George McCready Price (1870–1963) is best known as the Canadian-born Seventh-day Adventist amateur geologist who pioneered the idea of a young earth in the early twentieth century. Price laid the foundation for modern “creation science,” which took off decades later, with the publication of Henry Morris and John Whitcomb Jr.'s The Genesis Flood in 1961. Despite his extensive writings on the details of geology, however, Price admitted that his main objections to evolution were not scientific but “moral” and “philosophical”—the “fruits” of the “corrupt tree” of evolution. Historians have almost entirely neglected this aspect of Price's opus; yet, Price authored a series of works from 1902 to 1925 that, in increasingly alarming tones, blamed evolution for socialism and communism. This article analyzes these works by examining Price's Adventist background, his early experiences working and living in the United States, and the broader political context in which he wrote. It also assesses the impact of Price's political writings on subsequent generations of creationists and conservative evangelicals. Price should be seen as part of the long process by which a New Christian Right was forged from materials including creationism and anticommunism. He was not only a geologist but also a creationist politician.

In Institutional Dream Series (Sleeping in Public), 1972–73, Laurie Anderson slept in eight different public places in order to measure their institutional impression. In her experiment Anderson used dreams—ostensibly her own—“to see if the place can color or control my dreams.” The short answer was—yes. Institutional Dream Series is an exploration of the self as medium. In sleeping and recording her sleep on the beach at Coney Island, in the halls of night court, at the bureau of immigration and naturalization, and in the women's bathroom at Columbia University Library, Anderson's performance suggests that vulnerability to bureaucratic structures and organizational schemes is not something to be avoided but studied. For there is pleasure, fear, and wisdom to be found in such exposure.

This article, drawing upon primary field research, analyzes the origins and history of the East African Revival of the 1930s and its ongoing relevance and role in post-genocide Rwanda. Starting as a Holiness-inspired, Anglican movement, the Revival persisted among the Tutsi Diaspora during their exile to refugee camps in Uganda following the 1959 Hutu-led Revolution and has returned with them following the coming to power of the Rwandan Patriotic Front in 1994. The Revival, as it presently experiences a reawakening in the post-genocide church, provides the Tutsi returnees with a spiritual mechanism to explain their plight as refugees and a means by which to heal from decades of suffering. Additionally, a narrative has emerged in which they believe themselves to be a “Chosen People” who found redemption and healing in the refugee camps by embracing the revival spirit. Many Anglican returnees further believe they have been “chosen” to bring healing and reconciliation, through the revivalist tradition, to post-genocide Rwanda. While the return of the Revival tradition in the post-genocide Anglican Church offers potential benefits for Rwanda's reconciliation and recovery, the church must also abandon its apolitical inclinations and challenge the ruling regime in the name of truth, democratization, and justice.

Let us begin with the problem of binaries. Stark differentiation strengthens the consequences of difference. If you label something “sacred” for example, and suggest its opposite is “profane” the maintenance of that difference becomes quickly outsized because their difference is contingent on their connection. “Sacred things are those things protected and isolated by prohibitions,” Émile Durkheim writes. “Profane things are those things to which such prohibitions apply and which must keep their distance from what is sacred.” There is no profane without the maintenance of the sacred; the sacred is established through its labored separation from the profane. Binaries are not static opposition as much as they are descriptive of a tense purlieu of their differentiation. In the case of the sacred and profane, Durkheim describes that space as religion itself. “Religious beliefs are the representations that express the nature of sacred things and the relations they sustain among themselves or with profane things,” he famously explained in 1912, setting the stage for the modern study of religion as one devoted to the analysis of the perpetuation of that binary.

Laurie Maffly-Kipp's insightful address about the perils and promise of church history concludes with an invitation “to begin a conversation” about how “the ‘church history’ of this new century can be both creatively forward-looking and respectful of the lineages that have brought us here.” I offer here some brief remarks on her address as a small contribution to that conversation.

Laurie Maffly-Kipp's address to the American Society of Church History proffers the challenge of engaging seriously with the “church” in church history. She notes that scholarship on Christianity has increasingly focused on broader cultural themes in lieu of a more strict concern with churches as institutions in their own right. Maffly-Kipp's challenge reminded me of a particular context in the history of Christianity: the eighteenth-century city-state of Ogua (or, more familiarly, Cape Coast), in present-day Ghana. In the 1750s, the family of a local youth sent their child, Philip Quaque, to study abroad in London under the auspices of the Anglican Church. The young Quaque spent the next eleven years of this life cultivating expertise in Anglican liturgy, Christian theology, and British mores. Before returning home in his early twenties, he was ordained to the Anglican priesthood—the first African to have done so.

Modernism: What was it? When was it? Does Modernism name “a break with the past,” proclaim the present as “qualitatively distinct and new”—or is Modernism's self-representation as an “ideology of rupture, opposition, and anti-institutionality” over-hyped? And when was the “when” of Modernism? Do Modernism's origins trace back to the era of Romanticism? Or to the 1880s and Baudelaire? Or to 1913 and Stravinsky's “Rite of Spring”? Or to 1922: the publication of Ulysses, “The Waste Land,” and the Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus?

In his intellectual biography, William James: In the Maelstrom of American Modernism, Robert Richardson never defines modernism, and never addresses the reasons for its turbulence in America. But he does present the maelstrom through his subject, showing how James helped drive the modernist sensibility he inhabited—a whirlwind of creativity and intellectual passion “whose leading ideas,” to quote Richardson, “are still so fresh and challenging that they are not yet fully assimilated by the modern world they helped to bring about.” Presenting James as an intellectual activity, Richardson focuses on bringing the emotional background of that activity into view, chronicling James's intellectual history as splashes from a turbulent stream of consciousness. The book's dedication to Annie Dillard next to the book's epigraph from James reveals Richardson's respect for the volatility both writers represented. The dedication is: “For Annie, who wrote, ‘we have less time than we knew and that time buoyant, and cloven, lucent, missile, and wild,’” followed by the epigraph from James testifying that, “[life] feels like a real fight—as if there were something really wild in the universe which we, with all our idealities and faithfulnesses, are needed to redeem.”

We live in apocalyptic times. But, for a chilling sense that the end is at hand, one cannot beat the Middle Ages. So when I reflect on “the burdens of church history” as a medievalist, I find it bracing to ponder some ways that the era's most thoughtful prophetic writers brooded on church history. They were at least as concerned as we about complicity in an institution they saw as compromised at best, and at worst, in the service of Antichrist. St. Hildegard (1098–1179), though orthodox enough to have been declared a Doctor of the Church in 2012, wrote scathing letters to the most powerful prelates of her day and preached sermons against their negligence. No less scathing was William Langland (fl. 1365–1385), author of the sprawling allegorical vision of Piers Plowman. Langland decided to revise his poem after its prophecies about the dispossession of clergy played a role in the Great Rising of 1381, in which the archbishop of Canterbury was murdered. Wisely, he concealed his identity; we know his name almost by accident.

One of the ways in which Christian groups responded to the challenges of modernity was by positioning themselves differently in space. In the interest of better understanding that process, let us think for a moment about the social system, the social space to be precise, within which groups exist. As one starting point for that, it is useful to acknowledge that social groups define themselves in relation to others. Specifically, groups define themselves by saying what they are not as much as by saying what they are. If we are to believe the German social systems theorist Niklas Luhmann, a leading advocate of the notion of social system, difference is prior to identity. That is to say—and this is the core of Luhmann's “difference” theory—one distinguishes a table from other objects before one indicates what it is (Luhmann adds, paradoxically, that distinction presupposes itself). His grand theory has shortcomings, but his point is that social groups create and maintain collective identity by defining themselves in relation to other groups, and especially by saying what they are not. They push off from other groups in defining themselves. We could extend that approach by stating that groups sometimes behave as if they lack a clear collective self-understanding; that is, they lack a fully formed core identity that they can marshall in a positive fashion against a field of other groups. They accordingly define themselves in relation to other groups, define themselves via negativa, by differentiating—in some cases to a great degree—from other groups. Identity is built through such negative definition. The twentieth-century American theorist of social conflict Lewis Coser described that mode of thinking in The Functions of Social Conflict, an extended mediation on the social conflict theories of Georg Simmel, and sociologist of religion Martin Reisebrodt has observed more recently how Christianity invents itself principally by distinguishing itself from other religious practices and beliefs. The process is evident among Christian groups in modernity as it was in early modern Europe. When we focus on how it has manifested spatially, we see the modern in American church history as a broad spectrum of occurrences demonstrating complexity, multivalence, competition, and differentiation.

Last week, sandwiched in between updates on Beyoncé's trip to the West Coast and sighting of the latest super moon, the Huffington Post featured an article by power preacher Lillian Daniels entitled “Spiritual But Not Religious? Please Stop Boring Me.” Daniels lamented her situation on long plane flights, where she had to endure the stories of fellow travelers who, upon finding out she is a minister, confessed their rejection of religious institutions in favor of finding spirituality in sunsets and walks on the beach. Inevitably, they would present their experience to her as a revelation: “Like people who go to church don't see God in the sunset! Like we are these monastic little hermits who never leave the church building. How lucky we are to have these geniuses inform us that God is in nature.” Daniels' article represents a backlash coming from the institutional end of the spectrum, but her plea for loyalty to religion-in-community was met by many who found her (apparently, according to the comments section) insulting, condescending, and close-minded.