Religion and Rationality in the First American Gothic Novel: Charles Brockden Brown's Confrontation with Calvinism on the Fictional Plain

Post-Puritan America was a completely different world, in many respects, to that of America prior to the Revolution. Now America was free from English rule. Now colonies had been settled and cities were founded. Now the focus was not to be a “city on a hill,” but to be a free republic. The Revolution brought about the creation and fruition of many new ideas, and along with that result the end of other ones.

John Murrin, professor of history at Princeton University, writes, “By the late eighteenth century, the churches were no longer the only official spokesmen for public values. They had rivals” (Noll ed., Religion and American Politics, 26). One of these rivals was classical liberalism; a philosophy that said, “society will be much better off if individuals are left free to pursue their self-interests with minimal governmental restraint” (27). This was certainly a philosophy at odds with the church, which believed that man was totally depraved and corrupt and needed discipline and God’s grace. The spokesmen for this new philosophy were John Locke in America, and David Hume and John Stuart Mill in Europe, the latter both being atheists. Humanism and the principles of the Enlightenment were now waging war against religion.

In the early days of settlement that old world religion, Calvinism, was the dominate force. America, at its founding, was full of Calvinist Protestants. Loraine Boettner writes, “It is estimated that of the 3,000,000 Americans at the time of the American Revolution … 600,000 were Puritan English, and 400,000 were German or Dutch Reformed” (382). American Historian Bancroft records, in his multi-volume History of the U.S., that the Pilgrim Fathers were “Calvinists in their faith according to the straightest system” (qtd. in Boettner, 463). By the death of Jonathan Edwards in 1758, however, Calvinism was on a rapid decline. Mark Noll comments, “By the second half of the eighteenth century, some theologians and popular preachers turned away from what seemed a rigid exclusivism to a more merciful and encompassing universalism” (A Documentary History of Religion in America to 1877, 252). Universalism, Unitarianism, and deism broke forth onto the scene to challenge the orthodox views of historic Calvinism. Men like Jefferson, Adams, Franklin, Madison, and Thomas Paine, began to teach rationalism over religion. Adams writing to Jefferson in 1813 said, “Miracles or prophecies might frighten us out of our witts; might scare us to death; might induce us to lie; to say that we believe that 2 and 2 make 5. But we should not believe it. We should know the contrary” (qtd. in A Documentary History, 269). Where men like Jonathan Edwards saw religion and reason as friends, others were now professing a dichotomy.

This is the culture background in which the first American Gothic novelist, Charles Brockden Brown, lived and wrote. He was born in 1777 to Quaker parents just outside of Philadelphia. Though his family had a religious background, being connected to the George Fox heresy that started Quakerism in North America, he would grow away from this past. By 1798 both Brown and America had come to stand at odds with their Puritan past, and it is during this year that we find the novel Wieland, a work that expresses the growing battle between the rational and the religious.

That Brown’s theme in this novel is religion can be identified from the very outset of the work. In the very opening of the work we are brought face to face with the religious zeal of the Senior Wieland. He is a convert to the Huguenot sect known as the Camissards, a group possessing some Calvinistic tendencies. The manner in which he becomes a convert as well reveals some of the criticisms that Brown has against religion.

Upon finding a book that detailed the beliefs and history of the Camissards the older Wieland begins to study and become enraptured by it. We read:

“He now supplied himself with candles, and employed his nocturnal and Sunday hours in studying this book. It, of course, abounded with allusions to the Bible. All its conclusions were deduced from the sacred text. This was the fountain, beyond which it was unnecessary to trace the stream of religious truth; but it was his duty to trace it thus far” (Brown, 8).

Brown continues with the narrative, “Ideas foreign to this were sedulously excluded. To suffer their intrusion was a crime against the Divine Majesty inexpiable but by days and weeks of the keenest agonies” (9).

From the very beginning religion stands as crucial to the plot of the work. Not only that, however, we see also this underlining theme that Brown is writing about: the irrationalism of religion. Senior Wieland saw no need for examining more closely the truths of the Bible; he took them at face value without doubt or questioning. Furthermore he avoided all contrary thoughts and considered them a dangerous sin that could only be forgiven through weeks of self-inflicted pain. Brown’s point is made clear: religious fanaticism leads to illogic.

As the plot progresses we are confronted with more evidence for this contrast between the rational and religious. After the death of their parents both the Wieland children are taken in by an aunt and are raised upon the foundations and principles of the Enlightenment. Clara informs her readers, “Our education had been modeled by no religious standard. We were left to the guidance of our own understanding, and the casual impressions which society might make upon us” (Brown, 21). Theodore, the younger Wieland, resembled his father in many ways, “but the mind of the son was enriched by science, and embellished with literature” (22). The temple too bears the marks of this change. It was “no longer assigned to its ancient use” (22). It is, instead, now a place for discussion and revelry among the circle of friends at Mettigen, “a place of resort in the evenings of summer” (22). It is filled with a harpsichord, a pedestal, and a bust of Cicero, as one author notes, “Enlightenment trappings that symbolize a rejection of the austere Protestantism” (Gilmore, 107). Religion has been displaced in the Wieland family just as it was being displaced in the public square in the time of the author.

Throughout the whole development and acceptance of the Constitution in the early republic, religion was being displaced. Murrin again notes, “The Revolution…liberated an important group of men from the constraints of orthodoxy long enough for them to draft the constitutions and bills of rights at both the state and federal levels” (35). The New England minister Timothy Dwight knew this as well, when he said in 1812, “We formed our Constitution without any acknowledgement of God” (qtd. in Religion and American Politics, 34). Jefferson’s godlessness further pulled people in different directions when he became president. His words of “wisdom” to his nephew clearly represent this, “one should read the Bible as one would any other book, accepting what is edifying and rejecting what is fantastic” (qtd. in Religion and American Politics, 32). Entering into a friendship with the Wieland children are Catherine, who becomes Theodore’s wife, and her brother Pleyel, who represents the voice of reason in the work. Clara’s comparison of the two boys further exemplifies the battle that Brown is pointing to:

My brother and [Pleyel] were endowed with the same attachment to the Latin writers; and Pleyel was not behind his friend in his knowledge of the history and metaphysics of religion. Their creeds, however, were in many respects opposite. Where one discovered only confirmations of his faith, the other could find nothing but reasons for doubt. Moral necessity, and Calvinistic inspiration, were the props on which my brother thought proper to repose. Pleyel was the champion of intellectual liberty, and rejected all guidance but that of his reason (Brown, 23).

The quote clearly contrasts faith with “intellectual liberty” and “Calvinistic inspiration” with “reason”.

Even at these early stages in his life we find the younger Wieland, like the senior, becoming focused with the specifics of religion. His father’s conversion made him a private devout and even compelled him for some time to be a missionary to the Native Americans (an element that Brown probably developed from having read of The Diary of David Brainerd, an actual Calvinist missionary to the Indians). The senior Wieland, however, does not fulfill this mission and for it, he believes, God will punish him. Clara reports the details just prior to his bizarre death; she writes:

When he deigned to be communicative, he hinted that his peace of mind was flown, in consequence of deviation from his duty. A command had been laid upon him, which he had delayed to perform. He felt as if a certain period of hesitation and reluctance had been allowed him, but that this period was passed (12).

This death would bear heavily upon the children. Clara says, speaking of herself, “The impressions that were then made upon me, can never be effaced” (17-18). For Theodore the event was even more traumatic. “His father’s death was always regarded by him as flowing from a direct and supernatural decree. It visited his meditations oftener than it did mine. The traces which it left were more gloomy and permanent” (33). That he saw his father’s death as a divine judgment has great significance to the plot, for Theodore’s fear of a similar fate begins to altar the state of his mind.

Clara also has a role in revealing the dichotomy of religion and reason. She is no mere objective observer, not simply the storyteller. Within Clara’s own mind readers find an internal battle between these two elements. She is struggling with the acceptance of the supernatural. From the very moment of her father’s death she wrestles with the possibility of God’s intervening in human affairs. She writes:

Was this the penalty of disobedience? This the stroke of a vindictive and invisible hand? Is it a fresh proof that the Divine Ruler interferes in human affairs, mediates an end, selects and commissions his agents, and enforces, by unequivocal sanctions, submission to his will? Or, was it merely the irregular expansion of the fluid that imparts warmth to our heart and blood, caused by the fatigue of the preceding day, or flowing by established laws, from the condition of his thoughts (18)?

This struggle continues. When she finds out that Pleyel, the voice of reason, has now heard voices, which she herself has heard, she writes:

I am at a loss to describe the sensations that affected me. I am not fearful of shadows. The tales of apparitions and enchantments did not possess that power over my belief which could even render them interesting. I saw nothing in them but ignorance and folly, and was a stranger even to that terror which is pleasing. But this incident was different from any that I had ever before known. Here were proofs of a sensible and intelligent existence, which could not be denied. Here was information obtained and imparted by means unquestionably super-human (42-43).

She had always been skeptical of the miraculous, but she is now wrestling with the plausibility of what is being presented to her. Her mind longs to accept the logical but for moments the religious seems to be logical. The development of this character is a key representative of the state of America during Brown’s life. America was caught between the Christianity and “intellectual liberty”. Murrin testifies to this state, “Jefferson and Madison along with George Washington, John Adams, Benjamin Franklin, and nearly all of the Founding Fathers claimed to be Christians; but, by virtually any standard of doctrinal orthodoxy, hardly any of them was” (29). Their confession did not match the Confession of the church, nor did it match that one of the Bible. The displacement was happening but there were some nagging feelings to deal with; thus Deism was a way to compromise religion to fit more comfortably with the complete autonomy of man. God could exist, but He was not a being to intervene in the affairs of man.
It is not entirely clear that these were the convictions of Charles Brockden Brown, but his personal letters reveal a hint at what he thought of religion, and Christianity in particular.

Sidney J. Krause, in her article “Charles Brockden Brown and the Philadelphia Germans,” quotes from one of Brown’s personal letters, in it he says, “I really think Christianity, that is, the belief of the divinity of Christ and future retribution, have been pernicious to mankind” (88). Despite his religious affiliation as a child growing up in Quaker Pennsylvania, Brown had developed a bias against Christianity. Just two years before this publication he found proof for that “pernicious” nature of Christianity.

James Yates, an Irishman from New York, was reported, in 1796, to have slaughtered his wife, four children, and attempted twice to murder his sister all on religious grounds. The Yates account is the “authentic case” which Brown refers to in his advertisement. It was the basis for the character of Theodore Wieland, who does exactly as his real life counterpart did. The parallel is undeniably obvious. Both men kill wives and children (even the same number of children), and make two unsuccessful attempts to kill their sisters; and both confessed to be serving their deity by doing so. It is debated as to whether or not the Yates murders were an actual historical event, but there were real enough for Brown. They confirmed his fears about religion, “[Christianity has] created war and engendered hatred, [and entailed] inexpressible calamities on mankind” (qtd. in Krause, 88).

Brown was not alone in his fears. Though perhaps not as many were directly targeting Christianity, many were targeting Calvinism and others were targeting the various Protestants sects thriving in areas like Philadelphia (Brown’s place of residence). During and after the war Quakerism was under great suspicion. Because of their religious convictions the Quakers did not condone the war and refused to support it. This put them under hard criticism and some even accused them of being spies for the British or the French. Germantown in Pennsylvania welcomed a British victory at the early stages of the war and for that they had been labeled “subversive”. Fear of religious sects in particular was growing. Brown expresses that fear clearly when he makes the plot revolve around a German family living in Philadelphia, and converts of a Protestant sect. His intention is to expose the dangers of religious fanaticism, and this he does most vividly in that climatic action of the younger Wieland.

Clara records her brother’s own personal testimony concerning the murders. Wieland prays to his God aloud, saying, “Have I not sufficiently attested my faith and my obedience? She that is gone [Catherine, his wife], they that have perished [his children], were linked with my soul by ties which only thy command would have broken…” (143). These actions are a long way from “love thy neighbor as thyself,” but Brown cares very little that this is an extremist and un-Orthodox belief. The point is not the brand of religion but the distortion of his thoughts that belief in it has caused.

In drawing conclusions about Wieland’s mental state, however, it is necessary to deal with the character Carwin. Carwin plays the role, rather indirectly, of the instigator in these affairs. His ventriloquism has sparked the confidence in supernatural voices in Theodore. Thus to deal with Theodore’s insanity one must begin with Carwin’s trickery.

Brown composes what he believes is a conceivable cause to Theodore’s hearing the voice of God. Through means of Carwin’s ventriloquism Wieland begins to believe that he is hearing voice and eventually one of those voices is the very voice of God. Carwin, of course, did not intend to drive the young man mad, or to cause him to kill his family. He says, “Great heaven! What have I done? I think I know the extent of my offences. I have acted, but my actions have possibly effected more than I designed,” and, “I intended no ill” (Brown, 181). Despite his intentions, however, Wieland has been driven mad by the mysterious occurrences at Mettigen. Yet while these deeds may have been sparked by Carwin’s trickery, they have their roots in Wieland’s own fanaticism and religious zeal. Were he not so compelled to stand upon the foundations of “Calvinistic inspiration” he might have properly deduced the cause of these voices. If not he would at least have considered more properly the slaughtering of innocent individuals.
It was the constant remembrance of his father’s death, and the fear that should he not be an obedient servant to the deity he would meet with the same fate, that led him to do that heinous act. He murdered his wife and children as a sacrifice, like Abraham would have murdered Isaac. His mind, however, in all of this was not well.

For a moment he is restored to sanity, Clara says, “Did my ears truly report these sounds? If I did not err, my brother was restored to just perceptions. He knew himself to have been betrayed to the murder of his wife and children, to have been the victim of infernal artifice…” (208). Wieland himself confesses, “I was indeed deceived” (209). This moment, however, does not last and soon he has a re-lapse to insanity. “Clara, thy death must come. This minister is evil, but he from whom his commission was received is God. Submit then with all thy wonted resignation to a decree that cannot be reversed or resisted” (209). If the author of this work wished to show the capability of religion to distort the faculties of reason and judgment he has done so in this one scene. Even upon hearing a confession from Carwin’s own lips, “it is too true…The contrivance was mine” (203), he still returns to the notion of divine mandate. In such a scene Brown argues relentlessly that religion has serious and damaging effects on the capacity for the brain to function rationally. Even after explanations, revelations of trickery, and personal confessions Theodore still is not fully convinced. God has ordained the murdering of his sister, regardless of Carwin’s involvement, and so Wieland aims to fulfill his duty to that greater being and to slay the one he loves. It is illogic at the highest and most dangerous degree.

Krause argues in her analysis that Brown’s reference to German religious wars further exemplifies his fear of the immigrants now on the verge of dominating the population in Philadelphia. These references, however, also offer support to the interpretation that Brown was writing to caution America about religious fanaticism. After discovering that there is land in Lusatia, Germany, which has now fallen to Theodore through primogeniture, Pleyel begins attempting to convince the younger Wieland to take hold of this land. Clara explains: “The Prussian Wars had destroyed those persons whose right to these estates precluded my brother’s” (36). According to Krause the war in question here is the Seven Years War. A battle which pitted mostly Germans and English Protestants against French Catholics; a religious war. This religious war took the lives of several members of Wieland’s extended family just as his own religious convictions would take the lives of the members of his immediate family. For Brown religion’s ability to “engender hatred” and to “create war” was supported from a historical standpoint.

The evidence could continue, but the weightiness of this argument seems sufficiently represented. For Charles Brockden Brown religion was the illogic that led to destruction. History proved it, events in the surrounding Philadelphia and New York demonstrated it, and his novel warned against it. Calvinism specifically and religion in general was the real horror of this gothic novel, and Brown wrote to strike a fear in his readers. If Jonathan Edwards was attempting to “preach hell into his” audience, Brown was trying to reason it out of them.

Pilate's Postmodern Question: A Paper in Speculative Historical/Contextual Reconstructive Anlysis

“What is truth?” Such a question is probably assumed by most people today to come from that young postmodernist. That person who denies objectivity, denies the overarching metanarrative of life. That person who believes in only stories, only interpretations, not in truth.[1] But the question, however, did not come first from the postmodernists of our age; it came from the “postmodernist” of Jesus’ age. It was the question of Pontius Pilate to our Savior. A closer look at Pilate’s postmodern question, however, does reveal something to us about his Postmodernist descendants today; it is, therefore, worth our investigation.

The year was A.D. 33. Pilate had been warned, presumably, about the man Jesus and the Jewish authority’s reaction to him and his teachings. It was probably not until the evening of Friday April 3rd , however, that he was affected by it. The Jewish Sanhedrin had brought the man Jesus of Nazareth before the governor to be put to death. Pilate, however, sought to give Jesus a confidential hearing first. Taking his cue from Scripture Paul L. Maier has written a historical fiction piece on Pilate, he records their exchange as thus:

“Are you king of the Jews?” asked Pilate. “How do you plead?”
Jesus looked up at him. “Do you ask this of your own accord, or did others tell it to you concerning me?”
“What! Am I a Jew? Your own nation and the chief priests have brought you before me. What have you done?”
“My kingship is not of this world. If it were, my followers would fight to defend me. But my authority as king comes from elsewhere.”
“So? You are a king, then?”
“It is as you say, that I am a king. For this I was born, and for this I have come into the world: to bear witness to the truth. Everyone who is of the truth hears my voice.”
“A kingship of truth, you say?” Pilate asked quizzically. “What is truth?”
What was truth indeed, Pilate reflected. As a child he had believed in the mythological gods and goddesses, only to repudiate them as a thinking adult. Truth used to be the word of Sejanus, yet Sejanus was a liar. Once he could swear by the nobility of Rome, but that city murdered innocent children and flung them into the Tiber. Truth was Roman state, yet now the Senate itself could not trust the princeps, nor he the Senate.[2]

The exchange, though somewhat fictional, does reveal something important to us about Pilate: his skepticism. The story that Maier has written describes a Pilate who has become disenchanted with the Glory of Rome. Though history records for us that Pilate was, in truth, a vicious and cruel man,[3] there may be some plausibility to Maier’s assessment. In considering what compelled Pilate to initially hand Jesus over to Herod Antipas, H.W. Hoehner suggests that it may be connected to the failures of Pilate’s mentor Senjanus.

If Jesus was crucified in A.D. 33, the removal of Pilate’s mentor Sejanus, and his failure to ingratiate himself with the emperor, may have broken Pilate’s backbone and left him fighting for political survival. He might then have handed Jesus over to Herod Antipas in order to prevent Herod from making another unfavorable report to Tiberius as he had done within the last few months…Herod Antipas took no action and handed Jesus back to Pilate so that Pilate could gain no advantage, for Herod also had been a friend of Sejanus.[4]

The man Sejanus was the sole commander of the Praetorian Guard during the reign of Emperor Tiberius, but his greed and thirst for more power led him to plot against the emperor, who upon discovering the plot had Sejanus put to death in A.D. 31. After Sejanus’ arrest Tiberius began a further investigation of the conspiracy. The investigation would have, undoubtedly, put Pilate on edge, since he himself was a friend of Sejanus. Perhaps it was for this reason that he sent Jesus to Herod, to avoid making the wrong decision, and drawing the attention to himself, and to avoid upsetting Herod (whom he had already done so, by killing a group of Galileans over whom Herod governed, cf. Luke 13:1). Whether or not Pilate was ever “enchanted” with Rome and was now “disenchanted,” cannot be stated, but a skepticism connected with the fall of Sejanus may be conceivable.

Expediency was most likely the motivation of Pilate’s actions. Again Hoehner writes, “Pilate is described by his contemporary Philo, and later by Josephus, as being one who was greedy, inflexible, cruel, and who resorted to robbery and oppression.”[5] He was a pragmatic man; for him truth was what achieved the desired results. If killing and stealing brought him what he desired, then it was right. It’s a life philosophy that is echoed in our modern expression, “The end justifies the means.” He had done things in his term that brought a great deal of condemnation down upon him, from Herod Antipas, Herod’s sons, from the Emperor himself, and from the Jews of Palestine as well. Many riots and slaughters were the result of Pilate’s pragmatism.

Now with the fall of Sejanus, and the investigation nipping at his heels, Pilate’s expediency only increased. Perhaps he gave Jesus, a Galilean, over to Herod to save his own skin. Perhaps he conceded to the Jews demands for Jesus’ crucifixion because some were shouting, “If you release this man you are no friends of Caesar’s,” a rumor, no matter how absurd, which Pilate could not risk. For a man such as this truth has no reference. The commentators of the ESV Reformation Study Bible write, “Truth does not matter to those who, like Pilate, are motivated by expediency.”[6]

There have been a number of interpretations of Pilate’s response to Jesus: “What is truth?” So D.A. Carson assesses the question as “curt and cynical,” and furthermore that Pilate “abruptly turns away, either because he is convinced there is no answer, or, more likely, because he does not want to hear it.”[7] Herman Ridderbos passingly qualifies the reaction as Pilate “shrugging his shoulders.”[8] R. Kent Hughes assesses that involved in the response is more emotional distress on the part of Pilate.

“What is truth?” Pilate asked (v.38). It is important to grasp the tone of these famous words. I think Francis Bacon misunderstood when he wrote, “‘What is truth?’ said jesting Pilate; and would not stay for an answer.” Pilate was not joking. He was sarcastic perhaps, but unsmiling, and whatever his exterior countenance, he was confused and despairing…in that moment he was arrested by his wife’s spiritual premonition and the mystical authority of Christ. But we know he did not truly want an answer because he did not wait for one.[9]

While one may rightly wonder where Hughes discovers the intricacies of the internal struggle of Pilate, he does share some interpretation with the author of this paper. He continues:

He was a materialist, hungrily pursuing the fantasies of power, celebrity status, and sensual satisfaction…Pilate exemplifies the modern man. On the simplest level, his is the cry of the modern world. Television in Hong Kong, Bangkok, or Chicago is all the same- materialism and sensuality. I recall a Philippine commercial given in sonorous tone urging Filipinos to watch Dallas, saying it was relevant to the common challenges in Philippine life. With his “What is truth?” Pilate stood transparent before Christ, as does the whole world.[10]

With real candor Hughes has brought us to the real manner in which Pilate’s question is a bridge between two different worlds. The postmodernists of today find a great similarity in their pursuits and those of Pilate’s. The question of truth is not so much an epistemological question, if it were Pilate would have stayed to hear Jesus’ response, but the verse reads, “Pilate said to him ‘What is truth?’ After he had said this, he went back outside to the Jews…” No the question was not about knowledge. Hughes may be right in supposing that there was some real genuine distress in Pilate’s soul, as there undoubtedly is for a number of postmodernists, but the true nature of the reaction was a verbal attack. Pilate was not really inquiring about the nature of true reality, he was re-acting against the notion of objective authority; such is also the case for postmodernism in our own age.

Man, in all ages, rejects the notion of an objective authority which has the right to tell him what to do and how to live. The postmodernist has attempted to resolve this issue by simply disposing with the notion of objectivity. Pilate was a man, as has been stated, of pragmatism, materialism, and self-promotion. As everything came tumbling down around him, perhaps even the thought of arrest, trial, and death confronted him, he was afraid. His political career was turning into a sham, and his power and authority were almost dwindled away, if ever a there was a time for his expediency it was now. Jesus responses shook Pilate on, undoubtedly, multiple levels, and his reaction was a firm resistance to any notion of objectivity, of judgment.

Pilate was a modern man in many ways. His question is shockingly similar both in construct and grammar, and in veiled meaning to that of the postmodernist in 2006. But there is a lesson to learn for us today. Christ before Pilate spoke of His spiritual kingdom. He had been handed over to be crucified just as He had predicted, He was raised from the dead, just as he predicted, and now we await the fulfillment of his other great prediction: His Second Coming. Christ has shown again and again that there is objectivity, and He is that objective authority and judge. To resist truth now, like Pilate then, is to wrestle with the coming King. What is truth? Christ is truth, and we will all one day see it clearly.


[1] Which of course is a self-contradictory belief.
[2] Paul L. Maier, Pontius Pilate. (Garden City: Doubleday, 1968).219-220.
[3] Philo, Legaio ad Gaium. 299-305. Josephus, Antiquities. 55-89.
[4] H.W. Hoehner, “Pontius Pilate.” The Dictionary of Jesus and the Gospels. ed. Joel B. Green, Scott McKnight, and I. Howard Marshall. (Downers Grove: IVP, 1992). 616.
[5] Ibid. 615.
[6] ed. R.C. Sproul, The Reformation Study Bible. (Lake Mary: Ligonier, 2005). 1549. fn. 18:38.
[7] D.A. Carson, The Gospel According to John. (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1991). 595.
[8] Herman Ridderbos, The Gospel of John: A Theological Commentary. (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1997). 596.
[9] R. Kent Hughes, John: That You May Believe. (Wheaton: Crossway, 1999). 426.
[10] Ibid.

An Unsung Hero: A Biographical Sketch of Francis Dunlevy, an Early Baptist Leader in Ohio

Not every godly man will be remembered. Of course this is true because many are simply average men who serve the Lord in their day-to-day lives and not anything even coming close to a Martin Luther or a Jonathan Edwards. Thankfully none of these men are ever to be forgotten by God, a great joy to those of us who are average and less than average. But there are some men from our history who should be recovered for what they can teach us. Particularly in Baptist life there has been a resurgence of interest, and many have been working hard to uncover our roots and key figures from our past. Most of these individuals come from the New England areas, or from the Southern states (or from our English Baptist forebears), but for the Ohioan too there is a Baptist hero. It is this great early Baptist leader in Southern Ohio that serves as the subject of this article.

The great Baptist preacher, and statesman, Francis Wayland was once asked why it was that the Baptists had such success in establishing churches on the American frontier. His answer: “Because they do not ask for permission.” Wayland was noting an important feature of Baptist polity. Baptists adhere to congregational rule, which means, among other things, that no bishop or pope, or institution must give us permission to establish churches and organize congregations. While the Presbyterians and Congregationalists were back east deciding on where and how to establish churches on the expanding western frontier, the Methodists and the Baptists forged ahead to meet the religious needs of those pioneering the trail. As Americans moved west they were matched in pace by Baptists.

The early colonialists had landed on the eastern coast, settling first in Virginia and then in Massachusetts and Connecticut, but it did not take long for mild expansion to begin. Early on these moves were the result of religious conflicts within the already existing communities. The first three colonies were led by strict Presbyterians and any divergence from that system of theology was considered illegal and subversive. It was not as though they were being legalists, or even unnecessarily dogmatic. I do not want to paint a picture of vicious Presbyterianism, though in any study of Baptist life there will be some degree of this. The colonists were Puritans who had come over to America from England, fleeing religious persecution, this fact most readily recognize (and it is what makes their dogmatism so ironic). Yet they were not simply coming to set up a community of free religion, but coming to set up a “City on a hill,” which they hoped would be a beacon light to their brothers in England as to what the true church was. To this end they could not tolerate deviation. So they imprisoned, fined, and even expelled both Baptists and Quakers from their communities. The latter of these two groups established a separate colony in Western New Jersey to practice their religion in peace; following in their footsteps was the Quaker covert from England, William Penn, who established the religiously free state of Pennsylvania.

By the time of Jonathan Edwards’ death in 1759 Baptists had already had a rich history in the U.S. They had been bold defenders of the “purest faith,” and had suffered for the faithful obedience to God’s word. Both Quakers and Baptists received harsh persecution from the rest of the colonialists, though not all. In 1651 Obadiah Holmes and John Clarke were arrested and severely beaten for simply being Baptists in Massachusetts. It was a rich history indeed. Baptist separatism in America life begins with a man by the name of Roger Williams. It was in the late 1630s when Williams, after enduring the hardships of persecution himself, left the Puritan colonies and moved North to establish the town of Providence, Rhode Island, so named because he believed God had providentially led him there. Historian Justo L. Gonzalez speaks plainly about Baptist growth in early America:

The Baptist movement spread throughout the colonies, even though its followers were persecuted in several of them. Entire congregations were expelled from Massachusetts. This did not suffice to stop the supposed contagion, which reached some of the most prestigious members of that society- including the president of Harvard. Slowly, as religious tolerance became more common, Baptist groups surfaced in every colony.[1]

As Baptists moved across the nation they eventually found their way to Ohio; in fact, Ohio was settled long before the major movement of expansion westward, in 1788 near Marietta. Two main groups furthered the Ohio settling: 1) The Welsh, and 2) the German. The former was owing most likely to the work of Baptist minister Morgan John Rhys. Rhys was a Welshman who in 1794, after establishing a “Beulah Land” in Ebensburgh in Cambria County, Pennsylvania, set up sister colonies in Central and Southwestern Ohio. It was led, in the late 18th century, by Ezekiel Hughes and Edward Bebb, and founded near the newly formed town of Cincinnati. Many of its members eventually continued the westward progression and settled in the fertile Miami Valley.[2] It was in this area of the Miami Valley that we come upon our subject.

Francis Dunlevy had come to Ohio in 1792, around the same time as the Welsh settlers from Pennsylvania. He was not Welsh, however. His ancestors were Spanish Protestants who fled to France during the Catholic persecutions. His father, Anthony, was born in Ireland and from there would make his way to the New World, settling in Virginia around 1745. It was here, in Winchester, that young Francis was born, on a cool morning in 1761. He was the son of Anthony Dunlevy and Hannah White, and the eldest of four sons and four daughters to that couple. It seems that the couple had a strong spirituality in their home. Little may be discovered about the specifics of that god-centered home, but Anthony’s grandson tells us that he was a “zealous and rigid Presbyterian.”[3] The persecutions which his own family had suffered, just two generations prior to his birth, convicted him to be all the more serious about the faith for which his fathers had risked their lives. Hannah White was no the less zealous for the Christian faith, for she was descended from the Scottish Covenanters, a sorely oppressed protestant people throughout the 17th century, many of whom fled to North America. It was their desire that young Francis, being the fist born, should go to school and be trained for the ministry. This was their intention but in 1776 revolution broke out and the war took precedence over all other life in colonial America. At the age of fourteen, Francis joined in the fray.

Anthony had previously decided to move his family from Winchester to twest of the Allegheny Mountains, it was 1772 and at the time such a location was considered Western Virginia. The drawing of the Mason Dixon Line, however, placed the family in Pennsylvania and quite mortified the Dunleavys; they were not Pennsylvanians, they were Virginians! Their new home not only removed them from Virginia, the home of their hearts, but it placed them right on the frontier settlement throughout the Revolutionary War. Repeated invasions from Indians meant that every able-bodied man and boy was to serve in either longer or shorter campaigns. Francis was not old enough that he was yet required to serve in the military, but when his neighbor, who had a family to look after, was called to serve, Francis offered to go in his stead. It was a genuine act of kindness form so young a man. But Francis was not only kind; he was also a skilled soldier.

He had been raised in the backwoods and knew well how to fire a gun, and, according to reports, he handled hardships with steadfastness. Such skill earned him the privilege of serving in five other campaigns from the years 1776 to 1782. At Crawford’s Defeat in 1782 he and two other men found themselves on the far Western flank of the conflict. A.H. Dunlevy reports:
[He] was engaged in conflict with the Indians until dark, [and] when the army retreated, he was left with but one or two more, to make their way, as best they could, from Sandusky plains to Pittsburg, [sic] through an Indian country. As the Indians, in large numbers, pursued Crawford’s retreating army, it was impossible fore those separated to join the army, as the enemies’ forces intercepted them.[4]

Young Francis’ military record is impressive. He helped build Fort McIntosh, the first fort on the Northwest side of the Ohio River; and also assisted in erecting the first block-house at Mt. Pleasant. Far more impressive for the Christian, however, will be the record of Christian faithfulness that Francis Dunlevy left behind.

Finally peace came to rest upon the nation in 1783, with the signing of the Treaty of Paris. Schools eventually opened back up and Francis finally pursued the education his parents had envisioned for him, joining Dickson College in that year to prepare for the ministry. He was an excellent student, and possessed an acute ability to learn. He made rapid progress as a student, specifically in the sciences, and was eligible for graduation earlier than the normal undergraduate program allowed, but he declined the diploma. “My term has been too short,” he said. His son tells us he had no desire for titles and so he remained at Dickson for possibly a whole second term.[5] Upon graduation he returned to Winchester to attend divinity school. His professor here would be not only his uncle, but one of the nation’s most highly esteemed theologians, James Hodge. Speaking before Congress, John Randolph is known to have said of Hodge that since his death he had never heard the gospel preached in its purity.[6]

While at divinity school Francis devoted himself to the faithful study of the scriptures. He poured over the words of the Bible for several hours a day and in so doing two important changes occurred in his life. Nothing is known of the time of his conversion, or even how old he was when he came to saving faith. But beyond that event the following two events were the most significant in his spiritual life. First, it was while studying the Bible that Francis was almost at once confronted by the absence of teaching on both paedobaptism and sprinkling. He had grown up as a Presbyterian and all through the years that he was under his father he was told that immersion was fully denied in the New Testament. He could not escape, however, what was right before his eyes. It seemed that the Acts of the Apostles never once commended the former, but in practice fully advocated the “dreaded Baptist view”. Dunlevy was the type of man who when confronted with the truth was resolved, no matter what, to take the right recourse. He was compelled, his son tells us, by his conscience to become a Baptist. This first change in theology horrified his parents and younger siblings, who, undoubtedly, tried to persuade him of the former position, but Dunlevy knew what he had read and could not be moved. The decision affected his relations for a short while but after time the wounds seemed to have healed and eventually Francis even joined his family as they left Virginia for Kentucky.

The second great theological shift in Dunlevy’s life came as he studied more closely the particulars of the pastoral office. The description of the office was so high and so serious that it somewhat scared Dunlevy. Like that young monk, Martin Luther, who had been so afraid to offer the cup at his first mass, for God was holy and just and he was nothing more than a pigmy, so Dunlevy felt himself quite unworthy for the pastorate. “He became convinced that unless called of God, as was Aaron, he ought not to officiate in holy things.”[7] Dunlevy, giving a second major blow to his parents, abandoned his plans for preaching, and took to becoming a teacher. He believed that he did not posses either the gifts or the calling to be a pastor and again felt compelled by right conscience that he could not do the ministry.

His classical school in Virginia became of some acclaim, producing several distinguished scholars and future lawyers. He remained a teacher there until in 1790 he moved with his father’s family to Washington, Kentucky. The land which his father bought there was sold to him falsely and after a short period the family was forced to return to Virginia, and for the first time in his life Dunlevy separated from them; he remained to find a new residence. His reasons for doing so were fully impacted by the issues of slavery, which were increasingly coming to the foreground of American life.

By 1776 the Quakers expunged their communities of all those who insisted on holding slaves. A few years later at the Christmas Conference of 1784 the American Methodist society was founded, making them officially distinct from the Anglican Methodists (who had originally planted the churches in America), and it maintained that no members were permitted to hold slaves. Joining the likes of these two groups were a number of Baptists. Dunlevy had for sometime felt strong convictions about the immorality of slavery, and when the ordinance of 1787 outlawed slavery in the Northwest Territory Dunlevy was resolved to settle within its bounds. In looking for a school Francis was driven towards Columbia near Cincinnati. Here, with the help of a fellow by the name of John Reily, Dunlevy opened the first good school in Butler County.

He had exceptional skills as a scholar. I have already mentioned with what rapid speed he was able to accomplish his undergraduate studies. Knowing this about him it seems only right that the people of Ohio would call on him to serve. He was twice a member of the legislature of Ohio, and even served on the committee to write the first constitution of that state when it was admitted to the union in 1803. Following this he was a member of the first state legislature and eventually became the presiding judge for the court of common pleas, an office he held for fourteen years. He took his job very seriously, and though he had to cross two major rivers, he never missed court, in all of fourteen years, more than once. In fact, so dedicated was he to his job, that he never hesitated to simply swim the rivers, even at major flood seasons. Records tell us that he was quite an exquisite swimmer and while others wouldn’t dare to cross the rivers in flood season, Dunlevy never hesitated to swim across.

After his term as presiding judge came to a close Dunlevy continued in the legal realm as a lawyer. For more than ten years he made a name for himself as a lawyer, even taking cases in the surrounding areas of Columbia. All of these facts point to an honorable man, but none in particular warrant his recovery for Ohio Baptists. Why talk about Francis Dunlevy? The significance of Francis Dunlevy for Ohio Baptists is found in the last eight years of the man’s life. After retiring from the business of the courts Dunlevy spent his days mostly in the chair in his den reading, he had an “unconquerable love of books,” mostly religious in nature and, primarily, the Bible. The man’s knowledge of the scriptures was stellar. He had an astute memory and could, in any conversation, call to his mind a passage of scripture, which spoke to the issue being discussed. He studied and read from both an English translation and a Latin, which he was very fond of reading. The man’s knowledge of theology and, Scripture in particular, made it easy for him to detect the slightest inaccuracies in a man’s preaching or a Christian’s confession.

Upon his arrival to Ohio in 1792 he immediately joined up with the Baptist Church of Columbia and later moved his membership to the Baptist church in Lebanon. At the latter he stood as a gentle but firm defender for the missionary enterprise. As I have said, Dunlevy had a profundity in the Scriptures, and this helped him to identify certain theological movements. So in 1801-02 he assessed the “New Light” revivals of Kentucky as a form of Shakerism and warned his friends of it. In the anti-missionary movement, which was sweeping Baptist life on both sides of the Atlantic, Francis warned his congregation that it was nothing more than antinomianism.

Hyper-Calvinism, as it would later come to be called, was a major problem for churches during the 18th and early 19th centuries. C.H. Spurgeon faced it in England and vigorously opposed it from his pulpit and in his writings. Dunlevy was prepared to do the same from the pew of his local church. The particular nature of this brand of theology was to state that the sovereignty of God required no responsibility from man. It was the overemphasis of one doctrine to the exclusion of another. In acknowledging God’s electing love, and His overarching sovereignty, many Christians denied the need for evangelism and obedience on their part. If God predestined men for salvation then why should they share the gospel? As time progressed evangelism not only began to be questioned, but eventually began to be denied as a present day church duty. Anti-missionary hymns were written and a new theology of missions was raised up. This theology stated that Christ had told the disciples to spread the gospel, but now that they were gone that stage of Christian development was over. Dunlevy was not convinced. Not only was this going against the testimony of Scripture, but also this new theology of missions was against the very practice of historic Baptists.

Traditionally Baptist, both on the larger global scale and in the context of Ohio alone, were missionary minded Christians. Furthermore, it was not only historic Baptist who opposed the new anti-missionary movement, but just a few years prior to this occasion in Lebanon, Ohio, The Particular Baptist Society for Propagating the Gospel among the Heathen was founded (1792) in England. Thanks to the work of William Carey, Andrew Fuller, and Samuel Pearce, Baptist missionary work was begun. By 1814 the missionary enterprise had hit home even more dramatically. Adoniram Judson had set sail for Burma in 1812 as a Congregationalist, but along the way both he and his wife, Anne, had become Baptists. Judson, and his friend Luther Rice, appealed to American Baptists for support in missions. In 1814 it was a pressing issue for even Baptists in Ohio. Of course not being as famous as these men Dunlevy would be ignored in the birthing of Baptist missions, yet, for Ohioans, he was, as their contemporary, an early preserver of missions in the Baptist denomination.

The church at Lebanon, however, responded with division. There were members in the church who were strongly opposed to missions and refused to concede to it. In 1836 the church split. Francis Dunlevy made one final appeal to those splintered members, his son summarizes:
He warned the advocates of this anti-mission movement of the destructive consequences upon them as a Christian denomination. He told them that he had seen a similar stand taken by Baptist churches in Virginia, fifty years before that time, and the result was that in twenty years, or less, those churches had become almost extinct and that the same consequences would as surely befall those churches who adopted these anti-missionary sentiments.[8]
In 1818 the Miami Association, the organization of Baptist which Dunlevy was part of, revised their position of missions and promoted the propagation of the gospel on the foreign mission field. Dunlevy’s voice was heard in broader Ohio, if not in his own church. The Association, however, divided too in 1836 over the issue of missions, and became two groups: The Miami Association in favor of Missions, and the Anti-Mission Association. Dunlevy’s prediction, however, came true eventually, and the Anti-Mission Association dissolved and disappeared, along with most of its 10 churches.

Not only did Dunlevy protest the advance of antinomianism and Hyper-Calvinism, but he also opposed the advance of Arminianism. Arminianism was spreading across denominations and had its impact on American Evangelical Baptists. Of course it was not until years later that it came to dominate Baptist life in America, but still Dunlevy knew it when he saw it. In the church at Lebanon, he maintained a firm balance and attempted to help the church do the same. As a Calvinist, “firm and unyielding,”[9] he would not bend to any notion of man’s capability to save himself. He was willing to acknowledge the tension between God’s sovereignty and man’s responsibility, but never did he confess that salvation was ultimately or even finally up to man’s deciding. His work in the church at Lebanon is significant, not simply because he represents a faithful guardian of genuine Biblical Reformed theology, but more so because it proved him worthy to be a leader in Ohio Baptist life.

Owing to his vast knowledge of Scripture and theology, and his strict adherence to both the doctrines of grace and evangelism (two aspects of theology often thought to be incompatible today) Dunlevy was welcomed as a member of the conference for the establishment of the Miami Association of Baptists. When the Association was formed in 1797 Dunlevy had not yet been through the controversies at Lebanon, but it is significant to note that after arriving in only 1792 it did not take long for Dunlevy to establish himself as a leader. When called upon to help draft the articles of faith for the body in early 1805, Dunlevy was already an influential man in Ohio Baptist life. The History of this Association is important, though more than I can deal with in this article, but as the first organization of Baptist Churches in Ohio, composed of the first Baptist churches in Ohio, it set the standard for the future of Ohio Baptist Life. In this regard we should remember Francis Dunlevy, and thank God for him.

Where would Ohio Baptists be without this man? We wrestle today with the same issue that tore the Church at Lebanon apart. God is sovereign, we acknowledge this, and so we know that Ohio Baptists would have survived without Francis Dunlevy. Yet we acknowledge, like Dunlevy himself (and contra the anti-mission group) that God works through means. He predestines the end, yes, but He predestines the means to that end too. Francis Dunlevy was God’s chosen instrument to build a solid foundation for Baptist life in Ohio, for this reason we thank God for such a bold, Biblical, and astute man. Ohio Baptists need to remember Francis Dunlevy and his work, not because He is simply a good man, but because God has used Him in a profound way to lay the groundwork for our labors in Ohio. Remember Francis Dunlevy, friends.

To the end of his days Dunlevy retained his mental faculties. Even as death approached him he was aware of it and expressed his knowledge in a calm and godly demeanor.

For forty years I have never had any fears of death; and the day of judgment has long appeared to me as the most glorious feature in the moral government of God. Then and there all seeming mysteries in God’s providence will be made so plain that all will acknowledge the justice as well as mercy of his administration. Then the truth, about which men differ so much here, will be made clear. The innocent and oppressed, too, however calumny and abuse have been headed upon them here, shall be cleared from every unjust imputation, and the wrong-doer, of every grade, stand convicted in his own conscience, and in the eyes of an assembled world. [10]

His son states that he fell asleep “in Jesus as quietly as he had ever taken his natural rest.” This is a man indeed to be remembered.

[1] Justo L. Gonzalez, The Story of Christianity. Vol. 2. (New York: Harper Collins, 1985). 226.
[2] Anne Kelly Knowles, Calvinists Incorporated: Welsh Immigration on Ohio’s Industrial Frontier. (Chicago: UP, 1997). 18.
[3] A.H. Dunlevy, History of the Miami Baptist Association. 1869. 147.
[4] Dulevy, 148.
[5] Ibid.
[6] Ibid.
[7] Ibid.
[8] Ibid. 150.
[9] Ibid.
[10] Ibid. 152.