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This is to certify that the
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IDEOLOGY IN ALL THINGS:
MATERIAL CULTURE AND INTENTIONAL COMMUNITIES

presented by

Heather Van Wormer

has been accepted towards fulfillment
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IDEOLOGY IN ALL THINGS:
MATERIAL CULTURE AND INTENTIONAL COMMUNITIES

By

Heather Van Wormer

A DISSERTATION
Submitted to
Michigan State University

in partial fulfillment of the requirements
for the degree of

DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY
Department of Anthropology

2004

ABSTRACT

IDEOLOGY IN ALL THINGS: MATERIAL CULTURE AND INTENTIONAL
COMMUNITIES

By

Heather Van Wormer

In this dissertation, I investigate connections between ideology, material culture, and
social change in the context of intentional communities. By their very nature, intentional
communities are distinctive societies, where social structure and daily life are meant to
directly reflect ideology. Because of this, intentional communities are ideal settings in
which to investigate questions pertaining to the interaction between material culture and
ideology. The ideologies of these groups often led them to restructure fundamental social
relations, such as class, family, and gender, and community members deliberately
incorporated such ideologies of social reform into the planning and organization of their
societies. In these communities, material culture thus served as an active medium to both
reflect and reinforce social and religious ideals, and therefore material culture can be seen

as simultaneously constituted and constitutive.

As such, the use of material culture in intentional communities is not unconscious;
community members are often keenly aware of the symbolic meanings represented in
artifacts, and the leaders of these communities commonly develop explicit strategies
using material symbols as a means of fostering communitas and group cohesion, with a
large emphasis on ritualizing daily life. For example, intentional communities use

material culture to set themselves apart from the outside world (e.g., through clothing,

uses of technology, and industrial endeavors). They also use material culture to
reinforce social relations within the group, and to reflect ideology and social structure
(e.g., through landscape designs, subsistence practices, settlement patterning,
architectural forms). Significantly, intentional communities also use material culture to
reinforce aspects of community and ideology when under extreme pressure, either from
the outside or within. In this way, intentional communities increase the longevity of
ideal social structures that are often difficult to maintain.

Through the investigation of landscapes, architecture, and artifacts of daily life, I
focus on central themes: the definition of millennial ideology; how daily life is ritualized
through material objects; how these intentional communities adapt their material world
in times of change; and the relationship of the individual and the community. Using
data collected on two millennial communitarian groups, the Oneida Perfectionists and
the Israelite House of David/City of David, I examine both how material culture reflects
the communities’ beliefs and ideologies and how these communities use material culture
to reinforce these ideals. Central questions of my research include: How are the symbol
systems for material culture created, maintained, and reconfigured in communal groups
and what roles do they play in this type of social movement? These findings of this
dissertation contribute to several wider discussions including: the study intentional
communities; how material culture can be used as evidence of social relations and
processes of culture change, particularly in reference to social movements, in cultural
and historical anthropology; the use of historical archaeology in these endeavors; and the

broader implications of this research for archaeology in general.

Copyright by

HEATHER VAN WORMER
2004

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Numerous individuals encouraged my research in different ways, and this
dissertation would not have been possible without their support. As anyone who has
done historic research knows, skilled archivists and librarians are priceless. Given the
comparative nature of my dissertation, personnel at several archives deserve special
recognition. On the Oneida side of things, the entire staff of the Special Collections
Department at the Syracuse University library were enthusiastic about this project and
their knowledge and assistance was deeply appreciated. Likewise, the archivists at
Oneida Community Mansion House were also patient and helpful, especially Kerry
Linden. Gina Walker at the Center for Communal Studies at the University of Southern
Indiana in Evansville, patiently answered my questions on several occasions. Her
unfailing encouragement of my work and her introducing me to the Communal Studies
Association are debts I cannot repay—thank you.

In Michigan, the members of the City of David have been patient and kind to me,
and I appreciate their allowing me to do research in their midst very much. In particular,
Ron Taylor has provided much guidance and assistance, and this project would not have
been possible without his incredible depth of knowledge, as well as his patience with a
curious anthropology grad student who kept turning up. One of the many hats Ron wears
is that of colony historian, and I am continually impressed with his scholarship,
generosity, faith, and energy. Without his work in the museum and archives, many
irreplaceable historic documents would undoubtedly remain uncataloged and quite
possibly lost forever. I am sure that the magnitude and importance of his efforts will
someday be realized by more than those of us who have been fortunate enough to work

with him—but for now he quietly moves mountains. Thank you, Ron.

An amazing community of scholars—the Communal Studies Association—has
also inspired and encouraged my research. From the first meeting I attended at New
Harmony, I have been increasingly impressed with this association, both individually and
collectively. Their incredible intellectual generosity, collegiality, and genuine friendships
exemplify what true scholarship should be, and I am proud to call myself a member. In
particular, Susan Love Brown’s work, as can be seen in Chapter Two, informed much of
this research, as did many conversations with her at annual meetings. While I was still
searching for a comparative case study, Timothy Miller suggested that I look into the
House of David and City of David, and I am glad that I took his advice—thank you.

During my graduate education at MSU, I have received much guidance and
encouragement from the members of the Department of Anthropology. The ‘open-door’
atmosphere provided me with much support and assistance as I worked through ideas and
struggled with the written expression of those ideas. In particular, I want to thank Alison
Rautman, Bill Lovis, Todd F enton, Bill Derrnan, and the late Jacob Climo. In addition, I
am grateful to my committee members who have spent considerable time helping and
guiding me. Ken Lewis has patiently served as my committee chair since my first year
here, and I am grateful for his continued encouragement and fiiendship. Lynne Goldstein
has supported me in more ways than I have space to list here; truly, ‘thank you’ is not
enough. Her counsel and intellectual guidance have meant the world to me, and I am
very fortunate to have worked with her. Lynne has been a true mentor to me, and her
intellectual, professional, and personal advice has repeatedly proved invaluable. Laura
DeLind’s enthusiasm, friendship, and writing skills have made this a better project, and I
am grateful. Judy Pugh has continually pushed me to examine my assumptions
(particularly in my dancing around ‘the m-word’), and I have been fortunate to receive

guidance from her through many difficult readings and theoretical concepts. Alison

vi

 

Wylie, one of my intellectual heroes, has helped me grapple with the connections
between meaning and things, as well as the theoretical implications of these connections
in archaeology. I will always be grateful to her for the time she has spent discussing
these topics with me and for reading various drafts of this dissertation. Finally, Kirsten
Fermaglich willingly accepted the duties of ‘outside member’ shortly before my defense.
and the historical contexts in Chapter Three were much improved because of her input
and advice—thank you.

On a personal level, my family and friends, while not always understanding this
path I have chosen, have nonetheless always supported me. My parents, sister, and
grandparents have encouraged my long education, even though they have probably often
wondered if I would be a ‘student-for-life’. My fellow graduate students were an
amazing source of inspiration, and I have learned much from them. In particular, Trish
Redeker-Hepner, Debra Budiani, Don Gaff, Suzanne Kent, James Bielo, Heather
Howard-Bobiwash, Jennifer Brewer, Martha LaClave, and Marco Meniketti have been
invaluable colleagues and even better friends. I owe Megan Plyler and Ann Kroll-Lemer
(my ‘tough-love editors’) special thanks for the time they have spent listening to and
reading my ideas as I worked through them. I also owe a special debt of gratitude to
Randy Hepner for his enthusiasm, inspiration, intellectual engagement, and scholarly
vigor. In addition, during the summer of 2003, I drafted a substantial part of this
dissertation and ‘breakfast with Julianna’ was invaluable for helping me keep some
perspective. Finally, I want to thank Rob Brubaker for his support, mapping expertise,

and patience during the long process of research and writing.

vii

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1
INTRODUCTION ...............................................................................................................
CHAPTER 2
MILLENARIAN AND MILLENNIAL SOCIAL MOVEMENTS ................................... 1:
The Study of Millenarian Movements ......................................................................... It
Problems in Definition ................................................................................................. 24
Intentional Communities .............................................................................................. 3‘
Importance and Implications .............................................................................. 3t
Foundings and Failings ...................................................................................... 4‘
External Relationships ....................................................................................... 4:
Internal Relationships ........................................................................................ SI
CHAPTER 3
MILLENNIAL GROUPS IN THE US. ............................................................................ 5:
The Historic Context of Millennial Movements in the US. ........................................ 5‘.
Case Studies ................................................................................................................. 72
The Oneida Perfectionists .................................................................................. 72
The House of David/City of David .................................................................... 82
Methodology and Comparative Summary ................................................................... 8‘.
CHAPTER 4
COMPARISON OF MATERIAL CULTURE .................................................................. 92
“Heaven on Earth” ....................................................................................................... 92
Initial Buildings ................................................................................................. 94
Idyllic Landscapes ............................................................................................. 9‘
The New Mansion House ................................................................................. 10(
Perfecting the Landscape ................................................................................. 10.
Change in the Mansion House ......................................................................... 11(
Daily Life in Material Culture ......................................................................... 111
Perfection and Personal Items .......................................................................... 111
Discussion ......................................................................................................... 1 1!
“A Riot of Whiskers and Jazz” .................................................................................. 11!
Early Economic Endeavors .............................................................................. 124
Landscapes of Leisure ...................................................................................... 121
Elite Architecture ............................................................................................. 13]
Redefining, Reinventing, and Rebuilding ........................................................ 13‘.
Bringing the Outside In .................................................................................... 144
Daily Life in Material Culture ......................................................................... 14¢

viii

 

Discussion ........................................................................................................ 1 52
Comparative Summary .............................................................................................. 152
CHAPTER 5
CONCLUSIONS AND IMPLICATIONS ....................................................................... 159
Implications for Intentional Communities Studies .................................................... 160
Implications for Cultural and Historical Anthropology ............................................. 163
Implications for Historical Archaeology ................................................................... 167
Implications for Archaeology .................................................................................... 172
REFERENCES CITED .................................................................................................... 178

ix

LIST OF FIGURES

Figure 2.1: Wilson’s categories for mainstream millenarian cultural ideologies .............. 28
Figure 3.1: Theological Emphases and Material Manifestations ....................................... 91
Figure 4.1: The Oneida Community Mansion House (Photo taken by author) ................. 95

Figure 4.2: Floor plans of the Old Mansion House (After Worden [1869]; Cragin
[1951]; White 1993; OCMH 2000) .................................................................................... 97

Figure 4.3: New Mansion House (After Worden [1869]; Cragin [1951]; Hayden
1976; White 1993; OCMH 2000) .................................................................................... 101

Figure 4.4: Old Mansion House on the left; Children’s House in the middle; New
Mansion House on the right (Photo courtesy of the Oneida Community Mansion
House, Oneida, New York) .............................................................................................. 102

Figure 4.5: Oneida Community building sequence (After Worden [1869]; Cragin
[1951]; Hayden 1976; White 1993; OCMH 2000). ......................................................... 103

Figure 4.6: The Big Hall (Photo courtesy of the Oneida Community Mansion
House, Oneida, New York) .............................................................................................. 104

Figure 4.7: The Upper Sitting Room (Photo courtesy of the Oneida Community
Mansion House, Oneida, New York) ............................................................................... 104

Figure 4.8: The Dining Room (Photo courtesy of the Oneida Community Mansion
House, Oneida, New York) .............................................................................................. 106

Figure 4.9: Ornamental Garden (Photo courtesy of the Oneida Community
Mansion House, Oneida, New York) ............................................................................... 108

Figure 4.10: View from the North Tower (Photo courtesy of the Oneida
Community Mansion House, Oneida, New York) ........................................................... 109

Figure 4.11: Children’s Wing (Photo courtesy of the Oneida Community Mansion

House, Oneida, New York) .............................................................................................. 112
Figure 4.12: Children’s Wing, architectural detail (Photo taken by author) ................... 112
Figure 4.13: Bedroom Wing addition (Photo taken by author) ....................................... 113

Figure 4.14: The Quadrangle (Photo courtesy of the Oneida Community Mansion

House, Oneida, New York) .............................................................................................. 112
Figure 4.15: Bethlehem and Jerusalem (Photo courtesy of Mary’s City of David
Archives, Benton Harbor, Michigan) ............................................................................... 12'
Figure 4.16: Ballgame at the House of David (Photo courtesy of Mary’s City of

David Archives, Benton Harbor, Michigan) .................................................................... 13(
Figure 4.17: 1918 House of David team (Photo courtesy of Mary’s City of David
Archives, Benton Harbor, Michigan) ............................................................................... 13(
Figure 4.18: Shiloh Building, House of David (Photo taken by author) ......................... 132
Figure 4.19: Shiloh Building, House of David (Photo taken by author) ......................... 132
Figure 4.20: Shiloh Building, House of David (Photo taken by author) ......................... 134
Figure 4.21 :Shiloh Additions (Photo taken by author) .................................................... 131
Figure 4.22: Shiloh architectural detail (Photo taken by author) ..................................... 131
Figure 4.23: The Diamond House and later addition (Photo taken by author) ................ 13'
Figure 4.24: Mary’s Hotel (Photo courtesy of Mary’s City of David Archives,

Benton Harbor, Michigan) ............................................................................................... 13'.
Figure 4.25: Auditorium groundbreaking—note tent in background (Photo

courtesy of Mary’s City of David Archives, Benton Harbor, Michigan). ....................... 14'.
Figure 4.26: Mary’s Auditorium entrance (Photo taken by author) ................................ 14'.
Figure 4.27: New Shiloh Headquarters (Photo taken by author). .................................... 142
Figure 4.28: Laundry Building and Garage (Photo taken by author). ............................. 142
Figure 4.29: Garage, brick construction detail (Photo taken by author) .......................... 142

Figure 4.30: Aerial view of Mary’s City of David, circa 193 6—Shiloh
Headquarters building in the lower center (Photo courtesy of Mary’s City of
David Archives, Benton Harbor, Michigan) .................................................................... 141

xi

Figure 4.31: Map of the central area of Mary’s City of David (After BLIS 1996,

SW 1/4 11-03-0020) ........................................................................................................ 145
Figure 4.32: Mary’s Restaurant (Photo taken by author). ............................................... 147
Figure 4.33: Synagogue with Rabbi’s house in the rear (Photo taken by author) ........... 147
Figure 4.34: Rocky Farm (Photo courtesy of Mary’s City of David Archives,

Benton Harbor, Michigan) ............................................................................................... 148
Figure 4.35: Axe handles in preparation (Photo taken by the author) ............................. 150
Figure 4.36: Primary Themes and Social Correlates ....................................................... 153

xii

 

 

CHAPTER 1
INTRODUCTION

Material culture has long been recognized as an integral part of human
interactions and social relations. Some scholars, most recently Michael Schiffer (1999),
believe that this is indeed the very essence of humanness, arguing that material culture is
the single-most distinctive and significant difference between humans and other primates.
Although I would not go as far as Schiffer, arguing that this is the only thing that sets
humans apart from other species, I agree that humans’ unique relationship with material
culture is important, and in many cases even central, to understanding social relations and
ideology.

This topic defines my central interest in anthropology-- the relationship between
human behavior and material culture. Our daily lives are surrounded by objects and
arrangements of material things-- from small and seemingly unimportant objects like
paperclips, to larger objects like buildings and landscapes. Material objects of all sizes
communicate, situate, and condition human interaction. In many of these cases, material
culture does not merely reflect our ideas, but also shapes the ways in which we interpret
the world. And I am fascinated by this process.

Not surprisingly, this fascination led me to anthropology and archaeology, and to
historical archaeology in particular. Largely by necessity, archaeological investigations
of the past rely primarily on material evidence in order to reconstruct and understand past
human behavior and societies. For this reason, material culture is situated at the center of
interpretation in archaeology, and the importance of material culture for understanding

social relations is emphasized.

Before coming to MSU, I started on thisjoumey of mine, trying to understand the
interaction between material culture and ideology. One important venue for me was
landscape studies, specifically New Deal landscapes. I compared the gendered
landscapes of the Civilian Conservation Corps and their lesser-known sister program, the
Camps for Unemployed Women (Van Wormer 2003). Through these and other
programs, the architects of the New Deal attempted to realize a utopian vision for
American society. The CCC and the CUW focused on the youth of the country, and one
of their main objectives was to create ideal citizens. It was not really difficult to make
the connections between New Deal gender ideals, these programs, and the landscapes of
the camps» it is safe to say that the New Deal was not exactly subtle, particularly in
regard to shaping landscapes. However, this work was not entirely satisfying for me,
because there was always a piece of the puzzle that I could never place-- the impact of
these gendered landscapes on the young men and women who participated in these
programs. Did they buy into these ideals? Did these gendered landscapes really shape
their View of themselves, and their definition of ‘good citizenship’? Or were they merely
there for ‘three squares a day,’ and, in order to escape the bleak realities of the
Depression, were they willing to quietly put up with these top-down ideologies? These
are the questions I could not answer, and this is what led me to intentional communities.

By their very nature, intentional communities are distinctive societies, where
social structure and daily life are meant to directly reflect ideology. The ideologies of
these groups often lead them to restructure fundamental social relations, such as class,
family, and gender, and community members deliberately incorporate cultural critique

and social reform into the planning and organization of their societies. Because of this,

 

intentional communities are ideal settings in which to investigate questions pertaining to
the interaction between material culture and human behavior.

The category of social groups that fit under the rubric of ‘intentional
communities’ contains countless ideologies and represents several different kinds of
social movements. Some intentional communities have a social reform focus; others
form around economic issues, and still others are religious in nature. Some intentional
communities practice complete communal ownership of goods; others share only some
material aspects. Some communities have loose social structures; some represent
extreme cases of social rigidity. Indeed, mapping out the similarities and variability of
intentional communities would be an entire dissertation in and of itself (and actually is:
see Okugawa 1980). But, that is not the focus of this dissertation. Instead, I investigate
the connections between ideology, material culture, and social change in the context of
communitarian movements. Nineteenth and twentieth century North American
intentional communities are ideal settings in which to investigate the interaction between
material culture and ideology.

After this brief introductory chapter, I discuss the study of millenarian and
millennial movements in Chapter Two. While I overview much of the literature and
many of the theoretical approaches that examine these social movements, this chapter is
by no means an exhaustive literature review. Instead, I focus on works that are
concerned with defining and understanding millenarian movements. From this starting
point I move into a discussion of a specific kind of millenarian movement—religious
intentional communities. Recent work on intentional communities in the US. has moved

beyond merely reconstructing individual communities’ histories and ideology and

attempts to understand the phenomenon of intentional communities in general,

 

 

particularly as a social movement that is only found in state contexts. These works
examine how, when, and in what contexts intentional communities are founded, why they
succeed or fail, and how internal and external social processes and pressures are
mitigated over time.

Since the founding of intentional communities tends to follow cyclical patterns
coinciding with periods of intense social change, as revitalization movements they
constitute an important form of cultural critique. Through the process of creating their
social structure and community, intentional community members are (directly or
indirectly) enumerating what they find wrong with the larger society. Thus, the
ideologies and structures of these communities are interesting indicators of how people
perceive and experience social change. For example, many of the utopian societies
reacting to industrialism emphasized the value of face-to-face societies and tried actively
to eliminate notions of individualism, social class, and inequality. Such ideals point
directly to aspects of the changing larger social context. While these groups rarely (if
ever) cause fundamental social change on a large scale, their ideals are good indicators of
how large-scale social change is perceived by members of society. It is also important to
note that, as Lucy Jayne Karnau (2002220) points out, “Society as a whole need not be in
crisis for intentional communities to form; for some persons society itself is the crisis.”

A recently published volume on intentional communities edited by Susan Love
Brown (2002) informed much of this dissertation. Each of the six case studies in the
volume utilizes Victor Tumer’s (1967, 1969, 1975) concepts of liminality and
communitas to examine how intentional communities maintain their membership over
time. In communitarian societies, building and sustaining community and commitment

between individuals is of the utmost importance, particularly as internal and external

4

pressures mount (Kanter 1972). These authors argue that the maintenance liminality 2
communitas is essential to the longevity of an intentional community, and that
charismatic leaders often consciously put specific social mechanisms in place towards
this end. When social classifications and the constraints of ordinary life are gone, nor
social rules and distinctions are inverted. “In losing their old status, individuals are
reborn as something different from what they were before. They are leveled and strip
of their old identities and they are joined together in a commonality. Differences no
longer matter, and people are no longer kept apart. Instead, they are bound together”
(Kamau 2002:19). These communities are separated from the rest of society by physi
social, and ideological realities. Intentional communities are usually geographically
isolated in one way or another. They reject normal economic life, and there is often a
reversal of sex roles, ranging from complete celibacy to complete promiscuity (Foster
1981, 1991). Regardless of the form, these new sexualities functioned to foster group
cohesion and set the members apart from the outside world. This new common identi
is hi8th symbolized, sometimes through common costume or foodways, and often
ritualized in daily practice. All of these processes serve to promote communitas, and
thereby ensure longevity for the intentional community. Maintaining this communita
however, is not so easy—life in an intentional community, particularly a communal o
l“Equires much sacrifice and commitment. For this reason, communitas is often a cent
c0“Gem to the leaders of intentional communities, and different communities develop
different social mechanisms to maintain communitas, with varying degrees of success
My dissertation is situated within this framework. While many scholars note 1
emPhasis on material culture in these communities, all but a few studies of intentional

Communities neglect to examine the role played by the central place of material cultur

maintaining ideology and communitas (with Hayden’s 1976 comparison of the
architecture of seven communitarian groups as the notable exception). Community
members deliberately incorporated ideologies of social reform into the planning and
organization of utopian societies. These ideologies often resulted in the restructuring of
fundamental social relations such as class, family, and gender. Communitarian groups
used material culture to set themselves apart from the outside world (through clothing,
uses of technology, and industrial endeavors), to reflect ideology and social structure
(through landscape designs, subsistence practices, settlement patterning, architectural
forms), and to reinforce ideology and social relations within the group. Material culture
served as an active medium to both reflect and reinforce social ideals, and community
members were often keenly aware of the symbolic meanings represented in artifacts. In
this way, material culture can be seen as simultaneously constituted and constitutive.
Further, when the intentional communities were under extreme pressure, whether from
Within or without, they used material culture to reinforce aspects of community and
common beliefs in an attempt to maintain communitas. These uses, or “interferences,” to
use Wobst’s term (2000:42), of material culture were not unconscious, and the leaders of
SUCh communities often developed explicit strategies using material symbols as a means
of fostering group cohesion and reinforcing ideology. My central thesis, then, is: since
material culture reflects and reinforces behavior, and since ideology is such an important
aspect of behavior in intentional communities, it follows that material culture should both
r eflect and reinforce the role of ideology in these communities.
Chapter Three begins with a sketch of the historic context of millennial groups in
the US. In order to understand the ideologies of these groups, one must understand the

history of the changing religious landscape. In this chapter, I outline the context and

6

 

impact of both the First and Second Great Awakenings on antebellum American soci
political and religious life. In addition, I also overview the extensive changes that to
place in the late 19th and early 20‘h centuries (with the rise of modernity and
consumerism). This provides the necessary framework for discussing the motivatior
the two groups I examine in this dissertation, and the form of those communities.

The second part of Chapter Three introduces the two intentional communities
serve as case studies for my dissertation. First is a history of the Oneida Perfectioni
paying particular attention to their religious beliefs, ideology, and historical context.
Founded in 1848 by John Humphrey Noyes in upstate New York, the Oneida
Perfectionists were one of the most successful of the numerous nineteenth century
intentional communities. Departing from others in the nineteenth century millennial
revivalistic religious movement (including those from his own ‘bumed-over district
Noyes and his followers believed that the millennium prophesied in Revelations had
already begun. Since sin had been abolished in the millennial kingdom, Noyes and l
followers believed that nineteenth century Christians were saints and perfect beings

(Kephait l976:46-47;A1banese 19992242), and, therefore, life on earth could and Shl
mirror life in heaven. They attempted to follow not the forms of early Christianity, ‘t
the Spirit and ideals in a nineteenth century setting. Noyes’ interpretation of the
SCI‘iptures provided the form that life as heaven on earth should follow. This include
abolishment of marriage between individuals and the rejection of the restrictions of
nineteenth century marriage, which Noyes characterized as “part of a false, and even
Siilful, system that should not apply to the perfect” (Albanese 1999:242). Noyes call
fol' the creation of an enlarged communal family “in which all loyalties, including se

10Yalties, would eventually be raised to the level of the entire community” (Foster

7

19972257). The community considered every man to be the husband of every wor
and every woman to be the wife of every man. Everyone lived under one roof, an
children brought into the community were raised communally.l

The Oneida Perfectionists became very successful, both socially and fman

and for many years were able to withstand pressures from within and outside of ti
community. Most activities were conducted with the goal of creating situations fr
community members to meet and talk. All meals were eaten in a large room toge‘
Work assignments were made in a communal fashion, with much rotation. With 1
formal religious ceremonies on Sunday or any other day, the evening meeting, hel
Big Hall, often served this purpose (Kephart 1976:51-52). All members attended
evening meeting in the Big Hall for discussion of decisions to be made, various m
or theatre performances, talks or Bible studies held by Noyes, or other such activi'
(Foster 1997:265; Kephart 1976: 52). Daily life at Oneida was described as happj
content, and Oneida experienced unusually high retention rates.

In 1869 the Oneida Community underwent a substantial change. After ree
much of Darwin‘s writing, Noyes lifted the ban on procreation and initiated a eug
Program at Oneida. A committee was formed, and couples were chosen to bear cl
With Noyes approving all choices personally (Foster 19972267; Kephart 1976:76-’
The entire community, of course, would raise these children and Noyes believed t

pregram would produce more perfect and spiritual human beings. About 100 mer

X

 

 

1
Noyes distinguished between two different types of sex: social and pr0pagative. While social so:
very important, Noyes viewed propagative sex as unnecessary, and banned reproduction. He instit
Very effective form of birth control termed male continence, and from 1848 t01868 there were onl:
unplanned births in a community of approximately 200 adults (Foster 1997, p. 258). In the year It

 

were chosen, and over the next ten years, 62 children were born to the community
(Kephart 1976:77; Oved 1988:179—180). This program caused several problems w
the community. Many of the mothers had trouble when unacceptable attachment t<
children (termed “stickiness”) was disapproved of by the community (Kephart 197.
Rich 1983:14). In addition, potential parents rejected by the committee often had I
feelings. Internal dissension became, for the first time, a factor of daily life.

Eventually, with Noyes in very poor health and no one able to succeed him
leader, the Oneida Community was legally dissolved in 1881 into Oneida Commur
Limited, a joint-stock company, known largely today for their production of silven
which began in 1893 (Foster 19972268; Oved 1988:187).

Next I turn to outlining the history of the House of David in Benton Harbor

Michigan. Benjamin and Mary Purnell established a community in Benton Harbor
1903 comprised of followers of the Christian Israelite faith (Adkin 1990:14-15).
Following a long tradition of the recognition of prophets, the Pumells were believe
the seventh pr0phet, and the one that would directly precede the beginning of the
millennium. Like the Oneida Community, the House of David was guided by milli
beliefs. However, unlike the Oneida, Christian Israelites are adventist in their theo
and do not believe that the millennium has already arrived. For this reason, the Ho
DaVid was not intent on creating ‘heaven on earth.’ Instead, they focused on prepa
for the ingathering of believers that would precede the millennium of heaven on ea
ISl‘aelites from as far away as Australia (where Benjamin and Mary visited and

established an outpost in 1904) were “called home” to Benton Harbor, with many 1

X
No.b’es began a eugenics program in the community, and the ban on procreation was lifted, although
SmCii)’ controlled who became parents with whom.

patiently waiting for the completion of buildings to house them. Like the Oneida
Perfectionists, the House of David operated several very successful businesses, and t
financial stability no doubt added to their longevity.
The House of David differed from the large majority of millennial groups in
several respects. First, the House of David, like the Shakers, recognized both male a
female in the divine. They also believed that not just the individual’s soul was immc
but the body as well. House of David theology placed a large emphasis on purifying
individuals in preparation for the millennium. In keeping with this emphasis on puri
the body and spirit, members of the House of David did not cut their hair, consume
alcohol (although they did operate a successful brewery for the larger public), and
practiced vegetarianism. Purnell believed that, since believers were on their way to
becoming immortal, non-believers were considered already “dead.” In accordance v
this View, Purnell maintained that “the dead should deal with the dead” (following
Matthew 8:22), and this extended to funerals and burials; members of the House of I
did not participate in preparing their recently deceased loved ones for burial, nor did
attend the funerals or wear black clothing (Adkin 1990:14). In addition, Benjamin
required celibacy from all members. While they could and did marry, they were to l:
as brother and sister, in this way “retaining their virginal purity for the Second Comi
Which was believed to be at hand” (Miller 1998:82).
By 1920 the colony was embroiled in several legal problems and suffered an
onSlaught of public scorn and tabloid-like national newspaper coverage (Adkin 1990
1 63). In 1927 Benjamin was put on trial in a very high profile case brought by the st
of Michigan. The charges ranged from being a public nuisance and conducting busii

on Sundays, to fraud and deceiving women and girls into having sexual intercourse \

10

him as a religious rite (Adkin 19901149). Even though no Benton Harbor residents wou
support any of the claims brought by the state of Michigan in court and the colony
members stood behind their leader (who at this time was dying of tuberculosis), the trial
and the nationwide coverage of the scandal took its toll on the community. Of all the
charges, Benjamin was found guilty of only perjury. Shortly after this ruling Benjamin
died, and the factions within the House of David began warring openly over control of
the colony and its resources. More legal action followed, and in 1930 a settlement was
reached, and the property divided into two communities, the House of David and the C1
of David. The City of David, led by Mary Purnell, started over, rebuilding and redefinii
their community and material culture. They chose consciously to separate themselves
from the House of David (who continue to live across the street) and their increasing
materialism and economic endeavors. Both the House of David and the City of David
continued to expand their business enterprises for several years, albeit with very differei
emphases. Both communities persist to the present day, although the population of eacl
is now less than a dozen.
The final section of Chapter Three outlines the methodology I used in my
1' esearch, and identifies four primary themes that are central foci within these two group
for promoting and maintaining communitas. First, each group had a specific
manifestation of the millennium, and this ideology was a central part of the group’s
eXiStence. Second, both groups ritualize daily life in order to create communitas. They
acComplish this in various ways, and these ways are explored more in Chapter Four.
Third, each group redefined its material and social world as they coped with both intern.-
and external pressures, and adapted to change. Finally, the definition of individualism

Within a communal group forms an essential part of community. Both groups placed

11

individuals in a different relationship with the whole community, and behavior and
relationships were definitely affected by this.

In Chapter Four I compare the material culture of the Oneida Perfectionists an
the House of David/City of David. I have chosen these two communities because bot
are religious millennial movements with charismatic leaders tracing their authority to
prophets. Unlike most communitarian groups, both successfully lived communally ft
long periods without completely withdrawing from the larger capitalist market econor
In fact, both communities made innovative commercial and technological advances ir
their dealings with the outside world. Both communities were not only products of th
historical circumstances but were also critiquing larger social contexts, and this is
reflected in their social structure (for example, the place of women in both communiti
indicates a criticism of more traditional roles for American women). In addition, bot
communities started somewhere else, and chose to move to a more amiable and tolera
environment. It is no accident that both communities moved to the places they did. I
York, often referred to as the “burned over district” because of the effects of the reviv
of the nineteenth century, was an ideal place to establish a commune based on

perfectionist beliefs. The Pumells chose to settle in southern Michigan, where the

J ezreelites had earlier successfully missionized and Adventism in general was commr
Both groups faced similar opposition and pressure from the outside; including the fac
that both Pumell and Noyes faced legal charges involving their sexual practices. Ant
both communities consciously shaped their material culture to simultaneously reflect

reinforce their ideology, and to embody a cultural critique of the larger world. Many,

12

not all, of the material aspects of daily life were carefully discussed, planned, and
controlled. While consciously attempting to restructure the world’s social order, the
communities emphasized their ideology in landscape, architecture and other goods.

At the same time and despite these similarities, the Oneida Perfectionists ant
House of David were fundamentally different in their definition of the millennium a
the application of those beliefs in their daily lives. Almost all of the Oneida’s activi
resources and attention were focused inward, towards “the family” and toward creat
heaven on earth. In contrast, the House of David concentrated their activities, resou
and attention outward, towards the 144,000 of the ingathering. This difference is
apparent not only in their ideological emphases and social structure, but also in the
manifestation of these beliefs in their material culture.

Chapter Four compares the economic endeavors of the Oneida Perfectionists
the House of David/City of David—their landscapes, built environment/architecture
foodways, publications, and the place of personal items in the daily lives of both grc
These categories elucidate the relationship between material culture and ideology in
communities, both as a reflection of their ideals and social structure, and as a means
reinforcing those same ideals and structure, thereby maintaining liminality and
communitas. Here I consider the social relations within each community, as well as
interactions with the outside world.

Through this comparison, I demonstrate how each group’s ideology of the
millennium is manifest in their material culture. In creating spaces in the built

environment that reflected their religious beliefs, they were able to reinforce those b

¥

2
For example, the Seventh Day Adventists founded in Battle Creek in 1855—see Ahlstrom (197224!

13

and their respective social structures. These spaces, in combination with personal items
and daily practices, served to ritualize their daily life, thereby making it possible to
literally live their faith and maintain communitas. As each group encountered strife ant
change, they adapted both their social and material world to those changes. In both
communities, the definition of the individual in relation to the group was not just an
aspect of their social structure, but also a reflection of their religious beliefs. And it is i
these ways that they promoted and maintained communitas.

However, my dissertation is not limited to making connections between materia
culture and ideology, and exploring how these function to promote and maintain
communitas—it also brings together different and independent dialogues in an attempt ‘
pull elements from each to strengthen our understanding of these types of social
movements (in this case, new religions, in the form of intentional communities). In
Chapter Five I consider these broader implications. I discuss the broader implications c
this research, with respect to four areas: the study intentional communities; how materiz
culture can be used as evidence of social relations and processes of culture change,

particularly in reference to social movements, in cultural and historical anthropology; tl
use of historical archaeology in these endeavors; and the broader implications of this

research for archaeology in general. As such, Chapter Five ties together all of the

different threads present in the other chapters.

k

A lbanese (1999:228-232).
l 4

 

 

CHAPTER 2

MILLENARIAN AND MILLENNIAL SOCIAL MOVEMEI

The consideration of social movements has long been a central ther
anthropological research, focusing on understanding social processes and c
from what is at once a holistic and comparative framework. Usually, anthr

view several dimensions of social life (e.g., religion, economy, family and
structure, political systems, etc.), and examine their complex articulations i
interpretation and explanation of social processes and culture change. 8001
have also been a topic of interest in sociology, psychology, political scienc
and other disciplines.1 For the purposes of this chapter, it is not necessary t
majority of these sources and schools of thought, largely because their defi
social movements exclude intentional communities, 2 or they do not place t

religion as a central organizing and motivating factor.3

There is, however, a large body of literature spanning several discir
address millenarian and millennial movements specifically. These include
anthropology, sociology, religious studies, and history. Summarizing all 0:
analyses and case studies in this chapter is neither possible nor realistic. Fo

the first section of this chapter only overviews some of the seminal works I

h

1
Examples of these include Burawoy 1991, della Porta and Diani 1999, Edelman 2001, P
Tarrow 1994, and Touraine 1985.

2 Of particular note is Touraine’s work arguing that social movements are best investigate

Structural conflict, cultural stakes and particular social conflicts (1985). Touraine’s work I

for sociological approaches to studying social movements focusing solely on economic re

main motivating factor of individuals involved in social movements. The New Social Mo

li’gl'adigm rose largely to redress these issues- for an overview of this see Buroway 1991, .
97.

15

context of these movements. 4

The second section of this chapter discusses the terms millenarianism and
millennialism. Often used interchangeably, I will outline some key works for
understanding the ways in which scholars use the terms, and the implications of these

uses. This section ends with a summary of how and why I am using these terms in this

dissertation.

Following this, I move to a discussion of intentional communities in the United
States, focusing particular attention on the works that attempt to explain or understand
these communities in relation to larger social and political contexts. This final section of
this chapter enumerates how these works have influenced this particular study, as well as
what this dissertation contributes to ongoing dialogues in the study of intentional
communities.

THE STUDY OF MILLENARIAN MOVEMENTS

One of the first, and particularly influential, articles examining millenarian
movements is “Nativistic Movements” by Ralph Linton (1943). Linton notes, “The term
‘nativistic’ has been loosely applied to a rather wide range of phenomena” (Linton

1943 2230). He attempts in this article to provide “a systematic analysis of nativistic

phenomena in general” (Ibid.).

Linton begins by defining a nativistic movement as: “Any conscious, organized
attempt on the part of a society’s members to revive or perpetuate selected aspects of its

culture” (Linton 1943:230). He then distinguishes between two different types of

‘

3
Many have made this point-- see Billings 1990 and Hart 1996 for examples.

l6

 

nativism, revivalistic and perpetuative (Linton 1943:231). Revivalistic nativism focuses
on cultural elements and symbols derived from the past. Perpetuative nativism
emphasizes the continuation of cultural elements in danger of disappearing.

Linton goes on to discuss the two other variables in nativistic
movements—magical and rational (Linton 1943:232). Linton defines magical nativism
as having a prophet and relying on the supernatural to bring about an apocalyptic end.
Even though Linton likens magical nativism to messianic or millennial movements, he
(Linton 1943:232) points to two important ways in which they are different:

In the nativistic movements the anticipated millennium is modeled directly

on the past, usually with certain additions and modifications, and the

symbols which are magically manipulated to bring it about are more or

less familiar elements of culture to which new meanings have been

attached. In non-nativistic messianic movements, the millennial condition

is represented as something new and unique and the symbols manipulated

to bring it about tend to be new and unfamiliar.

Linton then moves on to define rational nativistic movements. While they are
similar in their “conscious effort to revive or perpetuate selected elements of culture”
(Linton 1943:233), he argues that their motivations are very different. Rational nativistic
movements, according to Linton, “are associated with frustrating situations and are
primarily attempts to compensate for the frustrations of the society’s members” (Linton
1 943 :23 3).

Even though he outlines these four types of nativistic movements, Linton does not
consider them to be mutually exclusive types, and that it is rare to find a movement that
Can be categorized as only one type. Instead, he argues that most nativistic movements
involve some combination of the above categories, like revivalistic-magical, revivalistic-

\

4
For a more thorough overview, see La Barre’s (1971) bibliographic essay on ‘Crisis Cults” or

17

‘

 

rational, perpetuative-magical, or perpetuative-rational (Linton 1943:233). And v
specific causes of these movements vary, Linton asserts, “most of them have as a
common denominator a situation of inequality between the societies in contact” (1
1943:234). Linton then goes on to discuss which types of contact situations will I
produce nativistic movements, and which kind, noting that the most important fac
seem to be inequality, exploitation, and frustration (Linton 1943:235-239).

It is in this discussion that we see the limitations of Linton’s typology to
millenarian movements in general. Not surprisingly, Linton only considers situati
culture contact between primarily colonial and indigenous peoples, and focuses or
processes of assimilation and acculturation. While he notes similarities to “Christ
cults,” they do not fit this definition and are therefore not included his categories I
movements (Linton 1943:232-233). However, as the next few pages show, many

characteristics he used to define these movements remain as important factors in 1
analyses of millenarian movements.

In 1956 Anthony F. C. Wallace published an article entitled “Revitalizatio
Movements” that is still an important contribution in anthropology and elsewhere
(Wallace 1956). In this article, Wallace first defines and discusses the concept of
revitalization, and then outlines “certain uniformly-found processual dimensions t
revitalization movements” (Wallace 1956:264).

Wallace defines a revitalization movement as “a deliberate, organized, cor
effort by members of a society to construct a more satisfying culture” (Wallace

1 9561265). He (Wallace 1956:265) goes on to say:

x

Lantemari’s (1974) article.

18

 

Revitalization is thus, from a cultural standpoint, a special kind of culture
change phenomenon: the persons involved in the process of revitalization
must perceive their culture, or some major areas of it, as a system,
(whether accurately or not); they must feel that this cultural system is

unsatisfactory; and they must innovate not merely discrete items, but a

new cultural system, specifying new relationships as well as, in some

cases, new traits. The classic processes of culture change (evolution, drift,

diffusion, historical change, acculturation) all produce changes in cultures

as systems; however, they do no not depend on deliberate intent by

members of a society, but rather on a gradual chain-reaction effect...

Wallace argues that the term revitalization movement “denotes a very large class
of phenomenon” and outlines several “subclasses” (Wallace 1956:265). Nativistic
movements are “characterized by strong emphasis on the elimination of alien persons,
customs, values, and/or material”; Revivalistic movements “emphasize the institution of
customs, values, and even aspects of a nature which are thought to have been in....
previous generations but are not now present”; Cargo cults focus on the “importation of
alien values, customs, and material...to arrive as a ship’s cargo”; Revivalistic movements,
like Cargo cults, “emphasize the importation of alien elements” but they do not “a ship

and cargo as the mechanism”; Millenarian movements stress a “transformation in an
apocalyptic world transformation engineered by the supernatural”; and Messianic
movements include “the participation of a divine savior in human flesh in the...
transformation” (Wallace 19562267). Wallace then makes a very important point: “These
and parallel terms do not denote mutually exclusive categories, for a given revitalization
movement may be nativistic, millenarian, messianic, and revivalistic all at once; and it
may (in fact, usually does) display ambivalence with respect to nativistic, revivalistic,

and importation themes” (Wallace 19562267). It is important to note that Wallace was

not advocating these forms of revitalization movements as specific categories; a point

that] will return to later in this chapter.

19

 

Wallace goes on to outline five stages he sees occurring in all revitalization
movements, and these stages clearly reflect his belief that culture is an organismic system
with culture change affecting its equilibrium. The stages are: the steady state (Wallace
1956:268-269), the period of increased individual stress (Wallace 1956:269), the period
of cultural distortion (Wallace 1956:269-270), the period of revitalization (Wallace
1956:270-275), and the new steady state (Wallace 19562275). Wallace only goes into
one stage in any detail, and that is the period of revitalization. Within this stage,
according to Wallace, the revitalization movement must perform at least six major tasks:
reforrnulate a worldview, communicate this View, organize individuals or converts to the
movement, adapt to resistance, transform the culture as a whole, and then routinize the
new worldview. Once this happens, the revitalization stage is over and the new steady
state has been achieved.

In my view, these stages are a bit simplistic and the tasks he outlines for a
revitalization movement to be defined would not include movements that were not
successful in changing the entire culture, but were revitalization movements of one form
or another regardless. In addition, while he places religious motivation as central, his
five stages remain an issue for me, and I am not convinced there is ever a “steady state.”
Further, if only groups who accomplish the “tasks” he outlines can be considered
revitalization movements (especially the one about converting the rest of society), the
large majority of communitarian groups will again be excluded. Nonetheless, this article
is the first to try to systematically discuss all of the varied movements as a type of culture
change.

In the same vein, Peter Worsley’s The Trumpet Shall Sound is the first attempt at

over viewing numerous cargo cults in Melanesia in one volume (Worsley 1957). It is

20

 

should be noted that Wallace and Worsley seem unaware of each other’s work, no doubt
due to the close publication dates of both. It is not possible to summarize all aspects of
Worsley’s book here, especially since it is full of meticulously researched and complex
examples occasionally interspersed with analytical comment. However, several
important points can be summarized. Worsley argues that cargo cults cannot be
considered nativistic movements, as they had been (mainly by Linton), because they are
neither European nor indigenous, but instead a new synthesis of various aspects of both.
Instead, Worsley argues that these millenarian movements occur in similar situations,
where individuals are dominated in economically exploitive situations with little hope of
change. According to Worsley, it is under these conditions of extreme stress that
millenarian movements rise, and his book is filled with comparative examples
demonstrating this point.

Worsley’s observation that extreme stress/exploitation/domination gives rise to
millenarian movements is intriguing when considering nineteenth century communitarian
groups. Even though they are not necessarily subjects of colonial oppression, nineteenth
century communitarian groups did at least perceive some of the same exploitation and
stresses that Worsley talks about. However, in my view, his strict Marxist standards for
measuring oppression and domination, purely in economic terms, is not as useful. For
example, as pointed out in the Chapter Three, most of the people who joined the Oneida
Perfectionists were from the middle and upper classes, some quite affluent.

In probably the best-known study of social movements from a strictly Marxist
perspective, Eric Hobsbawm examines what he calls archaic forms of social movement in
the nineteenth and twentieth centuries (Hobsbawm 1965). This book is a collection of

essays that are expanded versions of lectures Hobsbawm delivered at the University of

21

Manchester in 1956. They are truly essays in nature, reminiscent of other essay
collections by Carl Sauer, J .8. Jackson, Clifford Geertz, and the like. Often the reader is
left feeling that sweeping statements are made without much discussion, or that examples
are used too briefly and without sufficient context. However, at the same time, these
essays are well-written, entertaining, and very thought provoking, which is their stated
purpose. As Hobsbawm (1965210) puts it in the introduction (since there is not much
known or documented about these movements):

This book is therefore tentative and incomplete, and pretends to be no

more. It is open to criticism by all those on whose preserves it poaches,

not only for poaching but in some cases for clumsy poaching. It is also

open to criticism of all who think a single and thorough monograph better

than a set of necessarily cursory sketches. There is only one answer to

such objections. It is high time that movements of the kind discussed in

this book were seriously considered not simply as an unconnected series

of individual curiosities, as footnotes to history, but as phenomenon of

general importance and considerable weight in modern history.

Much of the book contains this “call to arms” sentiment, and it is obvious that
‘ Hobsbawm is advocating a Marxist approach as the solution to many social and political
ills. He begins in the introduction by noting that the history of social movements has
been treated in one of two ways. In the first, social movements are seen “largely as a
series of episodes, punctuating the general story of humanity, though historians have
disagreed on their importance in the historical process” (Hobsbawm 196521). Secondly,
in regards to modern social movements, “historians have concentrated on labour and
socialist movements, and such other movements as have been fitted into the socialist
framewor ” (Hobsbawm 196522). Here, he points out, ‘primitive’ social movements are
only recorded when they are developing into a socialist movement, and even then only

within the context of a specific country. Hobsbawm asserts that this book does not fit

into either of these categories. Instead, Hobsbawm sees these ‘primitive’ social

22

 

movements not occurring in the Middle Ages (for instance, as precursors to modern labor
movements), but instead as occurring in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries and in
large numbers. For this reason, he says they are social movements in their own right.

At the end of the introduction, Hobsbawm discusses the difference between
revolutionary and reform movements (Hobsbawm 1965210-12). While he admits that the
lines between these movements are often difficult to see, he argues that the distinctions
are essential for understanding the social movements. According to Hobsbawm,
reformists “accept the general framework of an institution or social arrangement, but
consider it capable of improvement or, where abuses have crept in, reform” (Hobsbawm
1965210). In contrast, revolutionaries “insist that it must be fundamentally transformed,
or replaced” (Hobsbawm 1965211).

Hobsbawm identifies and discusses five “primitive” or archaic social movements:
social banditry, the mafia, millenarianism, the city mob, and labor sects. While all of
these essays are useful and interesting, it is his discussion of millenarianism that I find
relevant for this dissertation. Even though, Hobsbawm asserts, millenarian movements
are often religious in nature and because of this not usually seen as revolutionary, he
characterizes these movements as revolutionary and not reformist (Hobsbawm 1965:65-
66). Hobsbawm states that while there are different forms, all millenarian movements
have three main characteristics. First, all profess a “profound and total rejection of the
present, evil world, and a passionate longing for another and better one” (Hobsbawm
1965256). Second, all millenarian movements have a “fairly standardized
‘ideology’”—for example, Judeo-Christian messianism (Hobsbawm 1965256). Finally,
all “share a fundamental vagueness about the actual way in which the new society will be

brought about” (Ibid.). In addition, he notes that most millenarian movements are seen as

23

subversive movements by authorities (Hobsbawm 1965256).

According to Hobsbawm, because millenarian movements are revolutionary,
“they are more easily modernized or absorbed into modern social movements”—
specifically communist movements (Hobsbawm 196526). Hobsbawm is most interested
in how this absorption takes place (citing Gramsci). For example, he examines the case
of the Andalusian village anarchists, whose movement was “converted to a theory which
virtually told the peasants that their spontaneous and archaic form of social agitation was
good and adequate” and no further development occurred. In contrast, Hobsbawm also
examines the Sicilian village Socialists and Communists where their movement was
“converted into a theory which transformed it.”

With this book, Hobsbawm points out something very significant: it is not just
successful or literate or modern social movements that are important for the
understanding social movements and class conflict. The unsuccessful ones are also
essential if social movements are to be understood fully. However, there are still some
substantial problems with the way he has organized and examined these social
movements. In an effort to put social movements into stages, Hobsbawm creates some
problems. According to his framework, both social banditry and mafia are classified as
“pre-political”-a term that has obvious biases. In the next stage, millenarian movements
are on “the threshold of consciousness” but they are not considered conscious by
Hobsbawm because they lack Marxist socialism. In the final stage, the age of modern
political organization, the only social movement that he classifies as “modem” is
Marxism. Even when he examines nationalist movements, he does not consider them
modern. For example, when people of Naples voted Monarchist rather than Communist

in 1956, Hobsbawm interpreted this as a “lack of interest in modern politics.”

24

Regardless, his assertion that the unsuccessful as well as the successful
movements are important in any understanding of social movements is key. This is
especially true of the nineteenth century communitarian groups, since it cannot be argued
that they succeeded in changing society to fit their visions. Hobsbawm’s distinctions
between revolutionary and reform movements become even more unclear in the case of
communitarian groups. Some wanted to reform society, some did not. Some rejected all
aspects of the larger society, some did not. In specific reference to the three
characteristics Hobsbawm argues all millenarian movements share, not all of these apply
to communitarian (and specifically the millennial) groups—especially the idea that they
all share a standardized ideology. In addition, many of the nineteenth century
communitarian groups and their ideologies ended when the groups broke up; these ideas
and criticisms of society (counter hegemonies) were not necessarily “absorbed” into the
dominant ideologies or hegemonies. As Trompf (1990) and others point out, the
influence of religion cannot be ignored when investigating these communitarian
movements in nineteenth century America. And, as mentioned before, the amount of
variation in the communitarian movements cannot be explained without expanding
“modern” social movements to include others besides Marxist socialism.

Garry Trompf, in the introduction to an edited volume, which examines
millenarian movements, is critical of both Wallace and Worsley (Trompf 1990). Trompf
takes issue with the classification categories of millenarian, nativistic, etcetera, especially
in regards to all of them being forms of revitalization movements (Trompf 1990:2-3). In
doing so, he ignores Wallace’s assertion that his “subclasses” are not exclusive categories
but are instead forms that can, and usually do, overlap. Trompf’s (1990:3) criticisms of

Worsley are more extensive:

25

Neo-Marxist Peter, for another, has rather too often tended to interpret

Melanesian ‘cargo cult’ millenarisms in terms of their proto-nationalist

implications rather than for any intrinsically religious qualities; and along

with others he has been charged with too simplistic an equation of so—

called ‘cargo cults’ with ‘millenarianism’, when others had been so wary

of placing the region’s diverse local eruptions under this one umbrella

category. Mention of Worsley’s political interests, moreover, reminds one

that political scientists have been wont to prefer quite another cluster of

designations - such as ‘protest movements’, ‘micro- nationalisms’,

‘political associations’, even ‘rebellions’, etc.- also competing to cover the

same phenomena of so-called millenarisms.

As he did with Wallace, Trompf overstates Worsley’s argument, largely building
a straw man to be torn down (although he would have done well leveling some of these
criticisms at Hobsbawm). In addition, Trompf does not refute or even discuss Worsley’s
observation of what conditions are necessary for millenarian movements to arise.
PROBLEMS IN DEFINITION

At this point, it is apparent that many terms are used to refer to very similar
phenomena in different contexts. The discussion of the differences between
millennialism and millenarianism (if any) began in earnest with the 1957 Norman Cohn
publication The Pursuit of the Millennium. 5 In what has become a classic in millenarian
studies, Cohn examined revolutionary messianism in Europe during the medieval and
reformation periods. In addition, he discussed their influence on modern millennial
movements (Cohn 1961 2321-3 80). Together with his chapter in Millennial Dreams in
Action (1962231), current uses of the terms millennialism and millenarianism start to

appear.6 Cohn notes that, while originally a “narrow and precise” definition referring to

“the belief held by some Christians on the authority of Revelation 2024-6, that after his

 

5 While originally published in 1957, the addition used in this dissertation is the second edition, published
in 1961.

26

Second Coming Christ would establish a messianic kingdom on earth and reign over it
for 1000 years before the Last Judgement” (Cohn 1962231). He notes, however, that
historians and others now use the term to describe “behavior in a variety of societies, not
all of them even nominally Christian. Thus the term ‘millenarian’ or its synonym
‘millenarism’ is customarily used by anthropologists and sociologists and some historians
as a convenient label for a particular type of salvationism” (Cohn 1962231).

Cohn (1962231) goes on to define millenarian movements in a way that is still
used today:

any religious movement inspired by the phantasy of a salvation which is to
be (a) collective, in the sense that it is to be enjoyed by the faithful as a
group; (b) terrestrial, in the sense that it is to be realized on this earth and
not is some otherworldly heaven; (c) imminent, in the sense that it is to
come both soon and suddenly; ((1) total, in the sense that it is utterly to
transform life on earth; (e) accomplished by agencies which are
consciously regarded as supematural.

This discussion of the definition of millennial and millenarian movements
continued in several venues. One particularly useful discussion is found in Bryan
Wilson’s review article (1963). He (1963293) begins by taking stock of the terms that are
used fiequently by historians, ethnologists, anthropologists, theologians, and sociologists:

‘millennialism’ and its variant, ‘millenarianism’, derive from the
specifically Christian tradition, but the terms are now applied without the
implication that the new dispensation might be limited to a thousand years,
and without suggesting that Christian agencies are involved. ‘Adventism’
is generally confined to the belief in the second advent of Christ, but,
curiously, the modern use of the term ‘messianism’ tends generally to
relate only to the non-Christian—with the implication that, for most
Christians, the messianic aspect of their religion is either completely past,
or is thoroughly individual and personal. ‘Nativism’ has generally been
restricted to movements among pre-literate peoples, even though very
similar and completely secular equivalents are known within industrial

 

6 See also Smith 1965 for a larger discussion of Cohn’s work.

27

societies; but it is a term that has not always been used with the same
degree of precision. By terms such as ‘acculturation movements’ or
‘revitalization movements’ the attempt has been made to discuss these
movements in relation to wider social processes and with a greater degree
of conceptual rigour, but these terms have been evolved in relation to only
one part of the field, and their application even there is not perhaps as
general as might once have been supposed. The term ‘chiliasm’ has
perhaps been used most loosely, although many movements of this kind
may have been simply classed, in ignorance or indifference concerning the
circumstances which gave rise to them, as ‘rebellion.’ The growth in the
number of studies of these movements, however, and the increasing
awareness of the social similarities which have hitherto ofien lain
concealed beneath specific historical, ideological or cultural differences,
makes urgent the task of some clarification of our usage.

Wilson goes on to discuss the common characteristics of these movements, like other-
worldly and this-worldly expectations, individual and collective salvation, dramatic
supematural intervention, etc.7 While he does not deviate from Cohn’s characteristics of
millenarianism, he does attempt to couch all of these beliefs in wider, more mainstream
millenarian cultural ideologies. As such, he distinguishes millenarianism from other

forms of religious expression, which he summarizes in the following table (after Wilson

 

 

 

 

1963297):
Other-worldly This-worldly
Collectivist Traditional religion Millenarian movements
Individualist Evangelical Christian Sects Gnostic sects

 

 

 

Figure 2.1: Wilson’s categories for mainstream millenarian cultural ideologies.

In this way, Wilson is able to distinguish between more mainstream millenarian beliefs

 

7 Wilson expressly excludes “that kind of post-millennial adventism which was popular in the mid-
nineteenth century America, and also the kind in which the millennium is so remote in time that its
expectation becomes a matter of mere academic doctrine without any particular consequences for present
social action” (1963297). In this characterization I disagree with Wilson. The Oneida Perfectionists, for
example, fit all of the criteria that Wilson and Cohn use to define millenarian movements. The fact that
they believed the millennium of “heaven on earth” had already begun (the ultimate in “imminent,” really)
and that Christ would return at the end instead of the beginning of the millennium, should not exclude
them, or any other post-millennialists, from this discussion.

28

 

(which he describes as passive) and more isolationist millenarian movements (which he
describes as active). Wilson (1963:98) goes further with this idea and creates a
continuum of activity among movements:

1. There are movements in which activities are confined to little more

than calling out a people in preparation of events divinely decreed and

inevitable. 2. In other movements certain arbitrarily defined activities are

regarded as necessary to the individual, to ensure his ‘prepared’

condition—taboos, ordeals, initiations, oath-swearing, etc. 3. Activities

of an intense collective kind which are not directly and rationally related

to the creation of a new dispensation, but which are thought to be of

symbolic significance. 4. Activities which may imitate rational steps

towards the establishment of a new dispensation, and which bring the

movement into conflict with the authorities.
In addition, Wilson discusses movements that emphasize a millennium that is expected to
restore aspects of traditional culture and those that are innovatory, and expect a new and
different world to exist (1963299).8 Wilson also makes other distinctions, including
noting that the charismatic leaders in innovationist movements tend to be more typically
alienated from the larger society (19632102) and the common ideal of “the widespread
expectation of a ‘reversal of roles’—a typical chosen people myth” which often promises
a change in political and economic circumstances for the faithful (19632108). Wilson
concludes that placing different forms of millenarianism in types and sub-types may
provide explanations of the phenomenon in a general sense. However, he notes that “the
difference of emphasis and perspective of investigators renders systematic comparison
difficult” (19632110), particularly in reference to functional and causal explanations

(19632111).

Harrison (1979) also discusses the difference between millenarianism and

 

8 While he does not cite Linton specifically, this discussion closely resembles the distinctions Linton points
to in his article (1943).

29

millennialism. Harrison’s distinction is not particularly helpful, however, even though it
is telling. He characterizes millennialism as “intellectually sophisticated” and
“respectable, orthodox and scholarly.” Millenarians, on the other hand, are characterized
as “largely self-educated and Adventist” and “popular (or folk)” (Harrison 197925). He
goes on to say that “A simplicity, often crudity, seemed to mark their mentality, for their
reliance on the supernatural enabled them to dispense with many of the limitations
imposed by logic and reason” (197926). This characterization—with millennialists more
intellectually sophisticated and logical than millenarians, a mere ‘folk’ religion—is not a
useful, or indeed correct, distinction. However, it clearly shows some of the assumptions
and biases that imply Christianity-centered superiority. This ethnocentrism is no doubt a
vestige of colonial and post-colonial inquiries in the religion of the ‘Other,’ and these
underlying assumptions continue to plague some analyses.

Edgar (1982) makes this argument in his article about Enoch Mgijma. Mgijma
was a charismatic leader of an Israelite sect in South Africa in the beginning of the
twentieth century. He promised his followers that not only would the millennium come,
but also that his faithful followers would be rewarded when God destroys all the white
people in South Africa. Needless to say, the South African officials were uncomfortable
with this message and assumed that the Israelites were plotting a rebellion. In May 1921
Mgijma and nearly two hundred of his followers were massacred. Edgar notes that while
other charismatic millennialism leaders are studied in detail, “our knowledge of Mgijma
and his sect is still limited to their role in the massacre” and the purpose of his article is to
detail the life of Mgijma and the evolution of his church and beliefs (Edgar 19822403).

Trompf (199022) also briefly addresses the issue of distinguishing between

millenarianism and millennialism:

30

There has been enough clarity in the typologized application of

‘millennium’, ‘millenarism’, etc. to make them stick as useful

categorizations, because there are indeed ideologies and groups for which

the projection of a future Transformation is positively central, and of no

little fascination is the expression of comparable futurological orientations

across diverse cultures.

He goes on to define “the general idea of millennium” as “the approaching
realization of a ‘perfect age or a perfect land’” and notes that this idea is “eminently
capable of being filled out with a variety of imagined prospects in an enormous variety of
contexts” (Trompf 199022). Further, he and several of the authors of the case studies in
the later chapters of the book, recognize the distinctly American form of millennialism
that does not merely wait for the perfect age to arrive, but instead which “has to do with
building the Kingdom of God on the face of the Earth” (Trompf 1990219).

Jeffrey Kaplan (1997) provides one of the more recent discussions of the
complexities of millenarian classifications. In his book Radical Religion in America,
Kaplan examines three religiously based radical apocalyptic movements in contemporary
America: the Christian Identity, Odinism/Asatru, and the B’nai Noah. Kaplan discusses
their very radical doctrines and their rejection of mainstream American culture, as well as
the place of violent acts in these ideologies. In addition, Kaplan devotes one chapter of
the book to examining the Anti-Cult or Watchdog groups that have formed in opposition
to these movements, tracing their origins and ideology as an integral part of the larger
millenarian phenomenon.

In his introductory chapter, Kaplan also touches on some of the problems inherent
in trying to form a classification of millenarian movements. He begins by defining

millenarianism as referring “to the biblical millennium, a 1,000-year post-historical

period seen by Christians as a time of peace and plenty” (Kaplan 19972xiv). Kaplan

31

(19972xiv-xv) then differentiates between the types of millenarianisms:

For some believers, Jesus will return to personally usher in and rule the
chiliastic Kingdom (premillennialism); for others, the millennium will be
purely the result of human effort, with Jesus’ appearance reserved for the
final phase of the drama (postmillennialism). The term “apocalyptic
millenarianism” emphasizes the importance of a cataclysmic denouement
of history as the necessary prelude to the birth of a new and better world.
Apocalyptic millenarians within the Christian tradition are by definition
premillenarians, but it is important to note that most American
premillenarians are not apocalyptic. The point of differentiation centers
on imminence—that is, the belief that the apocalypse is imminent and thus
that some immediate action is incumbent on believers. Apocalyptic
millenarians, therefore, see themselves as actors in the End Time drama.
This engagement in the birth of a “new heaven and a new earth” separates
the apocalyptic millenarian from those premillenarians who shelter in the
promise of rapture, or escape from the worst ravages of the apocalypse.
Finally, “Revolutionary millenarianism” refers to apocalyptic millenarians
engaged in either a nonviolent quest to revolutionize an existing religious
tradition or a movement that may involve a resort to violence in an effort
to upset the sociopolitical status quo, and thus to “force the End.”

Kaplan’s definitions are both helpful and frustrating. His delineating of apocalyptic and
revolutionary millenarianisms is very necessary when examining many of these new
religions in the Christian context of North America. And, while he does note that these
definitions have been expanded to include non-Western religions with “the key
consideration [of] whether or not the belief system emphasizes the reign of a sinless elect
over a posthistorical chiliastic kingdom posited as perfect” (Kaplan 19972xv). He argues
“By adopting this more malleable definition of millenarianism, it is possible to
encompass professedly secular movements such as National Socialism and non-Christian
religious movements such as Odinism” (Kaplan 19972xv). In addition, Kaplan discusses
the phenomenon that he calls “a community of seekers” where adherents have a tendency
toward membership in more than one group or belief system, either simultaneously or in
succession (Kaplan 19972xv-xvii; 164-180). However, he uses the terms millennial and

millenarian interchangeably, as do many others, and this is not particularly helpful when

32

trying to discern the differences between them.

As the above discussion illustrates, millenarianism and millennialism are often
used interchangeably. Moreover, when they are separated, the categories often tell us
more about the researcher than the social movement, as the “us vs. them” approach of
Harrison clearly demonstrates. If we are to ever understand millenarianism as a social
phenomenon, we must be clear about the terms we are using, and we cannot view some
movements as distinctly different just because they are found within our own cultural,
religious and historic contexts.

For the purposes of this dissertation, I am using these terms in very specific ways.
Millenarianism describes collectivist religious social movements that are found in many
different societies and usually occur at times of change and upheaval. Millenarian
ideology promises the imminent end of the present world order and the establishment of a
new and radically different one. Through divine intervention, worldly social and material
realities will reverse, and the result will be an earthly paradise reward for a faithful group
of individuals. This earthly paradise is sometimes envisioned as a return to a mythic past,
as in the case of the Ghost Dance revitalization movements among nineteenth-century
Native North Americans, or, conversely, as a reversal of present social and economic
roles in the imminent future. Not surprisingly, millenarianism tends to appeal to those
who are dispossessed both culturally and economically, and these movements are often
found in colonial contexts. These phenomena have been the subject of anthropological
inquiry by Linton, Wallace, Worsley, Hobsbawm, and Lawrence, to name just a few.

Millennialism, on the other hand, refers to a specific type of millenarian
movement that is only found in Christian contexts. This is a belief in a future

millennium, or thousand-year post-historical period seen by Christians as a time of peace

33

and plenty. While all of these are to some extent based on Revelations 20, specific
interpretations and predictions can vary widely. Namely, there is a sharp divide between
those who believe Christ will return at the beginning of the millennium
(premillennialists), and, in contrast, those who believe Christ will only be present for the
final phase of the end-time drama (postmillennialists). And for the purposes of this
dissertation, I will use ‘millennialism’ to describe only the Christian manifestation of this
movement, and ‘millenarianism’ to describe the wider phenomenon in general, which
includes the categories of millennialism, cargo cults, revivalistic movements, and other
examples within it.
INTENTIONAL COMMUNITIES

At this point, it is useful to turn to works that examine millennial groups in the
United States specifically. Many of these can be found in literature dealing with
intentional communities and communitarian movements. Nineteenth century American
society saw the founding of literally hundreds of communitarian groups (Mandelker
1984, Oved 1988, Pitzer 1997). These communities were founded on planned ideologies
and were often aimed at reforming society. Bounded by common beliefs, these
communities arise as an attempt to live within the ideals outlined in those beliefs, and are
often religious in nature (examples include the Shakers, the Mormons, and the Oneida
Perfectionists). Other communities were those committed to changing the fundamental
structure of society but did not emphasize a particular religious belief (examples include
the Fourierists, Harmony and New Harmony), while still others emphasized mainly
economic ideals and reforms (examples include Communia in Iowa, the Kaweah colony
in California, as well as Llano Del Rio outside of Los Angeles and Newllano in

Louisiana).

34

The term “intentional community” is relatively recent in the literature, and is
very purposefully. As many scholars have noted, the communities that are included
under “communal'or communitarian” are an incredibly diverse set of social groups,
are often continually evolving. Attempts to categorize this diverse set have resulted
several different characterizations (secular and nonsecular; collective, cooperative, 2
communal, etc.), but none of these aiding in the understanding of these communities
broader anthropological perspective. Communal living has numerous forms: some
groups share all possessions in common, others still retain ownership of personal ite
and only share economic interests and community wide endeavors. Further, many g
change their degree of “communalness” over time, as they adapt to various internal .
external pressures.

For this reason, the large majority of communal studies scholars have adopte
term intentional community. As Miller (19982xix) notes:

it makes sense to define communitarianism not so much in terms of form

as in terms of impulse, of motivation. When people chose to live together

and share at least some of their resources for the common good or for the

betterment of the world, something communal has happened. Once the
prime impulse has proceeded to be embodied in a particular outward form,
we are talking details, not essence.
In this way an attempt can be made to understand the ideological and social process:
that form the basis of communitarianism, instead of just the material reflection that I
make. Miller (19982xx-xxii) goes on to suggest a set of criteria necessary to define :
intentional community: 1) “a sense of common purpose and of separation from the
dominant society”; 2) “some form and level of self-denial, of voluntary suppression

individual choice for the good of the group”; 3) “geographic closeness and a clear st

focus”; 4) members with regular, personal interaction at a level deeper than found in

35

larger society; 5) economic sharing in some form; 6) actually attempting to live their
communal design in a real existence; and 7) a size of more than five individuals, “some
of whom must be unrelated by biology or exclusive intimate relationship.”

Scholarly literature about intentional communities focuses on reconstructing the
history of specific groups and charting how they change over time. In part, this is a
temporal phenomenon, and by the early 19803 intentional communities were examined in
increasingly analytical ways. While large numbers of more recent works still operate
within this case history approach, many also ask broader questions that cannot be
addressed by examining just one community, and there is a widening of topics and
questions investigated. These include: 1) the importance and wider implications of
communal studies; 2) why and when intentional communities are founded, and why they
fail; 3) aspects of seclusionism and interactions with the outside world; 4) relationships
within an intentional community and their impact on maintaining social structure.
Importance and Implications

Donald Pitzer, one of the main figures in the field of communal studies, discussed
their importance in his keynote address to the Tenth Annual Historic Communal Societies
Conference (Pitzer 1984). Pitzer begins by defining commune as “a small voluntary
social unit partly isolated from the general society in which the members share an
economic union and lifestyle in an attempt to implement, in part at least, their ideal
ideological, religious, political, social, economic, and educational systems” (Pitzer
19842219). He points to several studies showing that “Approximately 600 communal
societies are known to have existed in English colonial America and the United States

before1965” (Pitzer 1984:219-220). In addition, he states that “the communal explosion

36

since 1965, which can only be described as a new order of communitarian phenomenon,
100,000 communal groups have been formed in this country” (Pitzer 19842220).

Pitzer goes on to outline four larger areas of social science inquiry where
communal studies have the potential to significantly contribute: 1) community vs.
individuality; 2) cooperation vs. competition; 3) authority vs. equality; 4) utopia vs.
dystopia (Pitzer 19842221). For the first, Pitzer argues that “Americans since the mid-
nineteenth century have been forced increasingly to choose between the qualities of
community (Gemeinshaft) and the characteristics of the marketplace (Gesellschaft)”
(Pitzer 19842222). With Gesellschaft emphasizing individualism, this end of the
spectrum is usually assumed to be more impersonal. Pitzer argues that communal
societies, emphasizing a family-like existence, are often viewed as an alternative in
society. However, Pitzer notes that individualism and communalism are not necessarily
mutually exclusive and provides several examples where this is not the case (Pitzer
19842222-223).

The issues involved with cooperation vs. competition are also addressed in
communal studies. As Pitzer observes, “Numerous communal societies have
demonstrated an effective balance between cooperative collectivism internally and
competitive capitalism externally” (Pitzer 19842224). Many religious communes point to
a series of verses in Acts that lay out the principles of communal living and, through their
own interpretation, attempt to realize this cooperative lifestyle in their community. Pitzer
argues that developmental communalism is essential to the survival of both religious and
secular communities. He defines this as “the practice of using communal living and
cooperative economy as necessary components during the formative stages of a

movement” (Pitzer 19842227). If this process is altered over time to meet changing

37

conditions and community needs, Pitzer argues, the community will more likely survive
(Pitzer 19842227).

Pitzer then discusses types of communal relations. At one end of the spectrum are
authoritarian groups (often religious communities), and at the other are egalitarian
groups—almost always secular and most short—lived (Pitzer 19842230). Many scholars
have examined how members’ lives are regirnented, and how this structure affects the
individual, the community, and the success or failure of the commune. Pitzer provides
numerous examples these (Pitzer 1984:230-23 7) and argues that these studies have much
to add to discussions with similar foci in the social sciences in general.

For his last category, utopia vs. dystopia, Pitzer states, “for three centuries
American communal societies have given us attractive examples of microcosrnic utopias
and microcosmic dystopias” (Pitzer 19842238). He argues that “When Americans have
balanced community and individuality, cooperation and competition, authority and
equality with communal living, their accomplishments have been remarkable” and he
points to communitarianism as a nonviolent method of social change (Pitzer 1984223 8).
However, as Pitzer notes, “unlike its rivals of gradual reform through legislation or
immediate reform through political revolution, communitarianism has not proven
effective as a means of altering human institutions or the human condition on national or
international levels, with the possible exception of the kibbutzim of Israel” (Pitzer
1984223 8). Instead, the emphases and ideals of these communities reflect the perceived
threats or aspects of the changing society that are not seen favorably by all of its citizens.
For example, many of the utopian societies reacting to industrialism emphasized the
value of face-to-face societies and tried actively to weed out notions of individualism,

social class, and inequality. It can be argued that these ideals point directly to aspects of

38

the changing larger social context. In this way, social scientists can examine their ideals
as indicators of how large-scale social change is perceived by its citizens (Pitzer
19842240).

Susan Love Brown discusses the significance of intentional communities not just
in regard to dialogues in the social sciences (as Pitzer does), but instead focuses on their
relationship to the state. She argues that “all communities in the world today exist within
the context of larger societies” and that these communities “constitute viable units for the
study of state societies” as a “powerful means of integrating the individual and society”
while “providing a focus for the study of change” (Brown 2002b: 153). She then goes on
to assert that one type of community, intentional communities, is “a product of state
societies” and that “intentional communities as revitalization movements constitute an
important form of cultural critique” (Brown, 2002b2153). Through the process creating
their social structure and community, intentional community members are (directly or
indirectly) enumerating what they find wrong with the larger society. This is particularly
true in the case of gender roles. Most communities objected to the prevalent gender roles
in society, and aimed to change them within their community.9

Others have made similar arguments, linking the needs of the state and the
existence of communal societies. Matarese and Salmon (1995) argue that the study of
abnormal patterns of psychological behavior in communal societies can illuminate two
areas of inquiry. First, “communal societies are sometimes perceived as benevolent
environments which promote positive social growth and maturation and where the types

of behavior problems that plague other communities are presumably minimized”

39

(Matarese and Salmon 1995225). In this article, Matarese and Salmon overview sevi
works that have noted the low rates of crime, delinquency, and suicide, including Ba
Shenker’s study of Hutterite society (Shenker 1986). Matarese and Salmon’s secon<
major argument is that “communal societies may also be viewed as therapeutic
environments where individuals experiencing a sense of religious or social crisis cor
find either temporary or permanent relief from the harsh realities of the outside worl
(Matarese and Salmon 1995225).

Forster and Metcalf (2000) also contribute to this topic, but in a different waj
While examining the relationship between communal groups and the rest of society,
argue that communal groups are “the outcome of society’s attempts to marginalise it
change agents” (Forster and Metcalf 200021). Instead of viewing communal groups
laboratories of social experimentation and change, as many scholars have (Forster ar
Metcalf200021-3), Forster and Metcalf offer an alternative interpretation. They argt
that “Another aspect of the relationship between communalism and wider society is
role which communal groups often fulfill in removing or isolating ‘disruptive’ peopl
from the rest of mainstream society” (Forster and Metcalf 2000:3). They go on to
provide examples of governments pushing “deviant” and “potentially disruptive”
individuals into communal living (Forster and Metcalf 2000:4-7). Forster and Metcz
argue that this is possibly done on the part of the state for the sake of social stability
“homeostatic mechanisms, including marginalisation and banishment of radical, cha
oriented individuals and groups into intentional communities, as the means to restore

that society an Optimum level of change” (Forster and Metcalf 200028). However,

 

9 See Wagner 1986 and Hughes 2001 for overviews of this topic.

40

whether their argument can be generalized to all (or even most) intentional communit
remains to be seen.
F oundings and F ailings

As Pitzer points out, the creation of intentional communities and the number c
them at any given time can be used as a measure of how rapid and how massive socia
change is taking place in the larger society, or at least how extreme this social change
perceived to be by people experiencing it (Pitzer 1984). Many scholars have examin
this phenomena in the attempt to connect documented episodes of increased numbers
‘foundings’ with larger societal change.

One of the first substantial arguments was made by Barkun (1984). He argues
“the distribution of communal experiments strongly suggests the existence of a utopia
cycle with a moderately predictable rhythm” (Barkun 1984235). Barkun documents ft
waves of intense communal activity (1984236). The first is in the early nineteenth
century and is largely initiated by Miller and his followers.10 Barkun places the secor
wave at the very end of the nineteenth century, and links it to rising popularism, notin
that many more secular groups are part of this wave. Barkun argues that this is due to
changing definition of human salvation that emphasizes economic success. The third
wave, according to Barkun, takes place during the Great Depression and is characteri:
by the unprecedented levels of the federal government’s involvement in restructuring
economy and social life. The fourth wave, not surprisingly, is the 19603 and is closel;
linked to a rapidly changing society, technologically, politically, economically, and

socially. Barkun argues (utilizing Nikolai Kondratiev’s long wave theory) that these

41

waves of intense communal activity are linked to and caused by the expansion and
contraction of the economy (Barkun 1984243). He defines long waves in contrast to more
frequent business cycles, as representing “alternating times of expansion and crisis in
industrial economies” (Barkun 1984243). Barkun links his waves of communal activity
to the four “downswing” periods that Kondratiev documents: 1) 1815-the late 18403; 2)
18703 to a low point of 1896; 3)l920 to the late 19303; 4) early 19503 to 1972 (Barkun
1984243). Barkun goes on to argue, “So long as a cycle of boom and bust obtained, and
affected the national well-being, its low points were apt to induce a questioning of
received ideas and an equivalent willingness to examine other routes to the good society”
(Barkun 1984248).

In his 1992 book, America’s Utopian Experiments: Communal Havens from
Long- Wave Crisis, Brian Berry expands this argument. Also following Kondratiev’s
model, Berry asserts that these communitarian foundings were caused by patterns in
economic crises, specifically correlated with declines in prices, asset values and wealth
(Berry 1992). While most communitarian researchers agree that economics did play a
major role in this pattern, they argue that looking for explanation in purely economic
arenas is missing the mark (Albanese 1999; Butler and Numbers 1993; Chamberlain
1980; Doan 1987; Hayden 1976; Kanter 1972; Kark 1995; Kraushaar 1980; Mandelker
1984; Oved 1988; Pitzer 1997). Instead, they point to intense periods of social change as
a causal factor in the founding of communitarian groups.

Donald Janzen also called Berry’s argument into question in his 2002 paper

presented at the annual meeting of the Communal Studies Association. In this paper, he

 

IO . . . . . . . . .
The context of this movement rs consrdered in some detail in Chapter 3 of this dissertation.

42

charted the waves of communal activity documented by Berry and then compared them
to increases in population in the United States. While preliminary, his findings suggest
that these waves also correspond to periods of rapid population increases.

Nonetheless, the idea that the founding of these communities cycles with periods
of intense social change (e.g., the industrial revolution) has remained a central interest in
many theoretical discussions. This is largely because, if true, the idealized social
structure put in place by intentional communities and their subsequent change over time
reflects perceptions and reactions to larger social phenomenon. Regardless of the degree
of isolation from the wider society, intentional communities are still a part of this larger
society, and while they reject some cultural ideals, they invariably incorporate others.

However, the above discussions of the ‘foundings’ of intentional communities are
not the only stage in community development that has inspired much scholarship. The
literature attempting to explain how and why communities fail is also a large focus of
communal studies. From the earliest examinations of communal groups, there has been
an assumption of failure or an idea that failure is inevitable. For this reason, many
scholars, in their case histories and analyses, emphasize explaining why communities
failed, with the assumption that all intentional communities fail, and the changes
particular groups underwent are viewed through this somewhat deterministic and biased
lens.ll

Wagner (1985) summarized the different measures of success in scholarly
literature, outlining seven different criteria or definitions of success. These are (Wagner

1985291 -99)2 whether or not the community accomplishes its own goals; if they approach

43

their objective of social perfection; the length of time to community lasts; the size of the
community; the level of social cohesiveness that the community attains; the degree to
which the community influences the larger society; whether or not the community
provides for the personal growth of its individual members. As Wagner notes, this list
does not include all of the measures that have been used; instead, it represents those that
are used most frequently. While an argument can be made in each case for its use in
measuring success, none are without shortcomings. For example, as Wagner (1985299)
points out, it can be argued that all communes fail, “because all the known examples
either ceased to exist after a few years or became progressively rigid and conservative.”
However, “while the argument appears at first to make some sense, it does not stand up to
logical scrutiny, for it applies one criterion—that of longevity—to the short-lived groups,
and another—some vaguely implied notion of social perfection as Openness to
change—to those that endured for a long time” (Wagner 1985299). Wagner (19852100)
concludes that “scholarship might be better served if we eschew the term ‘success’
altogether in favor of more specific and informative substitutes.”

In recognition of these issues, Pitzer (1997) argues for the use of a developmental
model. Instead of measuring the success or failure of a community, this approach
“examines whole movements and how they change over time, from their idealistic origins
to their communal stages, and beyond” (Pitzer 1997212). Further, “the communes of the
most vital historic and current movements are creatively engaged in a developmental
process that both precedes and may extend well after their communal phase” (Pitzer

1997212). Using this approach allows researchers to “clearly depict how and why certain

 

H For early examples see Hinds 1908, Gide 1930, Bestor 1950 and Holloway I951.

44

movements chose the discipline of communal living to survive or to implement a utopian
plan and why certain of them later moved beyond the close fellowship and collective
strength of a communal period into other ways of organizing that proved better for their
movement’s development” (Pitzer 1997212). In this way, the developmental
communalism combines three of the criteria noted by Wagner in their evaluation
(achieving their own objectives, servicing the needs of their members, and their influence
on society) and embeds their communal phase in the context of longer histories and the
larger context of social movements.

Similarly, Kitts (2000) points out that previous studies have focused on either the
internal structure of a community, or explaining the rise and fall of communities in terms
of their indications of social change, but not both. He argues instead, for a “dynamic
structural” approach, where internal and external factors are taken into account within the
context of larger social movements, while at the same time carefully monitoring how
these factors affect boundary issues (i.e., inter-communal coalitions and ties outside the
group) and other structural changes with measures like membership turnover rates, size,
and internal conflicts (Kitts 2000:21-23).

Regardless of whether or not these ‘new’ approaches will be able to successfully
balance the internal and external complexities, it is clear that by the mid-19803 that the
particularistic histories of individual communities was no longer adequate. Several
researchers attempted to examine intentional communities’ relationships, both internally
and externally, as the next two sections demonstrate.

External Relationships
Several scholars have examined the relationship between communal groups and

the outside world (i.e., Hoehnle 2000, Janzen 1981, Okugawa 1983, Oved 1983,

45

Weisbrod 1992). Janzen (1981239) argues that in all communal societies, both historic
and contemporary, while interactions and events within the community are not
determined by events in the national community, they also “do not exist in a cultural
vacuum.” Instead, they operate on two levels, functioning on one level “as a closed unit
while at the same time interacting with the larger national society for many of its needs”
(J anzen 1981237). Janzen is particularly interested in where intentional and national
communities overlap. He calls this the communal interface (1981239), and argues that in
most community histories, this communal interface is only part of the analysis at the
origin and decline of the community, and it is not examined in the time between those
two events, or is de-emphasized (Janzen 1981240). However, an approach that takes this
communal interface into account for the entire duration of the community “might
possibly lead to avenues of thinking that would otherwise be overlooked” (J anzen
1981239). Janzen (1981240) provides an example of this in the economies of the nation
and the community:

In economic transactions the national community played the dominant role

since it provided the monetary system, demand for products, and the

market system. When the national economy was strong the communal

society had the greatest potential for a strong economy, and when panics

and economic difficulties existed at the national level they were usually

felt in the intentional community. Therefore, to some extent, all

intentional communities tied their economic subsystem to that of the

national community.
Janzen goes on to argue that if the communal group’s economic interests became too
aligned with the national economic interests, then the structure and ideology of the

intentional community would be seriously jeopardized, particularly if one of its central

tenets was separation from the outside world (Janzen 1981241).

46

Yaacov Oved (1983) is also interested in ideas of seclusionism in intentional
communities, but he concludes something quite different than Janzen. Beginning with
the early histories of communal societies (namely Hinds, Hillquit, Noyes, and Albertson),
communes were portrayed as wanting “to seclude themselves in remote places, as far as
possible from densely populated areas” (Oved 1983283). This assumption was then
adopted by later historians, “although some of them took a more analytic approach based
on a division between religious and secular communes” (Oved 1983:83). In what Oved
calls “modern” approaches, the importance of seclusionism assumption continues. Oved
discusses one such example: Kanter (1972) in her study of how commitment impacts the
survival of communes. In this very influential book, Kanter “observed that the element
of withdrawal from society was one of the important components in building
commitment” (Oved 1983284). Oved (1983184) argues that “the conclusion to be drawn
from her research was that there was a direct correlation between the degree of seclusion
and the survival of the commune.”

Mandelkar (1984), among others, also took issue with aspects of her definition of
success. Instead, he chose to focus on how the internal dynamics of religious prophecy
and belief are important, particularly as those change during the life of the community.
Focusing specifically on Kanter’s claim that communes either fail in that they dissolve or
did not follow their initial ideals. Mandelkar (198424) asks the question “At what point
does dynamism undermine ideals, transforming the utopia from a value-based community
to one whose fimdamental value is community?”

Oved (1983284) wants “to go beyond the generalizations and reach concrete
historical information in the context of several different communities.” In this article, he

focuses on the Shakers, the Harmonists, the Amana, the Oneida, Zoar, and Bethe]-

47

Aurora, six successful communities. Of these, he (1983284) said, “An element of retreat
is found in the religious ideology of all. But with an examination of the pattern of
relationships that were found during the course of the communities’ development as
social and economic units, it becomes clear that the desire to withdraw was not fulfilled
and slowly disappeared.”

Oved (1983:85-87) found that all of these communities exhibited different kinds
of relationships with the outside. These were: 1) relations with the surrounding
population or neighbors; 2) opening their doors to visitors and tourists; 3) contact with
the American government, including holding citizenship, voting, etc.; 4) business ties (by
far the largest set of relationships for all the communities); 5) involvement with the court
system, particularly in cases of disagreements with local institutions and ex-members; 6)
charitable work, including taking in children to educate them. Oved concludes that
communes that wanted to seclude themselves found this difficult, and those that wanted a
relationship with the outside had to keep those relationships distant to some extent. He
(1983292) also does not see seclusion as “as a sure recipe for success and long life of a
community.”

Other scholars have also focused on the relationships between different
intentional communities. While some have concentrated on a specific community’s
relationships with other communitarian groups, (e. g., Hoehnle 2000), others have made
more large-scale inquiries. The most substantial of these analyses are based on
Okugawa’s annotated list of communal societies from 1787-1919 (Okugawa 1980).
Using these 270 communities (127 sectarian and 143 nonsectarian), Okugawa (1983)
examined their interdependence. Okugawa (1983:68-69) argues “The traditional mode of

analysis, based upon how a single commune dies or survives, puts a restriction on full

48

scientific inquiry.” He found several types of interdependence among these
communities, including sharing of resources, skills, information, capital and equipment.
In addition, Okugawa (1983:69-70) separated out the different kinds of interrelatedness.
These are 1) a branch or offshoot, 2) ideological confederates, 3) schismatic, 4)
sequential (including relocating, repeating efforts, new attempts and attempted
imitations), and 5) parent communities.

Several interesting topics emerge from comparing communities on a broad scale.
For example, Okugawa examined community members’ migration patterns at three
points in time: at origin, during the community’s lifespan, and after the community
ended. This produced some intriguing results. For instance, of the 270 communities in
the total population, at the time of their founding, 172 had new members that came from
previous communal experiments. Further, when looking after a community dissolved,
members of 166 communes moved on to join other communes. Okugawa found that 62-
76% involved some kind of intercommunal migration at some point in time (Okugawa
1983271). Findings like these are intriguing because they point to social patterns that go
beyond the bounds of any one community, and they directly challenge the “lifespan of
one community” approach to understanding intentional communities as a social
phenomenon. Okugawa (1983282) summarizes it this way:

The types of interrelatedness and the patterns of migration clearly show

that even when a group did not “survive” it often went on to live again in

another commune—usually a related one. The larger communitarian

world can thus be Viewed as a living one that maintained its vitality well

beyond the late nineteenth century and well beyond the usual terms of

death and survival.

In addition, if this pattern of migration was further broken down in order to follow the

specific path of individuals, one might be able, in combination with other biographical

49

material, to possibly discern patterns in the types of personalities or other individual
characteristics that may help us understand why certain individuals choose to leave
society and join these often extreme communities in the first place.

This type of macro-analysis may also lead us to some very important insights
about the cultural critique aspect of the intentional communities. For instance, Miller
(19982xii-xiii) notes that the 18603 mark an important turning point for intentional
communities. Before this time, intentional communities were largely self-sufficient, and
members did not spend much time away from their community. However (Miller
1998 :xii-xiii):

with the rise of separation of labor and diversified economies in the

nineteenth century, communes tended to expand their interrelationships

with the rest of the world. Just as individuals and families now tend not to

be subsistence farmers but wage earners who are inextricably imbedded in

a vast social fabric, most intentional communities interact daily with the

outside world.

For this reason, intentional communities formed after the 18603 tend to have much more
interaction with the outside world, and this becomes especially apparent if one compares
nineteenth and twentieth century intentional communities. Further, the there is also an
increase in the diversity of communal forms, particularly in the twentieth century.
Internal Relationships

The most influential contribution to the understanding of internal relationships
among intentional communities comes from Rosabeth Moss Kanter’s Commitment and
Community, published in 1972. While others had examined internal relationships before,
none had attempted a study of this scale. She examined commitrnent-building

mechanisms in nineteenth century intentional communities. Defining the success of a

community by its longevity (see the previous section), her sample included nine

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communities that lasted more than 25 years and 21 that lasted less than sixteen years.

According to Kanter (1972264), all communal groups face the same set of
organizational problems:

How to get the work done, but without coercion; How to ensure that

decisions are made, but to everyone’s satisfaction; How to build close,

fulfilling relationships, but without exclusiveness; How to choose and

socialize new members; How to include a degree of autonomy, individual

uniqueness, and even deviance; How to ensure agreement and shared

perception around community functioning and values.

For Kanter (1972265), the key to all of these is commitment: “Committed members work
hard, participate actively, derive love and affection from the communal group, and
believe strongly in what the group stands for. For communes, the problem of
commitment is crucial.”

Kanter (1972266) defines commitment as the “the willingness of people to do
what will help maintain the group because it provides what they need” and argues that the
success of a community relies in large part on their ability to build commitment in their
members. When an individual is committed to a group, “the maintenance of his own
internal being requires behavior that supports the social order” (Kanter 1972:66). In
order for this to happen, the relationship between the individual and the group must be
reciprocal; that is, the individual must not be sacrificing, behaviorally or emotionally,
more than what the community is giving back. In this way, “commitment links self-
interest to social requirements” (Kanter 1972:66).

Kanter (1972267) sees three major aspects of the social system that involve
commitment. The first is continuance or retention. This reflects the individual’s

willingness to stay in the social system. The second is cohesion, or the ability of the

group to stick together, particularly in the context of external threats to the group’s

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existence. Finally, social control is important, or “the readiness of people to obey the
demands of the system, to conform to its values and beliefs and take seriously its
dictates” (Kanter 1972267).

After a fairly complex analysis of her data (sorted into forty categories and then
examining a set of protocols for each community), Kanter finds that there are three
commitment mechanisms that tie an individual to the social system: instrumental,
affective, and moral. Each of these, in turn, is maintained by two different types of social
processes.

Instrumental commitment involves continued participation in the system. In order
for an individual to stay in such a social system, the “cost” of leaving the system has to
be higher than staying (Kanter 1972:68-69). The mechanisms that sustain instrumental
commitment are sacrifice (detaching) and investment (attaching) (Kanter 1972:70-72).
With membership, the individual must sacrifice “something that is considered valuable or
pleasurable in order to belong to the organization” (Kanter 1972272). Investment ensures
the member “a stake in the group” (Kanter 1972272). With both current and future profits
only coming from the group, the member must continue to participate in order to realize
those profits, and this often involves giving up control of individual resources (Kanter
1972272).

Affective commitment involves a commitment to a set of social relationships and
group solidarity (Kanter 1972269). Group cohesion ensures strong emotional bonds, and
a better ability to withstand threats to the group’s existence. The mechanisms that sustain
affective commitment are renunciation (detaching) and communion (attaching).
Renunciation is “giving up competing relationships outside the communal group and

individualistic, exclusive attachments within” and “it is to this unit alone that members

52

look for emotional satisfaction and to which they give their loyalty and commitment”
(Kanter 1972273). Communion brings individual members into meaningful contact with
the group, and here they build a “we-feeling” (Kanter 1972273).

Moral commitment involves upholding a set of norms, obeying the authority of
the group, and supporting its values (Kanter 1972269). In the best case, moral
commitment is internalized by the member: “When demands made by the system are
evaluated as right, moral, just, or expressing one’s own values, obedience to these
demands becomes a normative necessity, and sanctioning by the system is regarded as
appropriate” (Kanter 1972269). The mechanisms for this type of commitment are
mortification (detaching) and transcendence (attaching). Mortification is the “submission
of private states to social control” and involves the individual giving up his or her former
identity in exchange for one formulated by the community (Kanter 1972274). The
mechanism of transcendence is a “process whereby an individual attaches his decision-
making prerogative to a power greater than himself, surrendering to the higher meaning
contained by the group” (Kanter 1972274). In short, “Mortification causes the person to
‘lose himself; transcendence permits him to find himself anew in something larger and
greater” (Kanter 1972274). While all communities operated some sort of commitment
mechanisms, no successful community in her study utilized all of these, and the form that
they took is also not standardized.

Even though there were some problems with Kanter’s approach (for example, the
definition of success—see previous section—and her lack of complexity in her analysis
of their failure), it is undeniable that this work has had an immeasurable impact in
intentional communities studies. As one reviewer said her book is “a major contribution,

not only to the understanding of nineteenth-century utopian communities but also to the

53

structural analysis of any corporate group. No sociology of organization can henceforth
ignore her contribution” (Pitts 19732355). Indeed, almost all of the studies about
intentional communities, whether particularistic or comparative, use or test her
commitment mechanisms in some way, especially those studies that concentrate on
internal relationships.

Of particular note in recent literature is Intentional Community: An
Anthropological Perspective (2002), edited by Susan Love Brown. Each of the six case
studies utilizes Victor Tumer’s (1967, 1969, 1975) concepts of liminality and
communitas to examine how intentional communities maintain their membership over
time. In communitarian societies, building and sustaining community and commitment
between individuals is of the utmost importance, particularly as internal and external
pressures mount (Kanter 1972). These authors argue that the maintenance liminality and
communitas is essential to the longevity of an intentional community, and that
charismatic leaders often consciously put specific social mechanisms in place towards
this end. Kamau (2002217) argues that life in communal societies is separated from life
in normal society by three characteristics: “the condition of liminality, leadership that is
charismatic, and an emotional state known as communitas.” The condition of liminality
exists when “the normal structures of daily life [are] absent” and “boundaries become
fluid and identity becomes ambiguous” (Kamau 2002218). Social classifications and the
constraints of ordinary life are gone, and normal social rules and distinctions are inverted.
Kamau (2002219) describes it in the following way:

Liminal conditions can be found in a number of situations, some of brief

duration, some occurring over long periods of time. They include

initiations, religious pilgrimages, monasticism, boot camps, revolutionary

groups, and intentional communities. In all these situations, life is lived
outside normal society and on the margins. In all of them normal social

54

rules are inverted and normal social distinctions are abandoned. In losing

their old status, individuals are reborn as something different from what

they were before. They are leveled and stripped of their old identities and

they are joined together in a commonality. Differences no longer matter,

and people are no longer kept apart. Instead, they are bound together.

Going on to discuss the liminal characteristics of intentional communities, Kamau
(2002220) argues that these communities are separated from the rest of society by
physical, social and ideological realities. Intentional communities are usually
geographically isolated in one way or another. They reject normal economic life, and
there is often a reversal of sex roles, ranging from complete celibacy to complete
promiscuity (Andelson 1985; Foster 1981, 1991; Lauer and Lauer 1983). Regardless of
the form, these new forms of sexuality functioned to foster group cohesion and set the
members apart from the outside world. This new common identity is highly symbolized,
sometimes through common costume or foodways, and often ritualized in daily practice.

Communitarian groups are often led by charismatic leaders.l2 Weber (1947:358-
359) defined charisma in the following way:

a certain quality of an individual personality, by virtue of which he is set

apart from ordinary men and treated as endowed with supematural,

superhuman, or at least specifically exceptional powers or qualities. These

are such as are not accessible to the ordinary person, but are regarded as of

divine origin or as exemplary, and on the basis of them the individual

concerned is treated as a leader.

Charismatic leaders become, in Tumer’s terms (1969), adepts, while their
followers become neophytes and obey the leader without question. This leveling

promotes what Turner (1967) calls communitas: “neophytes often develop close

attachments to each other” and “communitas can provoke strong feelings between

 

'2 For a lengthier discussion of charismatic leaders in intentional communities, see Melton 1991 and
Mandelkar 1984.

55

persons who in normal life would never communicate, much less love each other”
(Kamau 2002224). In this way intentional communities attempt perpetuate what Turner
(1969:177-178) calls ideological communitas, where communitas is intentionally
maintained “often allowing these religious movements to survive even while becoming
highly structured” (Siegler 2002243)

Communitas is difficult to sustain, however, and is “most suited for short-term
liminal states such as ritual initiations” (Kamau 2002224). Charisma can decline.
Internal social distinctions can arise. And, as Kamau (2002225) notes, “explicitly or
implicitly, the feeling of communitas is desired by many members of intentional
communities, because it can make the renunciation of the world seem worthwhile.
Communities have varied, however, in the extent to which they have been able to achieve
communitas and retain it.” This is often a central concern to the leaders of intentional
communities, and different communities developed different social mechanisms to
maintain this liminal state and communitas, with varying degrees of success.

It is important to note that I am not using Tumer’s concept of communitas in
exactly the same way he and others have. Communitas is a feeling of belonging and
togetherness that, in the case of intentional communities, is often built through a shared
experience or sense of struggle or sacrifice. Through the ritualizing of daily life and the
communal experience of this, a conscious attempt is made to sustain liminality in the
context of ordinary social life, in this way transcending aspects of worldliness with
sacredness. Individuals are thus continually re-bound together and communitas is
maintained. In many ways, my use of communitas is a combination of concepts found in
Tumer’s work on ritual and Kanter’s work on commitment.

While many scholars note the emphasis on material culture in these communities,

56

all but a few studies of intentional community neglect to examine the role played by the
central place of material culture in maintaining ideology and communitas—Hayden’s
(1976) comparison of the architecture of seven communitarian groups is the notable
exception. Community members deliberately incorporated ideologies of social reform
into the planning and organization of utopian societies. These ideologies often resulted in
the restructuring of fundamental social relations such as class, family, and gender.
Communitarian groups used material culture to set themselves apart from the outside
world (through clothing, uses of technology, and industrial endeavors), to reflect ideology
and social structure (through landscape designs, subsistence practices, settlement
patterning, architectural forms), and to reinforce ideology and social relations within the
group. Material culture served as an active medium to both reflect and reinforce social
ideals, and community members were often keenly aware of the symbolic meanings
represented in artifacts. In this way, material culture can be seen as simultaneously
constituted and constitutive. Further, when the intentional communities were under
extreme pressure, whether from the within or without, they used material culture to
reinforce aspects of community and common beliefs in an attempt to maintain
communitas. These uses, or “interferences” (Wobst 2000242), of material culture were
not unconscious, and the leaders of these communities often developed explicit strategies
using material symbols as a means of fostering group cohesion and reinforcing ideology.
For this reason, intentional communities are ideal settings in which to investigate the

interaction between material culture and ideology.

57

CHAPTER 3
MILLENNIAL GROUPS IN THE US.

With respect to historically documented eras, nineteenth— and twentieth-century
America is an ideal place to investigate issues of social movement and social change
from an anthropological perspective. The Antebellum period was a formative period of
American nation-building characterized by intense change: the Second Great Awakening
fundamentally changed worldviews and the religious landscape; new ideologies of public
vs. private spheres, domesticity and gender forever changed the form and function of the
American family; industrialization drastically changed workplaces, work populations,
ideologies and economics as well as social structure; numerous other social movements
(e.g., abolition, temperance, and mission movements) attacked social ills in an attempt to
change American society. Each of these arenas impacted the others, complexly
articulating to modify social relations on all levels, from the individual to the societal.
Much the same can be said for the post-reconstruction rise of modernity. Numerous
scholars have noted that the rapid change of the late nineteenth- and early twentieth-
century, including increased urbanism, the prevalence of the middle class, and the rise of
mass consumerism, are essential to understanding our culture and ideology today and
played substantial roles in shaping American society as we know it today. As such, these
periods offer the unusual opportunity to integrate anthropological and historical
perspectives in order to better understand social movements and social change.

In the first section of this chapter, these two periods are briefly overviewed paying
particular attention to the impact these social changes had on religion. This is followed
by the history of both groups that serve as case studies for this dissertation, the Oneida

Perfectionists and the House of David/City of David. Finally, this chapter ends with a

58

discussion of methodology for this research, and a summary of the primary ideological
themes from each group that are compared in the material culture analysis.
THE HISTORIC CONTEXT OF MILLENNIAL MOVEMENTS IN THE U.S.

The antebellum period of the United States is traditionally defined as beginning
with the formation of the nation (1789) and ending with the beginning of the Civil War
(1861). These events conveniently frame the antebellum period but are not the only
reason that this period is set apart from what came before and after. American society
before the signing of the Constitution was substantially different than antebellum society.
One factor in this difference was religion. The First Great Awakening, while it affected
citizens’ lives in numerous ways, was not the same in character or in impact as the
Second Great Awakening. The antebellum period was an era of heightened social
change, in the form of economic, social and religious reform, and its impacts can be seen
in the family, institutions, and society. After the Civil War, modernizing themes and
social change took a different turn; society after the Civil War was substantially different
from antebellum society.1

It can be argued that the political and economic history of the United States
cannot be separated from its religious history. And, conversely, the key to understanding
American churches is to be found in the history of the nation. Hence, the story of
religion in the U.S. is central to understanding the nation’s history. Further, Colonial
America is often defined as having been founded by those seeking religious freedom.
Several myths have developed in American history from this initial definition, and these

need to be re-examined (Hudson 1987). Two are worth mentioning here, specifically as

59

they highlight important changes that come later with the Second Great Awakening.

First, the idea that colonial America was a deeply Christian place is mistaken. In
reality, there were very few churches (especially when compared to the 19lh century
U.S.), and membership was not high. The vast majority of colonial Americans did not
belong to a church. In fact, the “common” and poor people in many of the colonies were
denied church membership. For this reason, church members were generally the elite in
communities. In addition, the popular religion of the poor blended many Christian and
magical or occult practices (Hudson 1987211-28). Not surprisingly, during the colonial
period there existed a strong tension between the church elite and popular religion.

The second myth is the idea that colonial American society was an oasis of
religious freedom. In reality, early colonial communities were virtually state theocracies.
Judges were often also the religious leaders, and many of their elite beliefs were
prescribed into law (Butler 1990; Hudson 1987). This oppressed many Native American
and African religious practices specifically. Each of the thirteen colonies had a religious
monopoly, with a coercive power of religious authority (Hudson 1987:29-59). Nine of
the colonies had state established churches. The Massachusetts Bay colony established
taxes to support their clergy, and fines were imposed on those who did not attend church.
For the most part, congregationalism dominated the northeast, with anglicanism
dominating the southern colonies and presbyterianism in others. Only Pennsylvania and
Rhode Island were different. Pennsylvania was made up of a large number of Quakers,
escaping persecution not in England necessarily, but more often in the other colonies. In

addition, William Penn brought many religious groups out of persecution in Germany,

 

t .
See Coclanrs and Bruchey 1999, Ford 1999, Larkin 1988, among others.

60

particularly the Mennonites and the Amish (Hudson 1987:50-59). Rhode Island serves as
another example as it was founded by Roger Williams, after he was banished from
Boston as a heretic (Hudson 1987250-59).

Hudson argues that religious freedom did not come easy to Americans. With the
exception of Massachusetts, the colonies were founded by capitalist endeavors. Soon
those in control of the colonies recognized that there was too much tension between and
within the colonies. For example, only a minority belonged to the state established
churches, and this did not help reduce divisiveness. For this reason, English bankers (the
financial backers for most of the colonial endeavors) encouraged more religious tolerance
among their colonial employees. Hudson argues that religious tolerance came from
England, and that it had explicit economic motives (Hudson 1987). However, while
religious tolerance came from England, the later development of religious freedom is
purely an American development, connected with the development of the structure of the
United States government. Hudson notes that while religious pluralism can be
demonstrated for at the time of American independence, that same pluralism did not
create ideas of religious freedom. The key here is the structural and explicit separation of
church and state. Washington, Jefferson, Madison and others were rationalist is some
sense, and all feared that the church would corrupt the state. They were joined by an
array of religious dissenters (like Quakers, etcetera) who were afraid they would be
pushed out if an official state church were chosen for the United States. The result was a
very curious coalition, and Jefferson’s introduction of a bill in Virginia, where a “wall of
separation” would be between church and state. This bill became a model for the
Constitution, and influenced the opening lines of the First Amendment of the Bill of

Rights (Hudson 1987).

61

In order to understand the nation-building period of the United States and 19‘“
century social movements, both the First and Second Great Awakenings must be
overviewed. The First Great Awakening (sometimes referred to as the Great Awakening)
is generally placed in the years between 1730 and 1760 (McLoughlin 1978). During this
time, largely as a reaction to the calvanism of the Puritans, a more emotionally based
Christianity arose—this is detailed below.

From a concept of pietism that emerged during the Enlightenment, small group
bible readings were perceived to be more intense religious experiences. The spread of
these ideas brought the emergence of a new system of communication, marked by an
explosion in media expression, increased numbers of itinerant preaching, and a new
emphasis on personal conversion (McLoughlin 1978:30-89). This democratization and
humanization of Puritan beliefs at first eroded and then eventually obliterated the largely
calvanist state church system. A denominational system arose in its place, with the
Congregational and Presbyterian churches coming out the big winners in America
(McLoughlin 1978:30-89). McLoughlin argues that the First Great Awakening resulted
in a new national identity, with a secular consequence in the American Revolution. He
argues that before this awakening the colonies were more in touch through commercial
and other ties to England, than to other colonies (for example, mail traveling from South
Carolina to Boston went via England). With the First Great Awakening, the colonies
began to communicate directly between each other (McLoughlin 1978).

The Second Great Awakening is generally placed in the years 1800-1830,
although many scholars use 1790 as its starting date. Many have argued that the principle
theme of the Second Great Awakening is the value of individualism, and its great

invention the revival meeting (McLoughlin 1978:98-140). In contrast to the First Great

62

Awakening, the Second Great Awakening did not take place in both England and
America (Butler 1990; McLoughlin 1978), and, as McLoughlin puts it: “The First
Awakening therefore weakened the old doctrine of predestination, and the Second
Awakening finally subverted it entirely” (McLoughlin 19782114). In addition, the
Second Great Awakening contained a populism, or holding up of the “common” people,
that lead to a confidence in the competence of any believers (Butler 1990). For the first
time, an idea that humans were participating in their own salvation spread, and education
was no longer required for individuals to claim their expertise in matters of theology
(Butler 1990; Hatch 1989; McLoughlin 1978). This gave rise to a definite anti-elite
sentiment, and the big winners of this Awakening (as far as Mnerican denominations go)
were the Methodists and the Baptists—which will be discussed in more detail below
(Butler 1990; Hatch 1989; McLoughlin 1978).

From the American Revolution to 1845, the American population boomed,
increasing from two and a half million to twenty million in seventy years—an eight fold
increase. This dramatic increase is attributed to high birth rates and the availability of
land, rather than immigration rates. (Hatch 1989:3-4). American Christianity also grew
during this time period. In 1775 there were 1800 Christian ministers serving in the
colonies; by 1845 there were almost 40,000-- a twentyitwo-fold increase (Hatch l989:4).
In addition, the religious landscape changed drastically, due to the Second Great
Awakening. In 1775, Congregationalists had twice the clergy of any other American
church; in 1845, the Congregationalists clergy were not more than one tenth of the
preaching force of the Methodists alone (Hatch 198924).

As mentioned before, revival meetings are the main vehicles for much of this

religious movement. Revival meetings were community wide events, usually lead by

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traveling lay preachers (Butler 1990; Cross 1981; Hatch 1989; Hudson 1987; Johnson
1978; Long 1998; McLoughlin 1978; N011 1992). Their impact and reach on the
American population is astounding: some estimates of the time claim that revival
meetings (sometimes referred to as camp meetings) “brought together three to four
million Americans annually-an estimated one-third of the total population” (Hatch
1989249).

Five major themes can be seen in revival preaching, and each is an important
component to understanding the ideas of the Second Great Awakening (find ref for this
one). The first is perfectionism, or the belief that one could perfect oneself. This idea
originated in Matthew 5:48, and was especially important for the Methodists and many of
the communitarian movements (like the Oneida, as will be examined in the next chapter).
The second theme is millennialism. Millennialism is the idea that the last days of the
earth are already here, and the Second Coming of Christ is eminent. After his arrival,
some versions of millennialism see a thousand years of heaven on earth before the end of
the world, others do not (Albanese 1999; Doan 1987). Many people became followers of
John Miller (referred to as Millerites) believing that the end of the earth was coming
specifically in 1843, causing the founding of many societies to prepare for this event
(Doan 1987; Butler and Numbers 1993). A central distinction in millennialism is
between pre-millennial and post-millennial ideas. For pre-millennialists, Christ will
return before the thousand years of heaven on earth, and in the meantime the world
becomes increasingly evil. This is a sign of the closeness of the second coming and the
millennium, when only true believers (often referred to as “the righteous remnant”) will
survive to enjoy the thousand years of heaven on earth. For this reason, pro-millennial

groups have very little interest in improving American society at large and instead focus

64

their energies inward to ensure their salvation. Post-millennialists, on the other hand,
believe that Christians need to prepare society for the second coming, which will occur
after the thousand years of bliss on earth. Some even believe that their accomplishments
in improving society can bring Christ and the ensuing millennium of heaven on earth
sooner (Albanese 1999; Moorehead 19842525).

The third major theme from revivals is universalism. This idea simply, but
somewhat revolutionarily, states that salvation is a gift offered to everyone. Fourth are
the ideas of illuminism, which argued that Christ was in everyone’s heart, and therefore
education and class standing were no longer important requirements for religious
leadership. Finally, the fifth major theme we see in revivals is primitive Christian
restoration. This idea argues that all established churches are corrupt and could not be
reformed. Christians had to restore the true primitive church, and this is one of the major
beliefs that gave rise to the incredible growth of new churches.

Hatch argues that American society in the early part of the 19th century
democratized Christianity and, in turn, religious movements shaped the American
republic (Hatch 1989). He argues that the Second Great Awakening is comparable to the
Reformation, and that religious populism became the agent for social change in the
United States on all levels, from the market (see Licht 1995; Moorehead 1984; Thomas
1989,), to changes in the American family (Coontz 1988; Cott 1997; Frank 1998; Rose
1999; Rotundo 1993; Ryan 1981; West and Petrik 1992) to changes in American
institutions, including education (Cremin 1980), prison systems (Hirsch 1992), and
asylums (Grob 1994), to patterns of urbanization (Johnson 1978). In addition, Hatch
argues that the democratic character of Christianity in the United States is the key to

understanding the differences between Americans and other industrialized nations. For

65

 

Hatch, like many of the authors overviewed in this chapter, religion is not just about
beliefs. Instead it has to do with actions people take and is at the center of social
movements. In this, Hatch agrees with many anthropologists.

The next period of intense social change is often bracketed by the dates 1877-
1920 (Chambers 2000, Curtis 1991, DeSantis 1989, Fox and Lears 1993, Lears 1981,
Rodgers 1978, Susman 2003, Trachtenberg 1982, Wiebe 1967). Many of the changes
already taking place in the United States increased in intensity, including industrialization
and urbanization. For example, in 1790 those living in cities with more than 2500 peOple
accounted for 5.1% of the population (DeSantis 1989: 97). By 1860 urban dwellers were
19.8% of the population, and by 1900 this had risen to 39.7% (DeSantis 1989: 97). But
increasing numbers of people living in urban situations is only half of the story. It is also
significant that these urban dwellers were concentrated in a handful of what became very
large metropolitan areas. New York City had 1.2 million inhabitants in 1850 and by
1900 this number had reached 3 million (DeSantis 1989: 98). During the same time,
Chicago grew from a city of 30,000 to 1.7 million. Similar increases can be found in
Philadelphia, Pittsburgh, Minneapolis, and Los Angeles (DeSantis 1989: 98).

In addition to increased numbers of people in cities, the make-up of the American
population also changed. New York City in the 18903 serves as a prime example: the
Italian population in the city equaled that of Naples; the German population equaled
Hamburg; and the number of Irish living in New York City was double the number living
in Dublin (DeSantis 19892 99). By 1900 75% of the population of Chicago was foreign-
born, and by 1910 foreign-bom residents accounted for an estimated one—third of the
nation’s largest eight cities, while another third were second—generation Americans

(DeSantis 1989299).

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Economically, the United States rapidly rose as manufacturing and industry
expanded at alarming rates. This was in part enabled by the rise of the factory system,
the phenomenal growth of American railroads, and ever-increasing systems of
communication (DeSantis 1989; Trachtenberg 1982). Large-scale industrialization “re-
created American nature into ‘natural resources’ for commodity production”
(Trachtenberg 1982219) while business enterprise and industrial labor re-defined
“capital” and “labor” (Trachtenberg 1982:70-100). These changes did not happen
without resistance (for example, see the “Agrarian Revolt” DeSantis 1989260-80), but
they did happen, and many sociologists and historians point to this era as defining
modernity, and, indeed, the establishment of many social and economic patterns of the
modern world.

While several historians discussed and wrote about this period, the first major
synthesis is by Robert Wiebe (1967). Weibe characterizes nineteenth-century social and
political life as existing in “island communities,” with poor systems of communication
and community affairs handled locally. This necessitated specific kinds of social
relationships—particularly face-to-face interactions—that in turn defined economic and
political institutions. Wiebe argues (19672xiii), “The health of the nineteenth-century
community rested on two things: its ability to manage the lives of its members, and the
belief among its members that the community had such powers.” Increasing urbanization
and industrialization, however, called for a new set of social relationships, and Wiebe
argues that these interactions had to reach beyond community boundaries, linking larger
geographic areas. Wiebe defines this process as ‘bureaucratization’ and points to the
development of mass communication, increasing involvement in voluntary associations,

and other intergroup relations as the hallmarks of a new urban middle class. The

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reformers of the 18703 and 18803 were replaced, and by 1900 the new reformers saw
many of the same social ills differently: “The heart of progressivism was the ambition of
the new middle class to fulfill its destiny through bureaucratic means” (Wiebe 19672166).
Wiebe elegantly argues that nineteenth-century ‘ethical idealism’ was replaced by
bureaucratic values, and that this new urban industrialism changed the nature of
economic, political, and social relations in the US (Wiebe 1967:xiv). Clearly influenced
by modernization theory of the 19503 and 19603, “For Wiebe, modernization meant the
perpetual work of control” stating explicitly “that the goal was order, control, and
discipline” (Cmiel 19932363, 359).

Building on Wiebe’s thesis, Alan Trachtenberg follows this bureaucratization into
other social arenas in The Incorporation of America (1982). Fleshing out the
restructuring of the American economy by corporations, Trachtenberg then traces the
effects of this incorporation into the realms of urban planning, sports, newspapers,
department stores, and advertising. He focuses on how this incorporation of America and
the changes we see in business redefined American’s perception of their country and
themselves. Consumption in particular becomes a driving force in social and political
relations.

Other works examine aspects of the emerging mass culture and its impact on the
new social order. These include the rise of spectator sports and the redefinition of leisure
(Guttmann 1978). Many of these trace institutions that were contrary to the more
traditional and controlled ideals. Among these is John Kasson’s Amusing the Million
(1978), a history of Coney Island at the turn of the century (see also Adams 1991).
Rising partly as a challenge to earlier Victorian ideals, amusement parks from the late

18903 into the early 19103 functioned as an escape for the new class of urban industrial

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workers. All aspects of Coney Island, including the roller coasters, sideshows, and
architecture, were created with the aim of inducing vertigo, stimulating fantasies, and
indulging pleasures. Kasson (1978: 96-97) argues, “According to the dominant school of
American psychiatry in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, the genteel
virtues of sobriety, diligence, thrift, and self-mastery safeguarded not only family and
society, but sanity itself. By encouraging sensuous self-abandon, then, Coney Island in a
very real sense promoted lunacy.” This purpose was not lost on contemporary critics,
and one, after visiting the park commented, “After the species of straitjacket that we wear
in every-day life is removed at such Satumalia as Coney Island, the human animal
emerges in a not precisely winning guise” (as quoted in Kasson 1978296). In an era
attempting to emphasize order and control, amusement parks (and jazz for that
matter—see Erenberg 1998) were often considered dangerous influences. Kasson argues
that Coney Island functioned in two ways at once: as a symbol of the increasing
commercialization of amusement, the definition of modemity’s manners and morals, and
as a mirror for American society. Using Turner and Goffman, Kasson implies that the
amusement park can be seen as an example of the inverting of normal social order and a
place where conventional manners are relaxed (Mergen 1980:459-460). And it is in the
tension between these competing worldviews that modernity was defined.

This theme is expanded on by Lears (1981). Tracing both modernization and
antirnodernist movements, Lears defines an increasing emphasis on the c0nsumer culture
in America and its affects on individuals and society. Modernity, in this sense, “began
when people wanted more than they could get” (Cmiel 19932362) and mass culture and
advertising were more than willing to help them in this pursuit. Lears outlines the

“cultural pathologies of life under modern capitalism” (1979291) by tracing the origins of

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consumption in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Clearly identifying with
many of antimodernists’ critiques of modernity (Lears 1981 23-5 8), Lears incorporates
concepts from Weber and Gramsci in order to explain how consumer culture became an
expression of dominant power structures, manipulated by politicians and advertisers, and
how efforts to resist modernization were subsumed by consumer culture (for example, the
arts and crafts movement—Lears 1981:60-96). Lears argues that changes in mass
advertising and other systems cannot be understood without acknowledging how
modernization displaced traditional nineteenth-century ideals, and that this battle was
fought at the turn of the century. Blending individuals’ stories with those of society,
Lears traces these changes through many venues of American life including psychology,
the family, literature, economics, art, and religion. The rise and expansion of consumer
culture, and its impact on the modern world, is also the focus of later books edited by Fox
and Lears (1983, 1993). Their primary objective in these essays (and, indeed, in many of
the works focusing on the history of consumption) is “to discover how consumption
became a cultural ideal, a hegemonic ‘way of seeing’ in twentieth-century America” and
they accomplish this by examining “powerful individuals and institutions who conceived,
formulated, and preached that ideal of way of seeing” (Fox and Lears 19832x).

Other scholars, while agreeing with the changes that took place, hesitate to settle
for only a critique of consumer culture. One of these is Warren Susman, who instead
focuses on integrating the concept of culture in historical inquiry. Clearly influenced by

anthropology,2 Susman discusses the social changes of the turn of the century as a clash

 

2 Susman quotes Ruth Benedict, Mary Douglas, Edward Hall, Edmund Leech, and Edward Sapir, among
others, and at one point asserts that “An essay that discusses, however informally, the history of mass
communications must of necessity take note of the significance of form. And thus the form of one’s

7O

of two fundamentally different cultures (2003:xx-xxvi). He terms the older, traditional
culture the “Puritan-republican, producer-capitalist” culture and the newer, urban-
industrialized ideology as “the culture of abundance.” For Susman, this clash of cultures
was “the battle between rival perceptions of the world, different visions of life. It was
cultural and social, never merely or even centrally political” (Susman 20032xx). Susman
(2003:xx) goes on to characterize this culture of abundance in the following way:

Perhaps what I mean by the “culture of abundance” best emerges against

the background of a summary of what a range of historians have revealed

in their study of social change in American life from the nineteenth to the

twentieth centuries. Any examination of the technological order

immediately comes face to face with a series of exceptional inventions

that, coupled with new sources of energy, made possible the amazingly

rapid movement of people, goods, services, and ideas. Historians have

rightly called this the “Communications Revolution.” Any study of the

culture of abundance begins with the obvious cultural consequences of the

new communications. It is not simply that these inventions made

abundance available to many and made possible increasingly effective

distribution. Consciousness itself was altered; the very perception of time

and space was radically changed.
In this and other places, Susman agrees with many other historians that a class of
bureaucrats—made up of “managers, professionals, white-collar workers, technicians,
mechanics, salespeople, clerks, engineers. . .generally people on salary rather than wages”
(2003:xxi)—re-defined and re-shaped American social life and perceptions. Susman
traces this new worldview, as well as the struggles against it, in many arenas of American
society, including mass media and consumer society. He (2003:289-290) presents his
thesis in the following way: “I’ve argued in this book that the State—administrative,

bureaucratic, and far from the Republic of which our Founding Fathers dreamed—came

into existence in the nineteenth century largely under the auspices of the new middle

 

discourse itself comes to be a significant matter. The ideal essay would be formulated to include a few
carefully chosen texts, preferably anthropological” (20032252).

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class that appeared around the same time.” And all the while, Susman defines culture in
a very useful (and anthropological) way: “A culture is in fact defined by its tensions,
which provide both the necessary tensile strength to keep the culture stable and operative
and the dynamic force that may ultimately bring about change or complete structural
collapse” (Susman 20032288).

Regardless of their approach and tone, all of the works here agree on this point:
there was a substantial change in American society during the late nineteenth and early
twentieth centuries. Increasing urbanism and industrialism, paired with the rise of
conspicuous consumption and mass culture, changed American life for individuals,
families, and communities. Attitudes toward work and play were redefined, and the basic
relational networks of society were redefined. Increasing communication and
immigration forever changed the face of urban life, as well as the outlook of its citizens.
By the 19303, if not by the 19203, modernity had taken hold and current patterns of mass
culture, consumerism, and communication had changed Americans’ worldview.

CASE STUDIES

It is into these historical contexts, and reacting to these episodes of culture
change, that numerous intentional communities were founded. Two such communities
are considered in this dissertation: the Oneida Perfectionists and the House of David/City
of David. The following section briefly outlines their theologies, structures, and
histories—topics that are taken up in some detail in Chapter F our.

The Oneida Perfectionists

In 1848, John Humphrey Noyes and his followers founded a millenarian

community known as the Oneida Perfectionists of New York. While attempting to

restructure 19‘“ century social order, the Oneida Perfectionists consciously and explicitly

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attempted to reinforce and communicate their beliefs through their architecture,
landscape, inventions, and other material goods.

Several historians have argued that in order to understand the Oneida
Perfectionists, one must first understand their charismatic and authoritarian leader, John
Humphrey Noyes. Lawrence Foster observed “Unlike most individuals, who [when
struggling with religious and sexual problems] simply seek to reach and accommodation
with the larger world, Noyes adopted a prophetic stance, arguing that his insights
provided a universally valid model for setting the world straight” (Foster 19972254).

Noyes was born in 1811 in Vermont. As has been discussed above, this was a
time of much social, political, and religious change in the United States, with the affects
of the Second Great Awakening in full swing and society moving towards capitalist
individualism with increasing industrialization and urbanization. Not unlike many of the
people who would become his followers, Noyes came from a fairly educated and socially
connected family (Foster 19972255).

In 1831, the beginning of Noyes’s legal career was abruptly ended when he, like
many Americans during this time, converted during a revival in Putney, Vermont (Foster
19972255; Oved 19882168). Noyes entered Andover Theological Seminary to become a
minister, but transferred to Yale Divinity School in 1832 (Oved 19882168). Descriptions
of Noyes during this time characterize him as “as an intense and driven young man, who
expected absolute perfection from himself” (Foster 1997:255) and “compulsively read his
Bible as much as twelve to sixteen hours a day” in an attempt to discover God’s will
(Foster 19972256). He received his preacher’s license in 1834 and started spreading the
ideas of perfectionism, or the belief that perfect holiness is possible in this life. Noyes,

however, took the newly popular ideas of perfectionism, a bit further. He believed that

73

the total perfection that God demanded of all Christians was achieved through a right
attitude and inner sense of salvation from sin and not through any outward acts (Albanese
19992242; Foster 19972256). Thus, he was already perfect and free from sin. Needless to
say, when he armounced this revelation to his congregation, he was considered crazy, and
was stripped of his license (Oved 19882168). Noyes reaction to this can be found in the
following often referred to quote: “I have taken away their license to sin, and they keep
on sinning. So, though they have taken away my license to preach, I shall keep on
preaching” (Oneida Community 186728). With that, Noyes started publication of The
Perfectionist, the first of his many newspapers.

Noyes spent the next three years in emotional turmoil traveling throughout New
England and New York, trying to convert the world. Instead of converting people in
foreign lands, Noyes argued (OC 1867:7-8) that his fellow citizens needed saving: “I saw
I was already on missionary ground, among a people who (though professedly Christian)
needed to be converted quite as much as the heathen.” With few exceptions, his message
was largely ignored or ridiculed, and on more than one occasion his family and close
friends feared that he was “temporarily deranged” (Foster 1997225 6).

In 1836 Noyes returned to Putney, Vt. and started a Bible School. Early on, his
only converts were family members, but soon Noyes had a small but loyal following. In
1838 he married one of them, Harriet Holton, from a prominent Vt. Family (Foster
19972256; Oved 19882169). In 1841 the group formed the Society of Inquiry, and three
years later they began practicing communism as the Putney Community. Central to their
beliefs was that the second coming of Christ occurred with the destruction of the Temple
in AD 70; therefore, sin had been abolished in the millennial kingdom and 19th century

Christians were saints and perfect beings (Albanese 19992242; Kephart 1976:46-47; OC

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1867:16-17). Life on earth therefore could and should mirror life in heaven. The Putney
Community attempted to follow not the forms of early Christianity, but the spirit and
ideals in a 19th century setting. The believed “that a church on earth is now rising to
meet the approaching kingdom in the heavens, and to become it’s duplicate and
representative” (OC 1867:16-17). Following Christ’s statement that there would be no
marrying between individuals in heaven (Matthew 22:23-30; OC 1853226; OC 1867:57-
58), Noyes argued that the restrictions of the 19‘“ century marriage, argued Noyes, were
“part of a false, and even sinful, system that should not apply to the perfect” (Albanese
19992242). Noyes called for the creation of an enlarged communal family “in which all
loyalties, including sexual loyalties, would eventually be raised to the level of the entire
community” (Foster 19972257). By 1846 the Putney Community had put these beliefs
into practice. Not surprisingly, their neighbors disapproved of their new lifestyle, and in
1847 Noyes fled to New York after being indicted for adultery. In 1848 the rest of the
Putney Community joined him in Oneida (Kephart 1976249; Oved 19882173). In both the
Putney and Oneida Communities, three forms of social control were put into practice:
male continence, complex marriage, and mutual criticism.

Male Continence was the form of birth control practiced by the Community. In
the first six years of their marriage, Harriet had five difficult births, four of which
resulted in the death of the child. Noyes wanted to spare her and other women this
trauma (Foster 1997225 7-25 8). He decided that there were two types of sexual
intercourse, social and propagative. According to Noyes, the primary purpose of sexual
intercourse was social—“to allow the sexes to communicate and express affection for one
another” (Foster 19972258). With Male Continence, social sex could be separated from

propagative sex. The couple would have sex, but the man would never ejaculate, either

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during or after intercourse. Since this method of birth control required substantial self-
control, and older women taught young men entering the Community, while younger
women learned from older men.

Male Continence appears to have been an effective method of birth control. From
1848 to 1868 there were only 12 unplanned births in a community of approximately two
hundred adults (Foster 1997225 8). In addition, it made the practice of Complex Marriage
possible for the Community.

According to Noyes’s interpretation of heaven on earth, individual loyalties had to
be given up and instead raised to the level of the entire Community. This included sexual
loyalties as well as material and spiritual ones. The Community considered every man to
be the husband of every woman, and every woman to be the wife of every man. Because
of this, only mutual agreement was necessary in order to engage in sexual relations.

Most of the time consent was asked (primarily by the man) through a “go-between” in
order to prevent pressure, and to better monitor relationships (OC 1867215). To prevent
the older members of the community from being passed over for younger members of the
community in sexual relations, Noyes instituted the principle of ascending fellowship
(Foster 1997:263-4; Kephart 1976:69-72). Members of the community were ranked from
least to most perfect on a spiritual scale, and if members wanted to improve their
standings, they were advised to associate with someone higher on the scale. Members of
the Community were not allowed to fall in love, or form exclusive relationships of any
kind, termed “special” or “selfish” love. Instead they were expected to extend equal
intimacy to all members of the Community. And this was not just in reference to
couples; exclusive relationships of any kind were not tolerated, so men or women who

became close friends were separated. This extended to children as well, and Pierpont

76

Noyes, a member born and raised in the Community, described the enforcing of this rule
in the children’s house during his childhood. This system was “designed to permit
maximum freedom for the individual” while at the same time not threatening the
community (Kephart 1976271).

Mutual Criticism involved evaluating community members’ behavior (Albanese
19992244; Foster 19972259; Kephart 1976:60-62). Members either requested criticism
from the group, or if they were causing problems, were asked to undergo criticism.
Sometimes Mutual Criticism was in front of the entire Community, but usually a group of
10 to 15 individuals would act as representatives. The individual was expected to sit
quietly listening while the group listed that person’s weaknesses and strengths. The
public nature of Mutual Criticism served as a check against personal vindictiveness, and
at the end of the session the criticisms were summarized, advice offered, and
encouragement given. The individual then clearly understood what he or she should
work on in order to become a more perfect member of the Community. This communal
commitment therapy helped the individual internalize the values of the community and
reinforce collective needs (McCarthy 1998297), and the Community characterized it as
“the greatest means of improvement and fellowship” (OC 1867211). The reliance and
belief in the power of Mutual Criticism can be seen in the fact that it became a popular
treatment for physical illness as well as social problems (Foster 19972259; McCarthy
1998)

Daily life at Oneida was described as happy and content. Only one couple left
with “hard feelings” after they fell in love and were asked to leave (Kephart 1976:57-58).
Others did leave the Community, but they were given whatever they came in with, so

very few were critical of the Community (Oved 19882174). In fact, Oneida experienced

77

unusually retention rates. For example, of the 109 adults that joined the Community in
the first two years, 84 either died in the Community or were still present during the
breakup in 1881 (Foster 19972261). In 1849 there were 87 people in the Oneida
Community, including 27 children under the age of 15. In 1850 this ntunber increased to
172, and by 1851 there were 250 members of the Community (Oved 19882174). In
addition, during the peak years, the Community received an average of two hundred
applications to join a year (Kephart 1976257). The Community had a very careful
process of selection that no doubt partially accounts for the high rate of membership
retention (Foster 1997:261). Their financial stability probably did not hurt either. Since
many of the members that joined the Community were relatively affluent, by 1857 they
had invested more than $108,000 in the Community (Foster 1997:261). This helped in
the first decade before financial stability (Foster 1997:260). At its peak, the Oneida
Perfectionists had 6 satellite communities: Willow Place, New York; Cambridge,
Vermont; Newark, New Jersey; Wallingford, Connecticut; Putney, Vermont; and New
York City. However, among them, only Wallingford was still operating at the time of the
breakup (Kephart 1976257; Oved 1988:187).

Economically, the Community engaged in a variety of activities, including
sawmilling lumber, blacksmithing, canning fruit, silk production, producing a variety of
items for sale, including furniture, baskets and shoes, as well as capitalizing on their
notoriety by touring groups, including local Sunday School classes, through the house
and gardens (Foster 19972265). This proved to be quite a lucrative activity for the
Community, as it was reported in one of the Community newsletters, the Circular: on
July 4, 1863, between 1500 and 2000 people visited Oneida, each paying a small fee

(Kephart 1976258).

78

It was not until Sewell Newhouse agreed to expand his trap-making business that
the Community became financially successful (Foster 19972266; Kephart 1976:63-65).
Newhouse, a fairly famous north woods hunter and trapper, invented a steel trap. When
he joined the Oneida Community in 1849, he brought his design and production with
him. Eventually, Noyes persuaded him to expand the production. By 1860 the
Newhouse trap became the standard in the US, Canada, and many other parts of the
world. When orders could no longer be filled by the Community alone, approximately
200 outsiders were continually employed. In one recorded breaking week alone, 22,000
traps were produced, and by the late 18603 the Community was turning out close to
300,000 traps a year (Kephart 1976:64-65).

In 1869 a new phase of the Oneida Community began. After reading much of
Darwin‘s writing, Noyes lifted the ban on procreation and initiated a eugenics program at
Oneida. A committee was formed, and couples were chosen to bear children, with Noyes
approving all choices personally (Foster 19972267; Kephart 1976:76-77). These children
would be raised by the entire Community, of course, and Noyes believed that this
program would produce more perfect and spiritual human beings. About 100 members
were chosen, and over the next 10 years, 62 children were born to the Community
(Kephart 1976:77; Oved 1988:179-180).

This program caused several problems within the Community. Many of the
mothers had trouble when unacceptable attachment to their children (termed “stickiness”)
was disapproved of by the Community (Kephart 1976278; Rich 1983:14). In addition,
potential parents that were rejected by the Committee often had hard feelings. And not
surprisingly, the first generation of children raised in the Community had come of age,

and many did not approve of either complex marriage or the principle of ascending

79

fellowship (especially those returning from college) (Kephart 1976282). Many resented
Noyes’s ultimate authority, and wanted a larger part in the decision making process in the
Community (Kephart 1976282). Conflict and dissension became, for the first time, a
factor of Community life.

To make matters worse, Noyes could not find a successor for his role as leader.
He attempted to put his son, Theodore, in charge in 1877, but Theodore lacked the
charisma and leadership capabilities of his father (Oved 19882181). Theodore attempted
to lead from Wallingford, and required all of the Committee heads to submit weekly
written reports—since the committee heads were used to more control than this, they
were not happy and more internal dissent increased. From the outside, there was
increasing pressure and mounting public opposition to the unorthodox lifestyles of the
Community. Even though the local people around Oneida supported the Community,
largely because it was a large employer, it was not enough to stop the crusade. This is a
situation that the Community had encountered previously and survived; however, this
time, they could not stand united.

In a last ditch attempt to save the Community, Noyes changed his the title to his
newspaper to The American Socialist, and tried to persuade other communitarian groups
to join forces (Oved 1988:181-182). The newspaper opened as a forum for discussion
across communitarian groups, and was directed toward several specific groups, including
the Shakers, New Harmony, Aurora, and Amana, who together had about 2500 members.
Noyes argued that their lifestyles only appeared to be different and were actually much
the same, and that they should join together at Oneida to continue living together

communally. The second issue of the newspaper contained a response from two Shaker

8O

elders: While they welcomed an open dialogue, they disagreed about uniting, and felt
that their philosophies and lifestyles were too different to join together (Oved 1988:182).

Finally, under threat of legal action once again, on the night of June 20, 1879,
Noyes fled Oneida for Canada, settling just outside of Niagara Falls (Oved 19882184).
His location was kept secret from all but his most trusted advisors, since it was feared
that some of the Community members were cooperating with outside critics (with good
reason—see Kephart 1976:83-84). Through messengers, Noyes attempted to lead his
Community, but finally, on August 26, 1879, he could no longer prevent the inevitable.
Noyes wrote to the Community and persuaded them to discontinue complex marriage
saying, “I propose that we give up the practice of complex marriage not as renouncing
belief in the principles and prospective finality of that institution, but in deference to the
public sentiment which is evidently rising against it” (Oved 1988:184). The Community
agreed, and several marriage licenses were issued to couples in the Community, and the
children were taken in to more traditional family units, kept with their biological parents
when possible. However, they did not want to give up communal living, and attempted
to make the system work for another year or so (Oved 1988: 185). Eventually this could
no longer be continued and the Oneida Community was legally dissolved in 1881 into
Oneida Community, Limited, a joint-stock company, known largely today for their
production of silverware which began in 1893 (Foster 1997:268; Oved 1988:187). At the
time of the break up, the Community assets were worth more than $600,000 between the
properties of Wallingford and Oneida, which were divided into shares (Foster 1997:268;
Oved 1988:187). Community members each received $60 in cash and shares valued at
50% of what they brought into the Community, and 4.25 shares for each year of

membership (Oved 1988:187). Each child received $100 and another $200 for education

81

 

when they reached 16 years of age (Oved 1988:187). Each member had the right to
continue living for low rent in the company houses, and continue working for the
company (Oved 1988:187). The group also set up a pension scheme to support the
elderly. All of these decisions were made in the traditional Community fashion: after
many meetings, discussions, and not until almost every member was in agreement. In
1886, Noyes died in Canada, and was buried in the Oneida Community cemetery (Oved
19882188).

The people who joined the Oneida Community were not the oppressed and
economically exploited masses of a colonial situation. Instead, many were affluent.
Even though their community lasted for more than 30 years (a very long time by
communitarian group standards), they were not successful in converting the larger society
to their beliefs, nor did their unique social structure spread. It is not possible to
understand their motivations, emphasis on specific aspects of social reform, or their
social relations without placing religion (and their particular theology) as a central focus
of analysis. It can be argued that they were in one way or another millenarian, millennial,
messianistic, vivalistic, and revivalistic at the same time. In addition, they can be seen as
a specific “micro” example of larger “macro” social phenomenon (i.e., 19th century
communitarian movements, products of the Second Great Awakening and
Industrialization, etc.)—in fact one could argue that without examining their place in the
larger social context, the Oneida Perfectionists cannot be understood.

The House of David/City of David

The House of David were followers of the Christian Israelite Church and, like the

Oneida, were guided by millenarian beliefs and social movements. However, unlike the

Oneida Perfectionists, Christian Israelites are adventist in their theology and do not

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believe that the millennium has already arrived. For this reason, the House of David was

 

not intent on creating “heaven on earth.” Instead, they were preparing for the millennium
by converting and gathering believers, and purifying the lives of individuals, both on an
individual and community level. Since the internal social structure and relationships of
the two groups were conditioned by such different emphases, it is not surprising that their
material culture (in the form of settlement layout, architecture, clothing, production items
and commercial endeavors) is also quite different.

The Christian Israelite tradition was established by Joanna Southcott in England
in 1792 (Fogarty 1981:1-27; Adkin 199028-11). Through her predictions and warnings,
she attracted thousands of followers, though she was labeled a heretic by many of the
clergy of the day (Miller 1998:80; F ogarty 1981:1-27). Christian Israelites believe that
the elect 144,000 (a number derived from 12,000 from each tribe of Israel) will gather
and inherit eternal life. After Southcott’s death in 1814, other leaders succeeded her,
establishing a tradition of messengers who brought the word of God to the people in
order to gather the elect. John Wroe, the fifth messenger, traveled to both the U.S. and
Australia several times and successfully gained large numbers of followers. The sixth
messenger, James Jezreel, was a British soldier in India before migrating to the U.S.
Here he gathered a large group of followers, who continued after his death in 1885. One
of them, Michael Mills, organized a large group of Jezreelites in an intentional
community in Detroit. Impressed with Jezreelite publications, Benjamin Pumell took his
family to Detroit in 1892 and eventually became a Jezreelite minister (Adkin 199028).
During his work as a minister, he discovered he was the seventh messenger in the

Southcott line and “the seventh son who would oversee the ingathering of Israel” (Miller

83

1998280). In addition, Benjamin and Mary Pumell followed in the Jezreel tradition, as

 

prolific writers of religious texts.

Starting in 1895, Benjamin and Mary traveled through Indiana, Ohio and
Kentucky handing out much Jezreelite literature (Adkin 1990213). Eventually (in 1902)
they settled in Fostoria, Ohio, drew converts and obtained a building for worship
meetings (Adkin 1990:13). After residing in Fostoria for a little over a year, the Pumells
decided it was time to find a permanent home for their community.

They established a community in Benton Harbor in 1903 and began preparing a
settlement for the ingathering—this became known as the House of David (Adkin
1990214-15). Israelites from as far away as Australia (where Benjamin and Mary visited
and established an outpost in 1904) were “called home” to Benton Harbor, with many
more patiently waiting for the completion of buildings to house them. By 1907, 387
people lived at the House of David, and at its peak, 900 people were living in the
community.

Unlike many millenarian religious groups, the House of David under the guidance
of Purnell believed that not just the individual’s soul was immortal, but the body as well
(Ephesians 5:23). This immortality was achieved in four stages as outlined by Benjamin.
The first stage was “the condition of man since the Adam’s fall” (Adkin 1990233). Once
the various works of the divinely inspired messengers was accepted and the individual
joined the Ingathering, the second level was achieved. At the third level the individual
would experience an “intensification of the spirit through the acceptance of the branch
(the spiritual grafting to the vine of God) and being sustained by the spirit” (Adkin
1990233). During life at the third level, the individual’s blood was cleansed and purified,

thereby preparing the individual for the fourth or personal Millennium (Adkin 1990233).

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When new members joined the colony, they turned over all of their savings and
property, and from then on worked for the colony without pay. In keeping with the
emphasis on purity of the body and spirit, members of the House of David did not cut
their hair, consume alcohol (although they did operate a successful brewery for the larger
public), and practiced vegetarianism. Purnell believed that “the dead should deal with the
dea ” and this extended to funerals and burials—members of the House of David did not
participate in preparing their recently deceased loved ones for burial, nor did they attend
the funerals or ever wear black clothing. In addition, Benjamin required celibacy from all
members. While they could and did marry, they were to live as brother and sister, in this
way “retaining their virginal purity for the Second Coming, which was believed to be at
hand” (Miller 1998282). The early membership of the House of David is described by
Fogarty as follows (1981255):

Those who came to the Israelite House of David can be divided into three

groups: a small core of believers who joined in the early days at Benton

Harbor; the Wroeite converts who came from Australia in 1905 [and in

several large groups after 1905]; and those millennialists (most native-

bom Americans) who came between 1905 and 1917 and who believed in

the Shiloh myth [sic] and the ingathering.

Unlike Oneida, the day-to-day activities and work assignments at the House of
David were not run by committee or consensus. Instead, all decisions were made
centrally, by Benjamin, Mary, or one of their closest advisors, and absolute obedience
was expected of all members (Adkin 1990228). While Benjamin and Mary were

definitely regarded as the leaders, several other members, both men and women, were in

leadership positions, sometimes referred to as “pillars of the community” or trustees.

These individuals exerted much control and influence over the membership in the offices

85

they held. Disputes, conflicts and other problems were addressed and solved by Benjamin
and Mary directly, or one of the assigned trustees.

In 1907 Benjamin began building Eden Springs Amusement Park, and it was
opened to the public in 1908. This park housed rides, a zoo, stage shows, the colony
bands, games, and a fairly famous ice cream parlor. Through the years, the amusement
park became a very lucrative business for the House of David. In another entertainment-
oriented business venture, the House of David established several baseball teams that
bamstorrned all over North America and Europe for many years. Immediately
recognizable with their long hair and beards, the House of David baseball team attracted
large numbers of paying baseball fans and became very well known.

Other commercial ventures also enjoyed success. A lumbering and sawmill was
operated on High Island in Lake Michigan (Nelson 1990) providing supplies for the
colony as well as other Lake Michigan towns. The House of David eventually purchased
and operated the streetcar company in Benton Harbor, and owned its own power plant,
water wells, tailor shops, bakeries and several successful farms Miller 1998281-82). In
addition, a large hotel was constructed, as well as dock property in several locations.

Despite its economic success, by 1920 the colony was embroiled in several legal
problems. Starting in 1914, periodic outside rumors of Benjamin’s alleged inappropriate
sexual relations with young women in the colony had begun to take their toll. In
addition, several ex-members of the community (specifically the successful suit brought
by the Hansel family) sued the colony for recovery of money and wage compensation
from their time in community. In 1923 two ex-members, the Fortney sisters, both
minors, claimed that Brother Benjamin raped them (Adkin 1990289-93). Benjamin was

not found and arrested until 1926 and during his time of “hiding” (he was eventually

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arrested in his own house at the colony where he had evidently been the whole time) the
community suffered an onslaught of public scorn and tabloid-like newspaper coverage
(Adkin 19902121-163). In 1927 he was put on trial in a very high profile case that made
the careers of several of the officials involved. The major issues in the case were
summarized by the presiding judge in the following way (Adkin 19902149):

The House of David is a public nuisance because: (1) Benjamin is a

religious imposter defrauding his followers. (2) In using his position as

spiritual leader, he deceived women and girls into having sexual

intercourse with him as a religious rite. (3) He teaches perjury to protect

himself. (4) Israelites obstructed justice by hiding Benjamin.

Minor issues in the trial included charges about families in the colony being
broken up, the requirement of celibacy, members living in poor conditions and being
forced into marriage, and business being conducted on Sundays (Adkin 19902149). Even
though no Benton Harbor residents or colony members would support any of these claims
in court and stood behind their leader (who at this time was dying of tuberculosis), the
trial and the nationwide coverage of the scandal took its toll on the community. There is
some evidence that the ex-members (termed “scorpions” by the colony members after 11
Chronicles 10211) who were witnesses for the state participated in a conspiracy with the
hopes of cashing in if the colony was broken up by the state. While the state only found
Benjamin guilty of perjury, the House of David was put into receivership. Shortly after
this ruling Benjamin died, and the factions within the House of David began warring
openly over control of the colony and its resources.

At this time, the colony had approximately 400 members, who were split evenly
into two factions. One faction (215 members) followed Benjamin’s wife Mary, who was

believed to be “Shiloh Twain,” or the female half of the seventh messenger (Adkin

19902187). The other faction (214 members) followed Judge Thomas Dewhirst, a pillar

87

of the community for many years. More legal action followed, and in 1930 a settlement
was reached. The property awarded to the Dewhirst faction included all of the real estate
on the north side of Britain Avenue, the amusement park, the European Hotel, several
farms, the beer gardens, High Island and the lumbering operation, and the property in
Australia (Adkin 19902352-354). Mary’s faction received several farms, the unfinished
House of David Hotel (when finished renamed Mary’s Hotel) and $60,000 (Adkin
19902354-355). Mary renamed her settlement City of David (also referred to as Mary’s
City of David). In addition, the rights to the works of Benjamin and other Christian
Israelites were also divided. The City of David continued to sponsor traveling baseball
teams until 1955, while the House of David discontinued this practice in 1937.

Both the House of David and the City of David continued to expand their business
enterprises for several years, albeit with different emphases. Unlike the members of the
House of David, Mary continued writing, printing and distributing materials in order to
spread the message as much as possible. Her City of David concentrated its economic
efforts on improving its already existing properties, vegetarian restaurant business, and
expanding the summer resort business that catered almost exclusively to Jewish clientele
from Chicago (including the construction of Gate of Prayer Synagogue, operated by the
Jewish summer community from 1938 until well into the 1960s (Adkin 19902258, 281).
The House of David, by contrast, took a different approach to business expansion, and
embarked on several ventures that were not in the original holdings, including the Cold
Storage plant, the Benton Harbor Fruit and Vegetable Market, 3 car dealership, the large
Lakeside Vineyard a few miles north of Three Oaks, the Grande Vista Motor Court, as
well as a Citrus Grove and the Sunset Motel located in McAllen, Texas. Judge Dewhirst

led the House of David from 1930 until his death in 1947 (Adkin 19902270) and Mary led

88

the City of David until her death in 1953 (Adkin 19902280). Both factions (and several
of the above mentioned commercial endeavors) persist to the present day, although the
population of each is now less than a dozen (Miller 1998283).

METHODOLOGY AND COMPARATIVE SUMMARY

When I started this project, I knew that I needed to find communities with some
specific traits in order to speak to the issues of the relationship of material culture and
ideology in promoting communitas. I would need to find communities that succeeded
and had considerable longevity (and this is the criteria that made me chose religious
intentional communities—generally they are around longer). Ideally, they would have
gone through a period of strife and in some ways redefined themselves, both socially and
materially. And, there would have to be enough left to study, both in documentary
sources and material remains.

This brought me to the Oneida Perfectionists of upstate New York and the House
of David/ City of David of Benton Harbor, Michigan. Both are religious millennial
movements with charismatic leaders tracing their authority to prophets. Unlike most
intentional communities, both successfully lived communally for a long period without
completely withdrawing from the larger capitalist market economy. In fact, both
communities can be seen as making innovative commercial and technological advances
in their dealings with the outside world. Both communities were not only products of
their historical circumstances but were also critiquing larger social contexts and this is
reflected in their social structure and economic endeavors. For example, while some
aspects of capitalism, like the personal ownership of goods, was rejected by Noyes and
his followers, other aspects of capitalism were embraced, like the trap and silk production

enterprises. The same holds true for the House of David and City of David. While mass

89

consumerism, increasing social anonymity, and vices like alcohol were rejected, the
House of David opened an amusement park and sent jazz bands throughout the country.
Clearly, the relationship with the outside world and its ideologies is a complex one, there
is not a wholesale acceptance or rejection of social trends and ideologies within these
communities. Further, this blending of selected aspects of the external world with the
daily functioning inside the community was an essential balancing act that kept
individual members from experiencing too much of a schism with their previous life and
beliefs.

In addition, both communities started somewhere else, and chose to move to a
more amiable and tolerant environment. It is no accident that both communities moved
to the places they did. New York, often referred to as the “burned over district” because
of the effects of the revivals of the 19th century, was an ideal place to establish a
commune based on perfectionist beliefs. The Pumells chose to settle in southern
Michigan, where the Jezreelites had successfully missionized and Adventism in general
was common.3 Both groups faced similar opposition and pressure from the outside,
including the fact that both Purnell and Noyes faced legal charges involving their alleged
sexual practices. And, both communities consciously shaped their material culture to
both reflect and reinforce their ideology, as well as embodying a cultural critique of the
larger world. Many, if not all, of the material aspects of daily life were carefully
discussed, planned, and controlled. While consciously attempting to restructure the

world’s social order, these communities emphasized their ideology in landscape,

 

3 For example, the Seventh Day Adventists founded in Battle Creek in l855—see Ahlstrom (19722481) and
Albanese ( 19992228-232).

90

 

 

 

 

THEOLOGICAL EMPHASES MATERIAL
MANIFESTATIONS
“heaven on earth” architecture
Oneida perfectionism landscape
Perfectionists community over individual artifacts of daily life
imminent Ingathering architecture
House of transitionary nature of colony landscape
David/ existence artifacts of daily life
City of David gender complimentarity

 

 

 

Figure 3.12 Theological Emphases and Material Manifestations.

architecture and other goods. At the same time and despite these similarities, the Oneida

Perfectionists and the House of David were fundamentally different in their application of

millennial beliefs in their daily lives. Almost all of the Oneida’s activities, resources and

attention were focused in, towards “the family” and creating heaven on earth. In contrast,

the House of David concentrated their activities, resources and attention outward,

towards the 144,000 of the ingathering. The Oneida Perfectionists believed the

millennium had already arrived, and they set about creating heaven on earth. In contrast,

the House of David concentrate on preparing for the imminent arrival of Christ and the

millennial age. This difference can be seen in not only their ideological emphases and

social structure, but also in the manifestation of these beliefs in their material culture.

Over a period of two and a half years, I gathered data at numerous locations for

this research. In addition to visiting both sites numerous times, I spent weeks in various

archives. Most of the Oneida Perfectionists’ documentary record is in the Syracuse

University Library Special Collections, although much is still at the Oneida Community

Mansion House, including tens of thousands of photographs. In addition, the Oneida

Community has had considerable attention by scholars so there are some excellent

secondary sources out there, and many Community documents are available on

91

microfilm. In contrast, there are only three general histories written about the House of
David/ City of David, and one of them is extremely problematic4. While the resources at
the Benton Harbor Public Library and especially the City of David are extensive and
impressive, I was not able to access any records at the House of David. In addition, I also
made several trips to the Communal Studies Center at the University of Southern Indiana
in Evansville where there is a substantial communal studies archive.

Out of all this research, I have found four primary themes that I believe are central
for promoting and maintaining communitas: l) the manifestation of each group’s
ideology of the millennium; 2) the ritualizing of daily life; 3) the redefining of the
material and social world as each group copes with pressure and adapts to change; and 4)
the place of individualism in the communal group. In the next chapter, I compare the
material culture of these two groups, paying specific attention to how these themes are

manifest in landscape, architecture, and daily life.

 

4 Robert Fogarty’s (1981) work on the House of David, with the exception of the excellent chapter on the
theological history of the Christian Israelites, is based almost exclusively on sensational newspaper
accounts and the prosecution’s court documents. Largely because he was denied access of the House of
David’s archives, the end product is a one-sided and negatively biased account of Benjamin Pumell and
other colony members. Moreover, Fogarty does not devote more than a paragraph or two to the City of
David, or any of the history of either colony since the death of Benjamin. For these reasons, I have chosen
not to use or reference the large majority of this work.

92

CHAPTER 4

 

COMPARISON OF MATERIAL CULTURE

Nineteenth- and 20th-century communitarian groups are ideal venues in which to
investigate the connections between material culture and ideology, specifically in regard
to the place of material culture in maintaining communitas and social cohesion.
Intentional communities formed with the aim of changing their social relations and
economy, as well as, in some cases, the larger society. In so doing, they attempted to
realize their ideological beliefs in concrete social structures. Material culture and its
connection to ideology is a central focus of communitarian groups because it was a
powerful medium for promoting and maintaining communitas. This is evident in the
material culture of the Oneida Perfectionists and the House of David/City of David, and
their landscape, architecture, and material aspects of daily life are the focus of this
chapter.

“HEAVEN ON EARTH”

Ideas of perfectionism were not only applied to people at Oneida. The constant
planning and improvement of their built environment reflected Noyes’ belief that “a
pleasant, efficient physical environment would help the group achieve a spiritual
equilibrium” (Oneida Community Mansion House 200021) and they “strongly believed
that their social and physical structures were linked in a mutually causative relationship”
(OCMH 2000211). The Oneida Perfectionists also believed that ideas of internal and
external beauty and perfection would mirror one another: “in due time the interior life
which is given us will ultimately have the means of clothing itself in fitting forms of

external excellence and beauty” (CC 1855). In this way, inner perfection and beauty will

93

lead to outer perfection and beauty, namely in their material world. In one passage,
where they discuss the differences between their beliefs and Fourier’s, these ideas of
causality are apparent (OC 1853:7-8; emphasis original):

...we differ widely from him on the most essential points. He relies on

attraction i.e., the love of utilities, economies, luxuries, &c., for the motive

power of Association. Our motive power is faith, i.e., attraction towards

Christ, and spiritual life. He begins with industrial organization and

physical improvements, expecting that a true religion and the true relation

of the sexes will be found out three or four hundred years hence. We

begin with religion and reconciliation of the sexes, and expect that

industrial reform and physical improvement will follow, and that too

within less than three or four hundred years. He thinks that the Pentecost

principle - community of goods - is ‘the grave of liberty.’ We think it is

the prime element of heavenly freedom. We expect, however, to learn

many things about extemals, from Fourier.
It was not just that the external world should be a reflection of their internal perfection
and beauty; their physical world was tangible evidence of that inner perfection (Hayden
1976:188). For this reason, the Oneida Perfectionists applied their beliefs of
perfectionism to the built environment, as well as to individuals (Hayden 1976:197;
White 199321). Many, if not all, of the material aspects of daily life at Oneida were
carefully discussed and planned. While consciously attempting to restructure the world’s
social order, the community emphasized their message in material arenas of things,
including landscape, architecture, and daily life.
Initial Buildings

Initially, when the community moved from Vermont, their land holdings were
rather small. They joined Jonathan Burt (an Oneida Perfectionist) and a few others on a
small farm along Oneida Creek. The house was described as made of timber, with “one

comfortable room with a buttery, a back kitchen for summer, a bedroom upstairs, a good

barn, a small shoemaker’s shop and twenty-three acres of land” (OCMH 2000210). By

94

 

Figure 4.1: The Oneida Community Mansion House (Photo taken by author).

1881, when the community was legally dissolved, their holdings had grown substantially:
“Their domain consisted of more than 265 acres of farmland, orchards, vineyards,
gardens and meadows: industrial buildings included silverware, trap, and silk factories; a
fruit canning house; a foundry; carriage, horse, and cow barns; a printing office; store;
and numerous sheds” (OCMH 20002). The Mansion House had evolved from a simple
log house to a huge and complex brick structure (Figure 4.1)-- today measuring 93,000
square feet, and “located amidst a picturesque landscape of stately trees, formal gardens,
expansive lawns, and wide vistas” (OCMH 200022). During this evolution, the
community continually adapted their physical surroundings to meet their ideology and
changing needs.

Janet White (199321) delineates four major periods of construction during the

community: from 1848-1853 as the community established themselves in New York,

95

1860-1864 as their financial situation improved; 1869-1870 as they initiated the
stirpiculture experiment; 1877-1878 as they attempted to facilitate both more members
and mitigate increasing internal strife. While these periods mark major construction
projects, it is important to note buildings were being erected, moved, or modified almost
constantly at the community.

The following description of the horse barn aptly demonstrates this (Hinds
[1906]):

This building was originally the Horse Barn across the road and directly in

front of the Mansion. The Cow Barn was where Girard Wayland-Smiths

house now stands. What is now the Arcade or Office building was built for

a Cow Barn. At this time were made many changes - The horses were

moved to Old Cow Barn and the abandoned Horse Barn was fitted for a

Store on ground floor of main building, the South wing for the Business

Office, the North wing for a Tailor shop, Shoe shop, Post-office, etc. with

sleeping rooms above, many changes following later.

The constant relocating of buildings led one community member to joke that they should
place their buildings on wheels in order to make this practice easier (OCMH 2000:11). In
addition, only the main buildings of the community are considered here, since the number
of buildings - reported at 41 in 1869 - and complexity of building sequences fall beyond
the scope of this article (Worden [1869]225-30).

During their first year at Oneida, the cormnunity purchased land and buildings
adjoining Burt’s property (OCMH 2000210). By the summer of 1849 they had completed
what became known as the Old Mansion House (White 199322; OCMH 2000210),
designed by Erastus Hamilton, a community member trained as an architect, and John
Hthrey Noyes (Figure 4.2). This was a modest wooden structure (60 feet by 35 feet)

with 75 windows (Worden [1869]:25). Its three stories divided into several spaces

(Cragin [1951?]214). The two lower floors were divided into'thirds. The lowest floor

96

I
A

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Printing
Cellar Office
I
Kitchen SChOOl l Reception
Room | Room
m. _____l [EITHE—
Dining Room Parlor
First Floor Second Floor
I l l
_ _,_ _1_ + __
— —' Tent ’— _
-I Room I— — Men’s
Dormitory
I |
Bedroom
TIIITITII [IIUJIID
Bedroom Bedroom
Bedroom Bedroom
Third Floor Attic

 

N ——
20 40 feet

 

Figure 4.2: Floor plans of the Old Mansion House (After Worden [1869]; Cragin [1951]; White 1993;
OCMH 2000).

97

 

included a kitchen, a dining room, and a cellar built into the hillside (OC 185326; White
199322). The second floor was divided into the printing office, a schoolroom, and a
meeting parlor (OC 185326; White 199322). Originally, the third floor was to be divided
into a number of bedrooms, but a lack of funds necessitated a change in plans. Instead,
what came to be known as the Tent Room was constructed (Worden 1950:7-8). This
room had “a number of double sleeping compartments opening onto an open sitting
area. . .created by hanging curtains on wires eight feet above the floor” (White 1993:2-3).
As the community grew, two wings were added (45 by 16 feet and 25 by 16 feet), and in
each design the lower floors contained the housekeeping facilities and the upper floors
primarily sleeping space (Cragin [1951?]:14; White l993:3). The housekeeping facilities
reflected communal living: one large kitchen and dining room, as well as a laundry with
large water boilers-- all sized for collective use (White 199323). This building also
reflected the practice of raising children communally. With no space for children to live
with their birth parents in the Tent Room, it is not surprising that a nearby structure was
converted into the first Children’s House the same year as the Old Mansion House was
completed (Worden [1869]225; White 19933; OCMH 2000211). This structure had two
stories and an attic and measured 38 by 17 feet (Cragin [1951?]:ISB). In addition, a store
and a barn were completed in 1849 (but the store burned in 1851), a mill and hog pen in
1850, a bathhouse in 1856, and a green house in 1857 (Worden [1869]).

By all accounts the parlor on the second floor was “the heart of the daily life of
the community” (White 199323). The community saw themselves as one large family,
and since a family spent evenings together in the parlor, so did the community (White

19933). This evening meeting became a cornerstone for the community. But, if space

98

 

allocation is any indication of priority, it is important to note that the Printing Office was
the same size as the parlor, perhaps in keeping with Noyes’ goal of converting the world
to Perfectionism (White 199323).

Idyllic Landscapes

The placement of the Old Mansion House on the landscape also reflected the
community’s initial worldview. Like many utopian groups, the Oneida Perfectionists
sought to escape the rapidly growing cities. During this Romantic Period in American
landscape history, “Utopian groups in general chose the rural, picturesque landscape as
the ideal place to begin a new society” and the “rolling hills and meandering Oneida
Creek fit well with the utopian vision of a community set amidst a Garden of Eden”
(OCMH 2000210). They chose to build the Old Mansion House on top of a knoll, which
gave them a wide view of their surrounding gardens, arbors and pond (OCMH 2000:10,
12).

Initially, the community “pursued the pastoral and Biblical ideal of converting
their frontier settlement into a fi'uitful garden” (OCMH 200027). They attempted to base
their entire economy on the sale of nursery stock and fruits and vegetables. This was not
profitable, and they started manufacturing a variety of products including rustic furniture,
leather travel bags, and mop handles (OCMH 200027).

By 1855, the Oneida community numbered 170 individuals and the need for more
space grew (OCMH 2000211). Their financial endeavors did not make the necessary
additions possible, however. In order to expand their living arrangements, they had to
expand their manufacturing efforts. Their early pastoral ideal of subsistence farming led

to a very lean existence, and by 1859 they had given up trying to make this work (OCMH

99

 

2000211). With the tension between their social ideals and external economic realities
coming to the fore once again, the community successfully increased their manufacturing
and commercial endeavors. Increasing their financial security made it possible to build a
new home on a much grander scale (White 199324).
The New Mansion House

As early as 1856 the community was involved in discussions of how to create
Community Architecture or “a style of building which shall be adapted to the character of
our institution, and which shall represent in some degree the spirit by which we are
actuated” (OC 1856). Harriet Worden, in her essays in the Circular during the 18705 that
were later gathered into a memoir, described discussions that often erupted into debates
during the evening meetings as plans were put forward (Worden 19502105). These
discussions provide a clear indication that community members were aware of the
connections between their ideology and materiality. White (199324) notes that there were
two types of plans suggested at these meetings: “One group proposed various sizes of
octagonal or round buildings, all with a large domed central space ringed by rooms for
sleeping and other uses. Another group proposed a plan like that of the Old Mansion,
generally making it larger... The actual plan shows that the second group won.” A house
where all community members lived under one roof was considered essential for
maintaining their chosen social structure (Kephart 1976:50; Oved 19882177; Foster
19972265).

By 1861 Erastus Hamilton completed the plans for the new brick Mansion House
(Figure 4.3) and the construction was completed in 1862 in the ltalianate Villa

architectural style (Oved 19882177; OCMH 2000212). It faced east and stood just north

100

 

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gggoure 4.3: New Mansion House (After Worden [1869]; Cragin [I951]; Hayden 1976; White 1993; OCMH
0).

101

'9

,. .
’o 5%.»-

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Figure 4.4: Old Mansion House on the left; Children’s House in the middle; New Mansion House on the
right (Photo courtesy of the Oneida Community Mansion House, Oneida, New York).

of the Old Mansion and the Children’s House (Figures 4.4 and 4.5). In keeping with the
emphasis of communal over individual, group facilities dominated the design (Hayden
1976:197; Oved 19882177). The main block (45 by 70 feet) of the first floor had an
office, a reception room, a library, and a guest bedroom (Worden [1869]:26; White
199324). Directly above on the second floor was a very large two-story Big Hall with
bench seating around the edges on the second floor (OC 1871:7-8; White 199324),
designed to accommodate community gatherings and evening meetings in the same
fashion that the parlor in the Old Mansion had (Figures 4.3 and 4.6). To the north was a
tower (18 by 18 feet), forty feet in height with its own entrance and stairway (Worden

[1869]:26; Hayden 1976: 201 ;White 199324). Connecting the north tower and the main

102

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
  

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

.__/ \
Bedroom Wing
1878 Mansion
House
I 1862
. , Tontine Quadrangle
Dmmg 1863
Addition
1874
i CthdTerFs-I
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I I 1870 . - 1349 — -
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f 1866 I
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I
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Extant Building
N
20 40 feet

 

Figure 4.52 Oneida Community building sequence (Afier Worden [1869]; Cragin [1951]; Hayden 1976;

White 1993; OCMH 2000).

103

 

Figure 4.6: The Big Hall (Photo courtesy of the Oneida Community Mansion House, Oneida, New York).

 

Figure 4.7 : The Upper Sitting Room (Photo courtesy of the Oneida Community Mansion House, Oneida,
New York).

104

block of the Mansion House was a wing measuring 40 by 47 feet with two floors: the first
contained a sitting room with individual apartments on three sides; the second floor
contained another sitting room (Figure 4.7), this one two stories high and flanked by two
stories of individual rooms (Worden [1869]:26; Hayden 1976:212; White 199324). White
notes that this marks one substantial change in the architecture of the community, both
physically and socially. With the new brick Mansion House, individual private rooms
were introduced (White 1993:4-5). This created a more conducive environment for the
smooth practice of complex marriage by introducing a new level of privacy. White
(199325) states, “With the double bedrooms [of the Tent Room] went the last remnants of
dyadic marriage customs; individuals were now spatially free to conduct their sexual
lives without inconvenience or embarrassment to others.” Indeed, she suggests (White
1993:4) that “The physical evidence, therefore, strongly suggests that full integration of
complex marriage into the social environment was a considerably longer process than
much of the written record implies” and concludes that with the completion of the
Mansion House (199325) “the community got bigger, it got richer, it fully accepted
complex marriage, and it developed an awareness of the need for individual privacy in
the context of communal life.” While these upper floors were designed so that each adult
had their own modest, small room, their arrangement around parlors served another
function as well: not only could “easy interaction” take place, but “easy observation” was
also possible for monitoring relationships between individuals (Hayden 19762212-214).
In addition to the Mansion House, several other construction projects were completed
during this time, many of them illustrating the new emphasis on industry. These include

a brick shop at the mill, a wood house, a tool house, an ice house, an ash house, a store, a

105

.-

 

Figure 4.8: The Dining Room (Photo courtesy of the Oneida Community Mansion House, Oneida, New
York).

forcing pit, a horse barn, a cow barn, a corn barn, a wagon shed, a school house, a saw
mill, and the trap factory (Worden [1869]:25-30). These were not separated from other
spheres of life, either physically or socially (OC 1867:17):

From what has been said it will readily appear that the community

combines in one organization the various functions of Education,

Religion, Industry, and Domestic Life. These in ordinary society are

separated. The church is in one place, the school in another, the work-

shop in a third, and the family is apart from them all. In Communism

these various interests are consolidated and interlocked; and their benefits,

instead of having to be sought for abroad, are brought to all the members

of the society within the limits of that one best locality, Home.

In 1863-1864 the Tontine was completed (Figure 4.8), originally a separate
structure (36 by 72 feet) located directly behind the Mansion House and connected by an
underground tunnel (Worden [1869]:26; OC 1871:10-11; OCMH 2000212). Initially, the

Tontine contained the laundry, printing with steam power, and some manufacturing.

106

Eventually it provided a much needed food preparation and dining space for the growing
commune (Figure 4.8) and a new store was erected in 1866 (Figure 4.5) (Worden
[1869]). This pattern of large communal areas with numerous halls and passageways
connecting everything enabled community members to meet many times during the day,
thereby promoting community closeness, interaction, and communitas. For example, in
the nursery kitchen the stove remained even after central steam heating came to the
Mansion, in order to continue to draw people together (Hayden 19762218). Of this room,
members wrote: “if we have a general rendezvous, here it is. . .. If you wish to see the
greatest number of persons in the shortest space of time, just take a seat” (Hayden
1976:220).
Perfecting the Landscape

The landscape surrounding the Mansion House was also a carefully designed and
well thought-out creation. It is also apparent that community members were familiar
with several contemporary architecture and landscape designs (OCMH 2000210),
particularly the work of Jackson Downing and Alexander Jackson Davis (OC 1862).
Following many of the suggestions of Fourierists, the main access road separates the
Mansion House from the barns and service buildings (Hayden 1976:191-196).

Community members participated in much of the landscaping, particularly in
1869 when the hedges, walks, and formal garden were created (OC 1869). In addition,
the gardens (Figure 4.9), courtyards, and recreational spaces were designed to promote
community and the meeting of people through circular pathways, gathering spots, and
vistas (Hayden 1976:198-199; Oved 19882175). In essence, the original landscape was

replaced in much the same way as the original building: “The image of the simple frame

107

§‘
I
I

 

Figure 4.9: Ornamental Garden (Photo courtesy of the Oneida Community Mansion House, Oneida, New
York).

farmhouse set in a picturesque, bucolic landscape of gardens, arbors and pond [gave] way
to a far more formidable and formal image of massive brick buildings dominant in a still
picturesque, but far more controlled landscape of orchards, vineyards, lawns and gardens,
barns and factories” (OCMH 2000:12).

Much of this work was started in earnest in 1862 when ornamental shade trees
were brought from Oneida Lake. In addition, other trees were purchased from a nursery
including Norway Spruce, Scotch Pine, Austrian Pine, European White Birch and Ginko
(Cragin [1951?]:15f; 0C 1870b). In April of 1865 an evergreen hedge to the south of the

building was completed, and in Mayl866 a walkway in front of the Mansion made of

108

stone, gravel, sand and tar (Cragin[l951?]:3). The view from the North Tower (Figure
4.10) described the surrounding landscape in the following way (OC 1871210):

On reaching the top of the tower a landscape of unspeakable beauty lies
spread before us. At our feet, the lawn with its neatly-trimmed paths, the
flower gardens with their brilliant colors, and the rustic seats and arbors,
half concealed in shady nooks, entice the eye with their quiet loveliness.
Beyond are the orchards and vineyards, then the emerald meadows and
winding stream, and in the distance the gently rounded hills which bound
the sides of the valley. The community home farm extends for half a mile
in most directions from this spot, and towards the northeast its breadth is
over a mile.

 

Figure 4.10: View from the North Tower (Photo courtesy of the Oneida Community Mansion House,
Oneida, New York)-

109

Change in the Mansion House

With the advent of the stirpiculture program, the community once again added to
the Mansion House structure. In 1869, the Old Children’s House was moved across the
road (and renamed the Seminary) in order to make room for the construction of the new
Children’s Wing (Worden [1869]:25). Once again, the plans for this wing involved much
discussion and improvement on earlier designs in order to better house their social
structure. In 1870, this addition was completed, nearly doubling the square footage of the
dwelling (Figures 5, 11, and 12). Built in the French Second Empire style, the Children’s
Wing was added to the south end of the Mansion House where the original Children’s
House stood (Hayden 19762201). This L-shaped wing included another grand tower in
order to balance the structure’s north tower, both exhibiting “great attention to detail in
window bays, surrounds, and cornice and roof ornamentation” (OCMH 2000212). During
the same year, the community demolished the Old Mansion house due to increased
concerns about its being a fire hazard (OCMH 2000:12).

By 1870, the community had 280 members, and soon it was time to expand again.
In 1874 the Tontine was enlarged with a new dining room, and another bedroom wing
was added by 1878 (Figure 4.5 and 4.13) - the only building at the community designed
by an outside architect, perhaps showing a growing interest with the outside world
(Hayden 1976:201). Corridors eventually connected these buildings, with the mansion’s
four wings now forming a quadrangle (Figure 4.14) where members could gather, in
addition to several courtyards, lawns and gardens for community members to enjoy.
Through this architecture, the community was able to “facilitate communal living and

wor ” (OCMH 2000212).

110

Daily Life in Material Culture

Most activities were conducted with the goal of creating situations for community
members to meet and talk (Foster 1997:260). All meals were eaten in a large room
together. Work assignments were made in a communal fashion, with much rotation, with
a goal of making “labor attractive and a means of personal improvement” (OC 1871219)
and providing “opportunity to find out what each one is best adapted to” (OC 1853: l 3;
Klaw 1993299-100). An individual would check postings on a central board for their
assignment for the day, or for a list of voluntary work activities in small projects, often
conducted in the form of “bees,” which they found to be very efficient (OC 1853: 13—14).
With no formal religious ceremonies on Sunday or any other day, the evening meeting,
held in the Big Hall (Figure 4.16), often served this purpose (Kephart 1976:51-52). All
members attended the evening meeting in the Big Hall for discussion of decisions to be
made, various musical or theatre performances, talks or Bible studies held by Noyes, or
other such activities (Kephart 1976252; Foster 19972265). They described their daily
lives as “continued worship” (OC 18675). In this way, the community ritualized daily
activities and work, thereby promoting a liminal situation. While the children lived in
separate quarters, first in the Children’s house and later in the Children’s Wing addition
of the mansion house, both men and women members rotated through the children’s
house for play, religious studies, formal education schedules, and bedtimes. As the
children grew older, their studies were expanded, and several attended Yale and other
universities in the later years of the community (Rich 1983215).

The day-to-day logistics of the community were conducted in the form of

committees--21 standing committees were established to oversee everything from

111

 

Figure 4.12: Children’s Wing, architectural detail (Photo taken by author).

112

 

 

 

Figure 4.13: Bedroom Wing addition (Photo taken by author).

 

figure 4.14: The Quadrangle (Photo courtesy of the Oneida Community Mansion House, Oneida, New
ork).

113

finances, roads and lawns, education, clothing, patent rights, haircutting, music, furniture,
and many other activities (Kephart 1976253-54; Foster 19972266). F orty-eight different
departments divided the administrative duties including publication, carpentry, library,
children, heating, and so forth. Noyes made all final and large decisions, but he often
enlisted the help of his central committee of trusted advisors. Although Noyes always
believed that men were superior to women, he nonetheless encouraged their involvement
in many aspects of the community including leadership roles. Most of these committees
included women, who, according to many accounts, experienced much more equality
than their 19th century counterparts on the outside (Foster 19972262). The degree of
freedom that the Oneida women enjoyed is still somewhat debated among scholars;
Maryln Klee-Hartzell, for one, makes a convincing argument that “community women
simply exchanged one smaller, patriarchal family structure for a larger, collective one”
(Klee-Hartzell 19932185). Ellen Wayland-Smith (1988222), using diaries and letters,
examined what women viewed themselves on a daily basis and concludes that previous
studies have not paid enough attention to the “equal subjection of both men and women
to the authority of Father Noyes” (Wayland-Smith 1988222). Regardless, the women,
both during the community and after its demise, recall feeling free of their previous lives’
restrictions and limitations. While the male members of the community dressed in much
the same way they did before joining, the women’s clothing changed considerably.
Skirts were shortened to the knee, and underneath they wore “pantalettes” that reached to
the ankle (Figures 4.11 and 4.14). Under the argument of practicality, they wore their

hair short, in a bob-like haircut, much to the shock of outsiders (Kephart 1976256-5 7;

Foster 19972262).

114

The value of improvement through change, both for personalities and material
expressions, undoubtedly connected with their religious beliefs in perfectionism (Hayden
1976:200). This emphasis on improvement through change can be seen in several
material realities, including the Mansion House (Hayden 1976:200; Kephart 1976153).
The value of change can also be seen in the products that the community produced and
their zeal in perfecting all manner of objects. As with many intentional communities
during the 19th century, the Oneida Perfectionists were continually striving for more
efficient and improved material items for their existence in “heaven on earth.” Their
inventions include a traveler’s lunch bag, which community members produced and sold,
as well as the dining table “lazy Susan,” improvements to the mop wringer and washing
machine, an industrial potato peeler, and a solution to impractical women’s high heels,
“the final shoe” (Hayden 19762198). In addition, the community readily adopted new
conveniences, particularly domestic ones, often quite enthusiastically. As Hayden
observes (1976:198), the reaction to the 1869 installation of central heating is a good
example of this (OC 1870a): “Good-bye wood sheds, good-bye stoves, good-bye coal
scuttles, good-bye pokers, good-bye ash-Sifters, good-bye stove dust and good-bye coal
gas! Hail to the one-fire millennium!” The 18705 introduction of new steam baths and
“earth closets” were also “subjects for great rejoicing” (Hayden 19762198).

Perfection and Personal Items

Community members, however, never forgot the communitarian part of their
beliefs when it came to their relationships with material items. Following biblical outline
(Acts 2244- 45, Acts 4232, and Rev. 21 :7), communal ownership of all possessions was

considered an integral part of heaven, and the likening of individuals and objects can be

115

 

found in various passages like this one which states (OC 1853230), “Paul expressly places
property in women and property in goods in the same category, and speaks of them
together, as ready to be abolished by the advent of the kingdom of heaven.” Just as
exclusiveness was not acceptable for individuals, it was also not acceptable for objects
(OC 1853229).

This principle was enforced at all levels of the community, and was seen as a part
of an individual’s path to perfection. For example, during the 18505, someone gave each
of the young girls a doll, so that they could learn to make and mend clothing. Not
unexpectedly, the girls became attached to their dolls. Adults in charge of the children’s
upbringing, and under the supervision of Mary Cragin, a member since Putney, brought
the girls into a room with their dolls for a criticism session. They stood circling the
stove, and, one by one, were convinced to throw their dolls into the fire in order to
relinquish their dangerous individual attachment to material objects (Kephart 1976:51;
Klee-Hartzell 1993:191-192). Incidentally, it is worth noting that while the children were
taught communal ownership of their toys, Pierpont Noyes (Noyes 1951290) in his
memoirs indicates that the boys had specific toys and books that they held in common,
completely separate from the girls' toys and books -- so it would seem that some divisions
in ownership of communal items did exist.

Another example comes from the world of adults in the community. From as
early as 1861, the community inventoried their entire property once a year (OC [1861-
1883]). Each department had an inventory committee, and it was their responsibility to
account for absolutely every item in its control. Over the years more than 150 different

departments existed, ranging from areas of manufacture (print shop, trap shop, dairy, bag

116

department, silk department, canning department, etcetera), maintenance (real estate, fire
apparatus, stove inventory, coal yard, lumber department, kitchen wares, kitchen stores,
housekeeping department, “subsistence,” etcetera) and community life (musical
department, library, furniture, floral department, post office, “entertainments,” even an
inventory of inventory subcommittees, etcetera). Some years there were more
departments while in other years there were not as many since departments were
sometimes combined or discontinued entirely: in the 18605 they averaged 40 departments
per year; in the 18705 52 departments per year; in the 18805 49 departments per year.
Each inventory includes the value of all holdings for that department, or, as in the case of
the stoves for example, the location of all items. These estimated values ofien also
include the amount above or below the previous year, and a summary of the reasons for
any gains or losses. The last inventory taken in this manner was in 1883, the year of the
breakup, and 1082 inventories are currently housed at the Syracuse University Library
Special Collections.

These inventories are interesting for several reasons. First, they give us some
indication of how the Oneida Perfectionists divided their domestic and economic
endeavors, and the level of control exerted over their material goods and their committees
(it is no accident that the year with the most inventories, 1880 with 62, is also the year of
the most strife in the community right before the discontinuation of complex marriage).
Second, the evolution of these departments, with some combined and some ending
entirely, shows changing emphases and priorities in the community through time. Third,

these inventories are an ideal way to examine how personal possessions were managed in

a communal setting.

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For example, from 1862 to 1883, all watches and clocks were inventoried in the
community. For many years, more than 100 clocks of varying value were inventoried.
These were spread throughout the Mansion House, particularly in parlors and hallways,
and found in the various inventory buildings. This indicates that it was not difficult for
an individual to find out what time it was during the day. In addition to these clocks, all
of the watches were inventoried. For the years 1862-1866, 1872-1873, and 1881-1883
the watch inventories include not only the value, but also the name of the person who had
the watch (it seems that some individuals were more zealous in their inventorying than
others). In some cases, an individual had a watch for a year or two and then not again. In
other cases, it appears that individuals “upgraded” their watches occasionally. And, in
several cases, a community member used the same watch for a number of years, and the
watch was “assigned” to that member at the break—up when communal material
possessions were transferred into individual ownership. These watch inventories give us
a fascinating glimpse at how personal possessions were managed in communal
ownership; even when the community member seemed to “own” a watch consistently for
a long period of time, that item was still counted in the communal coffer yearly. This
reinforced the ideals of the community over the individual, even in personal items.
Discussion

Throughout their existence, the Oneida Community struggled with balancing the
interests of the individual and the community, intimacy and social distance, individual
choice and administrative rule, and the tension between their social ideals and the
economic reality of the outside world. As a group they embraced the materiality of the

external world through their manufacturing and commercial industries - and quite

118

 

successfully at that. The embracing of materiality was not allowed for individuals,
however, as the examples of watches and children’s toys have shown. In a sense, the
Oneida Community rectified the tension between the ideal and the material by becoming
“communal capitalists” and their commercial interactions with the outside world were
conducted as if they were one large individual.

Oneida Community members were acutely aware of the power (and danger) of
material things, and consciously used them to both in communicate their religious beliefs
and ideology as well as shape social relations and behavior. The ideals of family,
community, and perfection repeatedly permeated their architecture, landscape, personal
items, and daily activities as they created “heaven on earth.” While the practices of
mutual criticism and complex marriage undoubtedly were important mechanisms for
creating and maintaining social cohesion and communitas, the Oneida Perfectionists also
consciously used their material culture towards this end. And much can be learned by
investigating their conscious planning, design, and implementation of material culture
toward this end.

“A RIOT OF WHISKERS AND JAZZ”1

As mentioned briefly in Chapter Three, the House of David/City of David differs
from most other millennial groups in the United States. Two central tenets of their
theology in particular stand out: their belief in that the divine has both male and female
components, and their belief in the immortality of the body as well as the soul.

The Christian Israelites believe that the first coming of Christ was embodied in

‘ This phrase comes from one of the jazz bands advertisement posters.

119

 

the form of Jesus. They believe that Jesus and Christ are two separate entities, as can be
seen in the following passage (PurneII [1906]212, emphasis original):

Many good theologians have never noticed the difference between Jesus
and Christ. Remember, Jesus had a beginning of days, and Christ was the
High Priest after the order of Melchizedek, having neither beginning of
days nor end of life. Jesus was never called Christ til Christ, the High
Priest rested upon Him at the River Jordan and showed the full power of
God, and then He was called Jesus Christ, because Christ took possession
of Jesus. Jesus spiritually means a pure cleansed body. Jesus was the
sacrifice-- a lamb without blemish-- and Christ (God) was the sacrificer.
Sometimes Jesus spake to the people, and sometimes Christ, the Spirit of
God spake. Christ said: Before Abraham was, I am. He was the “I am”
that appeared to Moses in the bush; and Jesus said: I and My Father are
one. Christ withdrew from Jesus on the cross; and Jesus said: My God,
My God, why hast Thou forsaken Me? Jesus could not have died if Christ
had not withdrawn as it were for a moment to make the sacrifice; for Jesus
had to give up His mortal life (the blood) for the Immortal. The Spirit
then entered into His body and raised Him up; who then said: I am He that
was dead and am alive, and behold I am alive forevermore.

In this way, the Christian Israelites see Christ as the spirit that worked through Jesus, and
they believe this will happen again.

The purpose of this first coming was for soul salvation, and that it was a free gift
of grace. The purpose of the second coming is for the Ingathering, or the assembling of
the twelve scattered tribes of Israel. As mentioned in Chapter Three, the members of the
colony are undergoing a physical and spiritual purification in preparation for the
millennium. This includes not cutting one’s hair (Leviticus 19:27), not consuming
alcohol (Numbers 623), living communally (Acts 2:3) practicing vegetarianism (Genesis
1:29, Leviticus 19:26), remaining celibate (I Corinthians 7), and living one’s faith.
Celibacy, in particular, prepares colony members for the millennium. During the 1000

years that Christ will live on here on earth with his followers (the elect or ingathering of

120

the 12 tribes of Israel), believers will become parents. Because the believers are
purifying themselves now and not sinning, children born to them in the millennium will
be free from sin (both their own and the ‘sin of their fathers’). And, as noted in
Revelations, those generations born in the Millennium would have to prove themselves in
the final battle at its conclusion.

It is believed, however, that this second coming of Christ will be in the form of a
woman, the virginal bride. She is the protector, the mother, and is essential for rebirth in
the millennium. This was prophesied by Joanna Southcott, the first messenger. It is
believed that Southcott, through a visitation of Christ spirit, began the Divine
Communication that would continue and be completed by the six remaining messengers
in succession (Revelation 10:7) (Purnell [1906]:28):

Even the mystery of the seven thunders heard by John, he was not to

write-- that is, till the time of the end; which time we are now in. This

Visitation of the Spirit of truth, which was to come, is given by the seven

angels which were to sound in order. Therefore God’s last message to

man consists of seven parts of the great volume of truth, unfurled to the

Israel of God during the time of the latter Visitation by the seven angels

sent to the seven Messengers. And when the Seventh Angel begins to

sound, the mystery shall be finished, as declared to His servants, the

prophets.

Interestingly, Joanna Southcott is not the first of the seven messengers
chronologically. She comes in time after Richard Brothers. The House of David/City of
David order the first six messengers in the following way (Taylor 1992-- dates represent
“visitation of revelations”): Joanna Southcott (1792-1814), Richard Brothers (1790-
1792), George Turner (1814-1821), William Shaw (1821-1822), John Wroe (1822-1863),
and James and Esther Jezreel (1873-1888). This is explained in the following way

(Taylor 199623):

121

From 1792 through 1892 would see six Messengers give forth teachings
concerning the Second Coming of Christ, its allotted time of preparation
for it, and the ingathering of Israel unto this final and great expectation.
All six were of English descent, and all began their missions from
England. Richard Brothers, a lieutenant in the British navy, was during
Joanna Southcott’s time, and preceded her by several years, 1790-1792.
For his statements regarding the Monarchy and its displacement upon the
return of Christ to Earth, Mr. Brothers spend [sic] ten years in an English
prison as a guest of the Royal family. He is counted as the second
Messenger, and the Book of Revelation to Saint John gives his
imprisonment as ten days, in figure (Rev. 2:10); Joanna was instrumental
in securing the release of Brothers in 1802. Joanna Southcott is
considered the first of the lineage, and called the “mother” of the
Visitation, and became one of historical note in her Visitation of 22 years.

This re-ordering of the messengers indicates the importance of the Visitation beginning
through a woman in Christian Israelite theology.2
By the sixth messenger, James Jezreel, the emphasis on the complementary male

and female aspects of the divine is extended to the interaction of Visitation or the
“Shiloh” and the work of the messenger. This can be seen in the following passage
(Taylor 1992220): “James Jezreel with this wife Clarissa Rogers, who became known as
Esther Jezreel, was the first of the lineage of visitation to emphasize the working together
of male and female as an indivisible unit in order to complete the redemption of man and
the restoration of Eden.” This belief in the Visitation communicating through male and

female halves of the messenger is continued with the seventh messenger, Benjamin and

2 While this re-ordering of the messengers is definitely of central importance for the followers in North
America, it does not seem to have been as important for the members who came from Australia and New
Zealand. As members of the Fifth Church (established by the fifth messenger, John Wroe), some of the
colony members that migrated to Benton Harbor from Australia and New Zealand seem to have placed the
messengers in chronological order, with Richard Brothers as the first messenger and Joanna Southcott as
the second (see notation in unpublished journal of “Lillian R,” 200 Years Library archive, Mary’s City of
David, Benton Harbor, MI).

122

Mary Pumell, and they are referred to as the “Shiloh Twain?”

This emphasis on gender complimentarity can also be seen in the organization of
the colony and in daily work activities. Both men and women were involved in
managing colony business and personnel, and were often leaders in their own right.
Much of this activity centered on decisions made in the colony business office, and this is
where the complex job of running a large commune with diverse business interests was
done - Here the assignment of living quarters and colony member’s jobs were made and
enforced by office personnel-~referred to as “sweepers” or “movers” (Adkin 1990228).
In addition, in many of the colony businesses (like the print shop), women were in

Charge. In contrast to the Oneida Perfectionists, when individuals at the House of David
were particularly skilled in some area, they were encouraged to excel.

The colony and colony experience are considered to be transitory in nature.

Members have left one existence (the outside world), but they have not yet arrived at
their destination (the millennium). For this reason, the colony and colony life are seen as
a place of transition-- not in the former world, but not yet in the next world. Benjamin
1)UI‘nell (1915-1925 (3):69) characterized it in the following way:

There must of a necessity be a preparation for Israel; and as Israel are

called out of the world and yet cannot enter into the new world until

prepared, and therefore there must be a place prepared between the two

worlds for separation, and preparation, and a proving and a crucifixion,

and a battling, and a struggle, as two nations in the womb of providence,
and to be separated.

x

This definition becomes a factor when the colony splits after Benjamin’s death In December 1927. As
will be discussed later in this chapter, one faction (Mary’s) continues to believe that Mary is the female half
0f the seventh messenger, while the other faction (Dewhirst’s) believes that only Benjamin was the seventh
messenger.

123

This passage aptly describes expectations of the colony. Unlike the emphasis at Oneida,
the colony at Benton Harbor was not supposed to be utopian or perfect in any way--
perfection is in the millennium, which has not yet arrived. For this reason, members of
the colony do not emphasize perfecting their surroundings, or creating heaven on earth.
Instead, the colony is a place of trial and preparation for believers. In discussing this
passage, one community member observed (Taylor, personal communication 2003a):
It has been a favorite of mine as it describes the true nature of the
community... which was never set as a utopia, but much rather a place of
trial, preparation and faced with injustices that are hopefully used by the
divine wisdom to shake loose from us anything that is not of necessity. I
remember Melvin Tucker once told me that during the time of the
separation that Mary told him he had come to the place where you could
give up. . .”be ready to give up everything but your faith.” That is pretty
much the sum total... when nothing is in contention for your attention and
daily practice of your faith... coming to see everything through the eye of
faith. My findings thus far on this path is... Mary was right.
This value of living one’s faith is emphasized repeatedly in colony activities and personal
accounts, and becomes the essence of daily life for the members.
The combined emphases on this transitionary nature of colony life and gender

complimentarity are important aspects of the ideology at the colony. Not only did they

shape members’ faith, but they also shaped the organization of their social and material
world, including landscape, architecture, and daily life.

Early Economic Endeavors

In April 1903 the Purnell’s and a few of their followers arrived in Benton Harbor.

Since the headquarters for the Sixth Church (followers of Jezreel) was in Grand Rapids,

the area already had individuals who were faithful Christian Israelites. Among these was

the Baushke family.

124

 

The Baushkes were already a prominent Benton Harbor family. Headed up by
four brothers (Lewis, Theodore, Albert, and August), they owned several substantial
businesses in Benton Harbor, including a successful blacksmith shop and wagon factory
(Talyor 1996220; Adkin 1990215). Theodore and Albert were already members of the
Sixth Church, and were immediately supportive of the Pumells. In fact, when the
Purnells and their followers first arrived in Benton Harbor, they stayed in a house owned
by the Baushkes (Adkin 1990:15-16).

Shortly after arrival, Benjamin and Mary held several well-advertised public
meetings in the town. At the same time, Benjamin purchased a lO-acre tract of land just
outside of Benton Harbor to the east, and building began. The first building was called
the Ark, and it contained three stories. A print shop and offices were on the first floor
(where Shiloh ’s Messenger of Wisdom, the colony’s monthly paper, immediately started
printing), and the other floors became a communal residence. The large majority of the
funding for this first building came from the Baushke family (Adkin 1990216).

Soon a second building (Bethlehem) was under construction. Benjamin and Mary
left for Australia late in 1904, and returned in 1905 with 85 followers. These 85 were
members of the Wroe Church (the Fifth Church) in Australia, and they became an
important part of the colony. In addition to church leaders, their ranks included
carpenters, architects, and other professions that were needed in the rapidly expanding
colony (Adkin 1990217-18). The Australians also included many musicians (enough to
make a band), and their addition marked the beginning of music as a pastime at the

House of David, and as a business venture.

125

 

By early 1906 the third community building, Jerusalem, was under construction.
Once completed, it was connected to Bethlehem by a triple archway (Figure 4.15). The
archway was marked “The House of David 1906” and symbolized the joining of the Fifth
and Sixth Churches to form the Seventh Church of Israel (Adkin 1990218). The
basement of Jerusalem contained a kitchen and dining room, and the first floor became
the main offices. The second and third floors housed colony members, including Mary
and Benjamin who lived separately on the second floor. In addition, a new print shop
was constructed just to the north of Jerusalem (Adkin 1990219).

During the first four years in Benton Harbor, the colony grew steadily. Several
more groups from Australia arrived, and numerous other believers were “called home”
from various parts of the country. Benjamin and Mary continued to acquire land,
particularly farmland. Many new members were experienced farmers, and by 1907 the
colony was heavily involved in growing and selling fruit and vegetables, and soon after
an 80 acre dairy farm was acquired (Adkin 1990223). Other businesses included a
blacksmith shop, planing mill, a bakery, an ice cream parlor, and a zoo (including an
aviary and monkey house, with many exotic animals having been brought by newly
arrived members). In addition, several industries were developed to further the expansion
of the colony: a block factory for building materials, electricity plant, greenhouses, a
wagon and carriage shop, and a water system. The construction of a new auditorium for
religious meetings was underway, and at least fourteen missionary teams were circulating
the country (Adkin 1990220). By 1907 the colony numbered 385 individuals (Adkin

1990223).

126

ISRAEI ITF. COLONI \ 1F.“ «‘e
on Bar bor. Mich. U. S.A
Se ad for lirenture.

    

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Figure 4.15: Bethlehem and Jerusalem (Photo courtesy of Mary’s City of David Archives, Benton Harbor,
Michigan).

Even more growth loomed on the horizon, with many believers waiting to come
to Benton Harbor. The following notice was including in the monthly Shiloh Messenger
of Wisdom from 1907 until well into the 19205 (House of David 190728):

Important Notice: Owing to the desire of many to come to the House of

David faster than we are able to build and prepare places for them, we

wish it understood by all such, that in order to save us and themselves

much unnecessary trouble, they should correspond with us before making

arrangements to come. It is absolutely necessary that each and every case

be give due consideration and the applicant await the call to come home,

as there must be order in the Lord’s house.

In the fall of 1907, Benjamin purchased 30 acres from the Eastman Springs
Company south of Britain Avenue. This property was directly across the street from

Bethlehem and Jerusalem, and the development of this property would mark the

beginning of a new era in the House of David.

127

Landscapes of Leisure

From 1905 on, several colony members had been complaining about their lack of
privacy. The House of David attracted (and encouraged) large numbers of curious people
from the outside world to come and observe them. The 200 and the ice cream parlor were
located directly behind Bethlehem and Jerusalem. This caused confusion for visitors,
who often entered the residences in order to observe the colonists (Adkin 1990223).

Late in 1907, Benjamin announced his plan for the recently purchased Eastman
Springs property and in doing 50 suggested a solution for the colonists who wanted more
privacy. Benjamin wanted to build an amusment park (Adkin 1990224). This would
provide a place for tourists to gather away from the living quarters of the colony, and as
the park began to bring in capital, he would construct an adjacent campground, cabins, a
hotel, and a restaurant-- all of which would be necessary to house some of the 144,000 at
the beginning of the millennium. By launching this business, Benjamin was capitalizing
on the colony’s notoriety as a curiosity, and the potential for the Benton Harbor area as
resort area, and this enterprise, more than any other, exemplifies his astute business
instincts.

Peter Muller, a local landscape architect, was hired to help the Israelites design
the amusement park, and construction began early in 1908. Greening Brothers, a local
nursery, provided the plants and shrubs for the park (News Palladium, July 20, 1908) and
the local rail system was connected to the entrance of the park so visitors could easily get
there by streetcar. The local newspaper described the first summer of the park in the
following way (News Palladium, July 20, 1908):

Citizens of Benton Harbor and Berrien county would scarcely believe, had
they visited the place less than a year ago, that it was possible to make

128

 

such a vast improvement. An improvement that without cost affords a

place of amusement and recreation for ten thousand people. Strange as it

may seem, nevertheless it is so and the park speaks for itself. Lighted by

hundreds of electric lights, furnished with a large amphitheatre, with rustic

benches, bridges and driveways and a large lagoon in the centre and

twelve different kinds of mineral water flowing from as many fountains,

the park during the past month has been visited by thousands of resorters

and Benton Harbor people.

Entertainment in the park included an arcade, the 200, the aviary, ice cream parlor, and
House of David bands. The first passenger miniature train was in operation by the end of
1908, and in 1920 eight of these trains ran in the Eden Springs Amusement Park. The
auditorium and swimming pool were completed by 1910, and a greenhouse adjacent to
the zoo the following year. Other attractions included a bowling alley and numerous
souvenir shops (Adkin 1990:350).

By 1915 another pastime of the colony was turned into a lucrative business:
baseball. A baseball stadium was constructed south of the park, and it contained 3,500
seats (Figure 4.16). The House of David probably became most known through their
baseball teams. The home team played a regular schedule, and at the traveling team
played between 180 and 225 games a year (Figure 4.17). This barnstorming teams
traveled to every state in the U.S., Canada, Mexico, and most cities in Europe, bringing
the bearded players international fame (Adkin 1990:25; Hawkins and Bertolino 2000).

In addition to the baseball teams, the colony sent several musical ensembles
around the country. One of the House of David jazz bands, the Syncopep Serenaders,
became quite well known (Taylor 1996:44).

Throughout the 19105 and 19205 the colony continued to expand their businesses.

These included an arts and crafts shop, a greenhouse, a canning plant, and nine large

fMS (Adkin 1990227; 347-349). Of particular note are the colony lumbering operations.

129

 

Figure 4.16: Ballgame at the House of David (Photo courtesy of Mary’s City of David Archives, Benton
Harbor, Michigan).

 

Figure 4.172 1918 House of David team (Photo courtesy of Mary’s City of David Archives, Benton Harbor,
Michigan).

130

Their first logging endeavors were at the Aral Lumber Camp near Beulah, Michigan,
where they owned 120 acres and held the rights to 500 more (Adkin 19902349). In 1912
the House of David purchased the timber rights to a large portion of High Island (3,400
acres) in northern Lake Michigan (Adkin 1990:26-27; 349). This business venture took
advantage of the skills of the membership (many were lumberman or carpenters) and
provided much needed construction materials to the colony. For many years, numerous
colony members lived and worked on High Island, providing wood for the colony, with
many of the 100-150 colonists remaining on the island year-round (Nelson 2000211).
House of David owned ships then brought the lumber to Benton Harbor, where the House
of David owned dock property (Adkin 19902349). As with most of the House of David
enterprises, the colony used what materials they needed, and surpluses were sold to the
outside world for profit (Adkin 1990227).

During all this growth, Mary ran the business office. This was no small feat,
given the numbers of colony members (more than 700 members by 1910 and almost 1000
by 1920) and the diverse nature of the economic enterprises. The daily tasks of managing
accounts and distributing resources to the various farms and other businesses became
quite complex.
Elite Architecture

From the beginning, the House of David constructed ornate buildings. Both
Bethlehem and Jerusalem were large and included elegant woodwork in the doors,
windows, and staircases of the buildings. In addition, architectural details communicate
Israelite beliefs, such as the trumpets carved into each panel of each stair step in

Bethlehem, symbolizing the call for the Ingathering, and the wooden three link chain

131

 

 

Figure 4.18: Shiloh Building, House of David (Photo taken by author).
above the entrance to Jerusalem signifying faith, hope, and charity (Adkin 1990219).
This trend continued in the colony’s future construction, and the buildings
continued to become more ornate. The Shiloh building, and its later additions, is one of
the best examples (Figure 4.18, 4.19, and 4.20). Completed in 1908, this building
became the headquarters for the colony, and Mary’s place of residence until the split
(Adkin 1990:35). Billy Wright and other colony architects designed Shiloh, and it was
the first House of David building constructed with the patented cement blocks produced
by the colony. By adding hematite to the concrete recipe, the blocks had a sparkling

appearance. These were also used at the Diamond House, and the Hotel in downtown.

132

 

soggy.

 

Figure 4.19: Shiloh Building, House of David (Photo taken by author).

Shiloh is an example of vernacular Queen Anne architecture, and is described in
the following way (Eckert 19932238):

Reminiscent of the resort architecture that was built at the turn of the
century along Michigan’s shorelines, the structure exhibits a veranda that
sweeps across its symmetrical facade and wraps around the side
elevations, seemingly cinching the three-story comer towers to the square
core of the building. The central main entrance is surmounted by a triplet
recessed porch at the second level and by a single ceremonial porch at the
third, which, in turn, is capped by an eight-sided, bell-cast turret with a
finial.

133

 

 

Figure 4.20: Shiloh Building, House of David (Photo taken by author).

The turrets at each comer are both topped by cupolas. In addition, the balcony is
decorated with pierced woodwork, wood railings, and columns. The two buildings that
were added behind Shiloh later are both similar in size and architectural style. The first
was called New House and was completed in 1915 and the second was called the cash
office and it was completed in 1920. Both were constructed with the same sparkling

colony-made blocks, and have wood sided walls and Mansard roofs (Figures 4.21, 4.22).

134

 

     

Figure 4.22: Shiloh architectural detail (Photo taken by author).

135

Wright next built the Diamond House, completed in 1921 (Figure 4.23).

 

This building is also quite ornate, and showcases the concrete blocks made by the
community even more, particularly in the columns. Benjamin moved into this
building in 1923 where he lived until his death. The annex was added in 1925
and housed the chapel that Benjamin where he was laid to rest (Adkin 1990247).

Construction on the House of David Hotel in downtown Benton Harbor began in
1922. The plans for this hotel included seven stories and the length of a city block, which
would have made it the largest hotel on the west side of Michigan (Adkin 199023 5).
However, during the scandals of the 19205 construction slowed, finally coming to a
complete halt after Benjamin’s death and during the tumultuous years of 1928-1929 in
the colony. Mary’s faction was awarded the hotel in the settlement, and construction was
finally completed in 1932 (Adkin 19902355). By 1935 Mary’s Vegetarian Cafe and
Mary’s Bakery While it did not end up quite as grand as planned (Figure 4.24), it is still
an impressive structure.

This increasing opulence was noted by disgruntled members in more than just
architecture. Benjamin in particular dressed in expensive suits and hats, and often wore
expensive jewelry. Beginning with Helen Kraft and later Henry Williams, ex-community
members publicly complained that while the leaders of the colony lived in luxury, the rest
of the members did not (Adkin 1990280-82). These complaints often ended up in court,
with the ex-members attempting to sue for wages and other compensation. In 1914, two
ex-colony members, the F ortney sisters, signed affidavits accusing Benjamin of rape
(Adkin 1990:89-90). While nothing was ever proven and, in many cases, it was clear the

ex-members were after monetary rewards, accusations like these continued.

136

 

‘. . < .

Figure 4.23: The Diamod House and laetr addition (Photo taken by author).

. “I” ’3‘!”-

:‘I

..,.,,;.~i~va-

137

Figure 4.24: Mary’s Hotel (Photo courtesy of Marys City of David Archives, Benton Harbor, Michigan).

9
‘10-
.h'

B.

In 1921, the Hansels filed suit against the House of David. Earlier in the year, the
family had been forced to leave the colony (Adkin 1990299-115). Even though they had
had difficulty in the colony and had threatened to leave and start their own colony for
some time, they were not happy with this decision, even though they had signed papers
agreeing to the communal way of life on entering and exiting the colony. They
contended that (Adkin 19902106):

they had been induced to become members of this association through

fraud and fraudulent representation, and that they were wrongfully

expelled therefrom, and asked that all instruments in writing executed by

them be cancelled, set aside, and held for naught, and that they recover the

value of their property transferred by them to Benjamin and Mary, and the

value of their services and the service of their minor children during the

time they were members of the colony.

When they came to the colony (in the period from 1912 to 1917), the Hansel family
contributed their estate, which was valued at $5,360.27 (Adkin 19902102). Despite this
fact, the Hansels in 1921 asked for damages totaling $80,000.00 (Adkin 19902106).

After the filing of many claims and counter-claims, the case finally went to trial in
the Federal District Court in Grand Rapids in March of 1923 (Adkin 19902106-115).
Even though, among other things, it became clear that the Hansels were already planning
to leave and start their own colony in Tennessee (and had been stockpiling items from the
colony to do so), the judge sided with the Hansels (Adkin 19902114). He agreed that the
Hansels had been induced to join and that the documents they signed were obtained under
pressure. The judge added to the Hansel’s initial monetary contributions to the colony

for their eight years of work and ordered the House of David to pay the Hansels

$24,078.08 (Adkin 199021 14).

138

While this trial was not devastating monetarily for the colony, its effects had a
huge impact nonetheless. The success of the Hansels opened the door for many more ex-
members who were interested in getting money from the colony. In addition, when the
state attempted to break-up the House of David finances in 1927, bankers and others were
very interested in being in charge of the receivership. By 1928 these trials and scandals
succeeded in splitting the colony into two separate factions and, with the settlement in
1930, two separate colonies.

Redefining, Rein venting, and Rebuilding

On February 18, 1930 the split between the two factions became solidified with
the signing of the division agreement By 1930 the combined properties of the House of
David and the City of David made these Christian Israelites the largest land owners in all
of southwestern Michigan, so there was much to divide. Mary’s faction (with 217
followers) was awarded several properties including several farms and the unfinished
House of David Hotel (Adkin 1990:210-211, 354-355). On April 1 of the same year,
Mary and her followers moved two blocks east on the south side Britain Avenue. Loaded
up with all of their personal possessions and some household goods, the Israelite House
of David as Re-Organized by Mary Pumell started over.

There was only one building on this property that could be used for a residence
(Adkin 19902212). Started in 1927 to house Benjamin and Mary in exile, this building
became known as Mary’s House. Obviously, this building could not accommodate
everyone, and temporary tents were used as living arrangements, as well as one large tent

for meetings (Figure 4.25).

139

 

The Israelite House of David as Re—Organized by Mary Purnell (later known as
Mary’s City of David) was very different from the House of David (now referred to as
the old colony). As early as the 19105, Mary warned the House of David members of the
dangers of materialism. She remarked on several occasions that business emphases
should not outweigh religious ones. From the start, the City of David did not focus on
the expansion of businesses to the scale that was done before the split.4 Instead, Mary
concentrated on getting back to the basics of the Israelite faith. Her first order of
business was starting up the printing press, and getting her next volume in the Mother’s
Comforter series out. Then she turned to rebuilding her community.

One of the first large buildings to be completed was the Auditorium (Figure 4.26).
Other buildings followed quickly, included the New Shiloh Headquarters (Figure 4.27),
Bethany (with the printing shop and dining facilities on the first floor), the garage (used
for blacksmithing and auto maintenance), greenhouse, a canning plant, a colony bakery,
and the laundry, all with living quarters on the upper floors, all in use by the summer of
1931 (Figure 4.28).

Throughout this rebuilding, the members of the City of David emphasized several
ideals. Not surprisingly, since the re-organization took place during the Great
Depression, self-reliance became a key concern. Mary and her followers, many as
accomplished gardeners, carpenters, and farmers, immediately focused on getting the

colony to the point of supporting itself. Unlike the architecture at the House of David,

 

4 The House of David continued to expand businesses and, while under the direction of Dewhirst at least,
the religious aspects of the community lessened. As one community member put it: “Dewhirst was a
businessman. Mary was a preacher.” This difference is an apt characterization of the two colonies alter the
division.

140

 

 

Figure 4.25: Auditorium groundbreaking—note tent in background (Photo courtesy of Mary’s City of
David Archives, Benton Harbor, Michigan).

     

h.“ .- .
< \ _i——-—

Figure 4.26: Mary’s Auditorium entrance (Photo taken by author).

141

 

 

I ' ' ’ “I‘ll It!" "
Figure 4.28: Laundry Building and Garage (Photo taken by author).

142

the City of David built efficient and functional buildings with very little in the way of
embellishments. This is not because they did not have the skills or craftsmen at the
colony; on the contrary, the members of the City of David were an extraordinarily
talented group. Instead, the buildings at the City of David were meant to be used, and
were not there to emphasize the wealth or success of the colony. The transitory nature of
the colony can also be seen in the materials used. For example, the first floor of the
garage building was constructed out of newly made colony bricks on two sides, while the
other two sides were constructed out of surplus concrete blocks (Figure 4.29). In

addition, the windows for these buildings are WWI surplus that the colony purchased in

Chicago (Figure 4.28).

 

Figure 4.29: Garage, brick construction detail (Photo taken by author).

143

.v,
‘a

 

center (Photo courtesy of Mary’s City of David Archives, Benton Harbor, Michigan).

Bringing the Outside In

By 1936 the City of David had accomplished a tremendous amount (Figure 4.30).
The colony now had many buildings, and the farms were producing particularly well.
Several businesses were also in full swing, including the Hotel, Cafe, and Bakery in
Mary’s Hotel located in downtown Benton Harbor, completed in 1932.

The City of David started a resort business, but this one was different than the
Eden Springs Amusement Park for several reasons. First, the resort cabins were not
located away from the colony member’s living quarters (Figure 4.31). In this way, the
colony members and the resorters were often in contact. Second, the resort catered to a
primarily Jewish clientele from Chicago. The City of David offered vegetarian meals,

both downtown and in the newly opened (1932) Mary’s Restaurant at the colony

144

 

 

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Francis Ave.

1) New Shiloh Headquarters

2) Mary’s Restaurant

3) Residence

4) Resort Housing

5) Synagogue and Rabbi’s House
6) Mary’s House

7) Kiosk

8) Bakery

9) Garage

10) Mary’s Auditorium

11) Rest Home

12) Utility Building

13) Carpentry Shop

14) Laundry and Residence

15) Workshops

16) Print shop and Residence

17) Greenhouses

l8) Powerhouse

19) Garage and Blacksmith Shop

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Figure 4.31: Map ofthe central area of Mary’s City of David (Alter BLIS 1996, SW 1/4 | l-03-0020)

145

(Figure 4.31), allowing the resorters to keep kosher during their summer vacations. The
relationship between the City of David and the Jewish resorters became a strong one, and
in 1938 Mary built a Jewish hospital and a synagogue with a rabbi’s house added in 1942
(Taylor 1996:116) (Figure 4.32). While the hospital closed within a year, the synagogue
was in operation until 1976, and even today people who came as resorters come back for
reunions and visits.

These business emphases represent a stark contrast to previous ones at House of
David. While both communities interacted with the outside world, these relationships
were very different. The House of David owned businesses to cater to their public, but
these were not always businesses that they would have patroned themselves (for example,
the brewery and beer garden in the amusement park). The City of David did not
approach the outside world in the same way. Instead of merely providing services that
would produce capital, the City of David took something from their religious life (like
vegetarianism) and invited the outside world in to share it with them.
Daily Life in Material Culture

The members of the City of David spent much of their time at the locations for the
various colony industries, including the bakeries and restaurants. Job assignments were
made in a similar fashion as at the House of David, with members of the office making
many personnel decisions. Many worked on the numerous farms, and the colony
produced fruits of various kinds (peaches, apples, etcetera), grains, dairy, eggs, maple
syrup, sorghum cane, blueberries, strawberries, beans, potatoes, oats, tomatoes, and other
crops. Following Their prize farm was the Rocky Farm (Figure 4.33) and it would grow

to 780 acres. In addition, the colony ran a successful greenhouse, raising flowers and

146

 

 

Figure 4.33: Synagogue with Rabbi’s house in the rear (Photo taken by author).

147

   

"

 

was

Figure 4 Rocky Farm (Photo courtesy of Mi’s City of Davd ArchiwsfiBentgn'Harbor: Michigan).
other plants for sale. Individual members were highly encouraged to expand their
interests and talents, and many members excelled in their jobs and hobbies. Music and
baseball continued to be a community emphasis, and traveling teams toured the country
until 1955 (Taylor 1996:126-130; Adkin 19901350; Hawkins and Bertolino 2000). In
addition, particularly during the 1930s and 19403, Israelites continued to be called home
to the City of David, and several large groups from Australia came during this time
(Adkin 1990:252-259).

Meals were eaten communally, but not in one central location as it was at Oneida.
Instead, colony members ate where they worked, with cooks stationed at many of the
farm locations as well as in the colony. On the colony, Mary’s House, the Shiloh

Administration building, and Bethany had kitchens and large dining facilities. Colony

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members attended weekly prayer meetings, with much music and reading of religious
texts, and attended Mary’s public “talks” in the auditorium.

Colony members, particularly men, were immediately recognizable for their hair.
Continuing the Israelite practice of not cutting one’s hair, both men and women had long
hair and the men had long beards. Unlike the Oneida Community, colony members were
allowed personal items. Clothing and other necessities were provided by the community,
and each member was assigned a number. This number was sewn in any personal items
that would be laundered communally, so colony members could be reunited with their
clothing and linens.

Tools at the community were (and still are) treated with utmost care. It is not
uncommon to find shovels and axes that date from the early 19303 or before, as
community members fixed whatever they could and re-used whatever they could no
longer fix (Figure 4.34). While many examples of this “Depression Era Mindset” can be
found today, my favorite is the 1954 Ford F600 that was purchased for getting farm
products to the market for sale. This truck is in immaculate condition with its original
paint, including hand painted logo on the side, original engine, original tires, original
leather interior-- all in excellent condition-- with less than 4,000 original miles on the
odometer.

Perhaps the most important possession of at the colony, however, is The Word. From the
beginning, both Benjamin and Mary emphasized the texts of the seventh messenger.
Regarded as divine communications, these publications start long before the colony in
Benton Harbor. Indeed, the “date of the new creation” was set as May 1, 1903—the first

day the press started at the Benton Harbor colony (Adkin 1990:45). At the time of the

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Figure 4.35: Axe handles in preparation (Photo taken by the author).

division, the rights to publication were bitterly fought over. This was not because the
printing and distribution of these religious texts were a source of income. Because the
right to produce and publish these works belonged solely to the messenger, holding their
publication rights came with religious authority. In fact, one of the central issue before
and during the division focused on one of Mary’s publications.

Mary had long been recognized as part of the seventh messenger, and she had

150

 

 

been publishing the divine communications she received for some time. However, when
she published the third volume of her Comforter series in 1926 (the first and second
volumes were published in 1910 and 1912 respectfully), Benjamin ordered that it be
recalled. While the reasons for this remain unclear, Dewhirst and his followers, after
Benjamin’s death, pointed to this episode to argue that Mary was not regarded by
Benjamin as part of the seventh messenger. Mary’s followers, however, ignored the
recall order, and continued to point to other events where it was clear Benjamin
considered her to be the female half of the Shiloh Twain.

During the period before the official division when the two factions were warring
for resources and control of the colony, the rights to publications became central.
Dewhirst controlled the House of David print shop and Mary’s name was removed from
several volumes that she co-authored with Benjamin (including the Books of Wisdom).
This battle became a theological difference between the two groups. To deny Mary as
half of Shiloh Twain was to go against previously doctrines of the Christian Israelites. At
the time of the settlement, Mary was granted exclusive rights to The Comforter, and
rights in common to the Star, and the Fragments, with Dewhirst retaining exclusive
rights to the Books of Wisdom and the Ball of F ire (Adkin 1990121 1). And, as mentioned
before, one of Mary’s first tasks in the new colony was to get the press operating and re-
issue the third volume of the Comforter and publishing the fourth in 1932. The fifth
volume was published in 1939, and the sixth and final volume in 1944 (Adkin 1990:252).
And in a colony where individuals were expected to live and become their faith, these

texts function as more than just reference material.

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Discussion

The House of David and the City of David imbued their material world with
symbols from their religious beliefs. This is particularly true after the division on the
City of David side of the street. In many ways, this redefinition was not a change in
theology, but instead a revival and stricter adherence to that theology. At the City of
David members literally lived their faith, and this included emphasis on preparing and
waiting for the Ingathering.

This emphasis causes architecture and landscape to appear less formal and more
functional. It is not that the City of David lacked the craftsmen or resources to build
more substantial or ornate buildings and landscapes (for example, Mary’s Hotel and the
buildings that many of the same people built at the House of David). Instead they wanted
their built environment to be finished quickly in order to prepare for the imminent
ingathering. In addition, their belief in this colony space as only a temporary transition
point from one world to the next impacts the nature of those buildings. And for these
reasons the landscapes of the City of David were not sculpted into formal gardens, as
they were at Oneida. The only ornamental garden is on the east side of the Shiloh
Administration building, and it is much more ‘organic’ than formal, with plants that
individuals brought or cared for labeled with their names and the places they are from.
COMPARATIVE SUMMARY

Several themes can be drawn out of the above accounts for the purposes of
comparing the connections between ideology and material culture at the Oneida
Community and the House of David/City of David. This discussion will focus on four:

permanence, community, individuality, and attachments to the material world.

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Oneida House of David City of David
Perfectionists (before split) (after split)
0 perfecting: ' preparing space 0 preparing space
' individuals for ingathering for ingathering
ideology of 0 buildings ' “calling home” 0 “calling home”
millennium ° landscape believers believers
° emphasis on The
Word
° reflection on trials
0 work practices ° purification ° purification
ritualizing ' daily meetings practices practices
daily life ' communal meals ' work practices ° work practices
0 meals ° meals
' worship ° meetings
0 building sequences ° expansion of re-emphasis
adaptation ' landscape shapings business emphasis on faith change:
and change 0 increasing ' interaction with ° architecture styles
‘subgroup’ ‘outside’ ' business
ownership endeavors
° organization of
leadership
° interaction with
‘outside’
' room arrangement ' individual 0 individual
' communal ownership of ownership of
individualism ownership of goods goods
personal items 0 recognition of ° recognition of
' restricting of individual individual
individual’s talents achievement achievement

 

 

 

 

Figure 4.36: Primary Themes and Social Correlates.

153

 

 

The Oneida Community landscape, for example, was carefully designed and
created with much thought and discussion. Because the Oneida Community believed that
the millennium had already arrived, they were at their destination. This, combined with
their theological beliefs in perfectionism, was reflected and reinforced in their built
environment. For this reason, their architecture, particularly the Mansion House, are
ornate and substantial buildings.

In contrast, the House of David/City of David expanded as property was acquired
for settlement expansion, without much of an overall design or plan, with the exception
of preparing for the Ingathering. Instead, each building served a specific purpose (e.g., a
new auditorium for religious meetings or the new baseball field for recreation). Their
built environment reflected and reinforced a much different view of the millennium. For
the Christian Israelites, the millennium has not yet arrived, and the colony is a temporary
place for preparation. For this reason, their architecture is functional and not ornate; this
is especially true of the City of David architecture.

The impact of anticipated mobility on household material culture is a topic that
Brook’s (1995) investigated for western mining communities. In examining the form of
architecture in mining towns (i.e., dug outs, frame houses, etcetera), she found that the
socioeconomic status of the individual was not the defining factore for household
material culture. Instead, she found that anticipated mobility was the key factor. For
example, an individual that did not intend to take up residence in the mining town and
merely came to make their fortune quickly and leave, regardless of their actual income,
anticipated moving in the near future. Therefore, that individual would bring as little as

possible and invest as little as possible in their dwelling and household goods. However,

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an individual who was planning on staying for a long period of time, regardless of their
actual income level, would invest in all of the material indications of a proper home:
build a house, hang curtains, get matching dishes, etcetera. Brooke concluded that in the
context of mining communities, household material culture and architecture could only
be used carefully as an indication of socioeconomic status.

This priniciple of anticipated mobility is useful for interpreting the material
culture of the City of David and the Oneida Community. In the case of the City of David,
the colony existence was only temporary, and they anticipated the imminent beginning of
the millennium. The Oneida Community, on the other hand, were already living “heaven
on earth” and did not anticipate mobility.

Both the Oneida Community and the House of David/City of David utilized
concepts of “home” in their community building, albeit in different ways. At Oneida, the
emphasis on the entire community functioning as one family is reinforced repeatedly in
architectural forms and daily practice (like community meals, work bees, and mutual
criticism). The House of David/City of David did not emphasize this kind of community
in their social structure or their settlement pattern. While they lived communally in large
households, the House of David/City of David did not emphasize centrality of
community in the way the Oneida Community did. In fact, many of the House of
David/City of David properties and endeavors were located some distance from the rest
of the settlement (like the lumbering operation on High Island and various farms).
However, both the House of David and the City of David called their members “home.”

The way individualness is regarded among the Oneida Perfectionists and the

House of David/City of David also varied. One area where this is clear is in the different

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approaches to individual aptitude. At Oneida, members were rotated through all the jobs,
particularly if they got very good at something. This functioned as a leveling device and
fits with the Oneida emphasis on equality. For example, one community member became
to accomplished at the violin and, through mutual criticism, he was told by the
community that his attachment to his music was too important to him and it had become a
vice. For this reason, in order to perfect himself, he should no longer play the violin in
order to strengthen him against this weakness. At Oneida, everyone was supposed to be
equal and at the same level in everything, including skill. Daily tasks were often carried
out in the form of bees, and work assignments were often made with the purpose of
moving someone away from tasks they had showed a particular aptitude.

Individual talent and aptitude was not regarded in the same way at the House of
David and, in particular, at the City of David. Individuals and their skills are highly
prized. If someone excels at some task or is particularly good at something, they are kept
in that job and will supervise that work. Many individuals ran aspects of the City of
David affairs for decades because they had shown skill at it. Examples can be found in
Bob Vierlitz who managed the Rocky Farm for more than thirty years, or Frank Rosetta’s
management of the greenhouses for decades, or Chicki Plons who ran the printing office
for more than 50 years. Colony members at the City of David were assigned tasks based
on their skills and preferences and individuals excelling at particular duties were
encouraged.

Members of both communities never forgot the communitarian part of their
beliefs. Attachments to material objects were seen as dangerous at the Oneida

Community, as the doll example discussed previously in this chapter attests. The House

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of David also emphasized the dangerous nature of individual attachment to material
objects. Members were given clothing, a place to live, food to eat, and any other items
they might need. Many of the complaints from ex-members of the community emphasize
the paucity of belongings and a lack of support. In addition, ex-colony members argued
that this did not apply to all of the members of the House of David. For example, both
insiders and outsiders note Benjamin Purnell’s elaborate and expensive clothing, jewelry,
and shoes. This is particularly a contrast when examining photos from the Oneida
Community and the House of David: often, it is difficult find Noyes in photos, but it
takes no time at all to locate Purnell in photos). In addition, ex-members asserted that the
Purnell’s had a private dining room and the food served at the Purnell table was of a
notably higher amount, quality, and variety than elsewhere in the community. Whether
this last assertion was true or not, it is clear that Mary saw the danger of materiality. As
noted previously in this chapter, she warned the House of David members about the
increasing emphasis on material wealth even before the onslaught of ex-members suing
for compensation in court began. In addition, when starting the City of David, Mary
moved away from this type of materiality, as can be seen by the changing style of
architecture.

It is my contention that these aspects material culture not only reflect their
religious ideology, but also serve to reinforce it, and in this way promote communitas. In
the City of David there is a history of revered and special individuals, called messengers,
that are direct sources of communication from God. In this way their theology has a
place for individual achievement and reveres individual accomplishments as such, and

individuality is encouraged in the daily life of the community. In contrast, the Oneida

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Perfectionists argue that all loyalties should be raised to the level of the community
(including all intimate relationships) and that all members should be equal in all things,
and love everyone in the family equally. In the daily practice of the Oneida Community,
members were continually reminded of the utmost importance of the community over the
needs of the individual in a variety of ways. These theologies are reflected in the way in
which work and daily activities are approached in both communities, and are in turn
reinforced by them.

As these examples have shown, members of both communities were acutely
aware of the power of material things, both in communicating their religious beliefs and
ideology, and in shaping social relations and behavior. And much can be learned by
investigating the their conscious planning, design and implementation of material culture

for these purposes.

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CHAPTER 5
CONCLUSIONS AND IMPLICATIONS

As the two case studies considered in this dissertation illustrate, material culture
holds a central place in the planning and maintaining of intentional communities. In both
the Oneida Community and the House of David/City of David, material culture was
imbued with symbols from their religious ideology. More than just a reflection of
members’ beliefs, the built environment, personal items, and other aspects of material life
served to reinforce ideology. In this way, material culture can be seen as simultaneously
constituted and constitutive. And much can be learned by investigating the conscious
planning, design, and implementation of material culture for these purposes.

However, my dissertation is not limited to making connections between material
culture and ideology, and exploring how these function to promote and maintain
communitas—it also brings together different and independent dialogues in an attempt to
pull elements from each in order to enhance our understanding of these types of social
movements (in this case, new religions in the form of intentional commuties).

My dissertation has implications for four separate areas of inquiry. First, the use
of material culture in processes aimed at creating and promoting communitas can inform
intentional community studies. Second, as I have shown in this dissertation, the analysis
of material culture is also a critical line of evidence for studies in cultural and historical
anthropology, and should be included more often in attempts to understand social
processes and social movements. Third, historical archaeology has the potential to
contribute in these areas, particularly in the examination of material aspects of ritual,
ideology, and large scale culture change. Finally, my dissertation also speaks not just to

historical archaeology, but also to archaeology as a whole, particularly in regard to the

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reflective and reinforcing nature of artifacts imbued with cultural meaning, the study of
ritual, and culture change.
IMPLICATIONS FOR INTENTIONAL COMMUNITIES STUDIES

As discussed throughout this dissertation, material culture is a central focus of the
individuals who form intentional communities. Community members deliberately
attempt to restructure fundamental social relations such as class, family, and gender in
their ideologies, and these ideologies are reflected and reinforced in their carefiilly
prescribed material world. Communitarian groups use material culture to set themselves
apart from the outside world (through clothing, uses of technology, and industrial
endeavors), to reflect ideology and social structure (through landscape designs,
subsistence practices, settlement patterning, architectural forms), and to reinforce
ideology and social relations within the group. Material culture serves as an active
medium to both reflect and reinforce social ideals, and community members were often
keenly aware of the symbolic meanings represented in artifacts. Thus, for such groups
material culture is simultaneously constituted and constitutive.

Nineteenth- and 20th-century communitarian groups are ideal venues in which to
investigate this connection between material culture and ideology, specifically in regards
to the place of material culture in maintaining communitas and social cohesion.
Intentional communities formed with the aim of changing their social relations and
economy, as well as, in some cases, the larger society. In so doing, they attempted to
realize their ideological beliefs in concrete social structures. As I have shown in the
cases of the Oneida Community and the House of David/City of David, material culture
and its connection to ideology are central foci for communitarian groups because material

culture is a powerful medium for promoting and maintaining communitas,.

160

 

 

Further, as I demonstrated in Chapter Four, when the intentional communities

 

were under extreme pressure, whether from within or without, they used material culture
to reinforce aspects of community and common beliefs in an attempt to maintain
communitas. These uses, or “interferences,” to use Wobst’s term (2000:42), of material
culture were not unconscious, and the leaders of such communities often developed
explicit strategies using material symbols as a means of fostering group cohesion and
reinforcing ideology. Material culture clearly both reflected and reinforced the
millennial ideologies of both the Oneida Perfectionists and the House of David/City of
David, and was an essential part of ritualizing daily life, and thereby promoting liminality
and communitas.

While material culture is certainly not the only means by which intentional
communities foster communitas, it is an area of communal studies that needs to be
explored further. It would be difficult to find a communal studies scholar who would not
agree that there is a central focus on defining both the material world and individuals’
interaction with it. Very few, however, see material culture as actively shaping ideology
and practice at the same time that it reflects these ideals, and many neglect to examine the
central role played by material culture in maintaining ideology and communitas. Indeed,
it is my contention that without examining the role of material culture, we cannot
approach an understanding of how communities define themselves, promote social
cohesion through liminality, and grapple with forces of change.

An example of this can be found in the history of the House of David and the City
of David. At the time these split, arguably a defining moment for both communities, a
redefinition occurred, particularly for the City of David. If one were to attempt to

understand this redefinition solely through historical and theological sources, however,

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the impact of this split on the members of the City of David would be seriously
underestimated. Little changed theologically or structurally from the House of David to
the City of David in 1930. The bureaucratic offices remained the same, with a board of
trustees, a secretary, and other organizational offices operating in much the same way and
with many of the same tasks and responsibilities that they had at the House of David.
There was no real break in the theology and religious writings of the colony. Mary’s
publications, as one might expect, continued to match remarkably with Benjamin’s and
with those of the previous six messengers.

The operationalization of these millennial beliefs in daily practice, however,
changed drastically. As discussed in Chapter Four, architecture at the City of David— in
contrast to the House of David—was efficient and functional, with very little in the way
of embellishments. The materials used to build, with frequent mixing of building
materials in the same structure, emphasized the transitionary nature of colony life. The
resort business and restaurants redefined the colony’s relations with the outside world,
inviting the latter into colony life and daily practice, both materially and socially. All of
these differences show a distinct and severe break with the operationalization of
millennial beliefs at the House of David. And any study of this time in their history that
does not take their material culture into account would likely miss this redefinition
entirely, or at a minimum not understand its central significance in defining community
identity and promoting communitas.

It is my argument, then, that studies attempting to understand how members of
intentional communities define, experience, and understand their world through their
ideology must analyze their use of material culture specifically. Not only do members of

these communities plan and design their physical world to reflect and reinforce their

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ideology, but this process is also an essential part of how they ritualize daily life and in
this way promote and maintain communitas. Without taking material culture into
account, there are thus quite possibly key elements of this interaction that we would not

understand or miss entirely.

 

 

IMPLICATIONS FOR CULTURAL AND HISTORICAL ANTHROPOLOGY

The anthropological, historical, and intentional communities studies discussed in
Chapters Two and Three can and do inform one another about various aspects of large-
scale culture change and people’s reactions to those changes. Traditionally,
anthropological studies of revitalistic or millenarian movements have focused strictly on
those in colonial contexts. Here, millenarian movements are seen as a response to large-
scale social change, specifically in regard to capitalism and state control, in situations
where two cultures are clashing. As others have noted (see Chapter Two), in order for us
to truly understand the context and processes behind millenarian movements, the cases
studied needs to be broadened to include millennial movements, specifically Christian
examples that can be found in non-colonial contexts. In order to address this issue
specifically, I chose two groups that meet these criteria and provided examples of why
the concepts developed in colonial millenarian studies are applicable to such
communities.

Many historians have also focused on culture change, albeit in a different manner.
In more traditional histories, culture change is often understood in terms of establishing a
chronology of events or technological advances. As Susman (2003) and others have
argued, this is only the beginning. Susman points out that these events or technological
advances are not the key to understanding large-scale culture change—the ideologies that

they produce are. For example, focusing on the large-scale changes that occurred in the

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United States between 1880 and 1920, Susman characterizes this time as one of cultures
clashing. He states (2003:xx), “Simply put, one of the fundamental conflicts of the
twentieth-century America is between two cultures—an older culture, often loosely
labeled Puritan-republican, producer-capitalist culture, and a newly emerging culture of
abundance.” He characterizes (2003:xx) this clash as a “battle between rival perceptions
of the world”——or what anthropologists might call worldviews (see the discussion of
Wallace in Chapter Two).

The intentional communities literature has also addressed these issues. Several
scholars have demonstrated that intentional communities are founded with significantly
greater frequency during periods of large-scale culture change. This is particularly true
for new religious movements, as in both of the case studies in this dissertation. Often the
ideals, emphasis, and form of the community directly relate to individual responses to
wider social and structural realities. Thus, intentional communities can be seen as a
response to culture change, and a form of cultural critique.

Taking all of these dialogues about culture change together, one is left with some
interesting hypotheses. Intentional communities, then, form out of individuals’ attempts
to grapple with the competing ideologies or culture clashes that occur during episodes of
large-scale culture change occurring around them. Because they are attempting to
mitigate between two ideologies (like Susman’s nineteenth-century producer-capitalist
culture and the twentieth-century culture of abundance), the form of the intentional
community reflects a mix of both. Consequently, the ideals, emphases, and forms of the
intentional communities show which aspects of these competing ideologies were rejected
or accepted, and it is in this blending of worldviews that a community mitigates large-

scale cultural change for its members. Examples of this process can be found in both the

164

 

Oneida Perfectionists and the House of David/City of David (see Chapters Three and
Four).

Further, I suggest that the design of these communities, both socially and
physically, reflects a reaction to the moment in time and context in which they formed.
Consequently, we must examine the ‘formative moments’ of a community—whether
these are at its creation, or at critical periods of redefmition—in order to understand this

process. In addition, this formative process may impact the longevity of an intentional

 

community. After their initial creation and establishment of a worldview that mitigates
these culture clashes in larger society, intentional communities generally cease to address
exemal social ideologies or worldviews. Instead, they focus on internal issues, as they
struggle to promote and maintain communitas. Eventually this insularity prevents them
from providing explanatory frameworks or worldviews that continue to address the
shifting ideologies in the larger society—in a sense, they are still addressing the
ideological context and clashing cultures from their formative period, regardless of how
long ago that may have been. For this reason, the worldview of the community no longer
resonates with the external world, and they can no longer bring in large numbers of
individuals from the outside. In addition, such a situation can add substantially to the
internal struggles that a community faces.

An example of this can be seen in the Oneida Perfectionists. Somewhat
ironically, the Oneida Community continued to apply the ideals of perfectionism to their
physical world, including their structures and landscapes. In many ways, throughout
their entire history, this perfectionism also was applied to individual members (as
discussed in Chapters Three and Four). The Oneida Perfectionists, however, neglected to

apply those same ideals of perfectionism to their social structures. Noyes knew that he

165

needed to find a successor. He did not look toward his loyal committee chairs, some of
whom had been with him since Vermont. Instead, he continued the patriarchal tradition
and structure of authority by attempting to place his son Theodore in charge. It is not
surprising that this did not succeed. For some time before this, several Oneida
Community members had been chafing against Noyes’ ultimate patriarchal authority,
particularly those raised in the community. Thus, the authority and structure of the

community, while initially functioning to address community members’ critique of the

 

18403 and 18503 cultural context, no longer resonated as an alternative system in the
18703 and 18803.

Large-scale culture change has long been a topic of interest for cultural and
historical anthropology. Understanding how communities and individuals experience and
react to these changes, as in the case of millenarian movements, is an important part of
these investigations. Additionally, as argued in the last section in reference to intentional
communities studies, material culture is a crucial piece of the puzzle. Our social and
cultural worlds are filled with material objects, and cultural processes can be better
understood by understanding the interactions between material culture, ideology, and
cultural change. For anthropologists, particularly those involved in historical studies,
understanding this interaction is critical, and material culture should be included
alongside other categories of evidence if we are to more fully understand processes of
culture change. Fortunately, other cultural anthropologists are already working within
this framework, as are archaeologists. Historical archaeology in particular is well
situated to understand the ineraction between culture change, material culture, and

ideology.

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IMPLICATIONS FOR HISTORICAL ARCHAEOLOGY

Historical archaeology is often defined as the study of the modern world (Orser
1996:23-28). In what has become a very well known definition, James Deetz (1991 :1)
called it “the archaeology of the spread of European societies worldwide, beginning in
the fifteenth century, and their subsequent development and impact on native peoples in
all parts of the world.” Others advocated slightly different emphases. Mark Leone and
Parker Potter (1988, 1994) argue that historical archaeology should be the archaeology of
the emergence and development of capitalism or the archaeology of capitalism. In
contrast, Robert Paynter and Randall McGuire (1991) argue for a greater focus on issues
of power in social relations. Deagan (l988:8) states that “historical archaeology’s
obvious niche as a modern, synthetic field of inquiry is in the study of the processes and
interrelationships by which human social and economic organizations developed and
evolved into the modern world.”

These definitions combine anthropological and historical approaches to the study
of the modern world. The modern world is generally defined as “the world that contained
the earliest elements of our own world, such as large-scale urbanization, complex
industrial production, mercantilism and capitalism, widespread literacy, long-distance
travel, and contacts between large numbers of people from vastly different cultures”
(Orser and Fagan 1995211). This definition emphasizes “the interconnectedness between
different Western nations, and between these nations and the non-Western world” (Orser
and F agan 1995:11). Out of sheer necessity, many historical archaeologists working in
this framework concentrate on how globalization processes affect specific local contexts,

attempting in this way to understand the “global nature of modern life” (Orser and Fagan

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1995:19; Orser 1996:27-28). For Orser (Orser 1996:27), historical archaeology “is
actually the study of the world in which we now live.” Given these emphases, it is not
surprising that this field of study has much to contribute to cultural and historical
anthropology. In addition, many have argued that historical archaeology, with its subject
matter outlined above, is particularly well-suited for understanding processes of large-
scale cultural change.

I am not the first person to argue that historical archaeology has much to offer the
wider field of anthropology, nor do I expect to be the last. One seminal article is
particularly noteworthy. In an article published in American Antiquity, Kent Lightfoot
(1995:200) convincingly demonstrates that archaeology is necessary in order to
understand long-term culture change and that:

any historical anthropological study that attempts to understand the long-

terrn implications of culture contact must consider the archaeology of pre-

contact contexts. Without this prehistoric perspective, one cannot

undertake comparative analyses of cultural transformations that took place

before, during, and after European contact and colonialism.
Lightfoot examines the contention that archaeology has much to contribute to historical
anthropology within one specific context: culture contact studies in the U.S. In these
multi-ethnic contexts (which he terms the archaeology of pluralism), archaeological
insight is essential. Often the colonial accounts were written from the “perspective of
affluent European men who documented little about the lifeways of lower class laborers
and their relations with local native men, women, and children” (1995:201). Through
archaeology we can gain an understanding of the “lifeways and interactions of poorly
documented peoples in the past” (Lightfoot 19952201).

In practice, however, Lightfoot points out that the way archaeologists work in

contact periods have undermined this agenda. In the past, “while prehistorians were

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developing methods and theories for the investigation of Native Americans, historical
archaeologists initiated the study of colonial European material culture” (Lightfoot
1995:202). As Lightfoot (1995:204-206) discusses, if prehistoric and historical
archaeology are maintained as separate subfields, then students in these areas are trained
differently. This is especially true in regard to the use of documents. Lightfoot argues
that all archaeologists working in North America use at least some ethnohistorical records
and ethnographic observations, “often giving priority to the written accounts over their
own archaeological findings” (1995:205) and sometimes leading to “the most flagrant
abuses of direct historic analogy” (1995:206). Lightfoot attributes this to the fact that
“students trained as prehistorians are not taught to analyze critically written documents,
and many of the biases and limitations of early Europeans’ accounts and later
ethnographic studies are overlooked” (1995:205).

For Lightfoot, this is exactly the arena in which students trained as historical
archaeologists can help (1995:205-206): “Historical archaeology can contribute to the
greater field of archaeology by providing training in the analysis and critical evaluation
of historical documents and their relationship to the archaeological record.” In this way,
“the biases and limitations of different sources of written records” (1995:206) and how
these written records “should be employed most effectively in archaeological research”
(1995:204-204) can be understood.

Arguing for a holistic, diachronic, and broadly comparative perspective
(1995:202), Lightfoot sees “the study of long-term change in both prehistoric and historic
contexts is necessary to evaluate the full implications of Columbian consequences
(epidemics, novel trade goods, alien fauna and flora), European exploration, and the

formation of multi-ethnic colonial communites” (1995:210, emphasis in original). And it

169

 

is in the study of long-term change that “archaeology can play a critical role in the
reconfiguration of historical anthropology in the United States” (Lightfoot 19952210).

I agree with Lightfoot (1995) whole-heartedly, and his conclusions have direct
relevance to several themes in this dissertation. As he observed, a comparative
perspective is essential for understanding long-term culture change-- this is true in studies
of millenarianism as well as culture contact contexts. Both Lightfoot (1995:207) and
Maj ewski (2003:82) assert the potential of studies of the built environment and landscape
archaeology for understanding culture change-- I view that I also advocate, as evidenced
by the nature of evidence presented in Chapter Five.

Several other parts of Lightfoot’s arguments (1995) also have direct bearing on
this dissertation. While Lightfoot (1995) is only discussing the potential archaeological
contribution to understanding long-term culture change in the context of culture contact
situations, I believe that this argument should be expanded into more areas than just
culture contact studies. My dissertation is concerned with long-term culture change
through social movements, specifically millenarian social movements. While some
millenarian social movements occur in the context of culture contact, others are found in
the context of different kinds of long-term social change, such as industrialization,
modernization, and globalization. The millenarian movements overviewed in Chapter
Two and the case studies of the Oneida Perfectionists and the House of David City of
David (Chapters Three and Four) are important examples. As I have argued elsewhere in
this dissertation, millenarian movements are important indicators of how people react to
larger social change, and historical archaeology’s potential contribution to this area of
historical anthropology has yet to be realized. Moreover, in order to understand

contemporary millenarian movments, a historical perspective is essential. As one City of

170

 

David community member put it, “Faith and the history go together» you cannot separate
them” (Taylor 2003b).

Lastly, Lightfoot (1995) places the issue of how documentary and archaeological
evidence are integrated at the center. As Wylie points out (e.g., 1986, 1992, 1995, 1996,
2000a, 2000b, 2002), historical archaeologists depend on both vertical and horizontal
independence in order to make inferences about the archaeological record, including
using the unique placement of historical archaeology on disciplinary boundaries (namely,
history and archaeology). Historical archaeologists argue that several lines of evidence
(i.e., the documentary record and the ceramic assemblage) are independent, and each line
can be used to check on the other in order to come to an unbiased and accurate account of
social processes and relations in the past. This convergence of several independent lines
of evidence is thought to correct for any errors that may occur in any one line of
evidence: “The power of an explanatory hypothesis to induce convergence among
disparate (inductively constituted) lines of evidence establishes its credibility as an
account of the causal conditions (broadly construed) responsible for the surviving record”
(Wylie 20022217). This use of independent lines of evidence relies on one central
assumption: that the different lines of evidence “do not interact in such a way as to ensure
an artificial congruence in the signals they transmit” (Wylie 20022207).

It is important to note here what the present case studies contribute to the
discussion. Not only do historical archaeologists need to pay particular attention to
whether or not their lines of evidence indeed are independent of one another (as Wylie
points out), but I argue that they must also pay attention to how the questions they are
asking affects that independence. For example, if my research questions were largely

concerned with constructing chronologies for the different economic endeavors

171

 

undertaken by the Oneida Perfectionists, I would be able to argue that yearly silk
inventories and modifications to the silk factory buildings over time could be considered
two independent lines of evidence in order to construct the chronology. As in this present
study, however, if my research questions focus on the connection between ideology and
material culture, any congruence that I find in documentary and material lines of
evidence should not necessarily be considered independent. Instead, the Oneida
Perfectionists, like other intentional communities, created a situation of ‘hyper—
coherence’ in which all aspects and objects of daily life -- from community documents to
clothing to architecture -- were consciously meant to reflect their ideology as much as
possible. This ‘hyper—coherence’ of different kinds of material and documentary
evidence must be taken into account when making inferences about past social relations
and processes. And it is this material ‘hyper-coherence,’ I argue, that is essential to
maintaining liminality and communitas on a daily basis, thereby enabling the community
to endure. Moreover, by examining the interaction between ideology and material culture
in this type of social situation, where intentionality and symbolism are heightened to an
extreme degree, we may be able to better understand how material culture and ideology
reflect and reinforce one another in a more general context.
IMPLICATIONS FOR ARCHAEOLOGY

Historical archaeologists stand at a unique place, at an intersection where they
have the potential to bridge several gaps between prehistory, history, and anthropology.
Historical archaeology is ideally situated to address these issues in combining
documentary records, ethnographic data of various kinds, and material culture in order to

better understand social relations and processes of large-scale cultural change.

172

 

 

Because of the importance of material culture in archaeological investigations of
past societies, much emphasis has been placed on how connections between material
culture, ideology, and social relations are made. Much of this work has been done in

ethnoarchaeology, which for archaeologists is defined as “the ethnographic study of

 

living cultures from archaeological perspectives” (David and Kramer, 2001: 2).
Ethnoarchaeology is “neither a theory nor a method, but a research strategy embodying a l
range of approaches to understanding the relationships of material culture to culture as a
whole” (David and Kramer, 2001: 2). For sociocultural anthropologists,
ethnoarchaeology is defined as “a form of anthropological inquiry that gives a privileged
position to the evidence of material culture and behavior relating to it” (David and
Kramer, 2001: 2).

While my dissertation cannot be considered ethnoarchaeology in the most
traditional sense (e.g., directly observing the manipulation of material culture by people),
I argue that it is ethnoarchaeology regardless (or perhaps “ethnohistoricalarchaeology”).
In observing how intentional communities consciously used material culture to reflect
and reinforce their ideology and social structure, my dissertation examines the
relationships between social movements, ideology, and material culture. Material culture
was expressly used to communicate belief, both to insiders and outsiders, to encourage
community, to reinforce and express ideology, and as a form of resistance. In addition,
as these communities faced increasing pressures to change over time, specific strategies
that either reinforced traditional structures or instituted new social forms can be seen in
the material culture of these collective endeavors.

In this dissertation I have examined material culture and ideology in the context

of ritual and large-scale cultural change. In an attempt to ritualize daily practice, both the

173

Oneida Perfectionists and the House of David/City of David imbued all aspects of their
material culture with their millennial ideology. In so doing, they created a hyper-
coherence, with the same values and ideas repeated in their social structure and daily
practice, as well as in their material culture—landscape, architecture, and personal
objects. This process was meant to both reflect and reinforce that ideology, and it is in
this realm that we can begin to understand how material objects are used to reinforce
social relations within a group. In order to understand how groups mitigate cultural
change, we must examine the ‘formative moments’ in which the physical world is
defined or re-defined according to cultural ideals. Whether strengthening and
reiteratering already existing symbols (like the successive architectural wings at the
Oneida Mansion house) or by re-operationalizing and redefining the material world to
better fit traditional ideals (like the changes in architecture and settlement pattern in the
City of David), intentional communities are an ideal place for us to begin to understand
the connections between ideology and material culture.

These findings, however, have broader implications beyond the study of
intentional communities. Understanding the interaction of material culture and ideology
is an essential part of understanding social relations as a whole. One recent article by
Julia Hendon (2000), “Having and Holding: Storage, Memory, Knowledge, and Social
Relations,” examines many of the same issues in, what at first glance, seems like a
completely unrelated context.

Hendon (2000:42) begins with Gidden’s concept of mutual knowledge, and
argues that storage should be seen as “a situated practice through which groups construct
identity, remember, and control knowledge as a part of a moral economy.” For Hendon,

storage is more than “an activity involving the placement of useful material resources in

174

specific physical locations against future need” (2000:42). Instead, it is a part mutual
knowledge—people display wealth, identity, power and knowledge through storage.
Residents of a community know what others have stored, in both public and private
contexts, and “this knowledge would enter into their interactions with others, either
overtly or as background knowledge” (Hendon 2000244).

In this article, Hendon takes something generally seen as mundane—storage
pits—something that is such a part of daily life that it is taken for granted—and places it
back in the matrix of symbols and social relations in which it was created and maintained.
All social relations take place within a matrix of culture; all material culture is embedded
in this matrix. Thus, “Decisions about the location of mundane activities, the form of
buildings, and even the disposal of refuse may all be informed with symbolic meaning
that constructs and reflects social relations” (Hendon 2000:44). Hendon, working with
seemingly mundane daily objects found in the archaeological record—storage pits—is
suggesting that perhaps they are not so mundane and can carry symbolic significance in
the form of mutual knowledge. The social structures and symbols in the past societies
that she is examining have already become accepted and routinized. She is arguing that
we can get at the symbolic and significant through an examination of these seemingly
mundane storage pits, if we look at them in certain ways, specifically within the context
of the social relations and the mutual knowledge that created them. She convincingly
argues that storage and social relations are connected in ways that reflect mutual
knowledge.

In some ways, Hendon (2000245) is using storage as a metaphor for how material

culture works in general:

175

 

 

 

Physical space aquires meaning because it is one way of embodying

mutual knowledge. Storage is a situated and localized practice that

informs constructed spaces with social meaning based on the connections

people make between the act of storage and social relations. Storage is

thus part of the complex relationship between human actors within a

landscape that they create and inhabit. . .. Through the form and placement

of buildings in that landscape, people inscribe markers of certain

relationships or identities on it. Mutual knowledge develops in the context

of particular settings. Constructed space becomes a container for

structuring social interaction.

Much like the storage pits Hendon describes, material culture in intentional
communities becomes a repository of mutual knowledge and shared ideology. They
created a material world with the purpose of reflecting and reinforcing their ideology.
Material culture, then, becomes a physical manifestation of their religious beliefs and
their mutual knowledge—they all know what the symbols are about, and they have
chosen to literally live within those symbol systems, socially and physically. They begin
by delineating the significant, the ideologies, the beliefs and symbols that they see as
important enough to structure life around. In order for these ideologies to become
worldviews, however, their symbols and structures must become routinized, with a more
mundane, unmarked existence. They are still imbued with meaning, serving as social
storage in times of need, ready to remind members of their ties to ideology and to one
another. In many ways, they are trying to move from the significant to the mundane by
imbuing the mundane (architecture, landscape, clothing, food) with the sacred.

The architects of intentional communities are hoping to achieve the mundane. Through
the ritualizing of daily practice and objects, they are hope to make their ideology
imbedded in their material culture mundane, everyday, and taken for granted. In order

for their worldview to be truly accepted, and thereby ensure its survival, that world view

must permeate every aspect of life, and become unmarked, and in this way routinized.

176

 

As I stated at the beginning of this dissertation, the interaction of material culture
and social relations may form the basis of what it means to be human. We live in a
system of symbols and where material objects have an important and powerful place in
communicating and reinforcing ideologies. As Hendon (2000245) argues, “Constructed
space becomes a dynamic container for structuring social interaction.” The leaders and
architects of intentional communities understand this, and use material culture to
reinforce their mutual knowledge in incredibly explicit ways. This is precisely the reason
that intentional communities are ideal settings in which to investigate questions

pertaining to the interaction between material culture and human behavior.

177

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