Thoughts on my Puritan Upbringing and the Salem Witch Trials.

This week in Humanities Core we are discussing the role of Puritan Theology in the Salem Witchcraft Trials of 1692.

I was raised in a Christian community that very self-consciously thought of themselves as the modern-day Puritans. They are sometimes referred to as the “Plymouth Brethren,” so-called because they claimed to have the same theology, worship, and communal organization as those who settled in Plymouth in 1620. Garrison Keillor, who was raised in a similar group, calls them the “Sanctified Brethren.” It’s hard to label them because they refuse to label themselves. The claim all labels and denominations are human inventions, even “corruptions,” of the community Christ aimed to create, and so all denominations are, to some degree, heretical, according to them.

Still, they do share some common characteristics. They have no ordained clergy (unlike the New England Puritans), often insist on women wearing veils on their head during worship, and celebrate the “Lord’s Supper” every week around a simple ritual that consists of Scripture reading, “spontaneous” prayer, and singing (without musical accompaniment), all led by the male-members of the group. Women sit in silence (except to sing).

I grew up in the Puritan environment, perched on the very edge of hell, sensing the infernal demons waiting under my bed, ready to snatch me and drag me away. Even as a child of four or five years of age I would spend every night sobbing in my bed praying for God to have mercy on me and accept me. Then, every day, I was assured of the comforts of God’s grace and the certainties of his love, but reminded that these benefits were experienced only by the elect.

While I had doubts about my place, as an individual, within the community of the elect, I had no doubts that my religious community was the “elect.” The logic was that the smaller the group, the more likely they are to contain the true believers, the chosen ones, because “narrow was the gate” that led to eternal life, but “broad was the road and wide the gate” that led to destruction. Our failure to win a more substantial following was further proof of our election.

But, as an individual, you could never really know that you were chosen. I mean, we believed that we were saved by grace through faith, but how was one to know they had faith, true, saving faith? The only possible proof was in the “fruit” of a holy life, but we could never be sure. I strove to live the holiest life possible, subjecting even my every thought to divine scrutiny in hopes that I could see this fruit.

But, on the other hand (and here we may differ from seventeenth-century Puritans), we were always told that since we were saved by grace, through faith, and not by works, we could, theoretically, know that we were saved. Those who think salvation is based on “works,” or on “being good,” were doomed to insecurity because you could never know that you had done enough. We, on the other hand, knew it was impossible to ever “do enough” to merit God’s favor and forgiveness, that was a matter of grace . . . and faith—saving faith—and there was the rub. How could you know that you had that kind of “saving faith?”

Instead of “knowing” I had that kind of faith, I tended to assume that other people had it, and they knew they had it, which made my doubts all-the-more troubling. We believed in “the Rapture,” which meant that we believed that near the end of time Jesus would come and “snatch” the elect out of this world, leaving the rest of us behind. Many times growing up I would find myself alone in our house and immediately be thrown into a panic, thinking I had been “left behind.”

But this insecurity seems to have a mirroring power that works quite effectively on the communal level, even for those individuals, like me, who were plagued by doubts about our own, personal salvation. Our election as a community was always seen in contrast to the non-elect around us. The easiest target was the Roman Catholic Church. They were our exact opposite in most respects mirroring our simplicity of worship with complex rituals and ornate liturgical practices. Reading Revelation, we interpreted the Roman Catholic Church as the “Whore of Babylon, drunk on the blood of the saints.” Revelation’s “Babylon” is clearly a veiled reference to Rome, and the Roman Church, with all of its money and wealth seemed to be the spitting image of Revelation’s harlot.

But this Manichean mirroring extended to all areas of life. God loved the Dallas Cowboys, but hated the Oakland Raiders. God loved the United States, but hated the “evil empire” of the Soviet Union. God created men to lead, and women to follow. God loved hymns, but the Devil loved Rock-and-Roll. God was a Republican, and . . . Ted Kennedy was a Democrat.

So this week, re-reading Puritan theological texts and thinking about the Salem Witch Trials is like visiting my childhood. In fact, I can remember my mother telling me that what happened at Salem was a good thing. “Maybe some false people were accused,” she told me, “but witches are real, and I’m sure they burned (sic) real witches.”

Does a doctrine of election require a doctrine of the Devil? I suspect it requires something like that. To look in the mirror and see an angel staring back I must, at times, look into the crowd and see a diabolical image mocking my angelic pretensions. If I am “straight,” the mocking face might be gay. If I am Protestant, it might be Catholic. If I am male, it might be female.

Since the notion of election, no matter what its guise, seems to require the demonization of the other, perhaps this is the greatest enemy of civilization and the challenge we most need to overcome.