward, retain local dominance, and maintain the slave institution. (The book’s overstatement of the patriots’ antislavery actions is one of its weakest sections) Pincus’s book is, of course, physically small and it would be impossible to address all of these competing contexts, but at times the text seems to make the Declaration appear in a vacuum cordoned away from these other crucial instigators. For instance, he specifically challenges the “local reaction” focus of scholarship (like that of Pauline Maier and TH Breen) in order to tell a much grander narrative of the Declaration (92). This might be pushing the pendulum too far in the opposite direction.

But there is certainly substance to the book’s argument. Pincus’s greatest skill is in utilizing the latest scholarship on the birth of the modern British state. Over the past decade, the best work on colonial America has been those that work to integrate it into the literature of the British empire; it makes sense, then, that the next generation of American Revolution scholarship should do likewise. (Jack P. Greene is perhaps one of the few that have been long calling for this; in many ways, Pincus is the inheritor of Greene’s historiographical message.) Further, one of the most fascinating sections of the book is the comparison between British, French, and Spanish economic reforms in the wake of the Seven Years War. So even if Pincus doesn’t fully satisfy the demands of revolutionary America’s subfield, he is asking important questions that deserve to be addressed.

And that’s the role I see this book primarily playing: that of a scholarly provocateur. The world of revolutionary America has mostly forfeited the tricky topic of origins, and Pincus is challenging us to revisit the topic. Works of provocation are not meant to hold all the answers, but they do ask the right questions.

And one final note about provocative scholarship: they work best in the classroom. I plan to assign The Heart of the Declararion to my undergraduate students to grapple with, dissect, and debate. The issues of presentism, origins, and intent are often items that promote dialogue, and the fact it is concerned with America’s founding document is all the better. (The page count works for this setting as well.) Even though I at times found myself frustrated with the book as I read, I realized that I was frustrated in interesting ways. And that’s often the sign of a good book.

Disclaimer: Leigh Eric Schmidt may be my favorite historian of American religion. His Hearing Things opened my eyes to new methods of scholarly investigation, and his Heaven’s Bride is the perfect blend of analytical rigor and narrative grasp. (His other books are quite good, too.) So of course I was predisposed to like his latest offering, Village Atheists: How America’s Unbelievers Made Their Way in a Godly Nation (Princeton UP). And I was not disappointed. Schmidt’s true gift is in taking seemingly marginal and odd case studies and unveiling how they actually reveal much about American religious culture writ large. In Village Atheists, he demonstrates how the battle over what he calls “irreligious freedom” tells us a lot concerning society, belief, and belonging. It’s a fascinating tale with important lessons. And it’s got lots of pictures!

While there are portions of the book that swing as far back to John Locke and as far forward as the 1950s, the vast bulk of the monograph focuses on the second half of the nineteenth century. This is the period, Schmidt explains, when the image of the “village atheists” entered the scene. Originally a derisive term, it soon became a label of choice for a somewhat endearing—if still perplexing—population. Quixotic, non-conformist, and independent, the village atheist was someone who commanded respect, if not acceptance. These were not the militant threats of the French Enlightenment. Indeed, Schmidt hones in on the label because it captures what he calls “the quotidian qualities of American unbelief”: the saga of American irreligion as played out at the local level, instead of merely amongst educated elite (17). We are familiar with the philosophical debates and high-brow intellectual history, but how was atheism experienced in America’s heartland?

Rather than an exhaustive narrative, Village Atheists is a collection of short biographies. Samuel Putnam, the son of a Congregationalist minister, provides a “Puritan counternarrative”: his spiritual journey included moves from Congregationalism to Transcendentalism to Unitarianism and then to atheism, often with moments of backtracking and reversals. Putnam even had moments of sexual experimentation which challenged the boundaries of his new free thought circles. Elma Drake Slenker, the focus of a later chapter, also demonstrated the close relationship between the atheist imagination and perceived immoral conduct, as she was arrested for distributing “obscene” literature regarding marriage and sex. (All tethered to her sketchy identity as a materialist infidel, of course.) Slenker’s tale is an excellent addition to the corpus because it adds dimensions of gender to the small atheist village. Similarly, New Jersey Adventist minister-turned-secularist Charles Reynolds’s story exemplifies the evolving understanding of and legal protections for blasphemy, as his high-profile tangle with Robert Ingersoll was the climax of a long development worthy of consideration. But for me, the real star of the show is Watson Heston, a Missouri cartoonist who skewered Christianity through his provocative political images and tested the boundaries of toleration, obscenity, and irreverence. The chapter on Heston really strikes at the heart of cultural, political, and philosophical debates concerning irreligious freedom and ethics, as his combative sketches clashed with the basic fact that he lived amongst those he was chastising. And Village Atheists reproduces around fifty of Heston’s cartoons, which entertainingly supplement Schmidt’s witty analysis.

There are downsides to this organizational approach of individual biographies. Focusing on a small number of case studies makes it difficult to gauge the impact and representative nature of their stories. Schmidt is, of course, careful about drawing conclusions that are too large for his source base, but readers who will want a more exhaustive and systematic overview of atheism’s entrance into American culture will only get part of the story here. But what *is* offered in this book is quite incisive and significant. I plan to use individual chapters in my American religions course in order to help students grasp the declining nature of the Protestant majority during the progressive era, as well as to grapple with the intricacies of religious freedom and disestablishment. In many ways, I see this book as a complementary project to Schmidt’s Ira Craddock biography in addressing these themes. (Anthony Comstock is a recurring figure in both books.) Perhaps if we bribed him with enough money, Schmidt’s next major project could blend the overall narrative together and cover the Twilight of Christian America.

But Village Arheists makes other sophisticated points about religion and society besides this general overview of the decline of Protestant dominance. One is a very experience-based view of the secular and spiritual in American history. Secularism, in Schmidt’s hands, is not a zero-sum game. Religion doesn’t wane at the expense of secularism’s rise, nor does the latter face full extinction in the former’s wishes. Rather, they are “relationships of tangled complexity, fluctuating rivalry, and constitutive mutuality” (21). Not only have they learned to live together, but in important ways they can’t function without each other. It is tempting to trace a teleological trajectory of one sphere’s triumph, but the job of the historian is to tease out what the uneasy and poignant intersections tell us about the cultural context in which these conversations took place. Even in the epilogue, where Schmidt outlines the legal battles in the mid-twentieth century, victories were less total domination and more begrudging compromise. While there are certainly loud antagonists on either side of this long trajectory (your Richard Dawkins atheists and fundamentalist evangelicals), the real story is everyone between those poles on the spectrum who are trying to develop a workable middle ground between religion and irreligion.

Which leads me to a broader lesson about American society that kept coming to my mind while reading Village Atheists. The story of irreligious freedom is the story of religious toleration; that is, it is a story about how communities carve out space for the “other.” There were plenty of conflicts, but the thing about “village atheists” is that they often live in a village, which forces both them and their neighbors to develop a working relationship. They debate belief and unbelief, yes, but they also move from intolerance to tolerance. This story, Schmidt explains is more “recurrent friction and negotiation” than it is about theological war. This isn’t a narrative of militant invasion as it is reluctant cooperation. And for obvious reasons, that’s a story many of us in America could really use right now.

(A quick note on the physical presentation of the book: it’s gorgeous. The cover’s image is playful and provocative, and its font, which captures the jovial yet earnest spirit of the village atheist, is replicated throughout the text. The style, prose, and packaging of this story, coupled with its sixty(!) images, make it a delightful read. Kudos to Princeton University Press.)

A vast majority of work on the history of Mormonism focuses on the nineteenth century. (Guilty as charged!) And those few books that do creep into the twentieth typically focus on the first few decades as the church transitioned from a parochial and polygamous sect to a patriotic and integrated institution. Part of this trend has to do with sources. The few books on post-1930 Mormonism, with few expectations, were the result of individuals gaining possession of the private writings of church leaders like David O. McKay and Spencer W. Kimball. Official records for other prominent figures in the century are notably restricted.

But that excuse portrays either a lack of imagination or ambition on the part of the scholar. Yes, more sources would be nice, and yes, access to crucial material is limited, but there is plenty to work with on a myriad of twentieth-century topics, especially for the historian who shifts their gaze from elite male leaders. And this new collection of essays, Out of Obscurity: Mormonism Since 1945 (Oxford UP), edited by established historians Patrick Mason and John Turner, lay a foundation for a future generation of scholarship. Mason notes how odd it is that the Mormon period least understood by religious scholars is also the period of the church’s “greatest growth, acceptance, and success” (3). And though it would be impossible for an edited collection to be comprehensive, this volume boasts a number of important elements that should shape the field’s future: a global scope that identifies Mormonism’s international reach while still acknowledging its nationalist imprint, a diversity of disciplinary approaches and methodologies, and a variety of voices and background that put to rest myths of Mormon homogeneity.

It is a fool’s errand to attempt a comprehensive overview of a collection of multi-vocal, multi-disciplinary, and multi-topic essays. So I’ll briefly spell out one consistent theme found throughout the volume. Most dominant among the lessons of modern Mormonism, to my mind, Is the Church’s encounter with pluralism. If Mormonism was especially parochial during their pre-WW2 period, entrenched in their Rocky Mountain refuge and free to experiment with their unique practices and beliefs, then the second half of the twentieth century forced Mormons to cope with broader communities, ideas, and polities. Nathan Oman demonstrates how international missions nuanced LDS perceptions of the secular state. John Turner explains the many clashes over institutional and academic histories, drawing on lessons from Evangelicalism’s encounter with biblical criticism. JB Haws explores how elite Mormon men navigated evolving political parties. In many instances, the LDS tradition became more integrated into the Age of Pluralism. Coming “out of obscurity” implied embracing modern notions of heterogenous societies.

But as one of the best historical studies on twentieth-century Mormonism has argued, there were always simultaneous waves of assimilation and retrenchment that forbade the pendulum from swinging too far in one direction. At several critical junctures, Mormons and Mormon leaders recoiled in response to this new world they were experiencing, even as they adopted the tools, ideas, and practices of this “fallen Babylon” for their own purposes. Patrick Mason’s chapter argued that just as Ezra Taft Benson became involved with wider conservative circles, he redoubled back with this newfound political discourse that he could then mix with a new anti-communist reading of the Book of Mormon. Neil Young’s chapter connects the Mormon opposition to the ERA to their later protest against same-sex marriage, a political mobilization effort that exemplified the newfound power of the Religious Right. And in some cases the coalescing tensions were especially acute: Amanda Hendrix-Komoto fascinating study highlights how the Polynesian Culture Center, which displayed the performance of indigenous communities, was created at the very same time as a formalization of modesty standards back on the mainland. They celebrated diversity just as they they fled away from it.

These are just a few tastes of the exceptional essays. All of the chapters—each of which are published here for the first time—provide sophisticated nuance and provocative arguments. They possess both breadth and depth. And even if the overwhelming focus remains on the American context, it at least points toward a more global approach. (The field-defining compilation of Mormonism outside of the United States, which will do for that topic what this volume does for post-WW2 Mormonism, has yet to be produced.) But the contents of this text will shape the discussion of the modern LDS Church for quite some time.

I’ve previously written about the preponderance of edited collections in Mormon studies. There’s a reason why other fields have mostly dropped the genre: a lot of them are forgettable. Perhaps most. Sure, there might be an article or two worth remembering, but in total a compilation of works-in-progress is often a fleeting snap shot of a field just before it transitions into something else. But that is not the case with Out of Obscurity. Like a handful of other volumes that attempt to pave new roads rather than extend paths already in existence, Mason and Turner’s book should serve as a platform for chartering a new historiographical course. We will hopefully see a string of monographs that bring to blossom the ideas that are only now beginning to sprout. More, I could see this book being used in undergraduate classrooms not only dedicated to Mormonism—though the book should certainly be a staple in those—but also in classes focused on American religious history more generally. That achievement not only brings Mormonism “out of obscurity” in relation to its post-World War II presence, but also reaffirms the sub-field’s importance to the historical community writ large.

Scott H. Partridge, ed., The Thirteenth Apostle: The Diaries of Amasa M. Young, 1832-1877 (Salt Lake City: Signature Books, 2016).

Amasa Lyman is a difficult person to situate within the Mormon tradition. On the one hand, he was a fervent believer, a devoted follower of Joseph Smith, a dogged defender of the gospel, a diligent pioneer, and a committed diary keeper. Yet his life was also full of quixotic divergences from the mainstream as well as substantial complications. The very title of this new volume of Lyman’s diaries hints at his liminal status: The Thirteenth Apostle. Lyman was called as an apostle when Orson Pratt was temporarily dropped from the quorum, but when Pratt was restored Lyman was stuck as a thirteenth wheel. He was then called to the First Presidency when Joseph Smith wanted to drop Sidney Rigdon, but when the latter didn’t happen the former was left in limbo. Lyman’s very ecclesiastical position highlighted an inability to fit in. With the publication of his diaries, Scott Partridge and the staff at Signature Books have provided us an important entrypoint not only into Lyman’s odd life, but also the community whose boundaries he frequently tested.

After decades of frequent missionary, scouting, and leadership expeditions between his conversion in the early 1830s and 1863, Lyman’s liminality became an issue once more once he settled in Utah. He was called upon to defend his unorthodox positions—he preached a famous sermon in which he said Christ’s divinity was not necessary for the exaltation of man—and after he was stripped of his apostleship and later excommunicated from the Church he became a prominent spiritualist and leader in a dissident liberal Mormon body in Salt Lake City. He participated in a number of seances, communed with dead spirits like Joseph Smith, and lectured in public halls. He was a thorn in the side of the LDS institution while still living in their midst. All but one of his eight plural wives left him (though one passed away before the episode), and his son, Francis, became an LDS apostle shortly after Amasa’s death. The renegade figure’s story would not be completely righted until 1904 when his membership, priesthood, and apostleship were restored—by Joseph F Smith, the man who had in 1867 replaced Lyman in the quorum, no less. Talk about life on the frontier.

This volume reproduces entries from all of Lyman’s diaries, with a few exceptions. Partridge understandably did not copy all the mathematical and grammar insertions. (Lyman used his diaries for several purposes.) And there are inexplicably no diaries that cover the years surrounding Lyman’s heresy trial and drop from the quorum. It is very difficult to contemplate that that period, of all the periods in Lyman’s life, was the period he didn’t keep a record. But whether he truly chose to take a break from his diaries, or whether something else happened to them, they do not exist in the public record. While Partridge’s project was underway the LDS Church History Library, who possess the original volumes, have uploaded scans of a majority of the entries. (This in no way decreases the convenience of having them in a transcribed, printed copy, of course.)

A majority of the diary entries through 1868 capture the tedious details of life on the road as a missionary. They are mostly terse and with the most bare observations. Yet once Lyman settled in Utah, and especially after he became a leader in a dissenting spiritualist church, the material becomes far more interesting. On May 8, 1870, he “announced to [his family] my intention to resume preaching the [Godbe] gospel.” The news “gave them much pain” (614). Though Partridge claims this spiritualist movement was a “fad” in the broader American community (xxi), it was actually a strong and tangible cultural feature. The many popular seance meetings in Salt Lake City were merely one part of a much larger web of spiritualist belonging. Especially after the Civil War, where Americans experienced death and loss like never before, many turned to this new mode of communication that supposedly transcended death. Therefore, Lyman’s detailed accounts should be of immense interest to scholars of American religion who aim to trace this phenomenon in its many expressions.

Some of the reports of these spiritualist encounters were mundane, like “Received some words purporting to come from Joseph Smith through Mr [John M.] Spear” (624), but as Lyman became more converted to the process the accounts became much more detailed. In one seance Theodore Turley received guidance from his deceased daughter “in regard to treating the cancer with which he is afflicted” (639). In another, Joseph Smith channeled a woman in order to affirm that “humanity will be lifted up from their narrowmimdedness” as a result of Lyman’s new, liberal church (640). Some messages are received through knocking, and some spiritual visitors complain about their medium’s inability to cooperate. Scholars of spiritual mediums will be rewarded with the rich detail Lyman provides of these practices.

There are a number of other noteworthy elements in the book. One fascinating thread to chase is Joseph Smith’s son, David Hyrum, who traveled to Utah to convert Mormons to the RLDS faith but was instead converted by Lyman to spiritualism (710-716). Another is Lyman’s fraught relationship with his family, as some children remained close to him after his “apostasy” while others shunned him and reaffirmed their allegiance to the church. Lyman’s entries concerning his family are certainly sparse, but there is enough there to reconstruct an important gendered picture of the Lyman household(s).

But perhaps the most exciting tale woven within Lyman’s diaries, at least to me, is that it provides material with which we can reconstruct a dissenting and liberal culture that flourished in Salt Lake City just down the street from Brigham Young’s headquarters. Territorial Utah, even when Young was in charge, was far from the tyrannical environment typically depicted. On the very same blocks where general church meetings were held there were also seances, dissenting rallies, and apostate lectures. Utah’s capital was a much more diverse and pluralistic space than Mormon leaders wanted people to believe.

That said, readers will have to slog through a lot of tedious material to get to the good stuff. The decision to publish the diaries in total made the volume both long and dense. One might argue that it would have been more useful to be more selective on what was included—which would have allowed them to include selected letters and sermons, as originally envisioned—but that would have been a different project. Given the framework they chose, Thirteenth Apostle is a wonderful resource. Scholars of Mormon missionary work, leadership dynamics, territorial Utah, and dissenting traditions will be well rewarded by engaging this excellent collection.