Can Somebody Shout Amen!. By Patsy Sims. St. Martins. 234 pages. $15.95.
Ever since H.L. Mencken demonstrated how to do it, smartassed journalists have been descending upon the South to milk colorful copy out of the fevered religiosity of the regions gaping primates (to borrow Menckens term). Sneering and guffawing at the outlandish antics of the locals is a surefire way to evoke gleeful chortles from readers back home in New York, Chicago, Los Angeles, or wherever. Spotting a good thing waiting to be exploited, Patsy Sims mounted her own expedition into the benighted land of gibbering Holy Rollers, delirious snake-handlers, and clerical con artists. One prepares to yawn with boredom over her report: its already been done to death, Miss Sims.
Sims has some surprises in store for the jaded and cultured despisers, for if she came to mock, she remained, if not exactly to admire, at least to respect. In 1981, eager to snoop into the drolleries of off-brand religion, Sims armed herself with notebook and tape recorder and plunged down the sawdust trail of Pentecostal tent-revivalism. Over the course of her perambulations, she endured half a hundred protracted revivals, interviewed 15 evangelists, and chatted with countless devotees of euphoric religion.
In the resulting book, Sims mainly lets the people themselves do the talking, without the authorial obtrusiveness that has become a banality of human-interest reporting. Not only does she refrain from mocking her subjects, but she avoids the equally loathsome practice of drenching them in sentimentality and condescending sympathy. She appears to like most of the revivalists she met, and her refusal to stoop to cheap ridicule extends even to the Rev. Ernest Angley, the only superstar to appear in her pages, and a character who is eminently ridiculous.
Sims apprehends what the revivals mean to the folks who frequent them. Not just color and excitement to add spice to drab lives, not just a respite from the grinding routines of dailiness, but most importantly, transcendent meaning. Their lives were not compartmentalized, Sims observes. Rather, everything had religious meaning. By the standards of educated, affluent, and politely Christian America, these people are ignorant, coarse, emotionally unhinged, culturally and materially deprived. Yet repeatedly, Sims marvels at their happiness, their joy in basking in the refulgent glory of their Saviors love. Spare these folks your pity; save it for those who really need it: say, for example, the faculty of Harvard University, or the members of the U.S. Congress, or the tastefully and quietly despairing brokers on Wall Street. Patsy Simss people shouting Amen! and praising God are doing just fine, thank you.
Confessions of a Twentieth-Century Pilgrim. By Malcolm Muggeridge. Harper & Row. 151 pages. $14.95.
In November 1982 Malcolm Muggeridge, approaching the age of 80, entered the Catholic Church. Confessions of a Twentieth-Century Pilgrim explains how he arrived at that decision and why it took him so long to do so. Muggeridge recounts his spiritual journey through a series of warring dualities: lust and love, power and meekness, egoism and selflessness, flesh and spirit, appearance and reality, ephemerality and permanence, time and eternity. The first half of each duality wrestles with the second part; the natural man seeks dominance over the transfigured soul. Over the entire book hovers a longing for eternity and a readiness for death. Sadness over the sin and wreckage of a lifetime compete with joy in having found a resting place in the Catholic Church. Muggeridge evinces little triumph or satisfaction over the fruits of his long years; rather, he expresses relief that the journeys end is nigh. I am an octogenarian who has done much that he ought not to have done and left undone much that he ought to have done. But death is the beginning, not the end. The books concluding chapter is entitled The Prospect of Death; its final words: Christ lives!
Socialism in the Heartland: The Midwestern Experience, 1900-1925. Edited by Donald T. Critchlow. University of Notre Dame Press. 221 pages. $9.95.
The wonder is not that it did not last, but that it existed at all: socialism thrived on a small scale in the early 20th century in parts of Michigan, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Wisconsin, and Minnesota. In the essays collected by Donald Critchlow, seven scholars examine the hows and whys of socialism as it flourished in such places as Flint, Dayton, Marion (Ind.), Milwaukee, Minneapolis, and the coal fields of southern Illinois. The Socialist Party found the bedrock of its support among workers of German, English, and Welsh extraction who belonged to labor unions and who were, Critchlow observes, threatened by new technology of the era and by the economic fluctuations of the period. These workers were too few to elect Socialists to office. So the party broadened its appeal by promising (and delivering) clean government, better education, and expanded and modernized municipal services. It worked at least for a time: dozens of Midwestern cities elected Socialist mayors, council members, and other officials.
Once in office, these men usually proved to be flexible, pragmatic, reformist, as David Paul Nord characterizes the Socialist mayor of Minneapolis. Radicals derided them as sewer socialists, but that, as Errol Stevens points out in his article on Marion, Indiana, is a cheap shot. Working-class neighborhoods needed sewers, paved streets, clean water, and the other amenities already enjoyed by better-heeled urban dwellers. The Progressive reform movement in the Midwest was largely by and for the middle classes; the Socialist Party extended the benefits of reform to blue-collar workers. Midwestern socialism lacked glamor and romance, and was insufficiently radical to titillate most intellectuals (then and now), but in many cases, it got the job done that no one else would undertake.