Sunday, 20 July 2014

Blood money

A last thought on the moral history of Atlantic slavery, before I move on to something happier.


The history of this subject is so focused on Britain and the United States - and not without reason - that we can lose sight of the wider comparisons. One striking fact from those comparisons which was new to me: in every Atlantic jurisdiction but one, when slavery was abolished, financial compensation of some sort was paid to the slave-holders. They were being deprived of what the law had until then recognised as 'property', and they needed to be compensated.


Which prompts two, contradictory thoughts.


First, while of course you can see why it happened at the time, this is grotesque. Rewarding people for ceasing to commit a terrible crime, well, yes, OK. It's a bit like giving an amnesty to a dictator who agrees to step down: it sticks in the craw, but if it's the price of getting a deal done, there's a case for it. But the implication that slavery was legitimate - that, in fact, all that has happened is that the state has used compulsory-purchase to acquire the slaves and then to free them - that's not very nice.


I can see an excellent case for compensation being paid when slavery was abolished. But not to the enslavers, for pity's sake! And the fact remains: neither enslaved people nor their descendants have been compensated in any jurisdiction for the awful crimes that were committed against them. And we all know that those crimes' after-effects are still being felt across the whole Atlantic world.


Who should pay? Perhaps, at the least, the inheritors of those who were paid compensation.


... But second. There was one case where no compensation was paid: the United States, where slavery was ended by war and by a dictated peace, in which slave-holders did not need to be appeased. America did not pay in money to free its slaves, it paid in blood. As Lincoln said, 'every drop of blood drawn with the lash shall be paid by another drawn with the sword', which is certainly more stirring and virtuous than paying the South off would have been.


But was it better? I don't know. If compensating slave-holders has a merit, it's this: the slave-holder who takes the money has consented, indeed bought into the new system. The white South, by contrast, took a century to accept the terms of the peace imposed on it in 1865. And since it couldn't be subject to indefinite military occupation, that meant that it quickly reverted to something which, while it wasn't slavery as such, wasn't exactly freedom either.


It couldn't have been any other way, of course. The South would never have accepted a deal to pay it for abolishing slavery, at least not until the North was in no mood to pay and had no need to. But in retrospect, almost anything that could have drawn some of the racial poison which still flows through America's veins would have been worth it.

Thursday, 19 June 2014

Slaves and extra miles

I've spent much of the last six weeks reading about Protestantism and Atlantic slavery, which is as ghastly a subject as I have ever researched. The scale and relentlessness of the horrors quickly render you numb. I am not surprised that so many slaveholders denied that their victims were human: if you are going to treat people that way, how else can you retain your own sanity?


But for all the ghastly atrocities, and the attitudes ranging from active malice to paternalistic bigotry which committed them, there are some stirring tales too. One of the most delightful is told in this exceptionally lovely book, Jon Sensbach's Rebecca's Revival.



Cover: Rebecca's Revival in PAPERBACK


That terrific picture on the cover tells half the story itself. It is a painting of a woman born with the name Shelly, who took the name Rebecca for herself, later adding her husbands' surnames. She was born on Antigua, probably as a slave, in about 1718; then kidnapped or sold to the Danish Caribbean island of St. Thomas, aged six or seven; kept as a house-slave by a Dutch family, who allowed her to be educated and baptised, and eventually freed her in her early teens. She became a linchpin of the Moravian mission to St Thomas ('everything depends on her', one of the missionaries wrote), married one of the missionaries, was imprisoned and nearly sold back into slavery. In the end, however, she went to Europe, remarried, and then spent many years running a mission school in West Africa. The painting is part of a family portrait from the 1740s. It is the face of a woman who has seen both hell and heaven; that smile is not meant lightly.


Incidentally, she also appears to be the first black African and perhaps also the first woman to be ordained in a Protestant church (she was made a Moravian deaconess in 1746, which entitled her to lay on hands to admit new members, and to preach to other women).


It's a great book, written for a mass readership but scholarly, and I'd recommend it to anyone at a loss for a Christmas present. It does, though, come up against one of the persistent problems to do with Christianity and slavery. It is not so much that the Bible treats slavery as a fact of life, rather than an evil to be opposed - slavery was a fact of life in the premodern world. Rather, the Gospel ethic of non-resistance - turn the other cheek, go the extra mile - is strained to its limits by slavery, in which the moral authority of nonviolence is completely swallowed up by the slaveholders' expectations. Frederick Douglass, the escaped slave who became one of nineteenth century America's most powerful antislavery activists, described how he once fought back against his master; how he, astonishingly, escaped being killed for it; and how he then vowed never meekly to submit to punishment again. It was part of his own, complex alienation from Christianity; and who will say he was wrong?

But there is non-resistance and non-resistance. Sensbach's book mentions the case of a Moravian convert on St Thomas named Abraham, a slave, who became one of the leaders of the church on the island. During one of the planters' campaigns of intimidation against the Moravians, Abraham was attacked on the road one night, bound, and viciously beaten before being dumped at their church. Later, he carefully sent the ropes back to his attackers: along with a note apologising for the fact that they were a little torn and damaged.


UPDATE: Not quite the first ordained black African Protestant. The much more ambiguous, but equally interesting, Johannes Capitein beat her by four years. He was ordained in the Dutch Reformed church in 1742, the same year he published a book arguing for the legitimacy of slavery. His avowed reason was that, unless slaveholders were persuaded that missionaries were not a threat, they would never allow the Gospel to be preached to their chattels.

Saturday, 7 June 2014

Academic discipline

I like the generally egalitarian and faintly anarchic atmosphere of British higher education, in which there is not too steep a power-gradient between academics and students, and something close to collegial equality between academics of different ranks. The stultifying hierarchies of some other systems I've met, or the sharp division between tenured and non-tenured academics, are not attractive.


And while British academics like to grumble about the consumerisation of higher education, as students start demanding more value for money in exchange for their fees, I'm not persuaded this is a bad thing. We should be in a position where students expect a lot from universities and universities expect a lot from students. My old friend Corey Ross, back in his days working on East Germany, used to say there was something late-Soviet about British higher education: students pretend to work, and staff pretend to teach them. We are mercifully leaving that behind.


Still, I am reminded that another age achieved this in a different way, by this delightful article on the former student jail at Heidelberg University. Be honest, academic readers: doesn't a sliver of you wish your university had one?


But what really cheers me is the images of the jail itself, suggesting that the German academy is, or was, more anarchic than it is given credit for; or, perhaps, that the intellectual and political stimulation provided by jailing students is not to be underestimated.


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Wednesday, 21 May 2014

Scurvy knaves

Like most people, I learned the cautionary tales about scurvy as a child: how, before the nineteenth century, sailors, and sometimes even aristocrats, would develop symptoms moving from loss of appetite to skin spots, bleeding gums, loss of teeth and hair and eventual horrible death - and how various heroes, chiefly Captain Cook, solved the problem by prescribing such unsavoury diets as (depending on which children's book you read) a lemon a month, a raw onion a month or (which seems to have been more accurate) a regular dose of sauerkraut. No wonder Jellicoe couldn't beat the German navy.


But now, from a lovely book by Karen Ordahl Kupperman* on a forgotten, doomed colonial venture (the Puritan-sponsored colony on Providence Island, off the Honduran coast, from 1630-41) I learn about an alternative, earlier cure. A scandal arose in the colony in 1634, when a man named Floud, an indentured servant to Captain William Rudyerd, the colony's muster-master, was discovered to have died following a truly vicious whipping. Indentured servants were Englishmen and not slaves: you weren't supposed to do that sort of thing. The accusation was that Floud had complained to the colony's governor about the mistreatment he had already suffered at Captain Rudyerd's hands, provoking the further 'discipline' which killed him.


But Captain Rudyerd had an explanation: it was not a punishment at all. Floud, apparently, was developing scurvy (like many of the colonists). The whipping was intended as treatment.


The point is that one of scurvy's first symptoms is lethargy and difficulty in movement, later exacerbated by painful joints. At least, that's the way round we put it nowadays. Apparently many in the 17th century, perfectly logically, reversed the causation: scurvy is simply an extreme form of laziness, in which the moral defect has become so severe that the body breaks down. When you have a lazy servant, then, rigorously correcting his fault will both ensure you are better served, and also potentially save his life by reintroducing him to the virtues of hard labour. Rudyerd explained that he had 'used all fair means to prevent the Scurvy which through laziness was seizing upon him'.


In this case, the treatment was successful but the patient died. Whether this regime of treatment was more or less popular with victims than was sauerkraut is a subject on which we clearly need further research.


*Karen Ordahl Kupperman, Providence Island 1630-41: The Other Puritan Colony (Cambridge, 1993), p. 157.

Friday, 25 April 2014

The poetry of history

Molière's gentleman discovered that he'd been speaking prose all his life, but I think I may have discovered that I've been trying to write poetry. That, at least, is what I take from a lively paper at a conference yesterday hosted by Durham's Hearing the Voice project. Jules Evans spoke about poetry as a kind of shamanism, with reference to Ted Hughes in particular: the point being the experience that Hughes and other poets (not only poets) describe, that of entering an inner state of ecstasy, reverie or something similar, in which they can access voices or depths not normally available. These voices are not under the poet's control and are experienced as something other - an inspiration. What's more, poets, like shamans, are 'masters of both worlds': neither stuck lumpishly in this one, nor vanished so far into the inner world that they cannot come back. The poet is able not only to access these insights, visions or whatever, but also to bring them back to the everyday world and to fashion the experience into something that can be effectively communicated to others through an artistic medium. And the most accomplished wordsmith who does not travel into some inner world is not really a poet.

He concentrated on poetry, partly because of Hughes, partly because of Shelley's claim that poets are the world's unacknowledged legislators (which still sounds like sour grapes to me, but never mind). Still, at the end he asked if this poetic role was being taken by other media, film most obviously, which can invite the viewer into someone else's inner world.

I find this an appealing way to understand art defined very broadly, including the sort-of art-forms which I am involved with. The sermon can be understood in this way, I think, but I want to make a more outrageous claim: so can the best academic monographs. It made me realise that what I was trying to do in my most recent book, amongst other things, was to give voices to the dead: to converse with them and hear their critique of me and my own age, as well as to give mine of them and theirs.

No doubt I failed miserably, but I think this is part of what a good historian should be trying to do: to be master of both worlds. There is no substitute for the hard graft of scholarship: reading, deciphering, collating, checking, hunting, cross-referencing. History is after all a craft, and a rigorous one. But the history which I think is most worth reading, and the history which (however laughably) I aspire to write, is more than a craft. It genuinely hears the voice of its subjects, and draws its readers into their world - whether that world is a church, a battle, a parliament or a field.

Like all inspiration, this is not just hard to do: it can't actually be done at all. At best you can cultivate it. It happens or it doesn't; and then you make good use of it or you don't. We aren't used to thinking of scholarly achievement in those terms, and we don't train students to do so. Reverie and daydreaming don't have good presses. But I do recall as a doctoral student staring up blankly at the Bodleian Library's roof and seeing, again and again: Dominus illuminatio mea.

Thursday, 27 March 2014

Church Times 'Best Christian Books'

So I am told, as a Church Times reviewer, that they're doing a feature this autumn on 'the best 100 Christian books of all time'. And they want suggestions. The criteria are:
Works should be of enduring value, influential in their time or after it. The list will encompass fiction and nonfiction, theological scholarship and popular titles, authors ranging from St. Augustine to Eamon Duffy to C. S. Lewis. (The only suggestion we will not consider is the Bible, divinely inspired authorship constituting an unfair advantage.) Among the categories to consider: mission and ministry, church history, theology, prayer and spirituality, the Old and New Testaments, liturgy and worship, literature and apologetics.
Now, there's a fun parlour game! What to nominate? I passed over the Prayer Book (which won't be short of friends) and Pilgrim's Progress (likewise). Here is my initial suggestion and rationale:
Philip Jacob Spener's Pia Desideria (1675). It's a short call to arms - or rather, to renewed piety: it was the book which kick-started Pietism, and is therefore indirectly (no, actually, pretty directly) responsible for modern Evangelicalism. What makes it so wonderful is that it combines two things which are almost never brought together. First, a moving call for moral and spiritual renewal: its insistence (which both Pietists and Evangelicals have too often forgotten) that to be a Christian means to follow Christ, not to be able to win doctrinal arguments. Against the hair-splitters and heresy hunters of his day, he warned that at the last judgement ‘we shall not be asked how learned we were’, but rather ‘how faithfully and with how childlike a heart we sought to further the kingdom of God’. And he added that if St. Paul were to try to follow one of the theological debates of the age, he would ‘understand only a little of what our slippery geniuses sometimes say’. BUT, he combines this preacherly idealism with a level-headed practicality about what should be done. In particular, he makes the revolutionary suggestion that Christians should not leave their spiritual fate in the hands of their ministers, nor of the political powers who usually dominated their churches, but rather take matters into their own hands. He recommended ‘the ancient and apostolic kind of church meetings’, that is, Bible study and discussion groups for mutual support and encouragement. Methodist bands and classes got the idea directly from him. It seems so normal now that it's hard to grasp how empowering and revolutionary it once was.
I think Spener deserves top-100 billing. But maybe just because I've been working on it these last couple of months. What other obscure gems want rescuing?

Saturday, 15 March 2014

Surviving shortlisting


Back in the day, when I was trying to get my foot on the first rung of the academic jobs ladder, a more senior friend told me: once you start getting interviews, you’re OK, because then you know your number will come up sooner or later. And it’s true, more or less. But how do you get onto those shortlists?

I’m shortlisting for four different posts this month. Typically there are twenty, forty, a hundred applicants who needed to be whittled down to four for interviewing. How do you make the cut? Some suggestions.

  1. Apply for the job that is advertised. No two academic jobs are exactly the same. Don’t just send a CV and a generic covering letter, which does not engage with the specifics of the institution you’re applying for and the particular requirements of the post. That’s one of the quickest ways to the bin.
     
  2. Write good English. I’m sorry, but it needs to be said. Most academic jobs have ‘effective communication’ or something of that kind in the person specifications. If a shortlisting panel is looking for reasons to exclude people (and usually, we are), this makes it easy for them. If English is not your native language, this is especially important. We can’t easily judge how fluent a non-native speaker will be, and for any job that requires communication with students this may be decisively important. If your written English is not flawless, have someone proofread your letter and CV for you.
     
  3. Remember that, in CV terms, less is often more. There are different CV cultures: in the USA, the comprehensive CV is often favoured, whereas in Britain we still tend to like the more selective one. But in any case, don’t include things for the sake of it. Maybe you have published thirty book reviews: if so, tell us that and perhaps list the journals for which you have reviewed, but don’t spend two pages giving us the full list. Or again, if you have non-academic achievements to highlight, be cautious. Make sure it’s relevant: often it is, often it isn’t.
     
  4. In particular: don’t fill your CV so full of detail that readers miss the good stuff. I have seen people who present lists of publications in purely chronological order, so you have to read down through all the book reviews and short notes to spot that, half-way down page 2, there is a major Yale University Press monograph. Make it easy for your readers to see what you need them to see.
     
  5. Don’t be ambiguous. Remember that panellists are suspicious and will interpret any ambiguity in the worst possible light. The most common case is where a publication is simply described as ‘forthcoming’. Forthcoming where and how? Is it something you are thinking of writing one day, is it appearing on a fixed date next month with a major academic press, or somewhere in between? Be precise: ‘under review with the Journal of Nonsense’, ‘under contract and due for submission on 31 December’, ‘in proof’, or whatever.
     
  6. Help readers to understand how good your work is. Panellists reading lists of publications are trying to work out if any of this stuff is any good. Where there are signals that you can send (such as publication in a major journal or by a major academic press), do so. If those signals need amplifying, do so: for example, if you have published in a competitive journal which some of the panel may not be familiar with, make sure that they know that that’s what it is. And if you want to quote from reviews, article referees’ reports, or whatever, do so: a nice phrase or two under an article can help persuade a panellist that this might be a quality application worth spending a tiny bit more time on.
     
  7. The same goes for your teaching. It is common to see CVs listing the names of courses or modules that applicants have taught. But those tell us very little. If you can, add something which indicates how good you were (feedback scores from students, for example) or which indicates the scale of what you were doing (so we know the difference between taking a few auxiliary classes and designing a whole lecture course from scratch).
     
  8. Don’t leave unexplained gaps. If there is a period in your CV of more than a few months when your movements are unaccounted for, people spot it and wonder – even though they shouldn’t. If you had a career break for family reasons; if you were in non-academic work for a period; or anything like that, say so. If you have something that you don’t want to reveal (like an extended period of ill health, a spell in prison, or what have you), then find a way of explaining the missing years which is not actively deceptive. But if we see someone who got their PhD ten years ago and spent eight years of the intervening time not publishing, the application will be binned unless the gap can be explained.
     
  9. Photos. Increasingly you see academic CVs with a cheesy photo of the applicant at the top. I know this is common in the business world. I really don’t like it: not just because some academics are off-putting to look at, but because it invites the panel to join the applicant in playing subliminal games of gender, age and racial politics. I don’t think it ever helps an application.
     
  10. And do try not to be actively weird or unintentionally funny. Most piles of applications contain one like this. One that springs to mind is the candidate who listed contact details for four referees, as requested, but added after one of the names: ‘(deceased)’. And then gave this person’s full postal address. Such moments help to brighten the committee’s day, but the CV that makes us laugh almost never makes the list.
     

Good hunting …