Excerpt
Spellbound
1.RevolutionBoston, 1636On the morning of October 25, seven of the most powerful men in Massachusetts Bay Colony gathered at the home of John Cotton, on the slope of Beacon Hill, facing Tremont Street. The houses in the neighborhood, built mostly of logs, stones, and mud, their roofs thatched with local grass, welcomed autumn drafts and leaks. Boston was a small, struggling place of only a few thousand residents, a far cry from the bustle of the settlement’s namesake—the Lincolnshire town where the Gothic tower of St. Botolph’s Church soared above the Fens and Cotton had preached until 1633, when anti-Puritan persecution drove him to board a ship to Massachusetts.
The men arrived at his home after the breakfast hour: ministers, elders, and deacons, as well as John Winthrop, who recently had served as the colony’s governor. Some had doubts about Cotton’s theology. When he preached that the Holy Spirit dwelled in members of the elect, his language sounded vague and mystical, liable to give laypeople the impression that they could receive direct messages from the divine. But the men had not gathered to interrogate their colleague—at least not today. Instead, they awaited the arrival of Cotton’s most loyal congregant, Anne Hutchinson.
Hutchinson likely passed friends and acquaintances on the walk to Cotton’s house. She was known to many in Boston, even before her current troubles. Families called on her to help deliver babies safely, and to help them understand the suffering and death that so often came with childbirth. Hutchinson had lost several of her own children; she would give birth sixteen times before the end of her life. “She did much good in our town, in womans meeting at Childbirth-travails, wherein she was not only skillful and helpful, but readily fell into good discourse with the women about their spiritual estates,” Cotton wrote.
The men sitting in Cotton’s home had summoned her because they feared that her counsel was leading the saints of Boston astray. The regular gatherings at her home—ostensibly to discuss the wisdom gleaned from that Sunday’s sermon—first appeared innocent enough. But now they happened too often, and attracted men as well as women. Cotton, Winthrop, and the others were alarmed to learn that her followers included the colony’s current governor, Henry Vane, a young politician with connections in King Charles I’s court.
Local clergy heard that Hutchinson had harsh words for their sermons. She declared that hardly any Massachusetts ministers preached under what Puritans called the “seal of the spirit.” Instead, she said, their emphasis on scrutinizing one’s good deeds and pious thoughts for signs of salvation amounted to a gospel of works righteousness. The idea that good works could earn God’s grace was, to a Protestant, the worst of all heresies. She exempted only John Cotton and her brother-in-law John Wheelwright. Where Cotton spoke in elliptical terms about the Holy Spirit’s messages (via scripture) to the elect, Hutchinson used the same logic to grant laypeople a radical degree of independence: No more docile efforts to prepare yourself for salvation according to the preacher’s instructions. Prick up your ears for the direct call of the Holy Spirit.
At that October meeting, Cotton assured the other ministers that his views on “the indwelling of the person of the Holy Ghost” in members of the elect aligned well enough with their own ideas. He proposed nothing so reckless as “personal union” with the Holy Spirit, “as Mrs. Hutchinson and others did,” Winthrop noted in his journal. When Hutchinson arrived, she “was very tender at first,” recalled the minister Hugh Peter. But that diplomatic spirit gave way to candor. She told the men “that you are not able ministers of the New Testament and know no more than the apostles did before the resurrection of Christ.” When Winthrop called her “a woman of ready wit and bold spirit,” he did not say it in admiration.
ForerunnersWhat sounds like an obscure theological debate was, in fact, the first great battle over American charisma: a fight over who gets to lead, who gets to encounter God’s power, and how. Beneath the archaic Puritan language lie familiar concerns: Is there a God, and did he choose me? If so, why is my life full of suffering, and whom can I trust to explain it? Hutchinson’s conflict with the leading ministers and magistrates of Massachusetts—and the destructive force they saw in her—marked the advent of the American prophetic tradition.
Hutchinson did not invent that tradition. She brought to the New World a set of spiritual gifts and techniques honed by a long line of female prophets going back to the second century, when Montanus “stirred up” his two female disciples, Prisca and Maximilla, “and filled them with the false spirit, so that they talked wildly and unreasonably and strangely,” according to the fourth-century church historian Eusebius. In twelfth-century Germany, Hildegard of Bingen defended her visions by declaring that God could no longer rely on sinful men and had turned to the weaker sex to express his divine word. One day, God appeared to her in a blaze of white-hot fire and boomed a backhanded compliment:
Insignificant earthly creature! Though as a woman you are uneducated in any doctrine of fleshly teachers in order to read writings with the understandings of the philosophers, nevertheless you are touched by my light, which touches your inner being with fire like the burning sun. Shout and tell! . . . [A]lthough you are trampled by the male form because of Eve’s transgression, speak nevertheless of the fiery work of salvation which this most certain vision reveals to you!
In the late Middle Ages, Christian Europe fell into crisis. The Black Death, the Hundred Years’ War, and the Papal Schism chipped away at the authority of the church and spurred a small but growing number of women to test the boundaries of spiritual expression. In the fourteenth century, the Virgin Mary appeared to Birgitta of Sweden and described holding her son’s broken body after the crucifixion. “I took his body on my lap; it was like a leper’s, all livid. His eyes were lifeless and full of blood, his mouth as cold as ice, his beard like twine, his face grown stiff,” Birgitta recorded. Those not haunted by such vivid encounters could take advantage of the medieval idea of the “spirit of intelligence,” the practice of interpreting scripture with the help of the Holy Spirit to see beyond its obvious “carnal” meaning. By the time the teenage Joan of Arc was claiming that the Archangel Michael and other saints had told her to take to the battlefield and liberate France from English domination, Europe was saturated with mystics—especially women. The clerical elite, worried about divine visions appearing indiscriminately to unschooled laypeople, wrote manuals on “the discernment of spirits,” the art of distinguishing a real prophet of God’s word from a faker or a tool of Satan.
If their main worry was that some of these prophets would sidestep institutional discipline and claim knowledge direct from the divine source, they weren’t wrong. When church officials told Marguerite Porete to stop spreading her “Heresy of the Free Spirit,” she promptly mailed a book of her writings to three prominent theologians, then continued traveling and preaching independently. Church authorities burned her at the stake in 1310. A pro-English church tribunal sentenced Joan of Arc to the same fate. But most prominent mystics—many were elite nuns from aristocratic families—played by the rules. They valued the protection of father-confessors who could vouch for them, remove inadvertent heresies from transcripts of their visions, and protect their independence by confirming their deference. “I am taught inwardly, in my soul. Therefore I speak as one in doubt,” Hildegard wrote to Bernard of Clairvaux in a letter asking him to interpret one of her visions. “Hearing of your wisdom and piety, I am comforted.”