Socialism and the Twisted Legacy of Slavery: A Cautionary Tale from the “Great Society”
Humans have limits, and the Great Society did not acknowledge those limits. It did not look evil. But in fact, arrogance that denies limits is deeply evil.
Like you, I’m busy. I’m a pastor with a sermon to write and a flock to tend. Why did I read a 400-page book about the history of 1960s America? Shouldn’t I read, instead, about our own turbulent times?
My answer to that question might not lead you to read Amity Shlaes’s Great Society: A New History.[1] However, I hope it will inspire you to become more familiar with the vision of some of our fellow Americans during this period, a vision that they dubbed “The Great Society”—a program, like so many other grand schemes, that failed to live up to its name. Some truly great legislation came from this era, but enmeshed within them came much damaging legislation as well.[2] As Shlaes reminds us, “Nothing is new, just forgotten.”[3] Or as Solomon put it, “There’s nothing new under the sun” (Eccl. 1:9).
So, what was The Great Society? Why did it fail? And what must we learn from it? That is the question that this review essay attempts to answer as it follows and interacts with the story Shlaes tells of this epoch. It is a tornado siren for our own day. Those who care deeply about justice in our day will care deeply about the weather conditions that caused so much systemic wreckage for the precious people with whom justice is concerned.
Truly, Shlaes offers a cautionary tale for our compassionate nation.
This essay is a Christian exercise in stewarding history’s lessons in love for neighbor. This is a pastoral exercise in guarding the church from faulty visions of both humanity and heaven. It’s long, but only because this is a long-neglected subject. We have heard much over the last decade—from politicians and pastors alike—about the legacy of slavery in the form of a straight line from American’s founding to Jim Crow to the present as an explanation for real problems in America. Americans at our best are concerned to get our history right for the sake of doing right by our neighbors today. But what about that period we call “The Sixties” that was filled with programs and projects designed to eradicate poverty and racism? And why do we hear so little about these dramatic political efforts and their outcomes? Why is this so, especially given that their aims are the aims of modern justice movers and shakers today?
If you care about justice, about the poor, and about the lingering effects of slavery, then come with me on this journey into our country’s more recent history.
The Legacy of Slavery or the Legacy of Liberalism?
An exchange between columnists back in 2014 piqued my interest in this period. Nicholas Kristof, in his New York Times piece titled “When Whites Just Don’t Get It,” writes the following: “The presumption on the part of so many well-meaning white Americans [is] that racism is a historical artifact. They don’t appreciate the overwhelming evidence that centuries of racial subjugation still shape inequity in the 21st century.”[4] Racists have existed and do exist. No problem with this claim. But Kristof says more: that present inequities are shaped by the legacy of slavery and Jim Crow, by past and enduring racism, both personal and systemic.
Thomas Sowell sees the same situation differently: “If we wanted to be serious about evidence, we might compare where blacks stood a hundred years after the end of slavery with where they stood after 30 years of the liberal welfare state.”[5] The title of his piece was his thesis, “A Legacy of Liberalism.” According to Sowell, “Despite the grand myth that black economic progress began or accelerated with the passage of the civil rights laws and ‘war on poverty’ programs of the 1960s, the cold fact is that the poverty rate among blacks fell from 87 percent in 1940 to 47 percent by 1960. This was before any of those programs began . . . from the laws and policies of the 1960s, nothing comparable happened economically. And there were serious retrogressions socially.”[6]
This resonated with me.
Cabrini-Green Homes, the public housing project just outside my window in downtown Chicago when I was a college student in the late nineties, was by then notorious for crime and violence. “The Projects”—Whose idea was that? And what precisely did they expect to achieve by building these inner city monoliths?
My father, then a district manager for a retail chain in St. Louis, was awakened many nights by the police due to break-ins at his stores in East St. Louis. What was the backstory for that “bad part of town”? Later, when I sold cell phones to fund my years as a seminary student, I encountered different cultures in different stores, each with their own admirable qualities and predictable sins. Upper-middle-class folks worked hard but frequently asked to split their accounts following a divorce. Rural folks frequently needed new phones for a child returning from Afghanistan or else for a man in the home who lost his phone in another drunken fishing incident. Then there were the black urban poor, many lovely individuals and loving mothers. In this community, however, few were married, “baby daddies” were a daily thing, and there was a refrain in the context of selling: “I’m waiting on my check,” that is, a government check. This was a cultural norm. More than the rest, this part of town felt stuck, trapped, downtrodden.
As statistics will show, not all blacks are stuck. Not hardly. The community I encountered does not characterize the whole of blacks in America, an important clarification. Today 82% of black Americans are above the poverty line despite only 30% being married.[7] 94% of black married couples are above the poverty line.[8] That we hear so much about black poverty is owing more to political rhetoric that exploits poor urban blacks, painting this subculture as the state of blacks as a whole. The dynamics I explore in this essay apply equally to whites and blacks, a point Shlaes makes.[9] The difference is that one group’s poor are exploited for political and social gain and the other are not.
For that downtrodden part of town in my sales experience, it did seem that something structural was going on—something systemic that shaped cultures and the precious individuals embedded within them. But I did not resonate with Kristof’s take in the New York Times.
What were these “war on poverty” programs Sowell wrote of, and how were they related to the passage of the civil rights laws of the 1960s? What were these “serious retrogressions,” and what might they have to do with “the liberal welfare state,” as Sowell claims? Sowell’s own body of work has been helpful on these questions, especially in the realm of researched statistics.[10]
But what is the story behind these stats, these policies? Who were the personalities involved in them? Why did the American public embrace them? What might all of this have to do with the “legacy of slavery” and the various disparities we see today?
Shlaes’s book Great Society tells that story.
This is the story not of cruel people, but in Shlaes’s words, “lovable people who, despite themselves, hurt those they loved.”[11]
At the start of the 1960s the country was affluent. That’s the first word that describes America at the start of the decade. The post-war American industries stood head and shoulders above those of other countries. The sharpest contrast was in the automotive industry. That a small Japanese company like Toyota could ever be competitive in the US was not on even the shrewdest industry leader’s mind. The American middle class thrived, work was in demand, and jobs paid well. If you weren’t skilled, a company would train you and then employ you. Young people growing up at this time had a different perspective than their parents who grew up during the Great Depression. Poverty was the exception rather than the rule. Add to this America’s recent industrial and managerial achievements in the Second World War and you have a generation marked by a second word: confidence. This was an optimistic generation. America could do anything and in particular, the United States government could do anything. Trust in government was high and so were hopes in the possibilities of government. We hear it in Kennedy’s words at Rice University on the Nation’s space effort in 1962: “We choose to go to the Moon in this decade and do the other things, not because they are easy, but because they are hard.”[12] This affluence and confidence made for a generation intrigued with socialism. Sound familiar?
The New Deal era programs of the 1930s failed to address the economic depression, leading to a truly Great Depression.[13] The Second World War pulled the country out of its economic plight. But those failures had faded just enough for a renewed optimism in big-government solutions.
The 60s were also dominated by ambition, a third word for the era that stirred popular intrigue with socialism to political action. This was a moral ambition, ambition for a cause, ambition with “a fierce urgency of now.”[14] The Great Depression era had its great crisis to overcome, and the World War II generation accomplished a truly great feat overseas. What great achievement might this generation undertake? If that wasn’t on the mind of average Americans, it was certainly on the mind of their political leaders. President Lyndon B. Johnson answered that question with what he called “The Great Society.”
What Was the Great Society?
We can answer that question from six angles: legal, historical, religious, political, sociological, and economic. This is not the outline for Shlaes’s book, which works across the sixties chronologically. Her story dramatizes the events of this period and humanizes its many characters. I commend it to you. This here is my attempt to synthesize what I learned from her narrative account.
1. Legally, the Great Society was Lyndon Johnson’s sweeping domestic legislative agenda to eliminate poverty and racial disparities.
Yes, that’s exactly what it was. This was in an era before the loss of trust in the government that makes that kind of legislative ambition sound hollow. In fact, it was in part the great failure of these promises that explains our present cynicism. But make no mistake: this is what they set out to do by legislation.
This package of legislative initiatives created new federal programs and whole agencies to help Americans in nearly every area of life: education, housing, medical care, urban problems, rural poverty, and transportation, including bussing for school integration.
In her narrative history, Shlaes spends most of her volume tracing the personalities around the President during this time—aids, fed chairmen, famed economists, and union bosses. The mingling of genuine altruistic motives and blinding political ambition—often in the same characters—is a study of human nature and the nature of government. Among this cast of characters, President Johnson, as one of his aids put it, “made laws the way other men eat chocolate chip cookies.”[15] That was his expertise from the Senate. That’s what he became famous for in the White House. The sheer amount of legislation passed during this period was unparalleled.
2. Historically, the Great Society was an ambitious moniker reflecting that period’s mindset: confidence in what government could do and should do.
“Let’s not alleviate poverty; let’s cure it,”[16] President Johnson stridently and repeatedly insisted. He meant it. America after the Second World War was confident in its federal government. So too were government officials. Lyndon Johnson wanted to expand government in a way that eclipsed Roosevelt’s transformative presidency, but Johnson did not have Roosevelt’s crises: economic depression and war. Johnson, rather, had affluence. Things were not just going well for Americans, but exceptionally well. Johnson’s challenge, then, was to generate a sense of urgency for America to see it go well for everyone—literally.[17] His legacy as president—and the legacy of those whose careers were bound to his presidency—depended on such grand plans.
A “good society” would not do. He rejected that suggestion.[18] He insisted, rather, on a “Great Society,” and this became his rallying cry. America had already organized itself to finish a war overseas. Winning the war on poverty, it was said, would be a “mopping up action.”[19] This war, like any war, would be a job for the federal government. They were not sloganeering. They really were that optimistic in the power and precision of government planning.
3. Religiously, the Great Society was the expression of the nation’s collective human and religious—even Christian-informed—impulse to do something good for those who are hurting.
This legislative vision did not emerge in a vacuum. Johnson’s vision was a continuation of what President Kennedy pursued before him, in part, and what President Nixon continued after him. In his own time, it was marketable as the political expression of the human desire to help those in need, a good desire shaped by America’s Christian roots.
It was President Kennedy who by executive order established the Peace Corps, headed by Yale-grad and decorated officer Sargent Shriver. Shriver became President Johnson’s poverty czar, the principal architect of his “War on Poverty,” and head of the Office for Economic Opportunity. Along with many Americans, Shriver believed that what the church already did for the poor, the federal government could and should do through its programs.[20] To a national conscience informed by its Christian heritage, this just seemed right.
4. Politically, the Great Society was a political project with all the incentives and complexities intrinsic to politics.
Political motivations and incentives abounded. Lyndon Johnson’s Great Society vision was curious on the heels of Kennedy’s death. Lyndon Johnson to that point was known for his opposition to civil rights legislation.[21] Johnson wanted to exceed the accomplishments of his predecessor, President Kennedy. This was something of a political imperative given that the House and the Senate went to Democrats following Kennedy’s assassination. He must do more. But he also wanted to best his intellectual and political father, President Roosevelt, and his New Deal. What Roosevelt did in creating infrastructure jobs to supposedly energize the economy, Johnson intended to do with the influx of cash to impoverished communities. Johnson expected these communities to begin to work, to contribute, and to join the rest of their American peers in their share of affluence. Without the crisis of a depression, Johnson leveraged the crisis of Kennedy’s death to move on this apparent political opportunity.[22] He forwarded this vision on a wave of empathy and optimism. As they said, Roosevelt had his “New Deal,” and Johnson had his “Fast Deal.” But had it, he did.[23]
A lawmaker by trade, Johnson was more attentive to legislative inputs and intentions than he was to results. Laws—and the promises they held out—were the goal. The more the better. Not so much the outcomes. As the war in Vietnam became complicated and politically costly, neither Johnson nor his successor, Richard Nixon, could afford politically to go back on these promises. The Great Society had to move forward no matter the results. The priority of winning elections consumed and compromised even the most principled economists and advisors at the time to such an embarrassing extent that many later acknowledged their complicity.[24]
5. Sociologically, the Great Society institutionalized America’s commitment to a desegregated society.
The Great Society was an expansive vision that merged ambitions and political visions beyond an interest in helping the poor. In one of his famous speeches, Johnson, who was fashioned as the “Great Emancipator” of the twentieth century, said, “We’ve got to find a way to let Negroes get what most white folks already have.” He continued, “Freedom is not enough. You do not take a person who has been hobbled by chains and put him at the starting line of a race and say, ‘You are free to compete with all the others.’” What the nation needed was, “equality as a fact and equality as a result.”[25]
Thomas Sowell, a young economist at the time, disagreed: “To expect civil rights to solve our economic and social problems was barking up the wrong tree.”[26] Blacks, for all the gains they had remarkably made, were nevertheless underdeveloped and, for that reason, genuinely and understandably discouraged.[27] Much to the embarrassment of whites and blacks, reading scores were significantly lower among blacks. From Sowell’s perspective, the black community should have turned away from counting on political leaders to change their circumstances and toward an investment in “our own self-development as a people.”[28] As Sowell has demonstrated in his own research, this is how any formerly-oppressed group rises out of the developmental consequences of their oppression.
In this attempt to compensate the black community, Johnson went further than the vision to which Martin Luther King Jr. rallied a generation in his early speeches. He went further than the call for equal treatment before the law, further than seeing that the children of the civil rights era were treated “according to the content of their character.”[29] Instead, Johnson wanted a policy of redistribution to make up for what was lost in the black community’s development under oppressive laws. Not only was school segregation outlawed—a good thing—but mandated school integration required that students be bussed from one part of town to another, a bad decision, as we’ll see.
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Liberty of Conscience
Living according to conscience, then, is not a matter of “being faithful to my best self” or “following conscience per se.” It is a matter of conscience’s being informed, shaped, and trained by God’s Word and becoming increasingly sensitive to its assessments. To say that “God alone is Lord of the conscience” is to affirm that God’s Word is paramount in shaping this dimension of our self-consciousness. My Christian responsibility, therefore, is to immerse myself in the doctrines, patterns, and precepts of the Word of God.
God alone is Lord of the conscience, and hath left it free from the doctrines and commandments of men, which are, in anything, contrary to his Word; or beside it, if matters of faith, or worship. So that, to believe such doctrines, or to obey such commands, out of conscience, is to betray true liberty of conscience: and the requiring of an implicit faith, and an absolute and blind obedience, is to destroy liberty of conscience, and reason also. —Westminster Confession of Faith 20.2
This is no ivory-tower statement. Many of the delegates to the Westminster Assembly were working pastors and all too familiar with “the real world.” In fact, as they were writing in the 1640s, the real world was caught up in a terrible civil war, behind which lay the very issues that chapter 20 of the confession was written to address: liberty of conscience. A glance at my “seventeenth century” bookshelves reveals such learned works as A.S.P. Woodhouse, Puritanism and Liberty; William Haller, Liberty and Reformation in the Puritan Revolution; and Christopher Hill, Liberty against the Law. The titles say it all. Like the issue of law and love, the topic of Christian liberty, its nature and its implications, its extent and its limitations, is perennially significant. In seventeenth-century England, it was critical.
The Westminster divines faced both legalism and antinomianism, a false binding of the conscience on the one hand and libertinism on the other. In addition, this was an era of fear: fear of the return of Roman Catholicism and an opposite fear (one that at times seemed equal), the fear of anarchy represented by such quaintly named groups as Quakers, Levellers, Diggers, Mechanic Preachers, and Muggletonians. How freedom and responsibility are balanced in the Christian life was a matter of major concern. Hence, here in chapter 20, section 2, the exposition of Christian liberty in general (section 1) becomes narrowly focused on the issue of liberty of conscience in particular. During the first two years or so of the assembly’s work, the divines labored long and often to compose for their own time a chapter of biblical balance. For that reason, they produced a statement of lasting value. In these brief reflections on their teaching, it may be helpful for us to consider (1) its biblical foundations, (2) its historical relevance, and (3) some aspects of its practical application.
Biblical Foundations
What do we mean when we say, “God alone is Lord of the conscience”? What is “conscience,” and in what sense is God “Lord” of it?
The word conscience (Greek syneidsis) appears around thirty times in the New Testament, with the Apostle Paul using it twice as often as all the other authors combined. In his world, the conscience was seen as a function of human nature in which the self becomes aware of a moral assessment being made on its behavior based on some internally operative standard of judgment. The conscience is thus experienced as an approving or condemning voice that functions both to assess past and to guide present and future behavior.
Paul’s use of conscience, however, needs to be set within a biblical framework. Man (male and female) was created as the image of God in righteousness and holiness (Gen. 1:26; Eph. 4:24). Adam and Eve’s consciences were informed by and aligned with the revealed will of God and functioned to assess and to guide their behavior (Gen. 2:15–17). The result? In their original created condition, to borrow Paul’s expression (Rom. 2:15), their consciences bore witness to their integrity. They experienced an appropriate conscience approval, the evidence of which lay in that “the man and his wife were both naked and were not ashamed” (Gen. 2:25). God’s will for them and their faithfulness to it aligned. They enjoyed a “good conscience” and the experience of unclouded friendship. But that did not last long. Soon, in the aftermath of their disobedience to God’s Word (3:1–6), their Word-informed consciences were accusing and condemning them.
Genesis 3:7–8 opens the next stage in the human drama: “Then the eyes of both were opened, and they knew that they were naked.” Thus act 2 began: “And they sewed fig leaves together and made themselves loincloths . . . , and the man and his wife hid themselves from the presence of the Lord.” They tried unsuccessfully to hide their sense of shame from each other (their sense of guilt emerges in the blame game in which they engage in 3:11–13). Nor could they hide from God. Their consciences had declared them to be guilty even before He asked them where they were (vv. 9–11).
Adam and Eve refused to allow “God alone” to be “Lord of the conscience.” In this context, it is easy to sense that the confession’s words sound like an eerie echo of the history of Eden. Adam and Eve were truly free when they lived according to God’s Word. They were in fact “free from the doctrines and commandments . . . which are, in anything, contrary to his Word; or beside it, if matters of faith, or worship.” Their tragic mistake was “to believe such doctrines . . . [and] obey such commands. . . .” But they foolishly listened to the serpent and exercised “implicit faith, and an absolute and blind obedience.” That process was calculated “to destroy liberty of conscience, and reason also” (WCF 20.2).
From where we stand at the other end of the Bible story, we see that the conscience is now no longer perfectly aligned with God’s Word. It is instead an aspect of people whose minds do not and whose wills cannot submit to God’s law (Rom. 8:7). Our regeneration needs to be accompanied by the recalibration of our consciences according to the Word of God. And if that process is to progress, we need to be on our guard against the same pattern of entrapment to which our first parents succumbed in Eden.
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Comparing the Minority Report on Overture 15’s Signers and Presbytery Votes
Patterns of voting on O15 indicate a divide between how REs and TEs, broadly speaking, view O15. If ever there has been a clarion call for ruling elders in the PCA to be engaged in their sessions, presbyteries, and at General Assembly, it is now.
Recently, I shared my analysis comparing Overture 15’s dissenters to their presbyteries’ votes on O15. It’s also possible to consider presbytery votes on O15 by the Minority Report on O15’s signers.
The PCA’s Rules of Assembly Operations allows a plurality of elders to file a minority report when disagreeing with a committee’s recommendation (see RAO 15-6). The original recommendation by the Overtures Committee was for O15 to be answered in reference to Overture 29. However, a motion to make O15 the main motion carried by a vote of 1094-1044 and this new motion was adopted by a vote of 1167-978, bringing O15 to the presbyteries. (See the GA Minutes, p. 80.)
Just as recording a dissent may indicate more impassioned opposition to O15, it is reasonable to think that signing the Minority Report may indicate more impassioned support for O15.
Who are the signers of the Minority Report on O15?
The Minority Report on O15 came out of the Overtures Committee (OC). The OC provides for a parity of ruling and teaching elders to be represented, one of each from each presbytery, a total of 176 commissioners representing 88 presbyteries. At the 49th GA, 80 presbyteries were represented on the OC, with 68 presbyteries represented by both an RE and a TE, ten represented by only a TE, two represented by only an RE (RE Michael Harnish representing Philadelphia Metro West and RE David Talcott representing West Hudson). Eight presbyteries did not have a commissioner present (Korean Eastern, Korean Northwest, Korean Southern, Korean Southwest, Korean Southwest Orange County, Pacific, Philadelphia, and Rio Grande).
In total, 148 commissioners served on the OC, including 70 REs (47 percent) and 78 TEs (53 percent).
The Minority Report on O15 was signed by 46 commissioners, including 24 ruling elders and 22 teaching elders. Here, the overrepresentation of ruling elders is noteworthy. Ruling elders composed 31 percent of the General Assembly and only 22 percent of dissenters against O15. REs were overrepresented on the Minority Report, even compared to their representation on OC, constituting 52 percent of the Report’s signers.Which presbyteries did these signers represent?
The 46 commissioners who signed the Minority Report on O15 represented 31 presbyteries.
Both representatives from 15 presbyteries signed the Minority Report: Canada West, Central Georgia, Chesapeake, Chicago Metro, Eastern Pennsylvania, Evangel, Fellowship, Gulf Coast, Houston Metro, Illiana, Northwest Georgia, South Florida, Suncoast Florida, Susquehanna Valley, Westminster.
Only a TE from seven presbyteries signed: Central Carolina, Grace, Iowa, New Jersey, North Texas, Pee Dee, Tennessee Valley.
Finally, only an RE from nine presbyteries signed: Blue Ridge, James River, Lowcountry, North Florida, Palmetto, Rocky Mountain, Siouxlands, Southeast Alabama, Southwest Florida.
There is some overlap between the presbyteries with Minority Report signers and presbyteries with dissenters. Thirteen presbyteries have a Minority Report signer, but no dissenter. Forty presbyteries have a dissenter, but no signer. Eighteen presbyteries have both. Seventeen have neither.
What is the status of these presbyteries with respect to Overture 15?
Of the 31 presbyteries with Minority Report signers, 24 have voted on O15 (as of February 1, 2023), which is passing in 79 percent of them (19-5). In contrast, O15 has only passed 45 percent of presbyteries without a Minority Report signer (18-22). Although the presbyteries do not perfectly overlap, these numbers are identical to votes in presbyteries with dissenters (passing in 45 percent, 18-22) and without dissenters (passing in 79 percent, 19-5). Overall, 58 percent of all presbyteries have passed O15 (37-27). If three more presbyteries fail to pass O15, the amendment will not reach the two-thirds threshold to be brought to the floor of GA at Memphis.Does size matter?
Following the analysis on last year’s Overture 23 votes by the fine folks at Presbycast, I also considered whether presbytery size was related to O15 votes. It is not.
According to their classifications of large (81 or more voters), medium (41-80), and small (40 or fewer) presbyteries, O15 has passed in roughly three-fifths of presbyteries, regardless of size. Vote counts are recorded for 57 presbyteries on The Spreadsheet. O15 has passed in 60% of large (3-2), 61.5% of medium (16-10), and 57.7% of small presbyteries (15-11).Concluding Thoughts
The year 2023 marks the 50th anniversary of the PCA, as well as the 100th anniversary of J. Gresham Machen’s Christianity and Liberalism, in which he describes the theological liberalism of the PCUSA that ultimately led to the formation of the Orthodox Presbyterian Church. The founding of the PCA is marked by similar concerns of overtures to theological liberalism, which often coincided with ruling elder disengagement.
The Concerned Presbyterian newsletter, for example, published articles in 1969, 1970, and 1972 expressing distress over proposed amendments that would make it difficult for ruling elders to remain involved at presbytery and general assembly. According to Kenneth S. Keyes, president of the Concerned Presbyterians, liberals were able to gain control both because “conservative ruing elders were gradually rotated off” church sessions and because “ruling elders simply did not take their responsibility seriously enough.”
Patterns of voting on O15 indicate a divide between how REs and TEs, broadly speaking, view O15. If ever there has been a clarion call for ruling elders in the PCA to be engaged in their sessions, presbyteries, and at General Assembly, it is now.
Matthew Lee is a ruling elder at Covenant Presbyterian Church in Fayetteville, AR.Related Posts:
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George Whitefield: Conflict and Conviction
His early death meant that he had no real opportunity to form and shape an organization to continue the more Calvinist part of the revival. Yet the power of his preaching to thousands, his proclamation of the new birth, his doctrinal depth and clarity, and his passion for the poor should leave us thankful to God for calling him—one of the defining and foundational leaders of the fires of evangelical Christian revival.
George Whitefield’s first sermon after his ordination, in June 1736, prompted a complaint to the bishop! He later printed the sermon with the title On the Nature and Necessity of Our Regeneration or New Birth. Whitefield was never far from controversy, both with the established church (in England and American) and, sadly, the great John Wesley. Whitefield was a central figure in the evangelical revival of the 18th century and proved absolutely scathing about the condition of pre-revival clergy. Perhaps less organizationally gifted than Wesley, he nevertheless brought the Gospel to both the poorest of British workers as well as the English aristocracy (forming a close bond with the Countess of Huntingdon, whom we will meet later in the series), thus proving to be an extremely influential figure in the development and continuation of the evangelical tradition within the Church of England.
George Whitefield (1714–1770) was born on December 16, 1714, at the Bell Inn, in Gloucester, England. He was the youngest of seven children to Thomas and Elizabeth. His father died when he was just two years old, his mother made an unsuitable remarriage, and the prosperity of the inn declined rapidly. We know the details of Whitefield’s early life from his Journals, including his “A Short Account of God’s Dealings with the Reverend Mr George Whitefield,” although they cover the period only up to 1745 and have the benefit of hindsight.
Just before his 18th birthday, George entered Oxford as a “servitor.” This was the poor man’s way into Oxford. The student was granted free tuition, but the servitor had to serve other students, wear distinctive dress, and was not permitted to receive Holy Communion with the other students. However, it opened the door to a better, and higher, life.
George Whitefield was prime material for the Holy Club, formed at Oxford by, among others, Church of England priest and evangelist John Wesley and his brother Charles. Club members agreed to take Holy Communion every week, fast regularly, and follow the festivals of the church, as well as visit prisoners in jail. Like Wesley, Whitefield constantly experienced the inner conflict and struggle of daily temptation and the desire to live a religious life. Before arriving at Oxford, he was already reading William Law’s A Serious Call to a Devout and Holy Life. Soon after his arrival he noted in his Journal that “I now began to pray and sing psalms thrice every day.” Whitefield also recorded his admiration for the “Methodists,” those who were “methodical” and disciplined in their personal piety. It was perhaps inevitable that he join them.
Whitefield’s inner struggles continued. He sought counsel from the Wesleys and, after a breakfast with Charles, was recommended Henry Scougal’s The Life of God in the Soul of Man. Scougal was a 17th-century Scottish theologian and minister, and his book was instrumental in turning over Whitefield’s way of thinking. The Life of God, he recounted, introduced him to true religion as union with Christ rather than the discharge of duty. His moment of conversion was near, which he described in his Journal to have occurred around seven weeks after Easter 1735: “I was delivered from the burden that had so heavily oppressed me,” an expression that reflected the classic evangelical conversion narrative.
Whitefield sought ordination—we have already noted the impact of the first sermon—and then, quite possibly under Wesley’s influence, headed for the state of Georgia in early 1738. The American colonies held some fascination for these early revival leaders. The colony of Georgia had been founded in 1732, with Savannah as the main settlement from 1733. Both Wesley and Whitefield and, indeed, others were drawn here owing to the possibility of the conversion of the indigenous population as well as the opportunity to minister to the settlers. What soon became clear was that the impact of disease left many children orphaned, and raising support for a Savannah orphanage became a focal point of ministry in the Americas for Wesley and Whitefield. In his early visits to the state, Whitefield was shocked by the brutality of slavery.
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