Social Theories of History and Histories of Social Theory 9781783502196, 9781783502189

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SOCIAL THEORIES OF HISTORY AND HISTORIES OF SOCIAL THEORY

CURRENT PERSPECTIVES IN SOCIAL THEORY Series Editor: Harry F. Dahms Recent Volumes: Volume 11:

1991, Edited by Ben Agger

Volume 12:

1992, Edited by Ben Agger

Volume 13:

1993, Edited by Ben Agger

Volume 14:

1994, Edited by Ben Agger

Supplement 1:

Recent Developments in the Theory of Social Structure, 1994, Edited by J. David Knottnerus and Christopher Prendergast

Volume 15:

1995, Edited by Ben Agger

Volume 16:

1996, Edited by Jennifer M. Lehmann

Volume 17:

1997, Edited by Jennifer M. Lehmann

Volume 18:

1998, Edited by Jennifer M. Lehmann

Volume 19:

1999, Edited by Jennifer M. Lehmann

Volume 20:

2000, Edited by Jennifer M. Lehmann

Volume 21:

Bringing Capitalism Back for Critique by Social Theory, 2001, Edited by Jennifer M. Lehmann

Volume 22:

Critical Theory: Diverse Objects, Diverse Subjects, 2003, Edited by Jennifer M. Lehmann

Volume 23:

Social Theory as Politics in Knowledge, 2005, Edited by Jennifer M. Lehmann

Volume 24:

Globalization Between the Cold War and Neo-Imperialism, 2006, Edited by Jennifer M. Lehmann and Harry F. Dahms

Volume 25:

No Social Science without Critical Theory, 2008, Edited by Harry F. Dahms

Volume 26:

Nature, Knowledge and Negation, 2009, Edited by Harry F. Dahms

Volume 27:

Theorizing the Dynamics of Social Processes, 2010, Edited by Harry F. Dahms and Lawrence Hazelrigg

Volume 28:

The Vitality of Critical Theory, 2011, Edited by Harry F. Dahms

Volume 29:

The Diversity of Social Theories, 2011, Edited by Harry F. Dahms

Volume 30:

Theorizing Modern Society as a Dynamic Process, 2012, Edited by Harry F. Dahms and Lawrence Hazelrigg

CURRENT PERSPECTIVES IN SOCIAL THEORY VOLUME 31

SOCIAL THEORIES OF HISTORY AND HISTORIES OF SOCIAL THEORY EDITED BY

HARRY F. DAHMS Department of Sociology, University of Tennessee, Knoxville, TN, USA

United Kingdom North America India Malaysia China

Japan

Emerald Group Publishing Limited Howard House, Wagon Lane, Bingley BD16 1WA, UK First edition 2013 Copyright r 2013 Emerald Group Publishing Limited Reprints and permission service Contact: [email protected] No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without either the prior written permission of the publisher or a licence permitting restricted copying issued in the UK by The Copyright Licensing Agency and in the USA by The Copyright Clearance Center. Any opinions expressed in the chapters are those of the authors. Whilst Emerald makes every effort to ensure the quality and accuracy of its content, Emerald makes no representation implied or otherwise, as to the chapters’ suitability and application and disclaims any warranties, express or implied, to their use. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN: 978-1-78350-218-9 ISSN: 0278-1204 (Series)

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CONTENTS LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS

vii

EDITORIAL BOARD

ix

INTRODUCTION

xi

PART I: HISTORIES OF SOCIAL THEORY CHARISMA DISENCHANTED: MAX WEBER AND HIS CRITICS David Norman Smith

3

THE SOCIOLOGICAL CORE VS. THE HISTORICAL COMPONENT OF THE WEBER THESIS: SOME DEVIANT CASES REVISITED Milan Zafirovski

75

RECOVERING A DISILLUSIONED MODERNISM: THE ENLIGHTENED PESSIMISM OF CLASSICAL SOCIOLOGY Ryan Gunderson 129 DURKHEIM’S SUI GENERIS REALITY AND THE CENTRAL SUBJECT MATTER OF SOCIAL SCIENCE Eric Malczewski

161

PART II: SOCIAL THEORIES OF HISTORY THE DEVELOPMENTAL HISTORY OF HUMAN SOCIAL PRACTICES: FROM SOCIAL ANALYTICS TO EXPLANATORY NARRATIVES Marc Garcelon 179 v

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TOWARD A RECONCILIATION OF THE STRUCTURATION AND MORPHOGENESIS THEORIES “TESTED” IN THE EVENTFUL HISTORICAL ANALYSIS Ewa Morawska

221

REVISITING AND REINVIGORATING EVOLUTIONARY INSTITUTIONALISM: BRINGING INSTITUTIONS BACK TO LIFE Seth Abrutyn 247 TENSIONS BETWEEN SELF AND “OTHERS” IN THE MAKING OF THE SELF: THE ROLE OF CHILDHOOD EXPERIENCES IN THE DEVELOPMENT OF REFLEXIVITY Dominiek Coates

277

PART III: REVIEW ESSAYS DEVELOPING POVERTY: DEMOCRATIC REFORMS AND BUREAUCRATIC FAILURES IN STATE POLICIES IN INDIA Damayanti Banerjee

299

EXPLAINING EXPLANATION: A CRITICAL REVIEW OF JOHN LEVI MARTIN’S THE EXPLANATION OF SOCIAL ACTION John Hamilton Bradford

309

LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS Seth Abrutyn

The University of Memphis, Memphis, TN, USA

Damayanti Banerjee

Department of Sociology, University of Tennessee-Knoxville, Knoxville, TN, USA

John Hamilton Bradford

Mississippi Valley State University, Itta Bena, MS, USA

Dominiek Coates

University of Newcastle, Callaghan, Australia

Marc Garcelon

University of Missouri-Kansas City, Kansas City, MO, USA

Ryan Gunderson

Michigan State University, East Lansing, MI, USA

Eric Malczewski

Harvard University, Cambridge, MA, USA

Ewa Morawska

Department of Sociology, University of Essex, Colchester, UK

David Norman Smith

Sociology Department, University of Kansas, Lawrence, KS, USA

Milan Zafirovski

University of North Texas, Denton, TX, USA

vii

EDITORIAL BOARD EDITOR Harry F. Dahms University of Tennessee (Sociology)

EDITORIAL ASSISTANTS Alexander Stoner Nicholas Hauman

ASSOCIATE EDITORS Robert J. Antonio University of Kansas (Sociology)

Timothy Luke Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State University (Political Science)

Lawrence Hazelrigg Florida State University (Sociology)

EDITORIAL BOARD Ben Agger University of Texas Arlington (Sociology and Anthropology)

Molefi Kete Asante Temple University (African-American Studies)

Kevin B. Anderson University of California, Santa Barbara (Sociology)

David Ashley University of Wyoming (Sociology)

Stanley Aronowitz City University of New York Graduate Center (Sociology)

John Bradford Mississippi Valley State University (Sociology)

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EDITORIAL BOARD

Ward Churchill Formerly University of Colorado (Ethnic Studies)

Patricia Mooney Nickel Victoria University (Social and Cultural Studies)

Norman K. Denzin University of Illinois at Urbana Champaign (Sociology)

Paul Paolucci Eastern Kentucky University (Sociology)

Nancy Fraser New School for Social Research (Political Science)

Moishe Postone University of Chicago (History)

Martha Gimenez University of Colorado (Sociology)

Lawrence Scaff Wayne State University (Political Science)

Boulder

Robert Goldman Lewis and Clark College (Sociology and Anthropology)

Steven Seidman State University of New York at Albany (Sociology)

Mark Gottdiener State University of New York at Buffalo (Sociology)

Helmut Staubmann Leopold Franzens University, Innsbruck (Sociology)

Douglas Kellner University of California Angeles (Philosophy)

Frank Taylor Edinboro University of Pennsylvania (Sociology and Anthropology)

Los

Lauren Langman Loyola University (Sociology) Eric R. Lybeck Cambridge University (Sociology) John O’Neill York University (Sociology)

Stephen Turner The University of South Florida (Philosophy) Christine Williams The University of Texas at Austin (Sociology)

INTRODUCTION In 1980, this series’ founding editors described their goal for the first volume, in its introduction, as follows: …to make accessible a variety of work based in quite diverse theoretical traditions, representing what we consider to be significant points in a sociological field marked by increasing differentiation and antagonism. For example, there is nothing in this volume to suggest that structural functionalism is alive and well, and the theoretical underpinnings of the everyday practices of the large group of sociologists mired in abstracted empiricism are not articulated here. Included here are works which indicate the problems of sociological theorizing in a more or less explicit fashion. (McNall & Howe, 1980, p. ix)

In 1979, two of the leading minds in social theory Talcott Parsons and Herbert Marcuse had passed away, signaling the end of an era in thought that coincided with “closings” in other areas of social, political, economic, and cultural life from the decline of economic prosperity, to the erosion of the postwar political consensus on matters such as social legislation, to the end of modernity’s metanarratives (Lyotard, 1984 [1979]). Both had represented conflicting traditions that influenced, framed, and even shaped in a variety of ways the debates in theory during the postWorld War II era, in sociology and beyond, in the United States and beyond. After participating in a conference organized in his honor, at the University of Heidelberg, to celebrate the completion of his doctorate half a century earlier, Talcott Parsons traveled to Munich to give what turned out to be his last lecture, at Ludwig Maximilian University. On both occasions, he spoke on the importance Weber had for his own development and project of sociological theory. His death occurred on May 8 (see Gerhardt, 2011, pp. 287 288). Ten days later, Herbert Marcuse arrived from the United States to participate as an invited guest in the Ro¨merberggespra¨che in Frankfurt, an annual gathering of intellectuals that began in 1973 and continues to this day. Shortly thereafter, he suffered a stroke while traveling to the Max Planck Institute for the Study of Conditions of Life in the Scientific-Technical World in Starnberg, a town south of Munich, at the invitation of Ju¨rgen Habermas, who was codirector of the Institute at the time. Marcuse died in Starnberg on July 29. xi

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The following year, in 1980, McNall and Howe acknowledged that Parsons’s brand of structural functionalism still was on the minds of potential readers, most of whom were presumed to be sociologists though none of the essays included favored Parsons’s theory. As time went by, though, Parsons’s concern that the absence of a common theoretical framework for sociologists would be detrimental to the status of sociology as a social science receded into the background, in favor of efforts to promote sociology either as a social science or as a social science. Most professional sociologists, sociological theorists, as well as social theorists who were not tied directly to sociology and whose number has continued to grow regarded Parsons’s attempts to provide sociology with a common foundation to counteract the trend toward greater and greater fragmentation as an utter failure, and deservedly so. Still, in retrospect, with regard to both the prominence and the relevance of sociology, it is apparent that Parsons’ worry was justified: in terms of public education, public policy, and the public sphere more generally, the discipline’s contributions to our understanding of the world we inhabit have been playing a diminishing role. Today, structural functionalism, as it has been associated with the name of Parsons, is merely one of many, increasingly diverse approaches in theoretical sociology, and a marginal one at that. Comparing 1980 to 1960, McNall and Howe wrote, A collection of essays devoted to illuminating the contemporary state of social theory produced twenty years ago would have looked very different both in regards to form and content. Such a collection would have been negligibly concerned with what theorizing is, and the totality would probably have been much more coherent than the totality encountered here. The age of consensus lies interred in the past; today, the general crisis of legitimacy in American society is reflected in American sociology, where the ultimate reconcilability of theoretical means and ends has become, to say the least, problematic. The Balkanization of politics in the 1960s and 1970s finds its professional intellectual reflection in the fragmentation of sociological theories and practices. … There seems to be no real possibility of a total synthesis, and there is no expectation that anyone would undertake such a thankless task. (McNall & Howe, 1980, p. x)

Though the stature of Parsons as a leading theorist had diminished precipitously during the preceding decade, during the early 1980s the landscape of theoretical sociology was being stirred up by the rapid succession of major publications that renewed, reconfigured, and reoriented the discourse about theory and society or, at the very least, tried to do so however thankless a task it may have been. To use the turn of phrase Habermas used at the end of his preface to The Theory of Communicative Action (1984 [1981], 1987 [1981]), “those who have a professional interest in

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the foundations of social theory” (1984 [1981], p. xliv) were supplied with ambitious efforts to ground sociology via theory. Habermas’s socialtheoretical magnum opus in two volumes, as it first appeared in 1981, was an effort at reconfiguring sociology as a social science that incorporated elements of Parsons’s theoretical contributions, under the aegis of a renewed version of critical theory that was consonant with the perspective of Herbert Marcuse if, as it turned out, rather latently so (see Joas & Kno¨bl, 2009, p. 207). Over the next two years, Jeffrey Alexander published his four-volume Theoretical Logic in Sociology (1982, 1983a 1983c), an effort at comple(men)ting Parsons’s functionalist project, by incorporating Marx into Parsons’s integration of Durkheim and Weber, to engender neofunctionalism. The following year, Anthony Giddens’s The Constitution of Society (1984) and Luhmann’s Social Systems (1996 [1984]) were released, and in 1985, Habermas followed up his above-mentioned magnum opus with the set of lectures, The Philosophical Discourse of Modernity (1987 [1985]), which drew attention, especially among theorists, to the projects and writings of poststructuralists and “postmodernists.” The “discovery” of postmodernism, in particular, brought about a sea change of sorts among theorists, especially in the United States. The understanding of critical theory expanded beyond the scope of neo-Marxism as represented by the Frankfurt School, to include poststructuralist and feminist perspectives, to be complemented further in the 1990s by an array of studies, including cultural, postcolonial, queer, and others. The antagonism that McNall and Howe referred to, in the first passage cited, has given way a sort of “anything goes” attitude that reminds us of philosopher of science Paul Feyerabend’s (2010 [1975]) contention that any conception of science has an inherent tendency to dominate and exclude alternative ways of reading reality and that in analogy, no single theory should be given a privileged status. To the extent that there are conflicts between approaches today, they largely take the form of polite disregard, at one end of the spectrum, and utter neglect or incomprehension, at the other. It appears that what has been true of the discipline of sociology in general, also applies to theoretical sociology, and even more so, to social theory: to whatever extent a common theoretical denominator exists, it is rapidly deteriorating, not merely in terms of how to interpret particular theorists, and how to apply their frameworks in and for purposes of sociological or social research, but even more so, in terms of who the relevant theorists are. To be sure, one might argue that theoretical agnosticism is not a new phenomenon, but rather, a logical continuation, if not a preliminary culmination, of trends that have been observable for some time. Where society

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and views of the social keep fragmenting, we have no reason to expect that social theorists can or will resist this trend by redoubling their efforts to create common ground. In fact, the fragmentation of society (and views that can be identified and observed within it) and the continuing differentiation and particularization of social theories appear to be two processes that are not merely symptomatic of each other, but which feed on each other: as social scientists, in general, and especially as social theorists, we experience “history” and “historical reality” through lenses that are fraught with fragmentation and particularization, whether we recognize this fact or not thus the title of this volume. Since the beginning of the century, all volumes in the series have been organized in terms of a common theme. The essays collected here are a selection of submissions received in response to an open call for papers the first in several years plus a set of review essays, which is a first in the series. Judging from the thematic orientations of the majority of the submissions, reflections on the link between social theory and history continue to be central to efforts to theorize contemporary societies, and strategies for tackling challenges related to theorizing the present. The essays included cover a range of themes and approaches. The first part Histories of Social Theories comprises four engagements with classical theorists. David Norman Smith contends that charisma is a collective representation, and that charismatic authority is a social status resulting rather from the “recognition” of followers than from the “magnetism” of leaders. It is important to realize that Weber saw charisma in such a light: there is no authority without the public’s mandate and energy. By contrast, conventional interpretations view Weber as a romantic who regarded charisma as a primal and unconstrained form of domination. The second essay also focuses on Weber: Milan Zafirovski reexamines the Protestant ethic thesis (which he refers to as the “Weber Thesis”) regarding the link between ascetic Protestantism and the rise of modern capitalism, framing the sociological core of the thesis as a classic endeavor in economic sociology as an instance of substantive social theory. Zafirovski examines the status of the thesis in the social sciences to provide a systematic analysis of the link between the sociological core and the historical components of Weber’s thesis as distinct yet intertwined components. Ryan Gunderson takes issue with the position of many contemporary sociologists who presume that classical social theorists subscribed to the notion that in the long run, progress is likely, if not inevitable. Focusing on the primary works that laid the foundation for sociology, Gunderson situates classical theorists especially To¨nnies, Veblen, Durkheim,

Introduction

xv

Simmel, and Weber in the context of neo-Romanticism, reflecting fascination with irrationality, moral decay, the unconscious, decadence, degeneration, epochal decline, and pessimism. Yet, rather than rejecting the classics’ related preoccupation, Gunderson welcomes the latter as indicative of a maturation of the Enlightenment rather than a relapse into antimodernism. Concluding the first part of this volume, Eric Malczewski takes on the challenge of identifying the nature of the central subject matter of social science, by spelling out how Durkheim’s theory of collective representations constitutes a key contribution. The contributions to the second part Social Theories of History are more formal in nature. Marc Garcelon’s study is dedicated to the range of regional and historical social forms that necessitate a paradigmatic reassessment of concepts employed for the purpose of comparative mapping of human societies. By distinguishing between social analytics and explanatory narratives, Garcelon separates the development of concepts and generic models from that of causal analyses of actual empirical phenomena. He presents five heuristic models of modes of social practices that are conducive to the desired paradigmatic formation in sociology which in turn is consonant with Weber’s emphasis on the irreducible historicity of explanations in the social sciences. Ewa Morawska pursues two purposes, in her chapter: first, to identify the shared premises of the structuration and morphogenesis approaches in social theory, as they have neglected to recognize shared affinities and the potential for complementation; and second, to stress the benefits that will result from testing social theories by means of eventful historical analysis. The importance of the benefits resulting for social theorists from historical that is, time- and place-sensitive conceptualization and analysis of the examined phenomena cannot be overstated. By contrast, Seth Abrutyn endeavors to integrate classical institutionalism, neo-evolutionary sociology, and other related traditions, to propose a general theory of evolutionary-institutionalism oriented toward a theory of institutional evolution capable of delineating units of selection and evolution, types of mechanisms facilitating institutional evolution, and a typology of the sources of variation. Finally, adopting a symbolic-interactionist perspective, Dominiek Coates conceptualizes the self as informed by both the personal and the social, to differing degrees. Both dimensions of the self are linked continuously through a process of reflexivity, mediating internal experiences and external feedback. Focusing on the phenomenon of personal history, Coates stresses that “healthy” selves can reflexively balance a sense of personal uniqueness and of social belonging. By relying

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on an analysis of twenty-three life history interviews with former members of new religious movements (NRMs), Coates finds that those self-describing as highly dependent on others report childhood histories of control, while those self-describing as disconnected from others report histories of abuse and neglect. The chapters by Abrutyn and Malczweski both are driven by the desire to highlight the importance of common ground for sociologists, and by the determination to advance related opportunities, illustrating that contrary to McNall and Howe’s above-cited position that sociologists tacitly or explicitly abandoned the idea of a common theoretical reference frame for sociologists members of a younger generation of social theorists see both promise in and the need for related undertakings. The essays in the third part of this volume are reviews by Damayanti Banerjee and John Hamilton Bradford, of Akhil Gupta’s Red Tape: Bureaucracy, Structural Violence and Poverty in India (2012) and of John Levi Marin’s The Explanation of Social Action (2011), respectively. Finally, I would like to take this opportunity to thank Cristina Irving Turner, who took over as Commissioning Editor in early 2012, for her consistent support and dedication, and Claire Swift, who has been Assistant Commissioning Editor since summer of 2011, for her constructive attitude, reliable contribution, and ability to accommodate the schedule issues that are unavoidable when dealing with multitasking academics. I am also pleased to welcome Chris Harris to the team of Current Perspectives in Social Theory. Finally, I would also like to thank members of the editorial board for responding expeditiously to my e-mails and for being generous with advice, and both members of the board and external reviewers for complying with my requests to read and evaluate manuscript submissions. Harry F. Dahms Editor

REFERENCES Alexander, J. (1982). Theoretical logic in sociology, Positivism, presuppositions, and current controversies (Vol. 1). Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Alexander, J. (1983a). Theoretical logic in sociology. In The antinomies of classical thought: Marx and Durkheim (Vol. 2). Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Alexander, J. (1983b). Theoretical logic in sociology. In The classical attempt at theoretical synthesis: Max Weber (Vol. 3). Berkeley, CA: University of California Press.

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Alexander, J. (1983c). Theoretical logic in sociology. In The modern reconstruction of classical thought: Talcott Parsons (Vol. 4). Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Feyerabend, P. (2010 [1975]). Against method (4th ed.). London: Verso Books. Gerhardt, U. (2011). The social thought of Talcott Parsons: Methodology and American ethos. Farnum, Surrey, UK: Ashgate. Giddens, A. (1984). The constitution of society: Outline of the theory of structuration. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Habermas, J. (1984 [1981]). The theory of communicative action. Vol. 1: Reason and the rationalization of society (T. McCarthy Trans.). Boston, MA: Beacon Press. Habermas, J. (1987 [1981]). The theory of communicative action. Vol. 2: Lifeworld and system: A critique of functionalist reason (T. McCarthy Trans.). Boston, MA: Beacon Press. Habermas, J. (1987 [1985]). The philosophical discourse of modernity (F. Lawrence Trans.). Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Joas, H., & Kno¨bl, W. (2009). Social theory. Twenty introductory lectures (A. Skinner Trans.). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Luhmann, N. (1996 [1984]). Social systems (J. Bednarz, Jr. & D. Baecker, Trans.). Stanford: Stanford University Press. Lyotard, J.-F. (1984 [1979]). The postmodern condition: A report on knowledge (G. Bennington & B. Massumi, Trans.). Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. McNall, S. G., & Howe, G. N. (1980). Introduction, Current perspectives in social theory (Vol. 1, pp. ix xvi). Greenwich, CT: JAI Press.

PART I HISTORIES OF SOCIAL THEORY

CHARISMA DISENCHANTED: MAX WEBER AND HIS CRITICS David Norman Smith ABSTRACT Purpose The aim of this chapter is to argue that charisma is a collective representation, and that charismatic authority is a social status that derives more from the “recognition” of the followers than from the “magnetism” of the leaders. I contend further that a close reading of Max Weber shows that he, too, saw charisma in this light. Approach I develop my argument by a close reading of many of the most relevant texts on the subject. This includes not only the renowned texts on this subject by Max Weber, but also many books and articles that interpret or criticize Weber’s views. Findings I pay exceptionally close attention to key arguments and texts, several of which have been overlooked in the past. Implications Writers for whom charisma is personal magnetism tend to assume that charismatic rule is natural and that the full realization of democratic norms is unlikely. Authority, in this view, emanates from rulers unbound by popular constraint. I argue that, in fact, authority draws both its mandate and its energy from the public, and that rulers

Social Theories of History and Histories of Social Theory Current Perspectives in Social Theory, Volume 31, 3 74 Copyright r 2013 by Emerald Group Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0278-1204/doi:10.1108/S0278-1204(2013)0000031001

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depend on the loyalty of their subjects, which is never assured. So charismatic claimants are dependent on popular choice, not vice versa. Originality I advocate a “culturalist” interpretation of Weber, which runs counter to the dominant “personalist” account. Conventional interpreters, under the sway of theology or mass psychology, misread Weber as a romantic, for whom charisma is primal and undemocratic rule is destiny. This essay offers a counter-reading. Keywords: Charisma; charismatic authority; Max Weber; sociology; disenchantment

I Romanticism arose to meet the challenge of Enlightenment reason in the decades after the French National Assembly abolished feudalism on August 4, 1789. As the shock waves of the ensuing revolution radiated across Europe accompanied by industrialization and the Napoleonic preview of future world wars conservatives and romantics resisted. Romantic theology was one of the subtlest forms of this resistance. Schleiermacher, in his famed Glaubenlehre (1821 1822), argued forcefully that the truth of Christianity is found only in faith. It is faith alone, the inner certainty of Christ’s disciples, that justifies their convictions. They know, by their feeling of “absolute dependence” on a transcendental power, that this power is sacred and supreme. Only spirit can know spirit; only hearts can know love. So instead of pursuing external validations for truths that can only be known inwardly, the faithful should rest assured. Their truth is self-validating truth proven by faith. Hegel objected sharply, on grounds that remain relevant. Faith without objective proof, without evidence accessible to reason, is a fragile reed. Why? Because history shows that people can have faith in almost anything: omens, prodigies, fetishes. Given that reality, if we hold that truth can be proven only by faith, we reduce Christianity to a single creed among many. Those whose faith differs from our own would have exactly the same justification for their credo that we have for ours. Excluding reason from religion, exalting feeling over cognition, is self-defeating and pseudo-Christian, Hegel stresses.1 It would be valid to infer from Schleiermacher’s premise that all faiths are epistemologically

Charisma Disenchanted: Max Weber and His Critics

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equal. This, Hegel warns, invites the atheistic inference that all religions are equally false, or at least unprovable. So, for Hegel, the romanticism of “feelings” fails utterly as a basis for religion. He insists that Christianity must not yield its claim to objective provable truth its claim, that is, to reason as well as feeling.2 Hegel’s riposte offers a useful vantage point for insight into Max Weber’s approach to charisma. Drawn from theology, Weber’s concept of charisma has won lasting attention from sociologists, theologians, and others. But it remains obscure, a quicksilver and difficult concept, not least because Weber has been carelessly read. The origin of the term, in Paul’s theology of grace, lends it a religious flavor, and the fact that Weber often applied the term to prophecy strengthens the impression that he was concerned, above all, with religion and the sacred. But this impression is misleading. Bemused critics often puzzle over the fact that Weber’s paradigmatic charismatics include rogues as well as saints. Stressing that his outlook is objective, empirical and “value-free,” Weber puts the Israelite prophets on a par with Achilles, Cuchulain, berserks, shamans, the founder of Mormonism (“who may have been a very sophisticated swindler”), the socialist Kurt Eisner, caesaropapists, hierocrats, Gemeinde, and more. As we will see, the irreligious implications of this roster have proven disturbing to many. Critics also puzzle over the fact that Weber often equated charisma to the forces denoted, in other religions and cultures, by terms such as mana, orenda, and maga.3 But this equation, this refusal of exclusively Christocentric and European categories, should not be puzzling. It flows directly from Weber’s core analytic commitment. With respect to charisma, Weber had reached the very secularist conclusion that Hegel had warned against the view that, judged by criteria of reason and evidence, all faiths are equal. Since anything and anyone can be an object of charismatic faith, faith proves only that the believer believes. “Faith alone” is psychologically significant but it proves nothing objective about the world.4 Weber was an iconoclast, not a Schleiermachian believer. What held his attention was less the object of faith than the fact of faith. He tried to explain not “charisma” per se the “supernatural, superhuman, or specifically extraordinary qualities” that people impute to objects and others but rather the sociological and psychological fact that this imputation occurs. He wanted to explain the forms of authority and change these imputations generate. This is widely misunderstood. Max Weber, the arch-realist, is often mistaken for a romantic. His realism, his “disenchanting” critique, is often misconstrued as enchantment.

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II In a famous passage, Weber credited charismatic belief with the power to remake society to topple established orders and replace law and custom with visionary prophecy.5 Weber saw this power manifest not only in past revolutions but in the upheavals of his own day. This is why he included Kurt Eisner, the leader of the Munich insurrection in 1918, in his canonical list of charismatics. Weber was an eyewitness to this revolution, an opponent and critic of Eisner. So when, elsewhere, Weber called charisma “the specifically creative revolutionary force of history,” he had immediate as well as historical events in mind.6 Revolution was in the air, and charisma (in some sense) was its secret. What, then, is charisma? For Weber, the sociological answer to this question must be sought in the intimate connection between charisma, revolution, and crisis. Charismatic claims, like revolutionary movements, win mass followings in times of crisis. So, in a sense, affirming the revolutionary power of charismatic belief is true almost by default. Tradition can no more resolve the crisis of traditional society than law can exceed the limits of legal society. Something new is needed a new revelation, steering society in a fresh direction. That revelation is “charismatic” in the sense that it is both unofficial and unprecedented, drawing its claim to mass loyalty not from law or custom but from “out-of-the-ordinary” (Ausserallta¨glich) visions and experiences, which often come from individual prophets and diviners. Such revelations emerge outside the matrix of law and custom because they are inherently extra-legal and post-traditional. When enough people embrace them, they become the basis for radical transitions. The power of charismatic conviction is thus clear. But what is “charisma” itself? For many centuries, this question would have seemed unproblematic, since, before Weber, charisma was a familiar theological term, signifying God’s “gift of grace.” But today, given Weber’s influential rethinking of the term, and given the powerful added impetus of Hitler’s meteoric rise and fall, the concept has acquired a new status, at once iconic and problematic. Some writers now see charisma in an entirely sociological light, as a social status rather than a personal gift. Others have tried to define charisma as simultaneously personal and social. But most scholars, on balance, remain committed to the notion of charisma as a personal gift, an irresistible power of personal influence that confers authority on its bearers. Typically, they cite Max Weber as the source of this view.7 When Serge Moscovici claims, for example, that charismatics “subjugate us and submit us to their influence,” he credits this view to Weber.

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Charisma, Moscovici says, is “wholly effective. Its symbolic nature, one rich in imagery and complexity, prevents us from reacting logically. We must needs content ourselves with undergoing its action, as one does a physical reality.”8 Luciano Cavalli agrees holding that, according to Weber, charismatics play a “demiurgic role” in society (Cavalli, 1987, p. 317). He says that, for Weber, charismatics have “the power to produce the most important change that taking place in interiore homine …” (ibid., p. 325). Indeed, Weber is said to have believed that the broad masses are “drawn into a charismatic process, even to the point of changing their values, by the suggestion exercised by the leader …” (ibid., p. 78). This is the power to induce metanoia, to spark Gesinnungsrevolutionen to remake the believer spiritually in the image of the leader.9 A power of just this kind is ascribed to Hitler by Rainer Lepsius: “Every one of Hitler’s successful demands … was proof of his charisma and extraordinary capacities: he was often described as being unbeatable … . [Hitler’s] specific talent lay in his ability to convert opponents in direct contact with him. Thus all challenges to his claim to ultimate authority ended, as a rule, with a renewal of personal vows of loyalty, with the self-inflicted duty to obey, and with the recognition of the ‘Fu¨hrer’s’ genius.”10 This is an extreme claim, but it is far from unprecedented. As Cavalli and others have noted, Sigmund Freud and Gustave Le Bon advanced similar views under the rubrics “crowd psychology” and “mass” psychology. Le Bon, in a passage endorsed by Freud, credited the leader with literally hypnotic power over the crowd. “All feelings and thoughts are bent in the direction determined by the hypnotizer” (Freud, [1921]1959, p. 8; Le Bon [1895]1910, p. 34). He rules by “prestige,” which is the “creator of opinions and master of will, … a moral power superior to material powers” (Le Bon, 1911, cited by Widener, 1979, p. 206). Freud agrees, calling prestige “a mysterious and irresistible power”: “Prestige is a sort of domination exercised over us by an individual, a work or an idea. It entirely paralyzes our critical faculty, and fills us with wonderment and respect.”11

III Is hypnotic domination, in fact, the truth of charisma? Is this Max Weber’s legacy? My answer to both questions is “No.” Charisma is not a mystic power. It is, rather, a mystic power claimed by aspiring rulers. This is something that Weber explains with peerless insight. Often, especially in his

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studies of the economic ethics of the world religions, Weber shows that charisma is not a transcendent gift, but, rather, the product of faith in transcendent gifts.12 It is, sociologically speaking, a social status, not a wonder-working power. Though only a few scholars uphold this sociological viewpoint consistently, it is often criticized. Joachim Radkau, Weber’s most recent biographer, is among the sharpest critics: “Whether charisma is essentially the gift of a leader-personality or whether it arises first in the heads of the disciples is debated to this day and fuels a ping-pong game of Webercitations.” Insisting that Weber credits the secret of the leader’s success to his charismatic “radiance” (Ausstrahlung), his “natural gift and grace,” a “primal form of power,” Radkau dismisses those “ultra-correct sociologists” who “sociologize charisma, namely, by making it a phenomenon [not of leaders but of] the led (Gefu¨hrten) … .”13 He strenuously rejects the idea that charisma exists in the eyes of the beholder: “Sociologists favor making charisma into an entirely social phenomenon, as if it were based entirely on attitudes conveyed socially by the charismatic’s disciples. But a close reading of Weber leads us to conclude that charisma is embedded fundamentally in the properties of the charismatic himself in nature-given properties …” (Radkau, 2008, p. 557). Antisociological criticism of this kind (and the fact that Radkau can find only a few “sociologizing” scholars to criticize) is a further sign of the hegemony of personalist readings of charisma.14 There are, in fact, a modest number of authors who sociologize in this way.15 But we remain in the minority. The conventional wisdom is that charisma is precisely what the catalog of the Library of Congress indicates: “Charisma (Personal Trait.)”16 Before I embark on the “close reading” that Radkau advocates, a few initial points are worth noting. Consider, to start, the implication of what Weber says about Kurt Eisner. Eisner, like Hitler, was a transformative figure in Munich politics, whose democratic-socialist uprising preceded Hitler’s Beer Hall Putsch by just four years. Weber expressly calls him an ideal-typical charismatic figure. Yet, in explaining that point, Weber calls Eisner a “litte´rateur, … who [found himself] overwhelmed by his own demagogic success.” Eisner, in other words, was a model charismatic figure even though he was a demagogue and a dilettante. His specific gift was what Weber elsewhere called the “charisma of demagogic speech.”17 His authority was not all-mastering, not the product of personal invincibility. Rather, Eisner was briefly a lightning rod for the quixotic hopes of the Bavarian public. The sobering fact that his “demagogic success” lasted just

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months that his revolution was, in Weber’s opinion, a “bloody carnival” that could not last casts doubt on the assumption that charisma assures a durable form of domination. Radkau, displeased with this implication, argues that Weber couldn’t really have meant that Eisner was a true Charismatiker. His abortive revolution was, rather, Radkau insists, “anything but a model of charismatic domination” (Radkau, 2005, p. 611). Willful readings of this kind are common. Consider again Lepsius on Hitler. “Unbeatably” capable of winning over even his enemies in face-toface interaction, Hitler triumphed in his disputes with followers by virtue of his “unquestioned authority.” “Every successful claim on ultimate authority was in itself verification of Hitler’s charisma, proof of his extraordinary gifts.” Yet the quarrels Lepsius cites Hitler’s conflicts with the Strasser brothers, with the SA’s Walter Stennes in 1930 1931 and with Ernst Ro¨hm in 1934 are plainly evidence, not of unquestioned authority, but of just the reverse.18 These disputes occurred because Hitler’s authority was challenged. Ro¨hm and Gregor Strasser, far from yielding to Hitler’s persuasive powers, were ultimately murdered on his orders.

IV In my view Weber was the greatest “sociologizing” critic of charisma. His views are skeptical, not credulous; disenchanted, not metaphysical; a bracing antidote to romanticism. Hamlet, addressing his false friend Guildenstern, voiced a defiant view of demagogic power: Hamlet: “Will you play upon this pipe?” Guildenstern: “My lord, I cannot.” Hamlet: “I pray you.” Guildenstern: “Believe me, I cannot …” At last Hamlet exclaims: Why, look you now, how unworthy a thing you make of me. You would play upon me; you would seem to know my stops; you would pluck the heart out of my mystery; you would sound me from my lowest note to the top of my compass; and there is much music, excellent voice, in this little organ, yet cannot you make it speak. S’blood! do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe? Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, you cannot play upon me.

Skepticism of this kind no longer comes easily. A century of horrors and Fu¨hrers has convinced many people that “the Guildensterns” have won (Lo¨wenthal, 1987, p. 181). This, I hold, is mistaken. But Weber and several other canonical authors (Asch on conformity, Milgram on obedience, and Zimbardo on manipulation) are treated as iconic sources of insight into the inevitability of domination. I contend that they have been misrepresented

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as well.19 But since Weber’s views are exceptionally complex, the challenge of clarifying them is correspondingly greater. Clifford Geertz once stressed “the orchestral complexity and harmonic depth” of Weber’s thought, crediting this for giving it, “especially to ears less tuned to polyphony, its chronic elusiveness” (Geertz, 1983, p. 121). This is a fair comment on his style and its difficulty. But I hold that Weber is clear enough about charisma to be correctly read with minimal ambiguity. Though several of his key passages, especially in his posthumous works, are fragmentary or complex, his “sociologizing” tendency is plain. Read carefully, in context, Weber will be seen to stress the power of charismatic faith and the precariousness of charismatic authority. To show this, I will examine two key passages in which Weber is often said to have treated charisma as irresistible magnetism. I have said before (Smith, 1998) that Weber is often misread due to a theological tradition that derives from Rudolf Sohm and counts several of Weber’s main critics among its partisans. I argue now that if we wish to grasp why Weber’s idea of “recognizing” charisma is said to betray a transcendental bias when his words suggest the opposite we must return to the thicket where Sohm’s theology meets mass psychology. Sohmian theologues insist that charisma is a divine reality. Weber opposed such views.

V Weber adapted the notion of charisma from the theology of grace, as expounded above all by Rudolf Sohm in Kirchenrecht in 1892 (E&S, Vol. 2, pp. 1111f). The term “charisma,” gift of grace, had been given its ecclesial significance in Paul’s letters to the Corinthians and Romans.20 Paul posited a plenitude of gifts of grace, charismata, ranging from miraculous powers to divinely inspired love. All such gifts were said to emanate from the Holy Spirit, and the highest gift (the “teaching office”) was said to confer authority. The gifts of grace, in other words, are distributed unequally. They bring “superordination and subordination” (Sohm, [1892]1970, p. 26), not “abstract equality.” Every apostle has a gift that “mandates recognition” from the disciple. Indeed, the disciple’s supreme gift is precisely the ability to “recognize” apostolic grace, “a recognition (Anerkennung) born of love” (Sohm, [1892]1970, p. 27). The apostle is blessed with the gift of mastery, which the disciple must honor by faithful obedience.

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This formula is subtler than mass psychology a´ la Le Bon because “recognition” is posited as a free choice “born of love,” not as an automatic effect of the apostle’s gifts. Yet the ultimate implication is similar. The apostle is called to rule and the disciple is bound to obey. As a Pauline scholar, Sohm held that charisma is an ultimate reality, a Realissimum among realia. Apostles do not rule because they are recognized; on the contrary, they are recognized because they have the gift of rulership.21 Charisma, that is, causes and precedes recognition. “The popular recognition of a gifted teacher,” Sohm argued, “cannot be supposed to have had the effect of materially equipping such a person for his vocation, or even of legally empowering him to exercise his gifts. For the assembly as such can neither bestow a charisma nor call to a vocation: It can act only as a witness to the fact that such a person is truly called and endowed by God for the work of a teacher.”22 Apostles are active; disciples are passive. Indeed, the only part disciples have “in [this] transaction is expressed by their consent.” In the ecclesial assembly, “the people have only to discern and accept” (Sohm, cited by Lowrie, 1904, p. 121 and p. 101). Charisma, in this vision, is both sacred and real. This did not mean, for Sohm, that all charismatic claims are equally deserving of respect. He was, in fact, just as eager as Hegel to defend the Charisma Veritatis of the apostles against the “fictive charisma” of the Catholic Church, which, as a Protestant polemicist, he rejected outright23 but he entertained no doubts about the gifts of the Holy Spirit. Max Weber’s stance would seem to be clearly opposed. For him, “the validity of charismatic authority rests entirely on recognition by the ruled, on proof before their eyes” (E&S, Vol. 1, p. 266). The candidate for rule “demands that others obey and follow him by virtue of his mission,” but, “if those to whom he feels sent do not recognize him, his claim collapses …” (E&S, Vol. 2, p. 1112). Here, as elsewhere, Weber credits the public with authority-constituting acts of recognition; and he credits us, as well, with the power to withhold recognition, thereby denying authority to those who demand it: The mere fact of recognizing the personal mission of a charismatic master establishes his power. Whether it is more active or passive, this recognition derives from the surrender of the faithful to the extraordinary and unheard-of, to what is alien to all regulation and tradition and therefore is viewed as divine surrender which arises from distress or enthusiasm. (E&S, Vol. 2, p. 1115)

Under duress, hoping for deliverance, the public may at times accept (“recognize”) the charismatic claimant’s assertion of unique, uncanny,

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or salvific powers. Once acclaimed in this way, the charismatic claim is established. Once established, acclaim can become routine as we see in another “very general” type of recognition: “the endowment of power-holders with the office charisma of ‘God-given authority’.”24 Weber ignores the premise that charismatic claimants might actually possess divine gifts. Nor does he say, as readers of secondary sources might think, that charismatic figures have hypnotic powers that compel recognition. On the contrary, he stresses that charismatic rulers are vulnerable to public caprice. A doubting or fickle public can run in the opposite direction when a self-proclaimed leader urges “Follow me!” According to Thomas Kroll, I “minimize” Sohm’s influence on Weber, unlike many authors who hold the opposite view. Helpfully, late in his essay, Krolls calls this opposing view “leader-centric.”25 Jennifer Rust notes that, in contrast to my view “that Weber actually radically transforms the notion of charisma that he derives from Sohm, ending up with propositions that deeply contradict Sohm’s own formulations,” Carl Schmitt held the contrary view that, in fact, “Weber had … replicated some of Sohm’s claims about charisma and spiritual authority too closely.”26 The reader can weigh the merits of these claims in the light of the evidence.27 But apart from whatever direct influence we ascribe to Sohm, it remains plain that Weber’s stress on “recognition” has proven hard for many pundits to accept or grasp. Many find it aberrant for a theorist who was (they think) leader-centric to stress the role of the public so strongly.28 Schiffer, for example, grants that Weber links “the charismatic personality” to “group psychology,” but he insists that Weber’s texts “portray the disciples as blind followers, totally captivated by the forceful magnetism of their leader” (Schiffer, 1973, p. 3). And Cohen is uneasy about the notion that “many leaders with striking personal qualities go unrecognized because their message is unappealing.” In this formulation, the followers create the charismatic leader. Such an approach reverses that of Weber, of course, and by using the terms in a radically different way does damage to the clarity of our nomenclature. (Cohen, 1977, p. 301)

In fact, Weber did believe that authority is a social status granted to rulers by their followers, and that charismatic authority, in particular, is a status granted to leaders whose charismatic claims are publicly recognized. Formulas that ascribe formative power to recognition, to belief, do not reverse Weber’s ulterior logic they are, in fact, his core analytic claims.

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VI The sociological intent of Weber’s work on charisma can best be understood in the light of his substantive writings. Weber delved deeply into “clan charisma,” for example, in each of his three monographs on the world religions (in China, India, and ancient Palestine). But for present purposes, it will suffice to probe Weber’s first published references to charisma, which appeared in 1905 in Part 2 of “Die protestantische Ethik und der ‘Geist’ des Kapitalismus.” This is Weber’s most famous study, and charisma is his most renowned concept. Yet neither of Weber’s two passages on charisma in The Protestant Ethic (hereafter PESC) has been carefully studied. Both passages, as we will see below, discuss charismatic “discipleship,” not leadership. But the notion that leadership is Weber’s paramount concern with respect to charisma is hard to shake. Talcott Parsons, the dean of twentieth-century American sociology, offered a paradigmatic definition of charisma in the endnotes to his renowned 1928 translation of PESC. In just two sentences, he committed two fundamental errors. “Charisma,” he began, “is a sociological term coined by Weber himself.” This is completely false; in fact, hundreds of theologians had used the term in the hiatus from Paul to Sohm. Yet Parsons’ next sentence is just as mistaken: “It refers to the quality of leadership which appeals to non-rational motives.”29 To understand the depth of this error, and the leader-centric bias it reflects, we can begin by turning to what Weber actually said in PESC about “the charisma of discipleship.” This leads us to Zinzendorf and the Moravian Brethren, whose “discipleship” was the object of his attention. Nikolaus Ludwig, Graf von Zinzendorf, was the leading figure in the Moravian Brethren, which was a major current in Protestantism and, in Weber’s opinion, an important spur to the rationalization of bourgeois society. In all, Weber’s study of the Protestant ethic focused on five key currents in Protestantism, four of which were ascetic (Calvinism, Pietism, Methodism, and Baptism) and one of which, Lutheranism, was semi-ascetic. Pietism, which was a major force in central European Protestantism, was represented by three pre-eminent figures: Spener, Francke, and (above all) Zinzendorf.30 Herder called Zinzendorf “a conqueror who had few equals and none in the century past.” For Ludwig Feuerbach he was “Luther reborn,”31 and a modern scholar calls him “the most influential German theologian between Luther and Schleiermacher.”32 All of this might suggest that Zinzendorf

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was, in fact, a stereotypical charismatic. But Sohm puts Zindendorf and the Moravians in perspective. Extolling Pietism for its “mighty warning” and “wake-up call” (Weckruf) to the sleepy world of official churches, Sohm held that “the glory of Pietism” was, above all else, that it set the Protestant missionary movement in motion (Sohm, 1898, p. 164) that it sent the Reformation outside Europe and this was, in fact, the Moravians’ unique achievement. But this was neither “miraculous” not “conquest” in any literal sense. Zinzendorf personally played only a modest role in the global extension of Moravianism, and, as we will see, he neither claimed nor proved uncontested dominion within the brotherhood. The Moravian Brethren were the first and most ambitious Protestant missionaries, and it was their example that inspired Wesley and the Methodists to proselytize globally as well.33 Originating when, in 1722, the youthful Count Zinzendorf granted sanctuary on his estate to a small band of religious dissidents from nearby Moravia, the Brethren overcame internal divisions and constituted themselves as a formal confessional body, the revived Unitas Fratrum, in 1727, with Zinzendorf as their patron.34 Although they were radically Pietist, with roots outside the Lutheran state church, they bowed to Zinzendorf’s wish to establish themselves within Lutheranism as an ecclesiolæ in ecclesia, “a little church within the Church.”35 But they quickly began to build a missionary network in their own name as well. Initially based in their home community of Herrnhut, the Moravians began their missionary enterprises as early as 1731. Early outposts were established in the Danish West Indies (1732), Greenland (1733), and, in the decades before Zinzendorf’s death in 1760, in Pennsylvania, Georgia, New York, Surinam, Norway, The Netherlands, England, Switzerland, Connecticut, New Jersey, Wales, Maryland, Ireland, North Carolina, and Jamaica.36 Ultimately, Wesley’s Methodists exported the Puritan ethic even more widely. But the Moravians were the first in the field, and their missionary efforts had lasting consequences for the global extension of Protestantism. The Moravians and Methodists shared something else as well. They were, Weber said, the first Protestants to win workers to the cause of Berufsarbeit that is, to ascetically disciplined labor. Capitalists had swelled the ranks of Calvinists (and, among Baptist sects, the Quakers), but Moravians and Methodists were the first to enlist wage-earners. These two facts about the Moravians their evangelism abroad and among workers inspired both of Weber’s two first published references to charisma. He saw the Brethren as exemplars of what mattered most, “from our special point of view,” about Pietism per se namely, that it

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inspired a form of worldly asceticism for the bourgeois age, which (like Calvinism, but with an independent impetus) pivoted around methodically self-controlled and self-denying conduct.37 The Moravians’ “decisive value,” Weber said, was their double commitment to missionary work and to divinely “called” labor (Berufsarbeit). These were two sides of the same coin, since, thanks to their global evangelism, the Brethren had been led into the path of worldly asceticism, methodically pursuing worldly tasks; they accordingly became a great missionary hub and, equally, a business enterprise (Weber, 1905, Part 2, p. 54). This development could easily have made the Brethren into “bourgeoiscapitalists” of the Calvinist kind. But the Moravian missionary ethic was contradictory in its tendencies. The Brethren were prevented from becoming “businessmen” per se by their embrace an older form of asceticism. Standing in the way of fully bourgeois rationalism, Weber said, “was the glorification of the charisma of apostolic destitution.”38 This is Max Weber’s first published reference to charisma and his point plainly does not pivot around the “personal charisma” of a leader. On the contrary, Weber’s claim is that, inspired by the missionary example of the first apostles, the Brethren saw themselves as “disciples” who owed their special status to a divine “election of grace” (“Gnadenwahl”). They were, in their own eyes, spirit-endowed, gifted with grace in a word, charismatic.39 But they were spiritual subjects, not rulers. Though they were God’s elect, they had been chosen for service and poverty, not power and wealth.40 This self-image led the Brethren into an alternative form of worldly asceticism, worker’s asceticism. Like menial laborers, they were submissive as well as propertyless. They were loyal not only to Christ but to unbounded discipline, above all in the field of divinely called labor. This, as Weber explains in his second reference to charisma, gave the Brethren a special significance for worldly asceticism. For the capitalist, confident of grace and eager for profit, it could seem almost serendipitous that “religious asceticism furnishes him … with sober, conscientious, and uncommonly able workers who cling to their work as their God-given purpose in life.”41 But seen “from the other side, that of the workers,” the picture is different. From this vantage point, “we see glorified, e.g., in the Zinzendorfian variety of Pietism, the worker who is loyal to his calling (Berufstreuen) and who strives not for gain but rather to emulate the apostles, and who is thus endowed, like them, with the charisma of discipleship (Ju¨ngerschaft).”42 This, in short, is the charisma of the ascetic worker.43 Here, the gift of grace is not rulership but discipleship; not factory authority or entrepreneurial initiative but subordination, the ascetic refusal of autonomy. Though the

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disciples are “glorified” by their loyalty to their calling, their glory lies in following orders, not in giving them.44

VII The “charisma” that first caught Max Weber’s eye, in other words, was a form of charisma from below. Disciples were the focal point, not masters. How sharply these two emphases differ emerges when we delve further into Moravian praxis. It might be assumed that, where there are disciples, there must be charismatic masters. But that is hardly the case here. Zinzendorf’s personal centrality is undisputed. He was the patron, guiding spirit, and theologian of the sect. But in a profound sense, even he was a self-abnegating disciple. The significance of this point emerges, to begin with, from a passage by Zinzendorf in 1737 that Weber appended to explain what the term “disciple” meant to him. Zinzendorf starts by saying that discipleship presupposes the imitation of Christ, who “could have known joy” but instead “endured agony and the shame of humiliation.” Disciples are therefore “the sort of men” who find their bliss in being “humble, despised, reviled”; they care only for things that help them serve the Lord; they either have nothing or give everything away, and they work as badly-paid laborers, “not for the sake of the wage,” but rather as a calling (Beruffs) in an enterprise willed by the Lord.45 An equally archetypal version of this view appeared, nearly two decades later, in the Brotherly Agreement of 1754: We do not … regard ourselves as men-servants or maid-servants, who serve some men for the sake of a wage, … but we are here as Brothers and Sisters, who owe themselves to the Savior and for whom it is, indeed, a token of grace that they may do all for His sake.46

Disciples, that is, serve men but they see them only as proxies for Christ.47 They labor ceaselessly and selflessly, not to glorify an aristocrat, but to evangelize for the Lord. About the Brethren’s devotion to ascetic labor there can be no doubt: “One does not only work in order to live,” Zinzendorf wrote, “but one lives for the sake of one’s work, and if there is no more work to do one suffers or goes to sleep.”48 That this was not simply hyperbole is shown by his estimate of the normal Herrnhut workday: five hours for rest, three hours for “nourishment of body and soul,” and the remainder for labor.49 Work,

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for the Brethren, was quite literally worship. In 1758, an elder wrote that “everything done in the name of Jesus,” small or large, is “for us a liturgy” (Atwood, 1995, p. 198, n. 46). Work was blessed because Jesus, the “dear carpenter in Nazareth,” had labored with his hands, earning both a stiff back and “work sweat.” Love feasts celebrated the “blessing of labor” when new tasks were begun. The celebrants rejoiced that Christ “gives a thousand joys to our work.”50 A fitting summation of this view was given by Zinzendorf lieutenant Spangenberg, in a letter from the new Moravian settlement of Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, when he wrote, in 1746, that the local disciples “mix the Savior and His blood into their harrowing, mowing, washing, spinning, in short, into everything. The cattle yard becomes a temple of grace …” (Gollin, 1967, p. 145). Grace flowered, in this instance, in the cattle yard, not in the courtyard. The elect of God worked, and nothing, it seemed, was beneath them. What, then, was above them? The answer to this question revolves around two practices that gave Moravian discipleship a unique profile: the election of Christ as “Chief Elder” and what Zinzendorf’s once called the “Lossache” the business of decision-making by lot (Los). These practices were entwined, since the intent was to give Christ, as Chief Elder, direct authority through the lot, which was construed as the medium of His will. The result was that the lot, not Zinzendorf, was the immediate source of many fundamental decisions. Grace “from above” came directly from Christ to the disciples. It was a gift enjoyed, not by the mighty, but by the lowly in the cattle yard. Zinzendorf was keenly aware of the notion of charismatic authority, which, in a sermon in 1748, he called “the charisma of sage rulership” (Charisma der Regiments-Klugheit). But he broached this subject expressly to disavow any such charisma for himself, hoping to placate the secular authorities and saying that, given his immersion in matters of discipleship (Ju¨ngerschafts-Materieren), he devoted himself to the Savior and left worldly affairs to others.51 Weber, meanwhile, ignored this discussion of authority altogether.52 Preoccupied, like the Brethren, with Ju¨ngerschaft, Weber delved into the details including the Lot and Christ’s election to the Chief Eldership. Weber says that entrusting their destiny to the lot was one of the Brethren’s most fateful choices. It gave Moravian piety an exceptionally “antirational, feeling-laden” quality.53 The Synod of 1764 justified this irrationalism on the ground that the Savior’s perfect insight infinitely surpassed “even the most carefully weighed thoughts of his workers and

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servants,” and Zinzendorf credited the Holy Spirit with “anointing” the lot (Sommer, 2000, pp. 96, 91). But “the most pressing area of concern, within and without” the Brethren, was the issue of obedience. Outsiders attacked the Moravians for their “absolute obedience” to the lot’s decisions (ibid., pp. 90, 93). This, plainly, was a rejection of Moravian discipleship; not everyone glorified submission so ardently, or accepted the premise that Christ could intervene directly in the life of the community. But another feature of the Lossache loomed equally large for the Brethren themselves namely, the fact that reliance on the lot also had an antiauthoritarian tendency, since it deprived Zinzendorf and the senior Brethren of decisionmaking authority in many spheres. For the Moravians, “actual power and authority was in the hands of the slaughtered Lamb” (Kinkel, 1990, p. 76; emphasis mine). The Brethren were absolutely pledged to obedience but not to human authority. They symbolized this fact, in many of their meetings and services, by placing an empty chair, representing Christ, at the head of the table (ibid., p. 76, fn. 102). In 1741, the Brethren concluded that pre-eminence was “too much for a Mortal man,” and so, as one of them recalled in 1754, “we asked our Saviour whether he himself would fill this place, to which he consented” by lot, of course.54 Even before this, the lot was widely used in many aspects of Moravian life in the appointment of ministers and office-holders (including chief elders); in the consecration of bishops; in fundamental areas of policy including the decision to abandon the “General Oeconomy” in Bethlehem; and in the assignment of overseas missionaries, including the original delegation to the West Indies in 1732.55 According to the Synod of 1869, the use of the lot coincided with the founding of the Brethren in 1727 (Sommer, 2000, p. 87). In some periods, it was used “with such frequency that it becomes virtually impossible to compile any statistics on its use” (Gollin, 1967, p. 237, n. 11). Zinzendorf, in 1743, called devotion to the lot “a charisma of the Brethren,” which “belongs among the miraculous powers (Wunderkra¨fte) of His Church.”56 His point in saying this was to affirm that the whole body of disciples what he called “discipledom” enjoys charisma jointly.57 Like Martin Luther, the Brethren held that the capacity to recognize the divine will in the lot was a sacred gift which they shared collectively, which they acquired by entering into a covenant with their fellow disciples (Sommer, 2000, p. 89). The charisma of discipleship was thus not personal; it was entirely communal, a gift to the Moravians as a body.

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VIII If the Moravian Brethren saw themselves as the elect of God, humble in the pursuit of apostolic poverty and self-denial, were they not, then, still charismatic in Parsons’ sense? Gollin, whose dissertation on the Brethren was supervised by Parsons’ contemporary, the sociologist Robert Merton, tended to think so.58 But I think the evidence points to the opposite conclusion. The Moravians may have balanced their humility with a charge of hubris, but they rejected any kind of creaturely authority. The Synod of 1864, for example, expressly opposed rule by spellbinding leaders: “We are a people that stands under the immediate rule of our Head and Lord Jesus Christ,” for whom it would be “pathetic” (erba¨rmlicher) to allow the creaturely will of the majority to dominate, as in those councils of old where “whoever was most persuasive (Suade) won over the majority and did what he wished.”59 Zinzendorf, moreover, “rejected every … religious thought which suggested some form of fusing, or merging, of the human with the divine (Verschmelzungsmystik) as wicked pride.”60 And, in fact, Zinzendorf took pains to deny any overlap between the human and the divine. This led him to downplay miracles altogether. “Doing miracles does not belong at all to the essence of a Christian; it does not belong at all to the Gospel.” It is therefore wrong to confuse “faith in miracles with saving faith.” While God occasionally grants individuals supernatural powers, Zinzendorf insists that even those “extraordinary men” who figure as prophets are only God’s instruments. Any prophet who forgets this, who exalts himself rather than God, can fail to achieve even his own salvation, if “his prophetic office and gift lead him into pride, and he uses them to make himself shine out among mankind, in order to be honored by people and to be preferred to the rest of his fellow-creatures … .” Without humility, “even if he spoke with the tongues of angels, yet he would be nothing more than a ringing bell …” (Zinzendorf, [1746]1973, pp. 44 45). Hence philosophers who “attack miracles and diligently set them forth as the workings of nature” are missing the point of true religion; and so are theologians who seek to prove that “miracles … really happened.” For true disciples, miracles are entirely beside the point (de lana caprina) (ibid., p. 44). Discipleship is rendered even more remote from divinity, in Zinzendorf’s theology, by his conviction that Christ was utterly human. God, Zinzendorf held, is infinitely beyond human comprehension, a figure of divine darkness and “unapproachable light.” To make himself knowable, He sacrificed his divinity altogether, assuming the entirely human form of Jesus. Many of the

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core features of Moravian faith revolve around this premise. The Brethren saw Christ as God revealed in a state of self-negation, as a self-denying divinity who showed his love for humanity by becoming wholly human and wholly humble. The Brethren stressed, and doubly stressed, that Jesus was not only creaturely but lowly: a menial laborer, who suffered agony, doubt, and a human death. Discipleship, as the imitation of Christ, was thus the embrace of the lowest humanity, not the highest divinity.61 It is worth recalling, finally, that Zinzendorf and the Brethren were far from revolutionary. Rather than breaking with the established church, they re-entered it. And they took pains to assure the worldly authorities that they were meek and submissive. Unlike the radical Anabaptists, who had pioneered the theology of discipleship two centuries earlier (and whose influence the Brethren showed only residually), the Moravians were Luther-like in their eagerness to submit. Zinzendorf stressed, in 1746, that the Moravians were “sheep” whose commitment to “passive obedience,” even under conditions of despotism, could not be overstated.62 Similarly, the 1864 Synod reiterated this pledge of subjection (Untertha¨nigkeit) and the wish to avoid “irritating” the mighty: “He who Himself submitted and was crucified in shame is our Head, and we dwell in His Kingdom, … a kingdom of the cross, whose principles are based in subjection.”63 The Moravians were disciples, in other words, in the most self-effacing sense. They claimed neither divinity nor worldly leadership but rather the Holy Spirit’s gift of heartfelt submission.

IX On balance, given the popularity of the claim that Weber saw charismatic authority as the interplay of blind followers and magnetic leaders, it is striking how little evidence has been cited to support it. Most partisans of this view cite a few lines from his initial discussion of charisma in Economy and Society. Here Weber calls charisma “a certain quality of an individual personality.” That sounds clear. But upon inspection even this text powerfully supports the sociological reading of Weber’s view namely, that forceful personalities are “charismatic” only when they have followers who accept their charismatic claims. This passage is so contested, and so richly detailed, that it merits careful scrutiny in toto. Weber writes: The term “charisma” will be applied to a certain quality of an individual personality by virtue of which he is considered extraordinary and treated as endowed with

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supernatural, superhuman, or at least specifically exceptional powers and qualities.64 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.” In primitive circumstances this peculiar kind of quality is thought of as resting on magical powers, whether of prophets, persons with a reputation for therapeutic or legal wisdom, leaders in the hunt, or heroes in war. How the quality in question would be ultimately judged from any ethical, esthetic, or other such point of view is naturally entirely indifferent for purposes of definition. What is alone important is how the individual is actually regarded by those subject to charismatic authority, by his “followers” or “disciples.” (emphasis mine)

In this passage, taken as a whole, it would seem clear that Weber is concerned, above all, with the ways in which charismatic claimants are treated and viewed. They are “considered extraordinary,” “regarded as divine or exemplary,” the bearers of skills that are “thought of as resting on magical powers.” Such figures enjoy authority only to the extent that they are “treated as” magically endowed.65 This hardly sounds like the portrait of the magnetic, Gothic-novel Barbarossa of whom Weber is said to have been so enamored.66 In the next passage, Weber avows an empirical sociology that sharply differs from Sohmian theology, in ways that I have already noted above: “For present purposes it will be necessary to treat a variety of different types as being endowed with charisma in this sense”: It includes the state of a “berserk” whose spells of maniac passion have, apparently wrongly, sometimes been attributed to the use of drugs. In medieval Byzantium a group of these men endowed with the charisma of fighting frenzy was maintained as a kind of weapon. It includes the “shaman,” the magician who in the pure type has to be subject to epileptoid seizures as a means of falling into trances. Another type is represented by Joseph Smith, the founder of Mormonism, who may have been a very sophisticated swindler (although this cannot be definitely established). Finally, it includes the type of litte´rateur, such as Kurt Eisner, who is overwhelmed by his own demagogic success. Value-free sociological analysis will treat all these on the same level as it does the charisma of men who are the “greatest” heroes, prophets, and saviors according to conventional judgements.67

This seems quite plain. Warrior berserks, “epileptoid” shamans, subtle swindlers, and demagogues are just as charismatic, for Weber, as any of the culture-heroes of the past. That is, they win recognition for powers inaccessible to ordinary mortals “fighting frenzy,” trance-induced magic, etc. This recognition is no less real than that accorded to politicians and prophets. Faith, it will be recalled, can take any person, thing, or ideal as its object. So claims to grace, magic and fury are sociologically equivalent inasmuch as they are recognized.68 Hegel, of course, like Sohm or

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Zinzendorf, would have disputed this. But Weber was not a romantic or a theologian. From his standpoint, the entire process, from claim to acclaim, is no less valid sociologically for berserks than it is for claimants of Pauline grace. It is understandable that theologians and mass psychologists would wish to exclude nonprophets and nonleaders from the category of charismatics, but Weber does not share this wish. He turns, in the ensuing pages to numbered points followed by a long discussion of “The Routinization of Charisma.”69 This is one of the few categorical statements about charisma in Weber’s oeuvre, but since all of his categorical passages show clear affinities, this statement serves as a good touchstone for my argument.70 His first statement is emphatic: I. It is recognition on the part of those subject to authority which is decisive for the validity of charisma. This recognition is freely given and guaranteed by what is held to be a proof, originally always a miracle, and consists in devotion to the corresponding revelation, hero worship, or absolute trust in the leader. (E&S, Vol. 1, p. 242)

This is unambiguously sociological. Doubts arise, however, with respect to the next line: But where charisma is genuine, it is not this which is the basis of the claim to legitimacy. This basis lies rather in the conception that it is the duty of those subject to charismatic authority to recognize its genuineness and to act accordingly. Psychologically this recognition is a matter of complete personal devotion to the possessor of the quality, arising out of enthusiasm, or of despair and hope. (ibid.)

This passage has convinced many readers that Weber shares the common belief in all-compelling leaders. The source of this conviction appears to lie in the phrase “genuine charisma” and in the enigmatic reference to “the possessor of the quality.” But two points should be borne in mind. First, when Weber refers to “genuine” charisma later in Economy and Society, he states plainly that charisma is genuine when people genuinely believe in it that is, when they believe in rainmaking magic, divination, telepathy, etc. It would be a peculiar leap to presume, on this basis, that Max Weber personally believed in divination and telepathy, or that he viewed magic power as the source of political power (E&S, Vol. 1, pp. 400f). Yet this is, in effect, what the majority of interpreters assume. Second, this passage clearly reiterates Weber’s oft-stated view that authority springs from recognition, and that recognition springs from enthusiasm, desperation, or hope. Public subjectivity is the spur to charismatic faith in this account, not invincible or magnetic leadership. Power-seekers may, of course, demand obedience (as their due, as the public’s duty) but that claim only has socially

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meaningful consequences if the public accepts it. And the public is free to reject this or any other claim. In an ensuing passage, Weber discusses how charismatic faith is perceived by the power-seeker: No prophet has ever regarded his quality as dependent on the attitudes of the masses toward him. No elective king or military leader has ever treated those who have resisted him or tried to ignore him otherwise than as delinquent in duty. Failure to take part in a military expedition under such a leader, even though the recruitment is formally voluntary, has universally met with disdain. (E&S, Vol. 1, p. 242)

By a strange hermeneutic alchemy, many critics cite these lines to argue that Weber himself sees recognition as duty-bound or forcibly compelled. One widely cited author writes that Weber seems “to be proposing a ‘great man’ theory of history in which macro-change is produced by the appearance of unique persons with ‘gifts’.” This approach is essentially psychological because Weber argues that the charismatic figure does not require external validation of his gift but demands obedience regardless of the attitudes of others.71

Many others offer similar arguments.72 This is palpably wrongheaded. To start with, Weber expressly says that people who are asked to serve militarily under an “elective king or military leader” may choose not to do so. That this “failure” invites the ruler’s disdain, that it is vilified as “delinquent,” does not alter the fact that people often resist or try to ignore such rulers. Elsewhere, Weber explains that charisma is only “genuine” when it is believed to inhere in an individual, idea, or thing. This inherence, like transcendence, is imputed. “Charisma” in this sense is an ascribed or attributed quality, not an actual quality an ability to produce metaphysical effects in the spheres of rainmaking, mind-reading, etc. Such capacities are what all “such special terms” as mana, orenda, maga, and charisma denote.73 And he gives no more credence to any such claims than he does to the claims of prophets. The ruler who alleges a God-given right to obedience is not making a claim that Weber accepts. On the contrary, self-aggrandizing claims of this type obscure the truth that power springs from recognition, which is (sociologically and psychologically speaking) a choice, not a duty. Weber’s point in this passage, in other words, is that leaders, aspiring and actual, often believe their own extravagant claims, and they often insist that others should accept them as well. He does not say repeatedly that charisma depends wholly on recognition only to add, with perfectly circular logic, that recognition depends wholly on charisma. Nowhere does

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he say that charisma is natural or supernatural, rather than social; and nowhere does he say that charisma is so compelling that it evokes automatic recognition.74 Saying that rulers consider themselves supreme and unbeholden to their subjects (or that their subjects think the same thing) is not the same as endorsing this view. Joseph Goebbels once wrote to Albrecht von Gra¨fe that “the future belongs not to the masses, but to the man who fills the masses with organic life. The new century belongs to the propeller (Treiber), to the shaper (Former), to the king of the masses.”75 The cheerful arrogance of this pronunciamento is just what Weber’s analysis would lead us to expect from Hitler’s propaganda minister but is Weber responsible for this arrogance? When he describes charismatic hubris, is he thereby committed to the outlook he describes? Not in the least. When Marx, similarly, noted that subjects often think that monarchs rule simply because they are inherently kings, he was exposing a fallacy.76 So too Weber on charisma. Goebbels and the other devotees of the unbound Fu¨hrer fell victim to an illusion. The future belonged, not to Hitler, but to those who refused to recognize him. Hitler’s fall, the failure of his 12-year reign, has not prevented many analysts from believing that the charisma of the Great Dictator is, in some sense, irresistible. But Weber’s second numbered point makes this seem unlikely in the extreme: II. If proof and success elude the leader for long, if he appears deserted by his god or his magical or heroic powers, above all, if his leadership fails to benefit his followers, it is likely that his charismatic authority will disappear. This is the genuine meaning of the divine right of kings (Gottesgnadentum). Even the old Germanic kings were sometimes rejected with scorn. Similar phenomena are very common among so-called primitive peoples.77

In short, no matter how “magnetic,” leaders must prove their charisma or suffer rejection and proof depends not on eloquence but on events. Failed harvests or wartime defeats can undo any ruler especially when the public initially accepts the ruler’s claim to control the elements or the economy. Evil tidings have shipwrecked many a “Great Helmsman.” The rejection of the ruler, like recognition, has no necessary connection to actual personal properties. When the public loses faith in a ruler, his or her charisma vanishes. What seemed yesterday to be a supernormal personal quality proves to have been a status, the product of recognition. And recognition, which is only effective when it is collective, proves to have been a form of what Durkheim called collective representation. Collectively recognized rulers do, in fact, possess charisma, just as any individual possesses any social status contingently, while recognition

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remains intact. Status, in every form, is a social reality, a consequence of social recognition. Charisma is no different. Like any status, charismatic authority is created and sustained only by social practice and it can be dissolved by contrary or dissident practices, as many rulers have learned to their sorrow. A rejected king cannot keep himself on the throne by arrogance alone.

X Max Weber’s sociological imagination has been no mystery to at least one group his theological critics. John Howard Schu¨tz, for example, is dismayed by Weber’s approach but clear about its significance. “From a sociological point of view, the empirical fact behind the charismatic claim is irrelevant, because it is opaque and inaccessible. Empirically, the assertion that one is spirit-endowed is beyond verification” (Schu¨tz, 1975, p. 267). This is very accurate. And by this logic, “charisma itself is of no account. It appears as if the charismatic … has no call if others do not respond to his articulation of it. Or, we might put the matter another way and say that there is in Weber’s scheme no transcendent power which is interpreted in the charismatic authority” (ibid., p. 268). Schu¨tz understands Weber well. Charisma, theologically construed, is ultimately irrelevant for Weber because his concern is not grace but legitimacy. Weber wants to know why people endow rulers with authority. “That is why everything in Weber’s treatment of charisma ultimately depends on the response … It would be entirely consistent and proper to say that without assent (obedience, ascription of legitimacy) there would be no charismatic ruler” (ibid., pp. 268 269). Schu¨tz sees that, for Weber, charismatic authority is the effect of mass recognition, not its source. “Because there is no possibility for empirically verifying the ‘gift’ which the charismatic bears, his person occupies a tenuous position. The primary datum is the actual fact of abrupt, explosive and revolutionary authority … Yet authority of this sort … cannot be equated with one or another configuration of personality traits.”78 For Weber the charismatic is to be dealt with as a sociological, not a psychological, type. If we take that seriously … then we can no longer appeal to the personal history or character of the charismatic as an index to the quality of his authority, just as we may not appeal to the substance of his charisma per se. This is a difficult assumption to make, but it is inescapable if we take Weber’s premises and deductions literally. (ibid., pp. 270 271)

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Schu¨tz is not overjoyed by the severely secular implication of this conclusion. “Unfortunately proceeding resolutely down this path reduces charismatic authority to a mere process … We might say that Weber saw in charismatics what Paul saw in the Corinthians. They were real, but also a nuisance. The danger of saying this is that Paul was himself a charismatic …” (ibid., p. 271). Weber did, indeed, ascribe Paul’s apostolic authority to the acclaim of his disciples.79 This puts him far beyond the pale of theology. The reactionary philosopher Othmar Spann saw this early, lashing out at Weber for a “rare lack of understanding [of] a fundamental area of life, religiosity” which, he said, Weber saw only as “a caustic disease,” to be “destroyed” on behalf of an “atheistic enlightenment of the most vulgar sort.”80 The political scientist Carl Joachim Friedrich also protested Weber’s secularism, which he attacked on expressly Sohmian grounds.81 Denying that charisma can be a “crude swindle,” Friedrich opposes what he, too, sees as Weber’s core claim the thesis that charisma is the fruit of recognition. God-given grace is real, he says, and he cites as proof “the clearly charismatic power of the ‘head of Christendom’” (Friedrich (1961, p. 13). Weber’s abstention from theological speculation (his affirmation that “the only thing that matters is how [the claim] is valued by those ruled charismatically”) leads inexorably to a “repellent” conclusion, namely, that “Mussolini and Moses [were] … essentially engaged in the same kind of work.”82 For Friedrich, as for Schu¨tz, Paul reveals “…what genuine charisma originally meant, namely, leadership based upon a transcendent call by a divine being, believed in by both the person called and those with whom he has to exercise his calling.”83 This is a very precise defense of the theology of grace, offered, appropriately, in opposition to Weber’s sociology of legitimacy. Friedrich understands that Weber’s approach to charisma sprang from an ethic of sociological responsibility, not theological conviction. Weber cared about the consequences of social beliefs, not their metaphysics. This might seem to put him outside the sphere of theological concern. But Weber poses a threat to metaphysics precisely because he shows, with striking clarity, the formal parallels between “true” and “false” prophets. Any claimant to prophetic charisma can be recognized. So what differentiates the recognition accorded to Moses and Mussolini? Any kind of false worship, from a theological standpoint, is idolatry. But false worship can also be opposed on secular grounds. Perhaps ironically, one of the earliest objections to Weber’s notion of charisma came in 1935 from the Heidelberg legal scholar Herbert Kru¨ger, who objected to Weber’s “relativizing” notion of charisma on the ground that it equated the true

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Fu¨hrer, the architect of a new age, with pseudocharismatic shamans, Mormons, and others. Seeking a suitable juridical ground for the Nazi Fu¨hrerprinzip, Kru¨ger endorsed charismatische Herrschaft but resisted the reduction of genuine charismatic leadership to ersatz versions. “For how could the grandeur of such a leader be comprehended through odious comparisons with these defunct and less worthy forms of leadership?”84 The basic logic of this objection that true and false charismatics should be carefully distinguished is common to most critics of Weber’s sociological relativism, secular as well as theological. Friedrich occupies a special place among these critics, arguing on theological grounds for a position that has been highly influential among secularists. His influence pivots above all around the category of “pseudocharisma,” which he popularized with great success. Friedrich’s view is that, while the term “charisma” should be reserved for genuine prophets, the term “pseudocharisma” is suitable for false prophets. (Secular scholars echo this argument in their own vocabulary, saying that leaders capable of mesmerizing the public thanks to their personal charisma should be rigorously distinguished from figures whose magnetism is media-generated, not inherent). He particularly objects to what he sees as the faux charismatic claims of secular revolutionaries (“from Rousseau and the Jacobins to Marx-Lenin and the Bolsheviks”) whose “pseudocharismatic procedures,” he insists, offer only “a pale replica of the genuine charisma of religious faith.”85 Unsurprisingly, he finds Weber’s view of Kurt Eisner highly offensive. It has been snidely observed that “what holds for Eisner, ought to hold for Hitler, Mussolini, or Peron as well.” True enough. But does it hold for any of them? Can the leadership based upon a genuine sense of divine calling be equated with every other kind of inspirational leadership? That Weber should have answered this question in the affirmative is a significant indication of his general secular and positivist outlook. (Friedrich, 1961, p. 15)

Friedrich’s default position is religious. The idea of charisma is not “suitably generalized,” he concludes, “by broadening it to include secular and non-transcendent types of callings” (ibid., pp. 12, 14). But many secularists reach basically the same conclusion, differing only in what they mean by “genuine charisma.” What they share with Friedrich (and Sohm, and Kru¨ger) is the view that true charisma exists apart from and prior to recognition.86 It is, in fact, only pseudocharisma that can be created by recognition. Genuine charisma produces recognition; pseudocharisma is produced by recognition.

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This appears to be Stefan Breuer’s premise when he says that the charisma ascribed “by contemporary sociology” to Hitler and Mussolini is not real but “reinterpreted,” that is, “staged,” media-generated, “artificially produced.” Hitler and Mussolini were not endowed with the personal gifts that qualify as genuine leadership, Breuer says; rather, viewed apart from their movements, they were “rather pale and below average,” figures who stood out mainly “in dimensions such as manic loquaciousness, the art of dissimulation and tactical cunning.”87 To appear larger than life, as charismatic Herren, these mediocrities had to be gilded with media-borne glamour. Their charisma was false, simulated. It is, of course, true that Hitler and Mussolini were mediocre and worse, humanly. But crediting them with “artificial charisma,” dwelling on their human failings, misses the sociological point. Charisma is neither “real” nor “artificial” but rather socially constructed. Leaders who are followed because the public accepts their charismatic claims are charismatic, whether they are socialists, swindlers, or loquacious National Socialist sadists. “Recognition” is no less recognition because it is mistaken. All belief in magic, for example, is mistaken.88 But leaders who thrive because people believe they actually possess magic powers are not mistaken for charismatic figures. They actually are charismatic figures, not in spite of their false claims but precisely because these false claims are recognized, that is, accepted.89 False claims can be recognized as true alas! just as readily as true claims. That may be why so many critics are reluctant to follow Weber in his account of the power of recognition.

XI Is Weber perhaps wrong to stress recognition so much? Even the “sociologizing” Bourdieu takes that position, arguing that Weber gives too much causal weight to “psycho-sociological” forces.90 But Weber was not (viewed in context) unique in this respect. Indeed, the international law community was stirred by a “grand debate” over recogniton in Weber’s day.91 “Constitutive” theorists held that statehood is constituted by recognition, while “declaratory theorists” said that statehood precedes recognition in other words, that collective recognition merely declares what already exists. Weber, in my opinion, was a constitutive theorist of legitimacy, as his approach to recognition shows. But his critics assume that he was, in

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effect, a declaratory theorist. For these critics, “genuine charisma” is what “statehood” is for declaratists: something inherent, which exists prior to and provokes recognition.92 Weber held that charisma is constituted by recognition. But his critics, driven by declaratory biases, assume that charisma is innate, not a constructed status. Any seemingly charismatic status that is “constituted” by recognition they regard as pseudocharisma. Friedrich’s influence on this subject has been impressively long-lasting.93 Few other writers on charisma have been as widely cited or endorsed. Yet secular writers rarely pause to reflect on the fact that Friedrich’s account is actually more akin to political theology than to political science.94 This matters because Weber, who remains the touchstone of charisma theory, is often read through the lens of Friedrich’s interpretation. When Weber is not mistaken for a political theologian, he is faulted for falling short of political theology (by overemphasis on recognition). It seems that, no matter what Weber may be shown to have actually said, there is an undying tendency to read Weber a´ la Friedrich, Voegelin, and Schmitt. The impassable divide between “political theology” and secular views was first elaborated by Carl Schmitt in Political Theology ([1922]2010), a small text that first appeared in the Weber memorial volumes edited by Melchior Palyi. Political theology, Schmitt explained, affirms “metaphysical” as well as “political and sociological conceptions of the sovereign.” Conceived as a supreme and singular creator (Schmitt, [1922] 2010, p. 43), the sovereign is thus akin to the God whose grace he shares. This is an ultracharismatic conception, as Schmitt shows in a quote from Fre´de´ric Atger: “The prince develops all the virtualite´s of the State by a sort of continual creation. The prince is the Cartesian God transposed to the political world” (ibid.). This transcendentalist view is challenged by secular democrats who privilege the “immanent” forces in history, above all the public. Schmitt regrets that a popular spirit has trespassed into politics, rejecting the centrality of the “master world-builder” the “founder and lawgiver” (Urheber und Gesetzgeber) and affirming a contrary doctrine that is “grounded, in all its diverse paraphrases,” in the notion that “all power springs from the pouvoir constituant of the people” (ibid.). Political theology of this type celebrates the Charisma Veritatis of the true sovereign. The democratic alternative entails the contrary claim that authority springs from recognition, from consent, not from inherent gifts of grace. This rival view, Schmitt says, is favored not only by liberals but by ‘associationists’ like Preuss and Gierke.95 The triumph of democratic theory, despite the formidable opposition of the great reactionaries Bonald,

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De Maistre and Donoso Cortes, led to “the elimination of all theistic and transcendental representations and the formation of a new notion of legitimacy” (Schmitt [1922]2010, p. 51). The ideal of popular sovereignty elbowed aside what Schmitt unabashedly calls “authoritarian state-theory.” Charismatic-authoritarian norms yielded to rational-democratic values. For Schmitt, this poses a clear choice: either political theology or secular democracy. This echoes Eric Voegelin’s argument in Political Religions ([1939]1986), which Friedrich often cites to bolster the claim that “pseudocharisma” artificially mimics real charisma.96 For Voegelin, the distinction between the revealed faith and secular “political religions” is the veritable axis of history. Pseudocharismatic movements, he argues, offer surrogate, worldly forms of unio mystica (“through the newspaper and radio, through speeches and communal festivals,” etc.) in place of truly “religio-ecstatic union of the individual with his God” (Voegelin [l939]1986, p. 66). But the worldly unio mystica of today’s “political religions” is only an imitatio mystica, and is thus antithetical to the prospect of genuine union with Christ, in which the Spirit or “pneuma of Christ flows by the power of His pleroma, that is, His fullness, into the earthly members” of His assembly (ibid., p. 34). Voegelin’s theology, which presupposes the notion of gifts flowing from Christ to the ecclesia, is wholly Catholic and thus exalts not just charisma but the charisma of office: The charismata, which flow out of the pneuma of Christ and which bestow on the members of the body their function, can be extended beyond the scheme for ranks in the original community sketched by Paul to complement political and administrative functions. (ibid.)

This leads, by a kind of Catholic inevitability, to the emergence of “a hierarchy among the offices of the Corpus Mysticum. Accordingly, one of the offices, becomes the highest, and the others only have their place in the corpus through its mediation and its charismata …” (ibid., p. 35). The rise of the highest office, the Papacy, sets the stage for conflict between the kingdom of God and the worldly kingdoms, Voegelin’s “political religions.” The Papacy, bearer of Christ’s highest charismata, often clashes with temporal rulers. In this conflict,97 Voegelin sees a basic fault line: “The Pope declares the emperor to be the Anti-Christ.” Why? Because, in emperor worship, “the first secular political religion had sprouted on the soil of the Christian ekklesia” (ibid., p. 42). In symbolism, the worldly kingdoms tend to mirror the charismatic assembly,98 today as before. “The symbolism of the ‘Kingdom of the Apocalypse’ lives on,”

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Voegelin contends, “in the symbolism of the 19th and 20th centuries, in the three kingdoms of Marx-Engelsian historical philosophy, in the Third Reich of National Socialism, and in the fascist third Rome that follows the classical and Christian” (ibid., pp. 45 46). But, he adds, Marxism, the Third Reich, and Mussolini’s fascism are mock religions, antitranscendental worldly “creed movements in which medieval heresies have come to their fruition” (Voegelin, [1953]2000, p. 21). This is the point at which Friedrich enters the scene. Like Voegelin and several cothinkers (notably Waldemar Gurian, who was perhaps “the most devoted early disciple of Schmitt” and “one of the most prolific Catholic publicists of the [later] Weimar Republic” (Bendersky, 1983, p. 51) Friedrich opposed the hubris and absolutism of the secular state, which Gurian had called “totalitarian” even before Hitler came to power.99 In the inaugural issue of Gurian’s journal The Review of Politics, Friedrich set the stage for his lifelong opposition to “The Deification of the State.” The basis for his opposition, he makes clear, is an essentially religious, hierocratic hostility to the “man-made” state. “General disapproval of the state as political community is deeply linked to our Christian heritage,” he writes (Friedrich, 1939, p. 19). For Friedrich, the state is an idol, forged by human hands, and hence the antithesis of Augustine’s Civitas Dei.100 The self-deification of the polity (which can be either anarchist or absolutist, he says101) is the crux of a series of idolatries, which exalted first the Greek polis, then the Holy Roman Empire, and ultimately the state. These idolatries are branches of a single political religion, “the pagan deification of the state” or people,102 which arose in antiquity: “the Greek polis conception as expounded by Plato and Aristotle is incompatible indeed with the Christian idea”: … the polis is not at all the highest or most comprehensive community, nor is it instituted to realize the highest good. Since this, however, is the central conception of Aristotle’s “state-church,” any compromise must in the end prove fatal to the Christian way of life. (Friedrich, 1939, p. 22)

Machiavelli is also a key figure, since he assigned “the prince the function of heading the church” and thus prefigured the “secular papalism” of James I (that is, the notion of divine right) (ibid., p. 28). Hobbes systematized this outlook and thus prefigured a “materialistic sociology” in which the state replaces God (ibid., p. 29), thereby clearing the way for a rogues’ gallery of ostensibly absolutist secularists: Rousseau, Hegel and John Austin, succeeded by “Marx, Stalin and Hitler.”

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DAVID NORMAN SMITH Underlying all the many arguments and disagreements between these modern thinkers we find a common core of worship for the secular political community and its organization a deification of the state. (ibid.)

Every such political religion is “pseudo-theological,” a “specter which haunts our thinking,” a stance that is “inherently contrary to the Christian view … .” (ibid.). Friedrich is best known for his pioneering critique of “totalitarianism.” Here, too, his intent is theological: “Stalinism, Hitlerism, and Fascism are different variants of a pagan approach. They, like Aristotle, maintain that some secular community, either the proletariat, the nation, or the race, [is] the highest community” (Friedrich, 1950, p. 78). This reasoning ultimately led him to attack Weber, too. When, with Brzezinski ([1956] 1965, p. 44), he first criticized Weber (for failing to distinguish Charisma Veritatis from the false charisma of extremist regimes), Friedrich confined himself to “modifying” Weber’s typology of authority. He retained the notions of traditional and legal authority but divided the third category into charisma (to classify figures like Moses, Christ, and Mohammed) and pseudocharisma (to cover Marx, Stalin, and Hitler). Initially, Friedrich seemed reluctant to reject Weber altogether, but the philosopher Leo Strauss was much harsher, saying that “a man who cannot distinguish between great statesmen, mediocrities, and insane impostors may be a good bibliographer; he cannot say anything relevant about politics and political theory” (cited by Friedrich, 1963, p. 186). Friedrich endorsed this rebuke, calling Weberian sociology “a crude kind of social psychologizing” (1963, p. 186; 1961, p. 16).103 This kind of political theology has clear affinities with mass psychology. Like Sohm and Schmitt, Friedrich is substantively in agreement with Freud and Le Bon with respect to charisma. All stress that charisma is an insuperable power, soaring above the public.

XII Few secular scholars echo theology directly, yet Friedrich’s neo-Sohmian claims proved highly influential outside theological circles. Why? Mainly, it seems, because many secular scholars imagine that “genuinely charismatic leaders” are larger than life, compelling figures of unique and inherent personal dynamism. Theologians interpret this dynamism in a spiritualistic idiom while their secular counterparts adopt a naturalistic vocabulary, but

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all agree that the leader’s gifts are intrinsic, in some way independent of the public. These parallel lines converge in Friedrich’s work. He holds that, “whatever” the doctrines upheld by religious believers, “their behavior is molded into conformity with the preferences of those who possess charisma” (Friedrich, 1961, pp. 13, 17). This is true whether the leader defends or defies established norms: The initiator … strikes out along novel lines of political action which “inspire” those following him into imitating his action … The conservator reinforces old lines of political action which are familiar to all those following him. They obey his commands … . Protecting leadership elicits acclaim in the following. (ibid., p. 21)

The following, meanwhile, is meek and malleable: “Acclaim is a very passive type of behavior on the part of a following” (ibid., p. 22). In many ways this is closer to mass psychology than to theology. Friedrich’s moral bias is Sohmian, but his analytic categories reflect the influence of fascism. When he denies that the notion of charisma applies equally to Moses and Mussolini, he offers, as a substitute for Weber’s concept, a mass-psychological notion akin to Le Bon’s “prestige” (which Freud, incidentally, also equated with mana).104 In this outlook, not only “genuine” charismatics but secular false prophets are endowed with radiant energies of influence. All excite a popular impulse to submission. Even though, for Friedrich, the bearers of true charisma merit the faith that “pseudocharismatics” manufacture, he holds that both enjoy a basically hypnotic power over a prostrate public. They can be called hypercompelling they evoke what Shils classifies as “hyper-affirmation” (Shils, [1961]1982, p. 95). Both rule by the irresistible force of personal gifts. In thrall to charismatic tenets, Friedrich categorically rejects the view that “recognition” gives rise to charisma. Few social scientists have been entirely willing to emulate him. But this is often because they fail to grasp Weber as well as Friedrich does. Unfamiliar with theology, secular scholars are seldom entirely aware of the issues at stake. Few fail to mention Weber’s claim that charisma requires recognition, but fewer still grasp what this means. With rare exceptions, Weber’s successors assume that charisma exists in a latent state until recognition “validates” it. They often add, further, that charisma produces its own validation by “eliciting” consent. “One can say,” Kelman and Hamilton write, “that, at least in part, leaders have charisma because they are recognized but they are recognized because they have charisma” (Kelman & Hamilton, 1989, p. 127, n. 12).

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What saves this claim from perfect circularity is that Kelman and Hamilton tacitly place charisma at the start of the causal chain. The implication is that, while popular acclaim establishes the leader’s authority, this acclaim is a mechanical response to the stimulus of the leader’s charisma. The leader comes first, followed by followers. It is often noted that, without followers, no one is a leader; but it is typically said that charismatic leaders produce their own following. In accounts of this kind, authors attempt to give the followers their due, but uncertainly; and in typical instances, before long, the author’s bias in favor of the leader takes center stage. A classic example is Ann Ruth Willner’s incisive study The Spellbinders (1984), which is among the most able systematic accounts of charisma yet published.105 It is also symptomatic. Like many others, Willner begins by questioning the assumption, usually credited to Weber, “that charisma is located in a quality or combination of qualities of a person and that some leaders naturally possess a ‘charismatic personality’ while most do not” (Willner, 1984, p. 14). Asking whether charisma is more vitally a matter of personality or perception, Willner’s initial answer is exactly right: “It is not what the leader is but what people see the leader as that counts in generating the charismatic relationship. In the quotation from Weber … the operative phrase is ‘treated as endowed’” (ibid., pp. 14 15). This is very accurate. But soon, Willner begins to invert her position: “Charisma, then, can be found not so much in the personality of the leader as in the perceptions of the people he leads” (ibid., p. 15, emphasis mine). The phrase “not so much” might seem to be a minor caveat. But in fact it seriously compromises her sociological stance. Just a moment before, she had posed an unambiguous either/or, saying that charisma is a matter of either personality or perception. But now Willner hints that charisma belongs simultaneously in both realms. This opens the door to an effective reversal of her initial position a reversal that follows from her suggestion that “aspects of a leader’s personality may partly determine his ability to project those images of himself that give rise to charismatic perceptions” (ibid., p. 15). Though Willner is circumspect in this formulation, she appears to assume that gifts of persuasion are tantamount to gifts of grace. Max Weber held that the leader’s real qualities, however exalted, are personal gifts, not charismata. Willner now strays decisively from this stance. Soon, we find her protesting “the neglect or minimization of the role of the leader as active initiator or catalyst of charismatically oriented perceptions of himself.”

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As I seek to show below, the actions of the leader himself have generally been a major factor and sometimes the major factor in the generation of political charisma. Moreover, the leader can also play a prominent part in activating the other element. (ibid., p. 44)

Willner stoutly denies that leaders should be regarded as “the least, if not the last, of the factors explaining political charisma.” And she says, rather inexplicably, that this is the sociological norm, “for contemporary students of leadership … have long since forced Carlyle’s hero off center stage …” (ibid.). Willner’s aim is to restore him to the spotlight.

XIII For the sake of clarity, let me agree, before going further, that the specific real qualities of gifted or unbalanced figures may greatly spur charismatic faith. It is often true that an individual’s words, deeds, and qualities impel charismatic perception.106 This is true not only for people with secular leadership traits but also, as Weber observed, epileptics and “screaming ecstatics of the streets.”107 The psychoanalyst Heinz Kohut once surmised, in fact, that “charismatic and messianic personalities” may have a clinically definable disorder: “… certain types of narcissistically fixated persons (even bordering on the paranoid) … are specifically suitable to be the objects of the idealizing needs” of people in despair or crisis. Such figures show “apparently unshakable self-confidence and voice their opinions with absolute certainty …”108 It seems quite possible that Kohut is right about this, at least for some figures. But narcissism is a real human trait, not charisma. Narcissistic words and deeds are signs of hubris, not divine grace. Like other personality traits, narcissism is mundane, not otherworldly. And it does not compel obedience. Scholars who wish to explain why people with certain traits pursue and achieve power will (and should) analyze the forms of influence exerted by charismatic claimants but the deeper question for sociology lies in the public’s readiness to interpret personal qualities as gifts of grace. “The root of charisma,” as Svetozar Stojanovich has written, “must be sought in the existence of a mass that is inclined to be shaped and led” (Stojanovic, 1981, p. 60). Why do people in need so often seek (and “find”) divine leaders? Why do we so often abjure responsibility for our own fate by placing it in the hands of substitutes? Why do narcissists so often find people who accept their inflated claims?

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Ann Ruth Willner devotes one of the best books on charisma to an attempt to address essentially this question. She starts on the right foot by stressing the Weberian significance of the theme of recognition. But before long, she reverts to the assumption that students of charisma must ultimately explain what magnetic leaders have in common not realizing that such leaders may share nothing, aside from the loyalty of their followers. Willner’s account is ideal-typical for my purposes because she shows with great clarity that misjudging recognition, even in seemingly small ways, can lead directly to mass psychology. This first became plain in the essay in which, with her sister Dorothy, she first sought to analyze charisma.109 The Willners begin on a familiar and welcome note: “The somewhat misleading search for the source of charisma in the personalities of such leaders may have resulted from [a] misreading of Weber’s frequently-cited definition of charisma as ‘a certain quality of an individual personality by which he is set apart from ordinary men and treated as endowed with supernatural, superhuman, or at least specifically exceptional powers or qualities’.” For, as the words deliberately italicized here suggest and Weber repeatedly emphasized, it is not so much what the leader is but how he is regarded by those subject to his authority that is decisive for the validity of charisma. His charisma resides in the perceptions of the people he leads. (Willner & Willner, 1965, p. 79)

This is auspicious, and, in the next paragraph, they accurately summarize Friedrich. There are those who deny that the term can be properly applied to leaders whose “call” neither comes from God nor can be considered divinely inspired in the specifically religious sense. On the grounds that one ought not to class together the works of a Luther and a Hitler, they deplore Weber’s extension of an originally Christian concept to include leaders who are seized with and communicate a darkly secular fervor.110

But at this point, while distancing themselves from Friedrich’s objection, they agree that charisma should be redefined “as a leader’s capacity to elicit from a following deference, devotion and awe toward himself as the source of authority” (ibid., p. 79). This represents a nearly complete turnabout, in under three paragraphs. Starting by denying that charisma is a personal gift, the Willners conclude by “redefining” it as precisely that, the capacity to provoke deference, devotion, and awe. This swiftly leads them to dwell almost exclusively on the presumably magnetic leader. “We need to know what the charismatic leader does to assert and impose his authority over those he presumes to lead and how he does it …” (Willner & Willner, 1965, p. 81). Twenty years later Ann Willner sought to answer that question.

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XIV Willner argues that leaders are literally spellbinders. The public, meanwhile, is spellbound, capable of passively receiving leaders but not capable of investing them with socially constructed powers. “The susceptibility induced by certain psychological states is certainly conducive to charismatic conversion, but it appears that the catalyst must be found elsewhere than in the psychic states of followers” (Willner, 1984, p. 56). Willner quickly radicalizes this position by arguing that, given “his ability to create crises,” the charismatic leader is able to compel recognition (ibid., p. 53). Sociological claims that crises and “psychic states” induce this recognition are not ultimately convincing, she feels: It therefore seems that the prime precipitant of political charisma must be the element of the leader himself or his leadership. Some attributes or actions of the leader, some combination of attributes and actions, and/or some mode of presenting these to the public serves to catalyze charismatic perceptions. (ibid., p. 60)

So the hermeneutic wheel has turned full circle. Now Willner says that charismatic faith is caused by charismatic personalities. This argument is circular and exegetically flawed. The ulterior reality, for Weber, is that authority is constructed by public recognition and may be democratically deconstructed. But Willner holds the opposite view: that leaders form public opinion and produce submission, either directly or through the media of crisis and distress.111 And several scholars agree with Conger that Willner “resolved” the debate on this subject. “Some [sociologists] believed,” he says, “that the social and historical context is the critical determinant in the emergence of charismatic leadership.” But Willner showed “that charisma resides within the personal attributes of the charismatic leader …”112 This confident conclusion is undermined by examples drawn from Willner’s own argument. (a) The Eyes Have It: At times, Willner argues that charisma is not only personal, but biological. “… I should like to note one physical feature that can convey the suggestion of supernatural power in the possessor eyes of a certain quality” (Willner, 1984, p. 149). She invokes visions of Svengali, Dr. Caligari, the swinging watch and the bewitching gaze. “Only eyes are associated with the capability of exerting force outward … Hypnotic ability is most commonly associated with eyes” (ibid.). Mussolini and Roosevelt are said to have had the capacity to widen their eyes and stare so intently that they had “a commanding and compelling quality. Sukarno’s eyes were perceived as both luminous and hypnotic” (ibid.,

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p. 150). Indeed, most of the figures that she considers “seem to have shared the attribute of extraordinary eyes.” Castro’s eyes have been described as “hypnotic in their intensity”… Hitler [had] one feature that stood out and commanded attention, [namely,] his eyes, which were “persistently said to have had some sort of hypnotic quality.” (ibid., p. 149)

What do charismatics have in common? Apparently, what Bass approvingly calls “the magnetic attraction of their eyes” (Bass, 1988, p. 47). Eatwell echoes this: “Charismatic leaders typically have great personal presence, or ‘magnetism.’ In some cases this involves physical traits. For example, contemporary commentators often referred to the piercing power of Mussolini’s eyes.”113 In advancing her version of this thesis, Willner echoes the Victorian ethnologists who attempted to explain serpent worship in terms of “the brilliancy” of the serpent’s eye (Lubbock, 1870, p. 175). Nor does she shy away from the implied biological determinism of her thesis: “There may be a physiological basis for this phenomenon. It has been suggested that the effects created are the result of a ‘relative lack of iridic, ocular tension and a possibly bioelectric brain phenomenon resulting in luminous glitter in the eyes’.” Whatever its basis, it is well worth considering that magnetism, irresistible persuasiveness, or emanation of power attributed to charismatic leaders by those who have personally encountered them has been in part due to the effect of their eyes and how they have used them on others.114

This is a far cry from sociology. Yet Willner is not alone. Even Karl Loewenstein could seriously ask, “… did the man who embodied the ‘dictatorship of the corporals’ that Max Weber predicted also have the exceptional qualification of genuine charisma?” His answer virtually reduces charisma to ocular magnetism: After it was all over, a good many persons spoke of the magnetism of his deep blue eyes. But quite a few of those who knew him personally maintain that they noticed nothing of the kind. Whether or not Hitler represented an authentic example of charisma must, therefore, remain an open question until we have some scientifically verifiable standards for that quality. (Loewenstein, 1940, p. 83)

The restraint of the final caveat is commendable, but Loewenstein considers it possible that Hitler’s charisma could have been revealed by “the magnetism of his deep blue eyes.”115 In other words, even a genuine scholar educated in Weber’s milieu could suppose that charisma might be a “verifiable” property of a leader’s eyes rather than a function of public vision and recognition.

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The same sensibility is revealed in a novel by the fascist visionary Ernst Ju¨nger, whose narrator posits “a direct recognition of greatness … wholly independent of intellectual comprehension. We react like magnets to an electric current …”116 This, the narrator says, is how Zapparoni affected him on first meeting: “Above all, his eyes were extremely powerful. They had the royal look, the open gaze, revealing the white of the eyeball above and beneath the iris.” This was not the blue of the sky, not the blue of the sea, nor the blue of precious stones it was a synthetic blue, fabricated in remote places by a master artist who wished to excel nature. These laser-like eyes stirred souls and pierced remote reaches. Not a single problem remained unsolved. The eye and the problems … fitted … like lock and key. His look cut like a blade. (Ju¨nger 1991, pp. 62 63)

(b) War and Revolution: Equally striking is Willner’s political credulity. She says that the Shah of Iran was “rendered powerless by a small old man many miles away” in France (Willner, 1984, p. 2; cf. p. 78), as if the Ayatollah Khomeini had steered the vast spontaneous uprising against the Peacock Throne by remote control. Similar is her account of Dolores Ibarruri, a tough and talented Stalinist demagogue who was known as La Pasionaria during the Spanish Civil War. “Most suggestive of charismatic appeal … is Vincent Sheean’s recollection of a meeting of the Central Committee of the Spanish Communist Party on May 23, 1938. The government of the moderate Socialist Lo´pez Negrı´ n had issued a declaration of war aims that included encouragement of capitalist enterprise and respect for regional liberties.” La Pasionaria spoke in support of the program in a speech lasting several hours that was critical of the “revolutionary infantilism” of those who thought industry could be run without middle classes and wage differentials. To Sheean “it seemed as if she was asking these people to stop being Communists altogether, at least until the war was won.” The audience … responded with enthusiastic cheers …117

The reality, as it happens, is that the Spanish Communist Party (PCE) had fiercely fought the anarchists of the national labor confederation and the dissident Marxists of the POUM from the start of the civil war. Ibarurri’s speech was little more than a vibrant rehash of the party line a line the Central Committee knew by heart.118 It is unlikely that she changed anyone’s mind on that particular occasion. And Sheean’s report, examined in its own right, does not support Willner’s conclusions. Influenced by the behaviorism of the day, Sheean alludes at one point to “the mystery of mass suggestion,” “the hysteria of the mass meeting.”119 On another occasion, he refers to “Herr Hitler playing on the crowd as you

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play on a pipe organ” (Sheean, 1939, p. 132), and he adds that, in his opinion, Ibarruri was an even greater orator: “it is impossible to disbelieve anything she says while she is actually saying it. Adolf Hitler has a little of the same gift.”120 Yet even Sheean did not think that La Pasionaria could miraculously reverse Spanish working-class opinion. She spoke, as he knew, for the top echelons of the Stalinist leadership.121 This leadership (and Ibarruri personally) had adamantly opposed every challenge to private property since the Popular Front government had formed in 1936.122 Yet, even so, “the proletariat [had an unyielding and] unreasoning belief in constant revolution” a conviction that had “such terrific momentum” that even Ibarruri’s “gallant effort” to resist it could only fail. The Stalinists “would never reconcile the Spanish working class to an abandonment of the revolution,” Sheean reported, “even for a time. In the Newtonian laws of the intellect, inertia itself [is] not more terrible than momentum …” (Sheean, 1939, p. 188). This example attests, in other words, not to the irresistible force of the born leader, but to the immovable will of the determined public. Far from being a transcendental figure, La Pasionaria was, in fact, unable to persuade anarchist workers to give up their revolutionary aims and she was herself a prisoner of Stalinist orthodoxy. Even her “charismatic appeal” was inadequate to transform the working class in interiore. The inner metamorphosis which, in theological language, Max Weber denominated metanoia, was beyond Ibarruri’s powers. Willner’s “Max Weber,” then, sounds suspiciously like Freud or Friedrich. Her analytic universe is peopled with mesmerizing leaders and followers who “surrender” with Orwellian fervor: “The followers abdicate choice and judgment to the leader. Belief and obedience are almost automatic.” Followers accept … that the past was as the leader portrays it, that the present is as he depicts it, and that the future will be as he predicts it. And they follow without hesitation his prescriptions for action. (Willner, 1984, p. 7)

In conclusion, Willner credits “followers” with four principal tendencies: they see their leaders as superhuman, they “blindly believe” them, they obey them “unconditionally” and they give them “unqualified emotional commitment.”123 This zeal for servitude is less a matter of personal character than of leader magnetism. “Charismatic authority … derives from the capacity of a particular person to arouse and maintain belief in himself or herself as the source of legitimacy” (ibid., p. 4). Individuals who have this capacity, “who can induce others to overcome and override a lifetime of

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training and habit, can indeed be seen to possess an awesome power.”124 Her closing line is extreme: “The charismatic leader is in a sense the Prometheus of politics who also steals from the gods by stretching political reality beyond the bounds of belief and prediction.”125 This, we are told, is Max Weber’s concept of charisma.126 The simple fact that he did not speak in these terms is rarely acknowledged. While many of his peers were, in fact, partisans of Great Man theory, Weber was not among them.127 But many of his interpreters evidently feel an affinity for this theory. With the Promethean leader as their premise, they manage to “find” what they expect in Weber’s sharply varying words. The conclusion that derives from this is disturbing. If, as one recent writer affirms, charisma appears in “a gifted human being exercising god-like, supernatural power,” the “real meaning of this kind of leadership … is its capacity to extinguish the reality of and desire for freedom.”128 Charisma, construed a´ la Willner and mass psychology, precludes self-determination and even the wish for self-determination. Subtler, yet ultimately similar, is the claim that Weber emphasized both recognition and the spellbinding leader. The implication of this seemingly balanced claim is that Weber’s perspective was actually an amalgam of sociology and mass psychology. But the fatalism of mass psychology is not easily squared with the democratic potential of socially constructive choice. Is Weber perhaps unaware of this contradiction? Is his thinking simply muddled?

XV An occasional writer, in passing, says that Weber simply vacillated between theories of psychic compulsion and uncoerced recognition. But most scholars who start by affirming a compromise between recognition and charisma soon award the palm to charisma. Daniel Bell is typical. He says that Max Weber adapted the Pauline term charisma “to denote those men who, on the basis of personal heroism, asceticism, magnetism, or any other distinctive qualities, are immediately and unqualifiedly recognized by the masses as a leader.”129 The key phrase here is “immediately and unqualifiedly.” Charismatic leaders, for Bell, do not have to court the public, hat in hand. They win recognition instantly and utterly, as a kind of reflex response. Similar is Wolfgang Mommsen’s claim that for Weber, “charisma is the quality of a person which creates a willingness in his

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followers to subject themselves unconditionally to his leadership” (Mommsen, [1959]1984, p. 78). In this formulation, even the abject urge to submit “unconditionally” is credited to the leader’s consent-winning magnetism, not to the public’s wishes or will. Recognition is automatic, not a choice.130 Readings of this kind, which derive recognition from charisma (rather than vice versa), are usually accompanied by allusions to the passage that precedes Weber’s roll call of shamans, berserkers, etc. He opens with a statement that sounds amenable to a personalist reading. In the standard English-language version, this passage reads as follows: “The term ‘charisma’ will be applied to a certain quality of an individual personality by virtue of which he is considered extraordinary and treated as endowed with supernatural, 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 is regarded as a ‘leader’.” The original German version of this passage, which Karl Kautsky was one of the first to discuss, is subtly but significantly different: Charisma soll eine als ausserallta¨glich (urspru¨nglich, sowohl bei Propheten wie bei therapeutischen wie bei Rechts-Weisen, wie bei Jagdfu¨hren wie bei Kriegshelden: als magisch bedingt) geltende Qualita¨t einer Perso¨nlichkeit heissen, um derentwillen sie als mit u¨bernatu¨ralichen oder u¨bermenschlichen oder mindestens spezifisch ausserallta¨glich, nicht jedem andern zuga¨nglichen Kra¨ften oder Eigenschaften oder alls gottgesandt oder als vorbildlich und deshalb als ‘Fu¨hrer’ gewertet wird.”131

We see here that charisma is associated with magic in very first sentence of the German text. Weber’s point is that charisma is a quality of the personality which is “valid” in the sphere of the extraordinary. That is, in the philosophical language of the day, charisma was accepted as something real in a realm “beyond the everyday.”132 Initially, this realm (the “extraordinary,” the non-everyday) was infused with magic, as we saw in the case of the early prophets, law sages, healers, hunt leaders, and war heroes.133 These figures appeared “supernatural or superhuman” (that is, magical) “or at least as specifically extraordinary.” The analytic centrality of magic and the transcendent is hard to miss in this passage. But the phrase “at least specifically extraordinary” has led many scholars to think that Weber was leaving room, as well, for figures who may have been “extraordinary” in a comparatively trivial, nontranscendental sense. That seems unlikely since, as we have seen, Weber stressed that initially magic itself appeared to be an exceptional natural

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power, not a force negating or subordinating nature. It was, for believers, a force beyond ordinary life but not beyond the realm of the naturally possible. We should be wary, meanwhile, of relying too much on the exact letter of the text here because, in the original German, this passage is not a model of finished clarity. It is, in fact, as Carl Friedrich noted long ago, a single incomplete sentence. To give this passage a semblance of unity, Friedrich was forced to complete Weber’s sentence for him: We shall call “charisma” a quality of a person which is believed to be unusual (Ausserallta¨glich) … and on account of which such a person is valued as [equipped] with supernatural or superhuman or at least with specifically unusual power and qualities which are not accessible to others or as sent by God or as paradigmatic (exemplary) and therefore a “leader.” (Friedrich, 1961, p. 15)

Friedrich says rather plaintively that the word “equipped” (ausgestattet) is missing in the original, though it is needed “to complete the sentence.”134 His version is rougher and less complete than the conventional translation, and it is also less susceptible to a leader-centric reading, since it puts popular belief in bold relief.135 What stands out, here as elsewhere in Weber’s corpus, is the active faith of those who “treat,” “value,” “consider,” and “regard” certain qualities of the charismatic claimant as divine or superhuman (u¨bermenschliche).136 What matters most, as usual, is recognition. As Weber says in the very next passage, How the quality in question would be ultimately judged from any ethical, aesthetic, or other such point of view is naturally entirely indifferent for purposes of definition. What is alone important is how the individual is actually regarded by those subject to charismatic authority, his “followers” or “disciples.” (E&S, Vol. 1, pp. 241 242)

“Regarding,” of course, can include recognition; but it also can encompass the refusal or withdrawal of recognition. Weber’s focus in this passage (“how the individual is actually regarded”) is plainly not something fixed or automatic, but variable. At times the public regards a leader as charismatic; at other times, they refuse or withdraw this recognition, annulling the leader’s charisma. Weber’s abstinence from judgment about the “quality” imputed to the leader, meanwhile, is yet another instance of value-neutral objectivity with respect to a category often regarded as quintessentially sacred. And consider, further, the fact that this quality is often entirely mythopoetic. In Weber’s second categorical passage in E&S on the charisma of shamans, berserkers, and swindlers, he cites “the legendary Irish folk hero Cuchulain” and “the Homeric Achilles” as classic instances of charismatic

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berserker mania (E&S, Vol. 2, pp. 1112). Cuchulain, the beardless youth who is seized by a monstrous Gegenextase when he fights the entire army of Queen Mebh performing one battle-miracle after another, in this story and many others is often compared to Achilles.137 Both are charismatic figures whose very existence is mythic. Weber plainly did not regard actual existence as a prerequisite for charisma since, again, recognition can be accorded to any kind of figure, whether legendary or historical. We turn now to the second of Weber’s passages on charisma and personal qualities “… the term ‘charisma’ shall be understood to refer to an extraordinary quality of a person, regardless of whether this quality is actual, alleged, or presumed.” “Charismatic authority,” hence, shall refer to a rule over men, whether predominantly external or internal, to which the governed submit because of their belief in the extraordinary quality of the specific person.138

Many critics are led astray at this point by Weber’s language of “extraordinariness.” They reason that, since many traits widely regarded as extraordinary are not superhuman, charisma may be unusual yet remain entirely human. The dictionary definition of the word “extraordinary” lends apparent support to this interpretation since this definition is, in fact, wide enough to cover natural as well as supernatural gifts. But this is a misleading inference for several reasons, some of which I’ve already addressed. But it’s worth adding at this point that some of the confusion reflects the fact that Weber’s intellectual vocabulary is indebted to traditions unknown in dictionary circles. For Weber, the “extraordinary” is a matter of perception. The issue is why people so often revere figures they deem extraordinary in Weber’s sense as bearers of supernatural gifts. And this is precisely what “extraordinary” means in key theological quarters. Calvin, for example, divided charismata into two categories, ordinary (the “abiding” gifts of faith, love, and hope) and extraordinary (miracle-working gifts).139 He emphasizes that the apostles, and they alone, received God’s free gift of extraordinary grace. They were given miraculous powers to prove Christ’s revelation to unbelievers and thereby return “the world from its revolt to the true obedience of God.”140 The apostolic “office,” Calvin wrote, “I … call extraordinary, because it has no place in churches duly constituted.” The apostles are distinguished from those, such as pastors and teachers, who hold what Calvin calls “ordinary offices in the church.”141 This framing became a staple of Protestant theology. It was defended in the 17th century by Lightfoot and Tillotson, in the next century by Middleton and Butler, and in the 19th century by Godet and Hodge.142 In

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Weber’s day, similar views were advanced by the Princeton theologians Warfield and Vos and the neo-Calvinists Bavinck and Kuyper.143 In this tradition, “the extraordinary,” like charisma, was indelibly linked to grace.144 So when Weber invoked “the authority of the extraordinary and personal gift of grace” (an authority deriving from “absolutely personal devotion”145) he could expect educated readers to grasp the theological inflection of the terms. Today this would seldom be the case.

XVI When we turn from definitions to Weber’s substantive studies, we find that he is consistently sociological. Readers who expect mass psychology or theology will find little to justify their expectations. This may be why the phrase about the “quality of personality” has enjoyed such a perennial vogue. But even this phrase, closely examined, has a sociologizing resonance that makes it a source of cold comfort to leader-centric readers. Robert Michels, for example, was clearly ill at ease with Weber’s tone here. Committed, by 1927, to a mass-psychological account of leadership, Michels felt the need to “improve” this passage, which he rendered very freely: “Charismatic legitimacy [rests] on the spontaneous and voluntary submission of the masses to the rule of persons endowed with extraordinary congenital qualities, sometimes held to be justly supernatural and in every way far superior to the general level.” By virtue of these qualities such persons are deemed capable (and often they are) of accomplishing great … and even miraculous things. And for that reason it happens that these men seem ultimately to have been appointed by no less than God Himself. Examples would be the prophets and the “Duce.”146

This is quaint Weber edited to suit Mussolini. Evidently feeling that Weber is a bit opaque about the personal traits of the great leader, Michels adds that these traits are “congenital.” Dissatisfied with Weber’s stress on the leader’s extraordinary appearance, Michels adds that leaders often are charismatic capable, indeed, of stunning and “even miraculous” feats. And notice how urbanely he slips Il Duce into the text! What follows is an unblushing paean to Mussolini. Calling, a´ la Carl Schmitt, for a “single strong elite of anti-democratic tendencies” (Michels, [1927]1949, pp. 119 120), Michels proposed an elitismo carismatico synthesizing “the theory of the political class and the doctrine of charismatic power.”147 The crux of this synthesis, despite its decorative faux-sociology,

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was an utterly familiar Great Man theory. “Not by mistake,” Michels wrote, “has genius been called the guide of humanity” (Michels, [1927]1949, p. 124). To underscore the elitist implication of this point, he invokes Cromwell, who had warned (in Carlyle’s paraphrase) that, if the House of Commons denied him supremacy, he would be justified in dissolving it, “for it was nothing but a reflex and a derivation of his power.”148 In this way, Michels affirms Caesarist mass psychology in mock-Weberian accents. Like Mussolini, he had long admired Le Bon,149 and he often emphasizes the mesmerizing power of the capo carismatico: “that quality which theoretical sociology has wanted to call the expression of the naked ego itself, the basis of every power of suggestion on the masses” (Michels, [1927]1949, p. 132). When Il Duce speaks, “he translates in a naked and brilliant form the aims of the multitude. The multitude itself frantically acclaims.”150 “The charismatic leader,” Michels exults, “does not beseech the multitude; rather, when the occasion arises, he will know how to chastise it, and he takes for granted, in his mission, the adaptability of the masses to his plans.”151 Michels, in his youth, had waxed ironic about this kind of elitism, scorning the apologias offered for Louis Napoleon Bonaparte’s “plebiscitary Caesarism.” The former Republican E´mile Ollivier, he wrote, had posited two types of government, “personal and national.” The national ruler is merely “a delegate,” acting on behalf of the public, but the “personal” ruler (Bonaparte, in this instance) is a hero, who may freely disregard legal and customary constraints. This distinction allowed Ollivier to “tranquilize” his “republican conscience” and justify “his conversion to Bonapartism” (Michels, ([1915]1966, p. 220). Ironically, later Michels offered an almost identical apologia for Il Duce. Consider, in this light, his Ollivier-like distinction between democracy and elitismo carismatico: under charismatic leadership, the masses delegate their will in conscious admiration and veneration of the leader, in a form which appears almost an unquestioned and voluntary sacrifice. In democracy, by contrast, the maintenance of the act of delegation of the will sustains the appearance of a will which remains potentially in the hands of those who delegate it …152

Thus does the apostate justify himself with a bow to “unquestioned and voluntary sacrifice” in place of self-determination. And compare a comment written still later: Charismatic leaders … make themselves masters of the body politic independently of, or even contrary to, the traditional methods of conferring the authority of the state upon individuals … Their power rests on the worship that their personality inspires …153

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Injecting a quasi-futurist note into this perspective, Michels called Mussolini “the modern paradigm of what Weber understood as a charismatic leader: free and wild …”154 This evokes a wilderness vision (the lionized lion, ruling over lamb) which comports well with the image Mussolini sought to project by his studied symbolism of pistols and bare-chested poses. But ironically, visions of this kind were too baroque even for Heinz Marr, a German sociologist who later embraced Nazism. “I am not Italian enough,” Marr wrote, “to place my hope for the political future of my German people on the charisma, on the magic of an adventurous person; I find such sensational, such big-city and cinematic longings completely beneath the dignity of our past and the gravity of our current situation.”155 Michels’ romanticism also clashed with Mussolini’s reality. As early as 1923, mussolinismo was decried even by a fascist newspaper, which contemptuously rejected the notion that Mussolini had been “appointed by God Almighty.” On the contrary, he assumed the post of leader “because Fascists want him to be there”: Mussolini is where he is, and has the power that he has, because Fascists put him up there, because he is an interpreter of Fascism, [not because he is] the Word, the Sun, the absolute Lord and everything must bow to his approval.156

A 1936 official manual claimed that Italian fascism was “the first complete realization of the ‘charismatic’ theory of national societies.”157 But vast claims for Mussolini were undermined (from the first, and often) by myriad facts. By 1924, Mussolini was already worrying that the bloom was off the rose.158 Sixteen years later, he complained that the Italians were incapable of following him with warrior abandon: “Eighteen years are not enough to transform them, you need a hundred and eighty or perhaps a hundred and eighty centuries.”159 Not enough had changed, it seemed, in interiore homine, despite Mussolini’s efforts. Mussolinismo was indeed repellent. It is no surprise that Friedrich would want to reject such claims on moral grounds. But conceptually Michels and Friedrich are quite close. Weber had avowed the power of recognition. But his adversaries, and errant friends, affirm the opposite the heroic and hypnotic power of the leader.

XVII Moses, for Friedrich, is the anti-Mussolini the classically charismatic figure whose authenticity should not be sullied by illegitimate comparisons

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to shamans, demagogues, and others. What, then, does Max Weber make of Moses? As it happens, Weber devotes a large part of his final monograph, Ancient Judaism, to an account of Mosaic prophecy. Here, again, we encounter sober realism. Weber begins by saying that, in all likelihood, Moses was a real historical figure. But what interests Weber is Mosaic worship as a stage in the development of ancient Israelite religion, which had taken the form of “Yahwism” (worship of Yahwe) even before the Mosaic epiphany on Mt. Sinai. Moses, as the first great ethical prophet, is the defining figure of prophetic Judaism. Before Moses, “the ‘spirit’, the ruach of Yahwe, is neither an ethical power nor a fixed habit (Dauerhabitus) but rather an acute demonic-superhuman power of varying but often terrible character.” The savage charismatic warrior heroes of the Israelite tribes, berserks like Samson, Nazarites and ecstatic Nebiim, know themselves to be seized by this force. They experience themselves as his following.160

Moses, in contrast, is an “auditory prophet,” who relays word from Yahwe to the Israelites. The Yahwists are not seized by his spirit, Weber says, but addressed by his emissary. Moses, as the bearer of Yahwe’s commandments, stands at the threshold of an era of ethicized religion, in which the Israelites forge a covenant of mutual support with their God. Yahwe gave his blessings in return for exclusive Israelite worship. By virtue of this pact, Yahweh became literally the god of the Israelites, the patron of their confederacy. Weber stresses the mutuality of this relationship, saying that, just as the Israelites became a “Chosen People,” Yahwe became a “Chosen God” (ein Wahlgott).161 There was, in effect, a reciprocal election of grace, which rendered the Israelites disciples and Yahwe their Lord. The crux of this reciprocity was reciprocal recognition, which, Weber says, is actually one-sided, since Yahwe was a projection of Israelite hopes and anxieties, not a true covenantal partner. The creative force at work in Mosaic religion was recognition of Moses’ prophetic claims. Weber’s main source for this relentlessly sociological analysis was the great monograph by Hugo Gressman, Mose und seine Zeit (1913). And therein hangs a tale. Gressmann, like his mentor Hermann Gunkel, was a luminary of the Religionsgeschichtliche school which also included Weber’s close friend Ernst Troeltsch. Troeltsch was the self-proclaimed theologian of the group and Gunkel its leading historian. Weber was a friend of the school and, at the same time, a sharp critic. That duality in his attitude reflects a corresponding duality in the Religionsgeschichtliche

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worldview. Troeltsch, who preferred Schleiermacher to Hegel, was caught on the horns of a dilemma. Like Hegel, like Gunkel and Gressmann, Troeltsch was committed to reason and historical analysis. But because he agreed that reason alone could not prove the truth of one faith over another, he accepted Schleiermacher’s wager of faith. With great candor, Troeltsch admitted that his faith sprang from a historically rooted sense of subjective certainty that he could not otherwise defend. Viewed objectively, the biblical narratives appeared to be fundamentally folkloric. That was the crux of what Gunkel and Gressmann had shown in a series of relentlessly historical, rational studies. But Troeltsch and his Religionsgeschichtliche cothinkers (Gunkel most notably) could not accept that their historical findings put their biblical faith in question. They affirmed history and theology, reason and faith though they could not sustain Hegel’s optimism that the truth of their faith could be proven by history or reason. They believed, not because of their empirical rational historiography, but despite it.162 This is where Weber parted company with Troeltsch and the others. Religiously “unmusical,”163 Weber lauded their historical work but could not accept their leap of faith. With respect to Moses and ancient Yahwism in particular, Weber heaped praise on the school which, “under the leadership of Gunkel,” had called attention to what was “really decisive” in Old Testament studies. But ultimately, he observed, “entanglements with the religious value positions of the scholars soon reappeared.” The [historical] “uniqueness” [of Yahwism], for some scholars, turned once again into a “unique value” and briefs were made for such theses as: Moses accomplishment had been a creation “unsurpassed” in religious and moral substance by anything in the surrounding cultures.164

This idealization, plainly, was unacceptable to Weber. The notion that faith proves the truth of religion was as uncongenial to him as it was, in different ways, to Hegel. And given Weber’s interest in Zinzendorf, it is perhaps relevant to note that Schleiermacher, who studied in Moravian schools in his youth, regarded himself as a “higher” Moravian even in his mature theology.165 Herzlich faith was just as antirational in the 20th century as it had been in the 18th century. Weber, as an uncompromising partisan of sociological rationality, could not accept faith on the ground of feeling alone. Like Hegel, he agreed that truth must be proven objectively. But he acknowledged no objective proofs for charismatic claims, whether Hegelian or Schleiermachian.

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BY WAY OF A CONCLUSION Stephen Turner objects to what he calls my “culturalist” reading of charisma.166 He agrees that I have a textual basis for this reading, since Weber clearly stresses the centrality of recognition: Sohm, as a believer, thought of the Holy Spirit as a genuine “force” that in fact intervened in history. Weber kept the polyform notion of charismatic powers. But he redefined it in a naturalistic and psychological way: the belief of others in the extraordinary or supernatural powers of the charismatic figure, rather than the actual possession of the supernatural force of the Holy Spirit, is the criterion. (Turner, 1993, p. 242)

This matches my account. But Turner then concludes that this “reduction of charisma to the beliefs of potential followers created a problem that Weber could not resolve” (ibid.). The problem is that by this culturalist logic the category of charisma refers to nothing concrete. Charisma ceases to “be” anything and becomes, instead, a many-hued assortment of reasons for acclaiming now one claimant, and now another. The idea of charisma loses its coherence and even worse, Turner believes cannot justify the claim that charisma is “the specifically revolutionary force in history.” With his collaborator Regis Factor, Turner writes that, in the culturalist framework, “The fact of ‘possession of charisma’ seems to be nothing more than the fact of ‘recognition of possession of charisma’.” But this is not sufficient, even for Weber’s purposes. He too needs charisma to be a force, to be in some sense a prime mover, rather than a force that results from and derives entirely from the phenomenon of recognition. (Turner & Factor, 1994, p. 113)

And this force must be found in the upper reaches of politics: “We need an account that explains how a leader can change followers’ ideas of benefits” (Turner, 1993, p. 245), so that these followers can be induced to risk a departure from the status quo. “What is needed is a distinctive basic force underlying charisma, which does not collapse into utilitarianism or culture ….” (ibid.) Why does Weber “need” charisma to be an efficient causal force? The key to Turner’s argument lies in his answer to this question. Unlike most theorists who affirm the centrality of leaders, Turner focuses less on the magnetism of the leader (which he sees in a very qualified light) and more on public inertia. An otherwise immovable object requires an irresistible force. And since the public, for Turner, is so inert as to be almost paralytic, we can only explain the empirical fact of change by invoking a charismatic leader as a kind of deus ex publica. “The issues here are complex,” Turner and Factor agree.

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But they can be grasped simply in terms of the primordial situation of the pre-legal social herd inhibited by its biological bias against innovation and biologically inclined to “react” to deviance. To overcome this force for stability by “making new Sitten” [customs], as Nietzsche says, one cannot simply rely on the tendencies of the human herd. Some new force must be added, something which compels “recognition” even in the face of the biological bias against it. (Turner & Factor, 1994, p. 113)

This returns us to mass psychology. In this instance, however, emphasis is placed not on the leader’s blue eyes but on the “biological bias” of the “human herd.” This, too, is biologism a biologism of born subjects, which has always accompanied the biologism of born rulers. Ever since Le Bon and Taine, mass psychologists have stressed the instinctive pliability of the public, which they depict as crowds and herds. In Freud’s rather melodramatic formulation, “A group is an obedient herd, which could never live without a master. It has such a thirst for obedience that it submits instinctively to anyone who appoints himself its master.”167 In principle, this statement is close to what Turner and Factor imply.168 Even closer in spirit is Le Bon on the crowd: “Their fetishlike respect for all traditions is absolute, their unconscious horror of all novelty capable of changing the essential conditions of their existence is very deeply rooted” (Le Bon, [1895] 1910, p. 62). Radkau, in a similar fashion, affirms “the animalistic basis of ‘charismatic zeal’,” arguing that Eduard Baumgarten was right to see the “lead wolf” as the archetype of the charismatic leader, ruling over a passive pack.169 This biologism, Radkau writes, became “my Ariadne’s thread through the labyrinth” of Weber’s texts.170 All such claims, in my opinion, misrepresent Max Weber and the public alike. For Weber, charismatic faith is born of crisis and despair, misery and hope: “the masses in need are always out for emergency aid through magic or saviors,” as he affirmed in Ancient Judaism (Weber [1919]1952, p. 223). Far from being biologically inert, the “masses” are restless, afflicted, spiritually and materially questing, and (at times) revolutionary. The “specifically revolutionary force” in society is not galvanizing individual leadership but mass need need which, unmet, can spark an unquenchable drive for salvation, and a quest for saviors. “Charisma” is the gift imputed to such saviors, the status they enjoy as bearers of such an imputation. Waves of aspiring leaders break like bubbles in the surf of every social movement. Most go unheeded, including many with outstanding personal gifts. Specific individuals can, of course, embody and embolden public hopes, especially when the masses seek, not merely leadership, but deliverance. But sooner or later the movement is likely to recede, leaving

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the leader stranded in the undertow; or it may roar out of control, leaving the “leader” far behind. Why is it so rare for scholars to see the public as the motor of history? Why is it so hard to say that, faced with plague or famine or injustice or conquest, the public is likely to seek a savior? The only alternatives, after all, are either to suffer in silence or take matters into one’s own hands. Often, the masses do turn to leaders for reasons of their own. The sociological task is to investigate these reasons.171 Weber’s critics are right to underscore the complexity of this task, and to say that his ideal-typical concepts do not offer ready answers. These concepts are not intended as answers; they are designed rather to lead us to the right questions. In this, I believe Weber succeeds admirably. The sociological mission is to explore particular cases of legitimate and illegitimate domination with the aid of ideal-typical constructs that highlight the unresolved problems latent within them. The category of “charisma” leads us to ask why different publics, at different times, follow those who claim extraordinary gifts of salvationist grace. Empirically, we know that often happens. The question is why. And for those who are concerned about the negative impact this can have on the prospect for genuine democracy, few questions are more important.

NOTES 1. Hegel is sternly emphatic: “the spirit of God … is not sensuousness and feeling … but rather, thinking, knowing, cognizing (Erkennen); … the thinking, knowing, and cognizing of God … . What would the Christian community be without this cognition? What is theology without cognition of God? Precisely what philosophy is without cognition of God: a resounding brass and a tinkling cymbal.” Hegel, in Luft (1987, §34, pp. 216, 518, lightly emended; cf. Hegel ([1822]1997). Hegel stresses cognition (Erkennen) here in ways that will become particularly relevant when we discuss Weber’s related notion of recognition (Anerkennung). 2. Schleiermacher (1821 1822, now edited by Peiter, 1980 1982). 3. See Weber’s Economy and Society ([1922]1978), hereafter E&S, Vol. 1, p. 400. 4. Weber’s brilliant account of solus fide (faith alone) and certitudo salutis (certainty of salvation) in The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism ([1920] 1958; hereafter cited as PESC) shows no sign of Schleiermacher’s influence. Weber saw these doctrines as socially and psychologically meaningful, not as guarantors of the truth of faith. 5. E&S, Vol. 2, p. 1116: “Charismatic belief revolutionizes men ‘from within’ and shapes material and social conditions according to its revolutionary will.” 6. E&S, Vol. 2, p. 1117.

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7. The vexed question of whether Weber “yearned” for charismatic leaders and thus helped create a cultural climate receptive to Hitler, as Wolfgang Mommsen famously argued in 1959 will be addressed in a separate paper, “Postcharismatic Politics.” My answer, briefly, is that Weber was unrelentingly hostile to charismatic politics, as a great deal of textual evidence shows. 8. Moscovici (1993, pp. 116 117) attributes this view to Max Weber. 9. On Gesinnungsrevolutionen, see, e.g., Schluchter (1989, pp. 395f.). 10. Lepsius (2006, p. 182). Lepsius is an influential interpreter in this realm. Wehler, e.g., praises his “brilliant advance” in the study of Hitler’s charisma (2007, p. 175) while Riesebrodt extolls his “precise elaboration” of the elements of charismatic domination (2001, p. 160). 11. Freud ([1921]1959, p. 13). Others who equate Weber to Le Bon include Lindholm (1990, pp. 36f.); cf. Cavalli (1981, p. 145). For a sustained critique of this view, see Smith (1992). 12. “Economic Ethics of the World Religions” was the global title given by Weber to the series of studies that began with PESC and included monographs on the religions of China, India, and ancient Israel. 13. Radkau (2005, pp. 604 605, 783, 668); the phrase “u¨ber-korrekten Soziologen” appears in a note on p. 956 which does not appear in the English translation (Radkau, 2009). 14. Radkau directly cites only one sociologist, Pierre Bourdieu, who did, indeed, reject the “naive representation of charisma as a mysterious quality of the person,” “a natural gift” (1971, pp. 14 15); this reference to Bourdieu appears only in the German edition. Other “sociologizing” scholars (Bryan Wilson, Roy Wallis, Robert Tucker, and Charles Lindholm) are criticized for similar reasons by the biblical scholar Jack Sanders (2000, pp. 25 27) and by John Potts, who echoes Sanders (2009, pp. 132 135). 15. See especially Wallis (1986, 1982). Others in the same camp include Valde´s (2001), Fabian (1994), Rhodes (1988), Carson (1987), Bendix (1978), Bradley (1987), Camic (1980), DuPertuis (1986), Fagen (1965), Lipp (1985), Madsen and Snow (1991), Manheim (1953), Miyahara (1983), Swatos (1981), Theobald (1980), Wasielewski (1985), and Wilson (1975). 16. This is now standard usage in Google Books as well. And The Max Weber Dictionary (Swedberg & Agevall, 2005, p. 31) is nearly as concise: “Charisma: This well-known concept, to which Weber gave its meaning and which he also popularized, describes a person who is truly extraordinary (ausserallta¨glich).” 17. The Marxist Karl Kautsky objected to this characterization. Eisner, he said, was an “Organ der Demokratie,” not a demagogue. He had acquired “massconferred (maßgebende) authority” through the recognition of his gifts, but this was not accomplished through magic or nervous illness or deception. He did not belong to the class of U¨bermenschen, “unappointed dictators who are either demigods or swindlers.” See Kautsky (1927, p. 492). This objection is weakened, however, by the fact that Kautsky regarded charisma as a matter of personal gifts. Weber, of course, was less interested in the individual than in the fact that public favor alights on this figure. Hence, if the public viewed Eisner as a savior, he was charismatic to that extent. 18. Lepsius (1978, p. 63). See the slightly more cautious version of this passage in Lepsius (1993, p. 106).

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19. Asch and Milgram, in the first published reports on their conformity and obedience experiments, stressed that their test subjects differed greatly many, Asch said, proved yielding, but many others proved unyielding. Milgram’s famous film shows five experimental test subjects, four of whom disobey their instructions; and Milgram coauthored a paper, with his graduate assistant Alan Elms, showing that subjects who followed orders scored significantly higher on authoritarianism scales than those who disobeyed (of whom there were a good many). Asch, puzzled by what he saw as the behaviorist misreading of results, wrote a paper to expressly affirm that his experiment showed that many people do not conform; Milgram was working as Asch’s graduate assistant when Asch wrote this paper. Zimbardo, too, wrote an initial report on this experiment that showed that many people did not yield to the power of the situation. On Asch, see Smith (2013). On Milgram and Zimbardo, see Fromm, 1973. I will discuss Milgram at length in a subsequent paper. 20. Only Philo Judæus, one of Paul’s major influences, left a record of an earlier use of the term. 21. Contemporaries with similar views included Gloe¨l (1888, p. 55) and Gunkel ([1888]1979, pp. 94 95 and passim). 22. Italics in the original. This passage is from Lowrie’s close paraphrase of Sohm’s Kirchenrecht (1904, p. 251); cf. Smith (1998), Turner and Factor (1994), Turner (1993), and Haley (1980a, 1980b). 23. Sohm ([1892]1970, pp. 216 217). The phrase Charisma Veritatis originated with the Church Fathers. Sohm held that only individuals can be charismatically gifted, and thus that the “office charisma of the Bishops” was simply Fiktion ([1892] 1970, p. 216). 24. E&S, Vol. 2, p. 1141. Probably alluding to the “court historian” Treitschke, Weber perceptively observed that “The purely emotive state metaphysics, flourishing on this ground, has had far-reaching political consequences.” 25. Kroll, (2001, p. 52, n. 30; cf. p. 72). Testimony to this effect is offered, he says, by Cavalli, Nippel (2000), Haley, Speer (1978), and Riesebrodt (1999). In my opinion, Haley’s view is actually fairly close to mine. 26. Rust (2012, p. 121, n. 37). On Schmitt, she cites Wolfgang Fietkau’s interesting 1986 essay on Benjamin. 27. On many key issues the Weber literature is virtually silent. No close attention has been given to the fact, for example, that Weber’s elder cousin, the theologian Otto Baumgarten, analyzed Sohm’s theology of charisma in detail (1894, pp. 35 52). Nor has careful attention been paid to the influence (through Mommsen and Radkau) of Weber’s nephew Eduard Baumgarten. 28. See especially Friedland (1964). Others who argue similarly include Kronman (1983), Mitzman (1969), Eisenstadt (1962), and Emmett (1958). 29. Parsons, translator’s note, PESC (p. 281, n. 105). 30. Spener, the author of the Pia Desideria, was Zinzendorf’s godfather; Francke was his teacher. Weber’s sources on Zinzendorf included Plitt (1869, 1871, 1874) and Becker (1900). 31. But, Feuerbach, added, as “an imperial count,” not as “a miner’s son.” 32. For these citations, see Forell (1973, pp. vii viii). 33. Wesley, the founder of Methodism, was profoundly influenced by Zinzendorf and the Moravians.

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34. The original Unitas Fratrum was Hussite in character, but Zinzendorf’s Moravians had other roots as well. Their members included Schwenkfelders, Gichtelians, and sectarians of other kinds. 35. Weber and Sohm both cite Zinzendorf’s leadership in bridging the gap between Pietism and Lutheranism. 36. See Engel (2011) for full details. 37. Weber observed that, while Spener had linked salvation to pious practice (praxis pietatis), his successor Francke took the decisive step of treating “labor in a calling [as] the ascetic activity par excellence” (p. 133). 38. Parsons, remarkably, omitted “charisma” from the phrase “Glorifizierung des Charisma der apostolischen Besitzlosigkeit.” 39. Charisma was familiar in the Moravian vocabulary, as we will see below. Thanks to its Greek provenance, “charisma” appears directly as such in both German and English. 40. This led them to partially restore the Catholic consilia evaneglica which, as Weber explained later, is “a special ethic for those endowed with the charisma of a holy life” (Weber [1919]1948, p. 124). 41. Compare the parallel passage in Weber (1927, p. 367), where Weber writes that the rise of the Beruf concept “gave to the modern entrepreneur a fabulously clear conscience and also industrious workers; he gave to his employees as the wages of their ascetic devotion to the calling and of co-operating in his ruthless exploitation of them through capitalism the prospect of eternal salvation … .” 42. Weber (1905, p. 105, Pt. 2). Since this passage is little known, I reproduce it here in full: “Von der anderen Seite, derjenigen der Arbeiter, gesehen glorifiziert z. B. die Zinzendorfsche Spielart des Pietismus den berufstreuen Arbeiter, der nicht nach Erwerb trachtet, als nach dem Vorbild der Apostel lebend und also mit dem Charisma der Ju¨ngerschaft begabt.” Parsons renders Ju¨ngerschaft discipleship as “disciples” (p. 178). Kalberg (2009) offers: “Christ’s disciples.” 43. Weber adds that the virtues bred by Pietism are those of the patriarchal employer and the “berufstreue clerk, worker, and cottage laborer,” not the “hard legalism” and bourgeois enterprise of Calvinism (1905, p. 56, Pt. 2). 44. Weber gave this point a quasi-Marxist spin when, a few lines later, he attached a note about Baxter’s pastoral activity in Kidderminster, “which was wholly dissolute upon his arrival.” Baxter’s Calvinist activity, which was “successful to a degree nearly unique in the history of pastoral care, is also a typical example of how asceticism educated workers to labor speaking in Marxist terms, “surplus value” production and made possible their exploitation in capitalist production relations (in cottage industry, weaving, etc.).” 45. Zinzendorf ([1737]1741, pp. 326 327). The opening line, with the archaic spelling Ju¨ngerschafft, precedes the passage cited by Weber (1905, p. 54, n. 109, Pt. 2), which he drew from Plitt (Vol. I, p. 445). 46. This text is not cited by Weber. See Gollin (1967, p. 142; translation lightly emended). 47. Since Christ could not be the sect’s legal owner, the Brotherly Agreement of 1754 clarifies: “We all belong to the Savior, … and what we have … all belongs to Him, and He shall dispose of it as he pleases. Our worthy Brother David Nitschmann, whom we love and honor as a father among us, is, in the eyes of the

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world, for the sake of good order, recognized as the Proprietor of Bethlehem …” Gollin (1967, p. 140). But this was an expedient. 48. Weber (1905, p. 81, n. 19, Pt. 2). Gollin cites this line too (1967, pp. 17, 143). 49. See Gollin (1967, p. 144). Erbe says this was borne out in practice, and that the single men built their group home by moonlight to conserve their regular workday (1929, p. 90, cited by Atwood, 1995, p. 198, n. 48). 50. Atwood (1995, p. 199). Moravian hymns made this point vividly. “Sew and wash with fervor, and the Savior’s grace … will gladden you forever.” Gollin (1967, p. 144, translation lightly emended). 51. Zinzendorf (1748, p. 353) He was speaking in London, seeking support for the Brethren’s colonial missions. 52. Zinzendorf’s “sage rulership” passage was extensively quoted, albeit ineptly, by Plitt (1871, p. 536). 53. Moravian antirationalism was, Weber said (1905, p. 52, Pt. 2), exceptional even among Pietists. 54. Gollin (1967, p. 42). Christ’s election occurred at the London Synod of 1741. It was extended to Bethlehem in 1748. 55. Kinkel (1990, p. 70); Gollin (1967, pp. 52, 238). Sociologically, the lot was well suited to serve as a standardized practice in a missionary network that could be centralized only to a very modest extent. 56. Zinzendorf, cited by Hahn and Reichel (1977, p. 246), from an archival source: “Die Lossache ist ein Charisma der Gemeine und geho¨rt unter die Wunderkra¨fte in seiner Kirche.” He adds that this gift of grace is not only a sacred power but a sacred danger, to be handled, like fire, with caution. 57. See, e.g., Zinzendorf’s reference to the “Geist des Ju¨ngerthums” in a 1739 text cited by Plitt (1869, p. 446). 58. Gollin suspects that the lot allowed Zinzendorf to disguise his “charismatic leadership.” But in fact the lot was used to decide many fundamental questions that authorities of any kind (legal, traditional, or charismatic) would be loathe to surrender, and there is no evidence that Zinzendorf ever manipulated the lot. There is, in fact, a great deal of evidence to the contrary. And Gollin applied the term “charismatic” to Zinzendorf in a conventionally personalist way, without discussing Weber’s direct remarks on the Brethren. 59. The Synod’s statement is reprinted by Meyer (2003). See, here, pp. 257 and 260, translation lightly emended. 60. Kinkel (1990, p. 147). Kinkel adds: “Since humans were construed as utterly dependent on God’s gracious initiative and activity … Zinzendorf wanted to exclude every idea which even implied the possibility of human initiative or effort being effective in gaining knowledge of God.” 61. The “glory” of the disciples was that the Holy Spirit had granted them the capacity to recognize Christ, not by reason (indeed, against reason) but rather by feeling. They adored Christ not with the head but the heart, in an entirely herzlich way. The relatively few other charismata they claimed e.g., what Zinzendorf called the “Sing-Charisma,” and in another place “the charisma of singing by memory” (1758, p. 1; cf. Eyerly [2010, p. 206]) often derived from this fundamental gift, since singing, they held, was the best way to experience and communicate herzlich feeling. 62. Zinzendorf (1746, p. 265, Discourse 20).

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63. Meyer (2003, p. 258; p. 261 in German). 64. E&S, Vol. 1 (p. 241). Empirically most renowned charismatic claimants have been men, but since, as a social status, charisma is gender-neutral, I will avoid gender-biased pronouns except in direct quotes. 65. Weber’s parallel to Durkheim here is plain. “In Melanesia and Polynesia,” Durkheim notes, “… it is said that an influential man has mana, and that his influence is due to this mana. However, it is evident that his situation is due solely to the importance attributed to him by public opinion” ([1912]1965, p. 244). Turner’s denial of this parallel is considered below. Others who discuss this parallel include Schluchter (1989, p. 526, n. 54), Breuer (1990, pp. 32f.), Lindholm (1990, pp. 28f.) and Pearce (1989, pp. 29 38). 66. The contested phrase about the quality of the personality is reviewed below. 67. E&S, Vol. 1, p. 242. Office charisma which Weber equates with belief “the belief in the specific state of grace of a social institution” is not monopolized by churches, but, “under modern conditions,” also “finds politically relevant expression in the attitudes of the subjects to the state” (E&S, Vol. 2, p. 1140). 68. On the sociological status of berserks and shamans, see Speidel (2004, 2002) and Boekhoven (2011). 69. Weber devotes four pages to these numbered points and 12 pages to the subject of routinization. 70. See, above all, the key paragraphs in “The Social Psychology of the World Religions” (in Gerth and Mills, 1948, pp. 295 297) and the two principal passages in E&S (pp. 242f., 1112f.). Of these, we are examining the former here; the latter passage appears to be an earlier version of the very same text, and immediately precedes Weber’s acknowledgment of Sohm’s influence. 71. Friedland (1964, p. 20). San Juan also deduces from this the premise that Weber’s principal concern is “the gravitational pressure the charisma of a person exerts on a group …” (1967, p. 273). 72. See, e.g., Ratnam (1964, pp. 242 243). Weber says that, from the standpoint of the believer, the issue is “the designation of the right person who is truly endowed with charisma.” From this standpoint, “Making a wrong choice is a genuine wrong requiring expiation. Originally it was a magical offense” (cited by Ratnam 1964, p. 343). Remarkably, Ratnam considers this sufficient evidence to convict Weber of a “mainly metaphysical” viewpoint! 73. E&S, Vol. 1, p. 400. Weber adds that the word “extraordinary” is preferable, in some instances, to terms like supernatural or superhuman because, in many cultures, what modernity deems as magic appears to be just a heightened form of ordinary power. “The sparks resulting from twirling the wooden sticks are as much a ‘magical’ effect as the rain evoked by the manipulations of the rainmaker.” 74. That is, unless we assume (wrongly) that Weber uses the adjective “genuine” in this passage to denote something “materially” or extra-socially real. 75. Goebbels (1926, p. 16). Hence, “the dictator figures as the end of the mass movement of our time” (ibid., p. 16). Gra¨fe, whom Goebbels called “even more reactionary than Hitler” (Faye 1980, p. 161), ultimately concluded that Hitler pandered too much to the plebeian masses to be a charismatic hero. See Mosse (1964, pp. 231 233). 76. See Marx on “reflection determinations” in Capital, Vol. 1 ([1867]1976, p. 149).

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77. E&S, Vol. 1, p. 242. Weber’s other numbered points discuss discipleship, the antieconomic bias of the charismatic revolutionary, and charisma’s revolutionary influence on will and belief. 78. Schu¨tz (1975, pp. 270 271; emphasis in the original). Few sociologists are equally clear. 79. For a highly “Durkheimian” account of spiritual gifts in the early ecclesia, see Weber’s Ancient Judaism ([1917 1919]1952, p. 292; cf. pp. 405 424). 80. Spann (1925, p. 166). This passage (cited by Weiss 1986, p. 163) overstates Weber’s radicalism. While he was certainly irreligious, Weber was not an antireligious iconoclast. 81. Friedrich (1961, p. 15). Oddly, the Sohmian bias of this stance has gone unnoticed. 82. Friedrich (1961, p. 15). Friedrich grasps Weber’s disbelief in charismatic claims, but he misses his point. Weber equates the faith of the followers, not the “work” of the rulers. Mussolini and Moses were rendered similar not by Max Weber but by the recognition of their followers. The real qualities of rulers are a matter of indifference at this level. 83. Friedrich (1961, p. 14). He grounds this point in Paul’s epistles and a passage from Sohm ([1892]1970, p. 26). Neumann paraphrases the same passage (1944, p. 486, n. 48). 84. I owe this citation to Derman (2011; cf. Kru¨ger, 1935, p. 9). See also the rich material in Derman (2008). 85. Friedrich (1961, p. 20). Bensman and Givant (1986) and many others echo this claim. 86. This is true whether they construe “genuine charisma” naturally or supernaturally. 87. Breuer (2008), pp. 20 22. This alludes to the sociologists Heinz Marr and Robert Michels, who sought in the 1920s and 1930s to co-opt Weber’s theory for the benefit, respectively, of Hitler (Marr) and Mussolini (Michels). 88. Houdini, the most famous of stage magicians, was relentlessly devoted to disenchantment. As a performer, his tacit contract with the audience was a simulation of magic that everyone was supposed to know was artifice. Hence he adamantly opposed the pretense of charlatans who claimed their stagecraft was actually sorcery. 89. Maduro, the prote´ge´ of the late Hugo Cha´vez, recently said that Chavez visited him in the form of a bird. 90. Bourdieu is reluctant, however, to concede that recognition has the power that Weber posits. He objects that “even in his most rigorous writings,” Weber “never proposes more than a psycho-sociological theory of charisma as the public’s lived relation to a charismatic personage.” To achieve sociological credibility, he says, we must “break” with Weber by affirming the coincidence of “a signifier” (the prophet) with “a pre-existing signified” (1971, p. 15). But this, plainly would negate the rupture with “the pre-existing signified” which is the crux of the charismatic phenomenon. On this, see Turner and Factor (1994, p. 114) and, especially, Verter (2003, p. 153, n. 7), who insightfully notes that Bourdieu “retains the term, but only in [the] sense of ‘the charisma of office’.”

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91. On this see Grant (1999). Grant holds that, deprived of collective recognition, no claimant to statehood enjoys that status legally. 92. See my forthcoming paper “The Power of Recognition.” 93. The literature echoing Friedrich is vast. See, e.g., Mommsen ([1959]1984) and Lacouture (1970). For a glimpse of the context in which Friedrich worked with apt emphasis on his neo-Thomism see Rhodes (1988, pp. 20 23). 94. On charisma and political theology more generally, see Smith (2011). 95. Gierke’s great multivolume study of fellowship (Genossenschaft) substantiates Schmitt’s claim in myriad places ([1868 1913]1954). Preuss, a Gierkean legal scholar, was Weber’s associate in drafting the first democratic German constitution. 96. Voegelin ([1939]1986), cited by Friedrich (1963, pp. 172, n. 38, and 556; 1961, p. 20). An arch-conservative Catholic, Voegelin acknowledged a special debt to Father Erich Przywara (1927) for “religious” guidance (pp. 81 82). 97. For insight into conflict between Church and State, see E&S, Vol. 2, pp. 1158 1211. 98. Voegelin ([l939]1986, pp. 41, 49). 99. Gurian (1932). Gurian studied with Schmitt and was “tremendously influenced” by him. But when Schmitt broke with Catholicism (he was accused by the Catholic Center Party of seeking a “total state” that would subordinate society to its will), Gurian became his most dedicated adversary, giving him the title “crown jurist of Nazism” which he retains to this day. In American exile, Gurian was politically close to Friedrich and Voegelin. 100. For Friedrich, even Aquinas missed the “basic incompatibility” of Church and polis, conceding too much to Aristotle’s view of the polis as “communitas principalissima” (1939, p. 25). 101. Friedrich posits a profound kinship between anarchism and absolutism, their common preoccupation with power as the ultima ratio rerum, and of the political community as transcending all others (1939, p. 19). 102. While conventionally democratic, Friedrich is suspicious of “radical democracy,” which he feels deifies the merely mortal. Voegelin, in a similar spirit, says: “The true dividing line in the contemporary crisis does not run between liberals and totalitarians, but between the religious and philosophical transcendentalists on the one side, and the liberal and totalitarian immanentist sectarians on the other” (1953, p. 75). 103. In 1933, the anti-Weberian philosopher Strauss asked Schmitt to send a letter of recommendation to “Professor Friedrich” at Harvard (Meier, 1988, p. 134). Friedrich had praised Schmitt’s Die Diktatur as “an epoch-making discussion to which the author is indebted” (1930, p. 129, n. 15). 104. Weber said in E&S, Vol. 1, p. 399, that charisma is effectively synonymous with the Melanesian term mana and, also, with the terms orenda, wakan, and maga (from the Iroquois, Lakota, and Persian languages, respectively). 105. This excellent book reflects over 25 years of study, dating back to the 1950s when Willner did field research in Indonesia. Her early essays, like the present book, are models of conceptual precision. See, e.g., Willner and Willner (1965, 1973) and Willner (1968). She is led astray not by a failure of scholarship but by her mass-psychological bias.

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106. As Marx shows, many objects (e.g., shells, livestock, silver, and gold) have served as money, each for reasons linked to their real qualities including, e.g., the material properties of gold (unlimited divisibility, etc.) that make it ideally suited to serve as money ([1859]1987). But gold is not inherently money nor does it force us to see it as such. 107. This was Weber’s phrase, in Ancient Judaism (p. 281), for the prophets whose nay-saying and opposition to peasant orgiasticism proved unsettling to Israelite kings and peasants alike. 108. Kohut ([1976]2011, p. 825). In times of crisis, people turn to “charismatic” figures not for rational reasons but because they need to identify with “unquestioned righteousness or … firmness and security.” Thus Winston Churchill, “who was unacceptable before the crisis, filled his role to perfection during the crisis and was the unquestioned leader of the nation. Yet he was discarded after the crisis had subsided” (p. 827). 109. Friedrich was displeased by Willner’s earlier work: “Unfortunately Miss Willner did not trouble to consider my basic critique of the concept” (1970, p. 256, n. 5). In her later work she very definitely remedied this oversight. 110. Willner and Willner (1965, p. 79). They cite Friedrich at this point. 111. At times Willner refrains from calling the power to evoke charismatic faith itself charismatic. But she does say (1984, p. 189) that the leader’s charisma may be “the major catalyst” for the self-sacrificial zeal of the following. 112. Conger (1989, pp. 19 20). Other critics reject the Weberian notion of charisma altogether, which Anderson, e.g., calls “acultural” and “suprahistorical” (1990, pp. 80 82). Liebersohn, meanwhile, insists that, for Weber, the “appearance [of charisma] could not be explained, it was not a product of class, tradition, or any other collective source” (1990, p. 121). For a contrary view, framed in reply to Willner, see Roberts and Bradley (1988, p. 271). 113. Eatwell (2006, p. 147). Descending from the exotic to the prosaic, Eatwell reduces charisma still further: “Confidently held and well-informed views can also create a sense of charisma. Whilst Hitler often tried to talk in generalities, he was relatively well read, had a good memory for figures, and rarely entered a discussion among his inner circle without a preconceived opinion.” 114. She cites a letter “from Dr. John Higgins of East Lansing, Michigan, who has been studying the ocular attributes of leaders, especially those considered ‘magnetic’.” She also contemplates such “aweome possibilities” as “a future in which charismatic leaders might be able to clone themselves …” (Willner, 1984, pp. 150, 194). 115. Loewenstein’s caution is rare. More typical is Cavalli, who speaks of “the almost hypnotic spell of the Fu¨hrer and … the total enraptured abandon of the masses …” (1986, p. 329; cf. Nyomarkay 1967, p. 13). Compare the even stronger claim by Lepsius: “Before and after the seizure of power … the attitudes of the elite and the masses [both!] were shaped by their recognition of an extraordinary quality and a calling of general interest (of the entire nation) in Hitler, which he himself firmly believed to possess, thereby exacting full submission from all Germans. Under his spell, new values spread among the people” (1986, p. 72). One would never guess from this, e.g., that Hitler never won a majority vote and that he faced so much resistance that he found it expedient to intern his adversaries in domestic

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concentration camps as early as 1934. Hitler was, of course, a gifted politician, but he was hardly the unique cause of German fanaticism. 116. This sensibility appears in many contemporary writers, including, e.g., Stein Larsen, for whom “Hitler often made Quisling feel a great sense of appreciation that seemed to transmit an electrical charge when they shook hands” (2006, p. 42). 117. Willner (1984, p. 37, citing Sheean 1939, pp. 182 189). 118. Orwell explained this with great clarity ([1937]1980, pp. 66 67). 119. Sheean (1939, pp. 100 101). He reveals his debt to behaviorism in an illuminating discussion of Nazi antisemitism, in which he writes “The Nazi is conditioned (as the behaviorists say) to brutality against the Jews, and by now his superiors can call upon that fact as often as they like” (1939, p. 101). 120. Sheean showers Ibarruri with praise, waxing eloquent about “her unquestionable genius as a speaker, the most remarkable I ever heard” (1939, pp. 184, 187). 121. He admits that her speech “was, of course, the official political statement of the Spanish Communist leadership, and must, therefore, have been prepared in committee: many hands had worked upon it”; “Dolores was speaking in the name of the Central Executive Committee. Her discourse was interlarded with quotations from a notable to whom she referred as ‘nuestra camarada Stalin,’ so it was only reasonable to suppose that the Russian Communists approved of the policy” (1939, pp. 184 187). 122. Sheean says repeatedly: “Nobody seems to have the common sense to say the plain truth, which is that the Spanish Communist Party has been one of the most powerful influences for discipline and order in support of the bourgeois republic” (1939, pp. 168 169). Ibarruri herself “had greatly assisted in … restoring order and suppressing anarchy” (1939, p. 183). This was not, he says, opportunism: “She supported the bourgeois program with the utmost passion of sincerity” (1939, p. 186). 123. Willner (1984, p. 8). Ironically, for Moshiri (1985), Willner’s ultimate affirmation of the hypnotic power of the charismatic leader is too mild. 124. Willner (1984, p. 127). This refers to Gandhi, but it applies to Willner’s notion of leaders per se. 125. Willner (1984, p. 201). Philip Smith says, rather oddly (2000, p. 104), that Willner “develops a powerful and hermeneutically rich argument for the role of cultural frames in sustaining charismatic leadership.” 126. Many other social scientists (see, e.g., Bensman & Givant, 1986) agree that charisma is not a personal quality, but then redefine it as precisely that. 127. Pavlovian and Watsonian behaviorism branch from the same tree; so does psychoanalytic theory. A faintly Nietzschean romanticism of the U¨bermensch was popular in Germany, and Carlyle remained influential well into the 20th century. Emerson, Goethe, Schopenhauer, and Taine were all among the patron saints of Great Man theory, and many literary and artistic circles upheld similar ideas (e.g., the circle around Stefan George). 128. McCulloch (2005, pp. 32 33). This “God-like” power is often depicted in vitalist terms. A classical instance is Thomas Dow, who wrote in 1978 that Weber saw charisma as the “basic life-force.” This view is echoed by many writers, including Thomas Spence Smith (1992, p. 184). Oakes embroiders this point, saying

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that Weber “saw charisma as representing the incarnate life force itself, … an elemental or dæmonic power” (1997, p. 29). 129. Bell (1950, p. 402). Bell was Le Bon’s modern editor. 130. Bell sees the antisociological implication of this way of framing the issue: “If the technique of manipulation implies a mindless mass, it also suggests that the leader is a unique and mysterious individual whose lineaments cannot be traced and the source of whose power can only be ascribed, not described” (ibid., p. 402). 131. E&S, Vol. 1, p. 140, cited by Kautsky (1927, p. 481). 132. In the neo-Kantian discourse of the day, physical entities were called “real” while entities of other kinds (values, mathematical equations, etc.) were called “valid.” That appears to be close to Weber’s intent here. 133. This parenthetical clause appears in a separate sentence in the English version: “In primitive circumstances this peculiar kind of quality is thought of as resting on magical powers, whether of prophets, persons with a reputation for therapeutic or legal wisdom, leaders in the hunt or heroes in war.” This refinement of the original text could seem entirely benign. But in fact the simple act of moving this passage has allowed innumerable scholars to quote the core sentences without including this reference to magic. 134. Friedrich (1961, p. 15, n. 21). Winckelmann (in Weber [1922]1956) added the word [begabt] here, not (as in Friedrich’s reading) “ausgestattet.” Many others who quote this passage do the same. In some texts begabt appears sans parentheses (e.g., Rosenthal, 2001; Gugolz, 1984). And note, too, that Friedrich omits the parenthetical clause. Schweitzer (1932, p. 38, n. 21) notes that in another key passage both Parsons and Gerth omit the phrase Sonder-Charismata. 135. It is obviously unwise to overinterpret a single sentence fragment. Yet this is just what many critics do, evidently unaware that the translation is misleading and unconcerned about the contrary implications of much of the remainder of Weber’s corpus. Wolpe is disarmingly candid about this. “In what follows,” he reports, “I rely entirely upon English translations of Weber’s works. This, of course, gives rise to the possibility that what is being analyzed is not Weber’s formulation of charisma but the translator’s version of it … Even if this be so, however, the analysis and criticism of Weber’s work as it appears in English translation remains important, since it is largely in this form that it enters into and influences the work of English-speaking sociologists” (1968, p. 316, n. 3). 136. Fabian adds a relevant point: “In the definition ‘charisma’ is called the ‘quality of a personality’ (Qualita¨t einer Perso¨nlichkeit). However, it should be noted that Weber speaks of a ‘personality’, referring to an abstract category, not of a ‘person’, the concrete individual. Furthermore, he qualifies his definition by calling charisma a quality ‘believed to be extraordinary’ (als ausserallta¨glich geltend). All this indicates that he thought of a ‘quality’ of relations between persons, rather than a quality of a person …” (1969, p. 157). 137. See especially Miles (2011, pp. 145 193). The phrase “Gegenextase” is drawn from Hu¨bener’s discussion of Beowulf’s berserker traits (1935, p. 171). 138. Weber ([1916]1948, p. 295). Similar in character are lines from less famed passages: “Not generally available”: “‘Charisma’ means that an extraordinary, at least not generally available, quality adheres to a person” ([1916 1917]1967, p. 49); and, finally, “Overshadows the subjects”: Charisma “always remains an

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extraordinary quality which is not accessible to everyone and which typically overshadows the charismatic subjects” ([1922]1978, p. 1135). 139. This is plainly a distinction, as well, between the everyday charisma of the disciple and the miraculous charisma of the apostle. This distinction is still well known among Pentecostals (see Quebedeaux, 1976, pp. 18 19), who now comprise a central current in world Protestantism. 140. Calvin ([1559]1964, p. 318). Zinzendorf held that only “natural men” could be won to faith by miracles and that faith was trust, not in Christ, but in the miraculous. Only the Holy Spirit could infuse believers with genuine herzlich faith, and this happened directly, without recourse to stagecraft. 141. Calvin ([1559]1964, p. 319). The apostles bore “a new and extraordinary message,” namely, the transfer of the covenant “from Moses to Christ … .” 142. This division between ordinary and extraordinary charismata was, Ruthven (1993, p. 17) writes, “virtually the consensus position of older Calvinistic and fundamentalist texts on systematic theology and on the Holy Spirit.” Tillotson was typical when he added that, “on the first planting of the Christian religion in the world, God was pleased to accompany it with a miraculous power; but after it was planted, that power ceased, and God left it to be maintained by ordinary ways.” Marshall said that, after the age of Constantine, “when Christianity had acquired the support of human powers, those extraordinary assistances were discontinued” (cited by Warfield, 1918, p. 7). 143. See Bavinck (1906 1911; [1909]1956), Kuyper (1900), Warfield (1918), Vos (1912). Others who defended similar views in this period included Swete, Creighton, Thomas, and Strong. 144. Indeed, the technical connotations of the term “extraordinary” may have been better known than the Greek “charisma.” As late as 1910, Major still felt constrained to offer a disclaimer about the use of the term charisma (though not, significantly, “extraordinary gifts”): “An apology is possibly due to English purists for the use of the word ‘charismatics’ (… Charismatiker) to denote ‘persons possessed of the extraordinary gifts of the Spirit.’ Perhaps this delinquency,” he adds, “is atoned for by the refusal to anglicise Pneumatophoren …” (1910, p. vi). 145. Weber ([1919]1948, p. 79). 146. Michels ([1927]1949, pp. 122 123). This was not new for Michels. As early as Political Parties, he had enthused about the power of oratory. “The prestige acquired by the orator in the minds of the crowd is almost unlimited” ([1915]1966, p. 71); “the masses, intoxicated by the speaker’s power, [are] hypnotized to such a degree that for long periods to come they see in him a magnified image of their own ego” ([1915]1966, p. 71). In another passage Michels strikes chords that he would later credit to Weber: “The adoration of the led for the leaders is commonly latent. It reveals itself by signs that are barely perceptible, such as the tone of veneration in which the idol’s name is pronounced, the perfect docility with which the least of his signs is obeyed, and the indignation which is aroused by any critical attack upon his personality. But where the individuality of the leader is truly exceptional, and also in periods of lively excitement, the latent fervor is conspicuously manifested with the violence of an acute paroxysm.” ([1915]1966, p. 64). 147. Portinaro (1984, p. 281). This was a kind of breakthrough, since “the cult of the Duce,” as Melograni writes (1976, p. 79), “only really became established from 1925-26,” and Michels was one of the earliest practitioners.

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148. Michels ([1927]1949, p. 124). Carlyle actually cites Cromwell as follows: “Ever the constitutional Formula: How came you there? Show us some Notary parchment! Blind pedants: ‘Why, surely the same power which makes you a parliament, that and something more, made me a Protector!’ If my protectorship is nothing, what in the name of wonder is your Parliamenteership, a reflex and creation of that?” (Carlyle [1841]1925, p. 237) 149. See Portinaro (1984, p. 282), and Melograni (1976, p. 80). 150. Michels ([1927]1949, p. 126). The imprisoned Gramsci, reading one of Michels’ essays, was unimpressed by his “proofs” of Il Duce’s “so-called ‘charisma,’ in Michels’ sense” ([1928]1992, p. 320, §75). Anyone familiar, with “the susceptibility of Italian crowds to sentimental exaggeration and ‘emotional’ enthusiasm,” Gramsci writes, can only find Michels’ preoccupation with cheering crowds “infantile” (ibid., p. 321) . 151. Michels ([1927]1949, p. 130). Florid prose abounds: “The great monarchs … have an energetic goodness, … a goodness not separated from fierceness.” “The charismatic leader does not abdicate, not even when water reaches to his throat. Precisely in his readiness to die lies one element of his force and triumph” ([1927] 1949, pp. 129, 130). And so on. 152. Michels (1927, pp. 291 292), cited by Mommsen (1987, p. 134). 153. Michels (1930, p. 319). Spengler (1934) blamed Hitler for failing to master the masses, yielding, rather, to the craven temptation to cater to public opinion. By Michels’ criteria, this would render him subcharismatic. 154. Michels (1930, pp. 267 268), cited by Derman (2011, p. 74). Radkau cites, with apparent approval, Michels’ claim that readiness to die is “one of the most important qualities of the charismatic leader in Weber’s sense …” (2009, p. 538, citing Michels from Tuccari, 1993, p. 121). 155. Marr (1927, p. 151, cited by Derman, 2011, p. 69). Marr later edited this comment to suit Nazi sensibilities, replacing “Italian” with “romantic” and saying that he favored an exemplary leader in the “Prussian” sense, perhaps even a “charismatic” leader, provided that he “presents exemplary qualities of leadership in the sense of German virtues …” Cited by Derman, ibid., p. 70, from Marr (1934, pp. 444 445). 156. “Riforma burocratica,” Polemica fascista, October 21, 1923; cited by Gentile (1998, p. 228). 157. Partito nazionale fascista (1936, p. 50), cited by Gentile (1998, p. 231). 158. Amid the turbulence after the assassination of Matteotti, Mussolini conceded that his “myth” was already suffering “a powerful downward tilt.” Cited by Gentile (1998, p. 229). 159. Cited by Corner (2012, p. 263). Although an excellent scholar, Corner remains credulous about charisma. He writes, vis-a`-vis fascist efforts to promote mussolinismo, that “Mussolini’s undoubted personal charisma lent itself to this operation; the body language and the staring eyes suggested a person out of the ordinary and, as newsreels testify, Mussolini did all he could to accentuate these aspects” (ibid., p. 246). 160. Weber (1917 1918, p. 400). Earlier (p. 365), Weber had equated Samson with (again) Cuchulain; this time, he cited the ancient Greek berserk Tydeus rather than Achilles.

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161. Weber (1917 1918, p. 402). “Jahwe war ein Wahlgott.” 162. This outlook emerges from the whole body of Religionsgeshichtliche scholarship, which I will discuss in detail on another occasion. 163. Weber said this of himself as early as his 1906 newspaper essay on sects in the United States. 164. This is from the English translation of Ancient Judaism (1952, p. 428). 165. For full details, see Seibert (2003). 166. Turner (1993, pp. 235 236, 254), criticizing a draft of the paper that became Smith (1998). Other “culturalists” include, e.g., Berger, Luckmann, Geertz, Anthony Wallace, and Victor Turner. 167. Freud ([1921]1959, p. 13). Le Bon says that “to believe in the predominance among crowds of revolutionary instincts would be to entirely misconstrue their psychology … . Their rebellious … outbursts are always very transitory. Crowds are too much governed by unconscious considerations … not to be extremely conservative. Abandoned to themselves, they soon weary of disorders and instinctively turn to servitude … .” ([1895] 1910, p. 62). 168. In some ways, Freud’s position is less extreme. His born leader capitalizes on the crowd’s submissive instincts. For Turner and Factor, the leader who serves change must “compel recognition” even when an ingrained biological bias opposes it. Plainly, the force required to overcome biological bias is surely greater than the force required to exploit it. 169. Friedrich (1963, p. 186; 1961, p. 16). In 1933, the anti-Weberian philosopher Strauss asked Schmitt to send a letter of recommendation to “Professor Friedrich” at Harvard (Meier, 1988, p. 134). Friedrich had praised Schmitt’s Die Diktatur (1921) as “an epoch-making discussion to which the author is indebted” (1930, p. 129, n. 15). 170. Radkau (2010, p. 66; cf. Radkau, 2006). On Radkau, Baumgarten, and their sources I will elaborate in a subsequent paper. 171. Speier lodges a similar complaint. After listing the key figures (Eisner, Napoleon, etc.) whom Weber called charismatic, he says: “One suspects that Weber found charisma too often” ([1940]1989, p. 118). Weber’s wish to found a value-free sociology “misled him to treat saint and criminal, hero and journalist, as ‘thoroughly equivalent’ (to use his own words), if only their followers treated them as ‘charismatic’ leaders” (ibid., p. 118). Speier does not misunderstand Weber: For Weber, “charismatic leadership is constituted like all types of domination through the response of those who admire, worship, and obey rather than by the qualities of the one who leads. The social recognition of the qualities of leadership appeared more important to him than these qualities themselves” (ibid., p. 118). Speier finds this notion “deficient,” however, because it does not “help us to understand why ‘misery and hope’ may lead to frenzied political mass support in modern civilized society” (ibid., p. 119). This objection is perplexing. Is it not plain that “misery and hope” in Weimar Germany, e.g., in an era of defeat, hyperinflation, and acute class tension play vital roles in spurring “frenzied political support” for leaders who promise deliverance, glory, and Lebensraum? Is it not plain that similar motives now inform a wide variety of revanchist and chauvinist movements? Is this not, in fact, precisely what makes the danger of new “charismatic” dictators credible? The answer, in my opinion, is clear.

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Weber, M. (1905). Die protestantische Ethik und der ‘Geist’ des Kapitalismus, II. Die Berufsidee des asketischen Protestantismus. Archiv fu¨r Sozialwissenschaft und Sozialpolitik, 21. Weber, M. (1906). “Kirchen” und “Sekten”. Frankfurter Zeitung, 50(102), April 13 and April 15. Weber, M. (1917 18). Die Wirtschaftsethik der Weltreligionen: Antike Judentum. Archiv fu¨r Sozialwissenschaft und Sozialpolitik, 44, 46. Weber, M. (1922). Wirtschaft und Gesellschaft. Tu¨bingen: Mohr-Siebeck. Weber, M. (1927). General economic history. New York, NY: Greenberg. Weber, M. ([1906]1948). The Protestant sects and the spirit of capitalism. In M. Weber, From Max Weber (H. H. Gerth & C. W. Mills, Trans.). New York, NY: Oxford University Press. Weber, M. ([1916]1948). The social psychology of the world religions. In M. Weber, From Max Weber (H. H. Gerth & C. W. Mills, Trans.). New York, NY: Oxford University Press. Weber, M. ([1919]1948). Politics as a vocation. In M. Weber, From Max Weber (H. H. Gerth & C. W. Mills, Trans.). New York, NY: Oxford University Press. Weber, M. ([1919]1952). Ancient Judaism. New York, NY: The Free Press. Weber, M. ([1920]1958). The Protestant ethic and the spirit of capitalism (T. Parsons, Trans.). New York, NY: Scribners. Weber, M. ([1916]1964). The religion of China. Glencoe, IL: The Free Press. Weber, M. ([1916 17]1967). The religion of India. Glencoe, IL: The Free Press. Weber, M. ([1922]1978). Economy and society (Vols. 1 and 2). Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Weber, M. ([1905]2002). The Protestant ethic and the “spirit” of capitalism. In M. Weber, The Protestant ethic and the “spirit” of capitalism and other writings (P. Baehr & G. C. Wells, Trans.). New York, NY: Penguin. Weber, M. ([1920]2009). The Protestant ethic and the spirit of capitalism with other writings on the rise of the west (S Kalberg, Trans.). New York, NY: Oxford University Press. Wehler, H.-U. (2007). Das analytische potential des charisma-konzepts. In A. Anter & S. Breuer (Eds.), Max Webers Staatsoziologie (pp. 175 185). Baden-Baden: Nomos Vergesellschaft. Weiss, J. (1986). Weber and the Marxist world. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Widener, A. (1979). Gustave Le Bon: The man and his works. Indianapolis, MN: Liberty Press. Willner, A. R. (1968). Charismatic political leadership: A theory. Research Monograph No. 32. Center of International Studies, Princeton, NJ. Willner, A. R. (1984). The spellbinders: Charismatic political leadership. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Willner, A. R., & Willner, D. (1965). The rise and role of charismatic leaders. Annals of the American Academy of Political and Social Science, 358(March), 77 88. Willner, A. R., & Willner, D. (1973). Charismatic political leadership as conservator and catalyst. In A. R. Davis (Ed.), Traditional attitudes and modern styles in political leadership (pp. 17 28). London: Angus & Robertson. Wilson, B. R. (1975). The noble savages: The primitive origins of charisma and its contemporary survival. Berkeley, CA: The University of California Press. Winckelmann, J., (Ed.) ([1922]1956). Wirtschaft und gesellschaft, by Max Weber (4th ed.). Tu¨bingen: Mohr. Wolpe, H. (1968). A critical analysis of some aspects of charisma. The Sociological Review, New Series (November), 305 308.

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Zinzendorf, N. L. ([1737]1741). Antwort auf eine anfrage in den Franckfurt gelehrten zeitungen, Anno. 1737. Bu¨dingische Sammlung: Eineiger in die Kirchen-historie, III. Bu¨dingen: Joh. Chr. Sto¨hr. Zinzendorf, N. L. (1748). Ein und zwanzig discurse u¨ber die Augspurgische Confession: Moravian publication. Zinzendorf, N. L. (1758). Sammlung Einiger von dem Ordinario Fratrum wa¨hrend seines Ausenthalts in der Deutschen Gemeinen von Anno 1775 bis 1757 gehaltenen Kinder-Reden. Barby: Seminario Theologico. Zinzendorf, N. L. ([1746]1973). Nine public lectures on important subjects in religion. Iowa City, IA: University of Iowa Press.

THE SOCIOLOGICAL CORE VS. THE HISTORICAL COMPONENT OF THE WEBER THESIS: SOME DEVIANT CASES REVISITED Milan Zafirovski ABSTRACT Purpose To reexamine the Weber Thesis pertaining to the relationship between ascetic Protestantism especially Calvinism and modern capitalism, as between an economic “spirit” and an economic “structure,” in which the first is assumed to be the explanatory factor and the second the dependent variable. Design/methodology/approach The chapter provides an attempt to combine theoretical-empirical and comparative-historical approaches to integrate theory with evidence supplied by societal comparisons and historically specific cases. Findings The chapter identifies the general sociological core of the Weber Thesis as a classic endeavor in economic sociology (and thus substantive sociological theory) and separates it from its particular historical dimension in the form of an empirical generalization from history.

Social Theories of History and Histories of Social Theory Current Perspectives in Social Theory, Volume 31, 75 128 Copyright r 2013 by Emerald Group Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0278-1204/doi:10.1108/S0278-1204(2013)0000031002

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I argue that such a distinction helps to better understand the puzzling double “fate” of the Weber Thesis in social science, its status of a model in economic sociology and substantive sociological theory, on the one hand, and its frequent rejection in history and historical economics, on the other. The sociological core of the Thesis, postulating that religion, ideology, and culture generally deeply impact economy, has proved to be more valid, enduring, and even paradigmatic, as in economic sociology, than its historical component establishing a special causal linkage between Calvinism and other types of ascetic Protestantism and the “spirit” and “structure” of modern capitalism in Western society at a specific point in history. Research limitations/implications In addition to the two cases deviating from the Weber Thesis considered here, it is necessary to investigate and identify the validity of the Thesis with regard to concrete historical and empirical instances. Originality/value The chapter provides the first effort to systematically analyze and distinguish between the sociological core and the historical components of the Weber Thesis as distinct yet intertwined components. Keywords: Ascetic Protestantism; Calvinism; modern capitalism; Weber Thesis; economic sociology; sociological theory

INTRODUCTION The sociological as well as economic and historical (and in part theological) literature termed the Weber Thesis assumes a positive association, affinity, and convergence between a certain kind of religion, such as Protestantism, and a definite type of economy, like modern capitalism, in its “spirit” as well as “structure.” The Thesis is initially expounded in The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism and further developed, elaborated, and qualified in his subsequent works (especially Economy and Society and General Economic History). In short, this yields the Weber Thesis of ascetic Protestantism, first and foremost Calvinism, and the second modern capitalism, in which the first is considered the religious-ethical explanatory factor and the second the outcome or function.

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The Weber Thesis is the classic, paradigmatic exercise in and contribution to economic sociology (Dobbin, 2005; Smelser & Swedberg, 2005; Swedberg, 1998, 2003, 2005) and/or “sociological [or social] economics” (Akerlof, 2007; Knight, 1958; Lewin, 1996; Phelps, 2007) and substantive sociological theory (Merton, 1968; Smelser, 1997). It is so because it posits and analyzes the impact of religion on economy (Wuthnow, 2005) by assuming and exploring the effect of religious ideas, values, and behaviors on economic attitudes, actions, and institutions in society. Hence, the core or general theoretical thrust of the Weber Thesis is the influence of religious doctrines, beliefs, and practices on economic propensities, activities, and systems, in particular the impact of world religions on capitalism. More generally, the core in its extended or relaxed version is what Weber calls the “interaction,” mutual adaptation, reciprocal relationship, “elective affinities,” and interpenetration or interdependence (Bendix, 1946; Collins, 1980; Dobbin, 2005; Ekelund, He´bert, & Tollison, 2002; Howe, 1978; MacKinnon, 1990; McKinnon, 2010; Merton, 1968; Munch, 2001; Parsons, 1935, 1938; Swedberg, 2003; Zaret, 1985) between religion and economy, ideal and material interests, processes, and institutions, especially world religions and capitalism. This is the essential sociological or theoretical generic element of the Weber Thesis thus understood. In particular, the exemplary case or specific historical-empirical content of the Weber Thesis is the impact of a peculiar branch of religion on a special type of economy i.e., economic “spirit” and system within a definite social space and time, i.e., Western society since the Protestant Reformation through the 19th century and beyond. It is the effect of ascetic Protestantism like Calvinism, especially its Anglo-Saxon “pure sect” Puritanism (and its other variations or proxies Pietism, Methodism, and Baptism) on modern capitalism as both a capitalist “spirit” and a “practice” or “structure” within what Weber calls a “causal chain”1 between the two particular religious and economic phenomena, just as religion and economy generally. In his words, it consists in the “inner,” “intimate” relationship, “elective affinity,” and “strong congruence” between Calvinism and other ascetic Protestantism and modern capitalism. Notably, in this link the second is assumed to be an aggregate unintended outcome or dependent variable, and the first a determinant or independent variable, although, as Weber acknowledges, within a set of multiple historical determinants. Hence this forms the historical, specific element of the Weber Thesis distinct from, though intertwined with, its sociological component, i.e., theoretical core. Weber provides at various occasions several explicit or implicit formulations and versions of the thesis of Calvinism and capitalism, albeit primarily

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in its historical component and secondarily in its sociological theoretical core. The first is a strong causal-deterministic formulation and version of the Weber Thesis, which treats Calvinism and other ascetic Protestantism as the “most powerful” factor of the “qualitative formation and quantitative expansion” of the “spirit” as well as “practice” and “structure” of modern capitalism. In this context, the strongest is a sort of proxy mono-causal formulation treating and describing Calvinism as the “only consistent factor” and “at the cradle” of modern capitalism, thus virtually assuming single causation or determination in this respect. An alternative, more typical multi-causal version considers and depicts Calvinism as one among the “necessary” historical social factors of modern capitalism, although still as the main “spiritual” factor, thus assuming multivariate causation or co-determination. The second is the standard, moderate causal-deterministic or functional formulation and version of the Weber Thesis. This variant assumes what Weber calls a historical “causal chain” operating from Calvinism and other ascetic Protestantism to modern capitalism, and generally from religion to economy, just as the other way round as in the “materialistic” conception of history. Thus, within this “causal chain” ascetic Protestantism presumably, in Weber’s words, “produced,” exerted a decisive causal “impact” or “effect”, as well as had the “same content” as the “spirit” of modern capitalism positing an identity or equivalence in this respect. The third is the probabilistic correlational and weaker formulation of the Weber Thesis. This version postulates and explores an “inner” or “intimate” relationship or connection, “elective affinity,” “strong congruence,” historical “correlation” or “covariance,” and the like between ascetic Protestantism and modern capitalism. In this formulation, the Weber Thesis does not necessarily or explicitly assume that ascetic Protestantism generates or causally influences modern capitalism but only that the first is “related” or “adequate” to, congruent, and correlates or co-varies with the second as the relaxation or weakening of the strong and explicit causal version that clearly specifies the “cause and effect” in the sense of independent and dependent variables. Still, in this reciprocal “inner relationship,” “elective affinity,” “congruence,” “correlation” or “covariance,” ascetic Protestantism remains the independent variable and in that sense “cause,” and modern capitalism the dependent and so the “effect,” just as for any non-spurious relations or correlations such variables have to specified or identified, thus becoming “causal” links in some description. The fourth is some degree of modification, mitigation, relaxation, and extension of the Weber Thesis. Weber mitigates or relaxes and extends it by

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acknowledging, especially in later works like Economy and Society, the interaction, “mutual adaptation,” interconnection, interpenetration, reciprocal action, interdependence, and the like between ascetic Protestantism and modern capitalism. Generally, he does so with respect to religion, notably world religions, and economy, including its pre-capitalist and capitalist ideal, pure types, i.e., religious/spiritual and economic/material interests, values, actions, and institutions. Many contemporary sociologists (Dobbin, 2005; Smelser, 1997; Smelser & Swedberg, 2005) agree that this is the most plausible interpretation of the Weberian sociological theory and historical analysis of religion and economy and Calvinism and capitalism in particular (as well as his intentions2). Still most sociologists, historians, and economists do not seem to regard the above as the original and proper Weber Thesis (Alexander, 1998; Collins, 1980; Smelser, 1997; Smelser & Swedberg, 2005) in which Calvinism is specified as the explanatory factor and capitalism as the dependent variable, but rather its alteration or generalization almost beyond recognition by lacking such specification, as well as a concession to the opposite “materialistic conception.”

THE WEBER THESIS AS SOCIOLOGICAL THEORY VS. HISTORICAL ANALYSIS The preceding discussion suggests distinguishing the Weber Thesis as a sociological theory and an historical analysis. It is a substantive sociological theory of the relations between religion and economy within the field of economic sociology and also an historical study of the relationship of specific phenomena such as ascetic Protestantism, above all Calvinism, and modern capitalism in its “spirit” and “practice” or “structure.” In short, this is a distinction of the sociological generic from the historical particular components of the Weber Thesis. And this distinction is important for better understanding of both the Weber Thesis and its subsequent fate or status in social science. The distinction helps to better understand the Weber Thesis’ different scientific and methodological “destiny,” i.e., trajectory, position, and destination within sociology versus history and to some degree economics. Specifically, the Weber Thesis has enjoyed mostly a sort of positive destiny and fame or “good reputation” within sociology, particularly as the classic theoretical exemplar of economic sociology (Bendix, 1977; Collins, 1980; Fourcade, 2011; Fourcade & Healy, 2007; Granovetter & Swedberg, 1992;

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Kalberg, 1980; Munch, 2001; Parsons, 1937, 1947; Parsons & Smelser, 1956; Smelser, 1997; Smelser & Swedberg, 2005; Swedberg, 1998, 2003) and thus the model of substantive “middle-range” and other sociological theory (Camic, 1986; Campbell, 2009; Dahrendorf, 1959; Davis, 1978; Merton, 1968; Swidler, 1986; Vaisey, 2009). After all, The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism is probably the most famous, best-known classical sociological work (alongside perhaps the Communist Manifesto). Yet, his Thesis has suffered what Weber would call mostly “adverse fate” and fame or “bad reputation” and discredit within history as a science (Benedict, 2002; Heller, 1986; Hudson, 1949, 1961; Hyma, 1938; Means, 1965; Valeri, 1997; Walzer, 1963), particularly that of religion and culture, while also being disputed or questioned as a “myth” in contemporary historical and cultural sociology (Alexander, 1998; Collins, 1997; Cohen, 1980, 2002; Cox, 1974; Delacroix & Nielsen, 2001; Goldstone, 1986; Kaufman, 2008; Stokes, 1975; Young, 2009; Zaret, 1985). It has to a great extent experienced such destiny in economics, including the German Historical School of which Weber was a member, especially in economic history. This criticism spans since Sombart’s (2001[1911], 1928[1913]) contemporaneous critique in the 1910s and other early criticisms or revisions (Mitchell, 1914; Robertson, 1933; Tawney, 1923a, 1923b, 1962) through later (Clark, 1951; Samuelsson, 1961) and present times (Acemoglu, Johnson, Robinson, & Yared, 2005; Ay & Dolphin, 1994; Friedman, 2011; Pellicani, 1988), with some recent supporting exceptions (Ekelund et al., 2002; Guiso, Sapienza, & Zingales, 2006; Holton, 1983; Landes, 1998; McCleary & Barro, 2006). In essence, the Weber Thesis has evidently “survived” or withstood in drastically different ways and degrees what Weber himself acknowledges as its “comprehensive criticisms,” mentioning specifically those of (aside from religious historian Rachfahl) his colleagues Sombart and Brentano in the Historical School of Economics, and Merton (1968) also calls a “library of criticism” in social science probably more voluminous than that of approval (Smelser & Swedberg, 2005). Specifically, it has done so better within theoretical economic sociology though not historical sociology and generally “middle-range” sociological theory than in religious-cultural history and to a great degree historical economics. This is probably the most puzzling and striking moment about the Weber Thesis’ “fate” and fame, i.e., its reception, path, and attained status or reputation in social science after its original formulation and presentation. The very distinction between the different, though interrelated, general sociological and particular historical ingredients of the Weber Thesis helps to resolve or clarify and address this curious puzzle usually overlooked or

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downplayed by the Weberian literature in sociology, yet identified and stressed by that in history and to some degree economics, especially its historically minded branches. Hence, the puzzle is resolved or clarified by distinguishing the Weber Thesis as the substantive “middle-range” sociological theory and assumption, especially within economic sociology, and as an historical exploration and empirical generalization. Specifically, the Weber Thesis has experienced different “fates,” fames, or statuses in social science because it has been more successful and enduring or resistant to “comprehensive criticisms” as the substantive sociological theory and proposition in economic sociology than as an historical demonstration and empirical generalization. The Weber Thesis’ sociological core is the theory of an “interaction” and “mutual adaptation” of religious and economic phenomena, including the influence of the former on the latter, just as conversely, and generally the “interdependence between social institutions” (Merton, 1968) and “interpenetration” of religion and society (Dobbin, 2005; Munch, 2001) almost a la Durkheim. This theoretical core has proved more viable and even became paradigmatic in economic sociology, minimally less denied, disputed, and debatable overall than has its historical demonstration of a “causal chain” and “elective affinity” from ascetic Protestantism such as Calvinism to modern capitalism in the science of history and in part historical sociology and to a great extent historical economics.

THE DEEP IMPACT AND THE SOLE POSITIVE EFFECT The fact that the sociological “core” of the Weber Thesis endures in contemporary sociological theory and became paradigmatic in economic sociology as the Kuhnian consensual scientific community, while its historical component being almost “falsified” in the sense of Popperian falsificationism3 or disputed and debated (Dobbin, 2005; Smelser & Swedberg, 2005), indicates a curious duality of validity or confirmation in its original formulation and presentation. The Weber Thesis has evidently proved valid or plausible and confirmed in assuming that religion in general, as well as ideology and culture as a whole, deeply and extensively impacts, either positively or negatively, economy, just as admitting the opposite influence. In this sense, such consensus within sociological theory and economic sociology derives from the confirmation or non-falsification of Weber

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Thesis’ theoretical core positing the impact of religion on economy, and to that extent the ideal of a consensual scientific community in the sense of Kuhn (1970) and empirical falsificationism a la Popper (1968) do not seem dissociated or mutually exclusive. Yet, the Weber Thesis has manifestly not endured in contending that a particular religious and ideological factor, Calvinism and other ascetic Protestantism historically “produced” or exerted a major positive causal effect on a concrete economic system and “spirit,” modern capitalism within an assumed “causal chain,” “elective affinity,” and “strong congruence” between the two.4 In this sense, the Weber Thesis has been proved or perceived correct and paradigmatic for economic sociology in postulating the impact of Calvinism as a particular form of religion and ideology on modern capitalism as a special type of economy and economic “spirit,” but not or less so in identifying and specifying the exact nature and direction of such an effect, as in history and historical economics. This means that for substantive sociological theory in economic sociology the Weber Thesis “gets right” the effect of the Calvinist, like any, religion on the capitalist or non-capitalist economy, just as the admitted opposite effects, as a general rule and matter. However, for history and to a great degree historical economics, plus in part historical sociology, the Weber Thesis does not quite “get right” the precise sign of the effect specifically of the Calvinist religion on the capitalist economy and “spirit” as solely and strongly positive. This is indicated because its concrete historical contention has been largely (though not universally) disconfirmed or disputed and in that sense nearly “falsified” by accumulated evidence and “comprehensive criticisms.” Conversely, the latter moment implies that the specific quality or sign of the effect of Calvinism on modern capitalism may well be or at least cannot be ruled out as being negative or mixed in some ways and degrees rather than solely invariably positive as according to the Weber Thesis’ historical component. For it is one thing to assume and confirm that Calvinism, just as its Weberian functional equivalent Islam (Davis & Robinson, 2006; Kuran, 2004) and any world religion, like culture and society overall, impacts modern capitalism and other economic systems and “spirits” as a sort of paramount paradigm in classical and contemporary economic sociology. Yet it is quite another endeavor to contend and show that Calvinism or other religion and culture as a whole exerts solely and strongly a positive causal effect on modern capitalism. This is because such religious and cultural effects can be also negative (and mixed), as Weber observes and emphasizes for non-Calvinist religions and cultures,5 including Islam, traditional

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Christianity like Catholicism, and even “least ascetic” Protestantism like Lutheranism and Anglicanism. Calvinism, like any other religion, ideology, and culture, can and evidently or probably does the first, but this does not necessarily mean that it invariably or even likely does the second. For the positive causal effect of Calvinism and any religion and ideology on capitalism and economy overall is just one subset of a larger set or matrix of its multiple actual effects and possibilities, alongside their adverse and mixed forms. For illustration, the Weber Thesis in its historical component can be symbolized by a function y = f(x) + ɛ where y indicates modern capitalism in both the capitalist “spirit” and economy as the dependent variable or function of x indicating Calvinism and other ascetic Protestantism as the independent variable or explanatory factor (“argument”) of y, and ɛ the residual involving other “controlled for” or unknown factors. The function thus expresses the historical assertion that Calvinism exerts solely and strongly positive effects on modern capitalism, thus being a unique religious system, while assuming away its actual or possible negative and mixed capitalist consequences instead traced to all other religions, including its admitted functional substitute Islam, Catholicism, and even preCalvinist and non-ascetic Protestantism like Lutheranism and Anglicanism. Therefore, the positive functional relationship modern capitalism = f (Calvinism) + residual factors reflects and extracts only a subset from the total set of effective or possible effects of the assumed factor on the dependent variable. Since this set comprises two or three subsets of such effects, i.e., positive, negative, and mixed, such a function and subset is only half or third of the “equation,” i.e., of Weber’s full “causal chain” or functional relationship between modern capitalism and Calvinism.6

The Set of Aggregate Effects and the Subset of Positive Effects of Calvinism on Capitalism For simplicity and clarity the matrix of all actual or possible effects of Calvinism, like any religion, ideology, and culture on modern capitalism and economy in general, can be represented as Y = y1, y2, y3, …, yn, where Y represents the sum total of all capitalist outcomes, y1 a subset or vector of positive effects, y2 a subset of negative effects, and y3 a subset of mixed effects. Therefore, the aggregate set of capitalist effects Y is not necessarily equal and cannot be reduced to the subset of positive effects y1, as it also incorporates the subset of negative effects y2 and the subset of

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mixed effects y3, in respect of Calvinism’s and generally any religion’s impact on modern capitalism and economy overall. Simply, the conceivable equation Y = y1 is both a flagrant logical non-sequitur and a serious historical-empirical error. Conversely, the subset or vector of positive effects y1 does not exhaust and present all actual or possible influences of the first variable on the second, simply there is no such thing as the equation y1 = Y. At this juncture, the set of total effects Y = y1, y2, y3, …, yn can be taken to represent or approximate the general sociological core, the economic sociology of the Weber Thesis, and the subset of positive effects y1 assumed to equal Y its particular historical “peripheral” ingredient, its history, and historical economics/sociology. Hence, the Weber Thesis’ aggregate set of effects of Calvinism and religion overall on modern capitalism and economy in general = y1, y2, y3, …, yn has been validated or nonfalsified, enduring, and even paradigmatic for contemporary economic sociology and substantive sociological theory, thus the positive consensus of the scientific community is associated with rather being independent from such a failure of falsification. By contrast, its subset of only positive effects presumably exhausting the set y1 = Y is largely disconfirmed or disputed and in that sense “falsified” in history and to a great degree in historical economics and in part historical sociology, thus falsification leading to a sort of negative consensus about the Weber Thesis in the respective scientific communities. Alternatively, the fact that y1 = Y, the equation of the subset of only positive effects with the total set, has been virtually falsified in these latter disciplines has not necessarily resulted in “falsifying” and even left essentially intact Y = y1, y2, y3, …, yn, thus the core of the Weber Thesis in economic sociology and substantive sociological theory. This is because y1 does not necessarily exhaust or present Y, and conversely Y is not invariably equal and reducible to y1. Substantively, this signifies that stating, as the Weber Thesis does in its historical component, that Calvinism and other ascetic Protestantism only positively impacts modern capitalism does not necessarily exhaust and does justice to the full range of such effects or possibilities, as these actually or conceivably can also involve negative and mixed influences. Moreover, in a way the set Y = y1, y2, y3, …, yn axiomatically precludes such an equation and reduction of total effects to its positive forms only, because if Y = y1, it (as Keynes (1960) put it in his criticism of “mathematical economics” procedures) will vanish or make no logical sense (a “set equal to its single subset”). To that extent, equating or reducing the set of aggregate effects of Calvinism, like any religion and ideology, on modern capitalism to the

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subset of their positive forms, Y = y1 is a logical non-sequitur, and hence, if empirically “falsified,” as mostly is by history and historical economics, does not adversely affect the validity of Y = y1, y2, y3, …, yn and thus the sociological core of the Weber Thesis. In short, its core represented by X = y1, y2, y3, …, yn stands or falls in economic sociology and substantive sociological theory regardless of whether or not the logically impermissible reduction Y = y1 is empirically “falsified” by history and historical economics. And actually Y = y1, y2, y3, …, yn does stand as a major premise in economic sociology and substantive sociological theory, even though Y = y1 has mostly succumbed to “falsification” by these other disciplines. This helps to explain why the Weber Thesis in its core has remarkably endured as a classic model for economic sociology and substantive sociological theory despite it being largely disconfirmed or discredited in its historical component by history and historical economics. In this respect, the Weber Thesis has been confirmed, is enduring, and becomes paradigmatic within economic sociology in its sociological “core” because it is considered to correctly posit that religion, ideology, and culture in the specific form of Calvinism impact economy in the particular type of modern capitalism (symbolized by Y = y1, y2, y3, …, yn). Yet, it has been virtually “falsified” or disconfirmed, discredited, and disputed in its historical component because it is regarded as not necessarily “getting right” the exact nature or sign of the effect of Calvinism on capitalism as only and strongly positive (Y = y1). The remainder of the chapter investigates whether and to what extent this is the case, and whether the effect of Calvinism on modern capitalism is also negative (y2) or mixed (y3), and not only positive (y1). The chapter examines if the Weber Thesis stands or falls in its concrete historical component and in that sense as an assertion and empirical generalization from economic-religious history. Alternatively, it takes as intact and non-debatable the status of the Weber Thesis in its general sociological “core” as a sort of “crown jewel” of classical economic sociology and the model for its contemporary variant and related substantive “middle range” sociological theories. Thus, what is problematic or puzzling is not the Weber Thesis as a classic exemplar of economic sociology positing that religion in various ways and degrees influences economy (approximated by Y = y1, y2, y3, …, yn). Rather, it is as an exercise in historical sociology and economics specifically contending that a special religious force like Calvinism influenced in an exclusively positive and decisive manner a particular economic system and spirit such as modern capitalism (approximated by Y = y1).

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In sum, while taking its status or perception as the masterpiece of economic sociology beyond doubt, the chapter examines whether and in what degree the Weber Thesis may fall short of that lofty position or perception as a work in historical sociology and economics. For that purpose, it identifies and considers certain exceptions to its Calvinist-capitalist “rule” and thus deviant cases within the Weber Thesis, for example, Scotland, the US South, and others.7 Specifically, it examines whether and to what extent these deviant cases actually exemplify the negative (y2) or at least mixed (y3) effects of Calvinism on modern capitalism rather than or more than an exclusively and strongly positive effect8 (y1) as the putative rule or historical generalization of the Weber Thesis.

DEVIANT SOCIETAL CASES IN THE WEBER THESIS CALVINIST-BACKWARD SOCIETIES The Weber Thesis in its historical component approximated by y = f (x) + ɛ postulates a causal linkage or direct relationship and ratio between the degree of purity and totality of Calvinism and of modern capitalism as an economic spirit and system in societal space and time, i.e., a certain society at a point of history. Presumably the purer and more totally Calvinist a society is, the more purely and completely capitalistic and generally economically developed and by implication, in its Parsonian political extension or implication, democratic it will be. Hence, the Weber Thesis proposes that those societies most purely and totally or persistently Calvinist are also the “purest” (Samuelson, 1983) and complete instances of capitalism, “pure” market competition, and generally of rapid and high economic development, as well as political democracy, and conversely. If this is true, then purer Calvinist societies would be observed and expected to be more purely capitalist and/or highly developed economies, just as to a greater extent democratic states, than others. As shown below, such “rational expectations” are not fully corroborated and even contradicted by historical and current evidence and experience.9 For instance, the most purely and totally or persistently Calvinist societies are typically considered first and foremost, Scotland (Gorski, 2000; Hillmann, 2008; Hobsbaum, 1972; Howe, 1972; Mullan, 1995; Sprunger, 1982) at least until the late 19th century (Robertson, 1933) and the anteand post-bellum US South10 following the Great Awakenings (Archer, 2001; Bailey & Snedker, 2011; Dawson, 1978; Maddex, 1979; Rossel, 1970;

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Saillant, 1995; Samuelsson, 1961). Such Calvinist societies also perhaps comprise contemporary evangelical “Christian” America. The latter is dominated by Puritan-rooted conservative Protestantism (Darnell & Sherkat, 1997; Davis & Robinson, 2009; Edgell, Gerteis, & Hartmann, 2006; Keister, 2008; Lindsay, 2008; Madsen, 2009; Owens, Robinson, & Smith-Lovin, 2010; Vaisey, 2009) and in a way an escalation or extension of the evangelical South through the “Southernization” of American society, culture, and politics (Amenta, Bonastia, & Caren, 2001) reportedly placed under the “shadow of Dixie” (Cochran, 2001) during recent times, notably since the 1960s. At least, these societies or regions are considered more Calvinist than their counterparts for points of reference and comparison. For example, Scotland is deemed as such compared to England within Great Britain and to France, the native land of Calvin et al. and thus orthodox Calvinism, Switzerland, Holland, Germany, and others among European countries. Also, since the “Great Awakenings” expressing intrinsic Calvinist revivalism through Puritanism, at least in its post-bellum period, the “new” US South, like related “hillbilly” regions (Clark, 1951), is regarded as more Puritan cum evangelical as the “Bible Belt” indicates than the other sections of the country (Bauman, 1997; Hobsbaum, 1972; Putnam, 2000; Samuelsson, 1961), so is in extension and by design theocentric “Christian” (“red”) America compared to its proxy liberal-secular (“blue”) opposite (DiPrete, Gelman, McCormick, Teitler, & Zheng, 2011; Hout & Fischer, 2002; Lindsay, 2008; Owens et al., 2010). Following the Weber Thesis, these two most purely and totally or persistently Calvinist societies or regions should also be expected to represent the purest and most complete capitalist and generally most highly developed economies, as well as in extension democratic political systems. Yet, as well-known and even self-evident, they have represented the exactly opposite of such an expectation of the Weber Thesis until at least recent times. They have been least capitalist or developed economies to the point of precapitalist feudal economic, just as cultural, backwardness as well as least politically liberal-democratic or even most anti-liberal and undemocratic political systems, especially the second region among Western societies and US regions, respectively. As observed by early critics, Calvinism found its “purest expression in the Highlands of Scotland and the Southern States of North America” characterized economically by “feudalism and slavery” respectively, thus contrary to the Weber Thesis, and politically and culturally by a theocratic “patriarchal outlook” based on, as typical for Calvinist, evangelical societies and groups since Calvin, the “authority of the Old Testament”11 (Hall, 1913; also Gould, 1996).

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As such, proto-Calvinist Scotland (Robertson, 1933) and the Puritan US South (Samuelsson, 1961) reconstructed and renamed as the “Bible Belt” (Mencken, 1982) evidently disconfirm and in that sense “falsify” the particular historical component though not necessarily the general sociological core of the Weber Thesis. At least, by being exceptions to the assumed Calvinist-capitalist “rule” or pattern, they form deviant cases (negative “outliers”) within the latter. Alternatively, they do not seem to represent the kind of deviant case or exceptions that, as usually supposed, confirm the “rule” of the Weber Thesis, the causal linkage between Calvinism as the main religious factor and modern capitalism as the aggregate economic outcome in Europe and America and beyond, a possibility which Pareto, for example, rules out on general logical grounds. They instead appear as more serious exceptions to the “rule” and thus potentially more critical deviations from the Weber Thesis than commonly assumed, alongside the extension or social contagion of the “Bible Belt” into contemporary evangelical “Christian” America as a whole. To wit, they may represent perhaps a third or half of the “equation” or function of Calvinism and modern capitalism in the form of negative outcomes of the former for the latter (symbolized by y2 within Y = y1, y2, y3, …, yn). By contrast, recall that the second, a third or half comprises positive Calvinist-capitalist outcomes (x1) and is represented by the Weber Thesis’ presumed exemplars and “proofs” of the “rule,” for example, Calvinist Holland and France (Huguenot regions) and Puritan England and New England, but curiously not Weber’s own Protestant, mostly Lutheran Germany. (As also noted, the last third of the equation would entail such mixed, positive negative outcomes symbolized by x3 but the existence of x3 hinges on x2.) First, following the Weber Thesis, Scotland as the purest and most total and persistent Calvinist society in Europe, plus such a region within Great Britain, should also be the most purely and completely capitalist or highly developed European, as well as British, economy since the 16th through the 19th century and beyond. Instead, it is commonly observed to be the least capitalist or most feudal and generally economically and culturally backward and poorest and politically repressive or theocratic country in Western Europe at least until the Industrial Revolution and even the late 19th century. It thus instead epitomizes the disjuncture, dis-affinity, and incongruence rather than linkage, affinity, and congruence between Calvinism as the presumed religious source and modern capitalism or economic development as the dependent variable, as well as political democracy and cultural progress. Consequently, this case indicates that Calvinism may well have a direct or indirect adverse effect on modern capitalism and generally economic

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development, as well as liberal democracy and culture rationalism, at least in Scotland, as actually reported by historical-economic research (Robertson, 1933). To that extent, such an effect, even if negative (x2) or mixed (x3), still supports the general sociological core of the Weber Thesis that religion can impact economy, positively or negatively or else conjointly (Y = y1, y2, y3, …, yn). However, it disconfirms (“falsifies”) its particular historical element of specifically and solely Calvinist positive capitalist effects (Y = y1). Moreover, the commonly recognized deviant case of Scotland is relevant not only as an exception to the Calvinist-capitalist “rule” of the Weber Thesis in its application to Europe but also may epitomize a sort of alternative, reverse sociological “law” or historical pattern in Western Europe as the “second side of the story” (x2), juxtaposed to and countering or tempering the Calvinist-capitalist “rule” of the Weber Thesis as the first side (x1). This is the pattern of some degree and form of Calvinism’s negative impact on or disjuncture and divergence from modern capitalism or economic development, as well as political democracy and cultural progress and rationalism, as at least observed in Calvinist-backward Scotland for seemingly an “eternity” until the 19th century as well as the Puritan-undeveloped US South (Samuelsson, 1961) virtually up to the present. Second, following the Weber Thesis, the evangelical South cum the “Bible Belt” as the purest and most total and persistent Calvinist US region should also be the most purely and completely capitalist or highly developed, just as politically most liberal-democratic, part of America since ante-bellum through post-bellum times and to the second part of the 20th century and beyond. Yet, as notorious and self-evident, it has been and to some extent is the exact opposite. It has been economically defined for long by pre-capitalism in the form of slavery and then proxy feudalism over the segregation era, and, as observed, remained the most economically undeveloped, just as culturally backward and irrational and politically anti-liberalundemocratic, region of America until recent times (Acemoglu & Robinson, 2008; Samuelsson, 1961) and even to some degree today (Amenta et al., 2001; Bauman, 1997; Cochran, 2001; Hicks, 2006; Jacobs, Carmichael, & Kent, 2005; Putnam, 2000; Roscigno & Danaher, 200112). The above again epitomizes the disassociation, dis-affinity, and divergence between Calvinism and modern capitalism or economic development, just as liberal-secular democracy and cultural progress/rationalism, and consequently indicates that the first, as the assumed independent variable (x), has a direct or indirect adverse effect on the second as the dependent (y), at least in the South within America, just as Scotland in the context of

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Great Britain or Western Europe. Moreover, the US South has been and remains more persistently, dramatically, and notoriously (plus “proudly”) both Calvinist cum Puritan-evangelical, “godly,” “Christian” and economically undeveloped and even more politically anti-liberal and undemocratic and culturally backward and irrational than any other comparable region not only in America but the Western world as a whole, including proto-Calvinist Scotland itself. Simply, it has existed as such seemingly “forever” virtually up to the present, thus almost “frozen” by what Weber calls Puritanism’s built-in ascetic and tyrannical “frost” in the osmosis of Calvinist evangelical dominance (the “Bible Belt”) and economic backwardness and poverty, just as a fortiori theocratic “godly” oppression and cultural regression and “Monkey Trials” irrationalism. In this sense, the US South has been, since at least post-bellum times, and still largely remains today what Mises (1950) would call the Calvinist-backward and poor, as well as theocratic and irrational, “peace of the cemetery,” and with seemingly Southern “pride and joy” as well as the promise and even success of generalizing this analogue of the Dark Middle Ages or “paradise on Earth” to America “going south” and growingly in the “shadow of Dixie” (Cochran, 2001). On this account, the region has become, replacing Scotland, the “model” of a society or region that is persistently both Calvinist, generally “godly” and economically undeveloped and relatively poor, virtually until now or recently (Acemoglu & Robinson, 2008; Samuelsson, 1961), as well as even more “eternally” politically anti-liberal undemocratic and culturally backward and anti-rationalist, within the entre Western world. And this is a statement of fact or observation of the evident history and reality of the US South, and not an “anti-South” value judgment or critique of “Southern ways.” Like in the previous case, such a negative effect (x2) in the Puritanbackward US South supports the sociological core of the Weber Thesis that religion in general positively or negatively or conjointly influences (Y = y1, y2, y3) economy but does not influence its historical element positing Calvinism specifically and uniquely solely exerts a positive decisive effect on capitalism. As in the case of Scotland, the widely recognized deviant case or negative “outlier” of the US South matters not only as a regional and supposedly minor, irrelevant exception to the Calvinist-capitalist “rule” of the Weber Thesis applied to America but also as an alternative generalized norm or inverse trend in the South’s generalization and even literal, as since the 1960s, social contagion into evangelical, hyperconservative (“red”) America as a whole. As in the case of Scotland within Europe, it may be

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approximately “half of the equation” in the form of Calvinism’s adverse impact on (represented by x2) or disassociation and divergence from modern capitalism and generally economic development, as well as political democracy and cultural progress in evangelical America (Amenta et al., 2001; Bauman, 1997; Friedland, 2002; Hicks, 2006; Jacobs et al., 2005; Keister, 2008; Putnam, 2000), counter the “rule” of a Calvinist-capitalist positive effect (x1). If so, then this may also include the putative American proof and exemplar of the Calvinist-capitalist “rule” of the Weber Thesis, such as Puritan New England as a concern for separate analysis. Therefore, both deviant cases confirm (“prove”) the economic sociology and theoretical core, and disconfirm (“falsify”) the historical sociology and economics of the Weber Thesis. Symbolically, they support the aggregate set or matrix of effects Y = y1, y2, y3 expressing the core, but do not support the impermissible equation of Y to the subset of positive effects x1 and so the function y = f (x) in which capitalism is the outcome or function of Calvinism, indicating the historical element. They do so by confirming the impact of religion on economy in general and disconfirming the solely positive effect of Calvinism on modern capitalism in particular. They indicate that the Weber Thesis is correct in positing the general religious impact on economy but does not completely “get right” the exact nature or “sign” of such effects in the case of Calvinism and modern capitalism, at least in Presbyterian Scotland and the evangelical US South. This is identical or comparable to the relationship between Islam which Weber often compares to Calvinism in many respects, including “similar” theocratic politics, shared religious revolution and war and capitalism. Like its Calvinist and any counterpart, Islam generally and strongly impacts the capitalist economy, just as the theoretical premise of Weberian and other economic sociology postulates and predicts (Davis & Robinson, 2006), but the specific “sign” of that effect is almost invariably and strongly negative (Kuran, 2004), thus “falsifying” or ruling out any Islamic version of the Weber Thesis in its historical element. Furthermore, both apparently deviant cases may represent more than, as usually regarded, mere rare and secondary exceptions to the Calvinistcapitalist “rule” of the Weber Thesis, therefore remaining essentially intact not only in its sociological core but also in its historical component. This is in the sense of their being indications and instances of an alternative, opposite sociological “law” or historical pattern as “half of the equation” (x2) of Calvinism-to-capitalism, superimposed to and countering the Calvinistcapitalist “rule” (x1) as the other part. As noted, it consists of the reverse

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“rule” of a dis-affinity, disjuncture, and divergence between Calvinism and modern capitalism in Western Europe and America, respectively, and in consequence the adverse direct or indirect impact of the Calvinist, like Islamic, religion on the capitalist economy, as well as liberal-secular democracy and cultural progress, as elaborated next. As also indicated, this alternate “law” or pattern if detected would generally still validate and retain the Weber Thesis in its theoretical core as a classic exemplar of economic sociology but invalidate or “falsify” it in its particular empirical component as an exercise in historical sociology and economics. It would simply confirm that the Weber Thesis “gets right” that generally religion, culture, and society overall affect a capitalist or any economy, but do not do as Calvinism does so positively in Europe and America. To that extent, this would reveal that Calvinism epitomizes, first, the universal sociological law or historical pattern of religious, cultural, and other societal influences and elements in economy, including its capitalist form, as the classic and contemporary paradigm of economic sociology. Second, it is no exception to the almost universal “rule” that virtually all the world religions have direct or indirect, stronger or weaker, adverse effects on modern industrial capitalism (except Judaism, as Sombart contends, but Weber categorically rejects this contention as “pariah capitalism”), as the major finding of historical and sociological studies. Simply, this means that Calvinism is not really or greatly different consonant with the Weber Thesis as economic sociology from any type of religion, ideology, or culture in general in terms of its economic influences and outcomes. Also, it signifies that Calvinism is not unique or exceptional, contrary to the Weber Thesis as an historical generalization, with respect to their adverse or constraining and moderating effects on modern capitalism in relation to the major religions. For instance, it is not unique compared to Oriental and pre-Calvinist world religions (Hinduism, Buddhism, Confucianism, Judaism, Islam), in particular pre-Calvinist Christianity13 (Samuelsson, 1961; also Alexander, 1998; Cohen, 1980, 2002; Collins, 1997; MacKinnon, 1988; Robertson, 1933; Young, 2009), thus including Catholicism and Lutheranism as well as Anglicanism. The following section first reconsiders these deviant cases in their own right as exceptions to the “rule” and to that degree partial disconfirmations or “falsifications” of the Weber Thesis. It also investigates and analyzes whether and to what extent they may be exemplars of an alternate sociological “law” or historical pattern of the Weber Thesis in its historical component in the form of an inverse relationship of Calvinism and capitalism (symbolized by the subset of negative outcomes y2), thus turning into or

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revealing a reverse Calvinist-non-capitalist “norm” versus the Calvinistcapitalist “rule” (represented by the equation Y = y1).

DEVIANT CASES AS EXCEPTIONS TO THE CALVINIST-CAPITALIST “RULE” OF THE WEBER THESIS First and foremost, the above deviant cases are so manifest, salient, and strong that they in themselves cast serious doubt and perhaps to some degree “falsify” the Weber Thesis in its historical sociology and economics though confirm it in its economic sociology and social economics and thus the theoretical sociological core. This requires establishing and demonstrating that these deviant cases were both the purest and most total and persistent Calvinist and the least capitalist and economically developed and by implication politically democratic and culturally advanced societies or regions in Western Europe and America, respectively, as done in this order next. Second, both Scotland and the US South have been and remain the purest and most total and persistent Calvinist societies or regions in Western Europe and America, respectively. As typical of societies dominated by Calvinism, including its Anglo-Saxon “pure sect” (Weber’s term) Puritanism, they both have become and remained such by the agency of Calvinist revolutions and wars or revivals against a pre- or non-Calvinist society and state. Specifically, Scotland has done so through the first means and path in the form of the Calvinist (“Presbyterian”) revolution or civil war, and the US South via the second, as during and following the Great Awakenings and related evangelical revivals up to the late 20th and early 21st centuries. Their shared (hi)story is thus the Calvinist revolutionary and/or revivalist transformation, typically involving violence or coercion to a greater (the first) or lesser (the second) extent, of previously anti- or nonCalvinist societies, Catholic, and Anglican, respectively into eventually pure and almost totally and persistently Calvinist social systems. More precisely, Scotland has been transformed into and constituted the purest and most total proto-Calvinist society in the sense and form of orthodox, French Calvinism directly and personally transmitted from the Frenchman Calvin in Geneva by his earliest Scottish disciples. In turn, the US South has become such a neo-Calvinist or neo-Puritan equivalent in the meaning and shape of what Weber and other call neo-Calvinism cum revived

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Puritan-inspired evangelicalism or fundamentalism as the “Bible Belt” after all indicates. For instance, Scotland has been and remains dominated overwhelmingly by Presbyterianism expressing orthodox Calvinism, and the US South, in addition and even more, by Methodism and especially Baptism and related sects reflecting Calvinist revivalism and Puritan sectarianism. While their societal points of origin, trajectories of transformation by, and forms of Calvinism are not entirely identical, their destination or aggregate outcome is shared. It is the purest and most complete and persistent Calvinist societies, even if subnational ones existing within a large society, within the Western world, i.e., Europe and America, respectively. This is important to reiterate and reemphasize because the argument that Scotland and the US South are salient deviant cases partly disconfirming the Weber Thesis in its historical component, and especially that may turn out to represent an alternative “rule” rather than exception crucially hinges on establishing that the two are precisely such Calvinist societies, which is sometimes either denied or overlooked, as often for the “Bible Belt”. In particular, Scotland is the probably earliest, most successful, complete, and dramatic or paradigmatic instance of revolutionary, coercive transformation of a previously non-Calvinist, specifically Catholic, into ultimately an almost purely and totally Calvinist (“Presbyterian”) society within Western Europe, excluding the relatively minor, local case of the city-state Geneva during Calvin’s rule. For instance, earlier it has become functional and remained more as a Calvinist society than England and Holland, let alone small sections of Germany (Prussia’s ruling group) and other parts of Europe (again except for Geneva under Calvin). And in a bizarre or ironic twist, Scotland has been transformed from a Catholic and mostly French-influenced into a Calvinist and anti-French, ultimately English-dominated society by the crucial and even fateful agency of none other than a previous Catholic and yet still loyal Frenchman Jean Calvin while in exile in Geneva receiving and instructing in the cause of Calvinist revolution various pilgrims, especially from this country like John Knox (Becker, 1940; Foster, 1923; Hobsbaum, 1972), England (“Puritans”), and elsewhere. In turn, the US South is the probably most successful, complete, and dramatic or paradigmatic instance of revolutionary or revivalist transformation of a previously pseudo-Calvinist or partly Calvinist, specifically Anglican, into eventually and even growingly almost purely and totally Calvinist and generally evangelical region within America, accompanied or followed by the Calvinization of the West (Clemens, 2007). Thus, through and in the aftermath of the Great Awakenings of the 18th and especially

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19th century expressing in essence Calvinist revivalism (Rossel, 1970), the South has become the most Calvinist cum evangelical or fundamentalist region of the United States, and remains so and even ever more grows as such until today (Bailey & Snedker, 2011; Hicks, 2006; Messner, Baller, & Zevenbergen, 2005). Second, while being the purest, most complete, and persistently Calvinist spaces within their respective larger societal settings, they are the least capitalist and generally economically developed societies, specifically Scotland in Western Europe and Great Britain, and the US South within America. Scotland has been for long both the exemplary Calvinist and pre-capitalist or feudal and economically backward and poor society in Europe, as Sombart (2001[1911], 1928[1913]) and other early and later critics object (Burrell, 1960; Forcese, 1968; Hall, 1913; Hudson, 1961; Hyma, 1938; Means, 1965; Robertson, 1933). In short, a “Calvinistic Scottish society” (Becker, 1940) has remained a pre-capitalistic, feudal, and backward economy (and culture) for centuries, as since the late 16th through the 19th century. The US South has constituted, since the Great Awakenings, an awaken Puritan, evangelical region cum the “Bible Belt” (Bailey & Snedker, 2011; Hobsbaum, 1972; Howe, 1972; Mencken, 1982) and also pre-capitalism or feudalism (Hall 1913) indicating lack of industrial capitalism and persistent economic backwardness until post-bellum times and long afterwards (Acemoglu & Robinson, 2008; Clark, 1951; Samuelsson, 1961). Simply, this region in ante- and post-bellum times has been the most Calvinist and the most economically backward and poor region in America, and even remains so today not only within the latter but also the Western world, thus surpassing Scotland. Furthermore, the Southern extension, contagion, or culmination into evangelical America combines the dominance of Puritan-rooted fundamentalism or conservative Protestantism and persistent economic and educational underdevelopment, poverty and wealth inequality, and even more democratic and cultural backwardness (Amenta et al., 2001; Clark, 1951; Cochran, 2001; Darnell & Sherkat, 1997; Keister, 2008). As manifest and salient exceptions to and thus disconfirmation of the Calvinist-capitalist “rule” of the Weber Thesis, they have functioned and persisted for remarkably long, almost like an eternity within an analytical framework that considers, if ever, such deviations short and temporary (say, in years, not centuries) and even rules them out. Specifically, Scotland has operated as such in the not so distant past as until the late 19th century, and the US South through present times, at least up to the 1960s, and its extension evangelical (“red”) America since the 1980s, specifically the

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rise of Calvinist Reaganism14 (DiPrete et al., 2011) and evangelicalism overall through the 2010s. In Weber’s terms, they have done so during both the late 18th century “qualitative formation” or emergence and the 19th to 20th century “quantitative expansion” or diffusion and consolidation of modern capitalism in Western Europe, including Great Britain, and America as their larger societal contexts, respectively (while contemporary evangelical America since the 1980s doing so only during the second capitalist phase). Notably, this apparent time difference in their exceptions to the “rule” between the two corresponds or coincides with the historical fact that Scotland became and to some extent ceased to be totally and officially Calvinist and theocratic earlier than did the US South cum the “Bible Belt.” Conversely, it relates to that the US South, like the “Wild West” (Clemens, 2007) and parts of the United States other than originally Puritan New England, was “Calvinized” later and has remained Calvinist cum evangelical longer than Scotland until present times, and thus apparently (consequently?) as an exception to or disconfirmation of the Weber Thesis’s rule of Calvinism-capitalism. If so, this reveals a curious, unexpected relationship between the purity, totality, and persistence of Calvinism and modern industrial capitalism or the level of economic development that is an exact opposite to that posited by the Weber Thesis. Namely, at least Scotland and the US South and its effective or prospective extension into evangelical America show and exemplify a sort of inverse “rule” or historical pattern in this respect. This is that the purer, more totally and persistently Calvinist a society is, the least modern industrial capitalism, just as liberal-secular democracy and cultural rationalism, is advanced and expanded and generally the less economically developed and prosperous, just as less democratic and rationalistic, but more backward and poorer, as well as more theocratic or oppressive and irrational that society is. While Scotland is mostly a historical case in point since its development from the late 19th century, most past diagnoses, lamentations, and explanations of its striking economic, political, and cultural backwardness and poverty compared to England and Western Europe have identified its near-total theocratic rule by Calvinism as a major, though not only, explanatory factor, from its most famous sons Hume and Smith to later and current analyses15 (Robertson, 1933). Also, virtually all such observations, bemoans, and accounts for the even longer persisting economic and cultural backwardness and poverty, as well as the political repression and coercion (Acemoglu & Robinson, 2008;

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Amenta et al., 2001; Bailey & Snedker, 2011; Cochran, 2001), of the US South compared to the North, identity “religion,” specifically evangelicalism or fundamentalism and thus survived or revived Calvinism, as the major factor and explanation. Simply, the identified cause for all this diagnosed and deplored Southern underdevelopment, poverty, oppression, and superstition is the fact that the South is the neo-Puritan “Bible Belt,” just as Scotland was a proto-Calvinist Biblical “kirk.” In aggregate, it is almost commonly observed and agreed that both historically backward Scotland and the persistently poor or economically underdeveloped US South (and its extension into evangelical America) have been and remain such because of being and remaining Calvinist, i.e., arch-Calvinist and neo-Calvinist, Presbyterian and fundamentalist, respectively. Needless to say, all this strongly deviates from and evidently contradicts the Weber Thesis’s rule of solely a positive Calvinist-capitalist effect or link (y1 = Y) and instead exemplifies an alternative “rule” or reverse pattern of Calvinism displaying adverse (or mixed) effects on or disjuncture from modern capitalism (y2 and y3), just as liberal democracy and cultural progress, as a half or third of the “equation” (Y = y1, y2, y3, …, yn).

PATTERNS IN DEVIATIONS FROM THE WEBER THESIS Certain relevant patterns are manifest and salient in the above and related deviations from the Weber Thesis. The overarching pattern is that Calvinism is associated with pre-capitalism or feudalism and generally economic underdevelopment and relative poverty, as well as totalitarian theocracy and culture backwardness and irrationalism, rather or less than with modern industrial capitalism, just as liberal democracy and civil society, and cultural rationalism. The purer, the more completely and enduringly Calvinist a society is, the more and the longer pre-capitalist or feudal and economically undeveloped and relatively poor, just as politically undemocratic and culturally backward and irrational, becomes and remains, or the less capitalist in the sense of modern industrial capitalism and developed in economic terms, plus democratic in politics and advanced or rationalistic in culture. Therefore, such a pattern forms a sort of reverse or alternative generalized “norm” to the Calvinist-capitalist rule of the Weber Thesis, each thus forming a half of the “equation” or function of Calvinism and capitalism, rather than the positive effect only (y1) being the whole “story”

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by the logically and empirically impermissible reduction of the aggregate set of effects to this subset (Y = y1). This striking reverse pattern is demonstrated in both of these deviations from the Calvinist-capitalist rule. Specifically, it is witnessed in Scotland until at least the late 19th century (Robertson, 1933). It is shown in the US South minimally until the 1960s (Acemoglu & Robinson, 2008; Samuelsson, 1961) and even present times (Amenta et al., 2001; Bauman, 1997; Cochran, 2001; Putnam, 2000), in the form of an association of ruling Puritaninspired evangelicalism with persistent economic underdevelopment and poverty, just as even more political anti-liberalism and the theocratic “godly” subversion of democracy (the “Bible Belt”), and cultural backwardness and irrationalism. At least in these Calvinist and similar societies, it appears that whenever and wherever Calvinism begins and prevails either in its orthodox form or in its evangelical revivals, so do economic backwardness and comparative poverty, and pre-capitalism, including feudalism, slavery, and the caste system, as well as theocratic political repression and cultural backwardness and anti-rationalism. Thus, economic backwardness and poverty and feudalism largely prevailed or persisted in the case of Scotland until the late 19th century, just as did slavery in the US South and moreover its caste system (segregation) a century longer during post-bellum predominant Puritan-rooted evangelicalism (Bailey & Snedker, 2011; Messner et al., 2005). Alternatively, within these deviant cases when and where Calvinism expands, prevails, and endures, substantial economic development and prosperity and equality do not really follow and materialize, and modern industrial capitalism does not emerge or fully expand as the source and engine of such a state of economy and material well-being. In extension, if the first occurs, modern liberal democracy and civil society and cultural rationalism like scientism are either not established or being dispensed with or perverted. Predictably, this is done for the glory of “Almighty God” (Madsen, 2009; Vaisey, 2009) as the supreme and eternal Calvinist and in extension evangelical (Lindsay, 2008) cause overriding and eliminating everything and everyone else. This includes overcoming and dispensing with individual liberty, justice, dignity, well-material and spiritual being, happiness and life, and one’s own friends and family and ultimately oneself, all these social ideals and humans to be literally or figuratively sacrificed to what Parsons (1937) calls in reference to ascetic Protestantism the “purposes of God.” Thus, the more totally and enduringly Calvinism dominates and pervades a society, the less or later, if ever, that society will experience substantial

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economic development and prosperity and overcome backwardness, poverty, and misery through the emergence and establishment of modern industrial capitalism in spite of and even in opposition rather than because of Calvinist societal dominance and pervasiveness. For example, Scotland experienced substantial economic development and prosperity and the emergence and expansion of modern industrial capitalism only or mostly during the late 19th century, precisely when Calvinism suffered a relative decline or mitigation even in this the purest and most Calvinist society, and primarily as the effect of the Industrial Revolution relatively delayed mostly due to Presbyterian theocratic dominance and irrationalism (Robertson, 1933). Similarly, the US South experienced this in part during the late 19th century under the more or less imposed or extraneous Northern (“federal”) process of “Reconstruction” involving industrialization, thus in spite of rather than because of orthodox Calvinism, reinvented as evangelicalism, not yet “gone with the wind” but still prevailing and resisting economic and political reform in the “Bible Belt” for long (Acemoglu & Robinson, 2008; Samuelsson, 1961), as instead was for all intent and purposes in its initial home New England and in part the rest of America by that historical point (Hollinger, 1980; Howe, 1972). Moreover, in contrast to Scotland, this region in a way has not reached the critical mass or threshold of substantial economic development and prosperity and the full establishment and operation of modern industrial capitalism and even more liberal-secular democracy/civil society and cultural rationalism until today (Amenta et al., 2001; Cochran, 2001), at least the end of its segregation system in the 1960s (Acemoglu & Robinson, 2008). Conversely, it has perpetuated in seeming eternity or infinity the opposite, basically semi-feudal or caste, economic, as well as anti-liberal and non-democratic political and superstitious or irrational cultural, structure virtually never “gone with the wind,” as a sort of Southern story and way of economy, politics, civil society, and culture with apparent “pride and joy.” And it has done so all the while and in spite of its being almost totally and ever-growingly dominated by Calvinism in the form of Puritaninspired revived evangelicalism, as diagnosed and lamented since Mencken (1982), probably first describing the South as a primitive, theocratic, and barbarian “Bible Belt” (i.e., ruled by Baptist and Methodist “barbarism”), a century ago through later times (Samuelsson, 1961) and the present. After all, the commonly used self-portrayal of the South as both the “Bible Belt” and “Dixie” (Cochran, 2001) or a “hillbilly” society (Clark, 1951) precisely indicates or implies this association of prevailing Calvinism through evangelicalism with adverse economic and related outcomes, and

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perhaps “adverse selection” (Esponda, 2008) in economy and society. These outcomes are persistent economic underdevelopment (Acemoglu & Robinson, 2008; Samuelsson, 1961), perpetual and widespread poverty and inequality (Keister, 2008), and relatedly low educational attainment to the point of substituting secular education as a treat to religious and political authority by “no education” as “better” (Darnell & Sherkat, 1997), as well as theocratic political coercion and exclusion (the “ungodly need not apply”) and cultural backwardness and irrationalism (e.g., recurrent “Monkey trials” of science). Therefore, the US South cum the “Bible Belt”/ “Dixie” compound confirms and even epitomizes rather than disproves the above reverse pattern. It shows that whenever and wherever Calvinism expands, prevails, and endures, substantial economic development and prosperity, including modern industrial capitalism, just as liberal-secular democracy and cultural progress, either do not directly and immediately follow or do so comparatively late relative to non- and post-Calvinist settings, and the latter outcome occurs, as in Scotland, and conceivably will, if ever, in the US South, in spite and opposition, not because of Calvinist prevalence and endurance. In aggregate, whenever and wherever, as in these two Calvinist societies, Calvinism begins and rules, economic development and prosperity, in particular modern industrial capitalism, does not, or does very late in spite of it, while liberal democracy/civil society and cultural rationalism (scientism) end or being subverted into theocratic opposites for the sake of “glorification of God.” The only secondary internal difference between the two is that Scotland has been the paradigmatic exemplar of this inverse association or disjuncture between Calvinism and modern capitalism, as well as liberal democracy and rationalistic culture from the past, until the late 19th century. By contrast to Scotland, the US South has been the present or persistent exemplar, remaining so until presently, at least till the 1960s, because it persists in its twin defining and identifying attributes. It thus does, first, in the form of a Puritan-style “Bible Belt” as a genuine or proxy Calvinist Biblical theocracy or what Weber calls Bibliocracy deemed “Divinely ordained” since Calvin through “born again” power-seeking US evangelicals (Hout & Fischer, 2002; Lindsay, 2008; Owens et al., 2010). Second and as a corollary, it persists as the economically and generally backward “Dixieland” or “hillbilly” region plagued by seemingly neverending and widespread poverty, destitution, squalor, misery, and actual or potential starvation short of detested federal government’s “interference” undermining the “state rights” by food stamps, welfare, social security, and related “big government” programs as an anathema to “limited” Southern

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police states perpetuating such economic “prosperity.” Evident cases in point are the Southern former Confederate and adjacent states, spanning from Alabama, Georgia, Mississippi, South Carolina, and Tennessee to Oklahoma and Texas, as both most Puritan-evangelical and most persistently poor or economically underdeveloped within America seemingly “forever,” at least since post-bellum times. Hence, the US South persists in Calvinism and economic and other backwardness later and thus surpasses and replaces Scotland as the most Calvinist and most economically (and politically and culturally) backward society or region within the Western world. At least, the question of whether and to what extent predominant Calvinism via the evangelical religion may well be one of the sources of this persistent economic not to mention political and cultural backwardness, poverty, and misery of the South, as has been that of Scotland until the late 19th century, deserves attention and consideration, simply to be asked and perhaps answered. Simply, one may wonder if the evangelical “Bible Belt” is the underlying religious and thus Calvinist source and explanation of the persistently and even currently poor “Dixieland” or “hillbilly” Southern nation (Acemoglu & Robinson, 2008; Amenta et al., 2001; Clark, 1951; Cochran, 2001; Samuelsson, 1961), just as has been the Presbyterian theocratic regime the cause of poor and backward Scotland for long (Robertson, 1933). After all, this is a legitimate and topical question and a plausible tentative answer because the US South persists as both the most Calvinist cum evangelical subnational society and the most underdeveloped and poor economy or modern capitalism (except perhaps for Southern Italy and similar European regions) in the Western world today, at least in North America (including Canada). It even does with elements of “thirdworld” societies both in religious-theocratic and economic as well as political and cultural terms (Inglehart, 2004). On this account, the US South replaces or represents a kind contemporary variant of Scotland that has been the most Calvinist and the most economically and culturally backward society in Western Europe for long. For instance, Table 1 strongly indicates a negative association between the prevalence of Calvinism via evangelicalism, approximated by religiosity, and economic development measured by GNP or income per capita in US states. As indicated, the more Calvinist cum evangelical (i.e., more religious) a US South and related “red” state is, the less economically developed (measured by lower GNP) and to that extent less capitalistic in the sense of modern industrial capitalism it is, and conversely. Thus, Mississippi, Alabama, South and North Carolina, Tennessee, Louisiana,

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Georgia, Arkansas, Oklahoma, Texas, Kentucky, and West Virginia rank as the dozen most religious states and also among those with the lowest GNP and thus poorest in the US during the 2000s 2010s. For example, Mississippi is number one in religiosity and the last in GNP followed by Alabama, South Carolina, Georgia, Tennessee, and similar states of the “deep South,” perhaps in a sort of exhibition and contagion of “Southern pride” conjoining “Bible Belt” fundamentalism and theocracy with “Dixie,” “hillbilly” economic and overall backwardness and poverty. Comparatively, these and all other Southern and “hillbilly” states (including the richest of them Virginia) feature both higher degrees of religiosity and lower levels of GNP than, for instance, post-Puritan secular Massachusetts (ranked 2 on the first and 46 on the second category) and even (except for Florida on the second) mostly Catholic Maryland (ranked number 4 and 23, respectively). Generally, the least economically developed or the poorest states in the United States today are as a rule, as have been for long in the past, those of the “Bible Belt” (with the single exception of Virginia yet being or becoming the least Calvinist and religious state overall in the region, except for Florida, thus effectively confirming the above pattern). To that extent, the table confirms the direct association between the US South as the “Bible Belt” of Puritan-inspired “godliness” and as the “Dixieland” or “hillbilly” nation of economic and political-cultural backwardness and poverty, and the disjuncture of the first from material advancement and prosperity, not to mention liberal-secular democracy and cultural rationalism. Comparatively, it reaffirms that the US South is today by its composite of a “Bible Belt” and “Dixie” the contemporary substitute or version of Calvinist-backward Scotland, i.e., its equation or association of Calvinism and backwardness, in the past. In this sense, the “new” evangelical South, as initiated by the “Great Awakenings,” fully established in post-bellum times, and expanding and culminating since the 1980s, represents a sort of “New Scotland” transferred to another geographical and societal setting and seemingly perpetuated and enduring far beyond late 19th century Scotland itself. These data confirm that if there is, as outside observers wonder and many Southerners themselves lament, such a thing as the Southern “curse” causing and perpetuating economic as well as political and cultural backwardness, it is Calvinism in the form of Puritan-rooted evangelicalism (so “religion”), just as it has been in Scotland for long. In extension, such “curse” perhaps plagues virtually all that is “Southern,” ranging from Southern vs. Northern parts of any society, as also exemplified by Italy, to

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Table 1.

Calvinism (Religiosity) and Economic Development in Southern and Related US States, 2008 2011.

State

United States Alabama Arkansas Florida Georgia Kentucky Louisiana Mississippi Missouri North Carolina Oklahoma South Carolina Tennessee Texas Utah Virginia West Virginia

GNP per Capitaa

Religiosityb (“Is Religion an Important Part of Your Daily Life?”)

2011 dollars

Rank

2008 percentages

Rank

41,663 34,650 34,014 39,563 36,104 33,667 38,578 32,176 38,248 36,164 37,277 33,673 36,533 39,593 33,790 45,920 33,513

NA 42 44 27 39 47 28 50 29 38 34 46 36 26 45 7 48

65 82 78 65 76 74 78 85 68 76 75 80 79 74 69 68 71

NA 2 6 23 7 10 5 1 14 8 9 3 4 10 13 15 11

Sources: aU.S. Department of Commerce, Bureau of Economic Analysis, 2012; bCrabtree and Pelham, 2009.

Southern vs. Northern (countries of) Europe and to the South vs. the North in the world and global capitalism. Almost invariably, the “South” is always and everywhere both more religious (and traditional) and more economically, as well as politically and culturally, backward or poor than the North, as exemplified by Southern Italy, South Europe, and the Southern “third world.” If so, then the US South is just an instance of a seemingly universal sociological law or empirical pattern of an inverse link between religion and economic development and prosperity, as well as liberal-secular democracy and cultural rationalism, with the difference that the religious factor in question associated with such adverse outcomes is none other than presumably “unique” Calvinism, rather than, say, Catholicism in Italy and Europe or Latin America, and Islam in Muslim countries, etc. And such apparent near-universality can be experienced and embraced in the US South, as anywhere “Southern,” either as a kind of cruel destiny with no “voice and exit” in spite of or rather because of

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Calvinism cum the evangelical religion or a “consolation prize” of sharing the misery with the company of sufferers (though this region seems more parochial, “patriotic,” and non-cosmopolitan than the North to be aware of the general Southern pattern of religion/tradition and economic and societal backwardness beyond America). The above overall pattern in these two societies, evidently and strongly contradicting the Calvinist-capitalist causal linkage, is specified and demonstrated by the following particular patterns. First, pre-capitalism, specifically feudalism and even slavery, prefigures and to some degree affects Calvinism and generally ascetic Protestantism in these deviant cases, specifically Scotland and the US South, respectively. In turn, Calvinism becomes compatible and coexistent with pre-capitalism such as feudalism in Scotland (Means, 1965) and slavery and the caste system in the US South, plus apartheid in South Africa. Moreover, it even perpetuates and sanctifies this pre-capitalist economic system and its outcomes. This is epitomized by Calvinism’s and generally ascetic Protestantism’s tenacious perpetuation and sanctification of slavery in the US South as “divinely ordained,” with some minor abolitionist exceptions in the North, until the Civil War (Dawson, 1978; Maddex, 1979; Saillant, 1995), as well as of its sequel the caste system of segregation (Acemoglu & Robinson, 2008), including vigilante violence (Bailey & Snedker, 2011; Jacobs et al., 2005; Messner et al., 2005), up to the 1960s and even present times through Puritan-inspired revived predominant and evermore power-angry evangelicalism (Lindsay, 2008). Second, pre-modern and pre-industrial, including merchant, capitalism historically precedes as well as influences Calvinism and generally ascetic Protestantism in these societies. Unlike in the previous cases, Calvinism and generally ascetic Protestantism in due course condemn and oppose this economic system, notably its representative the merchant or trader, as the emanation of Mammon and thus the “enemy of God.” Hence, it is far from being exceptional or unique in this respect (MacKinnon, 1990; Samuelsson, 1961) within the Christian religion, in particular in relation to Catholicism (e.g., the medieval dogma the “merchant can never please God,” as often cited by Weber). Third, the expansion and domination of Calvinism in these societies do not appreciably change their economic structure during that time. Under Calvinism, they largely remain either pre-capitalistic, specifically feudal and retain slavery and caste system, or in the pre-modern and pre-industrial stage and form of capitalism. Generally, they persist as economically underdeveloped and poor, just as politically undemocratic and culturally

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backward, through the late 19th century (Scotland) and even beyond until recent times (the US South). Calvinism through Puritanism mostly helps perpetuate and sanctifies this state of economic underdevelopment and poverty, as well as of political coercion, oppression, and exclusion, essentially “coercive theocracy” cum “godly” government (Zaret, 1989), and cultural backwardness and irrationalism in these societies. For example, it has done so until at least the late 19th century in the case of Scotland and recent times and, via Puritan-rooted revived evangelicalism, does even today in that of the US South. Fourth, modern industrial capitalism emerges and develops and generally rapid economic development, as well as liberal political democracy and civil society, begins long after the peak and even during the decline of Calvinism in these societies, especially Scotland during the late 19th century (Howe, 1972; Means, 1965; Robertson, 1933). Alternatively, modern capitalism, like liberal democracy and civil society, does not arise and expand and rapid economic development does not begin so long as Calvinism continues and even via Puritan-inspired evangelicalism expands and intensifies its theocratic domination, as the US South turned to the “Bible Belt” since ante-bellum through recent times (Acemoglu & Robinson, 2008; Friedland, 2002; Jacobs et al., 2005; Lindsay, 2008). Thus, these societies become modern industrial capitalist economies and economically developed overall, just as politically liberal-democratic, only when Calvinism has experienced relative decline of its total theocratic power, as shown in Scotland and before in Holland and England during the Industrial Revolution (Ashraf & Galor, 2011; Crafts, 1996; Habermas, 1989; Shiue & Keller, 2007), as well as in France and Europe overall at the time of the Enlightenment (Dombrowski, 2001; Hirschman, 1977; Hodgson, 1999; Mokyr, 2009, 2010) and the French Revolution (Acemoglu, Cantoni, Johnson, & Robinson, 2011; Dahrendorf, 1979; Markoff, 1997), including European countries like feudal, agrarian Germany for long (Clark, 2012) afterwards. And conversely, they do not and become modern industrial capitalist economies and economically developed overall so long as Calvinism reigns supreme, i.e., until and unless it has “gone with the wind” or declined. This is especially witnessed in the US South, both perennially economically underdeveloped or comparative poor, just as even more anti-liberal and under-democratic and culturally backward, and yet persistently Calvinist in the form of Puritan-inspired revived evangelicalism, dominating since the Great Awakenings up to today (Amenta et al., 2001; Cochran, 2001; Friedland, 2002; Jacobs et al., 2005; Lindsay, 2008), at least up to the middle of 20th century (Acemoglu & Robinson, 2008). On this account,

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the Calvinist-capitalist rule does not only entirely and lastingly hold for at least these two societies, but rather a sort of reverse sociological “law” of Calvinism and capitalism operates in the form of the above patterns. In this connection, analysts ascertain the “failure of the Weberian thesis” (Stokes, 1975) in South Africa under Afrikaner Calvinism, Hungary at the time of “Calvinist activity” (Hudson, 1961), and the West Indies during “Puritan ventures” (Kaufman, 2008).

A NEGLECTED DEVIANT CASE A PURE CALVINIST AND BACKWARD SOCIETY IN EUROPE This section focuses on the deviant case of Scotland as both the purest Calvinist and the most economically and culturally backward society in Western Europe for long, specifically since the second half of the 16th through the late 19th centuries and in part later. “Presbyterian Scotland’s lack of economic development” (Cohen, 1983) for long is greatly neglected or under-analyzed within the Weber Thesis and related sociological literature, starting with Weber himself through his developers like Parsons with his “Puritan heritage” (Alexander, 1983), and generally seems less known or pertinent than, for example, the US Puritan-backward South, so it needs separate consideration. At this juncture, it seems natural and instructive to begin with Scotland’s perhaps greatest mind, most illustrious philosopher, and classical liberal, notably the leader of the Scottish Enlightenment, David Hume and his classic historical observations ironically in the seminal The History of England that his most famous follower Adam Smith especially admired about the expansion and dominance of Calvinism and the state of civilization or lack thereof in his home country. He observes that John Knox visited and communicated with Calvin (see also Davis, 2010; Foster, 1923)16 in Geneva during the 1560s and became his loyal disciple as did also the first “Puritans” coming from England receiving instructions from the French master to transmit his Calvinist revolution or “holy” war as the only effective means of Institution of the Christian Religion (the title of his theological magnum opus) to a country under internal Catholic royal rule and external French influence. Hume elaborates, “John Knox arrived from Geneva, where he had passed some years in banishment, and where he had imbibed, from his commerce with Calvin, the highest fanaticism of his sect, augmented by the native ferocity of his own character. He had

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been invited back to Scotland by the leaders of the reformation. A law was also voted for abolishing the papal jurisdiction in Scotland: the Presbyterian form of discipline was settled. The same horror against Popery with which the English Puritans were possessed, was observable among the populace in Scotland; and among these, as being more uncultivated and uncivilized, seemed rather to be inflamed into a higher degree of ferocity” (see also Hobsbaum, 1972).17 Notably, Hume implies that his Scotland while rapidly, coercively, and almost totally becoming a Calvinist country in the “Presbyterian form” has remained for long under Calvinism “uncultivated and uncivilized” in economic, as well as cultural and political, terms, by implication pre-capitalist or feudal and economically backward and poor, thus identifying a deviant case within what was to become the Weber Thesis in its historical dimension and anticipating its various criticisms. And Hume as the self-described non-Calvinist and non-believer (“not a Christian”) strongly laments both, in his view, the enfolding religious tragedy in which Scotland has been subjected to the “highest fanaticism of [Calvin’s] sect” since “Calvinist Knox” (Becker, 1940; Davis, 2010) importing it from Geneva and the fact that it has remained economically and otherwise backward country under Calvinism by the time he was writing these lines two centuries later. What Hume implies his most famous follower and the widely recognized founder of political economy, Smith observes for Scotland as their shared home country explicitly and also with apparent regret. In essence, Smith’s depicting and occasionally celebrating Scotland as the purest or most Calvinist society18 describes and deplores it as largely pre-capitalist or the poorest economy in Europe, at least within the Great Britain compared to England, which directly contradicts the Calvinism-capitalism rule or anticipates criticisms of the Weber Thesis historically understood rather than prefiguring it, as sometimes assumed in the contemporary “economics of religion” (Anderson, 1988). For instance, following or evoking Hume, Smith notes that Scotland is the “most extensive country” in Europe and beyond where the Calvinist (“Presbyterian”) church and political government “have ever been established” and yet modern capitalism and generally the state of civilization “have been longer and more completely established in England than in Scotland.” In particular, Smith witnesses that even during the late 18th century “the common people of Scotland neither worked so well, nor looked so well,” because they did not eat and live so well as that in England and in extension most Western Europe, as indicated that the “typical food” (oatmeal) of the first is “much inferior to that of their neighbours of the

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same rank” in the other regions and countries. Notably, he suggests this manifest difference in the “mode” of subsistence is the “effect” rather than the cause of the “difference” in wages, which are in turn due to the fact that in England the “improvements of agriculture, manufactures, and commerce began much earlier than in Scotland.” Specifically, he proposes that “where wages are high, accordingly, we shall always find the workman more active, diligent and expeditious, than where they are low; in England, for example, than in Scotland [etc.],” despite the latter being more Calvinist and thus regardless of Calvinism’s presumed economic virtues of restless activity, diligence, and expeditiousness manifesting its inner-worldly, intramundane asceticism in a calling inspired and induced by the doctrine of predestination within the Weber Thesis. Counterfactually, according to the Weber Thesis, Smith should have witnessed the exactly opposite processes and outcomes. Generally, following the Weber Thesis, the “improvements of agriculture, manufactures, and commerce” and by implication the rise of modern capitalism should have commenced “much earlier” in the purest and most Calvinist society Scotland than in less or non-Calvinist societies like mostly Anglican England as well as Catholic France and Italy, Lutheran Germany,19 etc. Yet, Smith during his lifetime witnessed the contrary process and outcome. In consequence, presumably wages and consumption or subsistence should have higher and hence workers “more active, diligent and expeditious,” simply working more and better in more Calvinist Scotland than in less so England and non-Calvinist France, except for the Huguenot-controlled regions or groups (Scoville, 1953) and Germany. Yet again, Smith registered the exact opposite, and even the country being regularly described by observers as “generally affected with slothe, and a lazy vagrance [sic]” (Burrell, 1960). Simply, if the Weber Thesis is applied in its historical component, Smith’s purely Calvinist Scotland must have been more purely capitalistic or economically advanced and richer than quasi- or partly Calvinist England and anti- or non-Calvinist France. As he observed with apparently deep regret, however, his pure Calvinist country had been the polar opposite for so long until his time, and hence he did not have the fortune to personally witness Scotland’s transformation into modern industrial capitalism and generally its substantial economic development, by contrast to England but instead the misfortune of witnessing and deploring its persistent backwardness and stagnation during his lifetime, just as esteemed precursor Hume previously. Thus, by the time Smith was writing his works, Scotland had been under Calvinism for about two centuries and still remained in his depiction a largely pre-capitalist, feudal or

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economically backward and poor economy, even the most backward and poorest in Western Europe, let alone Great Britain. To that extent, if any single case deviates from and thus disconfirms or partly falsifies the Weber Thesis, then it is Scotland since the victory and establishment of Calvinist through Hume Smith’s Scottish Enlightenment and the ensuing Industrial Revolution through the late 19th century (Robertson, 1933). In sum, like Hume, Smith portrays his Scotland as both the most Calvinist and the most economically backward and poor and even “rude and barbarous” country in Western Europe and beyond, in particular within the Great Britain during his time. A subtle difference is that, unlike Hume’s evident liberal-secular Enlightenment disgust with and distaste for Calvinism, especially Puritanism and what he identifies as its “wretched fanaticism,” Smith, with his Presbyterian heritage, often praises the Calvinist transformation and rule of Scotland, while deploring its remaining economically backward and poor despite such Calvinization. And probably hardly anyone can be a more reliable and credible witness of Calvinist yet pre-capitalist or economically backward and poor Scotland at least until the late 19th century than its two probably most famous and influential sons, Hume and Smith prior to and during that period. Other early and later economists and sociologists, with some rare exceptions (e.g., Marshall, 1980, 1982),20 follow or evoke Hume Smith’s original descriptions and lamentations of Calvinist-backward Scotland during their lifetime. For instance, within classical political economy English economist Senior notes, evoking Smith’s observation about the Scottish-English differences in subsistence and wages, that “shoes are necessaries to all the inhabitants of England. Our habits are such that there is not an individual whose health would not suffer from the want of them. To the lowest class of the inhabitants of Scotland they are luxuries: custom enables them to go barefoot without inconvenience and without degradation.” Also, Senior approvingly cites the observation by some Scottish writers that, by comparing Calvinist Scotland to later non-Calvinist or post-Puritan England, “we began the business of cotton-spinning later, we were of course behind, and we have always been behind; we have never been able to get up, and I believe never will,” evidently a process and outcome or prediction that is exactly opposite to what the Weber Thesis posits and predicts in its historical component. Curiously, neoclassical economist Marshall referring to Smith’s Scotland invokes the same example as Senior, observing that “in many of the earlier stages of civilization the sumptuary mandates of Law and Custom have rigidly prescribed to the members of each caste or industrial grade, the style

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and the standard of expense up to which their dress must reach and beyond which they may not go; and part of the substance of these mandates remains now, though subject to rapid change.” Marshall specifically observes that in Scotland “in Adam Smith’s time many persons were allowed by custom to go abroad without shoes and stockings who may not do so now; and many may still do it in Scotland who might not in England.” Therefore, like Hume and Smith, Marshall considers Scotland during the latter’s lifetime to be at the “earlier stages of civilization” and in consequence of economic development, thus modern capitalism and political democracy, and even to remain (note “still”) so during Marshall’s time of the later 19th century, while being the purest and most complete Calvinist society all the while. In turn, his contemporary Pareto implicates Scotland as paradigmatic Calvinist moralistic and repressive society21 but not as an instance of modern capitalism as late as the early 20th century. Similarly, following or evoking Hume and Smith, J. S. Mill implies Scotland and other parts of Europe under Calvinism in observing that “even with the strictly religious, who are much in earnest about their doctrines, and attach a greater amount of meaning to many of them than people in general, it commonly happens that the part which is thus comparatively active in their minds is that which was made by Calvin, or Knox [etc.].” Notably, like Hume, but unlike Smith, Mill depicts orthodox Calvinism in these and other societal settings as deeply anti-liberal, anti-individualistic, and non-democratic by denying and eliminating human liberty or free will and individual autonomy or choice in favor of total restraint, control, and obedience in society, including in consequence or by implication economy and thus modern capitalism itself. In his words, according to Calvinism, “the one great offence of man is Self-will. All the good of which humanity is capable, is comprised in Obedience.” You have no choice; thus you must do, and no otherwise; “whatever is not a duty is a sin” and hence, as Pareto also observes, by the Calvinist, notably Puritan, criminalization of sins and pleasures, a grave crime to be punished, often with death, as in Calvin’s Geneva and New England under Puritanism. Mill elaborates that the “theory of Calvinism” claims that “human nature being radically corrupt, there is no redemption for any one until human nature is killed within him. To one holding this theory of life, crushing out any of the human faculties, capacities, and susceptibilities, is no evil: man needs no capacity, but that of surrendering himself to the will of God: and if he uses any of his faculties for any other purpose but to do that supposed will more effectually, he is better without them.”

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If so, this logically implies22 that Scotland under Calvinism has remained for centuries mostly pre-capitalistic or feudal and generally economically backward or poor, just as culturally “uncivilized” and politically undemocratic or theocratic, perhaps because of this dominant “theory of Calvinism,” notably its “crushing out any of the human faculties, capacities, and susceptibilities” in economy and society, thus preventing or obstructing modern capitalism and rationalism generally, just as liberalsecular democracy. Counterfactually, one wonders how in Scotland and elsewhere Calvinism with its “crushing out any of the human faculties, capacities, and susceptibilities” and generally denying individual liberty and choice in economy and society could produce or even promote the “spirit and practice” of modern capitalism precisely typified by opposite tendencies, let alone liberal-secular democracy defined by such liberties and choices. It evidently did not and could not generate this at least in Scotland as the present focus. This is an implication or interpretation made explicit and emphasized by some later critical studies of the Weber Thesis explicitly attributing the failure of modern capitalism or economic individualism, rationalism, and development overall in Scotland and similar cases precisely to the theocratic dominance and dogmatic rigidity of orthodox Calvinism (Robertson, 1933; Sombart, 1928[1913]). In turn, echoing Smith, Marx cites the report that “many poor people, particularly in Scotland, live, and that very comfortably, for months together, upon oat-meal and barley-meal, mixed with only water and salt (and) the ordinary agricultural labourers in Scotland very seldom get any meat at all,” thus singling out this Calvinist country or region as among the poorest societies in Western Europe. In general, he observes that the “abolition of serfdom”23 occurred in Scotland “some centuries” later than in England, and thus occurred feudalism and the emergence of modern capitalism, in spite of, as Smith would suggest, or perhaps, as Hume and Mill would imply, because of the religious and political dominance of Calvinism. Similarly, his contemporary Spencer registers that in Scotland “less than two centuries ago it was the custom of lairds to kidnap the common people, and export them as slaves”; it was a period of expansion and dominance of Calvinism since the late 16th century. Furthermore, the early and later critics have specifically presented Scotland as a salient deviant case and thus disconfirmation of the Weber Thesis. For instance, the earliest sociological-economic critic Sombart notes that the Scottish cities were subjected to a Calvinist “system of espionage refined and highly developed” and objects that “Puritanism was far from encouraging its followers to engage in large-scale companies or

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adventurous: it was content to see them demonstrate a mentality of shopkeepers wise and down-to-earth. The Scots were Puritans!.” As noted, another contemporaneous but less known criticism is that Calvinism attained its “purest expression” in Scotland, alongside the US South, in which “feudalism and slavery and a patriarchal outlook upon life found welcome shelter in the authority of the Old Testament,” thus counter to the Weber Thesis (Hall, 1913). Yet another early critical historical analysis of the Weber Thesis objects that “Calvinist Scotland, in 1776, was not yet remarkable for the industry of her inhabitants” (Robertson, 1933, 49). Moreover, it suggests that this was due directly and precisely to Calvinism. Reportedly, Scotland “remained more feudalised, less affected by the growth of the new statesystem than most countries of Western Europe. The rise of rationalism in economic affairs was much slower in Scotland than elsewhere, owing to the overwhelming power of a theological outlook enforced by the masterful Presbyterian Church. Partly as a result of this, the economic development of Scotland in the 17th century was comparatively slow (indicating) how long Scotland was both Calvinist and poor [until] the later 18th and 19th centuries” (Robertson, 1933, p. 87). It infers that the “economic history of Scotland does not very easily support the theory that Scots Calvinism was a doctrine which favoured the rise of a capitalist organisation of industry. During the whole of the 17th century, and for a large part of the 18th century Scotland remained poor and backward” (Robertson, 1933, p. 99). Furthermore, it concludes that “in Scotland at least, [Calvinism] acted as a notable check on economic progress, and on the rise of a rational and practical, in place of a theologically determined, philosophy of business” (Robertson, 1933, p. 103). Similarly, an early critical historical study shows that in Scotland, like the North Netherlands, as a “much more thoroughly Calvinistic country than either England or New England, the faith of Calvin carried on amid poverty-stricken populations”24 (Hyma, 1938). Subsequent economic, historical, and sociological studies confirm that Scotland has been both the paradigmatic instance both of a Calvinist and of a pre-capitalist or economically backward and poor society in Western Europe for centuries, specifically until the aftermath of the Industrial Revolution such as the late 19th century. First, they show that Scotland has been reportedly an “archetypical Calvinist society” driven by the “vast Presbyterian crusade” for establishing “British theocracy” and realizing Calvin’s vision of “institution of the Christian religion” as a universal church25 (Burrell, 1960; also Tawney, 1923b).26 It is even depicted as the “most” Calvinist (Puritan) of the Reformation countries (Means, 1965) in

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Europe, i.e., the “most remarkable example of Calvinism in action: a country taken over and virtually beaten into the ground by one creed (by) its passivity before Calvinism” (Hobsbaum, 1972; also Gorski, 2000; Hillmann, 2008; Mullan, 1995). Second, they find that Calvinist Scotland “lagged far behind its wealthier, more industrious neighbors” by comparing its living standard to that of England, France, and Holland, simply, a European “economic backwater,” a “poorer country than most others in Western Europe” that was reportedly “largely unaffected by the Industrial Revolution until the end of the 19th century” (Means, 1965). Moreover, comparatively Calvinist (Presbyterian) Scotland reportedly “witnessed no great surge of economic activity, whereas Roman Catholic Flanders did,” indicating that had no positive “necessary effect on the rise of capitalism,” in this as well as other more or less Calvinist countries,27 including the Netherlanders, Hungary, and Huguenot France (Hudson, 1961). In the context of the Weber Thesis, this indicates the presence or prevalence of pre-capitalism, specifically feudalism28 (Burrell, 1960; also Hall, 1913; Robertson, 1933), and the “absence of capitalism” in “Presbyterian-dominated” Scotland (Forcese, 1968) remaining, as other Calvinist societies, economically backward29 (Hobsbaum, 1972) until relatively late stages of its economic development, as during the century following the Industrial Revolution. The preceding yields the inference that if the Weber Thesis of a direct connection between Calvinism and capitalism is “valid,” one “should expect to find a high rate of economic growth in Scotland” (Means, 1965), but reportedly such Calvinist “rational expectations” are not fulfilled. Scotland until the late 19th century “was a society which, though formally and extensively Calvinistic, did not conform in its economic and social manifestations to the commonly accepted view of such a society” presented in the Weber Thesis such that “far from finding in Calvinism, as Max Weber does, the spirit of capitalism, a glance at the map will show that just as capitalism advances, Calvinism declined”30 (Means, 1965). As noted, an American equivalent of Scotland is the South as the purest Calvinist or most evangelical (the “Bible Belt”) and the most pre-capitalist or semi-feudal and economically backward and poor region in America for long, at least since ante- and post-bellum times through the 1960s and beyond. As observed, the “Puritan South” as a region that has long been much more Puritan than the states of the North is economically “underdeveloped” (Samuelsson, 1961) and, as shown by the data on their highest religiosity and lowest GNP in contemporary America, remains so virtually until today. Compared to the almost mysterious or neglected and “small”

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case of Scotland, the US South seems to be a better known and even axiomatic or notorious and larger instance of a Calvinist-evangelical and economically underdeveloped as well as politically non- or under-democratic and culturally backward and irrational society in America and the Western world as a whole, so it needs not much elaboration and demonstration at this juncture. Still another, perhaps least known, deviant case is, as noted, Calvinist South Africa that indicates the “failure of the Weberian thesis in the South African context” (Stokes, 1975; also Hobsbaum, 1972; Toit, 1985). Additional, also relatively unknown, deviant cases include, as implied, Hungary that suffered economic decline precisely “during the most flourishing period of Calvinist activity” (Hudson, 1961), and the West Indies where “Puritan ventures” failed to create “cultures of capitalism” (Kaufman, 2008). The preceding then yields the sum of five manifest deviant cases within and in that sense disconfirmations of the Weber Thesis thus more than Weber and his admirers like Parsons would allow albeit South Africa, Hungary, and the West Indies are seemingly less salient as well as relatively unexplored and under-analyzed deviations from the Calvinist-capitalist rule, so it suffices to just register them. Moreover, one wonders if the list of deviant cases may be longer by comprising also, for example, Calvin’s Geneva (Tawney, 1923b; Valeri, 1997) and even to some extent, as Weber occasionally admits, Calvinist Holland (also Robertson, 1933; Hyma, 1938), thus the two putative exemplars of the Calvinism-capitalism “rule” and proofs of the Weber Thesis, with only Huguenot-controlled France and especially Puritan England and New England remaining as such, in a charitable interpretation subject to reexamination. If so, the sum of exceptions to the “rule” may turn out to be larger than that of its confirmations.

CONCLUSIONS In essence, the core of the Weber Thesis has been reaffirmed and remarkably endured within contemporary sociology, notably economic sociology and “middle-range” substantive sociological theory, and its historical element more or less disconfirmed, discredited, and non-durable and to that extent repeatedly “falsified” or perilously close to falsification. Simply, virtually all economic and other contemporary sociologists as well as social

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economists concur and reaffirm that religion and culture overall can and does generally influence economy, just as conversely. Yet, most historians as well as historical economists, plus many theologians, deny or dispute and disprove that a specific religious factor, ascetic Protestantism, notably Calvinism, generated or positively influenced modern capitalism as both the capitalist “spirit” and economy either singlehandedly or within a set of multiple factors. This helps to explain the usually noted paradox that the Weber Thesis has been repeatedly “falsified” or unsupported by historical evidence and in that sense virtually “dead” or discredited in the science of history and to a great degree historical economics and even in part historical sociology. And yet it remains “well and alive” in sociology and even as a classic enduring and “famous” model of substantive sociological theory (Merton, 1968; Munch, 2001; Parsons, 1947; Swidler, 1986; Vaisey, 2009), notably a paradigmatic instance and theoretical proposition of modern economic sociology31 (Dobbin, 2005; Smelser & Swedberg, 2005; Swedberg, 1998, 2003). In sum, the Weber Thesis has apparently proved or been perceived as a more successful endeavor in substantive sociological and related theory, above all that of economic sociology or sociological economics, than in history and historical economics and sociology (plus perhaps theology, though he notes that most theologians have been “warmer” in reception than mostly hostile historians). It is as a general theoretical proposition of economic sociology and related fields that the Weber Thesis has, as his colleague, theologian Troeltsch (1966)32 puts it, more “proved” its validity, usefulness, and application, and less as a particular empirical generalization of history and historical economics/sociology, and probably a partial exercise in theology. And, as indicated throughout, the theoretical-sociological core and the historical-empirical component of the Weber Thesis are intertwined and inseparable. The theoretical-sociological core positing the impact of religion and culture in general on economy in its pre-capitalist and capitalist types alike is specified and exemplified by the historical-empirical component exploring the specific effect of Calvinism on modern capitalism as particular religious and economic systems, respectively. This holds true although the Weber Thesis probably does not exactly “get right” the direction or sign of the Calvinist effect on capitalism as solely and strongly positive, for even if such effects may be instead negative or mixed, as shown for such “deviant cases” as Scotland and the US South, this still epitomizes and confirms the theoretical-sociological core of the influence of religion on the capitalist and other economy.

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Also, the question arises as whether or not the nature of capitalism has changed since the time when Weber was writing and today.33 In a way, Weber himself anticipated such changes in the nature and structure of modern capitalism by observing that it no longer needs its supposed “religious basis” grounding its emergence and early expansion and even that its “religious root” effectively “died out,” specifically Calvinism or its cardinal dogma of predestination diagnosed as caput mortuum (literally dead’s head or corpse). In this sense, modern capitalism since and even during Weber’s time has developed into a post- and non-Calvinist economic system disconnected from and to some degree opposed to and incompatible with Calvinism, in particular predestination theology (Friedman, 2011), and religion in general. In comparative terms, however, this Calvinist-capitalist dissociation or divergence seems to apply more to capitalism in largely secularized Western Europe than in more religious contemporary America, especially the neo-Calvinist evangelical US South. And the continuing linkage or convergence between Calvinism and persistent comparative economic backwardness and poverty, as well as liberaldemocratic deficit, in the US South, like Scotland before, casts strong doubt on the Weber Thesis in its historical component and yet strongly supports it in its sociological core. In this sense, the Southern religiouseconomic “story,” like that of Scotland earlier, exemplifies the connection between the sociological core and the historical component of the Weber Thesis. Namely, it confirms that religion does affect economy (and polity) in general, specifically that Calvinism or its heir impacts modern capitalism as the sociological core of the Weber Thesis but that such effects are likely more negative or mixed than positive as per its historical component. The broader theoretical-sociological significance of the present argument is that it is consistent with economic sociology’s characteristic theory or assumption that religion and other culture impacts economy, including modern capitalism, and that such effects can be multiple and complex, specifically positive, negative, or compounded. Generally, the argument is consistent with the overarching theory of economic sociology (and social economics) that society as a whole crucially affects, regulates, and embeds economy, including capitalism, as the integral element (“subsystem”) rather than being independent of the total societal system, as Weber himself as well as Durkheim, Pareto, Parsons, and other sociologists emphasize, which implies a corresponding direction for further theoretical analysis with reference to the Weber Thesis. In addition, some areas for future empirical research include the need for more studies of the relationship

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between Calvinism and capitalism or economic development in such apparent deviant cases from the Weber Thesis as Scotland, the US South, South Africa, etc.

NOTES 1. Citations for Weber and other classical sociologists and economists are not provided assuming that they are commonly known and their works are in ‘public domain’, and also for reasons of space. 2. An anonymous reviewer suggests that Weber held the fourth version of the Thesis citing his closing statements in the Protestant Ethic. The author agrees that this is the most plausible and acceptable interpretation of Weber’s intentions, as stated in these statements. However, what Weber actually posits and pursues in the Protestant Ethic (plus General Economic History and to some degree Economy and Society) is primarily and systematically the first three versions of the Thesis, viz., the impact of Calvinism as the presumed explanatory factor on modern capitalism as the assumed dependent variable, and just secondarily and sporadically the fourth version, i.e., the influence in the opposite direction. In this sense, the fourth, recursive version appears as a sort of after-thought and after-the-fact concession to “materialism,” a modification or extension rather than the proper rendition of the Weber Thesis as in essence a non-recursive model with Calvinism as the independent and capitalism as the dependent variable. 3. The author thanks an anonymous reviewer for suggesting the distinction between the “ideal of a consensual scientific community” in the sense of Kuhn within economic sociology and “Popperian falsificationism” in history with respect to the Weber Thesis. The reviewer adds that the “validity of the economic sociologists” interpretation is derived from the acceptance of the Weber Thesis and suggests the need to provide a “standpoint from which the economic sociological argument is valid.” In essence, this standpoint is the theoretical assumption and historical-empirical generalization that religion does impact economy, including its capitalism form, resulting in such consensus within the sociological scientific community a la Kuhn, though not necessarily in the exact (positive) direction or sign Weber assumes that Calvinism in particular impacts modern capitalism. Hence, the consensus among economic sociology’s practitioners results from the confirmation or non-falsification of this assumption and generalization, and in that sense no sharp disjuncture exists between the sociological consensual scientific community and falsificationism in history as alternative philosophies of science. 4. A reviewer comments that Weber is not suggesting that Calvinism causes capitalism. This is correct in the sense that Weber does not argue that Calvinism alone causes or impacts capitalism but operates within a complex of multiple factors, as especially identified and analyzed in General Economic History (Collins, 1980), thus presenting a multivariate model. In this multivariate context and sense, Weber precisely states that Calvinism “produced” the spirit of modern capitalism within a “causal chain,” and the like.

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5. A reviewer states that Weber’s comparative sociology of religion sought to grasp why Europe in general developed capitalism, which did not emerge in Hindu, Confucian, or Classical pagan societies. This seems to be an argument about Christianity which recognized the individual as an end in itself rather than Calvinism and other ascetic Protestantism. However, Weber is typically very adamant and categorical in distinguishing, in relation to modern capitalism, ascetic Protestantism, notably Calvinism, not only from non-Christian Oriental religions but also from the other branches of Christianity such as Catholicism and even Protestantism, including its least “ascetic” subtypes Lutheranism and Anglicanism. He repeatedly states from the Protestant Ethic to General Economic History and Economy and Society that the pre- and non-Calvinist branches of Christianity effectively obstructed or regarded the emergence of modern capitalism, invoking Catholicism and even Lutheranism seen as a non-factor in Germany’s capitalist development, and that only ascetic Protestantism like Calvinism promoted it within the Christian and all world religions. Thus, he classifies not only Hinduism, Confucianism, Buddhism, and Islam but also traditional Christianity, including Catholicism and implicitly Lutheranism, into the religions of “passive adaptation to the world” obstructing or retarding capitalist developments and solely ascetic Protestantism, above all Calvinism, as those of the “mastery of the world” conducive to the rise of the spirit of capitalism. After all, the title of the Weber Thesis/ book is The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism, and not Christianity and the Spirit of Capitalism. 6. For illustration, alternative functions may be y = −f(x) + ɛ expressing the negative effect of Calvinism on modern capitalism, and, let us write, y = +−f(x) + ɛ indicating its mixed effects, thus two additional subsets of outcomes in this respect. 7. Stokes (1975) explicitly proposes that South Africa under “Afrikaner Calvinism” is another deviant case from the Weber Thesis. 8. Alternatively, one can reconsider the putative Calvinist-capitalist “rule” of the Weber Thesis as presumably epitomized by in part Calvin’s Geneva and especially Holland, England and New England, America, etc. Especially, this would examine whether and in what degree it is a kind of exception rather than the norm or pattern within the Weber Thesis. Hence, if conceivably the presumed rule turns out to be an exception, this would indicate that the Weber Thesis does not “get right” the precise nature or sign of the effect of Calvinism on modern capitalism, even if being correct in assuming such religious influences in economy, as these can be varied, viz., positive, negative, and mixed. 9. Baron (1939, p. 30) admits that “the theory of particular Calvinist influences on the modern capitalistic and democratic spirit [yet] Calvinism did not produce the supposed effects under all circumstances and in all places. There were Calvinist countries indeed which remained economically backward and far from any capitalistic evolution, and there were Calvinist statesmen and political thinkers who were dependent in their political views more on legal or historical arguments than religious convictions.” 10. A reviewer questions that the US South and Scotland are separate cases in that the Protestant South and Far West were populated by Scotch Irish immigrants. This, however, does not seem to greatly affect the crux of argument and analysis. Either they are the separate or joint cases, both the US South and Scotland

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exemplify the negative link between Calvinism and modern capitalism or economic development as well as liberal political democracy. 11. Hall (1913, p. 232) adds that the “rise of industrial capitalism displaced Calvinism in England and is rapidly undermining it in southern Scotland. It is not fair to trace to Calvinism what [i.e., capitalism] is much more closely connected with the discovery of coal” and thus the Industrial Revolution. 12. Roscigno and Danaher (2001, p. 21) note “persistent poverty and inequality in the US South [as a union-resistant region] up to the current day.” 13. In an influential criticism of the Weber Thesis, Samuelsson (1961, p. 151) concludes that “no matter what the church or sect, the guiding principle is the renunciation of the world and the quest for a secure place in the Kingdom of Heaven. The doctrine of predestination, which permeates the whole of Pauline Christianity and was not invented by Calvin or the Puritans, does not alter this fact. (But) it may rather have intensified the sense of estrangement from things temporal and the resolve to lay up treasures in heaven and not on earth. Insofar as economic problems were considered, the aim was to subordinate business and enterprise to a rigorous Christian code of morality that obstructed and confined them. Calvin, Wesley, and Baxter did not differ from Paul, Augustine, or Thomas Aquinas in this matter.” Similarly, MacKinnon (1988, p. 144) objects that “derived from biblical precedent, works call for obedience to the law or the Ten Commandments in return for everlasting life. As such, Calvinism is not unique in Weber’s sense; its divinity did not unintentionally direct the ultimate value at the workaday world. Like Catholicism and Lutheranism, the Calvinist promise of assurance doctrinally projects the ultimate value in another-worldly direction of the Spirit. Thus, Calvinism could not and did not promote the capitalist spirit in the way that Weber claims.” 14. DiPrete et al. (2011, p. 1236) note that in contemporary America “political conflict between proponents of secular and religiously orthodox values has been especially prominent since the Reagan presidency.” In retrospect, this is far from unexpected but predictable in a counter-factual manner with near-mathematical accuracy or high statistical probability just as is the present and future pattern of conduct of his followers because this President was an orthodox Calvinist cum Presbyterian and a self-declared “born again” evangelical holy warrior (“I am one of you”) in both cultural and political wars that he, as implied above, almost singlehandedly initiated and the Cold War. And recall Calvinism, as Weber acknowledges, everywhere and always since Calvin to Puritan New England and the neo-Puritan “Bible Belt” and evangelical America as a whole, aims to establish Biblical theocracy as “divinely ordained” and to vanquish liberal-secular democracy as “evil” and to exterminate liberals cum “infidels,” as does Islam, as the “enemies of God.” This is the underlying Calvinist theological rationale for Reagan’s notorious and perpetual condemnation of liberalism and liberals as “un-American” a la McCarthy of whom he was an ideological “child” (Plotke, 2002) on the implied ground, even if unconsciously, that America has been or shall be the “new” extension of Calvin’s theocracy in Geneva as well as the perpetuation or revival of Winthrop’s Puritan version in New England cum the “shining city upon a hill.” 15. A referee objected that “while these assessments from Hume, Smith, and so forth may seem ‘first hand’, they would not be well received by Scots today. These were anglophile, Edinburgh elites who were engaged in essentially

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imperialist/orientalist assessments of the Scottish highlanders. Their negative assessments, like those of J. S. Mill, were justifications for English colonial rule.” Still, at least Hume’s depiction of England in The History of England can hardly be described as “anglophile” and instead perhaps in opposite words, especially with respect to what he condemns as the English government’s use of religion for political aims within the country and Europe, as well as lack of religious toleration, since the Reformation. 16. Foster (1923, p. 6) refers to the “fiery John Knox who had sat at Calvin’s feet in Geneva.” Davis (2010, p. 9) cites Knox’s description of Geneva during Calvin as “the most perfect school of Christ that ever was in the earth since the days of the apostles.” 17. Hobsbaum (1972, p. 32) comments, “Scotland was ripe for the Calvinist flames. John Knox that brought Scotland into the English fold and bound up her history with the history of Reform. And it was the Scottish barons that called him over from Geneva. It would have been too much to expect the austere Calvin not to have a grotesque camp-follower. Everything Knox did was uncouth, rude, unmannerly. His theology was virtually identical with that of his master.” 18. Smith adds that “there is scarce perhaps to be found anywhere in Europe a more learned, decent, independent, and respectable set of men than the greater part of the Presbyterian [Calvinist] clergy of Holland, Geneva, Switzerland, and Scotland.” 19. According to Ay and Dolphin (1994, p. 163), “the problem now is that the Germany of Weber’s time, as a leading industrial state, participated in modern western capitalism without Calvinism playing for the German Protestants a role which would have been in any way comparable to its role in the more western countries.” 20. Marshall (1980, 222) evoking Weber suggests an ‘elective affinity’ between Calvinism and the Development of Capitalism in Scotland during 1560-1707. Yet, Marshall (1980, 252) admits that ‘Calvinist ethic and capitalist ethos ran parallel without the latter being causally determined by the former [so it is] extremely difficult to determine empirically [whether the enterpriser] organizes his business activities because of his Calvinist beliefs, or whether he utilizes’ the latter to justify his prior organization of the former. Hence, he concludes that the ‘question of causality remains unresolved’ (Marshall (1980, 525). Cohen (1983) in a review of Marshall’s book refers to ‘Presbyterian Scotland’s lack of economic development’. Also, in a subsequent book, Marshall (1982) proposes that in the Protestant Ethic Thesis ‘Weber is debating, not with the ghost of Marx, but with that of Adam Smith’. Notably, Marshall (1982, 68) acknowledges that the concept of the spirit of capitalism is “empirically unverified”. 21. Pareto remarks that “certain men experience great delight in tormenting themselves and others” and identifies an exemplar of this in the “Scotch Presbyterian clergy” citing their moral code that “all the natural affections, all the pleasures of society, all the pastimes, all the gay instincts of the human heart were so many sins.” He comments that “long before, the monks had carried this kind of insanity to the utmost limit,” citing the view that “pleasure and crime were synonyms in the monastic idiom” and adding that “they still are to our modern ascetics,” including evidently Calvinists in Scotland and elsewhere, else they capture political power or have decisive influence, from Calvin’s Geneva to the US “Bible Belt.”

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22. Mill generally implies this in suggesting that there is a “different type of human excellence from the Calvinistic; a conception of humanity as having its nature bestowed on it for other purposes than merely to be abnegated” in that “pagan self-assertion,” notably the “Greek ideal of self-development,” forms of “one of the elements of human worth” different from “Christian self-denial.” Notably, he implicates Calvinist Scotland in stating that “it may be better to be a John Knox than an Alcibiades [expressing Pagan self-assertion], but it is better to be a Pericles [expressive of the Greek ideal of self-development] than either.” 23. Marx adds that even in 1698, Fletcher of Saltoun, declared in the Scotch parliament, ‘The number of beggars in Scotland is reckoned at not less than 200,000. The only remedy that I, a republican on principle, can suggest, is to restore the old state of serfdom, to make slaves of all those who are unable to provide for their own subsistence,’ thus almost a century and half since the Calvinist’s first expansion and revolution in this country carried out by Knox and others (the 1560s) under Calvin’s personal instructions from Geneva. 24. Hyma (1938, p. 343) observes that “where the great centers of industry and commerce were, Calvinism lost its pristine purity; while in the northern provinces of the Netherlands, where over 70 per cent of the people were orthodox Calvinists, and in Scotland, strangely neglected by Weber (et al.) but nevertheless a much more thoroughly Calvinistic country than either England or New England, the faith of Calvin carried on amid poverty-stricken populations.” 25. Burrell (1960, pp. 129, 130) remarks that “Scotland, though one of the smaller states of Europe, was, after all, a kind of archetypical Calvinist society” in which the “vast Presbyterian crusade (aimed) was to establish, first, a kind of British theocracy and, ultimately, a universal, presbyterianized Christian church.” 26. Tawney (1923b, p. 810) states that Calvinist rigorous morality “could become a matter of objective discipline only in a theocracy, such as those of Geneva, Scotland, and New England.” 27. Hudson (1961, p. 91) adds that “Hungary actually declined economically during the most flourishing period of Calvinist activity, that there is ‘no proof to sustain such a theory of the connection between Calvinism and capitalism among the Netherlanders’, and infers that ‘Calvinism did not have any necessary (positive) effect on the rise of capitalism in Hungary, Scotland or France’.” 28. Burrell (1960, pp. 139, 140) notes that the “Calvinist-Presbyterian system of theology and church government [is not] something incompatible with an agrarian or even a feudalized society” and Means (1965, p. 4) registers that “Scotland was not a country with a thriving, bustling ‘middle class’ made up of merchants or capitalist squires but an economic backwater in contrast with its wealthier Western European neighbors.” 29. Hobsbaum (1972, pp. 47, 48) suggests that in general societies ruled by Calvinism “do not necessarily prosper” and instead “have remained backward” in economic terms, as epitomized by Scotland. In this account, “Calvinism blasted Scotland to the core: theologically, politically, socially, culturally,” causing the economic and other “misfortunes of one small country” (Hobsbaum 1972, pp. 46, 47). 30. Means (1965, p. 3) adds that “it is not in Glasgow, but in the highlands of Scotland that one looks for pure Calvinism.”

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31. Dobbin (2005, p. 34) suggests that “what is novel about Weber is not so much this particular argument [of Calvinism and capitalism] as his vision of how economy and society were intertwined.” 32. Troeltsch (1966, pp. 135 138) concludes that Weber has “completely proved his case,” however, with respect to the particular historical element of the Weber Thesis, i.e., that Calvinism in virtue of its “intra-mundane” asceticism, as “inspired by the doctrine of predestination,” is the “real nursing-father” of modern industrial capitalism, and not its sociological core, the impact of religion, and other ideal and social factors on economy in general. Also, Troeltsch (1966, p. 138) adds referring to the Weber Thesis that “perhaps it ought to be more strongly emphasized that the special character of the Reformed asceticism was partly determined by the special conditions of the commercial situation in the western countries, and more especially by the exclusion of Dissent from political life, with its opportunities and responsibilities, just as, on the other hand, the traditional Lutheran view became emphasized during the economic decline of Germany.” 33. The author thanks an anonymous referee for this and related suggestions.

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Davis, N., & Robinson, R. (2006). The egalitarian face of Islamic Orthodoxy: Support for Islamic law and economic justice in seven Muslim-majority nations. American Sociological Review, 71(2), 167 190. Davis, N., & Robinson, R. (2009). Overcoming movement obstacles by the religiously orthodox. American Journal of Sociology, 114(5), 1302 1349. Davis, T. (2010). Introduction. In T. Davis (Ed.). John Calvin’s American legacy. (pp. 3 18). Oxford, UK: University Press. Dawson, J. (1978). The Puritan and the cavalier: The South’s perception of contrasting traditions. The Journal of Southern History, 44(4), 597 614. Delacroix, J., & Nielsen, F. (2001). The beloved myth: Protestantism and the rise of industrial capitalism in nineteenth-century Europe. Social Forces, 80(2), 509 553. DiPrete, T., Gelman, A., McCormick, T., Teitler, J., & Zheng, T. (2011). Segregation in social networks based on acquaintanceship and trust. American Journal of Sociology, 116(4), 1234 1283. Dobbin, F. (2005). Comparative and historical approaches to economic sociology. In N. Smelser & R. Swedberg (Eds.), The handbook of economic sociology (pp. 26 48). Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Dombrowski, D. (2001). Rawls and religion. New York, NY: State University of New York Press. Edgell, P., Gerteis, J., & Hartmann, D. (2006). Atheists as other: Moral boundaries and cultural membership in American society. American Sociological Review, 71(2), 211 234. Ekelund, R., He´bert, R., & Tollison, R. (2002). An economic analysis of the Protestant reformation. The Journal of Political Economy, 110(3), 646 671. Esponda, I. (2008). Behavioral equilibrium in economies with adverse selection. American Economic Review, 98(4), 1269 1291. Forcese, D. (1968). Calvinism, capitalism and confusion: The Weberian thesis revisited. Sociological Analysis, 29(4), 193 201. Foster, H. (1923). Liberal calvinism: The Remonstrants at the synod of Dort in 1618. The Harvard Theological Review, 16(1), 1 37. Fourcade, M. (2011). Cents and sensibility: Economic valuation and the nature of ‘nature’. American Journal of Sociology, 116(6), 1721 1777. Fourcade, M., & Healy, K. (2007). Moral views of market society. Annual Review of Sociology, 33, 285 311. Friedland, R. (2002). Money, sex, and God: The erotic logic of religious nationalism. Sociological Theory, 20(3), 381 425. Friedman, B. (2011). Economics: A moral inquiry with religious origins. American Economic Review, 101(3), 166 170. Goldstone, J. (1986). State breakdown in the English Revolution: A new synthesis. American Journal of Sociology, 92(2), 257 322. Gorski, P. (2000). The Mosaic moment: An early modernist critique of modernist theories of nationalism. American Journal of Sociology, 105(5), 1428 1468. Granovetter, M., & Swedberg, R. (1992). Introduction. In M. Granovetter & R. Swedberg (Eds.), The sociology of economic life (pp. 1 26). Boulder, CO: Westview Press. Guiso, L., Sapienza, P., & Zingales, L. (2006). Does culture affect economic outcomes? Journal of Economic Perspectives, 20(2), 23 48. Gould, P. (1996). Covenant and republic. New York, NY: Cambridge University Press.

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Habermas, J. (1989). The structural transformation of the public sphere. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Hall, T. (1913). Christianity and politics: IV. Politics and the Reformation. The Biblical World, 41(4), 229 235. Heller, H. (1986). The conquest of poverty: The Calvinist revolt in sixteenth century France. Leiden, Holland: Brill. Hicks, A. (2006). Free-market and religious fundamentalists versus poor relief. American Sociological Review, 71(3), 503 510. Hillmann, H. (2008). Mediation in multiple networks: Elite mobilization before the English Civil War. American Sociological Review, 73(3), 426 454. Hirschman, A. (1977). The passions and the interests: Political arguments for capitalism before its triumph. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Hobsbaum, P. (1972). Calvinism in action: The super-ego triumphant. The Hudson Review, 25(1), 23 50. Hodgson, G. (1999). Economics and utopia: Why the learning economy is not the end of history. New York, NY: Routledge. Hollinger, D. (1980). What is Darwinism? It is Calvinism! Reviews in American History, 8(1), 80 85. Holton, R. J. (1983). Max Weber, “rational capitalism,” and renaissance Italy: A critique of Cohen. American Journal of Sociology, 89(1), 166 180. Hout, M., & Fischer, C. (2002). Why more Americans have no religious preference: Politics and generations. American Sociological Review, 67(1), 165 190. Howe, H. (1978). Max Weber’s elective affinities: Sociology within the bounds of pure reason. American Journal of Sociology, 84(2), 366 385. Howe, W. (1972). The decline of Calvinism: An approach to its study. Comparative Studies in Society and History, 14(3), 306 327. Hudson, W. (1949). Puritanism and the spirit of capitalism. Church History, 18(3), 3 17. Hudson, W. (1961). The Weber thesis reexamined. Church history, 30(1), 88 99. Hyma, A. (1938). Calvinism and capitalism in the Netherlands, 1555 1700. The Journal of Modern History, 10(3), 321 343. Inglehart, R. (Ed.). (2004). Human beliefs and values: A cross-cultural sourcebook based on the 1999 2002 values surveys. Me´xico City, Me´xico: Siglo XXI. Jacobs, D., Carmichael, J., & Kent, S. (2005). Vigilantism, current racial threat, and death sentences. American Sociological Review, 70(4), 656 677. Kalberg, S. (1980). Max Weber’s types of rationality: Cornerstones for the analysis of rationalization processes in history. American Journal of Sociology, 85(5), 1145 1179. Kaufman, J. (2008). Corporate law and the sovereignty of states. American Sociological Review, 73(3), 402 425. Keister, L. (2008). Conservative Protestants and wealth: How religion perpetuates asset poverty. American Journal of Sociology, 113(5), 1237 1271. Keynes, J. M. (1960). The general theory of employment, interest and money. London, UK: Macmillan. Knight, F. (1958). On the history and method of economics. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Kuhn, T. (1970). The structure of scientific revolutions. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press.

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RECOVERING A DISILLUSIONED MODERNISM: THE ENLIGHTENED PESSIMISM OF CLASSICAL SOCIOLOGY Ryan Gunderson ABSTRACT Purpose Contemporary sociologists implicitly assume or explicitly state that classical social theorists shared the Enlightenment’s optimistic vision that society would become more rational, free, ethical, and just overtime. I reexamine the primary works that laid the foundation for sociology and resituate them in their neo-Romantic origins. Design/methodology/approach Close readings of formative texts are provided to revisit modernist critiques of social progress in turn of the century sociology. The works of Ferdinand To¨nnies, Thorstein Veblen, Emile Durkheim, Georg Simmel, and Max Weber exemplify this tradition. Findings Insights from social theory written during and around the neo-Romantic period mirrored the Zeitgeist, a time fascinated with irrationality, moral decay, unconsciousness, decadence, degeneration,

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cynicism, historical decline, and pessimism. However, classical sociology’s pessimism should not be interpreted as anti-modern. Rather, it contributed to the Enlightenment’s maturation. Research limitations/implications Contemporary sociologists should recover the spirit of classical sociology’s gloomy extension of the modern project and bring societal processes to consciousness through human reason, untainted by the fable of progress. Without rational grounds for optimism, the most honest and sincere way to preserve the hope for alternatives and emancipation is through the continuation and advancement of the pessimistic tradition. To formulate new disillusioned theories of society, sociology ought to draw from its ignored tragic legacy. Originality/value Rather than accept accounts of classical sociologists as believers in progress, the tradition reveals a world of increasing disenchantment, atomization, anomie, alienation, confusion, quarrel, rationalization devoid of value, and unhappiness. Providing society thoughtful, systematic accounts of its own estrangement advances the project of modernity. Keywords: Social progress; social theory; pessimism; classical sociology; negativity; Enlightenment

INTRODUCTION: MODERNISM’S ASSUMED OPTIMISM The modern age finds world- and life-affirmation so self-evident that it feels no need to give them a sure foundation and deepen them by thought about the world and life. It brushes pessimism aside as reactionary folly, without suspecting how deep down into thought it has sent its roots. Albert Schweitzer, The Philosophy of Civilization, 1923/1960, p. 150 But to reach truth one must pierce through every negativity. Søren Kierkegaard, The Sickness Unto Death, 1849/1954, p. 177

Theories concerning postmodernity commonly compare postmodernism to modernism.1 Postmodernists and their critics both frame the period born out of the Renaissance until the early 1970s (modernity) as one in which the leading thinkers believed in progress, or, the idea “that mankind has advanced [from the inferior to superior] in the past … is now advancing, and will continue to advance through the foreseeable future” (Nisbet, 1980,

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p. 4). Modern thinkers are said to have believed that humankind and society will continually improve with time and were becoming more ethical, rational, and free by means of humanist ideas, enlightened reason, science, and technological development. Modern theory is said to have formed this progressive stance principally from the Enlightenment, where the “project of modernity” undertook its coherent form (Habermas, 1985). This project purported that the application of reason to humanity’s historical process “would promote not only the control of natural forces, but would also further understanding of the world and of the self, would promote moral progress, the justice of institutions, and even the happiness of human beings” (Habermas, 1981, p. 9). Like many contemporary theorists, Habermas is dismayed by postmodernism’s rejection of the Enlightenment’s push for progress through human reason. Similarly, David Harvey (1989, p. 54) stated that, in opposition to modernism’s commitment to consciously forming “alternative social futures,” postmodernism shuns the notion of progress and “abandons all sense of historical continuity and memory, while simultaneously developing an incredible ability to plunder history and absorb whatever it finds there as some aspect of the present” (cf. Jameson, 1991). Like Harvey and Habermas, David Ashley’s (1997, p. 3) scathing critique of postmodernism and consumer society lists the “abandonment of universal narratives of progress” as a chief defining factor of what postmodernism is and does not share with modern theory. This statement is standard fare among critics of postmodernism, and is not denied by the postmodernists themselves. The highly influential Jean-Franc¸ois Lyotard (1984) asserted the “totalizing” “metanarrative” of progress is the bedrock of modern thinking while postmodern theorists are highly skeptical of this foundation. Michel Foucault is cherished by postmodernists for his emphasis on nonlinearity, discontinuity, and fragmentation rather than unilateral stability in historical happenings (e.g., Foucault, 1977, pp. 139 164). For Jean Baudrillard (1994), the modern belief in progress ended with history and “the real” itself. Best and Kellner’s (1991, p. 133) critical discussion of Baudrillard’s position illustrates the customary discussions of progress between postmodern social theorists and those critical of postmodern social theory. For modernity, history was its substance and ethos: modernity was a process of change, innovation, progress, and development. Moreover, history was the repository of hopes of the epoch; it would bring democracy revolution, socialism, progress, and well-being for all. All of this has now disappeared, Baudrillard suggests, with the end of history.

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Although this clear-cut sketch is usually nuanced by briefly highlighting modern thinkers who rejected visions of progress as blips in the progressive tide of modernity (usually Nietzsche and a Romantic or two), the crux remains as follows: the modern era, even if sometimes disastrous, disorienting, and alienating, was one of real or alleged progress, whose theorists maintained, albeit with some outliers, that reason would push humanity forward and upward to a better world. In opposition to modern social theory, postmodern social theory emphasizes the nonlinear or fractured character of history or overtly rejects progress in toto. Besides incorporating Marx, many of the analyses cited above that compare postmodern and modern theories neglect critically discussing any classical social theorists at length and, thus, implicitly assume or explicitly state (e.g., Seidman, 1991) that these excluded thinkers shared the Enlightenment’s supposed optimistic vision for future society. Harvey (1989, p. 15) briefly mentioned Max Weber’s conception of the “iron cage” as a gloomy forewarning of Enlightenment rationality and progress gone wrong, yet like most who wish to finish the unfinished project of modernity, preferred to focus on the progressive theories associated with it. Seidman (1991) has provided an analysis of classical sociological theory and claimed that most of these theorists shared the Enlightenment’s optimistic “narrative” of progress. Indeed, Seidman claimed that a fundamental split between modern social theory and postmodern social theory is to be found in the postmodern denial of such “great modernist stories.”2 I reconsider Seidman’s claims by examining how prevalent pessimism was in classical social theory when understood as “the negation … of theories of progress” (Dienstag, 2006, p. 18). Although the postmodernists are right to question progress in light of systematic genocides and an expanded scale of human suffering, they have not developed their own “metanarrative” detailing the failure of progress, thereby depriving society of thoughtful accounts of its own estrangement. I show that classical sociology accomplished this feat in a paradoxical way, by developing modern narratives detailing the tragedy of the modern. Many of sociology’s founders rejected notions of social progress and were overtly gloomy about the development and potentials of modern society, including To¨nnies, Veblen, Durkheim, Simmel, and Weber. After explicating these turn of the century sociological accounts of modernity, I conclude that (1) classical sociology’s pessimism can further the project of modernity and marks a maturation of the Enlightenment and (2) contemporary sociology ought to formulate new disillusioned theories of society by drawing from its neglected legacy of boldly illuminating the tragic.

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PROGRESS, PESSIMISM, AND SOCIOLOGY Pessimism is often superficially viewed as a sophomoric negative “attitude” that a person ought not to have. However, pessimism has traditionally been associated with a range of logically constructed philosophical positions, with various ethical and political implications. These positions are “gained by reflection on life, man, and the world,” which lead the thinker to “magnify” evil and, potentially, hold “the world in contempt” (Leidecker, 1962, p. 230, emphasis added). The most eminent philosopher of pessimism was the German metaphysician, Arthur Schopenhauer. Schopenhauer’s pessimism was a reaction against Leibniz’s (1985, p. 228) optimism, which declared that humans occupy the “best of all possible worlds,” because if the omniscient Christian God willed a better world, he would have created that one instead. Schopenhauer (1958b, p. 583) disagreed, claiming that humans occupy the “worst of all possible worlds,” because if the world were any worse, like an animal that loses a limb, it would not be able to carry on at all. Although theological and metaphysical arguments are rarely taken seriously by sociologists today, the positions set forth by these two thinkers are important as they can be viewed as the outermost poles of a continuum (though one that produces qualitatively distinct worldviews as one moves nearer either endpoint). Further, it was Leibniz’s theological speculations that provided the foundation for the West’s development of the theory of human progress (Bury, 1920, p. 238). However, we are not concerned here with theological optimism or metaphysical pessimism based on the speculations concerning the world’s essential goodness or evilness.3 The type or form of pessimism dealt with here is historical, social, or cultural pessimism, in which pessimistic positions are gained by critically reflecting on the course of society and its norms and institutions. The early writings of Rousseau (1964) are the quintessential and most common example of this form of pessimism (see Bury, 1920, p. 344; Dienstag, 2006, pp. 49 83). Few sociologists have coherently and critically questioned the status of sociology as a discipline historically dominated by progressive, optimistic thought. As Stjepan Me ˇstrovic´ (1989b, pp. 278 279) put it, sociology’s classical “pessimistic strand” has been suppressed in contemporary sociology and “[t]he ideas of progress, faith in science, and other components of optimism are [now] simply taken for granted, as if the darker side of life does not even exist.” In opposition to contemporary sociology’s unreflective optimism, Me ˇstrovic´ (1989b, pp. 278 283) revealed that many classical sociologists were heavily influenced by Schopenhauer, leading some to

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adopt pessimistic positions most notably Emile Durkheim, whose students nicknamed him “Schopen” due to his infatuation with the pessimist’s philosophy (see Me ˇstrovic´, 1988a, 1988b, 1988c, 1989a). Schopenhauer argued that human life is dominated by suffering, disappointment, and irrationality and that the world, especially the world of human beings, is “something that really ought not to be” (i.e., nonexistence would be preferable to existence) (Schopenhauer, 1974, p. 304). Me ˇstrovic´ (1991) claimed that Schopenhauer’s influence on Durkheim’s thought should not be surprising as the influence of Schopenhauer’s work was prominent during the last fin de sie`cle, where Schopenhauer was the archetypal representative of a cynical historical period obsessed with human irrationality and the discontents of civilization. One should note that this was also the time period where, along with Durkheim, the likes of To¨nnies, Veblen, Simmel, Weber, and Pareto were beginning to establish their thought or already prospering. Robert Bailey (1958) is the only other sociologist to explicitly link turn of the century sociology with pessimism in great detail (though this latent notion is occasionally made explicit in portions of Nisbet’s [1966] classic). As an American sociologist, Bailey was interested in European sociological trends that he felt had drifted far from the optimistic visions of SaintSimon and Comte. His Sociology Faces Pessimism highlighted many European social thinkers who rejected progress and the prospect of human reason leading to a better world; many who were never prominent in the development of American sociology, such as Ludwig Gumplowicz. His largest contribution is his extensive coverage of Vilfredo Pareto’s pessimistic social thought (Bailey, 1958, pp. 71 92). Pareto (1980, p. 183), who argued society was ruled by illogical forces, claimed that the notion of progress, along with other “miraculous” concepts like justice, reason, and democracy, were all “nothing more than indistinct and incoherent sentiments.” Bailey’s noteworthy coverage of Pareto is why the latter thinker is not discussed in this essay. Undoubtedly, some classical sociologists took sides with a de-Christianized Leibnizian vision. George Herbert Mead claimed society would become more democratic, inclusive, free, and collective. He believed that both economic and religious values, although sometimes antagonistic, are founded on the capacity to take the role of the other, which leads to a universalized common sense of community (Mead, 1962, p. 297). With increased political development and commonly shared (religious) attitudes comes a more democratic society (cf. Cooley, 1962, pp. 203 205; Mead, 1962, p. 286). Karl Marx too can be identified as a classical thinker with an optimistic outlook for the future. Although it is problematic and vulgar to claim

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Marx believed social formations would mechanistically pass through predetermined stages toward communism (Foster & Clark, 2004; Postone, 1993), it is fair to argue he was quite confident that the contradiction between wage labor and capital would likely result, though not inevitably, in a more rational, more just, and freer world (Marx & Engels, 1964), just as the tendencies of capitalist development were “winning their way through and working themselves out with iron necessity” throughout Europe (Marx, 1977, p. 91). Following, communist man, with fully humanized world relations and internal senses, would perfect social life through free, conscious, and reflective work (Marx, 1964).4 Before Mead’s optimistic pragmatism and Marx’s normative vision, Auguste Comte’s and Herbert Spencer’s social evolutionist perspectives were cheerfully expectant about the future to come. Greene (2000, p. 221) stated that a combination of Spencer’s “youthful optimism” and natural theological influences led him to believe that “the historical process was moving steadily toward a free, competitive [i.e., for Spencer, better] society.” Indeed, Spencer (1961, p. 366) was so convinced of the natural tendency of societies to become better through social evolution that he famously argued for laissez-faire public policies in the name of progress: “there cannot be more good done than that of letting social progress go on unhindered.” As Parsons (1949, p. 4) put it, Spencer’s god was Evolution, sometimes also called Progress. Spencer was one of the most vociferous in his devotions to this god, but by no means alone among the faithful. With many other social thinkers he believed that man stood near the culminating point of a long linear process extending back unbroken, without essential changes of direction, to the dawn of primitive man. Spencer, moreover, believed that this culminating point was being approached in the industrial society of modern Western Europe. He and those who thought like him were confident that evolution would carry this process on almost indefinitely in the same direction cumulatively.

However, few have questioned how “many other social thinkers” that still inform contemporary sociological theory were fellow disciples of Spencer’s deity and why this matters. I show that a series of classical sociologists from the turn of the century theorized modern society in negative terms and explicitly rejected the notion of progress. Some pessimists in classical social theory are usually recognized as such, such as Max Weber, however, his insights into the darker realms of social life and development should not be taken for granted or as an anomaly. Nisbet (1966, p. 17) has shown that “essential concepts and implicit perspectives” of sociology’s “titans” are often closer to a latent philosophical conservatism than modern liberalism or radicalism. However, as shown below, “conservatism” is

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too diluted a term and pessimism need not exclude radicalism. Classical sociology’s melancholy was not exclusively Weber’s. The classical theorists discussed below (To¨nnies, Veblen, Durkheim, Simmel, and Weber) were chosen for analysis as they still frequently inform contemporary debates in sociological theory.

TO¨NNIES’ AND VEBLEN’S HISTORICAL PESSIMISM Ferdinand To¨nnies’ famous normal typical distinction between Gemeinschaft (community) and Gesellschaft (society) was foundational to German sociology’s tragic consciousness, which many American sociologists considered “hopelessly metaphysical and impractical” (Wirth, 1926, p. 414). Though To¨nnies attempted to remain scientific in his opus specifically, to exclude his clear nostalgia for the past the conceptualization of Gesellschaft and its rational or arbitrary will (Ku¨rwille) set the stage for sociology’s critical reception of modern society and its discontents. For To¨nnies, Gesellschaft was not just an accommodating conceptualization of pure sociology, but represented the superficiality, impersonality, and depravity of bourgeois society and its destruction of past village life. A community that was bound by, what To¨nnies (1957, p. 47) called, “understanding” (mutual hopes, attitudes, beliefs, and aspirations). Understanding is possible in small, family-based social formations of spatial, emotional, and intellectual proximity. These communities are linked by sympathy or, by a “direct interest of one being in the life of the other, and readiness to take part in his joy and sorrow” (To¨nnies, 1957, p. 47). The natural or essential will (Wesenwille) to associate with others through love, “liking,” and sympathy was rooted in sentiment, desire, and passion. For To¨nnies, the community’s associations and sociality were viewed as ends in themselves or, stated negatively, relationships between community members were not treated as means to an end. Thus, To¨nnies granted the community with everything virtuous and agreeable in social life: natural bond, friendship, loyalty, altruism, dignity, charm, kinship, familial identity, and compassion. Indeed, he claimed the germs of Gemeinschaft are to be found in familial and erotic love (To¨nnies, 1971, p. 76). However, all the virtues of Gemeinschaft were things of the past, to be longed for by the modern, isolated, and overly rational economic man. With the rise of mercantilism and capitalist market expansion, the will of Gemeinschaft was eroded by the Ku¨rwille of civil society. The rational

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will is coldly calculative and based on instrumentality and impersonal deliberation. The sympathetic solidarity of the community was broken down and dismantled by contractual agreements, abstract conventions, private property, capital expansion, competition, and egoism in short, by the development of bourgeois society. In society, the “natural relations of human beings to each other [i.e. understanding, emotional involvement, sympathy, etc.] must be excluded” in favor of social relations that promote external trade, usury, and profiteering (To¨nnies, 1957, p. 77, cf. pp. 141 142). For To¨nnies, society was merely a shallow and distorted mirror of the community’s purity. The theory of the Gesellschaft deals with the artificial construction of an aggregate of human beings which superficially resembles the Gemeinschaft in so far as the individuals live and dwell together peacefully. However, in the Gemeinschaft they remain essentially united in spite of all separating factors, whereas in the Gesellschaft they are essentially separated in spite of all uniting factors. In the Gesellschaft, as contrasted with the Gemeinschaft, we find no actions that can be derived from an a priori and necessarily existing unity … [or] take place on behalf of those united with him. In the Gesellschaft such actions do not exist. On the contrary, here everybody is by himself and isolated. (To¨nnies, 1957, pp. 64 65)

Loneliness and the loss of communal identity was the fate of the modern individual in a social world where secondary relationships supplant primary ones. In the Gesellschaft, these baseless individuals “are in many relations with and to one another, and remain nevertheless independent of one another and devoid of mutual familiar relationships” (To¨nnies, 1957, p. 76). The initial negative reception of To¨nnies’ masterpiece was largely derived from distaste for its latent though definite pessimistic mood (Liebersohn, 1988). In response, To¨nnies granted his critics an analogy. Just as one might scientifically detail the human life cycle, he felt he was merely reporting the unavoidable movement of social life (see Heberle, 1937, pp. 21 22). Even if old age brings death, it just is and has to be: “I see in all this [the transition from community to society] an interconnectedness of facts that is as natural as life and death. I might find life enjoyable, death regrettable: but joy and sadness are resolved in the contemplation of divine fate” (To¨nnies, 1971, p. 22). This overtly Nietzschean hardness, also characteristic of Weber’s and Simmel’s pessimism, accepts and affirms life as it is, even in the face of modernity’s suffering and tragic elements. To¨nnies felt modern society had robbed human beings of their “calm, dignity, contemplation, and … the quiet beauty we may still sense here and there in a village or in a small town.” Yet it was something to be coldly accepted, if only for the sake of its inevitable, tragic spirit. Here, To¨nnies

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suggests we can find salvation through suffering, revealing himself as sociology’s Dostoyevsky: “modern civilization is caught in an irresistible process of disintegration. Its very progress dooms it …. We must bring ourselves to look upon tragedy, wrestling with fear and hope so as to rid ourselves of them, and to enjoy the cleansing effect of the dramatic course of events” (To¨nnies, 1971, pp. 316 317). One finds a similar thesis as To¨nnies’ evolutionary theory of cultural decline in the rebellious philanderer and Midwest-native, Thorstein Veblen although one that looks much further back in human history for the Golden Age. Many sociologists recognize and appreciate Veblen’s scathing critique of modern society’s decadence and waste in The Theory of the Leisure Class (1953). However, it is easy to overlook the important preliminary theoretical framing of the work contained in its introduction. Like the early Rousseau, Veblen looked to the peaceable, communal, and egalitarian noble savage to ground his contempt for modern society. [A]mong savage groups the differentiation of employments is still less elaborate [than early barbarism] and the invidious distinction between classes and employments is less consistent and less rigorous … . These communities that are without a defined leisure class resemble one another also in certain other features of their social structure and manner of life. They are small groups and of a simple (archaic) structure; they are commonly peaceable and sedentary; they are poor; and individual ownership is not a dominant feature of their economic system … it is to be noted that the class seems to include the most peaceable perhaps all the characteristically peaceable primitive groups of men. Indeed, the most notable trait common to members of such communities is a certain amiable inefficiency when confronted with force or fraud. (Veblen, 1953, pp. 23 24)

For Veblen, social evolution since hunter-gatherer societies has been one of cultural decline. The conditions under which men lived in the most primitive stages of associated life that can properly be called human, seem to have been of a peaceful kind; and the character the temperament and spiritual attitude of men under these early conditions or environment and institutions seems to have been of a peaceful and unaggressive, not to say indolent, cast. (Veblen, 1953, p. 149)

The modern posturing of status through waste in “pecuniary culture” is merely contemporary remnants of the barbarism which followed savagery. With the human passage from “peaceable savagery to a predatory phase of life” (Veblen, 1953, p. 30), the early formation of barbarian culture arose, where prowess and the parading wealth became more important than being productive. Post-hunter-gatherer societies consist of a succession of predatory classes who live off of and parasitize the productive, industrious class. The conspicuous consumption and leisure of the modern business class,

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that Veblen despised so much, was only the latest version of the barbarian culture of predation and waste under the guise of civility, another habit of thought “received from an earlier time” (Veblen, 1953, p. 133). Unlike Spencer’s, Veblen’s (1953, pp. 131ff) social evolutionism divorced upward moral evolution from the evolution of societies. That is, societies may be moving forward through selective adaptation, but there is no logical reason that this means moral culture is moving upward with it. In fact, for Veblen, it is social evolution that has made it more difficult for the modern individual to be honest and good. Under any known phase of culture, other or later than the presumptive initial phase here spoken of [savagery], the gifts of good-nature, equity, and indiscriminate sympathy do not appreciably further the life of the individual … . Freedom from scruple, from sympathy, honesty and regard for life, may, within fairly wide limits, be said to further the success of the individual in the pecuniary culture. (Veblen, 1953, p. 151, emphasis added)

Veblen’s rejection of Spencer’s optimistic social evolutionism is parallel to his rejection of historical materialism, which he, perhaps wrongly, interpreted as an optimistic teleology. Veblen, who deeply respected Marx’s insights, found his prospects of socialism based on relics of his Hegelian training, where “social progress” moves on a dialectical “spiritual plane.” Like Marx, Veblen affirmed conflict as central aspect of modern society, but the outcomes of conflict do not necessarily lead to a more rational society. When the question of working class mobilization and revolt “is approached on Darwinian ground of cause and effect, and is analyzed in terms of habit and of response to stimulus, the doctrine that progressive misery must effect a socialistic revolution becomes dubious, and very shortly untenable. Experience, the experience of history, teaches that abject misery carries with it deterioration and abject subjection” (Veblen, 1990b, p. 443). Marx’s supposed teleological framework was more than problematic for Veblen. Quarrel and struggle can have countless outcomes, many of which have been neither desirable nor progressive. Further, for Veblen, Marx ignored the irrational side of human beings. For Veblen, human beings are driven largely by forces of instinct and habits of mind that are inherited from the past. Even the “good instincts” of human beings, such as the instinct of workmanship (creativity), the parental bent (altruism), and instinct of idle curiosity (quest for knowledge), are suppressed by modern predatory and barbaric institutions. In the cases where it has happened that those instincts which make directly for the material welfare of the community, such as the parental bent and the sense of workmanship, have been present in such potent force, or where the institutional elements at variance

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with the continued life-interests of the community of the civilization in question have been in a sufficiently infirm state, there the bonds of custom, prescription, principles, precedent, have been broken or loosened or shifted so as to let the current of life and cultural growth go on, with or without substantial retardation. But history records more frequent and more spectacular instances of the triumph of imbecile institutions over life and culture than of peoples who have by force of instinctive insight saved themselves alive out of a desperately precarious institutional situation. (Veblen, 1990a, p. 25)

Moreover, these good instincts, rather than leading to a better society, are more often displaced through institutional manipulation to serve the predatory, “vested interests” of the business class (e.g., Veblen, 1964a, 1964b). Even his vision of a better Promethean society managed by engineers and technicians (Veblen, 1921) was negated in his final and exceedingly gloomy work that looked into the unyielding destructive nature of American capitalism (Veblen, 1967). Dowd (1964, p. 30) accurately concluded that “whatever glimmers of hope” Veblen once had, he died “on the edge of a series of economic, political, and military catastrophes whose end is not yet in sight Veblen was profoundly, unrelievedly pessimistic.” The tranquility of savagery was gone forever and barbarism remained.

DURKHEIM’S SCHOPENHAUERIAN PESSIMISM Undeniably, Durkheim often spoke of modern society’s “progress.” However, “progre`s” was not used by Durkheim in the moral sense of the Enlightenment, but in the vitalistic sense of advancement (Simpson, 1964, p. x). Not unlike the Foucauldians today, Durkheim (1964b, p. 78) outlined a theory of history that stressed discontinuity, that “loses the ideal and simple continuity attributed to it; it breaks up, so to speak, into a multitude of fragments which, because they specifically differ from one another, cannot be joined together in a unified manner.” Indeed, far from viewing human history on a progressive linear track, he preferred much of the Middle Ages over the dawn of modernity due to the former’s regulation and repression of desire (see Durkheim, 1977). For Durkheim (1964a, p. 242), [i]t is true that our [modern] nervous system, having become more delicate, is accessible to feeble stimuli that did not affect the less refined system of our ancestors. But, in addition, a great many stimuli formerly agreeable have become too strong for us, and, consequently, painful. If we are open to more pleasures, we are also open to more pain.

As a Schopenhauerian thinker, he cited Eduard von Hartmann’s treatise, Philosophy of the Unconscious (1931), which declared that we experience

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pain in a greater degree than pleasure, or as Schopenhauer (1974, p. 292) coldly put it, “we find pleasures far below, but pains far beyond, our expectations” (cf. Durkheim, 1951, p. 248). If Von Hartmann was right that suffering produces a more profound effect upon the organism than joy, that a disagreeable stimulus produces more pain than an agreeable stimulus of the same intensity produces pleasure, this greater sensibility might well be more unfavorable than favorable to happiness. In fact, extremely refined nervous systems live in pain and end by attaching themselves to it. Is it not very remarkable that the fundamental cult of the most civilized religions is that of human suffering? Doubtless, for life to maintain itself, it is necessary, today as before, that in average circumstances pleasures exceed pains. But it is not certain that the excess has become greater. (Durkheim, 1964a, pp. 242 243)

Consequently for Durkheim, it was absurd for the utilitarianists to claim that modern specialization and industrialization increased human happiness or was caused by the quest for pleasure. In fact, “nothing is more doubtful” (Durkheim, 1964a, p. 241). For Durkheim, increased desire, especially when unregulated, could increase suffering and unhappiness (this is the substantive meaning of anomie). Thus, the development of new sensations, those “bodyless” desires and passions “floating about,” cannot usher in a happier society. The theory that the new desires and pleasures created by modernity have increased human happiness is especially problematic when one only needs to examine increased suicide rates in modern societies to realize “that the general happiness of society is decreasing” (Durkheim, 1964a, p. 249). To comprehend Durkheim’s sociology and its tragic look into modernity, it is necessary to comprehend his dualistic conception of human nature. On one hand, Durkheim viewed the natural state of the individual as an irrational, pleasure-seeker with an “insatiable and bottomless abyss” of desires who cannot restrain herself without external regulation (Durkheim, 1951, p. 247). On the other hand, human beings were seen as thoughtful and moral beings requiring a supra-individual existence whose “homeland is the world of sacred things” (Durkheim, 2005, p. 36). In “The Dualism of Human Nature and its Social Conditions” (2005), he referred to the former part of human nature as the “body” and the latter part as the “soul.” Because of our “body,” submitting to society’s demands requires “perpetual sacrifices that are costly to us” (Durkheim, 2005, p. 44; cf. Freud, 1961). Like submission to society, in the ascetic rites of the religious world abstinences and privations do not come without suffering. We hold to the profane world by all the fibres of our flesh; our senses attach us to it; our life depends upon it … . So we cannot detach ourselves from it without doing violence to our nature and without painfully wounding our instincts. (Durkheim, 1915, p. 351)

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But, as Durkheim (1915, p. 356) claimed, religious asceticism, like other religious interests, “are only the symbolic form of social and moral interests.” Thus, [i]f we are going to fulfill our duties towards it [society], then we must be prepared to do violence to our instincts sometimes …. So there is an asceticism which, being inherent in all social life, is destined to survive all the mythologies and all the dogmas; it is an integral part of all human culture.

Although society’s external regulation is painful, it delivers the supraindividual need reverberating in the human soul by “[raising] us above ourselves” (Durkheim, 1915, p. 356). Further, the social regulation of individual desire is less painful than a social world without it. Without restraint and regulation, human desire and passion exceeds Durkheim’s (1951, p. 249) cryptic “assigned limit,” which leads individuals to experience pain, seeing as “[u]nlimited desires are insatiable by definition and insatiability is rightly considered a sign of morbidity. Being unlimited, they constantly and infinitely surpass the means at their command; they cannot be quenched. Inextinguishable thirst is constantly renewed torture” (Durkheim, 1951, p. 247, emphasis added).5 Because we are naturally “not inclined to thwart or restrain ourselves” (Durkheim, 1964a, p. 4; cf. 1951, p. 249), society must do it for us. Society is not alone in its interest in the formation of special groups to regulate their own activity, developing within them what otherwise would become anarchic; but the individual, on his part, finds joy in it, for anarchy is painful to him. He also suffers from pain and disorder produced whenever inter-individual relations are not submitted to some regulatory influence. (Durkheim, 1964a, p. 15)

Even marriage was seen by as an institution to provide joy for men because they unconsciously loved being sexually and emotionally regulated (Durkheim, 1951, p. 270). Closely related to the unconscious joy individuals find in being regulated, society’s members also need to feel close to one another through shared sentiments and beliefs (social integration). The civilized human needs a higher meaning and a supra-individual object of admiration (Durkheim, 1951, p. 213). Yet modern liberal societies deregulate and disintegrate society, leaving individuals self-interested and morally adrift with unruly desires both springboards for human suffering. For Durkheim, modern egoism and anomie made being a person of wisdom and moderation difficult. The wise man, knowing how to enjoy achieved result without having constantly to replace them with others, finds in them an attachment to life in the hour of difficulty. But the man who has always pinned all his hopes on the future and lived with his eyes

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fixed upon it, has nothing in the past as a comfort against the present’s afflictions, for the past was nothing to him but a series of hastily experienced stages. (Durkheim, 1951, p. 256)

Durkheim’s reflections on his own mental health appear to be affected by modernity’s anomic and futile “endless pursuit” to expand desires. A year before his death he stated that his depression resulted from his knowledge that “whatever one is doing, there is always in one’s mind something more to be done” (cited in Pickering, 2008, p. 19; cf. Durkheim, 1964a, p. 242). Durkheim’s look into the modern world is rather tragic. Society has allowed humanity to “surpass himself” through social regulation and external constraint (Durkheim, 1964a, p. 15) and has “initiated [us] into a higher existence” through social integration (Durkheim, 1951, p. 213). But with the rise of the “cult of the personality, of individual dignity” (Durkheim, 1964a, p. 400), society has released the individual into “the disease of the infinite,” where one “effects communion through sadness” (Durkheim, 1951, pp. 287, 209). Society is not happier for modernity; its members are to be pitied (Durkheim, 1986, pp. 142 143). Ultimately, Durkheim viewed the human being as partially irrational creatures whose desires needed to be controlled and constrained by social forces, causing the “body” pain, and partially as moral beings who desire an extra-worldly meaning to life, a requirement to escape the pains of the “soul.” The history of society is a bumpy and fragmented journey where repressive and highly regulated societies that provide this extra-worldly meaning are superior to the aesthetic ones that encourage egoism and self-indulgence. Modernity, far from making humans happier, has left society in a paradoxical state where egoism must be counterbalanced by a negative harmony of difference (organic solidarity) or there will be sustained moral crisis. In modern society, the lines between egoism and meaninglessness and desire and pain are fine ones and unhappiness is a given. No wonder Durkheim (1951, p. 214n) felt that the pessimistic philosophies confirming life’s meaninglessness were not mistaken, but were simply an “echo of a general condition” the condition of modernity.

SIMMEL’S AND WEBER’S NIETZSCHEAN PESSIMISM Georg Simmel is a difficult figure in sociology as his writings are fragmented and sweeping, examining everything from types of sociology and forms

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of sociation to secret societies and Platonic love. The only unifying theme in Simmel’s work, although underemphasized and understudied in American sociology, is his tragic and nearly ahistorical rivalry he placed between the antagonistic interests of the individual and society, which he designated as the “really practical problem of society” (Simmel, 1950, p. 58).6 This fundamental contradiction of social life that transcends all historical epochs is expressed semantically in different ways within his works. Individuality is often designated by life, subject, personality, person, or spirit, which clashes with and is objectified by society’s, the world’s, or the whole’s forms and generalizations. In The Philosophy of Money, he designated this conflict between “[t]he totality of the whole” and “the totality of the individual” as an eternal one (Simmel, 1978, p. 494). Simmel’s tragic dialectic of social life is as follows: individual human beings create society and culture through interaction and personal creativity. Further, society and culture are the proper places for individuals to express and realize their self. However, society continually objectifies and reifies human creativity as independent, rigid cultural processes and social institutions that dominate the lives which created them. The creation of cultural forms encompass the flow of life and provide it with content and form, freedom and order. But although these forms arise out of the life process because of their unique constellation they do not share the restless rhythm of life, its ascent and descent, its constant renewal, its incessant divisions and reunifications. These forms are frameworks for creative life, however, soon transcends them …. They acquire fixed identities, a logic and lawfulness of their own; this new rigidity inevitably places them at a distance from the spiritual dynamic which created them and which makes them independent. (Simmel, 1968, p. 11)

The crux of Simmel’s sociology was summarized well by Etzkorn (1968, p. 2): “man is always in danger of being slain by those objects of his own creation which have lost their original human coefficient.” Or, as Coser (1965, p. 23) put it, “the price of the objective perfection of the world will be the atrophy of the human soul.” His sociology can be seen as a metaphysical extension of Marx’s theories of alienation and reification to all interactions, but with neither a proposed nor possible solution. Especially in modern society, one can only choose to affirm life while knowing that their passion and creativity will be, once more, reified as a new alien world. Like many sociologists, Simmel (1971, p. 217) claimed that the birth of modernity also gave birth to rapid individuation. However, unlike many sociologists, he expressed considerable support for individualism, or more precisely, favored individual self-interest and self-development over society’s interests and development. Thus, Simmel was sympathetic toward

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the subject’s “decomposition” under societal norms, interactions, and institutions. He considered every social formation indeed, every social interaction at all (Simmel, 1950, p. 202) to contain his sociology’s fundamental, “deep and tragic ambiguity” of desiring life-affirmation but having subjectivity stripped away by the external, objective world that the subjective spirit has created (Simmel, 1950, p. 248). Reversing the common sociological egoism-altruism dualism, he claimed that it was not the modern individual who was egoistic, but instead, that “the very quest of society is an egoism that does violence to the individual for the benefit and utility of the many, and that often makes for an extremely one-sided individual specialization, and even atrophy” (Simmel, 1950, p. 59). He desired that the future would “produce ever more numerous and varied forms [of individualism] which the human personality will affirm itself and prove the worth of its existence” (Simmel, 1971, p. 226). Unfortunately, humanity’s “urge toward self-perfection … a super-personal value realized in the personality” is blocked and hindered by modern society (Simmel, 1950, p. 59). [S]ociety promotes a leveling of its members. It creates an average and makes it extremely difficult for its members to go beyond this average merely through the individual excellence in the quantity or quality of life. Society requires the individual to differentiate himself from the humanly general, but forbids him to stand out from the socially general. The individual is thus doubly oppressed by the standards of society: he may not transcend them either in a more general or in a more individual direction. (Simmel, 1950, pp. 63 64)

Society’s leveling of personality and objectification of subjectivity is painful and confusing. For Simmel (1968, p. 44), the modern individual is confronted by myriad cultural and societal elements and processes “which are neither meaningless to him nor, in the final analysis, meaningful. In their mass they depress him, since he is not capable of assimilating them at all, nor can he simply reject them, since after all, they do belong potentially within the sphere of his cultural development” (cf. Simmel, 1950, pp. 409 424). Simmel valued the restlessness and creativity of life and personality and aligned his sociology’s “life” with the “will” of vitalistic philosophies specifically with the philosophies of modernity’s greatest pessimists, Nietzsche and Schopenhauer. Simmel (1968, p. 14), reflecting the neo-Romantic Lebensphilosophie movement, admired Nietzsche and Schopenhauer for being the only modern thinkers to inquire into the meaning, movement, and value of life itself. Their inquiries were especially pertinent in the wake of modernity’s specific tragedy, in which “we are experiencing a new phase of the old struggle no longer a struggle of a contemporary form, filled

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with life, against an old, lifeless one, but a struggle of life against the form as such, against the principle of form” (Simmel, 1968, p. 12). In the midst of modernity’s social fracturing and moral crises, resulting from the breaking down of form itself, Nietzsche and Schopenhauer’s concept of life “provide the framework for the fundamental decisions of modern life” (Simmel, 1968, p. 15). That is, the condition of the modern human found her place somewhere between the life-denying Schopenhauer and the life-affirming Nietzsche. [O]n the one hand, life seems to turn around on itself, empty and meaningless, like a rat in a drum; on the other hand, evolving life takes back into its innermost and intimate essence the purposive character which had been taken away from it by external forces. (Simmel, 1986, p. 9)

One must note that Simmel’s description of the modern human situated between existential denial and affirmation is also a snapshot of his own fundamental sociological position. His sociology finds its place in between Nietzsche and Schopenhauer, but his chief insight was more tragic than either philosopher’s. In the decay of old values, norms, and institutions the modern subject can and ought to affirm life for life itself, even if painful, as Nietzsche argued. Yet in the process of affirmation, the subject’s spirit and creations are objectified and become empty, autonomous objects that are no longer the subject’s. In the end, life-affirmation becomes as futile as Schopenhauer claimed, “like a rat in a drum.” For Simmel, individuals and modern society stand in an everlasting opposition. The individual’s creativity and personality that fashions and maintains culture is objectified by modern society as an autonomous force that paradoxically confronts and dominates the individual as an “alien party.” However, unlike Marx, Simmel believed the alienation of human beings was a permanent tragedy. Modern society, as past societies did, will forever suppress the individual, a crisis which the individual internalizes: “the conflict between society and the individual is continued in the individual himself as the conflict among his component parts … the basic struggle between society and individual inheres in the general form of individual life” (Simmel, 1950, pp. 58 59). The crisis of modern life is not an abstract one, it is “the crisis of our own soul” (Simmel, 1976, p. 266). Yet Simmel did not see the tragedy of modernity, of his sociology, as a “problem” to be solved, as he considered it a “philistine prejudice” to dream up “conflicts and problems … merely for the sake of their solution” (Simmel, 1968, p. 25). The crisis of modernity was manifested in Nietzsche’s and Schopenhauer’s philosophies, and was synthesized in Simmel’s frightening

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sociology by incorporating Marx’s notions of reification and alienation. The human spirit desires to transcend society’s forms through life-affirmation, yet with the eternal conflict between individual and society, subject and object, life and form, life “can only substitute one form for another” (Simmel, 1968, p. 25). Like Simmel, Max Weber was committed to defending individual expression and Perso¨nlichkeit (personality). Indeed, it was Simmel’s incorporation of Nietzschean themes that Weber found so interesting about his sociology (Scaff, 1989, pp. 128 129; for more on Nietzsche’s general influence on Weber, see Antonio, 1995). As pessimism is not a value-neutral idea, Weber’s “value-neutral” approach to social inquiry makes allegations of pessimistic tendencies within his work problematic. However, few would deny that Weber, as Bloom (1987, p. 150) lyrically described, “lived in an atmosphere of permanent tragedy.” Indeed, one cannot forget that Weber’s melancholic outlook was so severe that it disturbed his own behavior and “immobilized him as a scholar for short periods” (Nisbet, 1966, p. 17). Weber’s pessimism is revealed in nearly all of his work, which was paradoxically preoccupied with the termination of individual character and expression through the purposive rationalization of culture and social systems. Liebersohn (1988, p. 109) captured this tragic tension in Weber’s work when he described his opus Economy and Society as a treatise that essentially “described the logic by which social organizations guaranteed their own persistence and resisted the intrusion of personal expression.” Weber’s dark look into modernity is increasingly discomforting as he wrote as a mathematician might, with hairsplitting, deductive conceptualizations and definitions of the institutions and social processes he saw, like Simmel, “leveling” individuality. Weber was not only the sophisticated interpretive methodologist central to Parsons’ “voluntaristic” theory of action, but also a despondent man. His theories point to how the rationalization of social and individual life leads to a banality and meaninglessness that can only be confronted with what Nietzsche (1974, p. 331) called “Dionysian pessimism” or a “pessimism of strength” (Nietzsche, 1967a, p. 17), which confronts suffering, cruelty, and meaningless with self-affirmation and hardness (see Scaff, 1989, p. 68). Weber felt progress was ideological: “a belief which he could not reconcile with his conception of science, a transcendental presupposition incompatible with empirical sociology” (Kolegar, 1964, p. 363; see Weber, 1949, pp. 28f). He described the Enlightenment’s optimistic moral vision as the “rosy blush of [religious asceticism’s] laughing heir” (Weber, 1958, p. 182). Rather than leading to a more meaningful society, rational explanations of

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the world do just the opposite. Because humans have a “metaphysical need for a meaningful cosmos” (Weber, 1946, p. 281), the often chaotic and tragic occurrences of human life cannot be constructed as “senseless,” so religions have developed a wide range of theological interpretations of human hindrances to provide meaningful explanations for the unfathomable. These mystical, religious, and nonempirical explanations of the world attempted to supply meaning for humanity’s essential need. In opposition, rational explanations of the world only create refutations of every intellectual approach which in any way asks for a ‘meaning’ of inner-worldly occurrences. Every increase of rationalism in empirical science increasingly pushes religion from the rational into the irrational realm; but only today does religion become the irrational or anti-rational supra-human power. (Weber, 1946, p. 351)

When rational worldviews break down nonrational worldviews, they also break down human meaning, or they “disenchant” the life-world, leading to value fragmentation and, ultimately, nihilism.7 The difficulty lies in the fact that rational explanations of human affairs can only destroy nonrational meaning, they cannot create meaning through experimentation, calculation, and hypothesis-testing. There are no longer “mysterious incalculable forces” when one can “master all things by calculation” (Weber, 1946, p. 139). Weber drew from Leo Tolstoy’s (e.g., 1987) reflections to provide the quintessential example of how a purely rational world is also a meaningless one: for civilized man death has no meaning. It has none because the individual life of civilized man, placed into an infinite “progress,” according to its own imminent meaning should never come to an end; there is always a further step ahead of one who stands in the march of progress …. And because death is meaningless, civilized life as such is meaningless; by its very “progressiveness” it gives death the imprint of meaninglessness. (Weber, 1946, pp. 139 140)

Rational explanations strip meaning from human experience without leaving substance behind, leaving both life and death meaningless. The process of rationalization does not just deprive humanity of their “metaphysical need.” The institutionalization of the cold, calculating, and impersonal type of rationality Zweckrationalita¨t to social and economic institutions and organizations also leaves human life empty, though efficient. Of course, Weber was especially interested in the creation and maintenance of bureaucracies, which make traditional types of authority and organization obsolete. Like all applications of instrumental reason, “[p]recision, speed, unambiguity … continuity, discretion,” and other calculable measures are held in high esteem as they exclude the human holdups

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of traditional administrations (Weber, 1946, p. 214). Weber had no doubt that the bureaucratization of organizations would persist. In alliance with the dead machine … the bureaucratic organization is at work on the construction of a cage of servitude of the future to which men … will perhaps, sometime in the future, be compelled to accommodate themselves, provided they will cherish one ultimate value in the conduct of their affairs: a technically competent, i.e., rational bureaucratic administration. (Weber in Kolegar, 1964, p. 365)

He not only stated bureaucracies were relentless, but also that they were inescapable and dehumanizing: “[t]he individual bureaucrat cannot squirm out of the apparatus in which he is harnessed … he is only a single cog in an ever-moving mechanism which prescribes to him an essentially fixed route of march” (Weber, 1978, pp. 987 988). The bureaucratic administration “levels” differences between persons (Weber, 1978, pp. 983 987) and the individual in a bureaucracy becomes a routinized and monotonous object of timely obligations and tedious tasks. The bureaucrat’s life is as colorless as the impersonal forms of subordination, duties, and rules written up in “the files,” but he has no economically rational reason to upset its perpetuation and reproduction as it is in his rational interest for things to go smoothly. Or, as Weber (1978, p. 988) put it, bureaucrats are “forged to the common interest of all the functionaries in the perpetuation of the apparatus and the persistence of its rationally organized domination.” Like the bureaucracy, capitalism, for Weber, is another humanly created dehumanizing force. For Sayer (1991, p. 4), “to a certain extent his [Weber’s] critique of capitalism, like a negative life-force, is more incisive than that of Marx.” A theme later adopted by the Frankfurt School (e.g., Horkheimer, 1947, pp. 3ff), Weber felt capitalist ideology and practices inverted the means-ends relationship and ultimately led to “absolute irrationality.” The crux of Weber’s (1958, p. 53) troublesome outlook on capitalism is outlined in his Protestant Ethic: the earning of more and more money, combined with the strict avoidance of all spontaneous enjoyment of life, is above all completely devoid of any eudæmonistic, not to say hedonistic, admixture. It is thought of so purely as an end in itself, that from the point of view of the happiness of, or utility to, the single individual, it appears entirely transcendental and absolutely irrational. Man is dominated by the making of money, by acquisition as the ultimate purpose of his life. Economic acquisition is no longer subordinated to man as the means for the satisfaction of his material needs. This reversal of what we should call the natural relationship … is evidently as definitely a leading principle of capitalism as it is foreign to all peoples not under capitalistic influence.

Thus, the formal rational economy reverses means and ends and makes the need to accumulate capital an end in itself rather than production being

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a means to meet human needs. Capitalism is as impersonal as the bureaucracy; indeed, their relationship is mutually supportive (Weber, 1978, p. 224). The fundamental and necessary relationship within capitalism, the market-relationship, was described as the “most impersonal relationship of practical life into which humans can enter with one another” (Weber, 1978, p. 636). However, unlike Marx, Weber did not see socialism as a solution to capital’s rationalized irrationality, as he claimed or, more cynically, predicted that socialism would only strengthen the bureaucracy’s icy command over society (Weber, 1978, p. 225). Far from leading to emancipation, enlightened reason traps individuals in “a polar night of icy darkness and hardness” (Weber, 1946, p. 128). Habermas claimed that Weber’s suspicion of the progressive possibilities of modernity paradoxically contained the seed of his theoretical model’s ruin. Like Nietzsche and other the “bourgeois” cultural critics of his time, Weber too shares in the pessimistic appraisal of scientific civilization. He mistrusts the rationalization processes set loose and detached from ethical value orientations, which he observes in modern societies so much so that in his theory of rationalization, science and technology forfeit their paradigmatic status. (Habermas, 1984, p. 155)

Undeniably, Weber’s social thought reveals a social world that is increasingly meaningless, routinized, and mundane. The individual is dominated by external restraints that, although usually not overtly violent, are as devastating as traditional forms of domination due to their unconditional yet remote coldness. Excluding extramarital eroticism (Weber, 1946, pp. 343ff), the one force that can free human beings from the formal rationalization of life, charisma, is only a fleeting crusade that will unavoidably become rationalized and routinized itself (Weber, 1978, pp. 1121 1122). The disenchanted and machine-like individual is left confronting a detached and rather pale social world without being offered any coherent meaningfulness to give purpose to her own life. Like Nietzsche, Weber felt the individual is left to give her life her own human meaning and purpose, what he called the “ethic of responsibility.” Weber (1946, pp. 126 127) felt that one must have a “trained relentlessness in viewing the realities of life and the ability to face such realities and to measure up to them inwardly.” Indeed, Weber’s pessimism is an heirloom of Nietzsche’s (1961, p. 102), where one, when facing a harsh external world and the end of meaning, must “give the earth its meaning, a human meaning!” To confront what Weber considered the historical inevitability of the continuation of the “iron cage,” one can only respond with equal hardness and say, like Luther, “Here I stand; I can do no other” (Weber, 1946, p. 127).

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CONCLUSIONS Classical sociology reveals a world of increasing disenchantment, atomization, anomie, alienation, confusion, quarrel, rationalization devoid of value, and unhappiness. The majority of analyses argued modern individuals are pushed around and damaged by external social forces that they have little control over and many insights border on fatalistic and deterministic tendencies. Of course, many contemporary sociologists will reject this claim as a selective or even vulgar reading of classical sociology. However, the themes dealt with above make it difficult for one to conclude that the classical theorists of society ascribed to a consistent belief that society is progressing to a better, improved, more just, or happier condition. Further, these themes are central to, if not the underpinning mood of, the “metanarratives” developed in sociology’s classic texts. For To¨nnies, modernity abolishes the natural goodness and bond of humanity and replaces them with coldness and artificiality. Veblen believed the business class’ wasteful status posturing was a vestige of a predatory, barbarian culture that was predated by Rousseau’s peaceable savagery. Durkheim argued modernity increased anomie, egoism, and, as stressed here, unhappiness. For Simmel, society is inherently tragic and modernity depresses and confuses human beings and epitomizes the eternal conflict between life and form. Weber’s modernity destroys meaning and traps individuals in impersonal institutions and relations. Even when examined superficially, the three fundamental concepts of classical sociology alienation, anomie, and the “iron cage” are all attempts to explain the horrors of existing in modern society. In short, belief in the idea of social progress was mostly foreign to turn of the century sociology. The end of the nineteenth century through the beginning of the twentieth century was a time fascinated by irrationality, moral decay, the unconscious, decadence, degeneration, cynicism, historical decline, and pessimism (Ellenberger, 1970). One would expect the insights from social theory written during and around the neo-Romantic period, such as To¨nnies’, Simmel’s, Weber’s, Veblen’s, and Durkheim’s, to reflect their Zeitgeist and they do. Yet the pessimism of classical social theory was not as crude as their (later) contemporaries’, such as Oswald Spengler’s popular Decline of the West, nor were they politically reactionary anti-modernists. Further, they did not employ a playful and ironic cynicism, as the postmodernists do today. In contrast to Condorcetian modern narratives of progress, antimodernist Romanticism, and, today, postmodernism’s fragmented suspicions of progress, I have shown how classical sociology developed bleak

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though systematic accounts explaining the failings of modern life without abandoning the modern project. Without question, these turn of the century sociologists believed humankind ought to better their condition and had the capacity to shape their own world, though with more constraints than the modern project anticipated. That is, classical sociology operated within the basic contours of the project developed by the philosophes. However, they refused to make naı¨ ve, liberal promises about a better predestined future, were brave enough to provide detailed explanations for the increased scale of human suffering under modernity, and fully explicated degeneration. If the Enlightenment wished to free humanity from illusions, classical sociology exposed that an idea crystalized during the Enlightenment, the idea of progress, may be another illusion humanity ought to free itself from. It is my contention that contemporary sociologists, on normative and theoretical grounds, should recover the spirit of classical sociology’s tragic extension of the modern project by bringing societal processes to consciousness through human reason, untainted by the fable of progress. Normatively speaking, if the project of modernity is sincerely an ethical and reflexive project, social pessimism can contribute to its development.8 When reflecting on his own pessimistic philosophy, Schopenhauer (1974, p. 303) stated that if we adopt a gloomy view of the world “we will adjust our expectations from life to suit the occasion.” For social theorists committed to normative projects, this means allowing ethical-political visions to be regulated by real social conditions and trends in order to circumvent utopianism, as turn of the century sociologists did. The eager-and-concerned-liberal-as-social-critic model that has dominated normative sociology since the 1960s has proven as unsuccessful as the stale and supposedly disinterested structural functionalism of the mid-century that it reacted against. This is not a call for commonsense “realism,” because “telling it like it is” is often employed to naturalize heinous acts and social conditions. Rather, social theories are needed that illuminate the destructiveness and tragedy of what is and, indeed, “hold the world in contempt,” while conceding that, perhaps, what ought to be cannot yet be deciphered or formulated in the ruins. Theorists dedicated to improving society who adjust their views in accordance with today’s social misery can benefit from adopting what Christopher Lasch (1991) described as “hope without optimism.” Max Horkheimer, reflecting on the failure of civil society to bring about a better one, had much in common with Lasch’s conclusions: “I do not believe that things will turn out well, but the idea that they might is of decisive importance” (in Adorno & Horkheimer, 2011, p. 45). I reference

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these two nonclassical scholars as I think they reflect the spirit classical sociology’s pessimism and its significance for contemporary normative sociology: sustaining the search for a better society divorced from any illusion that “things will turn out well.” Thus, pessimism need not be passive, as Ward (1895) once claimed, nor conservative, as Luka´cs (1971, p. 22; 1980) argued, just as the search for the good society can no longer be expectant. Without rational grounds for optimism, the most honest and sincere way to preserve the hope for alternatives and emancipation is through the continuation and advancement of the pessimistic tradition. The outcome of this paradoxical feat is, I think, one of the most important lessons turn of the century sociology can offer sociology today. Freud (1935, p. 154) stated that he emphasized the darker realms of mental life because others denied evilness in human beings, “thereby making the mental life of mankind not indeed better, but incomprehensible.” For all the “affinity” sociologists have “for the works of their predecessors” (Merton, 1968, p. 30), the pessimism that underpins these works is unnecessarily detached from contemporary sociology, making their contribution incomprehensible. Undoubtedly, many sociologists today still study the discontents of modern society as their predecessors did. However, sociologists no longer critically reflect on the “immeasurable grief” of what exists, as Adorno (1978, p. 200) put it, to generate a new and unapologetically gloom-ridden “metanarrative” needed to honestly theorize contemporary society. Sociology, as explained above in normative terms, must explain and describe the pervasiveness of social suffering without rationalizing its existence by giving it purpose or meaning. The task is to intellectualize and systematize the unhappiness that shadows any careful reflection on the destructiveness generated by social processes. Renewing sociology’s reflexive despair can be helped by rethinking the disregarded darkness of the classics, which freed the Enlightenment tradition from its youthful promises. Currently, sociology’s general unawareness of its own pessimistic inheritance is analogous to Kierkegaard’s concept of the man who is in despair but unconscious of it. The despairing man who is unconscious of being in despair is, in comparison with him who is conscious of it, merely a negative step further from the truth and from salvation. Despair itself is a negativity, unconsciousness of it is a new negativity. But to reach truth one must pierce through every negativity. (Kierkegaard, 1954, p. 177)

The first step of negating/realizing negativity is to become conscious of it. Sociology’s gateway to salvation lies in confronting, critically grappling with, and, as argued, recovering its pessimistic legacy. The latter would

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mean shedding light on the colossal failures of modernity in a way that the modern project might be saved, without illusions of success on the horizon.

NOTES 1. By the “postmodern condition” or “postmodernity” I mean the current empirical state of society when understood as nihilistic, fragmented, depoliticized, and preoccupied with personal expression, leisure, play, and irony that was formed out of post-Fordist (Harvey, 1989) or “late” capitalism. Nearly synonymous terms include consumer society or spectacle society. By “postmodernism” I mean the theoretical and philosophical frameworks that “reflect” this condition (cf. Jameson, 1991) (for respectable overview of these positions, see Ritzer, 1997). Although I am critical of their claim that optimistic progressive thought is a consistent and essential component of modern social thought, the best empirical examinations of and explanations for the “turn” from modernity to postmodernity are Ashley’s (1997), Harvey’s (1989), and Jameson’s (1991). It should be noted that I am not attempting to reduce the postmodernism debate to one of “optimism versus pessimism,” but am pragmatically utilizing an element of the debate to frame my argument, though I think it an important element. 2. This is not to vulgarize Seidman’s position. He does acknowledge the theme of decadence in Weber and Simmel, yet even this is discarded as too modern and Eurocentric (Seidman, 1991, pp. 139 140). 3. To my knowledge, Max Horkheimer (1972, p. ix) is the only social theorist who explicitly aligned his thought with metaphysical pessimism, although Simmel’s understanding of life verses form often bordered on metaphysics. 4. It should be noted that Western Marxism developed without optimistic underpinnings, a trend embodied by Gramsci’s (1971, p. 175n) advice in prison, claiming that Marxists ought to have a “pessimism of the intelligence.” This sentiment was advanced by the first-generation Frankfurt School’s take on Marxism following the missed chance for a socialist revolution in Europe, the rise of Fascism, and the spread of the “culture industry” (mass, administered culture) in America (especially see Adorno, 1978, p. 15f; cf. Anderson, 1976; Horkheimer, 1974, 1978, pp. 115 240; Marcuse, 1964, p. 247ff; Postone & Brick, 1982). It is notable that neo-Marxists continue to construct the bleakest available accounts of the human condition (e.g., Ashley, 1997; Baudrillard, 1998; Bauman, 2007; Debord, 1983; Lasch, 1979). 5. Compare Durkheim’s “inextinguishable thirst” to Schopenhauer’s (1958a, p. 312) “unquenchable thirst.” Both thinkers firmly fastened pain to human striving. 6. We must not forget that Simmel (1955, p. 31) claimed conflict was foundational to all social life, going so far as to assume that humans have a “hostility drive,” or, an “inborn need for hating and fighting” (cf. Freud, 1959). 7. “Nihilism as a psychological state will have to be reached, first, when we have sought a ‘meaning’ in all events that is not there: so the seeker eventually becomes discouraged” (Nietzsche, 1967b, p. 12).

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8. Indeed, two of the most influential philosophes were pessimists: the early Rousseau, clearly, as well as Voltaire (1947, p. 86), who cynically rejected optimism as, “the passion for maintaining that all is right when all goes wrong with us,” in his dark satire, Candide.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS I would like to thank Dr. Soma Chaudhuri, Jennifer Kelly, and Cameron Whitley for helpful comments and criticisms of an earlier draft of this essay and Dr. Richard Machalek for helpful conversations regarding Pareto, Spencer, and Veblen. Special thanks to Dr. David Ashley for his gloomy Nietzschean-Marxist lectures, which inspired and stirred countless students.

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DURKHEIM’S SUI GENERIS REALITY AND THE CENTRAL SUBJECT MATTER OF SOCIAL SCIENCE Eric Malczewski ABSTRACT Purpose The purpose of this chapter is twofold: one, to shed light on the nature of the central subject matter of social science; and, two, to demonstrate that E´mile Durkheim’s theory of collective representations identifies this subject matter. Design/methodology/approach Durkheim’s methodological and theoretical framework is assessed and compared with influential readings of it so as to show that Durkheim’s main theoretical contributions have been overlooked and to draw out insights of use to contemporary theory. Findings Defining the nature of human social reality and the central subject matter of social science forms the core of Durkheim’s project. Durkheim saw the central subject matter of social science as a single order of reality.

Social Theories of History and Histories of Social Theory Current Perspectives in Social Theory, Volume 31, 161 175 Copyright r 2013 by Emerald Group Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0278-1204/doi:10.1108/S0278-1204(2013)0000031004

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Research limitations/implications This argument draws attention to the methodological and theoretical coherence of Durkheim’s thought, thereby helping to resolve the debate over how to interpret the work of this central figure and contributing a view of use to contemporary theory. Originality/value In rendering palpable the nature of the essential reality that is the object of Durkheim’s work, the argument advanced in this chapter resolves what are interpreted as anomalies in Durkheim’s thought and draws out the implications for better understanding Durkheim and the order of reality that traditionally has been referred to as culture or society. Keywords: Durkheim; collective representations; institutions; social theory; social facts; social action

INTRODUCTION The debate concerning the interpretation of the thought of E´mile Durkheim has been longstanding in sociology and sociological theory (Alexander & Smith, 2005; Collins, 2005; Lukes, 1973; Schmaus, 2004, pp. 1 26). The fundamental problem may be put thus: “What to do with Durkheim?” The answer to this question first depends on how we understand the nature of the science Durkheim sought to engender (and, therein, its epistemological thrust and implications), which then affects how we interpret and build upon the specific findings left in his great body of work. In the terms of Alexander and Smith’s overview of the history of this debate, there appear to be five versions of Durkheim: conservative, radical, structuralist, and culturalist the latter comprising the semiotic Durkheim and the interactional/pragmatic Durkheim (Alexander & Smith, 2005, pp. 5, 20). Each of the corresponding interpretations purports to identify the “real” Durkheim. To begin with, answering the question of whether Durkheim’s political aims were informed by his conception of social science depends on the definition of what constitutes the latter; to wit, the so-called conservative or radical Durkheim further qualifies the elemental Durkheim, the really “real” Durkheim, who is widely interpreted as being either structural or cultural (Alexander, 2005, pp. 1 32). Considering that Durkheim’s conception of social science is most central, emphasizing the question “What to do

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with Durkheim today?” reflects more than specialists’ concerns with the thought of a prominent figure. The answer to this question bears on what is seen to constitute the object of social science and social science’s organizing principles fundamental issues that remain contested (Alexander, 1982; Alexander & Seidman, 1990; Friedman, 2004; Greenfeld, 2004, 2005; Greenfeld & Malczewski, 2010; Malczewski, 2013; Sewell, 2005; Tilly, 2005, pp. 3 21). The claim advanced here is that defining the nature of human social reality (and, therein, the central subject matter of social science) is at the core of Durkheim’s project and that his theory of collective representations identifies this reality as being sui generis. The nature of the order of reality Durkheim spent his career attempting to define is taken as the key quality informing how to interpret and build upon Durkheim’s work. Durkheim’s merit as a scientist is what is of import here; I hence separate Durkheim qua scientist from whatever other commitments (political or otherwise) mutually inform his desire to constitute a new science (cf. Jones, 1977, 1978). The competing readings of Durkheim that interpret him as being either cultural or structural reduce his multifaceted view of human nature without warrant. The view espoused here transcends the structural and cultural views of Durkheim by demonstrating that Durkheim saw the central subject matter of social science as a single order of reality. My purpose here is to be constructive, to offer a view that helps contemporary social science to see farther. In rendering palpable the nature of the essential reality that is the object of Durkheim’s work the putative central subject matter of social science itself my argument resolves what are interpreted as anomalies in Durkheim’s thought and, in so doing, draws out the implications for better understanding Durkheim and the order of reality that traditionally has been referred to as culture or society. This argument also draws attention to immanent problems in contemporary sociological theory whilst offering a perspective that helps correct those problems, allowing us to draw better insight from existing empirical work.

THE METHOD AND CENTRAL SUBJECT MATTER OF SOCIAL SCIENCE Let us begin by approaching Durkheim with a view to understanding the specific set of empirical phenomena he sought to define and to illuminate from the very start until the end of his career.

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Durkheim opens his earliest major work, The Division of Labor in Society, with a declaration of his approach and methodological stance: “This book is above all an attempt to treat the facts of moral life according to the methods of the positive sciences … to constitute the science of morality” (1997 [1893], p. xxv). The quotation above opens the “Preface to the First Edition”; it is given the place of privilege at the head of the work and serves as the guide to the line of thought Durkheim develops in the study that follows and in his oeuvre more generally. In this statement Durkheim provides the following: one, an indication of the relevant set of empirical phenomena; and, two, a proposed method of inquiry. Defining the relevant set of phenomena (here termed “moral,” and, later, “social” facts), those facts that are taken to bear on his guiding questions, that serve as his set of test data, and that undergird his proofs, depends first on the discovery of the characteristic qualities that justify analytical delineation. Durkheim writes: To submit an order of facts to the scrutiny of science it is not enough carefully to observe, describe and classify them. But and this is much more difficult we must also, in Descartes’ phrase, discover the perspective [or aspect] from which they become scientific, that is, find in them some objective element which is capable of precise determination and, if possible, measurement. (1997 [1893], p. xxix)

Durkheim’s aim to constitute a new science demanded of him the delimitation of the definite objects that comprise the relevant data set (1958, p. 5). No one understood better than did Durkheim that well-defined concepts grounded in the observed qualities of objects of experience are fundamental to scientific activity (cf. Schmaus, 1994). These concepts underlie proposed solutions to problems and permit the scientist to craft explanatory theories (Malczewski, 2013). Durkheim’s emphasis on the careful definition of concepts has been credited to the current of late 19th century neo-Kantian thought seen running through the perspectives advanced by those such as Charles Renouvier and Durkheim’s teacher E´mile Boutroux at the E´cole Normale Supe´rieure and which Durkheim presumably encountered during his stay in Germany (Collins, 2005, p. 100; Lukes, 1973, pp. 55 57). This emphasis on the definition of concepts, howsoever important it was for the philosophical tradition carried on by neo-Kantians, was seen by Durkheim as central to a scientific program concerned with discovering the distinguishing phenomena of human social life Durkheim’s major caveat being that the concepts employed in his science were neither to be improvised, nor discovered through mere introspection in the absence of putting its results to the test against empirical reality, nor borrowed from one or another of the established sciences and used in an axiomatic fashion (1974

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[1898]). Durkheim in this way strove to move beyond philosophical speculation or systematization of practical doctrines. Durkheim’s emphasis on discovering the defining qualities (formulated methodologically as concepts) and organizing principles (formulated methodologically as theoretical entities or explanatory theories) of the phenomena he sought to understand and subjecting claims about them to the test of experience through rigorous comparison with empirical evidence is pithily summed up in his proposition that “social facts must be treated as things” (1982 [1895], p. 35). First, Durkheim’s proposition has methodological implications for the treatment of empirical phenomena. The empirical foundations of all scientific claims are, as it were, “things” defined phenomena with externally observable characteristics (i.e., characteristics that are in principle capable of being examined by any interested party and accounted for in the formulation of concepts). As objects of science, such things are observed, described, classified, and made objects of experimentation (i.e., systematic comparative questioning). Scientific objects that merit the name are treated as unknown phenomena whose secrets must be uncovered through comparison and examined ever more finely. Durkheim’s use of science as his method of approach to the study of human social reality thus demanded both a certain attitude toward and the rigorous circumscription of the central phenomena seen to bear on his guiding questions. Durkheim sought to circumscribe these phenomena and to discover the organizing principles of human social order and experience in general, hence the field in which to seek scientific understanding of humanity. Throughout his work, it is clear that Durkheim’s approach to the facts of human social life entailed careful examination of evidence; consider, for example, the definition of suicide or the treatment of suicide rates in Suicide, his study of socialism, or the qualities of individual versus collective thought in The Division of Labor in Society and The Elementary Forms of Religious Life (1951 [1897], 1958 [1928], 1997 [1893], 1995 [1912]). Durkheim wished to give science a new body of evidence on which to work, and, like Newton or Darwin before him, to demonstrate the significance of approaching defined bodies of evidence with a certain mental attitude (1982 [1895], p. 36). Second, Durkheim’s proposition entails the elementary logical requirement that scientific explanations of phenomena be drawn from appropriate sets of reality. This requirement applies equally to the treatment of social facts and other sets (whether physical, organic, chemical, etc.). In contradistinction to the emphatically biological orientation of psychology of his day and, arguably, our day Durkheim sought the answers to questions

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concerning human experience and social order in a set of phenomena characteristic of that set of problems. He writes: The fault of the biological scientists was not that they used [analogy as a form of comparison] but that they used it wrongly. Instead of trying to control their studies of society by their knowledge of biology, they tried to infer the laws of the first from the laws of the second. Such inferences are worthless. If the laws governing natural life are found also in society, they are found in different forms and with specific characteristics which do not permit conjecture by analogy and can only be understood by direct observation. (1974 [1898])

Regarding human social reality as a mere epiphenomenon of organic life as understood by biology entails an unexplained logical leap (i.e., that the organizing principles of life provide the explanatory organizing principles of all aspects of living phenomena whatsoever) and fails to grasp that which is distinctive about human social reality (e.g., that rule-based behaviors behaviors that are essentially constituted as meaningful or symbolically oriented are characteristic only of human beings and have no analogue in the other realms of scientific inquiry). This view is one that Durkheim continuously emphasized yet that was overlooked by many of his contemporaries (1982 [1895]). The basic error is the failure to recognize the implications of dealing with a set of reality sui generis (1974, pp. 1 34), whatever its putative ontological status. Durkheim defends his general view of the autonomous nature of sets of reality sui generis both on empirical and on logical grounds the empirical grounds being established by direct reference to characteristic qualities and/or patterns evident in the data set and the logical grounds depending on the nature of the questions at hand and/or the nature of the analytical approach. Durkheim was no naı¨ ve positivist or classical inductivist: his methodological statements demonstrate his awareness of the constructed nature of scientific claims and the facts (whether as concepts, theoretical entities, or proven theories) that legitimate them. Durkheim’s view is manifest throughout his prefatory remarks on the nature of his approach in his major studies and is demonstrated in the bodies of his works. Durkheim’s elementary and controversial methodological claims made in the 1890s anticipate similar claims later made by Karl Popper and a version of which is currently being advanced by our contemporaries Jeffrey Alexander and Philip Smith, to take two well-known examples (Alexander & Smith, 2010, p. 21; Popper, 1979 [1972], pp. 153 190). Durkheim’s central methodological claim is that the characteristic organizing principle of a given set of phenomena must be located in that set and analyzed on its own terms. This, of course, applies to all objects of science equally.

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Regarding the definition of the relevant set of reality, Durkheim’s science begins with the examination of what he terms social facts. “Social facts” are comprised of rules of action (re`gles d’action) or manners of acting, thinking, and feeling, external to the individual that are endowed with a power of coercion by virtue of which they impose themselves on him (1930 [1893], p. xxxvii, 1982 [1895]). The concept of social facts refers to the objects that are taken as basic and upon which social science is built. Durkheim’s related concept of “institutions” refers to “all the beliefs and modes of behavior instituted by the collectivity” and composes both social facts and theoretical entities based on them these latter are termed “collective representations” (1982 [1895], p. 45). Durkheim argues that the activity called sociology is a science concerned with understanding the genesis and functioning of institutions (1982 [1895]; cf. Malczewski, 2013). Institutions are argued to encompass the following: one, social facts primarily as beliefs, but also as externally imposed coercion or influence, which, independent of the position in a given analysis, take the essential form of belief for the coercive agent or agents (rules of action have this same dual character they are both rules putatively followed by individual actors and they are the rules that provide the putative explanation for coercive action on the parts of the coercive agent or agents); and, two, the phenomena to which they give rise, “collective representations,” which are theoretical entities providing the putative organizing principles of the behavior in question. Durkheim argues that institutions are the effects of men in association and consequently reflect transformations of the nature of this association. An important theoretical implication of Durkheim’s focus on institutions is made palpable in his argument that the central phenomena of theoretical interest to sociology are “collective representations.” Being uninterested in matters metaphysical or in accessing “the innermost depth of being,” Durkheim demonstrates that examining institutions scientifically leads to the discovery of laws concerning the source of these products of human activity (1982 [1895], p. 37). Social facts, whatever role they play as conditions or causes once made, are first and most importantly representations and effects of another process. It is the nature of this process that Durkheim’s sociology seeks to uncover he is not interested in constructing a curiosity cabinet of social types, ethnographic portraits, and statistical tables, howsoever useful these tools might be. The understanding and explanation, not the mere description, of these phenomena motivates Durkheim’s advocacy for the analytical division between representations of “states of the collective consciousness” and those of “individual

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consciousness”; he justifies this division on the grounds that each set “has its own laws” (1982 [1895], p. 40). Like the relationship between a gene and the human organism that carries it, these phenomena belong to analytically separate sets that essentially include one another in some way, but the laws peculiar to each of them are specific and definite. Claims that Durkheim reified or hypostasized society (Lukes, 1982, p. 4) overlook the significance of his approach to social facts as products of an as yet unknown force, and his consistently applied method, moreover, forbids conflation of what for us are two different methodological elements: empirically established sets of facts and falsifiable claims about those facts. (Of course, even the basic order of so-called empirically established facts themselves are conjectural and, therefore, falsifiable; Durkheim’s definitions of suicide or socialism illustrate that scientific facts which are conceptually framed are built like theories only at a different level of generality.) Claims concerning the existence of “society” fall under the latter species and refer to patterns evident in the first. It has been claimed that social facts and their concomitant characteristic of constraint have an “ambiguous” quality both at the level of the underlying facts and by extension in Durkheim’s claims about them (Alexander, 2005, p. 140; Lukes, 1982, pp. 3 4). The implication here is that Durkheim is caught being ambiguous in the sense of obscure or inexact. No, this is not the case. It is, however, right to see Durkheim as being ambiguous if the emphasis is placed on the two-sided ambi or dual nature of social facts (and, therefore, constraint) and claims about social facts: in fact, emphasizing the two-sided nature of social facts and theoretical entities based on them gets straight to the heart of what Durkheim is demonstrating. Consider, for example, Durkheim’s claim in The Division of Labor in Society: From [the collective consciousness], directly or indirectly, all criminality flows. Crime is not only an injury done to interests which may be serious; it is also an offence against an authority which is in some way transcendent. Experientially speaking, there exists no moral force superior to that of the individual, save that of the collectivity. (1997 [1893], p. 43)

Social facts in all of Durkheim’s studies are argued to exhibit qualities reflecting a dual nature one that is subjective (i.e., individual) and one that is external (i.e., social). In The Elementary Forms of Religious Life he offers the following conjecture: “society weighs in on its members with all its authority … Such appears to be the origin of the very special authority that is inherent in reason and that makes us trustingly accept its promptings” (1995 [1912], p. 16). The individual in both of these examples is

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unquestionably self-constraining and subject to external constraint. Such “ambiguity” is an analytically isolated and putatively inherent characteristic of the phenomena to which Durkheim refers. The often used distinction between the “structural Durkheim” and the “cultural Durkheim” is more misleading than helpful. Seeing the structural Durkheim in “submerged morphological forces, legal constraints, and abstract conscience collective … that narrate the Division of Labor, the mechanistic interactions and associations that animate Suicide, and the functional determinism and epistemological collectivism suggested by Rules” overlooks Durkheim’s repeated arguments that these are products of some sui generis process the process termed “society” whose definition is key (Alexander & Smith, 2005, p. 5). Taking into account my claims concerning the essentially multifaceted nature of these phenomena discussed above, Durkheim at his most structural would be Durkheim at his most cultural. We see, for example, as Durkheim explicitly roots institutions in history, he emphasizes seeking understanding of their genesis and functioning: Durkheim is working with a time- and context-dependent process that is both subjective and external. The characteristics peculiar to a given set of beliefs or mode of behavior are conditioned by and depend on those sets that precede it and that provide the material out of which those under observation are made. Whatever structural components one may observe in Durkheim’s work, they are, at best, structural for Durkheim in a metaphorical sense (even if the scientific approach suggests that metaphor). Methodologically speaking, Durkheim’s approach permits him to account for the elements the several beliefs and modes of behavior that comprise a given institution: History alone enables us to break down an institution into its component parts, because it shows those parts to us as they are born in time, one after the other. Second, by situating each part of the institution within the totality of circumstances in which it was born, history puts into our hands the only tools we have for identifying the causes that have brought it into being. Thus, whenever we set out to explain something human at a specific moment in time be it a religious belief, a moral rule, a legal principle, an aesthetic technique, or an economic system we must begin by going back to its simplest and most primitive form. (1995 [1912], p. 3)

It is clear throughout Durkheim’s work that all actions are realized by individuals (hence all social facts pass through individual actors). Moreover, since social solidarity is a product of individuals’ actions indeed, Durkheim often reminds his audience of what ought to be the most elementary empirical observation in the human sciences: that individuals are “the only active elements in society” understanding the characteristics and

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contexts of individuals’ actions always brings the question back to the nature of society and its constituent parts (1937 [1895], p. xvi). Most importantly, the process and causal sequence (Durkheim calls this “society”) out of which institutions are produced, even though it is the process and causal sequence that Durkheim advocates most emphatically and places in the seat of privilege in his work, is a theoretical entity referring to the organizing principles of the process whereby acting individuals concomitantly associate and create institutions. Transformations of society are comprised of alterations in this association the only visible outcome of which comprises beliefs and modes of behavior as translated, effectuated, or concretized by individuals. Durkheim stresses time and again that individuals are “the only active elements in society” this is both an empirically and logically based claim and his equal stress on the sui generis nature of society suggests that the essential nature of the vector responsible for the concretized products of analysis (i.e., “institutions”) has two facets. Social transformation is thus simultaneously “individual” and “social” for Durkheim. This process always occurs at these two levels. Put differently, the individual and the social refer to two aspects of one and the same process; hence any science trained on this order of facts must take into account both levels in order to grasp what is essential in the phenomena. This explains why the meaning of the characteristic of “constraint” in Durkheim’s definition of social facts shifts dramatically … from the authority of legal rules, moral maxims and social conventions (as manifested by the sanctions brought to bear when the attempt is made to violate them) to the need to follow certain rules or procedures to carry out certain activities successfully (for instance, a Frenchman must speak French to be understood, and an industrialist must use current methods or else face ruin); he also used it for the causal influence of “morphological” factors (such as that of communication channels on patterns of migration and commerce), psychological compulsion in a crowd situation, the impact of prevailing attitudes and beliefs, and the transmission of culture through education which serves to constitute the very identity of individuals. (Lukes, 1982, p. 4)

Lukes goes on to draw the conclusion that the shifts in the meaning of constraint in Durkheim’s definition of social facts indicate a slippage in Durkheim’s thought (1973, p. 11). Lukes’ conclusion is incorrect and misleading. Social facts for Durkheim are both external to any given individual and external to all individuals in a given society or group. This highlights two aspects of a single problem for Durkheim. Both the social and individual aspects must be studied in and for themselves. It is a mischaracterization of Durkheim’s thought to suggest, as Alfred Kroeber did in an address to the American Anthropological Association in

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1950, that Durkheim believed “cultural phenomena can be adequately subsumed under purely social concepts” (Kroeber, 1952, p. 156). Kroeber’s perspective attributes empirical and logical errors to Durkheim where they are most markedly absent. Durkheim emphasizes the so-called social aspect of the phenomena in order to demonstrate that the individual personality evident in rules of action, beliefs about the world, and modes of behavior which follow is fashioned by a key process, that the individual personality is empirically and analytically dependent on phenomena that have a social character. Durkheim argues that this relationship of dependence operates as a law of nature. In this way, we can make sense of Durkheim’s claim that society is a “conscious being,” a “sui generis being with its own special nature, distinct from that of its members, and a personality of its own different from individual personalities” (Durkheim quoted in Lukes, 1973, p. 11). Although society is a set of reality logically distinct from others, it is not simply that it is an order of reality of its own kind.

CONCLUSION It is clear throughout Durkheim’s work that he sought to grasp something much more profound about the nature of human reality than a mere analytical dimension of it. Durkheim attempted to construct the science of humanity based on the empirical effects found everywhere and to demonstrate that the putative entity he termed “society” exerts a force over the individuals that comprise it that can be both described and measured. That society is a reality sui generis is a theoretical claim legitimated by the perspective or aspect by which its empirical and conceptual proofs show that it is differentiated from other phenomena. Like Newton’s approach, buttressed by observations of patterns in individual manifestations of matter, Durkheim’s view is complemented by a level of reality to which we have direct access; and, like Newton, Durkheim advances beyond mere speculation concerning the nature of things, leaving a legacy amenable to revision or verification by others. So, what do we do with Durkheim? Based on the foregoing, I suggest that there are grounds for investigating the extent to which Durkheim’s approach reaches beyond mere analytical claims and toward a strong theoretical claim about the nature of an original order of reality, one rooted in an empirically accessible and analytically cogent order of phenomena (cf. Malczewski, 2013). Considering this issue more broadly, this approach

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to Durkheim sheds light on the fissure in contemporary sociological theory between those seeking to create a sociology that is “all about culture” (and who thus seek to avoid the reduction of culture to other factors) and those focused on the mutual constitution of culture and structure: both perspectives fall victim to empirical and logical errors in failing to account for the vector responsible for bridging their imputed causes and the attributed effects, whether at the level of the individual situation, group dynamics, or social-structural elements (Alexander & Seidman, 1990; Alexander & Smith, 2010, p. 20; Olick, 2010, p. 98). To wish for a sociology that is “all about culture,” or to wish for a sociology that can claim a specific set of phenomena as its own, is to wish to identify the organizing principle that sets some phenomena radically apart from others and that legitimates the scientific aims behind the wish. The position of strict analytical autonomy (e.g., represented by the Strong Program in cultural sociology at Yale et al.), in merely making analytical claims about its body of evidence and shying away from a comprehensive orientation, acts on such wishes (often resulting in suggestive work), but it has not yet found the means of tying the fractured analytical parts together; hence such views ultimately end in reductionism. As Jeffrey K. Olick persuasively claims, it is reductionism, but reductionism of another kind: “analytical autonomy seems to imply some sort of metaphysics … a manifest belief … in a priori concepts” (Olick, 2010, p. 105). Without an explanatory account of what I claim is an original ambiguity or duality in the phenomena that is, that these phenomena are simultaneously external and internal at one and the same time we are left without a theoretical path to determine causation and, therefore, explanation. General theory in the social sciences tends to be regarded with suspicion these days, but, without a theoretical beacon to guide research that is, without a claim about the nature of the organizing principles specific to its central subject matter social science is left in the unremarkable position of biology before Darwin. There are, of course, promising developments. Warren Schmaus’ work on Durkheim, being informed by the philosophy of science, ranks among the most sensitive interpretations of Durkheim’s thought to date. Schmaus recognizes the specific task each of Durkheim’s major studies (but not just his major studies) contributes to his theory of collective representations as well as the epistemological shift he sought to effect (1994; cf. 2003). Liah Greenfeld’s work bucks the trend of middlerange social scientific analysis and argues for the theoretical value of regarding the central subject matter of the social sciences as an order of phenomena sui generis meriting an explanatory framework that appreciates

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its nature and seeks to identify its sui generis organizing principles (Greenfeld, 2004, pp. 288 322, 2005, pp. 101 116, 2006, pp. 162 223, 2007, pp. 125 142; and, especially, 2013). Greenfeld advocates the view that humanity constitutes an order of reality of its own kind. This order of reality is regarded as empirically autonomous from the physical and biological orders that undergird it (2013, pp. 1 112). Durkheim, that precocious and model student of human experience, left us a tremendous body of work whose insights and what they suggest remain largely unrecognized. Durkheim makes the strongest claim for the primacy of defining social science’s central subject matter: this orientation remains constant throughout Durkheim’s career and is unaffected by other, arguable developments attributed to the course of his thought (Alexander, 2005, pp. 136 159). Durkheim pointed to the defining characteristics of the order of reality that sets humanity apart and justifies a science of its own. Let us set about interpreting this order of reality with a certain mental attitude inspired by Durkheim, so as to account for it better.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I wish to thank Jonathan Eastwood, Liah Greenfeld, David Phillippi, Mark Simes, and the two anonymous reviewers of this chapter for the helpful criticism and feedback they provided.

REFERENCES Alexander, J. (1982). Theoretical logic in sociology: Positivism, presuppositions, and current controversies. Berkeley, CA: The University of California Press. Alexander, J. (2005). The inner development of Durkheim’s sociological theory: From early writings to maturity. In J. Alexander & P. Smith (Eds.), The Cambridge companion to Durkheim (pp. 136 159). New York, NY: Cambridge University Press. Alexander, J., & Seidman, S. (1990). Analytic debates: Understanding the relative autonomy of culture. In J. Alexander & S. Seidman (Eds.), Culture and society: Contemporary debates (pp. 1 27). New York, NY: Cambridge University Press. Alexander, J., & Smith, Ph. (2005). Introduction: The new Durkheim. In J. Alexander & Ph. Smith (Eds.), The Cambridge companion to Durkheim (pp. 1 37). New York, NY: Cambridge University Press. Alexander, J., & Smith, Ph. (2010). The strong program: Origins, achievements, and prospects. In J. R. Hall, L. Grindstaff, & M.-C. Lo (Eds.), The handbook of cultural sociology (pp. 13 24). New York, NY: Routledge.

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Collins, R. (2005). The Durkheimian movement in France and in world sociology. In J. Alexander & S. Smith (Eds.), The Cambridge companion to Durkheim (pp. 101 135). New York, NY: Cambridge University Press. Durkheim, E´. (1930 [1893]). De la division du travail social. Paris: Quadrige Presses Universitaires de France. Durkheim, E´. (1937 [1895]). Les re`gles de la me´thode sociologique. Paris: Quadrige Presses Universitaires de France. Durkheim, E´. (1982 [1895]). The rules of sociological method. In S. Lukes (Ed.; W. D. Halls, Trans.). New York, NY: The Free Press. Durkheim, E´. (1997 [1893]). The division of labor in society (W. D. Halls, Trans.). New York, NY: The Free Press. Durkheim, E´. (1951 [1897]). Suicide: A study in sociology (G. Simpson, Trans. and Ed.), New York, NY: The Free Press. Durkheim, E´. (1974 [1898]). Individual and collective representations. In Sociology and philosophy (D. F. Pocock, Trans.) (pp. 1 34). New York, NY: The Free Press. Durkheim, E´. (1995 [1912]). The elementary forms of religious life (K. E. Fields, Trans.). New York, NY: The Free Press. Durkheim, E´. (1958 [1928]). Socialism and Saint-Simon (A. W. Gouldner, Ed.; Charlotte Sattler, Trans.). Yellow Springs, OH: The Antioch Press. Friedman, J. (Ed.). (2004). Is social science hopeless? Critical Review, 16(2 3), 288 322. Greenfeld, L. (2004). A new paradigm for the social sciences? Critical Review, 16(2 3), 288 322. Greenfeld, L. (2005). The trouble with social science: A` propos some new work on nationalism. Critical Review, 17(1 2), 101 116. Greenfeld, L. (2006). Nationalism and the mind. Oxford: Oneworld Publications. Greenfeld, L. (2007). Main currents and sociological thought. In B.-P. Frost & D. J. Mahoney (Eds.), Political reason in the age of ideology: Essays in honor of Raymond Aron. New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Publishers. Greenfeld, L. (2013). Mind, modernity, madness: The impact of culture on human experience. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Greenfeld, L., & Malczewski, E. (2010). Politics as a cultural phenomenon. In C. Jenkins & K. Leicht (Eds.), Handbook of politics (pp. 407 422). New York, NY: Springer. Jones, R. A. (1977). On understanding a sociological classic. American Journal of Sociology, 82, 279 319. Jones, R. A. (1978). Subjectivity, objectivity, and historicity: A response to Johnson. American Journal of Sociology, 84, 175 181. Kroeber, A. (1952). The history and present orientation of cultural anthropology. In The nature of culture (146pp). Chicago, IL: The University of Chicago Press. Lukes, S. (1973). E´mile Durkheim: His life and work a historical and critical study. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Lukes S. (1982). Introduction. In E´. Durkheim, The rules of sociological method (S. Lukes Ed.; W. D. Halls, Trans.). New York, NY: The Free Press. Malczewski, E. (2013). This is social science: A “patterned activity” oriented to attaining objective knowledge of human society. The Journal of Classical Sociology. First published online on August 22, 2013. doi:10.1177/1468795X13495124. Olick, J. K. (2010). What is ‘The relative autonomy of culture?’ In J. R. Hall, L. Grindstaff & M.-C. Lo (Eds.), The handbook of cultural sociology (pp. 97 108). New York, NY: Routledge.

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Popper, K. (1972 [1979]). Objective knowledge: An evolutionary approach. New York, NY: Oxford University Press. Schmaus, W. (1994). Durkheim’s philosophy of science and the sociology of knowledge. Chicago, IL: The University of Chicago Press. Schmaus, W. (2003). Is Durkheim the enemy of evolutionary psychology? Philosophy of the Social Sciences, 33, 25 52. Schmaus, W. (2004). Rethinking Durkheim and his tradition. New York, NY: Cambridge University Press. Sewell, W. H. Jr. (2005). Chapter 10: Refiguring the “social” in social science: An interpretivist manifesto. In Logics of history: Social theory and social transformation (pp. 318 372). Chicago, IL: The University of Chicago Press. Tilly, C. (2005). Identities, boundaries, and social ties. Boulder, CO: Paradigm Press.

PART II SOCIAL THEORIES OF HISTORY

THE DEVELOPMENTAL HISTORY OF HUMAN SOCIAL PRACTICES: FROM SOCIAL ANALYTICS TO EXPLANATORY NARRATIVES Marc Garcelon ABSTRACT Purpose The diversity of social forms both regionally and historically calls for a paradigmatic reassessment of concepts used to map human societies comparatively. By differentiating “social analytics” from “explanatory narratives,” we can distinguish concept and generic model development from causal analyses of actual empirical phenomena. In so doing, we show how five heuristic models of “modes of social practices” enable such paradigmatic formation in sociology. This reinforces Max Weber’s emphasis on the irreducible historicity of explanations in the social sciences. Methodology

Explanatory narrative.

Social Theories of History and Histories of Social Theory Current Perspectives in Social Theory, Volume 31, 179 220 Copyright r 2013 by Emerald Group Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0278-1204/doi:10.1108/S0278-1204(2013)0000031005

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Findings A paradigmatic consolidation of generalizing concepts, modes of social practices, ideal-type concepts, and generic models presents a range of “theoretical tools” capable of facilitating empirical analysis as flexibly as possible, rather than cramping their range with overly narrow conceptual strictures. Research implications To render social theory as flexible for practical field research as possible. Originality/value Develops a way of synthesizing diverse theoretical and methodological approaches in a highly pragmatic fashion. Keywords: Explanatory narrative; models; types; variable analysis

Sociology approaches the comparative history of human societies by formulating concepts, models, and causal hypotheses presupposing scientific autonomy from both “common sense” and political expediency. Yet little disciplinary agreement regarding how to do this how to fashion what Thomas Kuhn termed a paradigm in the empirical sciences (Kuhn, 1962) has emerged in sociology, or for that matter in the social sciences writ large. By separating the development of concepts and models from that of causal hypotheses, we can move toward resolving this problem by distinguishing “the analytic of human society” from specific causal accounts social scientists propose.1 Such a distinction allows for a robust yet flexible process of sociological concept and model formation attuned to the contingencies that field research requires in developing causal hypotheses. Moreover, distinguishing a “social analytic” of concept development, from the formulation of causal hypotheses, in turn helps clarify why what are here called “explanatory narratives” should methodologically predominate over the isolation of independent and dependent variables across cases what Andrew Abbot calls “the variables paradigm” (Abbott, 1992). Indeed, the isolation of independent and dependent variables across cases will be shown to more accurately serve a useful but auxiliary method to explanatory narrative. As we will see, these methodological issues also converge with a number of important substantive issues in social theory.

THE ANALYTIC OF HUMAN SOCIETY As many animals are social from ants and bees to varieties of fish, birds, and mammals the concept of society per se is not specific to human

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beings. Conceptual universals in the social sciences here called anthrogeneric concepts entail distinguishing human societies from those of other species. Two such anthrogeneric concepts culture and institutions do this by mapping the boundary conditions of the social sciences per se, and thus form a logical starting point for mapping the social analytic.2 Indeed, culture and institutions together distinguish Homo sapiens as a species-being from other living social species today.3

The Anthrogeneric Concepts of Culture and Institutions Culture in the social sciences entails meaning, more specifically, linguistic meaning and other forms of representation enabled by language. Indeed, one cannot separate a human society from its culture except in an analytic sense, for human sociation is impossible without meanings at least partially intelligible to others in the society (Griswold, 2008, pp. 11 12). Indeed, culture is coevolutionary with human society (Bradford, 2012). Yet culture and its meanings themselves are not sufficient to map the boundary conditions of human society. For this, one needs the additional concept of institution. An institution is an obligatory form of “getting by and getting along” in an established social setting (Garcelon, 2010). Violations of institutional norms trigger responses that involve some significant “cost” in resources, time or status, and sometimes provokes marginalization, sanctions, exclusion from the situation in which given institutions are effective, banishment, incarceration, or even death. In contemporary societies, institutions are often formalized in laws, legal regulations, and various codes of conducts such as office rules, university handbooks, and the like. Yet for much of human history, members of society could not read indeed, the historically longest-term variety of human society was hunter-gatherer society, though we have only fragmentary knowledge concerning such societies from the rough evolutionary emergence of Homo sapiens about 150,000 years ago, to today, when the remnants of hunter-gatherer societies are dying out.4 Prior to the invention of writing, societies were organized through highly ritualized institutions reproduced through ceremonies, festival days, rites, and the like. Such societies are often designated oral societies by anthropologists and sociologists emphasizing that such societies lacked a written language (Goody & Watt, 1987). In oral societies, familiarity with institutional expectations remains customary, a matter of individuals developing a sensibility through rituals and other patterns of repetition tied to senses of

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identity, belonging, and distinction. Not showing implicit degrees of respect at important rituals rituals marking everything from birth to death and much of life in between risks degrees of disapproval, shunning, or worse. Since in some circumstances, institutional violations in oral societies may result in the offender’s death, referencing customary institutions as “informal institutions” as, unfortunately, often occurs is misleading. The invention of writing in itself is not sufficient to move toward formalization of institutions. Indeed, when only a small fragment of persons can read, and when texts remain handwritten, institutional norms remain overwhelming enforced through customary means. The technological advances of the printing press and the diffusion of reading skills in societies made formalization of institutions possible.5 Indeed, codes of law in the modern sense are an example of this, and spurred the subsequent development of handbooks of conduct, procedural norms, and the like. Such formal codification entails patterns of institutional steering of behavior in ways that enable large-scale organization and the processes Max Weber called bureaucratization to develop (1978, p. 956). Emile Durkheim conceptualized observable patterns of human behavior associated with institutions in terms of “social integration,” “moral regulation,” and “solidarity,”6 all of which underscore that institutions entail both cultural intelligibility and expectations of subordination of individual behavior to norms in the broadest sense. As conformity to institutions entails some degree of routine and habit “normalized” psychologically on a day-to-day basis in human social groups, institutions “steer” social life to a substantial degree, giving rise to patterns that may persist for extended periods. For instance, formal codification legality facilitates commercial activity by imposing respect for laws governing private property and contractual obligations, stabilizing markets over periods of time. Institutions are thus the primary “patterning element” of human social relationships. A colloquial language stands an archetypical example of an institution. Here we begin by distinguishing the analysis of a linguistic capacity a biological trait of human beings from colloquial language as an institution.7 In this sense, a colloquial language entails development of a biological capacity in a specific human social context. This context in turn provides the framework for learning to understand and speak, and learning to understand and speak simultaneously entails learning social conventions so that one can express oneself in a meaningful way to others. The skill of practical language use we call competence in a specific spoken language in fact embodies aspects of an “archetypal” institution, insofar as observance of minimal linguistic norms is the precursor for a human to be able to

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function at all beyond the competence of a toddler. This in turn underscores a distinctive aspect of colloquial language, namely, colloquial language largely has no “disciplinary apparatus,” the only institution that lacks one.8 Indeed, what ensures minimal conformity with linguistic conventions is the fact that intelligibility per se requires such conformity to achieve intelligibility with interlocutors in any linguistic interaction at all. Of course, the use of language is involved in all other institutions, and the more elaborate it becomes, the more ritualized, formalized, or specialized it becomes. Thus in certain situations beyond instances of everyday practical communication and banter, not following institutional obligations regarding the use of language can trigger penalizing responses by members of a disciplinary apparatus whether by certain clan figures in a hunter-gatherer society, staffs of authorities in agrarian kingdoms, or by law enforcement, legal organizations, courts, and other managerial bodies charged with enforcing institutional norms in highly bureaucratized contemporary societies such as the United States today. There are certain circumstances, however, where even use of colloquial language in a context not explicitly limited by ritual, formal, or specialized concerns regarding language use may provoke action by such disciplinary apparati, such as using profanities in front of children in public in contemporary America. Indeed, the latter is part of “the cultural arbitrary” in contemporary American society, the historically irreducible aspects of cultures in a given society at a given time (Bourdieu, 1991). For the most part, though, distinctions between colloquial and more ritual, formal, or specialized usages of language intertwine in complex ways with distinctions among hierarchies within institutional orders in human social relations. All of this raises an important point: institutions are obligatory in the sense of mutual expectations, but empirically elicit probabilistic degrees of conformity. Indeed, this is why most institutions beyond colloquial language entail disciplinary apparatuses. Thus they need to be assessed in terms of probabilistic criteria, as anticipated by Weber’s conception of legitimacy and legitimate order (Ringer, 1997). When the probability of observance falls below historically variable thresholds, then, institutions may disintegrate (Garcelon, 2006).

Additional Anthrogeneric Concepts Of course, many additional anthrogeneric concepts play key roles in the social sciences. We will briefly review a few key additional such concepts,

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but bear in mind that this review is partial and offered only as a heuristic device. Among the most basic anthrogenerics stand the concepts of field, agency, habitus (reflexive) action, institutional paradigm, institutional order, interests (strategic and symbolic), personality, and many others. Bear in mind that such anthrogeneric concepts are distinct from what Weber called ideal-type concepts of historically distinct developmental patterns, such as “this worldly religion” or “bureaucracy,” a point developed below. A field maps how institutions segment and differentiate particular contexts for particular patterns of interaction and behavior, and by extension, generate an “order” that either persists for a period of time with minor, incidental changes, or, in much rarer circumstances, deeper changes or even outright disintegration of the field (Bourdieu, 1981). A field is considerably more than an institution. The latter give coherence and shape to fields and steer routine behavior and interaction in their contexts. But a field per se is always more than its institutional architecture. For instance, there are many particular activities that individuals may engage in at a doctor’s office such as reading a magazine or interacting with another patient in a waiting room that are not obligatory. Yet medicine as an institutional reality shapes the most basic behavior in a doctor’s office, as patients would not even come to a doctor without some institutional certification of the practitioner. Agency refers to the causal significance of human behavior in various situations. Moreover, agency per se should be distinguished from its subtypes, habitus and reflexive action.9 Reflexive action here means deliberative action, instances of agency in which conscious deliberation, choice, and the like play significant roles. Following Pierre Bourdieu, habitus designates a capacity for agency considerably broader than reflexive action a capacity to engage spontaneously in complex sequences without much deliberation (Bourdieu, 1984, pp. 169 175). For instance, when the driver of a car has routinized traffic regulations to the point that she can spontaneously adjust to traffic lights, signs, other drivers, and so forth without reflectively deliberating about them most of the time, she is often considered a good driver by others. We will return to agency, habitus, and reflexive action shortly. At this point, note that habitus entails both institutional and noninstitutional routines. Take a cook at home preparing a meal for her or himself alone this individual may prepare the meal largely on the basis of routines that require little in the way of deliberative reflection, and yet there is little that is institutional about this. On the other hand, if the same person realizes

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they need an ingredient and need to go get it, they then may engage in some institutionalized routines, such as adjusting to traffic regulations when driving a car, standing in line at a check-out counter in a grocery store, and so on. We can distinguish institutional from noninstitutional routines in terms of a broader habitus, on the one hand, and those aspects of habitus bound up with institutions, on the other. This latter “subset” of an individual habitus we call an institutional paradigm, a disposition toward conventional observance of routines to “get by and get along” (Garcelon, 2010, pp. 326 335), as in Fig. 1. This offers a corrective to a chronic but erroneous tendency among many Western sociologists to assume that institutions somehow exist on a different “level” than agency, with “level” usually referencing micro macro distinctions, or sometimes micro meso macro distinctions.10 Yet placing institutions on a different “level” than agency generates all sorts of artificial problems that disappear when one recognizes first, that institutions entail an embodied aspect; and second, that individuals can play causal roles at different “levels.” Of course, this latter also entails recognizing that distinctions between the micro as the realm of agency, and the macro (or meso) as the realm of institutions, make little sense certainly,

institutions

institutional paradigms

institutional orders

embodied as habits, dispositions, beliefs, and adjustments

observable as patterns of behavior which give apparent order to patterns of social relations

the core of habitus

the core of institutional fields

Fig. 1.

Institutional Paradigms and Orders. This figure is a slight modification of Fig. 1 in Garcelon (2010, p. 333).

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individuals such as Hitler, Stalin, or Mao played causally significant roles at a macro level, and institutional norms sometimes exist only at the micro scale of very small groups such as religious cults with only a few dozen people, for instance (Mouzelis, 1995, p. 20). Once this is recognized, distinctions between levels micro, meso, macro serve simply to differentiate the scale of a social space. At this point, then, we have mapped out culture, institution, field, agency, habitus, reflexive action, and institutional paradigm. Complementing the latter, an institutional order refers to those aspects of an institution that manifest as routine patterns in social groups. This in turn allows us to introduce Weber’s concept of legitimacy, for legitimacy is the felt sensibility of the “rightness” or “justness” of a tribal leadership of some sort, or the state as an institutional order (Weber, 1978, pp. 31 33), underscoring that (relational) institutional orders persist due to (embodied) institutional paradigms.11 In the pre-modern world, Weber argued states relied on traditional forms of legitimacy among their subjects, traditional authority; whereas in the modern period, he noted the emergence of a new form of legitimacy among subjects, legal-rational authority, that entailed obedience to authorities out of “respect for the law” that they might otherwise be disinclined to obey.12 (Due to time constraints, we leave aside here Weber’s third variant of legitimacy, charismatic legitimacy, that he argued may operate in noninstitutional circumstances and which plays an often crucial role in social change.) Legitimacy is, in essence, an aspect of an individual’s institutional paradigm, namely, that aspect entailing acceptance of a tribal order or state’s leadership. These latter in turn constitute what Bourdieu (1990) called “the field of fields,” insofar as the state or a pre-state huntergatherer leadership sets the boundaries for perception of legitimate behavior on the part of agents in a given society at a given point in time. Differentiating institutional orders from institutional paradigms within broader institutions per se allows considerable conceptual refinement that maximizes the flexibility of these concepts for empirical research. Indeed, such research can simply study agency and institutions without worrying about how to reconcile their assumed theoretical “levels.” Moreover, further differentiating institutional paradigms in terms of a sensibility of legitimacy, on the one hand, and other varieties of routinization of behavior, such as adaptation through adoption of routines of expected conventions in families, schools, businesses, and so on, on the other, allows us to further differentiate various types of institutions. This refines the relation between a state and other institutional orders, for a state operates across other institutions and to an extent legitimizes them by extension as well,

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and thus entails a hierarchization to some degree of institutions and the institutional paradigms that people develop to adapt to them. In short, institutional orders per se are broader than the institutional order of a hunter-gatherer leadership or state, and thus we should expect varying degrees of differentiation between the degree of legitimacy people develop toward a hunter-gatherer leadership or state, and the broader institutional paradigms people develop in relation to various institutional orders and the fields they enable in various societies.13 As people interact in institutional orders relying on their embodied institutional paradigms, the relation between the social context and how people understand and convey meaning about it are “steered” by what Bourdieu called the doxa of a social world, the everyday conventions that bound conversation and more elaborate forms of expression to some degree (Bourdieu, 1991). In a more differentiated society, individuals take a doxa for granted as they express the meanings of various experiences to one another in social interaction. Of course, there are many other anthrogeneric concepts that we do not have time to discuss here. We will, however, revisit the anthrogeneric concepts of agency, habitus, and reflexive action shortly, but first we turn to social analytics that help us comparatively situate societies in regard to one another. In this way, we will have a minimum range of concepts to place analysis of agency, habitus, and reflexive action in historical context.

Mapping Five Modes of Social Practices We can initially map human societies in all their historical and comparative diversity through the concept of “modes of social practice.” This conception generalizes from Marx’s concept of the mode of production without assuming any lines of causal determinacy. Rather, five such modes are offered here heuristically to organize the comparative study of historical variants of social relations, institutions, and patterns of culture and agency particular to them. The concept “mode” signals that all five are anthrogeneric universals in the sense of having existed in all known human societies, and that variation within and between such modes marks their actual history. In this sense, the concept “mode” more fully captures this possible variation and historical depth than either the concepts “subsystems” or “functions.” At the same time, “mode” allows more range than either of these concepts in mapping the complexity and diversity of human social forms, as we shall see.14

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Mapping modes of social practices onto degrees of institutional differentiation stands a principal aim of empirical research, for such modes represent preliminary concepts heuristic devices for the organization of empirical explanations. Indeed, degrees of institutional differentiation within modes of social practices vary for contingent, historically irreducible reasons. For instance, degrees of “institutional fusion” of modes of social practices often predominated in premodern history, such as “divine kingships.”15 Contemporary representative democracies, on the other hand, embody complex institutional differentiation. In this sense, the five anthrogeneric modes of social practices outlined here represent bridge concepts to ideal-type concepts and generic models, as discussed below. The Mode of Communication The very fact of language underscores that all human societies entail specific means and modalities of communication. The differentiation of more complex communicative forms such as writing, and more elaborate technologies of communication such as books, indicates the utility of differentiating the “means of communication” from how such means combine with actual practices. Both means and practices develop as emergent properties of language appearing at various points in the historical record. This immediately raises a cautionary note applicable throughout the following elaboration of modes of social practices: the farther back from the contemporary one goes, the more fragmentary and incomplete evidence becomes, until we end up making “educated guesses” compatible with such incomplete evidence. The mode of communication always subsumes a mode of language. Language as an actual mode of communication realizes itself both through a universal language capacity among all Homo sapiens a capacity that entails biological aspects, as discussed above and a specific spoken language, a “historical individual” (Weber, 1949, pp. 149 152), initially learned during socialization.16 Thus language as a spoken practice is a specific historical mode of language a unique complex of features we give a proper name, such as Russian as spoken in the Soviet Union in the 1960s (Weber, 1949, pp. 83 84, 111 112, 160 171). Specific languages as historical individuals are in fact instances of institutions, for they are obligatory forms of “getting by and getting along” in situations realized through them.17 As noted above, a spoken language in its most basic colloquial forms entails no disciplinary apparatus, for the obligatory nature of a spoken language coheres largely spontaneously those who cannot speak at a practically minimal level of a dominant

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colloquial language in a region are quickly marginalized in social practices in that region. Modes of language enable the elaboration of modes of mediation in human history, such as the invention of writing and the spread of literacy. Again, early Homo sapiens used artifacts in a representational way in their burial practices, implicitly differentiating everyday linguistic practices from the symbols used in such burials, something we know from archaeological evidence. Such modes of mediation have developed in diverse ways since Neolithic times, as the development of painting, writing, and then books and other forms of media attest. Obviously, mass literacy and the rise of first the mass media, and then the multimedia system of recent years, represent the extent to which such differentiation has gone in the modern period (Castells, 2000, pp. 355 406). Table 1 represents the mode of communication. The Mode of Belief Beliefs help constitute human society by ordering relations between a social order and its wider environment through beliefs about both community and the wider world in which it is situated. Specifically, modes of belief entail ways social groups presuppose some projected “order of the world” represented through languages and symbols, but taking more complex forms than language itself, from mythic ideations to the passing on from one generation to the next of forms of practical “know how,” what Michael Polanyi dubbed “tacit knowledge” (2009). Claude Levi-Strauss identified an archaic form of the more complex ideations that language enables as “mythemes” (1967, pp. 207 219). As societies become more complex, a considerable variety of patterns of more elaborate beliefs displace myth, from religions per se in the ancient period of human civilization, to ideologies in more modern times (Levi-Strauss, 1967, p. 205). Such post-mythical patterns of belief often gain a sacred status through revered texts such as the Bible or Bhagavad Gita, or a quasi-sacred status through foundational texts such as the American Constitution. Indeed, reference to the American Constitution often takes the form of cant across complex Table 1.

The Mode of Communication.

Mode of Communication → Subsuming (a) The mode of language (b) The mode of mediation

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hierarchies of fields in the contemporary United States. Patterns of modern belief closely identified with both the maintenance and contestation of political power develop in ideological forms, a point we return to below in discussing modes of domination. More modern patterns of belief develop tensions between practical knowledge and abstract ideations as differences between “the is” and “the ought.” Take for instance the emergence of the modern sciences, which required extensive institutional changes to legitimize the practices of those engaged in them, including the piecemeal restriction of political and religious authorities’ abilities to interfere with scientific practices on the basis of habitual understandings of elite guardianship of “the ought.” The history of the modern sciences thus forms a complex skein of practices distinguishing “the is” from “the ought.” Indeed, the whole differentiation of “the is” from “the ought” presupposes the differentiation of cognitive from moral, legal, magical, and spiritual practices, what Ju¨rgen Habermas calls “the linguistification of the sacred” (1987).18 The degree to which such distinctions give rise to actual institutional differentiation remains an empirical question. But in fact tensions between what Weber called practical concerns like the gathering of foodstuffs, on the one hand, and ritualized practices such as group ceremonies, on the other, can be identified even in tacit distinctions between burial artifacts and simple hunting tools from Neolithic times. We can thus recognize tacit practical differentiation of modes of cognition from modes of ideation within modes of belief throughout history, building on Bellah’s distinction between cognitive and symbolic understanding (Bellah, 1973) (Table 2). The Mode of Kin Reproduction The mode of kin reproduction stands a third universal mode of social practices entailing four subtypes of such practices. All known human societies in history placed kinship and the family order in the center of human social life, something which continues today. Certainly, the understanding of what family means has varied considerably in human history, with more extended kin networks predominant in family life in premodern societies, Table 2.

The Mode of Belief.

The Mode of Belief → Subsuming (i) The mode of cognition (ii) The mode of ideation

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and the emergence of the nuclear family parents and children limited at first to late medieval and early modern Britain and some of its colonies before spreading much more widely outside the Anglo-American world from the nineteenth century forward (Liljestro¨m, 1986). The subtype of kinship constitution stands out immediately here, through which central bonds of family orders are constituted and with them the most basic organization of social life. Here we find birthing and marital practices, as well as aspects that govern the possibility (or its lack) of constituting kin ties across societies. Next, the sub-mode of socialization describes practices signaling in-group boundaries, social hierarchies, and one’s place in a social order. As children are highly dependent on the care of familial kin networks for many years, at least some modest hierarchization based on age and social respect for the knowledge of elders are universal. From here, we can identify other such socializing practices, from rites of passage from one social status to another in hunting and gathering groups, to compulsory schooling in more contemporary societies. Elias (1969, 1982) described these as parts of “the civilizing process.” The mode of health comportment embodies a third variant of such kin reproductive practices. These are everyday practices of health edification, maintenance, and interventions ranging from dietary injunctions such as Orthodox Judaism’s forbiddance of shell fish, to expected patterns of dress in various circumstances at various times. Such understandings presuppose a conventional, not strictly medical, understanding of health that varies widely across history. Indeed, what counts as “healthy” follows conventional understandings.19 Modes of health comportment are often mediated through other social practices, such as modes of belief. Indeed, considerable overlap between early magical and health-intervention practices underscores the analytic nature of the distinctions drawn here “medicine man,” for instance, appeared as a common variant of a magician in hunter-gatherer societies. Yet distinctions between the practice of magic, religions, and other spiritual belief systems, on the one hand, and specific modes of health comportment, on the other, can at least be analytically drawn in early human societies, though often only becoming clear as societies become more complex. For instance, we can tacitly distinguish the practices shamans divined regarding taboos of eating, from the practices of seeking knowledge of the movements of tribal enemies. Indeed, the gaining of autonomy by medical specialists from magical and religious practices is a most modern institutional fact. In the oral cultures of most kinship societies, for instance, modes of health comportment remained closely linked to ritual practices of belief,

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one of the reasons that the entire range of health practices has often been subsumed under analyses of magic and religion in premodern societies.20 Here, by contrast, magical, religious, and other spiritual practices combine aspects of modes of belief, health comportment, and domination. The unique human practices of funerary rites compose a fourth subtype of the mode of kin reproduction, namely, the mode of funerary practices. Critically, funerary practices are practices of kin reproduction insofar as they affirm social and natural perceptions of order and continuity in the face of the existential reality of death.21 In this sense, funerary practices entail key rites and rituals that maintain a semblance of “continuing on” in the face of the death of an individual person. In this sense, funerary practices aim at shoring up and solidifying social practices in the face of an existential trauma that all people sooner or later face. In doing so, funerary practices generally entail the at least ceremonial “setting apart” of various practices associated with them. The social recognition of death in funerary practices underscores the liminal state of death as a symbolically weighted rite of passage from a living social status to a symbol of the continuity of the past in the present (Turner, 1969). Historical evidence shows a tight coupling between modes of kin reproduction entailing diverse culture practices from marriage to variations of education such as rites of passage and modes of funerary practices.22 The latter entail everything from patterns of ritual grievance for those seen as mortally injured, to funerary rituals themselves. Table 3 represents the mode of kin reproduction. The Mode of Economy In contrast to such socially reproductive kin practices, the mode of economy designates a range of human practices at the center of social science since the origins of political economy in the second half of the eighteenth century. Marx’s critique of classical political economy framed the economy as a “base” determining a “superstructure” entailing a wide range of other Table 3.

The Mode of Kin Reproduction.

Mode of Kin Reproduction → Subsuming (a) Mode of kinship constitution (including marital and birthing practices) (b) Mode of socialization (including education) (c) Mode of health comportment (d) Mode of funerary practices

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practices, from politics to culture. The problem with this is, of course, that it presumed economism, with the economy conceived as determining “in the last instance” other aspects of social life. Weber’s alternative to economism located causal relations in the historically irreducible confluence of historically unique social relations at specific times, a central aspect of explanatory narratives explained below.23 In this sense, economic practices, like communicative, belief, or kin practices, can be conceptualized as both constraining and enabling patterns of social relations over time, and yet not “determining” them in an a priori fashion. Economic practices can instead be modeled comparatively in terms of conceptual generalizations, and then these generalizations can be used as a “tool kit” (Swidler, 1986) from which to devise specific accounts of causal patterns along specific paths. In light of this, we can both acknowledge the origins of the mode of economy in Marx’s concept of the mode of production while differentiating the former from the latter. First, we reject economic determinism in favor of a Weberian model of historical contingency. This can be developed in terms of a model of “trajectory adjustment” where agents rely on their habits and expectations in anticipating the reproduction of extant institutional arrangements, though sometimes such anticipation proves erroneous in the face of institutional change (Eyal, Szele´nyi, & Townsley 1998; Garcelon, 2006).24 We can then fashion a noneconomistic conception of the mode of economy reconstructed along lines mapped out by Daniel Bell and Manuel Castells in ways that clarify how to conceptualize economic relations in relation to other social practices. One cautionary note regarding the following discussion. Bell’s analysis can certainly be criticized in various ways (Postone, 1999, pp. 12 19), however, the following does not strictly adhere to Bell or any of the thinkers whose work is adapted here. Rather, the adaption of Bell via Castells develops one of his more useful conceptual innovations for a proposal that is synthetic, not exegetic, in character. In any case, the mode of economy allows us to recognize a broader range of work processes and class distinctions that can develop under a particular institutional ensemble like capitalism than Marx conceptualized. Take for instance the distinction between laborers working for an hourly wage, and professionals working for a salary (Castells, 2000). Professionals turn out to be central to the computer sectors of the contemporary capitalist economy, for instance, yet they cannot be understood in terms of the capitalist-worker distinction that Marx mapped as determinant of capitalist society as a whole precisely because professionals cannot be separated from their key “means

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of production,” their specialized expertise, in the way workers can be separated from tools (Ehrenreich, 1989, pp. 78 81). What we see instead is the differentiation of three major classes in leading capitalist economies since the Second World War, capitalists, workers, and professionals. In short, the work process can develop in ways that Marx did not anticipate and still be organized on a capitalist basis. Modifying Bell’s earlier differentiation of “axial principals” in human societies (Bell, 1999), Castells proposed distinguishing the mode of production (how social relations are organized to stabilize distinctive power relations in various economies), from the mode of development, how a work process is organized to produce economic value (Castells, 2000, pp. 13 18). Economic value in turn functions pragmatically as some metric or ensemble of metrics some implicit, some explicit that relates the utility of things and services to measures of worth and effort. In this way, the productive capacity of a labor process appears as a distinct question from the institutional basis of power relations which both enables and constrains it. The productive capacity of labor processes can now be mapped as “the ratio of the value of each unit of output to the value of each unit of input” (Castells, 2000, p. 16), though this presupposes some development of both conceptual and measuring standards to do so. Yet at least precursors of such standards have always been practically used, though in rougher and simpler forms going back to hunter-gatherer societies. The quantification and standardization of such measures under capitalism made their function as measures explicit as economic ends in themselves, but we can retrospectively see crude variations of these throughout history, often implicit in political arrangements. Indeed, economic tribute extracted from the peasantry turned over to patrons, labor days, and so forth marked all premodern states (Wolf, 1981). The emergence of economic growth as the avowed goal of political leadership distinguishes the modern world from premodern societies. The rise of the modern era thus witnessed widespread changes regarding economic production, changes that entailed what Weber (1958 [1904]) called the “rationalization” of measures of economic output, a protracted outcome of a whole chain of institutional changes that in the end led to the very idea of making economic growth the Alpha and Omega of social policy. Such a championing of economic growth marks both capitalist and socialist variants of political projects to manage a modern economy, and operated in earlier capitalist economies dominated by the capitalistworking class distinction, as well as more recent capitalist economies with three major classes, the capitalists, workers, and professionals. Indeed, the reorientation of social life to economic growth as an end in itself helps

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us distinguish shifts underway in the technological and organizational forms of the work process, from the alternative institutional arrangements of capitalism and socialism within their broader shared orientation to economic growth as an end in itself. Indeed, capitalism and socialism as antagonistic institutional ensembles subsume similar technological arrangements, as is strikingly clear when one tracks the Soviet mimicking of Fordist factory organization in the 1930s (Kuromiya, 1988). We can thus differentiate the institutional umbrella which stabilized industrial work processes as a political form in Fordist and Stalinist factories in the 1930s, from the institutional arrangements at the shop floor similar in both countries at this time. Modes of development thus map the “technological arrangements” by means of which “labor works on matter to generate … the level and quality of surplus” (Castells, 2000, p. 16). Such technological arrangements have institutional dimensions, for instance the role of foremen in supervising assembly lines in factories producing automobiles in Henry Ford’s Detroit or Joseph Stalin’s Soviet Union. Each mode of development is defined by the element that is fundamental in fostering productivity in the production process. Thus, in the agrarian mode of development, the source of increasing surplus results from quantitative increases of labor and natural resources…in the production process, as well as from the natural endowment of these resources. In the industrial mode of development, the main source of productivity lies in the introduction of new energy sources. (Castells, 2000, pp. 16 17)

We thereby analytically decouple ways of organizing production as a process from ways of arranging power relations between an economy and a larger society, with the former mapping modes of development and the latter mapping modes of production. Thus we can see a wider range of possible patterns of organization between work processes and political institutions in the modern world, from “industrial socialism” to “informational capitalism.” At the same time, this shifts causal analysis from an abstract level of predetermined historical stages, to the comparative modeling of specific historical trajectories dependent on historically irreducible circumstances. In sum, human societies at various times in various regions remain dependent on trajectories of social interaction in contingent historically irreducible situations. This in turn leads to recognition of how problematic assumptions of “universal developmental stages” of human society indeed are. We can map this contingency as in Table 4. The Mode of Domination Of course, patterns of domination in history are more than patterns of economic domination, which brings us to mapping out modes of domination

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Table 4.

The Mode of Economy.

Mode of Economy→Subsuming (a) The mode of production (b) The mode of development

per se. Objections could be raised to the concept mode of domination simply on the basis of evidence of small-scale, egalitarian kinship societies from prehistoric times, and similar evidence from more recent huntergatherer societies. But at least one form of domination that of adults over children is universal, for obvious reasons. Such universal patterns of domination also extend to those recognized as knowledgeable about key processes shamans, medicine men, and other varieties of magicians in early societies as well as to the growing dependence of the frail, whether through sickness, child bearing, or age, on stronger adults. We again see here a practical “fusion” of analytical modes, here of domination, kinfamilial constitution, and health comportment in hunter-gatherer societies. The institutional differentiation of modes of domination begins with the emergence of archaic states (Sagan, 1985, pp. 225 298; Weber, 1978, pp. 226 234) and runs right down to contemporary antagonisms between and within different states and social orders in the world today. Indeed, stable domination over relatively protracted periods of time entails stable patterns of authority, the voluntary acceptance of obedience (Weber, 1978, pp. 31 38). Weber’s concept of legitimacy combines domination and authority to signal acceptance of domination as legitimate by enough individuals in a society to make some degree of deference to authoritative figures in society obligatory in order to “get by and get along.” What happens in cases where domination absent legitimacy occurs? When political power is reduced to the mere exercise of coercion stateorganized terrorism the state as an institution disintegrates and political power becomes highly unstable and inefficient. Legitimacy as a broadly expressed loyalty to state authority is thus key to political stability in societies with states. Such legitimacy can only be mapped probabilistically, and moreover, the mapping itself presents difficult empirical problems unless we agree to stereotype patterns of motivation in ways that bypass interpretation altogether, a move that has failed repeatedly to provide a generalizable model adequate to empirical cases such as suicide bombings but which persists in various forms of economism noted above (Garcelon, 2010, p. 347).

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Sometimes, of course, such stereotyping of motivation “works” in the sense of generating plausible empirical hypotheses, such as the behavior of stock holders in a highly capitalistic society such as the contemporary United States. But when such economic stereotyping of motivation fails to generate adequate empirical hypotheses of behavior, a more complex array of methods of interpreting behavior comes into play. No behavior more starkly embodies such “economically irrational” agency than loyalty to a greater social project which requires people to make sacrifices of economic interests to some greater goal, such as ideational projects of “building socialism,” “defending the nation,” or “martyrdom for Allah.” And such ideational projects lie at the heart of modes of domination in history, signaling a need to trace the sub-mode of legitimacy in order to flesh out how stable domination works. Durkheim perceptively captured the sentiments stabilizing legitimacy in the concept of solidarity, the willingness to sacrifice self-interests for a greater project (1997 [1893]). And indeed legitimacy entails some minimal degree of solidaristic commitment in order to stabilize authority for either a hunter-gather leadership or a state. Differentiating strategic interests from solidaristic sentiments clarifies and sharpens a somewhat obscure, yet central, point in Weber. First, we differentiate those who comply with authority out of simple expedience, from the always shifting though incrementally so number of people in a society at some time x who embody some felt sense of the legitimacy of authorities. Weber differentiated the two in terms of “internal” and “external” aspects of legitimacy, an unfortunate use of terms that confuses what he actually meant (1978, pp. 31 33), for both expedience and solidarity are “internal” in the sense of being embodied in agents. Weber’s terminological choice thus obscured the differentiation of motivations he was driving at. If we conceive of this differentiation in terms of solidaristic sentiment and expedient compliance both of which are embodied by agents in various fields we clarify how sociology may distinguish the empirical consequences of degrees of legitimacy embodied by varying people at various times toward particular institutional authorities. Weber did this be differentiating the “normative” from the “empirical” validity of an order (1978, p. 32). This requires a probabilistic distinction between those motivated more by solidaristic sentiments, from those motivated more out of expedience, a problem of empirical analysis that situates perceptions of cynicism in modern democracies in a sociological light. Certainly, this is often difficult to carry out in terms of empirical research due to the problem of how to align evidence in relation to various motivations assumed

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as influencing the behavior and interactions of distinct individuals at particular times. Regardless of this methodological difficulty, however, if the number of individuals motivated by a solidaristic sense of legitimacy toward core state institutions becomes too small relative to a society as a whole, institutional authority may rapidly disintegrate into contending power centers, a phenomenon often designated a “revolutionary situation” in the modern period (Tilly, 1993, pp. 10 14). The differentiation of solidaristic sentiments from the expedient pursuit of interests, however, is itself inadequate for assessing patterns of agency in relation to constellations of political power. One must also assess degrees of affectation and habituation to adequately track the social nuances involved. Foucault called this “the microphysics of power” (1979), indicating the degree to which patterns of authority are broadly routinized as habit with minor variations from individual to individual. Indeed, a complex range of motivations and habits are at work in any population, from intelligible emotional states like love and hate, to the simple routines of habit. How such patterns articulate with the embodiment and representation of political power in the more conventional sense is the stuff of history. For instance, the powerful effects of ritualized hatred and communal identification in motivating warfare and terrorism stand an obvious example. Legitimacy, then, serves as the “glue” holding institutional authority together. Indeed, legitimacy is an embodied aspect of institutions of domination, a solidaristic belief in the authority of established social powers. In this sense, such belief forms a core aspect of institutional paradigms central to maintenance of a mode of domination as routine social order. Legitimacy thus constitutes a special case of belief whether more customary or elaborated through doctrines and other such codes that can be differentiated from other patterns of ideation in a social order. Often ritualized and developed as mythologies in premodern societies, such ideations sometimes develop into ideologies and legal doctrines in modern states (Levi-Strauss, 1967). Legitimacy thus represents a bridge case between modes of belief and modes of domination in any society, underscoring the analytic character of the distinctions drawn here and the need to track actual patterns of institutional differentiation empirically. In most cases, organized hierarchies figure centrally in institutional orders. Indeed, the latter depend on the embodiment of at least traces of solidaristic sentiment. Thus hierarchical authority presupposes embodiment of “moral facts” of solidarity in a sense of conscience and more diffuse and improvised patterns of habitus.

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Thanks to the authority invested in them, moral rules are genuine forces, which confront our desires and needs, our appetites of all sorts, when they promise to become immoderate…They contain in themselves everything necessary to bend the will, to contain and constrain it, to incline it in such and such a direction. One can say literally that they are forces. (Durkheim, 1973, p. 41)

Such legitimacy enables institutions to persist over time, as embodied dispositions stabilize legitimate authority, the core of institutional orders as obligatory patterns of social relations over time. We have thus reconstructed Weber through concepts introduced by Durkheim and Bourdieu, giving us a robust theory of what makes institutional hierarchy possible in the first place. Indeed, the mode of legitimacy is central to all known human societies, as pre-state varieties of legitimate authority play important roles in hunter-gatherer societies, though in such cases legitimacy remains tightly coupled with clan and tribal customs and rituals. The “fusion” of other domains mapped out in the modes of social practices mapped above, with the core social practices of legitimacy prior to modern representative democracies, had to undergo significant differentiation before the social sciences were even possible. Of course, history presents a wide diversity of modes of domination and legitimacy, which we can not go into here beyond noting the elaborate institutional differentiation that marks the rise of modern constitutional democracies, Soviet-type societies, and the like.25 Certainly, legitimacy though very diverse in terms of degrees and types of embodiment stands at the core of any mode of domination capable of achieving institutional coherence for some span of time. But domination also usually entails distinctive hierarchies of organization and distinctive means of applying force, conceptualized here as the mode of organization and the mode of destruction. Kinship patterns stand as the most archaic mode of organization in history, and continue to be fundamental in all more complex organizational patterns. Nothing captures this more clearly than the resonance of the vague phrase “family values” in recent American politics. Indeed, extended family groupings kinship were reorganized around clusters of warriors in a new type of hierarchy in ancient times, patriarchal domination. Weber described this in terms of the emergence of the patriarch and his staff (1978, pp. 228 231). This pattern served as the basis of the archaic state in all known cases, which entailed displacing pre-state patterns of organization such as clans and tribes (Sagan, 1985). The archaic state, in turn, enabled the invention of writing in some cases, at first limited to scribes, religious figures, and other patriarchal elites in a pattern Goody and Watt

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(1987) called oligoliteracy. Thus the shift from a kinship to a patriarchal pattern of domination enabled in some cases the shift away from a purely oral pattern of transmitting knowledge and ritual, to a pattern in which a social elite wielded new modes of mediation bound up with the secrets of literacy itself. We again see here an instance of tight coupling of various modes, here the mode of organization and the mode of mediation. Indeed, for thousands of years, oligoliteracy remained tightly coupled with the patriarchal mode of organization. Today, we tend to construe organization per se with formal organizations in the sense of bureaucracies, though this latter is only a subcategory of organization. Moreover, we also tend to designate all formal organizations as bureaucracies, a problematic designation with certain organizational forms such as fascistic or Marxist-Leninist “party states” (Garcelon, 2005, pp. 27 35). The mode of destruction (Foucault, 1970) stands the final aspect of the mode of domination. To be realized in practice, legitimacy and organization must combine with instrumentalities of domination. We can thus map the mode of destruction in terms of implements spears, swords, guns, and the like and how people are ordered in relation to them warrior bands, militias, armies, and so on. All of these gain coordination through “relations of destruction,” the hierarchical pattern of command and control that sets such instrumentalities into motion. Again, the differentiation of such instrumentalities of destruction used by agents in distinct institutional and noninstitutional contexts marks human history. In prehistory, for instance, we see a generalized “fusion” of such instrumentalities with modes of development, specifically hunting tools. Institutional differentiation of the mode of destruction followed from the creation of hierarchies of legitimate command with the rise of archaic states. Indeed, the owl of Minerva flies only at dusk, for only the perspective of full differentiation in the modern world places the mode of destruction in such clear perspective. Indeed, the recent development of substate terrorism appears a tactic developed to counter the seamless web of domination engendered by the modern state. We thus see that the mode of domination entails modes of legitimacy, organization, and destruction as mapped in Table 5. The differentiation of modes of communication, belief, kin reproduction, economy, and domination is the stuff of institutional history. The above five modes and various sub-modes are analytic distinctions, insofar as variations of all five are either known or assumed present in all instances of human society since the coevolutionary differentiation of languages, on the one hand, and of Homo sapiens from earlier, now extinct human species, on the other. Certainly, the institutional differentiation of such

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The Mode of Domination.

Mode of Domination→Subsuming (a) The mode of legitimacy (b) The mode of organization (c) The mode of destruction

modes tended to be slight in hunter-gatherer societies, about which our knowledge remains only fragmentary at best take, for instance, the differentiation of “sacred” and “profane” times, or the ritualistic ordering of ceremonies, meals, birth and death events, hunting expeditions, and so on. In hunter-gatherer societies, such differentiation entails at best a modest specialization of tasks, and little institutional differentiation in terms of the formation of distinct fields. Indeed, there is nothing “intrinsic” about such patterns of differentiation: such anthrogeneric modes of social practices remain only heuristic devices for arranging evidence of actual paths of institutional differentiation in history. As we apply anthrogeneric concepts to specific circumstances, and then engage in secondary, comparative-historical generalizations on the basis of such analyses of specific circumstances, we generate what Weber called ideal-type concepts. Such ideal types like generic models discussed below show in practice how the social analytic bridges to the analysis of specific circumstances, and from here to the formulation of specific empirical hypotheses, something discussed in more detail below. For now, Fig. 2 presents a very brief overview of how to historically organize some basic ideal-type concepts from Weber’s Economy and Society, indicating the rich complexity involved in tracking these patterns empirically. The patterns of institutional differentiation mapped by ideal types remain tightly coupled to patterns of agency and reflexive action in particular times and places, and thus we turn to a few important observations about agency and action as a bridge to the following discussion of explanatory narratives.

Agency and Reflexive Action Two common traits regarding human agency have predominated in AngloAmerican sociology in recent decades, a tendency to conceptualize agency simply as “action” per se (and individuals as actors), and a tendency to

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time period

societies & economies

states

antiquity “pre-history” hunterOikos gatherer societies (clans, tribes, etc.)

antiquity through early modernity agrarian societies

modernity more capitalistic societies more socialistic societies

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------– patriarchal feudal representative democracies plebiscitarian authority patrimonial varieties of dictatorships

routine forms of authority non-routine, non-state & founding forms of authority dominant organizational form

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------traditional traditional traditional traditional and legal-rational ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------charismatic charismatic charismatic charismatic ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------kinship extended authorities bureaucracies households and staffs

Fig. 2. Temporal Ordering of Some Basic Ideal Types of Societies, States, Organizations, and Authorities in Weber’s Economy and Society. Note: Weber did not track such type concepts in unilinear-evolutionary terms, that is, he noted that history has sometimes seen what might appear earlier forms reappearing at later times, though capitalism, socialism, and for the most part, bureaucracies are modern. Weber also identified many, many intermediate forms not shown here, such as the Sta¨ndestaat in some parts of late medieval/early modern Europe. Also, the chart makes more schematic some of Weber’s analyses than they are, obscuring, for instance, his identification of the medieval Catholic Church as the originator of early bureaucracy in the Western world.

identify causes in social life external to agency. As a consequence, both an overburdened concept (action), and a chronic tendency to assign causes to “structural” factors, implicitly frame much Anglo-American sociology.26 But the tendency to concentrate on “structural” causal factors is also widespread elsewhere, such as in Bourdieu’s work, despite his recognition of the potential causal efficacy of reflexive action at times (Bourdieu & Wacquant, 1992, pp. 120 138). In considerable part, this tendency represents the long effects of an assumed but problematic dualism of structure and action in Western sociology. A similar tendency to locate causality at the “structural” level in

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Bourdieu’s work work that aimed at displacing subjective objective binaries with that between the embodied and the relational shows that such tendencies are reinforced by additional initial assumptions about the object domain of the social sciences. Indeed, one key to revealing such additional initial assumptions is a close analysis of the concepts agency and actor. As we saw above, habitus enables us to frame agency in terms of an array of dispositions that predominate in much of everyday life, particularly regarding routines. At the same time, Bourdieu’s tendency to downplay the causal efficacy of reflexive action underscores that action itself needs to be further conceptualized. Recent neurology tells us that reflexive action is only about 10 percent of agentic behavior (Montague & Berns, 2002). This needs to be placed in context, though, for habitus with its institutional paradigms enables more complex reflective action by enabling individuals to devote attention to what they are doing in the sense of reflexively decided courses of behavior. Thus, though (reflexive) actions may probabilistically only be roughly 10 percent of agentic behavior per se, certainly such actions are often disproportionately important in reconstructing “causal chains” in human history, to paraphrase the “Author’s Introduction” to The Protestant Ethic. Following from this, we also need to differentiate types of reflexive action in terms of possible types of motivation. As mentioned above, the problem of motivation is complex as Weber recognized, motivations can only be interpreted indirectly, taking behavior as evidence (1978, pp. 8 14). The indirect identification of distinct types of motivation follows from the fact that some intentional actions clearly involving deliberation are impossible to explain in terms of self-interested motivations, as the behavior of the 19 individuals who hijacked jets and flew them into buildings on September 11, 2001, in New York City and Washington, DC, or the firefighters who began ascending the stairs in one of the burning Twin Towers building only to be killed as the building collapsed on top of them, demonstrates.27 In any case, we need to modify here Weber’s fourfold typology of action with its distinctions between purposive-instrumental, valuerational, traditional, and affective action (1978, pp. 24 26) in light of the discussion of agency and habitus above. First, we recognize that affective action is reflexive action motivated by the emotional influence of love, affection, dislike, repugnance, hatred, and the like, as in Weber’s original conception. Next, we rename purposive-instrumental action as strategic action. This clarifies what such action entails as it assumes practical goals in a strategic sense for persons considering them. “Practical goals in a

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strategic sense” means here that strategic interests play predominant roles steering social action, and thus practical concerns such as economic, political, and other such interests predominate in their motivation. Weber’s concept of value-rational action, in contrast, is guided by non-immediate, non-strategic, symbolic motivations, such as philosophical inclinations, religious beliefs, scientific questioning, artistic proclivities, and the like. And tensions between strategic and value-rational motivations have figured centrally at key points in human history. “[V]ery frequently the ‘world images’ that have been created by ‘ideas’ have, like switchmen, determined the tracks along which action has been pushed by the dynamics of interest” (Weber, 1946, p. 280). This brings us to Weber’s problematic concept of traditional action, which tends to collapse conscious adherence to a tradition and its orthodoxies with conventional behavior per se. The concepts of habitus and institutional paradigm enable us to resolve Weber’s overburdened concept of traditional action by shifting to both a broader conception of valuerational action, and bringing in the concept of habitus. Such a broader range of value-rational action considers conscious, deliberative reflection in favor of tradition an example of value-rational action, while simultaneously identifying conventionalism with the realm of habitus and institutional paradigms proper.28 From here, we can identify many additional subtypes and hybrid motivations for reflexive action. Take what Erving Goffman (1959) called dramaturgical action, and what Jeffrey Alexander (2010) modifying Goffman and developing an analysis of political action in the contemporary United States terms performative action. One can certainly question the range that Goffman assigns to dramaturgical action in his 1959 text, as Goffman himself does in the last pages. In contrast, performative action as Alexander applies it to national presidential campaigns is finely attuned to its subject matter. Indeed, performative action sits between strategic and value-rational action along a continuum of types of reflexive action. The above indicates the problematic nature of trying to conceptualize all sociologically relevant action as strategic action as Fligstein and McAdam do, though the latter define this so broadly that it appears to overlap other types of action.29 Are value-rational actions always strategic actions, for instance? A related tendency in Fligstein and McAdam is to frame all fields as “strategic action fields” along lines of incumbents and challengers, a move that gives short shrift to beliefs and institutions, norms, and the longue dure´e of customs and traditions in many social orders.30 All of this

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is bound up with absence of a sense of historicity in Fligstein and McAdam’s proposed model of general social theory. And indeed, the development of an adequate range of ideal types of action for analyzing the range of human actions in history underscores the need to reverse what Elias called sociology’s “retreat into the present” (1998). We turn to the application of one such action subtype dramaturgical action to actual skeins of social development in the section below on explanatory narrative in order to illustrate the dynamic relation between social analytics and explanatory narratives. For now, let us briefly note that other aspects of human agency enabling types of actions require considerable conceptual development. Take, for instance, the social-psychological concepts of personality and a wide suite of related concepts that help define it, from cognition to consciousness, mind to the unconscious, and so on. Indeed, personality entails a broad conception of the emergent properties that make a person a person distinguished by a proper name with a specific life history that identifies her or him.31 The analytic differentiation of anthrogeneric concepts and modes of social practices offered above raises questions of how they enable formulation of models and causal hypotheses. Though the development of models contributes to “the analytic of society,” in fact the formulation of these models can most clearly be understood in relation to the formulation of specific causal hypotheses regarding events in which human agency and interaction are taken to be causally significant. This brings us to the topic of explanatory narratives.

EXPLANATORY NARRATIVES We now return to the proposition outlined at the beginning of this analysis, namely, that most explanations in the social sciences should properly be conceived as explanatory narratives. Explanatory narrative subordinates the identification of causal factors to the reconstruction of a specific enchainment of events in a historical process.32 Such explanatory narratives grapple with the empirical problem of how to factor multiple experiential perspectives of various agents into a broader narrative sequence focused on key causal links in the chain of a historically irreducible sequence involving the interaction of many people, as well as the unintended consequences of such interaction. “The multiple time-horizon problem [of many agents] remains the central theoretical barrier to moving formalized narrative

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beyond the simple-minded analysis of stage processes and rational action sequences. Serious institutional analysis cannot be conducted without addressing it” (Abbott, 1992, p. 441). In order to do this, explanatory narrative subsumes a distinct model of causal analysis, what Abbott calls “the variables paradigm” (1992). In this currently predominant model of causal analysis in Western sociology, evidence is arrayed in terms of variables, with some factors identified as independent and treated as causes, other factors identified as dependent and treated as effects, and mediating variables often identified as altering the effects of independent variables on dependent variables. In so doing, historicity is often lost, and the result is instances of analysis that develop on the assumption of causal generality while rarely achieving such generality. Abbott’s suggestion provides a way to cut through this by subordinating the analysis of variables to explanatory narratives. Thus much of statistical analysis would gain a means for situating its analysis in terms of explanatory narratives of skeins of events. Of course, the longue dure´e remains, but very long-term explanations in the social sciences have yielded very little so far, one reason that historians tend to dominate influential work on time spans of such a long temporal scale. Indeed, the most influential attempt to do this Marx’s historical materialism exemplifies this difficulty. Indeed, Marx’s work presents many lacunae when trying to bridge his broad theory of capitalism, for instance, with his analysis of particular courses of events, as we will see below. Certainly, such a framing of the problem situation between theory and research comes at a cost, specifically, the cost of abandoning cross-case hypothesis formulation in much of the social sciences. Yet very little has been accomplished in this regard in any case. Take Theda Skocpol’s States and Social Revolutions, an influential analysis that develops an explanatory strategy for explaining three political revolutions the French Revolution in the 1790s, the (first) Russian Revolution of the early twentieth century, and the Chinese Revolution. Skocpol argues that the “ultimate objective” of comparative historical analysis is “the actual illumination of causal regularities across sets of cases,” and defines her aim in States and Social Revolution as “understanding and explaining the generalizable logic at work in the entire set of revolutions under discussion” the French Revolution, the Chinese Revolution, and the Russian of Revolution of 1917.33 She goes on to explain her cases by identifying “two sets of institutional conditions sufficient for explaining revolutions” (Skocpol, 1979, p. 339, note 11). The first set of conditions is met by the classification of a certain type of state three proto-bureaucratic agrarian

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empires institutionally articulated to a certain type of social order, a largely peasant society dominated by an agrarian landed class. The second set of conditions is met when the relation between state and dominant agrarian class fatally constricts the ability of state leaders to successfully negotiate simultaneous pressures on the state brought on by an unfavorable geopolitical situation and revolts of peasants from below (Skocpol, 1979, pp. 284 293). Skocpol’s identification of some similar initial conditions across three cases, however, nowhere clarifies or justifies her claim that the “illumination of causal regularities across sets of cases” constitutes the “ultimate objective” of comparative historical analysis. Indeed, the linkages between the explanatory suppositions of States and Social Revolutions and its substantive conclusions are barely sketched, almost cryptic, and have generated a large body of critical comment, some of it widely off the mark in part due to the elusiveness of the original text.34 The sum of explicit linkages between explanatory suppositions and substantive analysis in the book consist of two paragraphs summarizing John Stuart Mill’s comparative “Method of Agreement” and “Method of Difference.” Skocpol uses these throughout to identify similarities and differences among her three cases, and between these cases and the “controlling cases” of England, Germany, and Japan. The difficult problems Skocpol leaves hanging include the fact that Mill designed the methods of agreement and difference for the study of nonsocial phenomena, and himself argued that they were inapplicable to human social affairs, due to the complicating factors of human agency and the impossibility of subjecting historical processes to controlled experiment.35 Over a number of years, Skocpol has hedged concerning her method in States and Social Revolutions (1984), underscoring how vexed attempts to identify cross-case causes on the scale of a state has proven to be. Indeed, strategies have developed since the middle of the twentieth century among some Western sociologists to rule out study of cases beyond the level of outcomes for particular individuals, sometimes justified by the notion that only a sufficient number a sufficient N can be treated statistically (Lieberson, 1981). In short, such sociologists’ answer to the problems identified above is simply to exclude a vast number of potential candidates from causal analysis at all, including much of human history for which statistics are not available, as well as some contemporary societies with authoritarian legacies, such as the Russian Federation, or with active authoritarian regimes that makes statistical analysis difficult to impossible, such as China. Moreover, this phenomenon raises the sticky case of what

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“counts” as a case, something that underscores the range and variety of issues that impede paradigm formation in the social sciences. Clarifying the role of generic models in mediating the open-ended, working relation between social analytics and explanatory narratives points a way forward. A generic model is provisional, insofar as it presents a preliminary framing of a given situation for heuristic purposes, a framing that allows sociological analysis to proceed. Indeed, together with ideal-type concepts as discussed above, generic models bridge the boundary between such analytics and explanatory narratives in the social science, as Fig. 3 shows. To the extent that generic models entail causal assumptions, these assumptions are recognized as such by the sociologist and taken as heuristic devices to be modified as evidence is gathered and considered from different angles. A key conceptual resource for construing generic models are what Weber called ideal types, heuristic generalizations that represent major patterns of development and differentiation in human history through concepts such as “feudalism” or “representative democracy.” Along with generic models, such ideal types form on an open-ended basis in the back and forth of development of social analytics and formulation of particular explanatory narratives. Unfortunately, Weber also called “ideal types” what on the lower right of Fig. 3 are listed as historical models of actual institutions and social relations in given places at given places in given points in time. Weber here relied on a problematic distinction between “generic” and “genetic” ideal types, a distinction that makes little sense (Weber, 1949, pp. 100 103), for a “genetic” ideal type is simply a socialscientific simplification of an actual state of affairs characterizing social relations taken to be causally significant factors in a particular case. variables analysis generic models and ideal types explanatory narratives

social analytics generic models and ideal types

historical models

Fig. 3.

Generic Models and Working Boundaries Between Social Analytics and Explanatory Narratives.

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To refer to this as an ideal type, however, contradicts the fact that it is striving to capture historically unique dynamics. Moreover, such dynamics are too complex to be rendered in a concept, and instead take the form of a model of dynamics institutionally stabilized in historically irreducible ways. Compare, for instance, the ideal type of capitalism with the historical model of British capitalism in the late 1970s, or the ideal type of socialism with the Soviet order in 1953. Indeed, generic models and ideal-type concepts enable the formulation of historical models alongside specific causal explanations by social scientists. Of course, such historical models can in turn serve as the basis of generic models and ideal types so long as some of their causal assumptions are scaled back and the model is “stripped down” to either the provisional role of generic models or ideal types (or both).

Examples of Implicit Explanatory Narratives A brief overview of four different works two from early social science, and two from more contemporary American sociology illustrate an implicit tendency toward explanatory narrative in many instances of otherwise diverse instances of causal analysis in the social sciences. The first two Marx’s Eighteenth Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte and Weber’s The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism are both widely familiar to sociologists today. Marx’s Eighteenth Brumaire presents a complex analysis of the events surrounding the rise to power in France of Louis Bonaparte, retrospectively seen by many as improvising an early variant of what would become European fascism in the 1920s and 1930s, between 1848 and 1851.36 Marx frames this as the working out of the class struggle between capitalists and proletarians at a very general level (“the last instance”), but the analysis itself centered on what Marx himself designated as conflicts between “… the financial aristocracy, the industrial bourgeoisie, the middle class, the petty bourgeoisie, the army, the Mobile Guard (i.e., the organized lumpenproletariat), the intellectual celebrities, the priests, and the rural population” on one side, and on the other, “the Paris proletariat … itself” (Marx, 1974[1852], p. 154). Marx at various points stresses that Bonaparte “… has set himself up as the head of the lumpenproletariat … the scum, the leavings, the refuse … the only class which can provide him with an unconditional basis” (p. 197). The analysis further emphasizes that Bonaparte secured the “complete” independence of the French state from “the class rule of the bourgeoisie,” and stresses Bonaparte’s ties to small peasants as his broader

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political base (p. 238). Thus, Marx tracks how Bonaparte relied on support from small peasants to mobilize the army and the lumpenproletarian Mobile Guard against Parisian workers, and used the threat of the workers’ Parisian rising to compel the bourgeoisie, petty bourgeoisie, and middle class to support him (p. 245). The analysis at no point systematically shows exactly how this close and complex reading of the course of events in Paris from February 24, 1848 through December 2, 1851 exemplifies the logic of the class struggle between capitalists and proletarians, leading to protracted interpretations of what Marx intended here. In fact, linkages between a number of Marx’s close historical analyses of particular courses of events often highly detailed and subtle and the developmental dynamics of the class struggle as laid out in his theoretical analyses of capitalism, remain subjects of debate down to the present. Weber’s The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism does not pose an interpretive puzzle of how to fit an explanatory narrative into a broader theoretical framework the way Marx’s writings do, in large part because Weber argued along lines anticipating the overview of explanatory narrative developed above. Indeed, Weber argued that social science could only pose developmental histories of historically irreducible “causal chains” of events (Roth, 1987). The faults of Weber’s analysis lie elsewhere, such as his assumption of a rigid binary between Western and non-Western societies in framing the analysis (Weber, 1958, pp. 13 17). Interestingly enough, The Protestant Ethic relied on an initial statistical mapping of the problem situation that inspired his work something often overlooked by commentators (Blau, 1998) in part because this statistical analysis is presented almost exclusively in the footnotes (Weber, 1958, pp. 188 189). This last point is key, for it illustrates how statistical analysis can be incorporated by explanatory narrative as outlined above. In the bulk of The Protestant Ethic, Weber developed a doctrinal analysis of a chain of influential Protestant leaders, starting with Martin Luther and ending up with Calvinism and its closely linked English variant, Puritanism. The analysis causally accounts for only “one side of the causal chain” (Weber, 1958, p. 27) in order to link doctrinal views among key figures involved in various early Protestant tendencies from Luther to John Calvin and his successors to the emergence of early modern capitalism in parts of Europe and the American colonies. Though The Protestant Ethic has since generated an enormous secondary literature, many of the controversies in this literature center either on questions of empirical accuracy in Weber’s analysis, or degrees of causal weighting given to various factors mentioned briefly in Weber’s “Author’s Introduction,” originally a

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separate piece written in 1920 and later combined with the substantive text in English editions (Weber, 1958, p. 12b). Only in recent decades has the importance of Weber’s “view of history as a network of…[historically irreducible] developmental paths” (Ringer, 1997, p. 91) commanded more widespread attention. The convergence between Ringer’s analysis of historical paths of development in Weber, and the paleontologist Stephen Jay Gould’s analysis of the irreducibility of historical sequences in biological evolution, is telling in this regard.37 Comparing Marx’s Eighteenth Brumaire and Weber’s The Protestant Ethic brings out an important nuance regarding explanatory narratives: though the sequences explained in such accounts remain historically irreducible, the explanatory narratives themselves do not necessarily take the form of strict narratives in the presentational sense. Such presentations may certainly take this form as The Eighteenth Brumaire illustrates but they may also take a more analytical form less strictly tied to the historical sequences they explain, as in the case of The Protestant Ethic. A much more recent example of implicit explanatory narrative Charles Derber’s Corporation Nation illustrates this point by tracking the rise to a commanding position of a relative handful of publicly traded corporations during and after the Glided Age in American society. By 1996, such corporations’ “…combined sales…were larger than the combined gross national product of all but the nine largest nations” (Derber, p. 3). Derber’s analysis emphasizes the complex historical path leading to an outcome where the 200 largest corporations (p. 3) which Derber at one point calls “superbaronies” (p. 91) control roughly half the American economy, though representing only a tiny percentage of all American businesses as legal entities (p. 91). Of course, the consolidation of large corporate dominance in the U.S. economy after 1945 and especially after 1980 has been widely noted in academic literature, though remains practically absent from public discussion of such matters in the mass media. Derber’s emphasis on the historically irreducible trajectory of the rise and development of the American corporate economy is what renders his analysis an example of explanatory narrative. A range of key, historically unique factors emphasized by Derber stand-out here, such as the complex relations between changes in legal codes and practices in the organization of the American economy (pp. 165 168); the only partial roll-back of large corporate influence during the New Deal (pp. 96 100); the deepening intertwining of large corporate and government administration after the Second World War (pp. 150 152); the resurgence of large corporate dominance, particularly following the election of Ronald

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Reagan as U.S. president in 1980 (pp. 161 163, 202 206); and the close relations of these factors to shifting cultural understandings of American society among citizens over time (pp. 56 66, 101 102, 118 148). Along the way, Derber emphasizes a number of historical factors shaping these outcomes, from shifting perspectives among policy makers at various points in time, to the consequences of particular legal decisions for the subsequent development of American corporate influence. As the United States played a dominant role in the globalization process (pp. 272 290) particularly after Reagan’s election the analysis serves as a potential bridge to other regional mappings of how the expansion of transnational corporate power played out in particular regional circumstances. Derber’s analysis can be criticized from a number of perspectives, such as his tendency to blur the line between social-scientific analysis and a more activist orientation a shift that is particularly clear beginning on page 167, though he does return to an analytical perspective from time to time after this point. But Corporation Nation develops an explanatory narrative at a very large scale, abstracted from particular developmental skeins except for usages of the latter to illustrate points. This underscores what makes an explanatory narrative an explanatory narrative: its emphasis on historical irreducibility in assessing causal factors, not the degree of narrative exposition per se. A final and very clear example of explanatory narrative comes from Jeffrey Alexander’s analysis of the U.S. presidential campaign in 2008. First, Alexander emphasizes throughout that causality in a presidential election is best articulated in terms of historically irreducible, complex skeins of intertwining events. In doing so, Alexander considers factors such as position in social hierarchies, educational advancement, and so on, as demographic factors, and emphasizes the importance of events and interactions in mediating the impact of such factors on voter behavior.38 In his analysis, he models the outcome of the 2008 presidential race on the performative impact that both Obama and McCain made on various audiences largely indirectly through the mass media as well as how the dynamic of particular events, such as Obama’s trip abroad in late July 2008, or the different response of McCain and Obama to the financial crisis that broke out in mid-September 2008, causally shifted the dynamics of the presidential campaign at various points. In short, Alexander develops a close explanatory narrative of the 2008 presidential race on the basis of a detailed analysis of the candidates’ respective political performances that uses generic models of democratic institutions, historical models of recent American political institutions, and the media, together with detailed analyses of

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political speeches, advertising, and the like, as analytic steps to the explanatory outcome.

CONCLUSION The above examples drawn from quite different sociological approaches clarify a key point developed here, that social theory must develop closely with empirical analysis in ways that enable disciplinary development and, eventually, the formation of a social-scientific paradigm. The aim here has been ecumenical, though some approaches that insist on highly limited models of human agency that all behavior is self-interested, for instance, or that the agency of persons is merely an “empty place” determined from the outside are ruled out. The social sciences, however, lack the accomplishments of physics and biology when it comes to demonstrable effects in the world, accomplishments that both consolidated these disciplines around paradigms and gave them a wider legitimacy in the social world. The case of the social sciences indeed raises an interesting question, for absent such potential for wider legitimacy, will it nevertheless still be possible to make progress on paradigm formation in such sciences? Ironically, the institutional divisions between the social sciences, combined with the inertia of career paths, works against this. For this reason, sociology needs to take the issue of paradigm consolidation as a disciplinary task and pursue it with an ecumenical ethos.

NOTES 1. This distinction builds upon Nicos Mouzelis’ distinction between “theory as a set of tools that simply facilitate … the construction” of specific causal hypotheses, and “theory as a set of interrelated substantive statements … [that] can be tentatively proved or disproved by empirical investigation” (Mouzelis, 1995, p. 1). 2. Grammatical language is assumed here as bracketing human culture per se from “proto-culture” in animal societies; for the latter, see Bonner (1980). 3. The concept of species-being comes from the early Marx, who emphasized humans as a species-being were conscious and thus capable of a cooperative labor process (Marx 1964 [1932], pp. 31 39, 106 119). Certainly, culture and institutions make a labor process possible at all, distinguishing Homo sapiens from other social species. 4. For an overview of the many aspects of this “pre-civilization” period of human history, see Gamble (1994).

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5. For the complex history involved with the dynamics of the diffusion of reading and social change during the French Enlightenment only a temporal and geographic fraction of a more than 300-yearlong process see Darnton (1987). 6. See Durkheim (1997 [1893]). In one of his last major published works, The Elementary Forms of the Religious Life, Durkheim (1995 [1893]) used the concept of institution explicitly to underscore the centrality of what he earlier termed social integration, moral regulation, and solidarity. 7. The distinction between biological linguistic capacity and the historical development of a spoken language can be traced back to the origins of modern linguistics; see Saussure (1983) for the key text. 8. The term “disciplinary apparatus” has been adapted from Foucault (1979). 9. This tripartite distinction converges to some extent with Anthony Giddens’ distinction between “discursive consciousness” and “practical consciousness,” though the latter term is clumsy given that Giddens himself regards habitual agency as largely spontaneous and “pre-conscious” (Giddens, 1984, pp. 5 14). 10. See Fligstein and McAdam (2011) for a recent example of this, though this tendency goes back decades in American sociology. 11. See Garcelon (2010, pp. 327 334); Bradford (2012, pp. 134 135) is the only other sociological analysis I have seen that emphasizes a convergent position. Bourdieu emphasized distinctions between “structuring structures” (i.e., embodied patterns) and “structured structures” (i.e., relational patterns), though inconsistently applied this to institutions (see below). 12. For the difference between the perspective of legality as a normative orientation, and legality as an empirical sociological phenomenon as well as the complex relation between the two see Weber (1978, pp. 311 319). 13. Weber sometimes referred to “legitimate orders,” and in Economy and Society differentiated conventional from legal legitimate orders (Weber, 1978, pp. 30 38). Here we use the concept of institutional order instead of legitimate order for purposes of terminological consistency. 14. Talcott Parsons’ mapping of social subsystems in terms of his A-G-I-L scheme (Parsons, 1977), and Norbert Elias’ designation of four “universal functions” in terms of “economic,” “control of violence,” “knowledge acquisition/transmission,” and “civilizing” functions (Elias, 1998), both serve as starting points for the following; however, both of these approaches lack the range and clarity of modes of social practices as described below. Neil Fligstein and Doug McAdams’ related, more recent proposition of “strategic action fields” (2011) is discussed below. 15. An exchange with Robert N. Bellah led me to emphasize this here. 16. Weber’s definition of a historical individual is flawed by the erroneous assumption that such individuals appear only at the socio-cultural level of analysis (Weber, 1949, pp. 160 171), an assumption rooted in his failure to adequately recognize the role of theoretical presuppositions in framing analytical objects in the natural sciences (Runciman, 1972, pp. 37 42). Indeed, the study of historical irreducibility figures in many empirical sciences; see, for instance, Kellert (1993) for physics and Gould (1996) for evolutionary biology. 17. Bourdieu at points muddies the waters by not recognizing that spoken language itself is an institution; for example, he artificially separates language

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from institutions in the following quote: “[T]o ground in language the principle and mechanisms of the efficacy of language, is to forget that authority comes to language from the outside … for it is nothing other than the delegated power of the institution” (Bourdieu & Wacquant, 1992, p. 147). Yet intelligible language is the most basic human institution with both embodied and relational aspects; indeed, there is nothing in institutions “outside” language and forms of symbolism presupposing language. See also Bradford (2012), though this analysis at points uses philosophical discourse in ways that somewhat obscures some of its points. 18. This paragraph draws considerably on the discussion in Bellah (1973). 19. For a close historical study of the rise of modern medicine and transformations of conventional understanding of health that accompanied it in America, see Starr (1984). 20. For the “this worldly” origin of magical practices, see Weber (1978, pp. 399 400). 21. For the diversity of human funerary practices, see Bonsu and Belk (2003), Cullen (2006), and Griffiths (2003). 22. James Lovelock, a chemist and ecologist, introduced the term “tightly coupled” to map the coevolutionary relations between organisms and their environment (2001). 23. See the “Author’s Introduction” to The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism (Weber, 1958 [1904]), as well as his essay “The Social Psychology of the World Religions” (Weber, 1946, pp. 267 301). 24. Stark (1992) introduced the concept of path-dependency to mark irreducibly historical processes in human affairs. The problem is that path-dependency appears in physics, biology, and the social sciences; to capture what is distinctive about the latter, we need the additional concept of trajectory adjustment. 25. Weber’s Economy and Society (1978) outlines a diverse array of such modes of domination. 26. For a pronounced recent example of this, see Fligstein and McAdam (2011). Of course, there are important exceptions to this tendency in Anglo-American sociology, such as in the work of Jeffrey Alexander (2006, 2010). 27. The problem of motivation is too often bracketed by either stereotyping motivations in unrealistic ways, such as in economism, or evading or denying the causal significance of motivation in human agency, a tactic that led Foucault to paint himself into a conceptual corner, so to speak, in Discipline and Punish. 28. A lengthy exchange with Robert N. Bellah led to this formulation. The above refines a discussion in Garcelon (2010, pp. 332 333). 29. “[W]e define strategic action as the attempt by actors to create and maintain stable social worlds by securing the cooperation of others” (Fligstein & McAdam 2011, p. 7). 30. Goldstone and Useem (2012, pp. 38 41). For the longue dure´e, see Braudel and Matthews (1982, pp. 25 54). 31. There are many models of personality that deserve careful comparative consideration, reconstruction, and synthesis here; the two most important early thinkers concerning personality were Sigmund Freud (1989) and George Herbert Mead (1934).

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32. The concept of “explanatory narrative” derives from Andrew Abbott’s “narrative positivism” (1992, 2004); Stephen Jay Gould’s delineation of the explanatory objectives of “historical sciences” (1989, 1995); William H. Sewell’s conception of “eventful sociology” (1996); and Margaret Somers’ notion of “causal narrativity” (1996). 33. Quotes from Skocpol (1979, p. 39) and (p. 6), respectively. 34. For critical treatments of Skocpol relevant to explanatory narrative, see Abbott (1991) and Sewell (1996). Skocpol (1994) contains an anticipatory rebuttal of Sewell, based on an earlier draft of his piece. Somers (1996) is also of interest, as she discusses her own development from a Skocpolian position to a position close to explanatory narrative as defined here. The Sewell Skocpol exchange is particularly instructive, as it reveals a certain degree of mutual misunderstanding rooted substantially, in my view, in the elusiveness of Skocpol’s original methodological statements. 35. See Skocpol (1979, pp. 36 37) for the key paragraphs. As A. J. Ayer pointed out in an introduction to Mill’s The Logic of the Moral Sciences, Book VI of Mill’s System of Logic, “… Mill does not think that his famous inductive methods are applicable to the social sciences … There is the overall difficulty that the subject matter is such as to afford us little or no opportunity for making artificial experiments. We have to rely on the ‘spontaneous instances’ with which history naturally provides us, and they do not supply the conditions which are requisite for … [the Method of Difference or the Method of Agreement] to be fruitful. The Method of Difference, preferred by Mill to all others obliges us to find an instance of a phenomenon and one of its absence which are the same in every respect except one, which occurs only in the presence of the phenomenon; and plainly this is a condition that is not historically satisfied … The same axe falls upon the Method of Agreement, where it is required that two instances of a phenomenon have nothing relevant in common except the circumstance which is our candidate for its cause. To take Mill’s own example, let us suppose that we discover a set of prosperous nations which, within the limits of our enquiry, agree only in practicing commercial protection. We cannot infer that this common practice is the cause of their prosperity. The reason why we cannot is that we have not proved either that protectionism would in any case be sufficient on its own, or that various combinations of the divergent factors would not yield prosperity even in the absence of protectionism” (Ayer, 1988, p. 12). 36. See, for instance, Robert C. Tucker’s brief introductory note to the edited version of The Eighteenth Brumaire on p. 594 of the 1978 edition of The MarxEngles Reader. 37. Compare Ringer’s discussion of Weber’s approach to causal analysis (Ringer, 1997, pp. 77 80) with Stephen Jay Gould’s account of the irreducibility of historical explanation in evolutionary biology (Gould, 1989, pp. 282 285) to see the degrees of convergence around historical irreducibility at work here. As mentioned above, Weber erroneously restricted historical explanations to human affairs. 38. “If position in the social hierarchy actually determined party identification and vote, how could there ever be any alteration in the struggle for power?” (Alexander, 2010, p. 8).

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Stark, D. (1992). Path dependence and privatization strategies in east central Europe. East European Politics and Societies, 6(1), 17 53. Starr, P. (1984). The social transformation of American medicine. New York, NY: Basic Books. Swidler, A. (1986). Culture in action: Symbols and strategies. American Sociological Review, 51(April), 273 286. Tilly, C. (1993). European revolutions, 1492 1992. Oxford, UK: Blackwell. Turner, V. (1969). The ritual process: Structure and anti-structure. Chicago, IL: Aldine. Weber, M. (1946). The social psychology of the world religions. In From Max Weber: Essays in sociology (pp. 267 301). New York, NY: The Free Press. Weber, M. (1949). The methodology of the social sciences. New York, NY: The Free Press. Weber, M. (1958 [1904]). The Protestant ethic and the spirit of capitalism. New York, NY: Charles Scribner’s Sons. Weber, M. (1978). Economy and society: An outline of interpretive sociology. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Wolf, E. R. (1981). Europe and the people without history. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press.

TOWARD A RECONCILIATION OF THE STRUCTURATION AND MORPHOGENESIS THEORIES “TESTED” IN THE EVENTFUL HISTORICAL ANALYSIS$ Ewa Morawska ABSTRACT Purpose The purpose of this essay is twofold: (i) identification of the shared premises of the structuration and morphogenesis theories which have remained indifferent to or openly at odds with each other, while highlighting at the same time the specific elements of these two models which are better elaborated in one than the other; and (ii) demonstration of the benefits of social theory testing on the eventful historical analysis.

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In its original version this essay, entitled “Studying international migration in the long(er) and short(er) duree: Contesting some and reconciling other disagreements between the structuration and morphogenesis approaches,” appeared as a working paper WP-44-2011 of the International Migration Institute, University of Oxford (http://www.imi.ox.ac.uk/publications/imi-working-papers).

Social Theories of History and Histories of Social Theory Current Perspectives in Social Theory, Volume 31, 221 246 Copyright r 2013 by Emerald Group Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0278-1204/doi:10.1108/S0278-1204(2013)0000031006

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Design/methodology/approach I first comparatively examine the main premises and guiding concepts of the two models in question, point out their basic affinities, and note different emphases. Next, different components and phases of the (re)constitution over time of societal structure(s) and human agency posited by the structuration/morphogenesis model are illustrated and “tested” through the historical account of the initiation and spread of migration of Polish peasants to America at the turn of the twentieth century and the subsequent impact of this movement on the sender and receiver societies. Findings/originality/value First, the demonstration of a close theoretical affinity of the structuration and morphogenesis models which provides the grounds for an intellectual exchange between their proponents. Second, derived from the historical analysis of Poles’ migration process, the identification of specific concepts informing the structuration/ morphogenesis model which need further refinement. The third, most general finding-qua-contribution is a demonstration of the benefit for social theorizing from the historical, that is, time- and place-sensitive conceptualization and analysis of the examined phenomena. Keywords: Structuration; morphogenesis; historical analysis; international migration

Instead of engaging in a close intellectual exchange, the advocates of the morphogenesis and structuration models which rely on similar premises in trying to bridge the so-called structure-agency gap in sociological analysis have been indifferent to or openly at odds with each other. The relevant debate in Europe and, specifically, the United Kingdom obstinately dwells on the old disagreements between Margaret Archer’s morphogenetic theory (1995, 2003) and Anthony Giddens’s structuration model (1976, 1984) without either refuting attempts to correct the former’s misrepresentations of the latter’s arguments (Stones, 2001, 2005) or considering the propositions from across the Atlantic which are relevant to the subject matter of the arguments. For their part, apparently unconcerned with this fixation of their European colleagues, Americans elaborate on subsequent modifications of the different aspects of the structuration model proposed by historical sociologists such as William Sewell (1992), Mustafa Emirbayer and Ann Mische (1998), and (a Canadian) Francois Depelteau (2010), and on the akin-in-spirit ideas about the societal processes of the historically

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minded sociologists Andrew Abbott (2001), Ron Aminzade (1992), and John R. Hall (1999). As a sociologist historian by professional training and a long research practice, I subscribe to the “American” version of the structuration model. The major premises informing the historical sociological conceptualization of this approach should be identified here as they inform the subsequent discussion. First, it conceives of both human actors and their surrounding societal environment as processes of continuous “becoming” (rather than as entities fixed in time) and their forms and contents as always changeable and never fully determined. Second, it recognizes the ever-potential causal impact on the examined phenomena of the temporal dimension of the events and, specifically, their pace (slow/er or quick/er), rhythm (regular or irregular), sequence (the order in which the events happen), and duration (long/er or short/er) (Aminzade, 1992). And third, it holds that the answer to why social phenomena come into being, change, or persist, is revealed by demonstrating how they do it, that is, by showing how they have been shaped over time by the constellations of changing circumstances (Abrams, 1982). In order to show how/why a social phenomenon evolves in a certain direction and assumes specific characteristics, a historical sociologist examines the events in question and identifies the constellation of circumstances that shape these developments. The purpose and scholarly contribution of this essay are twofold. First, I show that the premises of the current (re)formulations of the morphogenesis theory are perfectly reconcilable with the revised (post-Giddensian) structuration model, and I highlight at the same time the elements of the conceptualization of the structure(s)-agency reconstitution process posited by these approaches which are more and better elaborated in one than the other model and, thus, suggest a promising venue for the intellectual exchange between their practitioners. And second, I demonstrate the benefits of the testing of social theory on the “eventful analysis” (Moore, 2011) through the application of the concepts and arguments of the structuration-morphogenesis model in the account of the spread of mass migration of Polish peasants to America at the turn of the twentieth century to see if they need any amendments. The essay consists of two main sections corresponding to its above noted purposes; in the conclusion I summarize the lessons the structuration and morphogenesis theorists can draw from each other, note the issues requiring further analytic attention from both as revealed by a historical case analysis, and reiterate the benefits of the historically sensitive theoretical and empirical investigations. .

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THE MORPHOGENETIC AND STRUCTURATION MODELS: THEIR AFFINITIES AND PARTICULAR CONTRIBUTIONS In this section, I identify the theoretical affinities between the morphogenetic and structuration approaches, and point out elements of the conceptualization of the structure(s)-agency reconstitution process that are more and better elaborated in one or the other model and as such should be, I suggest, considered for incorporation by its respective counterpart. In assessing the semblances between and particular contributions of the two theories, we consider their conceptualizations of structures, human agency, their mutual reconstitution, and emergence of societal structures. Thus, structures, in both models denoting more or less enduring organizations of social (including economic and political) relations and cultural formations, are created and recreated in a process of the collective practice of social actors who occupy particular and changeable positions in small and larger groups where they enact specific roles whose normative prescriptions they have more or less internalized. As these position-androle-specific practices chains of practices, actually, as there are many acted out by many people at the same time in an ongoing fashion become routinized and repetitive, they generate over time properties with the characteristics and effects of their own, distinct from or external to the features and intentions of the individual people whose activities led to their emergence. Structures are plural in character (different-purpose organizations, strong and weak informal networks, [sub]cultures), scope (global, regional/national, local), dynamics (more or less stable), rigidity (more and less permeable), and durability (long- to short-dure). Their multiplicity this feature of societal structures has been emphasized in the conceptualizations of (American) historical sociologists imbues structures at all levels with inherent tensions or even direct contradictions that create “gaps” or “loopholes” between different social arrangements and, resulting from these imperfections, an inconsistent and mutable capacity both to enable and constrain human agency in different forms and intensities (on differential capacities of societal structures to impact human actors, see Sewell, 1992; also Archer, 1982). The notion of human agency in Margaret Archer’s classical formulation of the morphogenesis model (1995) was conceptualized as a “collective” capacity whose main function was to mediate structural influences; in a subsequent reformulation (Archer, 2003) Archer acknowledges the individual agency and its reflexivity or conscious deliberations of the situations

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and different options they offer. Elder-Vass’s (2010) most recent elaboration of the morphogenetic model recognizes both elements of what Colin Campbell (2009) identifies as the distinguishable aspects of personal agency, namely, the power of agency or “an actor’s ability to initiate and maintain as program of action,” and (varying degrees of) agentic power as “an actor’s ability to act independently of the constraining power of social structures” (idem., p. 407). The current reformulations of the morphogenesis and the structuration models share the recognition of the causal power of human agency and its under-determination by societal structures. It is, however, in the structuration theory where the notion of human agency has been more elaborated analytically. In the reconceptualization of the structuration process by historical sociologists, human agency denotes the everyday “engagement by individuals of different structural environments which, through the interplay of habit, imagination, and judgment, both reproduces and transforms those structures in interactive response to the problems posed by changing situations” (Emirbayer & Mische, 1998, p. 970). It may be represented as comprising three analytically distinguishable components (in lived experience they closely interrelate). The habitual element refers to “the selective reactivation by actors of past patterns of thoughts and action, as routinely incorporated in practical activity”; the projective element encompasses “the imaginative generation by actors of possible future trajectories of action, in which received structures of thought and action may be creatively reconfigured in relation to actors’ hopes, fears, and desires for the future”; and the practical-evaluative element entails “the capacity of actors to make practical and normative judgments among alternative possible trajectories of action, in response to the demands, dilemmas, and ambiguities of presently evolving situations.” Depending on a particular configuration of circumstances, “one or another of these three aspects might predominate” in guiding individuals’ actions (Emirbayer & Mische, 1998, pp. 970 972). As social actors adjust their habitual reactions and future-oriented projects to their assessment of the practical situations of the moment, they recreate different structures of social life. This reproduction, however, is never ideal. New situations, in particular, enable actors to reinterpret schemas and redesign resources. In this way, like societal structures, human actions generate emergent properties that are irreducible to the social conditions in which they evolve (on this ability of individuals, see Domingues, 2000; Sawyer, 2001). This “causal” facility of human actors, however, is not simply the product of their agentic volitions but of the dialectics of the power to and power over as these actors

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(re)define and pursue their purposes, playing with or against different structures. Regarding mutual reconstitution of structure(s) and agency, I claim that the idea of the duality of structure posited by the structuration model and the analytical dualism founded on the notion of agency and structure as not only analytically separable but also factually distinguishable are not incompatible. This argument is based on a premise shared by the morphogenetic approach and the historical-sociological reformulations of the structuration framework, namely, the conceptualization of human agency and societal structures as ongoing processes of becoming. This proposition is illustrated in Fig. 1 below. If we conceive of the interplay between societal structures and human agency posited by the structuration model as an ongoing process evolving over time, it becomes possible to view the two sides of this relationship as mutually (re)constituting each other over a long stretch of time, and at the same time to allow for what morphogenesis theorists insist on, that is, the “preexistence” of structural conditions human actors negotiate as they pursue their everyday lives here and now or, put differently, for the temporal delay in the transformative effects of people’s activities on societal

Structures

Structuration Process Individuals

Structures

Habitual Practical agency Projective

short dure

mezzo dure long dure Flow of Time

Fig. 1.

Structuration Process in Long- and Short-Term Perspectives.

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structures, particularly larger and more “remote” ones. To use Fernand Braudel’s (1981) famous metaphor of the multistoried historical structures stretching from global-scope, intermediate, to local-level patterns of our everyday activities, unless broken to pieces by violent revolutions from below (e.g., the Bolshevik one in 1917), long/er-established and wellsettled mezzo- and macro-level systems transform more slowly than social arrangements framing people’s daily pursuits.2 In my comparativehistorical investigations of international migration-related issues in different parts of the world today and in the past I have indeed derived most cognitive gain by beginning my analysis with identifying the enabling and constraining structural (material-technological, socioeconomic, political, cultural) opportunities or the dynamic limits of the possible and the impossible within which the people conduct their activities at the examined moment; reversing this investigation in the next step of my analysis or phase of the structuration process by looking at these actors’ creative negotiation of their societal environment; and then, in the next-next phase of the temporal flow, examining the intended and, often, unintended consequences of these activities on the immediate and time and Sitzfleisch permitting also mezzo-level societal structures. This three-step structuration analysis is presented in Fig. 2. Closely related to the above proposition, I argue that while morphogeneticists’ assumption of the preexistence of societal structures makes a good sense in the analysis of actors’ orientations and practices in the bounded, time- and place-specific situations, by taking a longue duree perspective on the process of (re)constitution of human agency and societal structures one can arguably make a similar claim regarding (inter)acting people. In this context, and neither presuming individuals to be “ultimate” and “hyperactive” nor holding structure and agency to be “simultaneous” these are the terms of Margaret Archer’s critique of Giddens’s structuration model (Archer, 1995, pp. 39, 67) I also propose that, if we assume the plurality and multidimensionality of societal structures, it makes sense theoretically to allow for the possibility in historically specific shorter-dure situations of the co-existence of preestablished “harder” macro- and mezzo-level technological, economic, and political structures and the “softer” immediate ones more amenable to change through individual actions. Note here that the latter proposition, founded on the conception of societal structures as inherently diverse in character, scope, dimensions, and durability the multiplicity which, as William Sewell (1992) argues, generates inescapable tensions or even direct contradictions that create “gaps” or “loopholes” in between different social arrangements, challenges the customary treatment

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3a

1a

3b

2 1b

Fig. 2.

1c

Human Actors

Three-Step Structuration Analysis.

of structures by morphogenesis advocates-critics of the Giddensian structuration model as the supposedly homogeneous units with commensurable “external powers” over human actors. Last to address in this section is the issue of the emergence of societal structures which take shape and assume causal power of their own as the result of interrelated, repetitive and regular-and-coordinated human activities. While the premise of the ongoing reconstitution of agency and structure(s) which informs the structuration model presumes the emergence of the latter, its proponents have never elaborated this development analytically. The morphogenesis theorists have paid attention to this issue since the first formulations of this model in the late 1980s and they continue to refine their propositions. As defined by Dave Elder-Vass (2007) “emergence is the idea that a whole can have properties (or powers) that are not possessed by its parts or, to put it more rigorously, properties that would not be possessed by its parts if they were not organized as a group into the form of this particular kind of a whole” (p. 28). The defining and sustaining features of emergent structures as different from their component parts are

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the latter’s specific pattern of interrelations, and a certain stability or endurance over time of this arrangement. Elder-Vass (2010) argues that it is the organization of the emergent properties of structures or the particular way they are interrelated that generates causal impact. Structuration scholars would certainly enrich their model by considering these propositions. My objection to Elder-Vass’s otherwise sophisticated formulation of the emergence of structures is his insistence on its exclusively synchronic meaning or denial of the temporal understanding. As I am going to show in the next sections, it seems historically more accurate and theoretically more elegant for models founded on the premise of the processual nature of societal phenomena to conceptualize the emergence of structures as becoming over time.

THE JOINT STRUCTURATION-MORPHOGENESIS ACCOUNT OF THE SPREAD OF POLISH PEASANTS’ TRANSATLANTIC MIGRATIONS AT THE TURN OF THE TWENTIETH CENTURY AND THE GAPS IN THIS MODEL IT REVEALS To demonstrate the advantages of the reconciled structuration-and-morphogenesis conceptualization of the relationship between structure(s) and agency as an evolving process, I now apply the concepts and arguments presented in the previous section to the case of pioneer labor migrants moving to the United States from the village of Maszkienice in south-eastern Poland in the mid-1880s transformed into mass transatlantic travels from that area in the following decades. The local evidence in this case comes from an extensive ethnographic survey, highly unusual for the time, of labor migrations from that place (Bujak, 1901; see also Morawska, 1989 on the mechanisms triggering and sustaining labor migrations of turn-of-thetwentieth-century peasant residents of that and the surrounding regions). The structuring of these migratory flows is presented in the eventful historical narrative in which the theoretical concepts drawn from the structuration and morphogenesis models serve as heuristic guideposts (Ragin, 1994; Skocpol, 1984) and, in the spirit of historical-sociological analysis, the “why’s” of subsequent developments are established by identifying the “how’s” of them. I begin by sketching out the pre-existing macro- and mezzo-level structures that formed a broader “pressure context” for work-seeking peasant

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migrations in late nineteenth-century Eastern Europe. It was only in the five decades preceding World War I that Eastern Europe entered the process of accelerated urbanization-and-industrialization. This was a protracted, uneven, and incomplete transformation, fraught with contradictions. It was initiated and executed from above by the old feudal classes, constrained by the dependent character of the region’s economic advance, which lacked an internal impetus and was significantly influenced by and subordinated to the far more developed core countries of Western Europe, and encumbered by the ubiquitous remnants of a feudal past in social forms and political institutions. The abolition of serfdom and alienation of noble estates (1848 in the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy and 1861/62 in Russia), executed without rearrangement of the socioeconomic order and combined with a demographic explosion, impoverished and dislocated large segments of the population previously occupied in the countryside, especially landless peasants and rural petty traders and craftsmen. Triggered by structural relocations of masses of people in East European economies (“push” forces) on the one hand and, on the other, by the increasing demand for manual labor in the rapidly expanding economies of much more developed western-more parts of the Continent and, over time, across the Atlantic (“pull” forces), and facilitated by the advances in transportation technologies, the increase in size and distance of income-seeking migrations of impoverished peasants and petty traders and craftsmen across and outside of this restructuring region was both a consequence and a constituent part of its incorporation into the Atlantic worldsystem. Historians estimate that combined short- and longer-distance, seasonal and permanent migrations by East Europeans between 1870 and 1914 affected no less than 25-30 percent of the total population of that region. (On the dependent character of East Europe’s economic development and structural relocations of its population in the last decades of the nineteenth century, see Berend & Ranki, 1974, 1982; Trebilcock, 1981; on growing labor migrations in the region, Nugent, 1992; Hoerder & Moch, 1996.) The adverse effects on the impoverished residents of the belated and incomplete modernization of the socioeconomic structures in the southeastern part of Poland were particularly pronounced owing to the profound backwardness of this region and its semi-colonial status under the political domination of Austria (Poland was partitioned between Russia, Austria, and Germany in 1793 and did not regain independence until 1918). According to an 1875 visitor in this region, the Polish part of the Habsburg Monarchy, “poor and debt-encumbered [with its natural resources

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plundered, almost no industry of its own, and agriculture fragmented into lilliputian holdings incapable of sustaining the majority of the rural population] can only balance her accounts by the large exportation of her own labour” (after Polish Encyclopaedia, 1922, III: 293). If the pressures of macro- and mezzo-level structures had made it necessary for Maszkienicans and their neighbors to leave their villages in search of livelihoods, the specific destinations of these migrations were co-shaped by the available means of transportation in the region, political opportunities for travel (migrants trying to cross the Monarchy’s borders needed to apply for passports which were not easy to obtain) and of concern here the micro-level local sociocultural structures made up of the existing information and social support networks and the accustomed migration culture that directed income-seeking travelers into particular destinations. In the case of Maszkienicans, nearly half of whom could not sustain themselves from the soil alone and were obliged to seek work elsewhere (Bujak, 1901), such customary destinations of seasonal labor migrations in the late 1870s through early 1880s included farms in Hungary and Austria, and coalmines and brick factories in upper Silesia. Of about 40 percent of the total number of young male residents who in the early 1880s left Maszkienice every year for several months to earn income, nearly all headed to the above destinations (Bujak, 1901; Szczepanowski, 1905; also Pilch, 1984; Misinska, 1971). Reflecting the slower pace of the incorporation of the south-eastern parts of the Austro-Hungarian Monarchy into the Atlantic capitalist world system, the first American employment agents appeared in Maszkienice and the surrounding area only in the early 1880s or about a decade later than in Poland’s north-western regions. Since the socially and culturally institutionalized destinations of or, in terms of the structuration/ morphogenesis model, micro-level structures shaping the residents’ long (er)-distance income-seeking activities had already been set, that is, reconstituted through the travelers’ habit- and practical-assessment-based decisions, those agents’ solicitations were not successful. People preferred to follow the accustomed paths which brought the desired rewards. But in 1885, a young Maszkienican, persuaded by an acquaintance from the neighboring village solicited by a steamship-company agent, gave up his usual incomeseeking travels to Ostrava and accompanied his acquaintance instead to Pennsylvania to dig coal. Both of these pioneers were marginal members of their local communities looked down upon by local residents because of their regular absence from church services and unaccountable disappearances from the villages. Viewed as no-good niespolegliwi, untrustworthy,

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deviants by their fellow villagers conformists who sought their desired goals through the socially accepted means in terms of Robert Merton’s (1968) classical elaboration of Durkheim’s theory of anomie those two pioneers of transatlantic migrations were “innovators” who moved around or beyond the established local structures in the pursuit of their purposes. When after two and a half years our innovator returned to Maszkienice and sporting a smart suit, a derby, a celluloid collar, and a shiny cravat and telling stories about how he ate fat meat and white bread every day in America (in East Europe peasants ate rough dark bread and could afford meat at best once a year) with his American savings purchased a dozen or so hectares of land and began building a new house, the villagers went wild with envy and desire. America became the subject of feverish conversations and long processions of people visited the returnee to learn about the opportunities for work, the amount of savings, and the ways to get to this “incredible land.” Talking about it with their family members and with their fellow villagers, Maszkienicans began to calculate their savings from work in their accustomed destinations in Hungary and Austria against those available in America which showed the clincher rate of 1:5 6. As the much higher financial returns from labor and better material conditions of life in the United States which the well fed, urbanely dressed, and cash-rich returned pioneer bore witness to demonstrated to the villagers the message further intensified by their dreams of a better life America as the focus of their projective agency began to compete with the habituated trajectories of their income-seeking travels. The demonstration effect of this pioneer transatlantic adventure translated, first, into the decisions to follow in his footsteps by two more and, then, another two young Maszkienicans in 1887 and 1888, three of whom came back with sufficient savings to buy sizeable pieces of land and to tangibly elevate the material status of their families (the fourth one decided to remain in America for good). The demonstration effect of these achievements of fellow villagers further enhanced the chances of a new, American option in the projective-practical deliberations of travel-capable Maszkienicans regarding the destinations of their income-seeking migrations. By the mid-1890s, with the earlier-outlined macro- and mezzo-level structures which constrained the economic development of the region and exerted strong migratory pressures on its impoverished residents still firmly in place, initially prompted by the success of a few individuals, the villagers had already regularly traveled to America in search of income. But new (trans)local structures generated by these activities were not yet formed: they were in the process of emergence.

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Which brings us to the emergent properties of societal structures or the outcomes of agentic pursuits that acquire characteristics of their own, different from the features of the contributing actors. In what follows, I try to demonstrate the how of this next phase of the structuration process the translation of individual actions into micro-level societal structures using as illustrations the emergence of three (trans)local structures: social networks of information about living and working conditions in America and the social control system; and the transatlantic migration culture among turn-of-the-twentieth-century East European income-seeking peasants. The data for the empirical illustrations of my arguments come from local statistical surveys and ethnographic studies conducted in south-eastern Poland between the 1890s and 1930s, as well as immigrant letters and memoirs pertaining to this period (Bujak, 1901, 1903; Chalasinski, 1934; Daszynska-Golinska, 1892, 1903; Duda-Dziewierz, 1938; Gliwicowna, 1937; Kula, Assorodobraj-Kula, & Kula, 1973; Pamietniki Emigrantow, 1977; Thomas & Znaniecki, 1918 1920; Witos, 1964; also Wyman, 1993; Nugent, 1992). The available historical evidence indicates that the earlier-outlined locallevel mechanism triggering large-scale labor migrations from Maszkienice to the United States was similar in the surrounding area and, beyond it, in the whole region. As more villagers abandoned the customary destinations of their income-seeking travels and went instead to America in search of better fortunes, even more people followed, relying on the support of their kin and acquaintances who traveled earlier. According to a report of the U.S. Immigration Commission conducted at the beginning of the twentieth century, nearly two-thirds of the newcomers from East Europe declared their passage was arranged by immigrants already in America, and an even greater number were headed for destinations where relatives and acquaintances from their home villages waited for them (U.S. Immigration Commission, 1909 1911: Immigrants in Cities, pt. IV). Information about living and working conditions and wages in particular American cities and industries, available housing and the possibilities of savings, the best routes and cost of travel to West European ports and on the ships across the Atlantic, and the appropriate answers to questions posed by immigration officials at U.S. entry ports in Ellis Island in New York and Boston (where the majority of immigrants landed) arrived in the villages through the returnees and letters sent by those in America to their kin and acquaintances at home (nearly 5 million such messages3 were sent to Russia and Austria-Hungary between 1900 and 1906 alone Balch, 1910). The villagers contemplated in awe the photographs sent from

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America by their fellow villagers in which they appeared like pans, the gentry in their manors in the East European countryside (see below for the typical representations of turn-of-the-twentieth-century peasants in the region and the photographs of themselves migrants sent from America). They endlessly discussed and compared the news about wages and the possibilities of savings in the American wonderland as they worked in the fields, in the taverns in the evenings, at homes, and at the odpusts, church fairs and other local celebrations. Through this process a body of collective knowledge, constantly adjusted and updated, emerged a (trans)local information system which over time began to exert an “external” impact on individuals considering migration to America who relied on it in making their decisions as to whether, when, where, and how to travel. As contemporary data indicate, this (trans)local information structure was fully operational by the beginning of the twentieth century or about a decade after peasants’ transatlantic migration became regular. While consisting of items contributed by particular migrants knowledgeable about specific aspects of the situation in Chicago, Detroit, Pittsburgh, and New York (the major destinations of turn-of-the-twentieth-century Polish income-seekers in the United States), as a whole this expanding body of information about life and work in America was not reducible to these individual pieces. The transatlantic social control systems that had formed between the sender villages in south-eastern Poland and Polish colonies in American cities where migrants settled provide another illustration of the emergent structures. Interestingly, in this case the emergence and attainment by these structures of a “causal power” over the involved individuals took somewhat longer than the establishment of the information systems: (trans)local social control systems became viable by the end of the first decade of the twentieth century or when the Polish “villages” on the other side of the Atlantic were already institutionally established and their residents’ transatlantic back-and-forth travels were particularly intense. As William Thomas and Florian Znaniecki observed in 1918, “the [home village] community [does not] reconcile itself to the idea that the emigrant may never return, may ever cease to be a real member of his original group” (Thomas & Znaniecki, 1918 1920, pp. 5, 11). And so, as an immigrant in Johnstown, Pennsylvania observed in his memoir, “homefolk passed judgment on their own in America … by the standard of the remittances: this one sends much and frequently, so he is diligent and thrifty; that one sends but little and irregularly, so he is negligent and wasteful.” And conversely, closely following the events in their home villages, migrants in American cities assessed the activities of those left behind: “Every movement in Babica I know,”

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wrote a migrant in Detroit to his wife in south-eastern Poland, “because I live here among Babicans.” Gossip about particular people’s misbehavior regularly circulated both ways across the Atlantic and shame was put on the culprits: “I hope it is not all true [what] I have been told about you” wrote another migrant to his wife at home, referring to the news he heard in a local pub about her flirty, philandering with a younger man from a nearby town; and in the opposite direction went a complaint from a mother who heard in church on a Sunday about her son in Homestead, Pennsylvania, having been caught in a petty theft in a local store: “It does not please me much what I hear about you better behave yourself than dishonour your family in the world” (citations from Molek, 1979, p. 45; Duda-Dziewierz, 1938, p. 27; Listy Emigrantow z Brazylii i Stanow Zjednoczonych, 1973, pp. 50 68). As indicated by fervent excuses for and spirited explanations of their deeds discussed matters ranged from the expected vs. actual levels and (late) arrival of remittances to the confessions of or, more frequently, denials of unfair accusations of infidelity, lackadaisical work and other misbehaviors contained in the letters densely circulating between Polish villages and migrant colonies in America, the transatlantic social control system exerted a considerable “power of judgment” over group members on both sides of the migratory circuit. “Don’t be angry for what I write you” an immigrant in Detroit implored his family in Poland “it is a duty to respect and help [one’s family] until the last moment of [life] because so says Our Lord Jesus Christ and the Holiest Mother Virgin Mary…. Only, my dear, you demand so much.” What will the people say, he worries at the conclusion of his letter explaining why he cannot provide as much money as “Mother asks [for] … sister [asks] also, the brothers also” if he would send only so much of it (Thomas & Znaniecki, 1918 1920, p. II:270). As in the previous case, while the particular pieces of this social control system were founded on the information provided by inter-related individuals, as they became part of the collective knowledge-and-judgment about “our homefolk,” the resulting situation like a scrambled eggs dish made up of individual eggs acquired distinct features, such as the capacity to assign an individual a collective respect or to ostracize him/her, irreducible to the traits of the component elements. The last emergent structure to note, the culture of transatlantic migration, took shape in the villages in south-eastern Poland in a similar fashion to the information and social control systems. By the outbreak of World War I its presence was noted by contemporary observers in several

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localities in the region. The “normalization” of American travels among peasantry in that region by the beginning of the twentieth century was the combined effect of the rapidly growing number of income-seeking migrants heading for America; enormous sums of money sent home by those travelers which made thousands of East European households dependent on these remittances (between 1900 and 1908 the total amount of remittances sent from America to Russia and Austria-Hungary was a staggering $69 million, with residents of Maszkienice receiving in 1901 alone an average of $850 per capita or the equivalent of the purchase price for three to four acres of land Balch, 1910; Bujak, 1901); the effective transatlantic management of “split” households; and the keeping alive of the extended community ties through dense information and social control networks sustained by back-and-forth travelers and letters. As a result, transatlantic migrations in search of income had become the socially accepted and, increasingly, expected behavior primarily of young men, but with time also young women who either followed in the footsteps of their brothers or, against the (originally unequivocally negative) ambivalent village opinion about the appropriateness of such female travels, ventured to America alone (Gabaccia, 1994). Through the normatively sanctioned expectation of transatlantic migration “after bread,” the culture-of-migration structure, sustained by the behavior of the steadily growing number of travelers, exerted a “causal pressure” on the villagers to do as others did. The foregoing reconstruction of the emergence of micro-level social structures permits the identification of at least three conditions necessary for this development. They include (i) a sufficient number of interrelated people pursuing specific activity/ies; and (ii) the steadfastness over time of their interrelatedness contingent on (iii) the endurance over time of the actors’ practical-evaluative and projective interests with sufficient intensity and with resolvable tensions in-between these concerns to enable them to pursue this activity/ies in an “organized” or collective fashion. Also and important, the varied pace of the emergence of different (trans-) local structures revealed in the case of turn-of-the-twentieth-century Polish migration to America suggests the need the refine the concept of emergence in the morphogenesis and structuration models to allow first and then account for such variance on the one hand, and, on the other, to acknowledge the possibility of “gaps” and “loopholes” between those structures resulting from such discrepancies which social actors may use to get out from under or around some of the “causal pressures” exerted by these systems. I would begin this work with the recognition that different “quantities” and levels of “concentrations” of the same circumstances here, the

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three conditions of emergent structures generate qualitatively different outcomes. The outbreak of World War I in Europe in 1914 and, in its wake, the implementation of immigration restrictions by the United States that effectively ended its long-standing open-door policy the macro-scope events and structures first halted completely and then cut back to a trickle the swelling flow of Polish labor migrants to America. The Great Depression on both sides of the Atlantic further diminished these transatlantic travels. With the “loosening” of the conditions that had sustained (trans)local information and social control systems established at the beginning of the century which supported Polish peasants’ transatlantic migratory flows, these structures began gradually to dissolve. (Post-World War II American migrations of displaced persons and subsequent waves of refugees from Communist Poland relied on different networks.) The weakening and disappearance of the emergent social structures has thus far received scant attention from either morphogenesis or structuration theorists and, like the different-paced emergence of these systems, awaits the analytic elaboration. And so does the issue of different “survival capacities” of micro-level structures. Unlike the information and social control systems, the local cultures of migration formed in several regions of Poland at the beginning of the twentieth century have survived long after their sustaining conditions have practically dissipated. Although during the Cold War residents of Communist-ruled Poland could not freely travel to America, the Amerykance, the departees who eventually settled in the United States for good but who continued to send money, packages with clothing and other necessities notoriously in short supply in communist economies, and letters with news about friends and family, had remained a meaningful presence and an important reference framework in the lives of Poles throughout this era. The reminiscence of Lech Wałesa, son of a peasant family, the founder of the Solidarity Movement and former President of independent Poland, is representative of this endurance: “…in our family there had always been someone on the other side of the ocean. It was in our blood” (Wałe˛sa, 1987, p. 33). The long-time persistence in Polish rural regions of the culture of migration without the conditions that allowed for its original emergence suggests that both the “contents” or, in terms of Elder-Vass’s (2010) conceptualization of emergent structures, morphostatic components, and sustaining circumstances of the structures may transform in different contexts. In the case examined here, the culture of migration reflected in its carriers’ mental “readiness to go” combined with a “can do” inner posture common among many Polish families in the postwar period has acquired a new

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function that of spiritual resistance to the status quo that took over its previous role of a resource applied in actual pursuits (Morawska, 2001). Its survival has been maintained by the collective memories of transatlantic travels undertaken backed up by the enduring meaningful contacts between Poles at home and their fellow-nationals in America and, important, regularly expressed and exchanged in private encounters in Poland. If one were to continue the structuration analysis, the next-next phase of the evolving process of the (re)constitution of structure and agency to consider would be the formation of larger-scope new structures as an extended-over-time and mediated through multiple intercessions effect of the activities of migrant actors. I briefly note here two such developments: one in Polish immigrants’ home- and the other in their host country. The former was the emergence among Polish peasantry during the late teens and twenties of the last century of a collective modern national consciousness and a network of organized civic activities toward the purpose of propagating Polish nationalism the process to which transnational engagements in their home localities of Polish immigrants in America were an important contributing factor. The other, concomitant stimuli of these developments included the educational work toward the incorporation of the peasantry into the national “imagined community” carried out in the villages by members the urban intelligentsia at the turn of the twentieth century and, broader in scale, legal-political provisions and public education toward this purpose implemented by state authorities during the interwar period when Poland regained state independence. (Information about the role of Amerykance immigrants in the spread of modern national consciousness and self-organizations in Polish villages from Bodnar, 1985; Greene, 1975; Hoerder & Moch, 1996; Jacobson, 1998; Park, 1922; Wyman, 1993.) The overwhelming majority of turn-of-the-twentieth-century Polish peasant-immigrants in the United States arrived there with a group identity and a sense of belonging that extended no further than the okolica, local countryside. Paradoxically, it was only after they came to America and began to create organized immigrant networks for assistance and selfexpression and establish group boundaries as they encountered an ethnically pluralistic and often hostile environment, that these (im)migrants developed translocal national identities with to use a distinction of the Polish sociologist, Stanislaw Ossowski (1967; see also Anderson, 1983) their old-country ideological Vaterland or the imagined community of the encompassing Patria as distinct from the Heimat or the local homeland. Among the variety of agencies that immigrants created to help them

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confront the new environment, self-educational groups, cultural and historical societies, and the Polish-language press played an important role in defining ethnic-group boundaries and fostering solidarity by propagating identification with a commitment to the old-country fatherland. Once established, these communal structures began to exert a pressure on group members in the form of social control to support financially and participate in the activities of these organizations and to conform to the image of a “good Pole” they promoted. The typical reply of an immigrant in Detroit in the 1920s to the question why, after nearly 20 years in America, he did not seek naturalization in that country “I do not want to forswear myself”4 (quote after Morawska, 1996, p. 237) is a good illustration of the effectiveness of this socialization. In the year 1925 only 20-odd percent of Polish immigrants permanently residing in the United States were American citizens. As the e´migre´s visiting or returning to their home country presented themselves to their fellow villagers as “proud Poles,” sent or brought with them the newspapers with the stories about Polish national heroes and famous events and the representations of national membership and its obligations, and shared their American know-how about establishing cultural and educational associations to pursue these ideas, an interest in and a sense of a more encompassing identity with their Vaterland together with the skills of self-organization began to take roots among the locals. This reception was facilitated by the high prestige of the Amerikancy and America in general in the eyes of the villagers and, not unimportant, by the financial assistance extended to their villages by e´migre´ communities toward the purposes of self-organization, the purchase of books, and the preparation of national festivals. By the interwar period nearly two million Polish peasant-immigrants lived in the United States, most of them in tight-knit Polish colonies where they created hundreds of national (ethnic) organizations. Although the (trans)local information and social control systems sustaining transatlantic movement had considerably weakened under the impact of macrostructural forces diminishing/blocking migration, a majority of immigrants maintained regular contacts with their home villages. The multiplication effect of these immigrants’ transnational activities was their tangible contribution to the emergence in the Polish countryside during that era of two new structures: a modern national consciousness and a growing network of local (self-)organizations. As the involved actors’ sentiments and activities became routinized and the symbolic and organizational arrangements they created acquired over time the capacity to set normative expectations of

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others, socialize the young into the specific orientations and practices, and direct action into particular channels, these sociocultural structures became “external” to the individual residents of Polish villages. On the other side of the ocean, a larger-scope structure in the emergence of which Polish immigrant actors played a recognized contributing role was the appearance on the American political scene in the 1930s of the inclusive nationwide labor union, Congress of Industrial Organizations (CIO). (The information about this development comes from Bodnar, 1985; Brody, 1980; Galenson, 1960; Kolko, 1976; Montgomery, 1979.) By the 1920s, the predominant majority of Polish immigrants, about 90 percent, were still industrial laborers. As America became their permanent home,5 these immigrant workers gradually developed the shared interests and identity as an “ethclass for itself” (a similar development also occurred among other South and East European groups). By the interwar period their initial unequivocal enchantment with the “Land of Promise” had sobered into a more realistic, ambivalent assessment of their situation. “Nowhere did [we] have it so good as in America, but nowhere did [we] suffer as much as in America” wrote an immigrant in his memoir, and another one echoed “He who is strong and healthy can make here [good money] but when you work you must toil like an ox” (Archives of the Immigration History Center, Polish file, 1928). Ruthlessly exploited and deprived of any welfare provisions by mill and factory owners and excluded from the allAmerican, nativist American Federation of Labor (AFL), “foreigners” as South and East European immigrants were commonly referred to by native-born American workers and company owners began to organize their own self-help associations and hold meetings to talk about and find ways within their own ethnic communities to alleviate their work-related problems such as notorious industrial accidents, lack of health and life insurance and old-age pensions. Already in the late teens of the twentieth century practically all larger Polish immigrant communities in American cities claimed such ethnic working class organizations and carried related activities. With time, and with the important impact of their American-born, English-speaking children the majority of whom had retained their parents’ class position,6 Polish immigrant laborers became more assertive, taking part in labor protests organized together with other South and East European groups, and publicly voicing their demands. The macro-level external structures that set the climate in America in the 1930s the acute economic recession and the pluralist spirit of New Deal-era politics made it possible to translate these collective activities into the foundation

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of the immigrant-friendly nationwide labor organization, the CIO which had soon become and remained an influential political player in the country until the postwar era. The argument about the causal impact of social actors on societal structures which this case illustrates is founded, let me reiterate, on the notions of (i) the temporal delay (not simultaneity) of the actor-structure constitution, and (ii) the multiple-factor mediated nature of this causal effect. In both cases presented here, immigrants’ activities were a (not “the”) factor contributing over time to the emergence of larger-scope structures or, put differently, their contribution was mediated by several other also structural circumstances. And in both cases once established, these developments acquired characteristics of their own and began to exert an “external” pressure on human actors who found themselves within their grid in the form of normative prescriptions, social control, and interactive bonds until, several decades later, new processes started to undermine these arrangements. This proposition again raises the question of the conditions of the emergence of more “remote,” macro- and mezzo-level structures. Like those of different-paced emergence and longevity of particular structures, this issue also awaits the attention of structuration and morphogenesis theorists. I would suggest here that in addition to the circumstances identified earlier for micro-level structures, these conditions include the multiplicity of interrelated groups and organizations involved; their sufficient coordination; and probably a longer-term endurance than that required for the emergence of local systems. Because of a much greater construction complexity and denser grids, unless broken apart by a “big bang” such as a revolution, macro- and mezzo-level structures resist dissipation more effectively or take more time to do so than their micro-level counterparts when one or more of their sustaining conditions disappear.

CONCLUSION The foregoing discussion makes, I believe, three contributions to social theory. The first and most specific one, founded on the demonstrated affinity of the current formulations of the structuration and morphogenesis models’ theoretical premises, is the identification of the concepts and arguments which are more elaborated in one than the other approaches, which should inspire a thus far nonexistent intellectual exchange between their respective

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practitioners. In particular, I pointed out the conceptualization of human agency in the structuration model and of the emergence of societal structures in its morphogenesis counterpart. Regarding the former, I would like to address the issue which has been the subject of controversy in the discussions among the structuration theorists. It concerns the source of the (re)constitutive capacity of human agency, with one interpretation locating it in our individual “vital energies,” and the other viewing it as emergent in the process of “transaction” or exchange among actors (for critical overviews of these positions, see Depelteau, 2010; Emirbayer, 1997). Rather than arguing for the individual or interactive nature of human agency, and to stimulate a conversation between the representatives of the two models examined here, I would propose that we allow theoretically for both sources of actors’ capacity to (re)constitute their environment, and make our assessments of their actual relationship time- and place-dependent. Such assessments should consider the circumstances such as people’s accustomed Weltanschauungen and their sociocultural capital, the mode of operation of the economy/labor markets, the degree of differentiation/individualization of society, as well as the phase of the structuration process under examination. In the empirical case examined here the decision-making process of transatlantic labor-seeking migrations of turn-of-the-twentieth-century Polish peasants it makes sense to distinguish between what Douglas Massey et al. (1998) call the “triggering” and “sustaining” phases of the migratory process. It is reasonable to propose that while the pioneer “innovators” traveled to America primarily mobilized by the projective desires of their individual human agency (and actually against the local custom and opinion), the decision-making of their followers was interactive as they moved to the already-established colonies of their fellow villagers in American cities mobilized by the already-existing local culture of transnational migrations and relying on the information and assistance it provided in such ventures. The second contribution of this essay has been the demonstration of tangible benefits derived from testing of the theoretical models on the empirical data. The application of the combined morphogenesis-structuration theory in the account of the initiation and spread of transatlantic migrations of Polish peasants at the turn of the twentieth century has revealed that some important concepts informing this model need refinement. Specifically, I pointed out the need to identify the conditions of emergence and weakening/dissipation of micro- and macro-level structures, and to recognize and account for the varying pace of emergence and “survival

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capacity” of different structures in each of these types and the implication of these features for the inherently “gappy” organization/coordination of societal structures. The third, most general contribution of these exercises, is, I believe, a demonstration of the benefit for social theorizing from the historical, that is, time- and place-sensitive conceptualization of the examined phenomena, and, important, from applying this idea not only in the statements of the theoretical premises informing the proposed model, but also in the empirical analysis. The historical-sociological analysis here, informed by the morphogenesis-structuration model of the ongoing (re)constitutions of societal structures and human agency both conceived as processes of becoming rather than entities fixed in time premises theoretical and empirical investigations of the examined phenomena on the conception of societal structures as inherently multidimensional and, thus, “gappy,” potentially contradictory and “out of phase” with each other. These stipulations of the historical-sociological approach to theory construction allow for actually encourage a researcher to look for diversity and flexibility rather than homogeneity and fixity in the patterns of the evolving actorstructure relationships.

NOTES 1. This proposition does not imply that all micro-level societal structures are easily amenable to change: there obviously exist quite rigid local systems such as patriarchal gender relations in the families. I argue, rather, that relative to the remote macro-level systems, these local arrangements can be unsettled by fewer people in a shorter dure of time, for example, by a rebellious daughter’s staunch refusal to marry an old man chosen for her by the father. 2. As most turn-of-the-twentieth-century East European peasants were illiterate, they dictated those letters to somewhat better educated tavern- or shopkeepers, often Jews, in the villages and foreign colonies in America. 3. Polish national membership has been traditionally conceived as the primordial, particularist-exclusive attachment, and this was also the type of commitment internalized by turn-of-the-twentieth-century immigrants in America through the participation in their ethnic communities. 4. Historians estimate that about one-third of the total number of turn-of-thetwentieth-century Polish income-seeking migrants to America eventually returned home (Wyman, 1993). 5. The occupational advancement of the native-born American children of South and East European peasant-immigrants involved primarily a move from unskilled to semi-skilled positions in the mills and factories.

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REVISITING AND REINVIGORATING EVOLUTIONARY INSTITUTIONALISM: BRINGING INSTITUTIONS BACK TO LIFE Seth Abrutyn ABSTRACT Purpose A synthesis of the various strands of macro-sociology that is commensurate with a more robust theory of evolutionary institutionalism. Design/methodology/approach Drawing from what may be conceived of as classical institutionalism and from neo-evolutionary sociology and other related traditions, this chapter endeavors to provide a general theory of evolutionary institutionalism as an overview of institutions and institutional autonomy (along with the underlying forces driving the process of autonomy), to present a theory of institutional evolution that delineates the relevant units of selection and evolution, the types of mechanisms that facilitate institutional evolution, and a typology of the sources of variation.

Social Theories of History and Histories of Social Theory Current Perspectives in Social Theory, Volume 31, 247 276 Copyright r 2013 by Emerald Group Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0278-1204/doi:10.1108/S0278-1204(2013)0000031007

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Findings The chapter constitutes the attempt to provide a theoretical framework intended to engender an improved historical-comparative institutionalism inspired by the works of Max Weber and Herbert Spencer. Research limitations/implications The purpose of the theoretical framework presented should not be misconstrued as a general, “grand” theory for the discipline of the sociology as a whole, but rather understood as the model of a common vocabulary for sociologists interested in macro-sociology, institutions, and socio-cultural evolution designed to complement other available models. Originality/value As a synthesis, the originality of the theoretical framework presented lies in (1) elucidation of the idea that institutional autonomy as the “master” process of institutional evolution, (2) more precise delineation of the link between meso-level institutional entrepreneurs and institutional evolution, and (3) combination of a body of complementary yet often loosely linked bodies of scholarship. Keywords: Social institutions; evolutionary sociology; macrosociology; entrepreneurship; historical comparative sociology

INTRODUCTION One of the more promising lines of scholarship in the recent resurgence of evolutionary sociology (Lenski, 2005; Sanderson, 2007; Turner & Maryanski, 2009) is the macro-sociological and comparative analysis of institutional domains (Abrutyn, 2013c; Nolan & Lenski, 2009; Turner, 2003). Though plenty of interest remains in the interplay between genes and culture (Richerson & Boyd, 2005) and “memes” (Blute, 2010), some neo-evolutionary sociologists have become increasingly interested in returning to some of the ideas found in the “old” or “historical” institutionalisms (Maine, 1888; Malinowski, 1922; Morgan, 1996 [1877]; Radcliffe-Brown, 1965; Spencer, 1897), and to a lesser extent, some of the insights of American functionalism (Eisenstadt, 1965; Parsons, 1951; Shils, 1975). At the heart of what may be best called “evolutionary institutionalism” is a shift to some of the most important questions classical sociologists asked, as enumerated, for instance, by Shmuel Eisenstadt (1977, p. 60): “first, the analysis of the general characteristics of ‘society and social order;’ second, the comparative analysis of various types of societies and institutional

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complexes … and third, the explanation of such variabilities in terms of some social or ‘natural’ forces or mechanisms, which … also explain the trends in the development of different societies and of human society in general.” Unlike its predecessors, evolutionary institutionalists have decidedly moved away from the 19th century’s crude version of sociocultural evolution rooted in progressivism, stage models and teleology, and vague identification of the mechanisms and dynamics associated with sociocultural evolution a type of evolutionism that briefly returned in functionalist theories of social change in the 1960s (Bellah, 1964; Parsons, 1964). Though it is difficult to characterize this evolutionary institutionalism as a “tradition,” because its representatives are only loosely linked together, it draws from the similar intellectual resources and has been on the forefront of building a useful framework for comparative-historical research. In place of ad hoc stage models, sociologists have made advances in identifying the social selection processes and possible mechanisms (Runciman, 2009; Stark & Bainbridge, 1996; Turner & Maryanski, 2008), the larger macrolevel forces and dynamics (Abrutyn & Lawrence, 2010; Chase-Dunn & Hall, 1997; Sanderson, 1999; Yoffee, 2005), the potential sources of variation (Abrutyn, 2013b; Wilson, 2002), and the unit(s) upon which selection works and that evolve over time (Abrutyn, 2009, 2013c; Blute, 2010; Johnson & Earle, 2000; Turner, 2010b; Turner & Maryanski, 2009). In the effort to advance this project, this chapter is an attempt to pull together a set of loose strands to propose a more synthetic and robust theory of institutions and their evolution. It takes as its central contention that the study of the processes driving (and consequences of) the transformation of the most fundamental spheres of social action, exchange, and communication kinship, polity, religion, economy, law, and education has been the core focus of sociology. In addition, a coherent theoretical exposition will allow for the inclusion, or at least supplementation, of other traditions that currently may seem incongruent. That is, evolutionary institutionalism is compatible with and can bolster a diverse set of subfields, such as the Neo-Weberian historical-comparative tradition (Goldstone, 1991; Mann, 1986; Skocpol, 1979), the “old” organizational institutionalism (Abbot, 1992; Stinchcombe, 1997), the myriad meso-level organizational accounts of “fields” (Bourdieu, 1992; DiMaggio & Powell, 1983; Fligstein & McAdam, 2012) or niches (Hannan & Freeman, 1977), and finally, the recent reappearance of “cultural” institutionalism (Boltanski & The´venot, 2006 [1991]; Thornton, Ocasio, & Lounsbury, 2012). Finally, evolutionary institutionalism provides us with a direct route to re-engaging with the Parsonian tradition, and to assess the current value of some of his

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ideas. Despite mainstream sociology’s allergy to Parsons (1951, 1971), and, unfortunately, many of his contemporaries for their association with him, the reaction to criticisms leveled against functionalism generated some innovative conceptual advances that perhaps were too little, too late (Eisenstadt, 1964, 1965; Luhmann, 1982, 2012; Parsons & Smelser, 1956; Shils, 1975). Admittedly, the intent of this chapter is not primarily radical innovation, but rather a novel kind of integration. Rather than creating a new theory for its own sake, by combining established theoretical strands to engender a qualitative different kind of integration, we may be able to better communicate to a broader audience, by relying on available terminologies. Hence, my analysis will begin with a brief review of the historical tradition, followed by a precise and up-to-date account of “institutions” of what will be addressed below as macro structural and cultural spheres of social action, exchange, and communication that are constituted by myriad individual, collective, and clusters of collective actors, their relationships as defined by numerous divisions of labor, the uneven circulation of resources, and a system or systems of authority. Consensus regarding the ubiquity of five institutions kinship, polity, religion, economy, and law appears firm (with education counting as a sixth institution) (Nolan & Lenski, 2009; Turner, 2003). Other institutions have recently been identified as autonomous institutions, though their study has received far less attention than the ubiquitous six institutions just mentioned: sport, art, science, media, and medicine (for a review and general discussion, see Abrutyn, 2009; Abrutyn & Turner, 2011). After having established what institutions are, we will turn to their role in the process of sociocultural evolution, with special attention paid to: (a) the process of institutional autonomy (Abrutyn, 2009), (b) the evolutionary consequences of greater autonomy (Abrutyn & Turner, 2011; Turner, 2010a, 2010b), and (c) the role special meso-level corporate actors or, institutional entrepreneurs (Abrutyn, 2013c; Colomy, 1998; Eisenstadt, 1964) play in the process of institutional evolution. The chapter will conclude by proposing possible future directions for evolutionary institutionalism.

CLASSICAL INSTITUTIONALISMS Classical theory emerged within a tradition of explaining what societies were, the comparative study of types of societies and their respective

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institutional complexes or, their arrangement of institutions and, of course, why there was variation and change. Deeply related to these three questions, were the central problems revolving around the social division of labor: integration, regulation (or the problem of power), and legitimation (or, the creation of shared meaning such that the social and moral order makes coherent sense to a significant proportion of the population). Generally speaking, societies varied based on either the degree to which one or more institutions had become differentiated from each other, the relative importance one or more institutions assumed in predominantly structuring social life, or a combination of the two. Though population pressures were not the only engine of sociocultural evolution, it assumed an important role in classical theory’s explanation for the process of differentiation and the growth (or decline) in an institution’s prominence; and, these processes altered the trajectory of a society and, thus, reconfigured its structure and culture in qualitatively meaningful ways. Of particular importance was (1) the differentiation and importance of economy as well as polity and law in modern, urban societies concomitant to (2) the declining importance in kinship (achievement over ascription) and, in some cases, religion for example, secularization, demystification, and so on (Durkheim, 1893; Spencer, 1897; Weber, 1967). Thus, classical theory revolved around the study of a limited set of institutions: kinship, religion, economy, polity, law, with social change being related to the growth in complexity and the differentiation of one or more of these institutional spheres.1 Though evolutionary institutionalism draws from several classical sources, two theorists in particular are central to the synthetic effort below: Herbert Spencer and Max Weber.2 Spencer’s (1897) functionalism characterized institutions as macro-level structures created under selection pressures as adaptive solutions to basic societal-level problems in particular, problems concerning production, distribution, and regulation (power). Weber (1946a, 1946b) rarely used the term institution, preferring instead to label macro-level structures as social orders that became spheres in which legitimate authority rested and groups oriented their actions and attitudes toward each other as mediated by the social order. Both theorists used historical methods, saw the trend in human societies toward greater differentiated spheres of social action and organization, and identified the same basic institutions as ubiquitous and central to human societies polity, economy, religion, and, with varying importance, law, kinship, and education. Of course, the two differed in important ways. First, Weber was more interested in the creation and embedding of meaning in these social spheres,

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whereas Spencer was focused on integrative pressures consolidating power. Second, Weber (1946a) used the metaphor of godly realms when thinking about bounded social orders, seeing that the very process of differentiation led to “jealous” gods who lorded over one institution and clashed with others for control and prestige, while Spencer was less interested in the conflicts between spheres and more so in the process by which they became distinct in the first place. Regardless of their differences, which do indeed shape two different approaches we will bring together later in the chapter, both theorists are central to understanding historical institutionalism as it is being revivified today. Spencer’s work has returned, implicitly and explicitly in the emergence of neo-evolutionary sociology, the desire to study institutions from a macro-level perspective, and from his desire to use any and all scientific methods to produce a comparative sociology. Weber’s import has come through his adherence to historical methods that adds contingencies and context to understanding social change, his rejection of unilinear models of evolution, and the importance charismatic carrier groups have on reshaping the structural and cultural universe. Spencerian functionalism deals with the problem of integration, while Weber’s sociology deals with the problem of legitimation, but both overlap in their interest in power, coordination, and control. Finally, Spencer’s top-down, nomothetic perspective naturally fits with Weber’s bottom-up, historical approach.

RECONSIDERING INSTITUTIONS AND THEIR AUTONOMY In the face of mounting criticism, Talcott Parsons (1964) turned to evolutionary theory to “correct” the static quality of his theoretical model. In that sense, neo-evolutionary theory is indebted to Parsons’ efforts to return evolution to the sociological project. However, Parsons, as well as many of his colleagues (Bellah, 1964), continued to use the term “evolution” in ways little resembling biological evolution, and unfortunately, in ways that left it open to the same criticisms leveled against 19th century evolutionist social science (for a review and critique, see Sanderson, 2007). Had Parsons or his colleagues turned to anthropology and archaeology, they would have found a vibrant neo-evolutionism espousing multilinear social change (Steward, 1972 [1955]), the careful distinction between general and specific evolutionary processes (Sahlins, 1960), and the use of increasingly better

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archaeological, textual, and ethnographic data to induce general models predicated on macro-level exigencies (Adams, 1966; Boserup, 1965). But, Parsons brought evolutionary concepts to bear on his peculiar form of German “idealism,” and, thus evolution of culture seemed to follow a progressivist logic from simple to highly abstract ideas. Meanwhile, anthropologists and archaeologists had empirical evidence to keep them from moving too far from reality, and specifically, they had a real case the evolution of “pristine” states in Mesopotamia, China, Egypt, and the Indus Valley about 5,000 years ago and in Peru and Mesoamerica 2,000 or so years ago to test and develop their evolutionary theories (Childe, 1936; Fried, 1967; Service, 1962). Indeed, what Norman Yoffee (2005) calls “neoevolutionary theory” comes directly from the interest in evolution from pre-state political organization to state-level organization, which remains interesting to many social scientists using evolutionary principles (Abrutyn, 2013a; Abrutyn & Lawrence, 2010; Eisenstadt, 1963; Flannery, 1972; Johnson & Earle, 2000; Liverani, 2006; Yoffee, 2005). Thus, while Parsons brought evolutionary theory back to sociology, it would be nearly three decades before it became a vibrant subfield in sociology. Not surprisingly, its return was driven by a few basic questions: first, what evolutionary forces drive selection processes and transformative, qualitative change (ChaseDunn & Hall, 1997; Chirot, 1994; Sanderson, 1999; Stark & Bainbridge, 1996; Turner, 1995); second, what are the units that are selected upon (Abrutyn, 2013b; Blute, 2010; Runciman, 2009; Sanderson, 2001; Stark, 2007; Turner & Maryanski, 2009; Wilson, 2002); third, how does culture and biogenetic/neuroanatomical evolution interact (Bellah, 2011; Cavalli-Sforza, 2000; Franks & Turner, 2013; Lenski, 2005; Richerson & Boyd, 2005; Turner, 2000). It is within many of these questions that evolutionary institutionalism has emerged. One of the advantages of further sketching out this type of evolutionism is it strikes a middle ground of theory that is currently lacking. On the one hand, many neo-evolutionary scholars devote a lot of energy toward the very micro, trying to deepen the link between our biogenetic material and culture. On the other hand, an inordinate amount of theory building has been focused on general societal evolution as “big history,” or the total narrative of how 21st century human societies came to be (Christian, 2004). The questions evolutionary institutionalism ask and try to answer bring us back to the classical period in which sociologists like Weber or Spencer wanted to isolate and classify the most essential spheres of social reality such that they could deal with the most basic problems of social order: (1) integration, or how groups promote trust and

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commitment, and reduce outright, violent conflict; (2) regulation, or how groups control and coordinate action, exchange, and communication, as well as who gets to do the controlling; (3) legitimation, or the creation of meaning systems that provide explanations and justifications for why things are the way they are, especially why power and resources are distributed as they are. In a sense, the goal is to make more explicit what was often taken for granted, or vaguely discussed. That is, a causal chain begins with (a) macro-level forces like population growth (or rapid) decline, resource scarcity, or real/perceived threatening neighbors, (b) pressure on a group to respond to these problems, even if they only feel the problems as salient via proxies (e.g., a sense that a group’s standard of living, relative to some reference point, is in decline), (c) efforts to technologically, organizationally, and/or symbolically innovate followed by the appearance of (d) new exigencies revolving around one or more of those big problems of social order and (e) new pressures to resolve them, and so forth. Ultimately, the delimited number of institutions reflect the ubiquity of natural and social problems every group faces and the limitations of human ingenuity, whereas the variation in the actual content of these institutions in terms of their structural and cultural composition reflects the ecological/environmental/historical conditions and, quite frankly, the expansiveness of human creativity. Out of these assumptions comes an historical-comparative framework that examines institutional domains like polity or religion, their relationship to each other and other institutions like economy, their efficacy in dealing with macro-level problems and problems of social order vis-a`-vis other societies and their institutional arrangements, and a search for the general and specific dynamics driving their evolution. But, much has changed between Spencer or Weber’s characterization of institutional evolution and the various strands we seek to pull together. First, as noted throughout, unilinear stage modeling has had its day, and while it does linger on both explicitly (Bellah, 2011) and implicitly (Sanderson, 1999), the turn to group selection and institutions as the unit evolving has pushed many scholars away from seeing an historical case’s outcome as inevitable and, instead, attempting to look for the twists and turns that make ease evolutionary case fascinating (e.g., Wilson, 2002). Second, while Darwinian evolutionary concepts have continued to prove useful in explaining some types of sociocultural evolution, the argument that more than one type of selection exists has gained purchase for example, a Spencerian-Lamarckian process (Turner & Maryanski, 2008). That is, sometimes the story that is interesting is the evolution of an institution’s autonomy from which it previously had none; other times, the story that is

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interesting is how an autonomous institution evolved over time. Third, though many evolutionary institutionalists continue to focus only on the macro-level (Turner, 2003), a Weberian strand has emerged that looks to link the efforts and struggles of corporate actors, or institutional entrepreneurs, to the macro-level (Abrutyn, 2009, 2013c; Colomy, 1998; Colomy & Rhoades, 1994; Eisenstadt, 1964). It is here that the most fruitful synthesis can be achieved, as the insights of Spencer and Weber can be merged and elaborated by taking into consideration the advances made in numerous contemporary traditions. We turn, now, to the question: what is an institution? Institutions With “institution” I refer to the fundamental spheres of social reality that organize everyday experiences for most if not all people in a given society. This conceptualization of institutions requires a clear demarcation between the macro-level that delimits and facilitates the interaction, exchange, and communication between individuals, collectives, and clusters of collectives and the meso-level of social reality for example, the organization or the cluster of corporate actors often called a field or network that facilitates the interaction, exchange, and communication between individuals or smaller social units. An economic firm or the government looks a lot like the economy or the polity, but are fundamentally different units of analysis with the former reflecting some elements of the larger sphere, while the sphere itself is characterized by emergent properties and dynamics. And though governments are generally the principal collective actor of the polity, blurring the two levels of analysis ignores the most salient differences between meso and macro-level. Most classical sociologists and contemporary macro-sociologists are sensitive to this distinction, because polity is truly comparative across all societies because all societies have a polity, but not all have a state, government, or as some accounts are interested, a system of governance like democracy. It is at the institutional level that sociology can return to a science of societies, and not a science of modernity or nation states. It is worth reiterating the definition of institutions posited above: macro structural and cultural spheres of social action, exchange, and communication that are constituted by myriad individual, collective, and clusters of collective actors, their relationships as defined by numerous divisions of labor, the uneven circulation of resources, and a system or systems of authority. The most fundamental institutions are kinship, polity, economy, religion, law, education; while modernity has witnessed other institutional

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domains emerge like science, medicine, sport, art, and media. The first six are likely ubiquitous to all human societies (Nolan & Lenski, 2009; Turner, 2003) and thus speak to some interaction between biological and sociocultural evolution for example, law organizes justice and conflict resolution, which appear to have deeper neuroanatomical roots (Gospic et al., 2011). The other five are probably “secondary” institutions that emerged autonomously out of the structural and cultural space of one or more of the pristine types and which may or may not have a biological component for instance, science comes out of religion (Gaukroger, 2006). Each institution is comprised of roles and collectives, norms and values, horizontal and vertical divisions of labor, material and symbolic resources, and systems of authority all of which are organized “with respect to fundamental problems producing life-sustaining resources, reproducing individuals, and sustaining viable social structures” (Turner, 2003). In terms of the most general problems, institutions all tend to deal with five basic macro-level exigencies: population growth/density; reproduction of human and symbolic/cultural resources; production of goods, services, and intangible desired resources like emotions or attention; distribution of goods, services, and intangible desired resources. But, each institution is distinguishable from the others because the goals and decisions made within the physical or temporal space, the roles/collectives found in the social space, and the generalized symbolic media used to exchange and communicate are different from those found in other institutions; especially when one of the institutions has grown increasingly autonomous. Institutions, in essence, are survivor machines for some segment of the population. They reflect the past adaptive efforts of a group and the present interpretation of these past efforts as well as how people deal with new unexpected problems or the reemergence of old exigencies. They rarely remain stable in structure or culture because each generation come to understand the institution and the problems it deals with differently, though their efficacy in controlling and coordinating behavior and legitimating the social order may remain static for a number of generations if major problems do not emerge that shake the foundations of the domain. But, when these problems appear evolutionary processes begin to operate that do not always lead to successful adaptation in the short or long run. Additionally, these evolutionary processes are not sequential, in that institutional actors may face exogenous and endogenous pressures simultaneously, threatening the survivor machines long-term viability and, ultimately, the group’s survivability.

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Institutional Autonomy Recently, some evolutionary institutionalists have recast institutional evolution not in terms of differentiation (Durkheim, 1893; Parsons, 1971; Radcliffe-Brown, 1965), which was a holdover from structural functionalism, but rather in terms of increasing and/or decreasing institutional autonomy (Abrutyn, 2009; Abrutyn, 2013c; Abrutyn & Turner, 2011; Turner, 2010b). The concept itself is not new to institutional analysis (Eisenstadt, 1971; Luhmann, 2004), yet it has been thoroughly reconceptualized and developed to fit a theory of institutional evolution. Thus, it is the principal axis upon which a comparative institutionalism is possible as it does not favor progressive notions of evolution, unilineal trajectories, or iron-clad laws. Rather, institutional autonomy is the process by which institutional domains grow more or less structurally and culturally independent vis-a`-vis other institutional domains; total autonomy is impossible, and would imply the creation of an entirely new society. Structural and cultural independence can be measured by examining the degree to which an institution like kinship or polity has grown physically, temporally, socially, and symbolically discrete. Each dimension is independent of the others, but clearly they affect each other and, when multiple dimensions attain similar levels of distinction, the institution’s level of autonomy will be even greater. Institutions can gain and lose autonomy over time (Abrutyn, 2009). Differentiation remains an important process, but one that is a necessary, but not sufficient condition for institutional autonomy. In a sense, differentiation is a surface level phenomenon reflecting the quantitative growth of things like roles, collectives, and so forth. Institutional autonomy refers to the qualitative transformation of the lived experience and the physical and cognitive reality of a significant portion of the population. For instance, in chiefdoms, political roles and, to a lesser extent, collectives had become differentiated from kinship roles (Johnson & Earle, 2000). Yet, power and privilege remained deeply embedded within the structure and culture of kinship, such that chiefs had nowhere near the political autonomy as kings in agrarian states. Malinowski (1922) provides a clear illustration of this point: in uxorilocal societies, lineage and inheritance is traced through a woman’s group, despite the fact that upon marriage she enters her husband’s group. When her son becomes a “man,” he returns to his mother’s village and lives under his uncle or grandfather’s control. If polity was autonomous, we would expect a chief would have the power to not accept his sister’s child in favor of his son, who would have to leave his

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village to live with his wife’s family. Yet, this is not the case, because differentiation refers to surface changes that do have consequences and not deep structural/cultural shifts that have major consequences of organization and action. Thus, political autonomy is a “deep” reconfiguration of social reality (Abrutyn, 2013b): political goals became identifiably “different from other types of goals” as their “formation, pursuit, and implementation became largely independent of other groups, and were governed mostly by political criteria and by consideration of political exigency” (Eisenstadt, 1963, p. 19, emphasis added; cf. Flannery, 1972; Yoffee, 2005). Or, for instance, consider the differences between a differentiated religious sphere in which shamans or a priesthood exists and one with high levels of autonomy, such as the Catholic Church: in early Mesopotamia, templeeconomies certainly had real consequences for villagers who had to provide corvee´ labor or tribute (Lipinski, 1979), yet these changes pale in comparison to the cognitive and physical reconfiguration of religious space and, thereby, polity, law, education, and economy that the Church had by the end of the 11th century CE (Berman, 1983). In either case, what we find is the emergence of political or religious goals, actions, strategies, and decisions that are distinguishable analytically and in lived reality, even if not always in practice, from their kinship counterparts. To be sure, political autonomy, like any type of institutional autonomy, is measured in degree and not kind and thus how distinguishable a political goal is from other types is a matter of empirical investigation. We can point, however, to numerous examples that support the stated differences between differentiation and autonomy: as priesthoods emerged in the earliest states, medicine and science became differentiated intellectual pursuits (Lindberg, 2007), but it would be dubious to claim that scientific roles (Ben-David, 1965) or collectives (Merton, 1979) had begun to pursue distinctly scientific goals using uniquely scientific lines of action until rather recently (Gaukroger, 2006). Put another way, differentiation changes the micro and macro-levels in terms of structural shifts, but autonomy leads to changes in cultural patterns or pragmatics (Alexander, 2004; Geertz, 1972) that make one sphere of action, exchange, or communication real in the practice and theory of performers and observers. Autonomy also emerges where physical, temporal, and social space is demarcated from other institutional spaces. Consider Joyce’s remarks regarding Mesopotamian and Mesoamerican political space: “By creating different kinds of [physical] space within sites … monumental architecture served to create arenas with restricted access … [that altered] the patterns of habitual movement of all inhabitants,” and which inscribed in the

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geography, new social roles and expectations that were founded on dramatically different notions than their kinship counterparts (Joyce, 2000, pp. 70 71). The polity had to elevate the concerns of disparate kinship units, and integrate them into a unified cultural and structural political system that could extract resources necessary to pursue both collective and self-aggrandizing projects, while also regulating the actions, exchanges, and communications of numerous actors through ideological, judicial, administrative, and material-incentive bases of authority. And, of course, legitimating political entrepreneurial claims to this authority and transforming the integrative mechanisms into moral imperatives lest the social order fall out of harmony with the supranatural order were constant strains on political autonomy and its continued viability (Abrutyn, 2013a; Eisenstadt, 1964; Eisenstadt, Abitol, & Chazan, 1987; Yoffee, 2005).

Intra-Institutional Properties We turn, now, to describing the internal structural and cultural dimensions of institutions that have effects on other levels of social reality. Institutional dynamics emerge from the ecology of institutions (Abrutyn, 2013c). Edward Shils (1975, p. 6ff) conceived of society as having a “center” in which the central institutions and authority system sat, as well as the central value system that legitimated the “distribution of roles and rewards” premised on the relative distance from the center. The term “society,” however, is vague and when we move from the concrete, literal meaning to an analytic meaning, it is possible to reimagine Shils’ ecological model within the evolutionary institutional model posited above. Indeed, Shils remarked “a social system [or institution in our terminology] must have its “center of gravity” within itself, that is, it must have its own system of authority within its boundaries [as well as] its own culture” that is, in part, shared with other institutions, but also partially “about itself” (ibid. pp. 36 37). As institutional entrepreneurs succeed in establishing themselves, they carve out physical, temporal, social, and symbolic niches that are the core or cores of a particular autonomous institution (Abrutyn, 2013c). The core is surrounding by an institutional environment comprised of myriad individual and collective actors embedded in “organizational clusters” identified by many contemporary meso-level theories of social organization called fields (Bourdieu, 1992; DiMaggio & Powell, 1983; Fligstein & McAdam, 2012). Fields, as well as their constituent actors, are linked together structurally via myriad divisions of labor and culturally via the circulation of generalized

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symbolic media from the core and across those structural linkages which act as conduits of cultural diffusion (Abrutyn, 2013c; also, Abrutyn & Turner, 2011; Turner, 2010a, 2010b). As the level of institutional autonomy increases, the degree to which the core or cores are bounded increases. However, the institutional environment always overlaps with other institutional environments picture a Venn diagram while some fields link individual and collective actors to each other and provide the paths along which human, material, and symbolic resources can travel from one institutional domain to the next. Without getting ahead of our discussion, the core or cores become the locus of institutional reality, as entrepreneurs responsible for carving out autonomous space make the core their home and produce and reproduce the institutional domain. Institutional cores help impose their entrepreneur’s vision of reality on significant portions of the population through various means, but the most important mechanism an autonomous institution has is through routinizing charisma (Weber, 1968), monopolizing the orchestration of occasional and recurrent institutionalized rituals that generate positive collective effervescence (Collins, 2004; Lawler, Thye, & Yoon, 2009), and claiming the core is “sacred” in the Durkheimian (Durkheim, 1912) sense of the term. Successful entrepreneurs that is, those capable of effecting truly qualitative, epochal structural and cultural change must link their institutional projects “to the very roots of existence, of cosmic, social, and cultural order, to what is seen as sacred and fundamental” (Eisenstadt in Weber, 1968, p. xix). And, if entrepreneurs are to prove successful over the long run, they must embed this “charismatic effervescence” in the institutional core, its buildings and temporality, its social relationships and collectives, and in the divisions of labor and generalized symbolic media; the core must come to “consist of beliefs about the history and nature of [the institution and its entrepreneurs, and] its relationship to certain ideal or transcendent entities or values, its origin and destiny” (Shils, 1975, p. 37). It is the establishment of a “transcendental” core that allows for existential crises to occasionally appear that create opportunities for entrepreneurship to either “reform” the institution from within (Colomy & Rhoades, 1994) or push to reconfigure the entire institutional complex by carving out new, autonomous institutional space (Abrutyn, 2009; Eisenstadt, 1964, 1980). Besides the sanctification of the core and its actors, entrepreneurs use other means to resolve problems associated with integration, regulation, and legitimation that allow them to reproduce the institutional domain’s core, maintain the uneven flow of resources toward the core, and expand

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their influence over greater proportions of a given population while fending off competitors from within and would-be usurpers from other institutions. Evolutionary institutionalists continue to believe that the material base of an institution, as reflected in the various social divisions of labor linking actors horizontally (functionally) and vertically (hierarchically) still matter (Lenski, 1966; Rueschemeyer, 1977). The texture of any given autonomous institution’s divisions of labor is shaped by the modes of integration and regulation entrepreneurs employ and the combinations of these modes of integration (Abrutyn & Turner, 2011; Turner, 2011). Thus, all institutional domains use segmentation and differentiation as ways of tying actors together. The former refers to a process similar to DiMaggio and Powell’s (1983) isomorphic pressures, but has less to do with cultural myths and more to do with groups being closer or farther from the core and thus looking the same based on their relative position and access to institutional resources (structural and/or cultural equivalency). All families in a given kinship institution have similar features because they derive their form and content from the same institutional source; but, families in one community vis-a`-vis families in another community will look different in form and content because the particular niche (the community) they emerge within will be differentially positioned from the core and, therefore, able to access some resources and not others. Nevertheless, their similarities produce structural equivalencies that create a sense of sameness for the individuals present. While differentiation and segmentation are effective to some degree, as the institutional domain grows in autonomy and, thereby size and complexity, these mechanisms become niche-specific as new mechanisms like exchange, domination, inclusion/embedding, stabilized paths of mobility, and boundary overlaps become paramount to entrepreneurial efforts to reduce exigencies surrounding integration, regulation, and legitimation (for more detail, see Turner, 2011). The types and combinations of mechanisms an institution employs affect the micro- and meso-levels of social reality. Economies that link and integrate/regulate interaction through exchange are qualitatively different than those that use domination; where religion and kinship have boundary overlaps, we find meta-ideologies that fuse morality and sacredness to traditional family patterns and love/loyalty, while in other times and places, the two fostered competition over human and material resources; and, where one institution can stabilize and monopolize the flow of certain key resources vis-a`-vis other domains, it can exert imbalanced influence over these domains in ways that alter the micro- and meso-level social reality.

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A third solution to the various intra-institutional problems entrepreneurs encounter is through the production and distribution of an “indigenous” generalized symbolic medium. Though money is often presented as the medium par excellence (Parsons, 1963; Simmel, 1907), every institutional domain, if it is to be autonomous and if its entrepreneurs are to constrain and facilitate action, exchange, and communication within their institution’s environment, must have its own medium (Abrutyn & Turner, 2011). The problem with money being the typifying example is that it overeconomizes social exchanges in other institutions, leading one to wonder whether something like love/loyalty (kinship) or sacredness/piety (religion) can be quantified and standardized in the same manner as money. But, social psychological research has convincingly demonstrated that the vast majority of exchanges are not instrumental, but rather social and emotionally laden (Burke & Stets, 2009; Collins, 2004; Ekeh, 1974; Lawler et al., 2009). That is money and economy must be reconceptualized as social exchanges governed by broader cultural dynamics that can cover the diversity of institutional domains and their “media markets.” Hence, kinship action, exchange, and communication, is generally about love (Luhmann, 1998) and loyalty (Levi-Strauss, 1969). And, while these media are not easily quantified as money is, it is not much of a leap to imagine kinship relationships as having “debits and credits” that are socially and emotionally significant, and evaluated with kinship criteria and not economic criteria (Zelizer, 1997). As such, all institutions have their own media of exchange and communication (Abrutyn, 2013c) for example, religion sacredness/piety (Stark, 2007); law justice/conflict resolution (Bohannan, 1980); science truth (Luhmann, 2012) and applied knowledge (Bacon, 1857 1874 [2008]). What makes media so important is that they manifest in a symbolic and in an objectified form. The symbolic form emerges in specialized language that encodes and internalizes the value orientations of entrepreneurs into other actors in the environment and in other institutions, along with ideologies, norms, and strategies (Abrutyn & Turner, 2011; Luhmann, 2012; Parsons, 1963). As a language, media take on a double function. On the one hand, media reduces “the complexity of contingent possibilities” (Luhmann, 1976, p. 508) by “narrowing choices which linguistically remain open” (ibid. p. 511). The use of certain accepted themes of discourse, or interpretations of texts, or body gestures expresses to others in the institutional setting that all actors are operating within the same “narrow world of common understandings, complementary expectations, and

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determinable issues” (ibid. p. 512; cf. Alexander, 2004). On the other hand, the internalization of an institutional core’s culture system through the pursuit and acquisition of the specialized language, or some part of it, allows institutions to be “treated as separate systems for analytical purposes as well as in the situations of daily life” (ibid. p. 511, emphasis added). Put another way, generalized media are the “conveyer belts that link the global [institutional] system to the local life-worlds” as they act as “tools to construct systematic linkages between … social positions and ideas on the one hand, and interpersonal or intergroupal relations on the other … [allowing] people and groups that are not physically co-present … to enter into contact and communication (Vandenberghe, 2007, p. 312). Media, however, can also manifest in external referents of value, or totemic-like objects. Durkheim (1912) saw physical and social objects as becoming imbued with the sacred via recurrent, emotionally effervescent rituals; the objects had value sui generis, were reminders of the emotions and the commitment to the moral order, and became foci in future interaction rituals (Collins, 2004). All media and institutions, however, appear in tangible objects (Abrutyn, 2013c). Money emerges in status goods; love in the marriage contract, ceremony, or even the object of one’s affection; justice in the blind lady statue, the scales she holds, or the judge’s robe and gavel. The importance of tangible objectified media cannot be overstated. Concrete objects can be pursued and desired; their acquisition can bring visceral pleasure; they can be displayed in public to indicate to others one’s position; they can be used in ritual performances generating precontractual solidarity (Alexander, 2004; Goffman, 1967), evincing a defined prestige-power order (Collins, 1988), and enter into performative acts that are no different from the exchange of currency in a retail store, but are different in that they are the exchange of different cultural logics for example, the exchange and communication of generalized power very often emerges in public displays that create and enforce social order (Dayan & Katz, 1988; Reed, 2013). Ultimately, the “texture” and “color” of institutionally specific action, exchange, and communication is shaped by three aspects of the institution. The core and its level of sacredness (as produced and sustained by entrepreneurs); the combination of modes of integration and regulation into a unique set of divisions of labor that routinize and make real the structural positions people occupy; and the circulation of a generalized symbolic medium along the paths created by the divisions of labor and which makes the institution a real cultural milieu via the facilitation and constraint of action, exchange, and communication.

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SKETCHING AN EVOLUTIONARY INSTITUTIONALISM The final theoretical task of this chapter is to conceptualize, more precisely, an evolutionary theory of institutional change. In short, the theory posited within assumes, and will develop, several important themes. First, variation is separate from the selection process and the former is ever-present in the form of potential entrepreneurs. Entrepreneurs are similar to Weber’s charismatic carrier groups, in that they are the source of new strands of organizational, technological, and/or symbolic innovations, or what may clumsily be called “memes.” But, it is important to keep in mind, like biological mutations, entrepreneurs are rarely matched with evolutionary selection and are generally neutral. Second, the meme or innovation is not what is selected on, but rather the entrepreneurial unit is what is selected on. Thus, fitness is not necessarily measured in terms of how adaptive entrepreneur’s solutions are for society in general, but rather how adaptive those innovations are for the entrepreneur’s continued survival and success in becoming a force of change in society. That is, “reproductive fitness” is about entrepreneurial success in passing its memes from one generation of entrepreneurs down to another, but ultimately we find it in the efficacy predicated on skillful articulation of innovations to other strata, securing alternative bases of resources to sustain and expand initial success and gain independence from existing elites, imposing its vision of reality on significant proportions of the population, and carving out autonomous institutional space to protect its interests and increasingly contribute to the “steering” of a society (Abrutyn, 2013a, 2013b; Wilson, 2002). Third, what evolve, then, are not societies but institutions and their levels of autonomy. On the macro-level this refers to the reconfiguration of physical, temporal, social, and symbolic space; on the meso-level, this can be found in the creation of greater intra-institutional differentiation in terms of fields, niches, organizational units, and the ways in which these smaller units are linked to each other; on the micro-level, this occurs through the reshaping of the lived experience of a large enough swath of the population via discrete goals, means to achieving these goals, strategies employed, value-orientations and ideologies undergirding goals and means and affecting decision making. Fourth, autonomy can grow or decline and, thus, evolution is not a unilinear or progressive process, but rather one that takes different trajectories. Sometimes, parallel or convergent evolution occurs in which a series of institutions in one society or several societies

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evolve in the same direction, whereas divergent evolution or, the splitting of institutional change in different directions and tempos is also possible. Finally, retrogression, de-differentiation, or declines in autonomy are just as qualitative a transformation as vice versa.

Entrepreneurs and Variation The concept institutional entrepreneurs is borrowed, with some modification, from Eisenstadt (1964, 1980; Eisenstadt et al., 1987), who took the term himself from Weber’s (1968) charismatic carrier groups. Institutional entrepreneurs became his contribution to Parsonian (Parsons, 1964) evolutionary theory, in that it added a sense of agency, historical contingency, and empirical induction to an otherwise abstracted, deductive, and descriptive theory of change. Eisenstadt’s career, at risk of oversimplifying it, was devoted to understanding and explaining two major epochal moments of sociocultural evolution: the emergence of political entrepreneurs and the evolution of political autonomy (Eisenstadt, 1963; Eisenstadt et al., 1987), and, though he never used these terms, the emergence of religious entrepreneurs and the push toward religious autonomy during the so-called Axial Age (c. 800 200 BCE) (Eisenstadt, 1986). Eisenstadt’s theory serves as the foundation of a compelling theory of institutional evolution; and though he did not use all of the language we employ, he saw entrepreneurs as the principal force capable of reconfiguring a society’s institutional complex by either altering an existing institutional domain or by erecting an entirely new institutional space, linked to extant institutions, but physically and cognitively new. Corporate actors become special when they are able to link their institutional projects (Colomy, 1998) to something more essential, more sacred, and more just (Abrutyn, 2013c; Colomy & Kertzmann, 1995). “The formulation of an innovative project and the attempt to institutionalize it carves a free space between entrepreneur’s actions and the [institutions] in which they are pursued” (Colomy & Kertzmann, 1995, p. 194); institutional projects that are potentially transformative and which entrepreneurs attempt to articulate as derived from something supranatural or sacred aim to “crystallize broad symbolic orientations in new ways, articulate specific goals, and construct novel normative and organizational frameworks to pursue their institutional ends” (Colomy & Rhoades, 1994, p. 554). A careful balance between the self-interested and collectively oriented aspects of

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projects makes project outcomes lack inevitability and, instead, allow us to note the tenuous nature of success. These two aspects inform the four concrete goals projects tend to emphasize: (1) the pursuit of power-sharing and power-dependent relationships with various social strata the former as legitimacy and credibility from elites, and the latter as alternative bases of resources preventing aspiring entrepreneurs from being dependent on any one strata for its reproduction (Abrutyn, 2009); (2) the struggle for monopolies over innovations, media of exchange and communication, and the monopolized right to disseminate, develop, apply, and pass on their knowledge and practices; (3) the articulation of culturally resonant frames that justify their projects as more efficient and more just or moral vis-a`-vis existing projects or solutions (Colomy, 1998); and (4) the effort to further innovate and adjust intra-institutional culture to resolve old or new exigencies that are either real or perceived, as well as to improve their social position (Abrutyn, 2013c). Thus, political evolution works on the innovations of political entrepreneurs (Abrutyn, 2013a), while religious evolution is a function of religious entrepreneurs (Abrutyn, 2013b). The form and content of any given polity reflects the efforts of entrepreneurs, the reactions by existing elites and the accommodation/adjustment strategies entrepreneurs make to their projects, the reactions by other strata to the articulated frames and efforts to enlist their support, and conditions beyond their control such as environmental, ecological, and a wide variety of historical and sociocultural contingencies. Ultimately, entrepreneurs that are able to create strong trust and commitment among their members, prevent factions from emerging at least until autonomy is achieved, defeat or stymie competitors, and find a sufficient base of alternative human and material resources to draw from and sustain/expand their activities will survive long enough to be potentially selected on by separate evolutionary processes.

Selection Processes Turner and Maryanski (2008) caution sociology to heed the limitations of biological evolution. Humans are creative, and thus selection is less often “natural” and Darwinian, and far more often social and Lamarckian. To be sure, history is littered with failed societies and cultural strands extinguished by natural disasters or human-made ecological disasters (Abrutyn & Lawrence, 2010). Yet, human societies still exist and are far larger than previously imaginable, highlighting the ingenuity driving many cases of

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sociocultural evolution. Two selection processes seem most applicable to understanding institutional evolution: Spencerian and Durkheimian. The former is derived from Herbert Spencer’s (1897) evolutionary theory, which conceptualizes macro-level selection forces generally, for him, population growth coupled with resource scarcity feeding back into intensification of production and more population growth, etc. eventually leading to exigencies that existing structural and cultural arrangements (e.g., institutional domains) cannot resolve. Societies face a crossroad: either some individual or group recognizes the problems and innovates in such a way that others are convinced it is efficient or good, or society moves closer to the precipice of disintegration, collapse, or conquest. Political evolution, for instance, likely happened when thresholds were reached in which, for instance, kinship mechanisms of conflict resolution, control and coordination of the division of labor, management of economic resources, and defense against external lost their efficacy (Abrutyn & Lawrence, 2010).3 These organizational weaknesses exacerbated conflicts between groups such that structural holes opened in which a strong leader with a big enough army could seize permanent power and status, become a political entrepreneur, and attempt to routinize new structural and cultural solutions via a distinct political core and political actors (Abrutyn, 2013a). The form and content of political evolution had some obvious parallels across cases, as there are only a finite number of problems that generate political entrepreneurship (Sanderson, 1999; Yoffee, 2005). But, each polity evolved divergently as political entrepreneurs varied in their skill, success, luck, contingencies faced, and the ecological/environmental limitations placed on them from without. Durkheimian (1893) selection occurs when intra-institutional pressures emerge surrounding the integration, regulation, and legitimation of disparate social units. Unlike Spencerian pressures that emerge in the face of exigencies, Durkheimian pressures have more to do with competition over resources (and the regulation of said competition) and the struggle to establish position within an already autonomous institutional domain. To be sure, Durkheimian pressures may be triggered by Spencerian processes, or vice versa. But, internal institutional pressures are unique from Spencerian, exogenous pressures in cause and consequence. Eisenstadt’s (1984) work on heterodoxic religious domains illustrates the dynamic evolutionary quality of Durkheimian selection: in Axial Age India, the competition between Vedic/Brahmans, nascent Buddhists, Jainists, and other ascetics created a vibrant religious economy that featured a tremendous amount of innovation, as well as the demise of several religious strands, the temporary

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elevation of Buddhism during the Mauryan Empire, and, to a certain degree, the “extinction” of Buddhism from the Indian religious institution in favor of Hinduism (Thapar, 2004). Durkheimian selection, then, favors gradual changes that eventually “add up” and lead the qualitative change. The construction of new niches or fields, the death of organizational units in a field, or the transformation of a once-embedded niche to a new institutional core are a few examples of the evolutionary changes wrought by intra-institutional innovation.

A Typology of Entrepreneurs Rather than posit an exhaustive list, I suggest three types of entrepreneurs while leaving the list theoretically open to additions. First, there are innovators, or truly revolutionary individuals who generate an almost entirely new organizational and normative framework for acting, exchanging, and communicating (Stark, 2007). These actors are rarely effective change-agents. If there are no selection pressures, they are often ignored or deemed “crazy”; when there are selection pressures, it is far easier for their voices to be lost in a din of competitors who both differ and sometimes mimic an innovators message; and, finally, for their success to be lasting, an innovator generally needs to found the second type of entrepreneur: the entrepreneurial unit. Entrepreneurial units are the carriers of the innovator’s cultural pattern, but are no less innovative themselves. Even the priesthoods Weber points to as usurping prophetic charisma (and, thus, preventing future prophecy and radical charisma) are change agents, but they do so through channels deemed legitimate by the entrepreneurial unit. Often, they do not become a truly evolutionary force until the death of the innovator drives a race between competing factions to routinize and institutionalize the founder’s pattern (Weber, 1968). The last type of entrepreneur may be called reformist or elaboratist (Colomy, 1998). These entrepreneurs emerge within an existing institutional structure and culture, and develop new institutional projects that conform to the extant authority system of the institution and which are “officially” aimed at expanding the institution’s influence and/or adjusting the domain to changes in other institutions or the larger sociocultural environment that threaten the integrity of their institution’s autonomy. They may be called upon by entrepreneurs in the core, charged with authority and a duty and thus called “secondary” entrepreneurs (Eisenstadt, 1964), or they may carefully develop projects that do not conflict with primary entrepreneurs’ goals

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(Colomy, 1998). Their ability to exact evolutionary change depends on how the core reacts to their efforts, how commensurate their efforts are with the core’s goals, and, if contradictory, how successful they are in securing their own independence vis-a`-vis core elites (Rueschemeyer, 1977). In essence, reformists are very often support actors committed to the core, whose projects explicitly seek to gradually transform the institutional structure or culture. Theologians, for instance, are great examples of the third type. The evolutionary process, for reformists, is a slow, graduated process that culminates when their projects reach a threshold in change and the institutional domain is qualitatively transformed. For instance, we find a group of legal reformists elevated by religious entrepreneurs for a specific purpose becoming entrepreneurs themselves during the Middle Ages (Abrutyn, 2009). During Pope Gregory VII’s dramatic reforms, he enlisted and empowered nascent legal scholars to draw jurisdictional boundaries and “fight” for resources against political entrepreneurs via nonviolent, rationally legal means (Berman, 1983); their efforts qualitatively transformed the religious domain, while also putting pressure on the political, and later economic/educational domains for change as well. As their numbers grew, and universities emerged to produce greater numbers of legal entrepreneurs, they began to travel around Europe convincing various strata that law was a powerful weapon in status group struggles; eventually, Canon law was joined by Royal, Manorial, Mercantile, and Urban law, and legal entrepreneurs had become an indispensable collective (Berman, 1983); and law was increasingly autonomous (Unger, 1976). In sum, institutions evolve because entrepreneurs innovate, find structural and historical opportunities to make their innovations lasting, while also creating powerful reasons for entrepreneurial solidarity, and, under the right conditions, carve out physical, temporal, social, and, symbolic space that qualitatively transforms society. Selection comes in the form of exogenous macro-level forces that cannot be met with existing structural or cultural solutions, or endogenously when extant institutional structural and cultural arrangements do not efficaciously resolve problems of social order related to integration, regulation, and/or legitimation. Innovations by entrepreneurs may increase or decrease institutional complexity, and they may “work” in short or long run. However, fitness is evaluated by the degree to which those innovations are able to secure a stable base of resources for entrepreneurs to survive, reproduce themselves biologically and culturally, and, potentially, expand their influence over the population. To be sure, what is “fit” for them, may not be objectively or subjectively fit

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for other strata. However, as long as a significant portion of the population believes they are the source of whatever goods and services are desired, and that they have access to some “fair” amount of these resources, institutional domains will remain relatively stable in their autonomy. Thus, when entrepreneurs are successful, they gain the right and capability to try and reconfigure the social world by either carving out newly autonomous institutional space, deepening and widening the influence of an already autonomous domain, or reducing or abolishing the autonomy of another institution and taking control of its resources.

FINAL THOUGHTS Institutional analysis should be at the macro-level of social reality, while organizational analysis is and should remain meso-level (DiMaggio & Powell, 1983; Fligstein & McAdam, 2012; Stinchcombe, 1997); conflating these two level of reality or the two units of analysis does nothing for sociology’s ability to describe or explain the social world. The theory posited above has several advantages over previous macro-level schema. (1) For one, it eschews the overemphasis on integration found in functionalism, shifting focus toward the intersecting problems revolving around integration, regulation, and integration. (2) In addition, it takes serious the contributions real actors make in the process of large-scale, sociocultural evolution, thus avoiding the “evolution-as-unfolding” models or the fallback option, stage-modeling. Several questions remain open, which would expand and deepen evolutionary institutionalism’s utility for other traditions and perspectives in sociology. To begin, though stage models have been abandoned, the theoretical argument above suggests some type of historical phasing that points to some institutions evolving autonomously before others. Polity, for instance, was the first autonomous institution beside kinship (Abrutyn, 2013b), and thus questions begging to be answered surround the “order” in which a given institution becomes autonomous for the first time in history and the consequences surrounding its autonomy. Second, the consequences of different institutional arrangements points toward a fruitful theoretical and empirical set of analyses. What happens, for example, when economies become more autonomous than other institutional domains? Polanyi was deeply interested in this question, while a series of contemporary empirical analyses (Mundey, Davidson, & Herzog, 2011; Zelizer, 1997) could

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reciprocally benefit from informing an evolutionary institutionalist approach to this question. Or, one could compare modern nation states via their institutional arrangements and the variation in autonomy across particular domains. Iran’s highly autonomous religious domain is neatly contrasted by Germany’s low level religious domain, and, perhaps, the two are informed by Israel’s moderate-to-high level of religious autonomy. The causes and consequences predicated on the variation in institutional autonomy pose interesting questions and clearly speak to other perspectives interested in similar, yet theoretical and methodologically different questions. Ultimately, the perspective above is geared toward providing a common vocabulary for all sociologists to be able to engage in discourse with each other at a base level. Admittedly, this may appear to be “grandiose” (and perhaps idealistic) ambition, but sociologists being able to communicate with each other across divides, appears to remain a noble goal to pursue. In no sense is the theoretical model posited above meant to push other perspectives from their achieved position in the discipline, but rather supplement them by reconceptualizing the macro-level of social reality in an informative way, while reintroducing evolutionary theory that is far more nuanced and less inevitable or directional than the older versions.

NOTES 1. Weber called this process rationalization, while functionalists called it differentiation. The difference between the two processes is miniscule. 2. Weber’s inclusion is likely obvious, yet the choice of Spencer over Durkheim might raise some questions. First, Spencer’s Principles is far more systematically structural then Durkheim’s body of work, which places the problem of integration above all else. Second, Spencer’s work implicitly undergirds American structural functionalism, which was the standard bearer of the historical tradition, as well as explicitly informs many contemporary institutionalists like Jonathan Turner. And third, Spencer’s model of social change was less Darwinian and more Lamarckian (Turner & Maryanski, 2008) in that under selection pressures, actors could create new structural and cultural solutions where none had previously existed; more importantly, these efforts and these solutions, in Spencer’s estimation, were tenuous and likely to lead to collapse eventually. Contrast this position with Durkheim’s population ecology model that sees actors in competition with each other and optimistically predicts that the ‘fit’ will remain in the niche while the ‘unfit’ will differentiate and specialize in ways that enhance their survival and generate greater mutual interdependence. Finally, Durkheim’s work will neither be ignored nor downplayed, as many of his insights continue to inform this tradition in important ways.

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3. Though beyond the scope of this chapter, it should be pointed out that there are other intersecting factors necessary for evolutionary processes like the rise of the first autonomous polities; the most relevant being ecological, social, and/or military circumscription that reduces the likelihood of mobility and forces competing groups to figure out solutions or destroy themselves each other (Carneiro, 1970).

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TENSIONS BETWEEN SELF AND “OTHERS” IN THE MAKING OF THE SELF: THE ROLE OF CHILDHOOD EXPERIENCES IN THE DEVELOPMENT OF REFLEXIVITY Dominiek Coates ABSTRACT Purpose While a number of scholars have observed that the contemporary self has to negotiate a “push and pull” between autonomy and a desire for community (Austin & Gagne, 2008; Bauman, 2001a, p. 60; Coles, 2008; Giddens, 2003, p. 46, the struggle between the “self” and “others” that is at the heart of symbolic interactionist (SI) understandings of the self is often missing from sociological discussion on the “making of the self” (Coles, 2008, p. 21; Holstein & Gubrium, 2000), and the current chapter contributes to this literature. Design/methodology/approach To gain insight into “the making of the self,” in-depth life history interviews were conducted with 23 former

Social Theories of History and Histories of Social Theory Current Perspectives in Social Theory, Volume 31, 277 295 Copyright r 2013 by Emerald Group Publishing Limited All rights of reproduction in any form reserved ISSN: 0278-1204/doi:10.1108/S0278-1204(2013)0000031008

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members of new religious movements (NRMs) specific to their construction of self. Interview data was analyzed for variations in the ways in which individuals describe their construction of self. To make sense of these variations, SI understandings of the self are applied. Findings Analysis indicates that the extent to which individuals are informed by the social versus the personal in their self-construction is a continuum. From an SI perspective the self is conceptualized as to varying degrees informed by both the personal and the social. These two “domains” of the self are interrelated or connected through an ongoing process of reflexivity that links internal experiences and external feedback. From this perspective, “healthy” selves reflexively balance a sense of personal uniqueness against a sense of belonging and social connectedness. While a reflexive balance between the “self” and “others” is optimal, not everyone negotiates this balance successfully, and the extent to which individuals are informed by the social versus the personal in their self-construction varies and can be conceptualized as on a continuum between autonomy and social connectedness. The current findings suggest that where individuals are positioned on this continuum is dependent on the availability of cultural and personal resources from which individuals can construct selves, in particular in childhood. Those participants who described themselves as highly dependent on others report childhood histories of control, whereas those who described themselves as disconnected from others report histories of abuse and neglect. Research limitations The problems of relying on retrospective accounts of former members should be noted as such accounts are interpretive and influenced by the respondents’ present situation. However, despite their retrospective and constructionist nature, life history narratives provide meaningful insights into the actual process of self and identity construction. The analysis of retrospective accounts is a commonly recommended and chosen method for the study of the self (Davidman & Greil, 2007; Diniz-Pereira, 2008). Social implications/originality/value The current findings suggest that significant differences may exist in the way in which individuals construct and narrate their sense of self, in particular in regards to the way in which they experience and negotiate contemporary tensions between social connectedness and individuality. In particular, the findings highlight the importance of childhood environments for the construction of

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“healthy” selves that can negotiate contemporary demands of autonomy as well as social connectedness. Keywords: New religious movements; reflexivity; identity; self development; childhood trauma

Debates around the nature and condition of the self and identity in contemporary unstable environments have moved to the center of intellectual debate in the social sciences and humanities in recent years (Austin & Gagne, 2008; Bauman, 2001a; Coles, 2008; Giddens, 2003; Bauman, 2000; Baumeister, 1996; Bendle, 2002; Cote, 2000; Heelas, Lash, & Morris, 1996). Up until relatively recently, at least the beginning of the 1900s, identity was not so much an issue. When societies were more stable, identity was to a great extent taken for granted and assigned by cultural patterns that governed people’s lives. A sense of self was achieved and maintained through commitments embedded in relatively consistent communities of others that remained more or less stable across the individual’s life span (Bauman, 1996, 2000, 2001b; Beck, 1992; Beck & Beck-Gernsheim, 2002; Giddens, 2003). More recently, identity, at least in the West, has become more problematic. As cultural boundaries are no longer clearly delineated, individuals must be open to greater uncertainty and are forced to confront personal futures that are much more open than the past (Bauman, 1996; Beck, 1992; Beck & Beck-Gernsheim, 2002; Beck, Giddens, & Lash, 1994; Lash, 1994, 1999). In a world characterized by ongoing change, a sense of self or identity formed one moment may no longer be relevant the next (Bauman, 1996; Gergen, 1987, 1991; Giddens, 1990, 1991, 1992; Holstein & Gubrium, 2000; Levine, 2005). While some scholars celebrate the increased freedom for the self, arguing that the self is highly adaptable and capable of negotiating unstable cultural conditions (Gergen, 1991; Giddens, 1991), others are less optimistic. A number of scholars argue that cultural stability and sameness and continuity continue to be important for the self and that the increased fluidity of many selves may lead to pathology (Cote, 2000; Lasch, 1984). The increases in selves that lack consistency is not considered a “healthy” sign of adaptability but evidence that personality disorders, such as borderline and narcissistic personality disorder, are becoming more widespread (Castells, 1997; Cote, 2000; Kreisman & Straus, 1989; Schachter, 2005).

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Celebrating the contemporary freedom for the self, reflexivity theorists describe the self as increasingly anchored in individuality and autonomy (Giddens, 1991). From this perspective, the development of selves anchored in personal uniqueness and autonomy is considered more psychologically healthy or adjusted to contemporary conditions than the more conformist self that was prominent in traditional societies (Beck, 1992; Castells, 1997; Giddens, 1991; Lash, 1994). While their meta-theories differ in their emphasis, the accounts of the contemporary self put forward by contemporary modernists such as Beck and Giddens have many similarities and all highlight the centrality of reflexivity and personal autonomy for the contemporary self (Beck, 1992; Beck & Beck-Gernsheim, 2002; Beck et al., 1994; Giddens, 1991, 2003). Reflexivity theorizing posits that stable “others” are no longer as essential, or even important, for the construction of stable selves, and depicts the contemporary self as capable of personally and reflexively constructing a personal self or self-identity anchored in autonomy and independent decision making from which to navigate contemporary demands (Beck, 1992; Castells, 1997; Giddens, 1991; Lash, 1994). These theories celebrate personal autonomy and the notion of a self that is disembedded or independent from its social context, and describe reflexivity as key to achieving a separation between the self or personal and the social. From this perspective the reflexive achievement and maintenance of a separation between the self and society is celebrated, and a reliance on others for self-construction is perceived as reflective of psychological difficulties or evidence of limited psychological development (Cote, 2000; Giddens, 1991; Kegan, 1994). Contemporary symbolic interactionists (SIs) challenge this portrayal of the self as increasingly independent from others. They argue that the disintegration of stable others in which the self can become embedded is exaggerated, and that self-stability continues to be mediated by relatively stable others. Despite “detraditionalization” (Giddens, 1991) individuals continue to be embedded in relatively stable communities or social networks (Demo, 1992; Robinson & Smith-Lovin, 1992; Smith-Lovin, 2007; Smith-Lovin & McPherson, 1993). While contemporary social institutions may be different from those of the past, individuals continue to construct their selves through interaction with social institutions such as schools or counselling centers that provide relatively stable discourses of “who we ought to be” (Gubrium & Holstein, 2000; Holstein & Gubrium, 2000). Unlike reflexivity theories put forward by Beck and Giddens that celebrate personal autonomy and independent thought, SI conceptualizations of reflexivity do not disembed the individual from its surroundings but

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emphasize the social origin of the self. From an SI perspective, reflexivity is considered central to the social development of the self, and refers to the ongoing dialogue or feedback loop that connects the personal to the social. From this perspective reflexivity connects both the personal and the social influences on the self, and refers to both the process through which individuals maintain or develop personal uniqueness as well as the process through which the individual becomes socially or cultural embedded or connected (Archer, 2003, 2007; Mead, 1934). While contemporary SIs recognize the increasing importance of individuality and personal autonomy for the self, from an SI perspective the self’s ability to establish and maintain social and emotional connectedness to others continues to be considered paramount to psychological and emotional well-being (Archer, 2003, 2007; Holmes, 2010). The significance of social connectedness, even within a culture of individualization, is supported by a rich body of SI literature that conceptualizes emotions as signals about the extent to which a balance or connection exists between the self and its social context. A rich body of empirical evidence shows that when there is a disequilibrium or inconsistency between the self and the environmental or cultural expectations, individuals experience negative emotions such as stress and discomfort. Conversely, a connection or equilibrium between the self and its environments has been shown to result in positive emotions (Festinger, 1957; Heise, 1999; Lawler, 2003; Lively & Heise, 2004; Riley & Burke, 1995; Stets & Cast, 2007; Stets & Tsushima, 2001; Stets & Turner, 2006). To this extent, taking into account the significance of both individuality as well as social connectedness for personal well-being, from an SI perspective the increased significance of reflexivity for the contemporary self pertains to the importance of being able to maintain an ongoing and flexible connection to both self and others, both individuality and connectedness. While a reflexive balance between the “self” and “others” is considered optimal, symbolic interactionists recognize that not everyone negotiates this balance successfully, and the extent to which individuals are informed by the social versus the personal in their construction of self varies. A rich body of SI literature highlights the diversity of selves and describes variations in the conditions under which individuals experience a sense of “realness” or “authenticity” (Erickson, 1995, 2005; Erickson & Wharton, 1997; Franzese, 2007; Turner & Gordon, 1981; Vannini & Franzese, 2008; Weigert, 2009). This literature shows that while some individuals are more likely to experience a sense of perceived “authenticity” under conditions that demand conformity and social connectedness, others are more likely

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to experience “authenticity” under conditions that encourage autonomy and personal uniqueness (Carver & Michael, 1985; Schlenker & Weigold, 1990; Turner & Gordon, 1981; Vryan, Adler, & Adler, 2003). It is argued here that some individuals may construct selves that are more strongly informed by the personal, while others may construct selves that are more strongly anchored in the social, and these variations are dependent on the availability of cultural and personal resources in particular in childhood. This argument is supported by interview data specific to the perceived relationship between childhood experiences and selfconstruction in a sample of former members of new religious movements (NRMs). Analysis of life histories of 23 former members identified two primary narratives of the way in which participants described their sense of self. For the purpose of analysis the two broad groups or narratives identified are referred to as “dependent” and “detached.” These groups are not viewed as dichotomous; this is a heuristic device to represent those who are grouped at either end of the continuum. Those participants labelled the dependent selves describe selves that appear highly conformist or socially dependent. Albeit to varying degrees, their narratives describe selves that are highly informed by others, and NRM membership is described in the context of needing or wanting stable others for the construction of a stable sense of self. Toward the other end of this continuum, detached selves described themselves as unusually independent or disconnected from others. A comparison of the narratives suggests that the different ways that membership was negotiated by these different “selves” may have its origin in childhood experiences.

THE INTERVIEWS I conducted in-depth life history interviews with 23 self-identified former members from 11 different groups. The interviews took the form of guided conversations and lasted an average of two hours. Open-ended questioning was used to obtain rich life history data specific to the selves and identities of former members. In particular, questions focussed on the constrcution of identity, and the way in which identity changed and was negotiated across the lifespan. The groups in question are commonly described as “cults” or NRMs in the literature; they include groups with Christian affiliations, some self-development and “psycho-therapy” groups and Eastern meditation groups. In line with the characteristics of “world

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rejecting” groups as described by Wallis (2007[1984]), the groups were described by the participants as controlled environments that are critical of mainstream society; that deem themselves as superior or elitist; that expect and enforce conformity to norms and expectations determined by leadership; and that demand a high level of commitment and life style or personal changes of their followers. The data presented in this chapter is part of the data collected for a larger study into the life histories of former members of NRMs.

DETACHED OR DEPENDENT: THE SELF AS TO VARYING DEGREES INFORMED BY THE “SELF” VERSUS “OTHERS” When asked to describe themselves, participants described a history of either struggling to make friends and connect or struggling to achieve a sense of individuality or autonomy. The vast majority of these participants highlight their childhoods as the most important explanation for their difficulties. The “dependent” selves in this study describe histories of high dependency on others and depict childhood environments that were very controlling or authoritarian. The “detached” selves in this study describe histories of struggling with social anxiety and difficulties in forming social connections, and portray childhood environments that were neglectful or even abusive.

“I’LL CAN BE ANYTHING YOU WANT ME TO BE”: THE NARRATIVE OF THE DEPENDENT SELVES The 12 dependent selves describe authoritarian or controlled childhood environments and a tendency toward conformity or dependency on others, sometimes called “other-directedness.” While some describe their childhood environments as “authoritarian,” others use terms such as “restrictive” and “controlling” and describe close-knit social communities (Gabrielle, Lauren, Alice, Max, Richard), or the limitations of growing up in a Christian home (Hillary, Emily, Max, Nicholas, Richard). Terms most commonly used by these selves to describe their childhood environments include “highly involved parents” (Emily), “authoritarian” (Trudy, Thomas,

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Margaret, Gabrielle), “controlling” (Emily, Nicholas, Lauren, Max, Margaret, Gabrielle), “restrictive” (Lauren, Alice, Hillary), and “cold” (Margaret, Richard, Catheline, Max). Comments that link their childhood environments with their tendency toward conformity include: I think I just didn’t have any sense of self at all; I’d been controlled fairly continuously all my life. My mum was a very submitted wife and my father was very strong and dominant and took charge and took control of things … . I was always cared for … and I didn’t have to think about things because [my father] knew better … . Anything I did was dismissed. So you are trained that you’re not very important, that you don’t have the ability to sort through information in life. When I used to present a different opinion to my father he would get quite angry and silence me like ‘listen, I know how things are, don’t tell me how things are, let me tell you how things are’ … . I believed that I didn’t really have much value, or confidence, or anything to offer anyone. (Trudy) I didn’t really develop a sense of who I was separate from my family. I needed their approval, and when it was time for me to move out and grow up, I found that approval in joining a cult. (Emily)

The dependent selves also describe previously struggling with a lack of individuality or personal identity. Comments such as “In my childhood I was told that I was a different person to what I am … . Being forced to focus on others, I never developed me. I was told what to think or belief, so I never had to work it out for myself” (Trudy), “I never valued me … . That’s why I was willing to give all of myself so readily … . I never developed a sense of what I taught or believed about things” (Catheline), and “I was not valued as an individual and being an individual was unimportant” (Gabrielle) were common. A number of dependent selves also report a history of little understanding or awareness of personal emotions. These participants note that to cope with the restrictive conditions of their childhood they learned to repress their feelings, and became disconnected from their emotions (Thomas, Catheline, Trudy, Margaret, Gabrielle). For example, being socialized in an environment where emotions were not considered appropriate, Margaret explains that she grew up repressing her emotions, failing to understand emotions as a warning sign. She describes a history of feeling out of touch with her emotions, interpreting feelings in accordance with her father’s perception of emotions as “evil spirits or the devil.” She perceives her previously limited emotional awareness as having predisposed her to NRM membership. She notes: “Someone who is really in touch with their feelings will not go to [a guru], because feelings are warning signs, they are

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your friends, they would guide you and say, this isn’t right, get out; they wouldn’t say ‘what’s wrong with you, this is your karma’; they would say ‘this is not right’. I didn’t have a warning system to guide me.” These participants describe their lack of individuality in the context of personal beliefs, thoughts, as well as emotions. The dependent narratives suggest that having grown up in social environments that demand obedience and restrict the development of individuality inadequately prepared them for the demands of contemporary social life. Further demonstrated by comments such as “I was easily swayed by others” (Catheline), “I was overly innocent” (Thomas, Trudy, Alice), “I was quick to believe anything” (Thomas, Nicholas, Alice), and “I was not at all selfaware” (Nicholas, Margaret, Richard), they all observe that upon leaving the safety of their childhood environments they left lost and uncertain, and were vulnerable to NRM membership. Albeit to varying degrees, they all observe that their dependency on others and limited sense of individuality or personal identity predisposed them to membership. They note: I didn’t know how to predict people’s behaviour, I didn’t know how to detect what was genuine and what wasn’t. I grew up being vulnerable; I was easily tricked when I was younger. Even meeting the group I didn’t have discernment there, when you grow up controlled you’re not allowed to exercise discernment and I think that was dangerous in me being too gullible, too trusting; believing what people said. I was an accident waiting to happen. (Trudy) When I was young I didn’t have the ability to question things as well as I do now. I wasn’t very assertive, even when I had a question, I didn’t feel like I had the power or right to ask the question. Other kids that age just do. I didn’t have a great level of confidence. … Maybe other people are taught or have had experiences already where they have learned not to be taken on a ride. I hadn’t had that. I needed to be taken on a ride to learn. (Catheline)

In authoritarian childhood contexts individuals learn to internalize expected behaviors rather than developing a more complex understanding of themselves as both individual as well as social (Burleson, Delia, & Applegate, 1995; Hitlin & Elder, 2007). A “reflexive self” that is capable of negotiating complex social demands including tensions between both a need for individuality as well as social connectedness develops through a reflexive process of interaction between the “self” and multiple others (Coles, 2008; Holstein & Gubrium, 2000; Thoits, 1983). The development of a sense of individuality is dependent on experience and social interaction with multiple and at times contrasting others (Fontana & McGinnis, 2005; Hitlin, 2003; Hitlin & Elder, 2007). A process of reflexivity, which refers to the self’s ability to reflect on and consider both the perspective of others as

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well as the “self,” is considered fundamental to the development of selves that are informed, but not determined or dictated, by the social (Hochschild, 1983; Holmes, 2010). Even though stability and consistency in terms of social feedback is important for the development of stable selves, with young children only capable of considering or internalizing the perspective of a few “significant others,” as children mature they become capable of considering multiple perspectives and expectations, and need to be exposed to greater diversity (Coles, 2008; Hitlin, 2003). Exposure to diversity and manageable dissonances between “the self” and multiple others is important for the development of a reflexive self that can tolerate the levels of ambiguity and uncertainty common in today’s society (Coles, 2008; Thoits, 1983). Exposure to multiple and at times contradictory others instigates a process of reflexivity and the development of a personal self (Hitlin, 2003; Zurcher, 1977), self-identity (Giddens, 1991), or a sense of individuality (Fontana & McGinnis, 2005) from which relationships with multiple and diverse others can be negotiated. To this extent, the current findings suggest that having been raised in environments that were rich in absolutes the dependent selves were not exposed to sufficient diversity for the reflexive development of a personal self from which complex social environments can be negotiated. The dependent selves in this study are conceptualized as having selves that are highly socially dependent. Their narratives suggest that this dependency exceeds a tendency toward behavioral and cognitive conformity, and extends to the ways in which they experienced and expressed emotions. While the sociological study of the individual’s social determinacy has predominantly focussed on cognitions and behaviors (Coles, 2008; Mead, 1934), symbolic interactionists have extended the study of the individual’s social connectedness to the study of emotions. This body of literature outlines the emotional benefits associated with conformity and describes the processes through which more “primal emotions” anchored in fight/flight become socialized into socially constructed sentiments such as guilt and embarrassment that facilitate conformity. From this perspective, the notion that emotions can be culturally determined and shaped is supported; in line with the current findings, social or cultural connectedness is described as exceeding cognitive and behavioral conformity to include emotional conformity (Collins, 2004; Gordon, 1981; Heise, 1999; Hochschild, 1998; Kemper, 1990; Turner, 2009; Turner & Stets, 2005). The current findings suggest that, having grown up in controlled environments in which adherence to behavioral, cognitive as well as emotion norms was expected, the dependent selves in this study were in a sense “over-socialized” and

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developed highly conformist selves that struggled to negotiate the diversity of contemporary society. It is argued that their highly structured childhood environments did not adequately prepare them for contemporary social life, and predisposed them to NRM membership. While this is consistent with other studies that have found that people who join NRM are often highly dependent on others and concerned with seeking external approval and guidance (Buxant, 2008; Levine, 2007), high levels of childhood control and “other-directedness” are only half the story. Though this was the narrative of 12 participants, the remaining 11, the detached selves, describe “selves” and childhood contexts that are in many ways opposite to those outlined by the dependent selves.

“I DON’T KNOW HOW TO CONNECT”: THE NARRATIVE OF THE DETACHED SELVES The 11 detached selves describe their pre-NRM selves as highly autonomous and disconnected from others. Their narratives portray childhood environments that were isolated and, on the more extreme end of this continuum, neglectful and abusive. Terms used by these participants to describe their childhood environments include “neglectful” (Vicki, Michael, Kerry) “isolated” (Michael, Kerry, Joe) “disconnected” (Michael, Joe, Julie, Chris), “disinterested parents” (Adam, Michael, Vicki, Julie), “unavailable parents” due to alcoholism (Vicki, Adam, Lindsay) or major depression (Chris), “physical and sexual abuse” (Lindsay), “survival of the fittest” (Michael, Kerry), and “unstable” (Michelle). Comments such as “we have terrible relationships in our family” (Michael) and “my sense of family was being isolated” (Adam) were common. While some of these detached selves describe their childhood as isolated and limited in guidance and support (Julie, Joe, Adam, Chris, William, Michelle), others depict childhoods filled with abuse and neglect (Vicki, Michael, Kerry, Flora, Lindsay). Some examples include: I came from a really dysfunctional family, my dad was murdered and he was schizophrenic and he was really violent and my mum had a breakdown and became an alcoholic and human services stepped in and I was put into an institution … they didn’t have adolescent unit is those days [at the age of 13] … . I ended up living on the streets and dabbled in prostitution. (Flora) Because my family was a funny family, it’s not a family per se, my family is like herding cats, we’re all individuals. We grew up that way because we never had a central family.

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Mum left when I was four, and dad didn’t know how to look after kids … . There was never any discipline and there was never any order … . My father was an only child and so he didn’t really know how to raise kids so we kind of fended for ourselves if you throw a pack of kids together. (Michael) I had a pretty crappy childhood. I was an only child and my parents were very young, 19 and 21. [Before migrating to Australia] mum was in a women’s refugee camp, where I was born. They started from nothing and whatever they did, I went with them. My dad was a chronic alcoholic, my mum as well … . I had such a rough childhood, there was bugger all love and nurturing and I was isolated in the bush by myself, there was a sense of survival … . I was really isolated and we were often in the country … . always moving, never staying. (Kerry) Mum and dad would sit around at home and do their own thing … . There was no real interaction with us, no real conversations … . I had all these feelings and desire and didn’t know what to do with them and my parents weren’t interested. I started to leave home and they didn’t care ... So started using drugs and drinking alcohol when I was 15, and when I was 16 I started using heroin regularly, and did casual work and telephone sex to support the habit. (Julie) I was raised in the rough and tough field, like when you got a broken nose you continued playing football, a broken finger you worried about after the game … and … . I was raped when I was 6 or 7. Few things are clear in my childhood but unfortunately I have vivid memories of those few months. It was over a 6 month period. I remember each of the incidents vividly. (Lindsay)

Attributed to their experiences of isolation and disconnection in childhood the detached selves in this study describe their selves as highly individualized and autonomous, and anchored in intense internal turmoil. Terms that were commonly used to describe themselves include “anxious,” “emotionally volatile,” “suicidal,” “hyper-sensitive,” “always worrying,” “self-obsessed,” and “highly independent.” Some examples that depict the emotional turmoil and disconnectedness of these detached selves include: My mother is an alcoholic. I argued and fought it very hard, and became a bit of a trouble maker in the family. When I was 13 I changed. I became anxious and very paranoid, I worried about what everyone thought of me, I felt hated all the time, I became nervous about going to school … . By the time I was 14 I had started drinking alcohol heavily and turning up to school drunk because I was just so frightened … . Whenever I went to parties with friends I drank very heavily, I immediately became anti-social, thrown out of parties, not invited anymore. And of course alcohol being what it is it became worse. So I got into a vicious circle. Anxiety, depression, fear and looking for alcohol to relieve that it was actually making it worse. (Vicki) I guess one of the reasons I ended up on heroin is because I just felt so fucked up and I didn’t know how to cope. The more I took drugs the more damage I did to my mind and my body; there was no way I was coming back from that without something … . So heroin was the only thing that made me feel good in the end … . I became totally paranoid, psychotic, hearing voices in my head and everything. I had gone to see a

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psychiatrist. I had the little blue pills from the psychiatrist and they just felt so artificial and fake … heroin was the only thing that made me feel good or ok. I had to learn to cope with myself, that was hard for me. (Julie) Dad died of a heart attack [at age 12]. From the point of my dad’s departure, my mum was out of the picture because she was busy grieving … . I guess I was in a vulnerable position because I had just lost my father … the uncertainty that a death of a parent creates when you’re quite young, it made me uncertain about other things that I had previously been sure about … . I plunged into such uncertainty and an inability to stop worrying. (Joe)

The detached narrative suggests, as per the dependent narrative, that their childhood environments did not adequately prepare them to successfully negotiate the challenges of contemporary social life. In particular they argue that because of the intensity of their internal experiences they struggled to form social relationships, and found themselves increasingly socially isolated. Comments such as “I didn’t know how to make friends, I was far too anxious. People made me feel uncomfortable” (Michelle), “I was so driven to be independent that I couldn’t relate to people” (Adam), “I came out of the teenage years emotionally immature and unable to deal with people” (Vicki), “My childhood did not teach me how to form relationships” (Kerry), and “I had a need to be social, but it was too hard and too overwhelming, it still is. I find building relationships almost intolerably stressful to the point where I wonder if it’s worth it” (Joe) were common. While the detached selves had the autonomy and individuality that dependent selves lacked, they were lacking in the dependent selves’ ability to conform and connect. The detached selves, like the dependent selves, were deficient in a well-developed reflexive ability to negotiate tension between individuality as well as connectedness necessary for the management of contemporary social life. While within the sociological literature the self’s ability to resist the social and act independently is most commonly celebrated (Beck & Beck-Gernsheim, 2002; Castells, 1997; Lash, 1994), the heightened independence described by the detached selves in this study is not perceived as something positive, but rather as an impediment to happiness. As noted by Michelle: I was never a social conformist in any way. This made my life difficult, particularly as a teenager. I didn’t want to change my behaviour to please other people. I wanted to be myself and have friends, at the same time … but I didn’t know how to do that so I was left feeling alone and anxious.

The detached narrative highlights the negative emotional impact of a disconnection between the self and its social environment (Burke, 2004; Heise, 1999; Smith-Lovin, 2003). Even though the self is fundamentally

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social and yearns for connection with others, not everyone is capable of developing social connectedness. The self’s ability to conform and connect to others can be understood as dependent on the availability of stable others during early developmental stages. Until children have the developmental maturity to make sense of multiple and at times contradictory others, relative stability is important for the development of “fully functioning” selves that are capable of social connectedness (Athens, 1997; Coles, 2008; Denzin, 1987). The self’s ability to conform and connect to or understand other people’s perspectives is linked to the availability of emotionally available, supportive, and stable caregivers in childhood (Cast, 2004; Hoffman, 1982). Without connectedness to others, in line with the narratives of the detached selves, SI literature suggests that highly autonomous selves that are anchored in negative emotions develop. Increasingly discussions on social connectedness exceed behavioral and cognitive connectedness and focus on the importance of cultural stability for the socialization of emotions and the development of emotional connections to others (Collins, 2004; Smith-Lovin, 2003; Turner, 2009; Turner & Stets, 2005). Without stable others, particularly in childhood, selves that are emotionally connected to others do not form, but the individual remains anchored in intense negative emotions such as arousal or emotions anchored in fight/ flight (Braithwaite, 1989; Lazarus, 1991). The socialization of emotions occurs through a process of sustained interpersonal interaction through which usually the child learns both the emotion culture of its social context as well as develops an ability to regulate intense emotions (Braithwaite, 1989; Hochschild, 1983). The detached selves appear anchored in less- or un-socialized emotions such as “intense anxiety” and “suicidal feelings” that inhibit social connectedness. These participants were deficient in less intense or more socialized emotions that facilitated social interaction, and any attempts at social interaction became overshadowed by intense emotions. For these participants, NRM membership signified a desire for self-change, in particular, a desire to learn to regulate intense negative emotions and develop a sense of connectedness to others. While the observation that unstable and traumatic childhood contexts may predispose individuals to NRM membership is not new (Granqvist & Kirkpatrick, 2004; Murken & Namini, 2007), it is less developed in the literature than the finding of highly controlled childhoods as antecedents to NRM membership. It is possible that the narrative of the detached self may be less developed or identified in the previous NRM literature because

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this may be a relatively new phenomenon. The detached narrative may be increasingly common under contemporary conditions in which inconsistent parenting and conditions of childhood neglect appear to be on the rise (Coates, 2010, 2011). In previous times, when behavior was more traditionally informed, controlled or authoritarian childhood environments were significantly more common; therefore, it seems unsurprising that the dependent narratives may be more developed in the NRM literature. Scholars have observed that contemporary unstable environments appear to be facilitating the development of conditions that reflect difficulties connecting or conforming to others, such as social phobias and social anxiety disorders (Scott, 2006). The increasing sociological interest in the study of “authenticity” (Erickson & Ritter, 2001; Vannini & Franzese, 2008; Weigert, 2009) also appears to reflect a perceived rise in “selves” that are emotionally disconnected or “separate” from others, and a decreased tendency or ability for individuals to conform or connect the demands of others.

CONCLUSION In accordance with SI conceptualizations of the self it is argued that the extent to which individuals are informed by the social versus the personal in their self-construction is a continuum, with where individuals are positioned on this continuum related to variations in the availability of cultural, social, or personal resources from which individuals can construct selves (Holstein & Gubrium, 2000; Turner, 1976; Zurcher, 1977). This argument is supported by interview data specific to the selves of former members of NRMs which shows a relationship between the participants’ childhood description and their descriptions of self. The struggle between self and “others” that is at the heart of SI understandings of the self is often missing from sociological discussion on the “making of the self” (Coles, 2008, p. 21; Holstein & Gubrium, 2000) and the current chapter contributes to this literature.

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PART III REVIEW ESSAYS

DEVELOPING POVERTY: DEMOCRATIC REFORMS AND BUREAUCRATIC FAILURES IN STATE POLICIES IN INDIA Damayanti Banerjee ABSTRACT Purpose This chapter reviews the book titled Red Tape: Bureaucracy, Structural Violence and Poverty in India by Akhil Gupta and also critically examines the central premise of the book relating the nature of the Indian state to the poverty of its citizens. Gupta’s primary contention is that poverty in India is largely a result of massive bureaucratic failures of the state that severely limit opportunities for the poor and increase their vulnerability to structural violence. Design/methodology/approach I examine this contention in the context of seven decades of poverty amelioration policies in India with particular attention to the causes and consequences of the policy failures, and the role of the state in exacerbating the conditions of the poor. I conclude by examining the theoretical implications of the book for studies on state violence and normalization of structural violence.

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Findings The central finding of the chapter supports Gupta’s assertion that the bureaucratized practices of the state limit the poor’s ability to access and receive goods. Drawing on Gupta’s proposed theory, the chapter argues that the economic development plans of the Indian state that are designed to mitigate poverty are instead frequently invoked to normalize it in the public imagination thereby legitimizing structural violence. Research limitations/implications This chapter examines the ethnographic data collected by the author of the book reviewed here. Originality/value In addition to offering a theoretically informed and oriented review of research on the Indian state’s role in normalization of poverty, this chapter also identifies some of the limitations of Gupta’s work, and identifies possible research directions for future research on poverty and structural violence in India. Keywords: Structural violence; poverty; normalization; economic development

INTRODUCTION “Long years ago we made a tryst with destiny, and now the time comes when we shall redeem our pledge, not wholly or in full measure, but very substantially. At the stroke of the midnight hour, when the world sleeps, India will awake to life and freedom. A moment comes, which comes but rarely in history, when we step out from the old to the new, when an age ends, and when the soul of a nation, long suppressed, finds utterance.” –Jawaharlal Nehru, the first Prime Minister of India, August 14, 1947

Delivered on the eve of independence, Nehru’s speech about India’s tryst with destiny offers important insights into the role of history in shaping social realities. Nehru’s speech was particularly timely as the country embarked on a journey toward nation-building after two centuries of colonial occupation and the trauma of partition. Following independence in 1947, India under Nehru’s leadership began an assessment of its material, technical, and human resources to envision a blueprint for successful nation-building. As part of this process, the state began a series of five-year economic development plans in 1951 that carefully outlined comprehensive national policies for economic development.1 Over the years, these economic plans offered broad guidelines for growing the economy through job creation, outlining investment strategies, and most importantly, implementing program for eradicating mass poverty.

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Social theorists and historians have examined how time is implicated in the organization and structure of social relations (Sewell, 2005). Historical analyses offer important information about temporalities of social life that illustrates how society is structured, economic decisions are rationalized, and sociopolitical contexts are interpreted. It offers important insights into not only past conditions but effective strategies for the politics of the present. Akhil Gupta’s analysis of the persistence of debilitating poverty in India in his engaging treatise Red Tape: Bureaucracy, Structural Violence, and Poverty in India (2012) navigates these temporal realities to understand why certain economic tools are adopted for poverty eradication, why they fail to work, how poverty is perpetuated in spite of state policies designed to generate economic well-being for its poor, and how poverty needs to be conceived as a form of structural violence against the poor and the disenfranchised. An examination of the historical temporalities of India after independence offers important insights about socioeconomic conditions that set the country on Nehru’s path for nation-building and socioeconomic development. The early nation-building initiatives in India were fueled by concerns about high rates of poverty (Baviskar, 1995). Data available from the postindependence era clearly demonstrates that debilitating poverty, unavailability of basic resources, and massive food shortages forced 50 percent of the rural population in India to live below official poverty lines. These momentous challenges acted as historical drivers for nation-building and were instrumental in the economic development and redistribution initiatives adopted by the Indian nation state. The first five-year plan unveiled in 1951 by Prime Minister Nehru proposed rapid and equitable distribution of resources to address massive poverty. Programs offered under this plan provided subsidized food and other necessities, created better access to farm loans, provided agricultural infrastructure to increase rural productivity, and promoted education and family planning resources. Following the relative success of the first plan, subsequent governments have enthusiastically adopted and proposed policies aimed at eradicating poverty and promoting inclusive growth. Notwithstanding the offered programs, economic growth rates witnessed modest success and poverty rates hovered around 50 percent. Then in 1991, India enthusiastically embraced economic liberalization policies and opened its domestic market to international economic actors. The dramatic changes in economic policies was followed by impressive economic growth that included a rising GDP of 9 percent between 2005 and 2007 and a sharp decrease in poverty rates which fell from 50 percent in 1977 to around 23 percent in 2005 (Gupta, 2012).

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By the end of the two decades under liberalization, the country was poised to emerge as a global economic powerhouse with a young, educated, and vibrant population at the helm. Yet, in the course of this incredible journey, the question of mass poverty remained largely unaddressed. Political debates in the media seldom explain why the poor remain largely ignored in economic development plans and regularly face poverty, deprivation, and death in significant numbers. No debate seems forthcoming about the systemic deprivation of the poor (a large majority of whom are women and the lower castes) who remain food insecure, survive without shelter, and lack access to medical aid. Yet, the poor are not disenfranchised and are actively engaged in exercising their electoral rights. Further, state economic plans offer numerous poverty amelioration programs and resources to help the poor attain basic human and economic rights. Gupta examines the contradiction between the continuing claims of poverty in India in the face of multitudes of state programs designed to mitigate these challenges. Through ethnographic study of state bureaucratic officeholders and state programs for the poor, Gupta argues that the failure of the state must be viewed as a form of structural violence against the poor whose disappearance has both real and symbolic purpose. Structural violence, Gupta argues, is meted out through three state mechanisms bureaucratic corruption, inscription, and acts of governmentality (Gupta, 2012). The first mechanism includes an analysis of everyday bureaucratic practices that mediate poor people’s interactions with the state. Using interesting ethnographic vignettes, the author demonstrates that by making basic services unattainable, bureaucratic corruption contributes to the disempowerment of the poor in rural India. The second violence mechanism refers to the use of written language as a tool for domination (Bourdieu, 1993). As Gupta points out, bureaucratic policies in India rely on the use of written instructions in official communications about welfare programs that severely limit the poor’s ability to access basic goods and services. Given the large population of illiterate adults in rural India, the relations between literacy and power contribute to the subjugation of the poor. The third tool, Gupta states, is the use of particular acts of governmentality in various state agencies that routinize and depoliticize violence against the poor. This chapter offers a critical assessment of the author’s central thesis that state policies of poverty eradication offer scant relief to the millions of citizens living in poverty in India. Despite its deep investment in poverty alleviation, through specific actions like corruption, inscription, and

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governmentality, the state contributes to the deaths of a massive number of the poor. Three broad themes can be identified in Gupta’s conceptual approach. First, he asks why in spite of general participation of the poor in the electoral process and state sponsorship of poverty amelioration programs, massive poverty affect a large segment of the country’s population. A second theme of inquiry for Gupta is to examine whether such lifedenying consequences of extreme poverty should be viewed as structural violence resulting from bureaucratic indifference of state agencies. And third, he hopes to explain why such forms of violence remains largely absent from political and civil discourses in the public sphere. Gupta’s work builds on theories of state and biopolitics and the nature of law and society offered by Foucault and Agamben. His rich ethnographic work offers important conceptual suggestions for future scholarly research on theories of state, democracy, and conceptualizations of social justice and equity.

THE BIOPOLITICS OF POVERTY: A FOUCAULDIAN APPROACH TO THE STATE Michel Foucault defines biopolitics as a disciplinary mechanism that allows the state to exercise its political control over its citizens (Foucault, 1980, 1991). The idea of biopolitics refers to the state’s power over life and is exercised through the creation of new bureaucratic rationalities (Foucault, 1980; Macey, 2009). Foucault refers to public hygiene projects as examples of biopolitics to control and manage access to health resources and availability of care for citizens. As part of this effort to manage, the population, birthrate, and rates of mortality and morbidity are included within the purview of the state (Farmer, 2005; Foucault, 1980). The purpose of biopolitics, Foucault argues, is to establish medical criteria for normalizing and codifying knowledge production for constructing prescriptive solutions to social problems. Gupta adopts a Foucauldian approach to examine how poverty alleviation programs offered by the state to solve massive hunger and malnutrition problems have normalized it in policy discourses and the public sphere. In other words, the five-year economic roadmaps established mass poverty as a “statistical fact,” thereby normalizing it to justify and legitimate policy inactions on the part of the political elites of the state (Gupta, 2012, p. 15). In this sense, Gupta’s analyzes differ significantly from other studies of poverty that sees its existence as a by-product of political

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indifference or bickering from the federal state and the regional political interest groups (Dreze, 1990; Sinha, 2005). Instead, Gupta documents the availability of economic plans that have produced multiple poverty alleviation schemes that have failed in its implementation and have normalized the issue of poverty itself in the public imagination. The exercise of biopolitics to normalize poverty, Gupta argues, have resulted in the “social production of indifference” (Gupta, 2012, p. 6; Herzfeld, 1992). Such indifference has in turn led to unclear, episodic, and arbitrary nature of social welfare programs whose slow implementation defeats the purpose. Bureaucratic arbitrariness is not novel to the Indian political context, but the standardization of bureaucratic norms uniformly applies oppressive norms that affect the poor adversely. Gupta draws upon common bureaucratic standards, like identifying a male relation in applications of assistance, adopting arbitrarily fees for services to the poor, and institutionalized corruption, which contributes to the perpetuation of social oppression and continued disenfranchisement of the poor. While the arbitrary nature of bureaucratic procedures affects all classes of society, its impact is particularly violent for the poor and minorities. Gupta draws upon the works of the philosopher, Giorgio Agamben (2005), to examine the expendability of the poor in society. He argues that while Foucault’s notion of biopolitics helps us understand how normalization of poverty continues to disenfranchise the poor, it does not explain how such disempowerment contributes to structural violence and death for large segments of the rural population. His analysis of the mechanisms through which structural violence is perpetrated uses Agamben’s theory of modern society where violence is legitimated by reducing life to biopolitics (Agamben, 2005). Agamben examines the power of the modern state through a study of the “state of exception” that guarantees it the power to label certain members as threats, thereby revoking their rights and making them legitimate targets of violence. He refers to the homo sacer, an obscure figure of Roman law under which a citizen can have their rights revoked and can be killed by anyone without sacrifice (Agamben, 1998). In Agamben’s words, the homo sacer or the sacred man is one who is both excluded from the law and included in society an expendable figure, one who can be killed but whose killing does not violate the legitimacy of the state. Examples of the homo sacer, Agamben suggests, include the victims of Nazi experimentations, eugenics policies, and more recently inmates of Guantanamo Bay (Agamben, 2005). Gupta argues that idea of the homo sacer can also be applied to examine the violence perpetrated and legitimated with impunity against the poor in India.

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Structural violence, Gupta argues, is a form of violence whose impact is “constant rather than episodic” (Gupta, 2012, p. 20). For Gupta, the impact of endemic poverty on the poor is long-term and disempowering. The continuous nature of this violence forces the poor to engage in highrisk activities for survival without adequate resources to absorb the effect of these risks. Structural violence, unlike direct physical violence, lacks a clearly identifiable perpetrator. As Gupta succinctly points out, structural violence “is not a victimless crime but its opposite: a crime without a criminal” (Gupta, 2012, p. 21). Structural violence cannot be compared to violence resulting from natural disasters, which are episodic in nature. Instead, they emerge from deliberate actions (sometimes inactions, and more often arbitrary actions) of social agents and state bureaucrats. Yet, are the poor without any recourse to justice against such forms of structural violence? Gupta argues that the poor readily use covert strategies to resist bureaucratic inaction. These resistance tactics include educating their children to learn the bureaucratic tools and secure state jobs, using strategic pressures on politicians to influence bureaucratic procedures, and procuring counterfeit documents to secure state benefits and services. Gupta argues such covert strategies have allowed the poor access and control few tools to resist bureaucratic failures, influence political decisions for themselves and their families and communities, and gain important welfare resources for their survival. Gupta’s conceptual framework addresses important gaps in research on social justice democracy and state theory. First, he aptly questions the scope and usefulness of social justice and welfare programs that put undue emphasis on redistribution of resources with little attention to the need for generating rural jobs that offer more sustainable opportunities to the poor. Further, he successfully illustrates the self-defeating actions of the Indian state whose institutional weaknesses lead to the life-ending conditions of the poor. In this sense, Gupta extends Amartya Sen’s conceptualization of social choice and democracy-building by critically examining how state’s actions limit the ability of the rural poor to exercise these choices (Sen, 1999). Third, he offers a theory of the state that combines Foucault’s theory of governmentality with Agamben’s notion of the homo sacer, whose exceptional existence within the state offers legitimacy to the violence that she/he experiences. There are several limitations to Gupta’s analyses of the Indian state’s complicity in the structural violence against the poor. First, the author does not explain the rationale behind the state’s decision to engage in a form of governmentality that contributes to the self-defeating acts of

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violence. An answer to this question rests on the nature of Capitalism itself whose survival depends on two kinds of state interventions: first, interventions which legitimate the system to the masses, and second, interventions which establish favorable conditions for accumulation (O’Connor, 1973). In the case of the Indian state, the acts of governmentality resulted from the state’s need to legitimize its primary function that of accumulation and reproduction of Capitalism. Further, Gupta’s analysis pays little attention to the intensification of structural violence mechanisms under neoliberal economic policies under which the state has witnessed fundamental shifts in its commitments to the poor who face greater disenfranchisement. Additionally, the damaging impact of poverty is rarely limited to rural communities. Instead, as globalization transforms rural economies and rural communities face intense disintegration, large segments of the rural poor are migrating to urban centers in search of better life chances dispersing (and not reducing) in the process the impact of poverty on their communities. The impact of these changes is leading to fundamental shifts in the nature and scope of poverty and structural violence. Hence, disempowering effects of poverty, among both the rural poor and the disenfranchised multitudes of the urban poor, must be studied within the contexts of these demographic and economic shifts that bind the rural poor with their urban counterparts. This study opens up important possibilities for future research on poverty as structural violence. For example, first, one may explore the fractured poverty statistics for different regions of the country with considerable progress in the western and southern states and greater disenfranchisement in the east and the north. The uneven success rates of poverty programs may offer important insights into the role of political actors, bureaucratic machineries, and local sociopolitical contexts in addressing poverty concerns. Second, more research is needed on the emergence of radical social movements in response to persistent poverty among large segments of rural India. These protests are often directed toward the very development plans that are ostensibly aimed to reduce poverty but often contribute to a delegitimation of local cultures, histories, and economies and further studies, which shed light on strategies adopted by the poor to resist structural violence. Overall, Gupta’s work contributes to our understanding of the bureaucratic practices through which state is viewed by the poor in India. His analysis of the state’s use of biopower to routinize structural violence against the poor offers rare insight about how the state apparatuses are used to simultaneously offer care and inflict violence on one segment of

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the population. His theoretical contribution is ably supported by rich ethnographic data that demonstrates why after six decades of independence and numerous poverty amelioration projects on hand, massive poverty remains the most pervasive problem of our times.

NOTE 1. India has implemented 11 five-year plans since 1950 1951, when the first plan was published. Currently, the Government of India is drafting the 12th five-year plan (2012 2017).

REFERENCES Agamben, G. (1998). Homo Sacer: Sovereign power and bare life (D. Heller-Roazen, Trans.). Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Agamben, G. (2005). State of exception (K. Attell, Trans.). Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Baviskar, A. (1995). In the belly of the river: Tribal conflicts over development in the Narmada valley. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Bourdieu, P. (1993). Language and symbolic power. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Dreze, J. (1990). Poverty in India and the IRDP Delusion. Economic and Political Weekly, 25(39), A95 A104. Farmer, P. (2005). Pathologies of power: Health, human rights, and the new war on the poor. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Foucault, M. (1980). Power/knowledge: Selected interviews and other writings, 1972 1977. C. Gordon (Ed.). New York, NY: Pantheon Books. Foucault, M. (1991). The Foucault effect: Studies in governmentality. In G. Burchell, C. Gordon, & P. Miller (Eds.), Governmentality (pp. 87 104). Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Gupta, A. (2012). Red tape: Bureaucracy, structural violence, and poverty in India. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Herzfeld, M. (1992). The social production of indifference: Exploring the symbolic roots of western bureaucracy. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Macey, D. (2009). Rethinking biopolitics, race and power in the wake of Foucault. Theory, Culture, & Society, 26, 186 205. O’Connor, J. (1973). The fiscal crisis of the state. New York, NY: St. Martin’s Press. Sen, A. (1999). Development as freedom. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Sewell, W. H. (2005). Logic of history: Social theory and social transformation. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Sinha, A. (2005). The regional roots of development politics in India: A divided leviathan. Blooming, IN: Indiana University Press.

EXPLAINING EXPLANATION: A CRITICAL REVIEW OF JOHN LEVI MARTIN’S THE EXPLANATION OF SOCIAL ACTION John Hamilton Bradford ABSTRACT Purpose To summarize and evaluate John Levi Marin’s recent book, The Explanation of Social Action (2011), the central thesis of which is that the actions of other people cannot be explained without first understanding those actions from the point of view of the actors themselves. Martin thus endeavors to reorient social science toward concrete experience and away from purportedly useless abstractions. Design/methodology/approach This review chapter employs close scrutiny of and applies immanent critique to Martin’s argumentative claims, warrants, and the polemical style in which these arguments are presented. Findings This chapter arrives at the following conclusions: (1) Martin unnecessarily truncates the scope of sociological investigation; (2) he fails to define the key concepts within his argument, including “explanation,”

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“social action,” and “understanding,” among others; (3) he overemphasizes the external or “environmental” causes of action; (4) rather than inducing actions, the so-called “action-fields” induce experiences, and are therefore incapable of explaining actions; (5) Martin rejects counterfactual definitions of causality while defining his own notion of causality in terms of counterfactuals; (6) most of his critiques of other philosophical accounts of causality are really critiques of their potential misapplication; (7) the separation of experience and language (i.e., propositions about experience) in order to secure the validity of the former does not secure the validity of sociological inquiry, since experiences are invariably reported in language; and, finally, (8) Martin’s argument that people are neurologically incapable of providing accurate, retrospective accounts of the motivations behind their own actions is based on the kind of thirdperson social science he elsewhere repudiates; that he acknowledges the veracity of these studies demonstrates the potential utility of the “thirdperson” perspectives and the implausibility of any social science that abandons them. Originality/value To date Martin’s book has received much praise but little critical attention. This review chapter seeks to fill this lacuna in the literature in order to better elucidate Martin’s central arguments and the conclusions that can be reasonably inferred from the logical and empirical evidence presented. Keywords: Social action; social aesthetics; critical theory; action fields; John Levi Martin; explanation

INTRODUCTION Why do people do what they do? John Levi Martin attempts to answer this question in his latest book, The Explanation of Social Action (2011),1 for which he was awarded the American Sociological Association’s Theory Prize in 2012.2 The central idea motivating Martin’s work is that the actions of other people cannot be explained without first understanding those actions from the point of view of the actors themselves. To understand why people do what they do, we must first ask them why they do it. More specifically, Martin is interested in investigating the conditions under which people feel required or pressured to perform some social action. By defending the validity of first-person accounts of action, Martin endeavors

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to reorient social science toward concrete experience and away from useless abstractions. As the product of a particular style of erudition, Martin’s work is a convincing display of scholarship that is, at times, fascinating and thoughtprovoking. At the same time, it is largely polemical in style and tends to produce a subtle bandwagon effect upon those who read and find appealing its overall orientation and aspirations. Consequently, my review cannot do justice to the range of topics covered in Martin’s extensive and erudite work. In addition, this review employs a different rhetorical style, not to devalue the style employed in ESA, but rather, to evaluate and extrapolate in a sober manner the validity and consequences of its many arguments and insights. Perhaps, most importantly, Martin’s effort is directed at reminding us that the study of human action is also always a relationship with human actors. Although there is much that I agree with in this book, the bulk of my response will not be directed at discussing those aspects that I find unobjectionable, but at scrutinizing those passages that elicit dissent or that warrant further elucidation, which is not to diminish the fact that his work is impressive and deserves to be read. Martin admirably espouses a sociology of the concrete and a critical dismissal of critical theories that are dismissive of actors. Gestalt psychologist Fritz Perls expressed a similar sentiment, I believe, when he encouraged his patients to “lose their minds and come to their senses.” Although I am in accordance with the underlying orientation of Martin’s work, the task of accurately identifying, summarizing, and evaluating the most important arguments in ESA is made exceedingly difficult due to his disjointed and desultory style of writing. Martin often juxtaposes thoroughly detailed expositions with ad hoc assertions that derive more of their argumentative force from the provocative and emotive style in which they expressed than from any logical or pragmatic evaluation of their warrants. ESA is not easily classifiable as a theory of explanation in the philosophy of social science. Martin’s exposition tangentially relates to a number of competing approaches to explanation but does not explicitly associate itself with any one of them. Indeed, he explicitly rejects logical positivism and Hempel’s covering law model of explanation, according to which to explain is to show how to derive the explanans in a logical argument, as well as hypothetico-deductivism; but on the other hand, Martin evaluates favorably the positivism of Mach. He is also explicitly critical of Bayesianism, and one can reasonably infer, based on his repudiation of generalization (aka “subsumptive reasoning”), that he would not associate with any branch of unificationism, according to which to explain some

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unknown phenomenon is to show how it is a particular instance of some larger pattern that is known. One might then assume that Martin adopts some variant of realism, but he resists equating explanation with the identification of underlying causal mechanisms and is generally skeptical toward all explanations that posit a rigid distinction or opposition between appearances and reality. Unlike critical theorists, Martin does not overuse the adjective “real” when referring to abstractions produced by social scientists, such as “social structure,” nor does he write as if there is some more “real” reality hidden behind a distorting veil of appearances. Citing Dewey, Martin says that the relevant difference for actors is not between the apparent and the true, but rather, “the apparent and that which does not appear” (p. 333). Finally, Martin espouses a nuanced and ambivalent relation to the tradition of critical theory. Indeed, Martin is scathingly critical of Freud and repudiates arguments of “false consciousness” and ideology critiques. Echoing Giddens (1984), he argues that “there might not even be latent functions” (p. 102), and prefers the “naivety” of Malinowski to the supposed sophistication of Merton. Yet, as discussed below, Martin does not repudiate critical theory entirely, and he regards his position as completely compatible with Marx’s dialectical method, which uncovers how abstractions are actually rooted in concrete social realities. In what follows, I will argue the following: (1) Martin unnecessarily truncates the scope of sociological investigation; (2) he fails to define key concepts within his argument, including “explanation,” “social action,” and “understanding,” among others; (3) he overemphasizes the external or “environmental” causes of action; (4) the so-called “action fields” actually do not induce actions at all, but rather, experiences, and are therefore incapable of explaining actions; (5) Martin rejects counterfactual definitions of causality while defining his own notion of causality in terms of counterfactuals; (6) most of his critiques of other philosophical accounts of causality are really critiques of their potential misapplication; (7) the separation of experience and language (i.e., propositions about experience) in order to secure the validity of the former does not secure the validity of sociological inquiry, since experiences are invariably reported in language; and, finally, (8) Martin’s argument that people are neurologically incapable of providing accurate, retrospective accounts of the motivations behind their own actions is based on the kind of third-person social science he elsewhere repudiates; that he acknowledges the veracity of these studies demonstrates the potential utility of “third-person” perspectives and the implausibility of any social science that abandons them.

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MARTIN’S EXPLANATION OF SOCIAL EXPLANATION It is important to point out what the book is not. Martin’s book is not a comprehensive review of how social scientists have attempted to explain human behavior. Martin does not, for instance, cover evolutionary biological viewpoints, developmental psychology, economics, systems theory, game theory, rational choice theory, agent-based modeling, or hermeneutics, just to name a few possible approaches to the explanation of human behavior. Martin’s book is not a summary of competing concepts of explanation or of social action, nor is it a clearly articulated set of positions on salient controversies within the philosophy of social science. Moreover, “the explanation of social action” is a misnomer, for Martin does not attempt to explain social action per se, but rather, exhorts social scientists to study social action in a manner that does justice to the lived-experiences of those who act. In short, ESA attempts to explain explanation to social scientists who explain social action. Martin indicts contemporary social science for providing causal accounts of social action that rely on abstractions which bear little relation to actors’ experiences: social scientists today disavow “the cognitive competence of the laity” by favoring explanations that rely on “impersonal causal processes … over the responses that actors themselves might give” (2011, p. x). Martin warns that social science predominantly regards the best explanations as nonobvious, highly abstract, and removed from the phenomenological, concrete reality of actors. Consequently, Martin asserts that social science constitutes an “unfounded intellectual authority” (p. x), is “maniacally wrong” (p. ix), and is even “sociopathic” (p. 8). Although not explicitly defended, the gist of Martin’s argument is that sociology reinforces unjust hierarchical and authoritarian relations to the extent that it does not ground its explanations of people’s actions in the experiences actors themselves have of those actions. Above all, Martin opposes explanations which insist that people are “‘really’ doing something other than what they say they are doing, where this ‘something other’ is an unexperienced abstraction” (p. 336). Martin traces the prevailing “impersonal” mode of explanation in the social sciences to Freud and Durkheim. According to Martin, Durkheimian sociology “remains the fundamental epistemology for contemporary social scientific practice” (p. 26). In turn, the outlook of Durkheim and Freud can be traced to Quetelet and Charcot respectively. Quetelet viewed social regularities not as the outcomes of social processes, but rather, as their intended endpoints: “he came to believe that nature aimed for the average as a

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marksman aimed for a target” (p. 27). Martin argues: “to envision social science as something that dealt with averages as true ‘social facts’ (and not mere aggregations of individuals), the French school and its successors were drawn toward a vision of social life that had persons pushed about by external causes” (p. 27). Martin criticizes critical theorists such as Adorno, and more generally, the first generation of Frankfurt School theorists who attempted to synthesize Marxian and Freudian analysis, but he does not dismiss critical theory altogether. Martin endorses the dialectical method of Marx, which progresses from the abstract to the concrete. Criticism for Marx was a “method of reaching truth by analysis of contradictions (limitations) in abstractions” (p. 349). Thus, when Marx “did say that others were mistaken about what something ‘really’ was, it was always that what others treated as an abstraction was really rooted in the concrete not that it was an instance of some other abstraction” (p. 349). Martin asserts that the decoupling of explanation from first-person accounts leads to a kind of “anything goes” relativism that paradoxically reinforces authoritarian social contexts in which social scientists are the authorities. Ostensibly, if all accounts are arbitrary and one is just as good as any other, social scientists will impose their own favored explanation and disregard those proposed by the “laity,” that is, the actors. But this response does not necessarily follow (either logically or empirically) from this antecedent condition. Indeed, the dogmatic application of a particular explanatory schema such as Freudianism appears totally incompatible with the assertion that all theories are equally valid. Martin conflates those (meta-) theories that self-consciously posit epistemological relativism (and which, consequently, explicitly self-identified as “relativist” theories) with any theory, such as Freudianism, which Martin identifies as deriving from “relativist” cultural or historical conditions. Freud, however, never espoused cultural or epistemological relativism, and had he and his followers self-reflexively questioned the alleged apodictic status of his theories, it could be plausibly argued that many of the abuses arising either as a direct consequence of Freudianism or indirectly as a result of the already-authoritarian contexts in which Freudianism was practiced might have been mollified. It is more reasonable to argue that those centrifugal social forces engendering modern society created space for the proliferation of orthogonal and competing discourses, including interpretative frameworks like Freudianism which appeared to make sense of hitherto unexplored dimensions of human attention and behavior. That the practice of Freudianism was tied to dogmatism and authoritarianism seems

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less related to (epistemological or cultural) relativism per se than to those conditions of fragmentation and concomitant uncertainty upon which relativist theories (but not Freudianism) attempted to reflect. Cultural relativism as a theory may be wrong on many counts (see below), but that does not mean that those who espouse such epistemologies are more likely to succumb to dogmatism than are those who espouse nonrelativistic epistemologies, as Martin seems to imply. More importantly, a skeptical inquirer may ask to what extent this story of authoritarian science is actually true. Assuming, for sake of argument, that social scientists really do constitute a “New Class” ala Alvin Gouldner (1979), how much do they control and to what degree has their research contributed to that rule being authoritarian? Confronting Martin’s rhetorical soliloquies with blunt and perfunctory questions such as these seems almost bad mannered. The reader wants to be on Martin’s side, as it were, but when these statements are evaluated literally, they cannot withstand serious scrutiny. I suspect that few would regard sociologists as having significant social influence, and much less would regard sociologists as authoritarian power mongers needing to be held in check. Finally, when one looks at social scientists from the larger (and real) social contexts in which they are embedded and in comparison with other social classes or institutions (e.g., business, government, military, etc.), Martin’s caricature of social science affords even less credence.

GRID OF PERCEPTION Relying on Gestalt theorists such as Ko¨hler, American pragmatists such as James and Dewey, and Vygotsky and the Russian activity school, among others, Martin asserts the validity of subjective experience and the objective, nonarbitrary character of the “cognitive components of human action.”3 Martin defends the objectiveness of perceived qualities in order to refute the belief that what we perceive is ultimately arbitrary and coded by culture or language, an assumption he refers to as the “grid of perception.” The “grid of perception” is the epistemological assumption that our sensory impressions are totally without form, order, or sense until and unless these primary data are organized around cultural templates, the most important of which is language. According to this argument, “all perceptual organization [comes] from speech, not the world” (p. 57).4 The distinctions to which we become attuned vary, but Martin

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insists that variability does not imply arbitrariness or “relativism” of perception: “In sum, the evidence of cultural variability does not support the grid-of-perception argument that we need cultural templates to tell us what things are similar” (p. 137). Martin’s argument is summarily expressed by linguist Roman Jakobson: “Languages differ essentially in what they must convey and not in what they may convey.” Culturally acquired habits and standards of communication (i.e., language) do have some influence on perception, but this influence is not the kind of influence depicted by George Orwell in 1984, in which forgetting words entails the deletion of our capacity to perceive their referents.5 Martin’s argument has merit, up to a point. When Martin argues that we do not need culture to tell us what things are similar, he is obviously referring to basal perceptual abilities, the kind that we inherit biologically and which are more or less universally shared capacities across all cultures. He readily acknowledges, however, that perceptual abilities are not static, that they adapt to different environments, and that people can acquire new abilities to notice distinctions they had not noticed before. Consider, for example, the wine connoisseur or the grandmaster chess champion. The fact that our culture does not determine what similarities and differences we can physiologically perceive with our senses does not at all mean that our culture (or linguistic practices) does not influence which differences we pay attention to and which we ignore. Think, for instance, of skin tone, hair texture, eye color, height, or any other phenotypic characteristic that has been used to assort people into racial hierarchies. Martin argues against a more extreme constructionism, according to which language somehow determines the phenotypical characteristics themselves. Martin is certainly right that this idea and the urban myths associated with it are wrong. What is more doubtful, however, is that an unequivocal and unidirectional link exists between constructionist epistemologies, on the one hand, and the exacerbation of professional authoritarianism and social hierarchy, on the other hand. Language (i.e., culture) does not determine what we can perceive or how we perceive at least not at the level of concrete perceptions but not all perceptions are concrete in the sense of being directly provided by the senses. What is sociologically interesting is not the extent to which our senses are influenced by language, for this influence is negligible, but rather, how and the extent to which sensory perceptions are encoded in language as signs with denotative and connotative meanings, which in turn have consequences for behavior and action.

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MISSING LINKS Unfortunately, some of Martin’s arguments are often vague and thus difficult to evaluate. For instance, Martin does not specify what it means for an actor to “understand” or “misunderstand” an explanation, nor does he ever define action or social action.6 According to Martin’s first criterion for successful explanation, the actors whose actions are explained should be able to, “with dialogue, understand the referent of every term in our explanation” (p. 336).7 Neither this criterion, however, nor the third criterion involving the transmission of “intuitive accessibility” ensures an explanation of first-person plausibility. In other words, the definition of explanation and the criteria he provides for evaluating explanations fail to exclude the sorts of explanations to which he objects. According to Martin, first-person explanations are “answers to a why question that might come from the experience of the actor in question” (p. 16). Third-person explanations, in contrast, consist of those “answers that treat persons as things outside the conversation, those whose experiences are not necessarily involved in our answers” (p. 17).8 Thirdperson explanations, however, can be concrete, first-person explanations can be abstract, and both can fail to possess first-person plausibility. For example, an actor can understand a Freudian explanation of the form, “X is really about Y,” where Y is some repressed childhood trauma, while also rejecting it. Indeed, some degree of understanding is presupposed in the capacity to evaluate an explanation as invalid. The trouble, then, with third-person explanations is not that people cannot understand their meaning, but rather, that they are unrelated to or in contradiction with their own first-person accounts.

THE LIMITS OF SOCIOLOGICAL INQUIRY Missing from Martin’s account is a serious concern with actions in themselves and their effects, including the unintended consequences of action. Nor does Martin’s field-theoretic approach permit the explananda of social research to be aggregate patterns across space and time. This is because Martin implicitly excludes from social sciences the investigation of macroevents and macro-patterns, with the exception of those already understood as “objects” by the “laity.” In many cases, however, aggregate patterns are,

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prior to research, latent, and are therefore not attributable to the phenomenological experiences of individual actors. Consequently, Martin effectively excludes from social science cross-sectional analyses that compare, for example, rates of crime or income inequality across countries at a given moment in time, as well as analyses of time series that compare why birth rates seem to remain stable across time. Moreover, not all socially significant events or patterns are aggregate action patterns. Interesting explananda could also include the (social) consequences of nonsocial forces or the (nonsocial) consequences of social forces. Understood pragmatically, explanations are answers to “why-questions,” the criteria of which are specified by the audience to whom the explanation is addressed (cf. Van Fraassen, 2002).9 Different why-questions thus elicit and call forth different kinds of why-answers, that is, different kinds of explanations. To the extent that Martin intends his argument as a moral exhortation for social scientists to drop third-person accounts altogether, that is, to forego utilizing abstract concepts or “causes” not directly linked to individual experiences, Martin is certainly overextending his argument and committing the same kind of dismissal of first-person reports that he deplores in this case the reports of other social scientists. He may not be implying this, however; it is difficult to tell. Martin inveighs against inferential statistics, writing that: the social sciences “do not explain any particular situation; instead, we explain a tenth or so of each of thousands without explaining any. This, of course, is because we have given up with the concrete and instead turned to a realm of abstractions” (p. 30). Martin limits the scope of social science to the aggregation of case studies, privileging the idiographic to the exclusion of the nomothetic. Although a strong case can be made for the primacy of microsituational data (cf. Collins, 2000), to argue that we should completely jettison all data which lacks first-person phenomenological plausibility is an unnecessary truncation of social science.

DESCRIPTION AND EXPLANATION Martin offers no “meta-theoretical definition of explanation” (p. 341), but nevertheless characterizes good social explanations as “a social relationship between people in which some phenomenon is explained to some persons so that they understand it” (p. 333). More specifically, Martin promotes field theory as a useful explanatory resource for social scientists. In its most

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general sense, a field theory is an account that “links intensity of something to position, and movement to intensity” (p. 244). To discover fields of action, Martin proposes that social scientists aggregate reports of subjectively felt imperatives from different actors across multiple situations and then link these to their positions. Anticipating the objection that aggregating experiences merely describes but does not explain social action, Martin responds by arguing that knowing what and knowing why are inseparable. Identifying what someone does is not empirically perspicuous because how we delimit an action is always tied to some interpretation of what the act is intended to do. Identifying an action presupposes identifying its purpose and also vice versa. An attribution of subjective meaning (e.g., motives and intentions) distinguishes an action from mere behavior. When Martin writes that the distinction between asking “what” and asking “why” collapses, he refers only to understanding what an action is in a primary sense, that is, what distinguishes it from mere behavior.10 Since sociology has traditionally designated for itself the task of explaining meaningful “action,” rather than behavior, this level of “why” (which identifies a purpose in order to identify what an act is) is presupposed. This does not mean that the distinction goes away altogether. Rather, the difference between explaining and describing may be different in different contexts or for different observers. Moreover, Martin himself distinguishes between causal explanations and descriptions. To put it bluntly, he argues that action fields cause urges to act: “we should be able to discern the origin of values in the set of actions that seem to be explained by these values” (p. 308). Or, to put it another way, fields induce actions. Whereas actions are normally regarded as the means to achieve external goals and desires which are exogenous to the explanation and therefore inexplicable, Martin contends that these ultimate ends are the products of action.11 Martin rejects “explanations” which disregard the first-hand accounts of social actions provided by the social actors themselves. What Martin opposes although he himself does not put it this way are inaccurate descriptions. Martin’s argument, properly clarified, does not imply what he claims. Martin writes that the distinction between explanation and description is “not a scientific one, but a social one a difference between the problematic and the unproblematic” (p. 333), thus tacitly undermining his assertion that it is a “false dualism” (p. 332). According to this latter claim, the distinction “collapses,” and thus ostensibly disappears. The difference between describing and explaining is a necessary and useful tool that will inevitably be employed differently in different contexts. That the distinction

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is relative to one’s point of view does not mean that the distinction “collapses” or goes away. It would be equally absurd to argue that the difference between left and right constituted a “false dualism” and therefore invalidated egocentric coordinates. For Martin, the difference between explanation and description never really existed anyway, so it can conveniently be ignored. Martin likely makes this assertion in order to avoid acknowledging that he employs (his own version of) the dualism he repudiates. From the perspective of contextualism or pluralism, Martin does not need to show that the explanatory framework he surreptitiously employs is applicable to any and all other explanatory endeavors. Adopting a pluralistic stance toward explanation, however, would deprive his critique of an applicable target. ESA is presumably relevant to social science (and not merely within theory circles) because it attempts to influence and regulate particular social scientific explanations by relying on an account of explanation in general. In reality, however, the influence of general theoretical accounts of explanation is unlikely to extend beyond the confines of audiences who read and discuss general theoretical explanatory accounts. As Stanley Fish (1989) observed, general theories may have consequences, but not the consequences of their claims. General theories (and meta-theories) usually have a negligible influence on and are consequently unable to “discipline” those actors producing the disciplines that constitute their objects of inquiry because the audiences to whom such criticisms are addressed and the audiences receptive to such criticisms are not coterminous. Although recognizing this general condition of communicative fragmentation certainly does not constitute a specific criticism of Martin’s work, it is interesting to observe that the audiences to whom Martin’s work is ostensibly addressed (i.e., readers of sociological theorizing about social science) and the audiences about which Martin’s work is directed (i.e., people engaging in third-person causal accounts of human action) inexorably diverge. It would be fascinating to see, for example, how many of those reading ESA self-identify as utilizing those methods which are the focus of Martin’s critique.

QUALITIES AND SOCIAL AESTHETICS To recuperate the diminished status of actors and their experiences, Martin affirms the objectiveness of their aesthetic judgments: what actors experience is not arbitrarily predetermined by their linguistic or cultural heritage.

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Rather, the qualities that they perceive are objectively real qualities belonging to the objects to which those qualities are attributed. Martin defines social aesthetics as “the study of processes whereby actors take in the qualities of the social world around them” (p. 239). Martin provides few examples of aesthetic judgments and qualities, focusing primarily on the appreciation of artistic beauty. Two additional examples that come to mind include one’s culturally acquired taste in food or music, and one’s sense of style or fashion. Martin argues that the most fundamental and important qualia for social science, however, is valuation or requiredness “the sense that in some situation, something is called for” (p. 243). The feeling of social obligation is the most important qualia for social science. Accordingly, paying one’s credit card debts might be rooted in this most important aesthetic experience. Martin affirms the objectiveness of qualities.12 Qualities such as beauty are, accordingly, not merely in the eye of the beholder. Unlike mere preferences, aesthetic judgments of qualities can be communicated and debated with others. The perceived qualities of social objects are reflective of real social relationships. Indeed, for a central theme for Martin is that “social objects are experiences of social relations.” Varying experiences of the same object merely reflect different relationships to that object, and these relationships are themselves objectively real and partially constitutive of those objects. Martin contraposes two forms of generalization: abstraction and judgment. He defines the former as the subsumption of some particular, concrete thing into a more general category. In reference to Immanuel Kant, Martin defines judgment as “the capacity to see that a particular case should be identified as an aspect of something more general” (p. 198). He goes on to explain that, in some situations of classification, the particularity of an object is not suppressed but highlighted, as when somebody appreciates some object as beautiful, and these cases constitute instances of judgment. To exercise judgment, then, is basically to generalize without knowing why. Or in other words, judgment is abstraction without explicit rules. In yet another formulation, we can characterize judgments as classifications that cannot (yet) be explicitly formalized or explained. This distinction is important, for Martin argues that the dismissal of first-person accounts of action is rooted in the dismissal of the faculty of judgment. To extrapolate, Martin argues that people often are unable to explain to themselves or others the reasons for why they place phenomena in the categories that they do (e.g., beautiful, gross, etc.), but this does not mean that they did not have any reasons or that their schemas of

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classification are arbitrary or unreasonable. Since those urges or felt imperatives to act are tightly coupled to how actors classify phenomena in their perceptual field, the dismissal of the faculty of judgment which is the faculty actors use to classify those phenomena entails the effacement of actors’ experiences and the substitution of categories employed by social scientists for those categories used by the actors they study. Martin advocates a comportment of trust toward our ability to identify the qualities of social objects and their causal relationships without knowing how or why we identify them. Although in some cases this trust may be well-placed, it does not at all justify Martin’s seemingly dogmatic stance against formalizing, that is, explicitly communicating to others, how it is we know what we know and under what conditions we experience what we experience. Indeed, this process of making explicit our unconscious and automatic rules of association, by which we regard some phenomenon as counting as another, is part and parcel of social science. Moreover, Martin argues that in fact, there is no trade-off between generality and particularity, that is, that to form concepts and to think generally, we do not need to “bury any of the particularities” (p. 29). To argue that particular, idiosyncratic traits are used to classify things as “beautiful” and that these traits cannot be explicitly reduced to some other generic category (i.e.. that we cannot come up with necessary or sufficient general conditions for something being “beautiful”) does not mean that we pay attention to every particularity of the beautiful object.

EXPERIENCE AND LANGUAGE Martin does acknowledge that actors can appear to be mistaken about their own motivations and the causes of their behavior. For instance, someone who is hypnotized may be “programmed” to take off her jacket after hearing a specific verbal cue. If asked why she is taking off her jacket, some ad hoc justification is usually offered (e.g., she announces that she suddenly feels warm). Martin does not mention hypnotized patients, but discusses the potentially damning implications of social psychological studies that cast doubt on the ability of people to recognize the causes of their own actions.13 These studies in social psychology demonstrate convincingly that deliberate attempts to manipulate the behavior or experiences of other people are sometimes successful. In response to the apparent contradiction between the validity of people’s experiences and the experimental evidence

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which suggests people may be mistaken about the causes of their own motives, Martin points out that the studies lack ecological validity to the extent that their data are collected in highly artificial, controlled environments. On the other hand, however, Martin does acknowledge the validity of experimental results obtained by attribution theorists in social psychology. Regarding the possibility that people can be mistaken about their own motives, Martin replies that the problem is “not so much false knowledge of true conditions as true knowledge of false conditions” (p. 175). In other words, if people entertain illusions it is because the world is itself illusory. To apply a common metaphor, the “false” appearance of the world is more like a mirage than a hallucination: the former is still objectively there, however distorted and misleading.14 The issue at hand, however, is incorrect knowledge of one’s self, not the world. Martin’s argument, properly translated, would be that society itself, or one’s relationships within that society, cause one to become cognitively blind to one’s motives. If so, Martin would concede his case. None of these responses adequately address the basic dilemma that Martin faces, namely, how to square the validity of first-person experiences with the apparent fact that people are often wrong about why they do what they do. If actors are wrong about why they do what they do, then social scientists do not need to rely on their first-hand accounts in order to explain their actions. Martin’s entire argument is potentially undermined by these findings. Martin ultimately rests his case on an analytical distinction between experiences as such and propositions-about-experience. Martin contends that the primary “mistake of the Gestalt theorists was to assume that the validity of experience translated to the validity of statements about experience” (p. 181).15 Thus, although we cannot necessarily trust what actors say about their experiences (i.e., their “propositions about experience”), we can still treat as valid those experiences in themselves. Experiences for Martin are thus secured validity only when we do not interpret them as being about the world, that is, when we do not interpret them as linguistic statements containing referential content at least when that referential content pertains to motives, that is “why” we do things as opposed to how, what, when, and where we do them. If so, the meaning of the “validity” of experience becomes trivial. People’s experiences are, of course, not independent of their statements about experience. People have experiences in response to what people say and communicating statements is itself an experience.

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Martin ultimately contends that we cannot, in fact, trust actors to explain the motives behind their own actions because humans are neurologically incapable of answering accurately any questions about why they do what they do! Martin has good reasons for coming to this conclusion, since it is based on decades of experimental research (incidentally, the kind of research that he finds ethically objectionable). The problem is that it obviously contravenes the rest of ESA and renders less plausible the explanatory success of the kind of social science Martin promotes, insofar as “success” is defined in standard scientific practice, the criteria of which Martin is not entirely willing to jettison.

COMMONSENSE CAUSALITY Martin argues that causality, as it exists (or as it is described) in the social world, is irreducible to the concepts of necessary and sufficient causality. A necessary cause follows the logical relation, “if and only if A, then B,” which means that only A can cause B, or in other words, there is no B without A. In contrast, a sufficient cause A always (and necessarily) causes effect B, while other things could also cause B. Whereas a necessary cause of something is the only cause, a sufficient cause of something might be one of many causes, after which the effect necessarily occurs. Martin opposes notions of “sufficient causality” because it implies another kind of necessity: “if A is sufficient for B, then there can be no state in which we have A but not B” (p. 70). Martin, in contrast, defends the idea that A can be a cause of B, but is not necessarily so: “Thus, if A is ‘Aaron Burr shooting off and discharging a bullet against the right side of the belly of Alexander Hamilton’ and B is ‘Alexander Hamilton died,’ we must reject the idea that A is the [sufficient] cause of B, since, as we know, said Alexander ‘did languish and languishing did live’ for a day before dying” (p. 70).16 Martin reasons that the word “cause” should be used in social science as it is experienced and used in everyday life.17 For Martin, some cause (A) can, but does not always, lead to effect (B).18 For instance, drinking alcohol and driving can, but not in every case, cause an “accident,” although our colloquial use of the term “accident” belies its causal determination. Whether or not it does depend on the situation and must be determined on a case-by-case basis. Martin proposes that social scientists adopt a “first-person” or “commonsense” view of causality as impulsion or actual

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production, a concept of cause which is exemplified in English common law. Martin argues that this first-person, commonsensical view of causality relies not on counterfactuals, but rather “on the use of human motivation as a benchmark” (p. 62) the “conscious and effective willfullness of a person” (p. 62). Martin proposes that “in the commonsensical understanding … causality can be established in each particular case, even though the first act does not ‘invariably’ lead to the effect” (p. 64). A cause is identified counterfactually as any event or condition preceding the effect that, if it had not occurred, would have led to a significantly different outcome. Martin cites Weber’s definition of causality as an example of counterfactualism: “If we can imagine a world without A in which it seems plausible that B would occur anyway, then we may propose that A did not cause B because A was unnecessary for B to occur” (p. 34). Although spending much time criticizing what he refers to as “simple counterfactualism,” Martin later acknowledges that his own “commonsense” view of causality itself invokes counterfactuals: “we compare what a reasonable person would expect given some situation to what was actually observed” (p. 65). He contrasts a simple, commonsense method consisting of the counterfactual expectations of a community with an unreasonable method comparing what is observed with “an infinite number of arbitrarily chosen imaginary worlds” (p. 66). Martin’s commonsense, legal view of causality (and to the apperception of qualities more generally) can be likened to the commonsense, legal view of pornography famously expressed by Justice Potter Stewart: “I know it when I see it.” Stewart expresses in this pithy quote both his certainty in his ability to identify pornography as well as his inability to articulate how it is that he makes the identification. Likewise, Martin proposes that we already understand what causality is, despite the fact that we cannot come up with any acceptable formalizations of it. As pointed out by Alan Garfinkel, the real problem of arguing that if A hadn’t happened, B would not have happened is in deciding what is going to count as B not happening.19 Suppose we want to explain what caused a car accident. Alan Garfinkel notes that if by “car accident” we mean “that very accident” that concrete particular, then everything about the situation is going to be necessary for it: the shirt I was wearing, the kind of truck I was hit by, and so forth, since if any one of them had not occurred, it would not have been that accident” (1981, p. 30). Alan Garfinkel’s proposes that the object of any explanation is always embedded in some contrast space or space of alternatives. He calls this the thesis of explanatory relativity: to ask “Why X?” is to implicitly ask “Why

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not Z?” Two different explanations of some event or condition of X that presuppose two different contrasts Z’s are really explanations of two different objects altogether. The object of explanation (the explanandum) itself “is therefore not a simple object, like an event or a state of affairs, but more like a state of affairs together with a definite space of alternatives to it” (1981, p. 21). MacIver expresses this point by saying that “the search for causes is directed to the differences between things” (1973 [1942], p. 27). The important point is that every causal investigation aims to explain a specific difference. My objection is that the views of causality which Martin criticizes (e.g., a view of counterfactualism that compares some event with an “infinite” number of “alternatives worlds”) are not the views of many practicing social scientists, but at best the extrapolated logical consequences of such views made by philosophers. Any account of causality will be rendered untenable if judged by the efficacy with which its adherents defend all of its possible logical extrapolations, including Martin’s account. What is interesting is that Martin inoculates his own “commonsensical” account from the kinds of arguments he employs against others by concluding that any account of causality is ultimately untenable. One wonders to what extent this criticism applies to his own account, an account that denies all accounts. Despite appearances, Martin criticizes, not counterfactualism, but its inappropriate application. In effect, Martin criticizes unreasonable practices that, as a matter of principle, no one endorses anyway, and as a matter of practice, cannot be identified at the level of principle. Ultimately, Martin never really tells us what causality is, preferring to regard it as a primitive concept that defies definition. The problem with this is that people do possess concepts of causality, commonsensical or otherwise, and they are often incompatible with one another. To say that we should adopt a commonsensical understanding of causality is to presuppose rather than prove that this commonsensical view is a singular thing, that we already know what this is, and that it is valid. To use as a model for social science the legal notion of causality is not to offer an explanation, but rather to postpone it.

CAUSES AND MOTIVES Martin overemphasizes the external or “environmental” causes of action. In the December 2012 issue of the American Sociological Association’s

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Theory Newsletter, Perspectives, Martin avers that “Field theory recognizes that the antecedents of action (‘impulsions’) lie in the qualities and affordances of social objects, thereby providing a parsimonious explanation for action” (2012, p. 3). Even assuming that actions are caused by objects external to actors (which are undoubtedly implied although Martin might deny this straightforward rendering), this does not mean that all actions are “induced: (i.e., caused) by objects that are social as opposed to nonsocial, unless by “action” Martin actually means “social action.” No warrant, however, is provided to justify the claim that only social objects induce social actions. Although the belief that action is both subjectively motivated and objectively determined is a sociological truism, Martin pays almost exclusive attention to the latter: in Martin’s schema, (subjective, yet real) objects cause actions. We tend to think of motives, reasons, and desires as internally causing some directed action toward some external object: for example, my desire for ice cream causes me to eat it. Martin reverses this causal sequence: the deliciousness of the ice cream induces me to eat it. This is, no doubt, part of a rhetorical strategy to break our habit of thinking of subjective perceptions as somehow nonobjective. Translating the implications of Martin’s analysis into common vernacular, Martin says that people do things because of the strong urges they feel to do them, and these urges are correlated with the (real) qualities of objects they perceive in their environments. Martin insists, however, that the “impulsions” of social objects are not the same as external causes. To say that a quality of a social object impels or induces action is not, according to Martin, the same as to claim that a quality of a social object causes people to act. The semantic difference is not clarified, however, since in common vernacular to impel means to drive, force or urge, and an impulsion is just an impulse, a strong urge to do something, all of which can be understood as “causing” in the broad sense of generating an outcome. A more serious criticism is that fields cannot explain social action because they do not induce social action. Instead, what Martin calls fields of action are actually fields of experience, that is, different perceptions and “felt imperatives.” These are not actions themselves, but the antecedents of possible actions. Martin does not really attempt to answer the question he claims to answer, namely, “Why do people do what they do?” Instead, he addresses a related but distinct question pertaining to the experiences of actors prior to acting: “Why do people desire what they desire to do?” Although Martin’s field theory acknowledges that the influence of social fields is selective (i.e., not everyone is affected or affected in the same way,

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just as only certain kinds of material are attracted by magnetic fields) and also that the influence of any particular field varies depending on the position of the actor within the field, his explanation of action ultimately founders on the one-sidedness of his approach. Summarized, Martin’s thesis amounts to the claim that “experiences drive actions” and that “fields induce experiences.” Of course, however, the converse of each statement is also true.

CONCLUDING REMARKS Although promising, ESA as a whole appears inchoate. Martin readily acknowledges that the ideas presented in ESA are not new, yet Martin seems to employ throughout a strategy of intellectual distinction, perhaps in order to express these old ideas in a new way or perhaps to make any potential criticisms appear inapplicable, or both. Consequently, my attempts to explicate his arguments have taken the form of reasonable extrapolations, which can always be refuted on the grounds that they misrepresent or fail to identify the author’s intent, or in this case, that I have failed to include in my redaction the seemingly endless qualifications that are amended to his arguments. Whether intended or not, Martin’s opacity functions largely as a deterrent to criticism. My point is not (entirely) to express my frustration with the apparent opacity of some of Martin’s analyses, but more importantly, to suggest that the success of his sociological undertaking might itself be studied sociologically as symptomatic and revealing of the kinds of selection mechanisms operating in professional sociology. One of the implicit desiderata of professional sociological theorizing is to produce writing that pushes the unfamiliar as close as possible to, but without exceeding, the limit beyond which novelty becomes mere incomprehensibility. The intelligentsia, after all, demand complexity and complexity precludes total and swift comprehension. This is in part because one of the (latent) functions of professional sociological theorizing, including this review, is to produce novel and provocative writing which connects to and induces more sociological theorizing, and the continuation of this enterprise requires the production of ever more refined distinctions that outside of the contexts in which they are made become meaningless. Martin’s book is certainly not intended for the laity. Utilizing Martin’s metaphor of the “consubstantiality” of inside and outside, we should expect social scientists to reconstitute within

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their professional milieu many of the most salient patterns and tendencies of the larger social contexts in which they are embedded. That his book is hard to classify according to extant classificatory schemes is not itself a shortcoming. On the contrary, the development of a novel theoretical idiom can provide powerful argumentative resources that can collectively mobilize social scientists and reorient social scientific research. A theoretical perspective can also make a positive contribution to societal and social scientific progress to the extent that it facilitates reflection that illuminates those existing social conditions that prevent “the reconciliation of facts and norms” (Dahms, 2008, p. 28). This can only occur, however, if a theory also relates to and elucidates existing social scientific paradigms and controversies, and this is what ESA promises but ultimately falls short of accomplishing. In his concluding page, Martin writes that: “there will be a strong tendency to dismiss the suggestions made here simply because they are too vague and open ended, and we may prefer the surety of our own formulaic approach to explanation over the chaos of one guided only by good faith” (p. 350). I will take the bait here and testify that Martin’s argument is vague, and, because I agree strongly with Arthur Stinchcombe’s contention that “for a social theorist ignorance is more excusable than vagueness” (1968, p. 6), I do not regard his “good faith” as sufficient compensation for this lack of clarity. I share many of Martin’s predilections, and his positions may not be wrong. Rather, along with Wolfgang Pauli, one could say of Martin’s theories that they are “not even wrong.”

NOTES 1. Hereafter ESA. 2. Martin also won the award in 2010 for his book Social Structures (2009). 3. Martin scoffs that it is as absurd to question the reality of our cognition as it is to question the reality of a stomach digesting food, asking why, if “we do not ponder how the stomach can ‘really’ digest food … do we wonder whether the mind can ‘really’ know?” (p. 183). In response, the obvious difference is that stomachs do not think or communicate about their environments in the form of referential linguistic propositions which can be evaluated according to their truth validity. 4. More precisely, Martin lists that the fundamental assumptions of the “grid of perception” argument are that: “(1) perceptions must be ordered by a mental scheme for them to make sense; (2) these mental schemes consist of conceptual ‘boxes’ into which we can put perceptions; (3) a great deal of the overall structure of boxes the grid we use to carve up reality is, from the standpoint of nature,

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arbitrary; and (4) these boxes map on to language (again highlighting their social nature)” (p. 130). 5. This argument is made eloquently by Guy Deutscher in his book, Through the Language Glass (2011). 6. For a discussion of how contemporary sociology has largely conflated the Weberian trichotomy of action, behavior, and social action into a dichotomy between behavior and social action, see Campbell (1996). 7. Martin proposes three criteria for good explanations: “(1) a coexistence of explanatory terms with the first-person experiences of actors; (2) a coherent compilation of these perspectives; (3) intuitive accessibility, which may in turn be proved … by (3a) prediction, (3b) intervention, or (3c) transposability” (2011, p. 340). 8. Martin does not specify the relation that obtains between experiences and statements which “might come from them.” One wonders also whether the frequent practice of explaining what other people do (i.e., issuing third-person accounts) is itself a social action capable of being explained in terms of first-hand reporting. 9. In his classic monograph Social Causation (1973 [1942]), MacIver distinguishes no less than six “Modes of the Question Why,” including four “Causal Whys” (the Why of Invariant Order exemplified in physics; the Why of Organic Function, exemplified in anatomy or biology; the Whys of Objective, Motivation, and Design, unique to the “Psychological Nexus” or consciousness; and the Why of Social Conjuncture) as well as two noncausal “Whys” (the Why of Inference, exemplified most strikingly by logic and mathematics, and the Why of Obligation, pertaining to social norms). 10. Runciman (1983) distinguishes between primary, secondary, and tertiary senses of understanding, corresponding respectively to the challenge of first, reporting what the action was; second, explaining why that action was taken, that is, what caused it; and third, describing and evaluating what it was like for the agent to do it. 11. This point is reminiscent of another contemporary social theorist, David Graeber, who proposes that we think of “value” as the importance we ascribe to actions rather than to things: “one tends to discover that the objects that are the ultimate stakes of some field of human endeavor are, in fact, symbolic templates which compress into themselves those patterns of human action which create them” (2007, p. 99). 12. Martin’s chapter on social aesthetics and judgment is obscure, especially the relationship between judgment and aesthetic appreciation. I judge this to be an objective quality inherent to the writing itself and not a mere opinion. The term “quality” (which does not refer to an action at all, but to an experience) is especially abstruse and out of place in the context of discussing human sensory perception. 13. For example, Martin discusses Dutton and Aron’s (1974) study of misattributed lust on the Capilano Suspension Bridge in Vancouver, as well as Schachter and Singer’s (1962) study, in which subjects were given adrenaline injections. In the latter study, those who were not informed of the likely physical effects of the adrenaline were more strongly influenced by the feigned reaction of a confederate, who expressed either happiness or anger. 14. Martin reiterates this argument again in response to the argument that affirming the validity of first-person experiences would justify racism or other socially egregious beliefs. Martin writes that “the problem is not in the perception,

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but in the world, and it makes little sense to put people in a distorted world and ask them to see straight” (p. 230). 15. The phenomenon of “verbal overshadowing” might provide an example. People who are asked to describe a face after seeing it are worse at recognizing the same face later. 16. I concur that social causality need not be modeled as necessary or sufficient, but Martin’s arguments here are unconvincing. Notice that Martin’s argument regarding the time delay between cause and effect itself has no bearing on the question of the (necessary) sufficiency of a particular cause. One could still maintain, however unreasonable it might appear, that shooting is a sufficient cause of death at some later time. How specifically we define “death” also does not pertain to the question of sufficiency. Although this objection may seem like hair-splitting, this particular poorly constructed argument is characteristic of dozens of other arguments in , too many and too unimportant to report, the conclusions of which many sociologists are nevertheless likely to glowingly approve. 17. Martin provides etymological and developmental evidence supporting the notion that the word “cause” originally meant motivation, or is at least indistinguishable from it. Etymologically, the English word cause is derived from the Latin causa meaning “purpose” or “reason.” Ontogenetically, the concept of causality is experienced in infancy as effective will over external objects. Children do not initially distinguish between the social and epistemic uses of words like may or must. 18. Martin does not provide a clear exposition of the relation between necessary, sufficient, and counterfactual approaches to explanation. For instance, in a section in Chapter 2 entitled “The Insufficiency of Necessity,” Martin states that the ideas of necessary and sufficient causes are “antithetical,” associating the former with “third-person” causality and the latter with “narrative,” first-person causality. In addition, he conflates the notion of necessary cause with counterfactual approaches to explanation. 19. Alan Garfinkel should not be confused with the more well-known ethnomethodologist, Harold Garfinkel. In a footnote to the preface, Martin strongly denounces the latter Garfinkel, calling his writing “gobbledy-gook” and asserting that he acted “more like a cult leader than a scholar” (p. xi).

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I’d like to thank Larry Chappell, Sheeji Kathuria, and Eric Royal Lybeckfor their helpful comments.

REFERENCES Campbell, C. (1996). The Myth of Social Action. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Collins, R. (2000). Situational stratification: A micro-macro theory of inequality. Sociological Theory, 18(1), 17 43.

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Dahms, H. (2008). How social science is impossible without critical theory: The immersion of mainstream approaches in time and space. Current Perspectives in Social Theory, 25(1), 3 61. Deutscher, G. (2011). Through the language glass: Why the world looks different in other languages. New York, NY: Henry Holt and Company LLC. Dutton, D. G., & Aron, A. P. (1974). Some evidence for heightened sexual attraction under considerations of high anxiety. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 30(4), 510 517. Fish, S. (1989). Doing what comes naturally. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Garfinkel, A. (1981). Forms of explanation: Rethinking the questions in social theory. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Giddens, A. (1984). The constitution of society: Outline of the theory of structuration. Cambridge: Polity Press. Gouldner, A. W. (1979). The future of intellectuals and the rise of the new class. New York, NY: Seabury Press. Graeber, D. (2007). Possibilities: Essays on hierarchy, rebellion, and desire. Oakland, CA: AK Press. MacIver, R. M. (1942). Social causation. New York, NY: Ginn and Company. Martin, J. L. (2009). Social structures. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Martin, J. L. (2011). The explanation of social action. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Runciman, W. G. (1983). A treatise on social theory (Vol. 1). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Schachter, S., & Singer, J. E. (1962). Cognitive, social and physiological determinants of emotional state. Psychological Review, 69(5), 379 399. Stinchcombe, A. L. (1968). Constructing social theories. New York, NY: Harcourt, Brace & World. Van Fraassen, B. (2002). The pragmatics of explanation. In Y. Balashov & A. Rosenberg (Eds.), Philosophy of science: Contemporary readings. New York, NY: Routledge.