From Jeremiad to Jihad: Religion, Violence, and America

PREFACE

Fifteen years ago, as we were entering graduate school in the fall of 1997, there was no field of study of religion and violence comparable to what exists today. At that time, scholarship examining the intersections of religion and violence or religion and war reflected scholars' individual research interests and disciplinary approaches—as historians, ethicists, anthropologists, or Americanists, and so on. Professors who engaged such themes in the classroom did so through specialized seminars within their fields—historiographical surveys of the medieval Crusades, anthropological studies of sacrifice and religious ritual, ethical analyses and applications of just war thought—in ways that understandably promoted disciplinary precision over interdisciplinary understanding. As graduate students at the University of Chicago—one a budding ethicist, the other a historian—we availed ourselves of such offerings, where we traded ideas, shared research questions, and discovered a great deal of unplowed ground.

Back then there were few if any research centers, encyclopedic handbooks, or conferences devoted to the study of religion and conflict. There was little market for popular books or media coverage raising urgent questions about religion's putatively violent tendencies. And television specials or prominent personalities calling out religious individuals and faith traditions were rare. The attacks of September 11, 2001, changed this landscape very quickly. In the past decade we have seen a flood of new academic hires in Islam, as well as a number of religion scholars arguing that this problem of religion and violence is neither new nor confined to any particular religion or region. Religion and violence, it is now well understood, is not limited to September 11, the ensuing declaration of a war on terror, or the religiously inflected military invasions of Afghanistan and Iraq.

The phenomenon of 9/11 and its aftermath surely accelerated interest in religion and violence and brought many scholars to an emerging field. So, too, with this book, the conceptual beginnings of which took form during those shadowy times. One of our earliest goals was to show that September 11 was not the United States' first experience with religion and violence. It is one but by no means the only relevant chapter in America's five-hundred-year history. Thus we set out to tell this story by drawing on the expertise of scholars who, for much of their careers, have been thinking about religion and violence or religion and America from within their own disciplines. Along the way, though, we also discovered that this multidisciplinary approach to religion and violence in the American context offered new and compelling insights into the complex historical and moral legacy of the United States—observations, interpretations, and powerful insights about American identity that, presumably, no one author could have conceived alone. By examining prominent figures, beliefs, and events from the early colonial period down to our present day, this volume illuminates the continuities as well as discontinuities that contribute to a fuller, more nuanced, and more meaningful understanding of the United States and its history and place in the world.

This book goes to press at a more hopeful time than when it began. Recent events in the world—the Arab Spring of 2011, significant advances against al Qaeda leadership, the U.S. military withdrawal from Iraq and the relative stability taking hold there, and, one hopes, a sequel moment that will follow in Afghanistan—all point to the possibilities of a new dawn in which violence does not get the last word. We leave to the reader's judgment whether violence, force, revolution, or war has sometimes been vital or necessary to bring forth that new dawn. The pages that follow are instructive but offer no simple answer. We only suggest that peering deeply into the darkness should not blind us to the light but rather stoke our yearning for it.

• • •

We would like to thank our home institutions, Arizona State University and the University of Illinois, for the excellent support they provided for this project. We are especially grateful for the financial and logistical help from the following programs that helped launch and sustain it: at Arizona State University, the Center for the Study of Religion and Conflict (CSRC) and the Department of Religious Studies; and at the University of Illinois, the Department of Religion, the School of Literatures, Cultures, and Linguistics, and the Illinois Program for Research in the Humanities. Several individuals at these institutions—Linell Cady, Joel Gereboff, Robert McKim, David Price, and Mark VonHagen—warrant special mention for their strong leadership, friendship, and support. Without the crucial administrative support of Carolyn Forbes and Laurie Perko at CSRC, this project could not have been accomplished. We also would like to thank Catherine Brekus, Tracy Fessenden, Jennifer Graber, Valerie Hoffman, Lynn Neal, and John Witte, who at various stages of the project took time from their busy schedules to read and comment on sections of the manuscript and to lend excellent advice that shaped the final direction of the project as a whole. Reed Malcolm, our editor at the University of California Press, showed tremendous faith and patience as we moved from concept to manuscript to book, and we are thankful for his friendship and support seeing this through. We would also like to thank two anonymous readers for their close readings and helpful comments. Additionally, we are deeply grateful for the often tedious but always indispensable efforts of the many research assistants who worked on this project: Jodie Baird, Rachel Bishop, Jessica Clemmons, Seth Clippard, Sarah Jackman, Paul Jackson, Jordan Johnson, Darren Kleinberg, William LeMaire, and Christopher Palfi. Finally, Barbara Good house and Ann Hawthorne provided exceptional editorial support.

This project is the product of a friendship that has grown between us over many years and owes much to the University of Chicago Divinity School: first, for providing the intellectual setting in which we first met following our similarly circuitous career paths; second, for offering a first-rate graduate education and exceptional advisers who nurtured our academic interests; and even for the excellent fare served up at the at the Divinity School coffee shop in the basement of Swift Hall, where we consumed disturbing amounts of coffee. Most importantly, we both met our wives, Meredith and Ginger, in graduate school. They have supported us through thick and thin, through exams, dissertations, conference papers, job markets, cross-country moves, and the continuing challenges of our work. We love you, and we can never thank you enough for your tireless support.

We dedicate this book to our children, Sophia, Charlotte, and Beatrice Ebel and James and Christopher Carlson, in the hope that, as the young learn of the darker, violent episodes of our nation's history, they will lead us to a brighter place.

Ad astra per aspera.

Introduction

John Brown, Jeremiad, and Jihad

Reflections on Religion, Violence, and America

John D. Carlson and Jonathan H. Ebel

Following his infamous raid and dramatic capture at Harper's Ferry on October 16, 1859, the militant abolitionist John Brown was asked, during one of the more memorable interrogations in U.S. history, how he justified his actions. Brown had led a band of twenty-one men, including three of his sons, in a wildly conceived and shoddily executed effort to seize the federal armory in what was then the state of Virginia. His plan was to use the arms and munitions—and, for slaves unable to use guns, a thousand pikes prestaged in a nearby school—to lead a revolt for manumission in the state. In addition to enlisting several unwilling slaves (who knew well that their complicity would bring death), Brown's plan entailed making hostages of prominent citizens from the proslavery town, including a direct descendant of George Washington. The plan backfired when local officials and citizens—followed by a U.S. Marine contingent under Colonel Robert E. Lee's command—surrounded the arsenal. A two-day standoff and shootout ensued. When the dust settled, seventeen were dead, including two of the slaves Brown had liberated to fight with him, a black train porter (shot mistakenly), eight of Brown's men, and two of his sons. Brown himself was wounded and captured when the Marines invaded the arsenal.

How did Brown account for this far-fetched scheme? Rather easily, it seems. It could be justified, he attested to the audience thronging his jail cell, by the Golden Rule: I pity the poor in bondage that have none to help them: that is why I am here; not to gratify any personal animosity, revenge, or vindictive spirit. It is my sympathy with the oppressed and wronged, that are as good as you and as precious in the sight of God. When asked if he viewed his cause in religious terms, Brown answered, It is, in my opinion, the greatest service man can render to God. And when prodded whether he conceived himself an instrument in the hands of Providence, the stern Calvinist replied simply, I do.¹

For the short remainder of his life, Brown assumed a confident demeanor, neither fearing death nor repenting the violence that hastened it.² Justice for John Brown was swift. Convicted of treason in a fortnight, he ascended the scaffold on December 2, 1859, six weeks after the initial raid. Before he was hanged, Brown proleptically announced that America's crimes of slavery could be purged only through blood. His hope had been that he might end the national scourge by shedding only small amounts of blood at Harper's Ferry. But this hope had proved vain, and, realizing this, Brown prophesied that God would make his death a thousand times more valuable to his cause than all the miserable service he had ever achieved while alive.³ It would take a Civil War—a war that would sacrifice 600,000 lives upon the altar of the nation—to complete the abolitionist work for which John Brown had been willing to kill and die.⁴

The story of John Brown and American slavery offers one window onto a far-ranging and thoroughly ambivalent relationship between religion and violence in the making of America. In this way, it raises overarching questions that pertain to other episodes of the nation's history:

• How should observers appraise the actions and justifications of those who have resorted to violence? Do moral ends justify violent means? If so, are there limits to such means? How should we distinguish—if we should—between the violent episodes of private groups and the government's use of force, including the collective violence of wars waged on behalf of the nation?

• What is the relationship between extreme episodes of violence in American society—committed by or against minority or fringe groups—and the broader social issues or violent struggles to which they call attention?

• Finally, how does understanding various forms of religious belief, identity, and rhetoric help us to interpret the violent episodes in America's past and, in all likelihood, its future as well?

This volume examines episodes from American history in which religion and violence converge and asks what they tell us about the United States and its vexing history. The book's organizing thesis is that the complex intersections of religion and violence afford crucial insight into the meaning behind America—its history, ideals, character, identity, sense of purpose, and place in the world. In particular, noble promises and ensuing successes and failures tell a story of America's ongoing effort to reconcile conflicting claims between majority and minority populations. While such conflicts are found in many nations, they are particularly acute for a nation of immigrants whose people, government, and founding principles are committed explicitly to religious liberty, pluralism, and diversity in many forms.

The story of John Brown—and the cultural, religious, and ethical issues it raises—serves as an entry point to the study of religion and violence in the American context. We begin by unpacking key terms—religion and violence—and their range of meanings, associations, and connections. The insights and limitations of recent scholarship in the growing field of religion and violence provide an important backdrop to the U.S. context. We then discuss the framing idioms of this work—jeremiad and jihad—as a way of investigating the American experience of religion and violence. Finally, after a brief summary of the diverse and discordant history of religion in America, we outline the volume's structure and present a preview of its contents.

DEFINING RELIGION AND VIOLENCE

John Brown's haunting legacy can be glimpsed by visitors to the Kansas state capitol in Topeka. There, on the second floor, a massive mural of Brown by the renowned regionalist painter John Steuart Curry depicts Kansas's troubled past. Curry's work, Tragic Prelude, which appears on this volume's cover, vividly portrays John Brown's fraught relationship to Kansas—if not to the entire nation. Before the raid at Harper's Ferry, Brown had been a free-stater—someone who moved to Kansas to help prevent the spread of slavery there. In the 1856 massacre at Pottawatomie Creek, he led a tiny war party to avenge the killing of several free-staters. By the end of a long evening in May, Brown and his Northern Army had broken into three homes and hacked five people to death using broadswords and Bowie knives. That none of the victims seem to have owned slaves was irrelevant, since they had all desired that Kansas become a slave state. Bleeding Kansas became the well-suited moniker for the civil strife that plagued the state, and, when conceiving his mural masterpiece, Curry painted John Brown as its personification writ large.

In Curry's mural an oversized Brown towers over the Kansas heartland, his fiery and tempestuous spirit engraved on his face, as if connected to, yet also holding at bay, the natural disasters in the background: one side is overtaken by prairie fire while a tornado threatens the other. The smoke and tornado converge at the top, separated by the turbulent Brown, whose outstretched arms create a clearing in the air—a thin swath of clarity that hovers above the discord and slaughter of the Civil War depicted below him. With outstretched arms, Brown stands between Union and Confederate fighters half his size; Brown appears literally larger than life. At his enormous feet are two dead soldiers, one from each side. In one of his powerful bloodstained hands, Brown grasps a Bible, in the other a Beecher Bible (as the rifle named after evangelist and passionate Civil War advocate Henry Ward Beecher would be called). A sheathed cutlass and holstered revolver hang about the warrior's waist. Brown's long white beard whips in the wind while the shock of upright hair on his head seems to resist it, imparting an air of deliverance. (Were his rifle replaced with a staff and the Bible with stone tablets, Brown's physical likeness to Moses, à la Charlton Heston, would be uncanny.) Blacks are portrayed both courageously and compassionately, either fighting for the North or suffering under the South. Elsewhere in the painting, settlers in the backdrop wearily make their way across the windswept prairie. Lofty aspirations, unbidden by nature and history, shine through in the state's motto ad astra per aspera: roughly translated, to the stars through difficulties. Bleeding Kansas was but a prelude to the national difficulties surrounding slavery, secession, and war that would tear the nation apart.⁵

When Curry completed Tragic Prelude in 1940, many Kansans were displeased. The Kansas Council of Women protested Curry's obsession with freaks—freaks of history like Brown, freaks of nature like tornadoes and fires. The murals do not portray the true Kansas, they complained. The state legislature ordered Curry to discontinue his work on several other murals commissioned for the capitol. In disgust, Curry refused to sign any of them. The unappreciated artist died a few years later, having never recovered from the rejection.⁶

Artists like Curry are not the only ones challenged by thorny problems of representation and interpretation. Worries over how to depict the true Kansas resemble in many ways current worries about how religion (or true religion) should be represented. The problem is particularly acute in an age in which terrorism, war, and violence so dominate both popular and scholarly imaginations. If John Brown were catapulted into the present, people today might question whether he hijacked Christianity to justify his actions, much as some Kansans accused him (and Curry) of hijacking their state's identity. Many would observe how Brown's apparently sincere religious motives seem inextricably linked to his violence. Others, though, might point out how few people, Christian or otherwise, acted as extremely as Brown did. Still another approach would be to scrutinize whether there is such a thing as true Christianity (or a true Kansas) that Brown's actions besmirched. In light of such problems of representation and implicit assumptions about religion and violence, it is prudent not to treat these terms as self-evident. In puzzling over their connections, one must be cautious about essentialization: defining terms so as to accent a particular essence—as if religion inherently possesses violent (or nonviolent) tendencies.

It is both practically difficult and heuristically unhelpful to offer simple definitions of religion and violence—especially for a multiauthored volume in which diverse contributors work with different presumptions, approaches, and viewpoints. Rather than defining these contested terms and their interconnections, then, this section proposes a range of associated meanings, cautions, and considerations to guide readers' encounters with the chapters ahead.

Violence, on its surface, would seem to require no thorough explication. Colloquially, the term characterizes a range of occurrences involving physical force (vis) that cause destruction or harm. While storms and collisions may be violent, this is a book about human violence, involving individual physical attacks as well as political violence such as rebellion, oppression, and war. Most contributors to this volume presume at least this expansive meaning. Some focus especially on the normative dimensions, noting that the word is often loaded with judgment and carries presumptive negative connotations. Consider that one must attach adjectives such as justified or, perhaps, righteous to correct this presumption or to legitimate a violent act. In this sense, violence, like aggression, connotes a different valence from terms like self-defense and force. States regularly distinguish violence from legal coercion and the threat of force that upholds the law. This does not mean that states do not resort to violence, of course. Clearly, they do. Moreover, when states are accused of being violent, implying etymologically a violation (from Latin violare), an ethical and political critique is usually implicit.⁷ Disentanglement and discernment about such terminology is no simple task. Violence involves subjects and objects the experiences and perceptions of which are conditioned by culture and history. Violence is committed and justified either as a response to this history or in order to shape a new one.

Violence often connotes passion (from violentus, meaning vehement), as Curry's mural depicts in the face of John Brown. Yet violence can also be argued in rational terms, as Brown himself did (and just war claims seek to do). As well, John Brown's charges against slavery remind us that laws violating basic ethical and political principles do their own kind of violence. As such, legal forms of coercion and threats of enforcement may entail violence short of the actual use of force. The chapters in this book present no single account of violence. The range of denotations and connotations of violence draws attention to the variety of ways that events, institutions, actors, and communities can be interpreted: from the state's coercive use of force, to destructive acts carried out by individuals and groups, to imagined violence, vitriolic rhetoric, and the powerful ideologies that underwrite or encourage them. Various authors take up not simply wars, rebellions, and attacks but also what Mark Juergensmeyer has termed cultures of violence—the legal, social, and political contexts surrounding them.⁸ As readers puzzle over varying accounts of violence in the pages ahead, it is worth keeping in mind the complex interplay among its many dimensions.

The task of defining religion, particularly in its relationship to violence, is both challenging and significant. For many scholars, religion entails those discourses, beliefs, institutions, and practices (and their associated rituals, myths, symbols, and creeds) through which individuals and communities understand and order their lives around an ultimate, sacred, or transcendent reality (often conceived in relation to God or other divinities). Much scholarship in the twenty-first century has foregrounded religion's apparent connection to or propensity for violence, with considerable attention to evil religion or terror emanating from the mind of or in the name of God.⁹ Much religion and violence literature reinforces—albeit in more nuanced scholarly ways—presumptions found in many public sectors. For many people, events such as the Crusades, the European wars of religion, and the attacks of September 11, 2001, are stark symbols of the violence that can be expected when religion goes public, collides with politics, or unleashes its violent undercurrents.

More recently, other scholars have sought to deconstruct the myth of religious violence to show how modern societies have invented and used the category religion to shroud or justify violence, particularly as committed by putatively secular states.¹⁰ These critiques often reflect the influence of anthropologist Talal Asad, who has argued that definitions of religion themselves have performed a kind of violence by injecting normative assumptions about religion into social and political discourses; the result has been to incline cultures and legal authorities to marginalize or persecute groups that do not conform to a prescribed Western vision of religion usually understood as rational, privatistic, even universal.¹¹

If a shortcoming of much religion and violence scholarship has been to focus on extreme elements either beyond the United States or at the fringes of American society—thereby overlooking the role that mainstream forms of religion and violence have played in U.S. society—then myth-breaking scholars in the latter group are prone to understate the quite real connections between religion and violence as more than humanly constructed categories. The observation also can be stated affirmatively: there is some truth to both of these approaches. For these reasons, when studying violence in the American context it is vital to understand the different forms, both explicit and subtle, that religion has taken in authorizing or containing violence.

In the United States, definitions of religion have long reflected a Protestant—or at least a Christian—influence and, throughout much of its history, have favored what Bruce Lincoln calls religious minimalism.¹² Religious minimalism suits secular societies that distinguish religion along public-private lines. The term does not necessarily mean less religious; it simply refers to an outlook that presupposes a narrow range of questions on which religion exercises influence: matters of ultimate meaning, expectations about life after death, and issues of social interaction—but generally not (or not ostensibly) major social, economic, political, or foreign policy issues.¹³ However minimalistic, this form of religion has operated in the background of many prominent instances of violence, coercion, and war in American life.

American history also is full of individual men and women and entire communities—frequently labeled as extreme—who have either practiced or attempted to practice more maximalist strains of religion: explicit, public displays of religious belief (or actions informed by religious belief) that challenge or appear to challenge the premises of secular or religiously minimalist societies. John Brown is one such example; the Amish, the Oneida Perfectionists, and the Shakers are others. There have been many minority groups, the early Mormon movement being a famous example, that have been religiously maximalist while also committed to demonstrating their American-ness. In other cases, religious maximalists such as the Branch Davidians and the Heaven's Gate movement have directly challenged the compatibility between their religious beliefs and American identity (or at least the U.S. government). Religious minimalists, for their part, often have questioned the American-ness of both these kinds of minority movements, by subjecting them to coercion or state-sanctioned violence. In the process, so-called religious minimalists—usually speaking on behalf of a Protestant majority—may not observe the boundaries between religion and the secular that they wish to enforce on others. In fact, as we will see, those struggling to contain a particular maximalist religion or to define strictly the boundaries of legitimate religious influence often have been driven by visions of proper religion more powerful, normative, and expansive than those they oppose. This book presumes that it is vital to examine the violence carried out by religious actors in both their minimalist and maximalist forms; and it shows how the broader cultural and historical lessons to be drawn about American violence often emerge from the interplay between those with religiously minimalist and maximalist affinities.

Several contributors, working with such insights, examine acts of violence fueled by conflicts over what constitutes religion and what legitimate or legally permissible religious behavior entails. Many authors also work with a conception of religion that extends beyond rituals, sacred texts, and doctrine to ideas and images from the popular press, literature, film, and political speeches. In American society and culture, religion is found every bit as much in the tropes that shape speech, the interpretive lenses through which people see the world, and intellectual frameworks that shape their judgments, as it is in the pews of churches, the sermons of imams, or the fasts and rites of holy days.

This book also devotes a great deal of space to the consideration of Christianity (often Protestant Christianity) and its influences in the United States. Christians are not the sole actors in most of the chapters that follow, but they are among the actors in every chapter. Given the longstanding religious diversity of North America and the fact that Christians have no monopoly on religion and violence, one might expect greater attention to acts of religion and violence perpetrated by Native Americans, Jews, and other religious minorities. The lesser focus on these groups as perpetrators of violence (though not as imagined enemies and as victims) reflects a feature of religious violence as committed and as considered. When we study religious violence we tend to focus on public rather than private episodes. Wars and cross burnings draw more attention than violence in the home, and with few exceptions in American history, most moments of violence or war have been authored by Christians against other Christians or against religious others. Quite simply, for reasons of demographics, political power, and history, the study of religion and violence in America requires devoting a large amount of space to Christianity. At the same time, one must remain alert to diversity within and beyond American Christianity and to the normative power of the term religion, the boundaries of which were established in the United States by religious minimalists of many faiths, but which are regularly contested culturally, theologically, and legally.

This book does not seek to put a halo on American history and policies, especially the violent aspects of either. But neither is its primary task to find imperial violence and blessed brutalities in every corner of American history and culture.¹⁴ The story is more complicated than either approach permits. In some cases, violence, or responses to it, foreground noble elements in America's past, even when imperfectly implemented or realized. In other cases, the most reprehensible episodes in America's past clearly are stained with blood. But whether for good or for ill, the character and sensibilities of such violence, or reactions to it, often have been religiously informed or can be religiously explained to yield a picture that defies oversimplification. As a whole, this book neither partakes in America-bashing nor takes on those who do. Rather, it seeks to raise deeper questions and concerns that anyone interested in earnestly understanding America's past can ill afford to ignore.

In exploring the intersections of religion and violence, this volume generally avoids talk of religious violence, which too easily overlooks the religiously minimalist character of secular societies and too readily essentializes religion for its violent propensities. In determining what episodes qualify as a convergence of religion and violence, certain recurring criteria have been helpful: (1) A moment in which men or women fought or killed each other, openly claiming divine sanction or explanation for their actions. Where historical actors have conceived their violence in religious terms, we have taken them at their word. (2) A struggle between groups or parties differentiated importantly by religious identity. This might include struggles between a state or federal government, ostensibly secular yet shaped and led by Protestant figures and ideas, against some other religion or cult, whether Mormon, Muslim, or Native American. (3) Violence framed by or described in terms of clearly religious idioms or frameworks. For example, from wars of the colonial era to World War I and the Cold War, the concept of covenant has played an important role. Although these and other struggles were arguably not about religion at the core, understanding the force of the religious concepts on which they rely is an important part of understanding how participants conceived the conflicts and responded to them.

THE FOREIGN AND THE FAMILIAR: JEREMIAD AND JIHAD

Controversy over how to remember—or even to depict or describe—John Brown and his legacy vexed American culture at the time of his death and continues to do so today. Representative of some of Brown's contemporary abolitionists, William Lloyd Garrison eulogized the martyr and used his death to beseech others to follow his rigorous Christian stand—not through violent revolt but through Northern secession.¹⁵ Henry David Thoreau hallowed Brown as an angel of light. Victor Hugo called him a fighter for Christ, while Ralph Waldo Emerson likened Brown to Christ himself, remarking that Brown would make the gallows as glorious as the cross. But such views were far from the norm. Even throughout the North and among many abolitionists, Brown was roundly condemned. However noble his antislavery commitments, his rebellious actions outweighed the cause. In addition to condemnations from many of the leading newspapers, both the Great Emancipator Abraham Lincoln and the great novelist of American Puritanism Nathaniel Hawthorne labeled Brown a fanatic (according to Hawthorne a bloodstained fanatic, for Lincoln, simply a misguided one).¹⁶ Hawthorne added that no man was ever more justly hanged than John Brown.

Poets taking to their pens after Brown's execution portrayed him in various ways, as suggested in the title of William Keeney's essay Hero, Martyr, Madman. Keeney observes that to the extent that early Brown poets fail to address the subject of violence, they also fail by misrepresenting Brown…[including] the facts, his motives, and his state of mind; and in doing this they misrepresent his importance.¹⁷ Keeney attributes this omission to the Brown poets' own ambivalence about the institutionalized violence of slavery. History textbooks, for their part, have alternated between questioning Brown's sanity and emphasizing his religious fanaticism, on one hand, and labeling him, as in one 1995 text, a martyr to the cause of freedom and justice.¹⁸ The difficulty of reconciling the discordant representations of Brown stems directly from Americans' much deeper ambivalence about violence itself.

Debates over how to remember John Brown and his legacy continue. In 2009 the United States commemorated—or at least recognized—the 150th anniversary of John Brown's death. Major museum exhibitions, significant media coverage, and national reflection about Brown's life were on display.¹⁹ Biographer David Reynolds called for the president and governor of Virginia to pardon Brown.²⁰ The New York Times published Reynolds's editorial on December 2, the date Brown was executed—opposite an editorial by another Brown chronicler who reminded readers that Brown sought not only to free slaves in Virginia but to terrorize the South and incite broad conflict. In this regard, Tony Horwitz averred, Brown's aims were the same as those of the September 11 terrorists.²¹ Meanwhile, everyday people continue to disagree. While some still consider Brown a madman, religious zealot, or an instigator of the Civil War, others take Brown at his own word. According to the caretaker for the Brown homestead, who shows the grounds to hundreds of pilgrims each year, I personally believe that he was chosen to do this great work. He did exactly what he was instructed by a much higher power than you or I.²² Brown's legacy and the lessons about violence he leaves for Americans are far from resolved.

As a way of exploring further such ambivalence surrounding religion and violence, two tropes, jeremiad and jihad, figure prominently throughout this book. At a basic level, these terms establish its chronological framework: from early American colonists' violent encounters with Native Americans to the war against terrorism in the twenty-first century. The jeremiad has been a feature of American public discourse since the founding of the Massachusetts Bay Colony in 1630, as sermons, essays, and political speeches of the time demonstrate. Taking its name from the prophet Jeremiah, the jeremiad is a biblically rooted, sustained lament about a nation or people and their failure to live up to divinely ordained ideals. Sacvan Bercovitch describes three main features of the seventeenth-century Puritan jeremiad: first, a precedent from Scripture that sets out the communal norms; then a series of condemnations that details the actual state of the community (at the same time insinuating the covenantal promises that ensure success); and finally a prophetic vision that unveils the promises, announces the good things to come, and explains away the gap between fact and ideal.²³ Many chapters of this book look to the heyday of the American jeremiad, when Puritan divines in Massachusetts interpreted victory and defeat as signs of divine favor and wrath. They were followed by leaders of the Revolution (and later generations of Americans) who adapted the Puritan jeremiad and transformed it into a vital strand of what became an enduring American political and cultural creed.

Jihad, the Arabic word meaning effort or exertion to follow the path of God, has only recently become part of the common American lexicon. Jihad refers to a struggle that can involve (and has involved) violence or resistance against perceived enemies of Islam.²⁴ The terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001—waged by self-declared Muslim jihadists who viewed the United States as their greatest threat—made jihad an indelible part of the American experience. As well, on that day jihad converged with jeremiad as elements on America's left and right both interpreted al Qaeda's attack as the United States' bitter harvest for its various acts of immorality. This convergence serves as a crystallizing moment of recognition, inviting reflection upon a much longer history of religion and violence involving the United States.

In addition to the historical arc extending from Puritan jeremiad to anti-American jihad, these multivalent tropes offer useful conceptual tools for discerning, distinguishing, and comparing various modes and episodes of violence committed by and against Americans. Objective scholarly analysis benefits from making the seemingly familiar strange.²⁵ Placing these tropes together—combining the foreign with the familiar—invites a fresh reconsideration and evaluation of their meanings and significance for our global age. For the reality is that jeremiad and jihad have more in common than first meets the eye. Indeed, one may very well find that twenty-first-century American Muslims, like seventeenth-century Puritans, easily become stereotypes when a simplistic understanding of these terms is embraced. Scholars of Islam note that jihad is a command that pertains to all Muslims (not simply to militants) and that only the lesser jihad actually entails violence or force.²⁶ The greater jihad entails the internal struggle to live a righteous life and follow God's will, in accordance with one's faith. Surely, in this sense, Puritans sought similar goals—as do many people of faith today.

Consider, further, the fragility of community acknowledged and implied in jeremiadic rhetoric. Puritans began their errand into the wilderness as a religious minority, eager to create a new world that conformed to their faith. As Sacvan Bercovitch relates, The purpose of their jeremiads was to direct an imperiled people of God toward the fulfillment of their destiny, to guide them individually toward salvation, and collectively toward the American city of God.²⁷ Similarly, from Sayyid Qutb in the 1950s to Muslim militants today, one finds concerns to protect a faith imperiled by corruption and the impure advances of Islam's enemies.

While the American jeremiad may have emerged out of a uniquely Puritan heritage, Bercovitch also details the gradual transformation of the jeremiad into a trope of consensus and renewal that has continually expanded the American mythos beyond its exclusivist origins. Bercovitch points to the unswerving faith in the errand among figures as diverse as Jefferson, Thoreau, Lincoln, Whitman, and King.²⁸ Through the rhetoric of promise, condemnation, and renewal, Americans of diverse backgrounds and persuasions have turned the jeremiad into a rhetorical device that has created consensus around aims such as technological progress and modernization, economic expansion, and increased individual liberty. Momentous struggles to achieve consensus also have involved the fulfillment of foundational U.S. principles and commitments such as the extension of natural and civil rights to all citizens. Jeremiads have warned of the costs of failure to live up to such ideals even while promising that devotion to these ideals would bring about renewal. In this sense, the jeremiad has been a recurring motif used in the effort to integrate minorities into the ongoing project of defining and expanding American identity.

Few founding ideals have been as important to the United States as the promise of religious freedom. Of course, this promise has been kept imperfectly. Many Muslim Americans in the early twenty-first century have found themselves the most recent victims of the American tendency to question religious minorities' qualifications for citizenship. Throughout U.S. history, religious minorities have been compelled to show that they are capable of being good Americans. Since September 11, 2001—and peaking again nearly a decade later during congressional hearings on Muslim radicalization and amidst a controversy over building an Islamic center and mosque near the former site of the World Trade Center—Muslim Americans have struggled with how to be recognized as part of the American consensus. They may be waging an inner jihad to live according to their faith, but when they appeal to the American promise of religious freedom, they stand in a long, distinctly American tradition of the jeremiad.

Viewed these ways, neither jeremiad nor jihad by definition promotes violence. Yet both have been implicated in violence. The jeremiad has served as a way for Puritans and other religious Americans (especially Protestant majorities) to vocalize fears about declining faith or to issue prophecies of Godlessness.²⁹ Concerns about non-Protestant immigrants and the adulteration of a Christian nation have been a recurrent feature of U.S. history. Some have looked upon such religious impurity as a call to action—and have acted with laws and extralegal violence against Catholics, Quakers, Jews, Buddhists, Hindus, Muslims, and Sikhs. Indeed, Protestant hegemony, some contend, is central to the myth of religious freedom. Challenges to this hegemony and moments of its forceful assertion have elicited jeremiadic rhetoric from those seeking to protect America or its Protestant establishment. Similarly, challenges to the rights of non-Protestant or non-Christian practitioners have generated jeremiads focused on America's failure to fulfill noble promises of religious freedom. Even efforts by modern U.S. courts to define religion, ostensibly to uphold religious freedom, have undermined those whose religion did not meet certain legal definitions established by those who belonged to a religious majority.³⁰ When the U.S. government has used coercive force to back such interpretations of legitimate or illegitimate religion, it has been accused of waging violence—even while simultaneously defending its commitment to religious freedom. Jihad also has served violent ends, most famously in the rhetoric of Islamic terrorists. But whether defined as a struggle against one's religious enemies or against immoral impulses within, efforts to purge or purify have been found not only in Muslim cultures but also in predominantly Christian and even secular ones.

Violence has been a critical fault line in America's struggles between majority and minority populations. Jeremiad and jihad serve as tropological devices for examining such struggles and evaluating their causes, complexities, and potential resolutions. Recall the case of John Brown. Should we remember him as a jeremiadic figure? A jihadist? Perhaps as both? The religious grounding of Brown's abolitionism is well known, but Brown was a radical in more ways than one. Biographer Stephen Oates observes that Brown was known to have been influenced by Liberator editor William Lloyd Garrison, whose ringing pronouncements that slave owners were unregenerate sinners and that slavery itself violated both the Higher Law of God and the principles of the Declaration of Independence provided a splendid antislavery argument which Brown himself adopted.³¹ Indeed, Brown had drafted his own Declaration of Liberty by the Representatives of the Slave Populations of the United States of America. The striking similarity in language to the original U.S. Declaration makes clear how pivotal America's founding ideals were to Brown's abolitionist cause and call for renewal:

When in the course of Human events, it becomes necessary for an oppressed People to Rise, and assert their Natural Rights, as Human Beings, as Native and Mutual Citizens of a free