SOURCE: Christophers, Brett. “Redemption.” In Positioning the Missionary: John Booth Good and the Confluence of Cultures in Nineteenth-Century British Columbia, pp. 19-40. Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press, 1998.

[In the following excerpt, Christophers argues that the work of missionaries often came into conflict with the work of secular imperialism. Tracing the scriptural origins of evangelism, Christophers distinguishes the universalist rhetoric of Christianity from the nationalist tendencies of a specifically national religion such as Anglicanism.]

For all have sinned, and come short of the glory of God.

—Romans 3:23

Most discussion of nineteenth-century colonial discourse has focused on its ‘codification of difference.’¹ Scholars have charted the manifold ways in which Europeans distinguished themselves from non-Europeans, showing that such distinctions often buttressed and coloured colonial practice. Homi Bhabha offers a useful synopsis of these findings. ‘The objective of colonial discourse,’ he claims, ‘is to construe the colonized as a population of degenerate types on the basis of racial origin, in order to justify conquest and to establish systems of administration and instruction.’² Although, clearly, colonial discourses were not all of a piece, most appealed to some form of racial hierarchy. Immutable and asymmetrical difference vindicated and explained imperial supremacy.³

Anglican missionary discourse does not correspond to this model. Although it turned (at one level) on the identification of differences between Christian Europeans and ‘heathen’ Natives, it did not, and could not, assume immutable difference.

Consider a picture that appeared in an SPG publication, the Gospel Missionary, in 1870 (see Figure 5). It purported to show Good at work in British Columbia. Usually, such an image would have delighted him. Like many of his colleagues, Good depended heavily on the munificence of the British reading public and therefore craved publication—for he knew that ‘to be out of print is to be out of mind.’⁴ But this picture troubled Good, and for the following reasons. A long day's ride to the northeast of Lytton was the town of Ashcroft, where Good had baptized a Nlha7kápmx chief henceforth known to the Anglicans as John Mahascut. Upon returning to Lytton Good wrote to the SPG with details of the conversion. His account of what followed, penned many years later, is revealing:

When the account of the reception of this dear old man into the Household of Faith by Baptism went home to the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel in London, and they were anxious to insert it in their little publication called the ‘Gospel Missionary,’ they were at a loss for an illustration of my act of initiation[. It] happened that they had by them a picture of some American missionary baptizing one of the Pawnee Indians which they thought would just, as we say in this country, ‘fill the bill.’ What stood for me, unless I unduly flatter myself, was a perfect caricature, whilst my friend John Mahascut was represented with sharp cut features, scalpknot, tomahawk hard by and altogether a most villainous individual, whereas John was the mildest mannered pleasing specimen of his whole tribe. When that periodical was sent out to me, I carefully kept it out of sight of our Indian congregation, for had they seen it we at home would have been looked upon as woefully destitute of knowledge.⁵

An eager metropolitan readership demanded illustrations, and a careless editor, bowing to public pressure, had substituted a member of one Native group for another. Good, aware that this switch violated Nlha7kápmx identity and not afraid to bite the hand that fed him, contacted his sponsors immediately. He suggested that in future more care was in order, adding that such unsuitable images were ‘calculated to do incalculable harm both here and at home—for it gives people an utterly wrong impression respecting the ancient inhabitants of this country.’⁶

It was not the picture itself that bothered Good but its inappropriate use. He was disturbed by the editor's assumption that any image of Native baptism could adequately represent this particular chief's conversion. The implication seemed to be that an Indian was an Indian; such stereotypes struck Good as distasteful. As Bhabha reminds us, stereotypes are, by their very nature, promiscuous, for their essential property is a ‘repeatability in changing historical and discursive conjunctures.’⁷ During the age of empire stereotypes were pervasive, with a few powerful images serving to caricature many different peoples. To Good's mind, this indiscrimination was injurious. He regarded the Nlha7kápmx as distinctive and was angry because the picture accompanying his report intimated that Mahascut was equivalent to other Native Americans. Feeling compelled to voice his concerns, Good criticized the SPG for fomenting popular misconceptions.

Yet if this image has some of the qualities of a colonial stereotype, it lacks others. Stereotypes generally seek to establish and authenticate an unchanging identity. As Bhabha describes it, the colonial stereotype is a representation of racial permanence: ‘it connotes rigidity and an unchanging order.’⁸ It was this fixity that the Gospel Missionary picture rejected. This may not be immediately apparent. After all, the chief's face is sunk in darkness while the missionary's is bathed in light; the differences seem as clear as night and day. In the active performance of the missionary, however, in his outstretched hands, lies the possibility of redemption, the enduring promise of change. The contrast between light and darkness is only temporary, for baptism will dissolve the divide between heathen and Christian.

As an ethnological portrayal, the baptism picture, as Good told his superiors, was fraudulent. But as an icon of Christianity's redemptive power, it was vivid propaganda. Anglican missionaries disputed the fixity inherent in most colonial stereotypes and instead preached conversion; in this respect they offered a distinctive discourse of empire.

The Anglican mission did not generate the essentialist rhetoric described by Edward Said and other theorists of colonial discourse. Analyzing nineteenth-century Western representations of ‘the Orient,’ Said contends that this imperial archive consists of ‘tested and unchanging knowledge, since “Orientals” for all practical purposes were a Platonic essence.’⁹ Such permanence contradicted basic theological principles. If identity was immutable and difference was abiding, the heathen were intractable—immune to what Good called ‘the transforming power of the Spirit of God turning them into other men.’¹⁰ The idea was absurd. The Anglican missionary agenda, as propagated by Good, could not be reconciled with more worldly discourses of empire; like the Methodist mission to the Solomon Islands discussed by Nicholas Thomas, it was concerned with transformation rather than subjugation. ‘The dominant movement of colonial history in [the missionary] imagination,’ Thomas writes, ‘is not the establishment of a fixed hierarchical relationship but a process of conversion.’¹¹

The discourse of the Anglican mission coexisted uneasily, even duplicitously, with the strict racial hierarchies of secular colonialism. Anglican missionaries borrowed the standard lexicon of empire but altered its signification. The Reverend John West, whose mission to the Red River Colony had enthralled a young Good, provides a typical example of this Anglican perspective. West identified ‘human depravity and barbarism’ among Native peoples, but whereas other colonists saw this barbarity as a racial defect, West denounced it as ‘gross ignorance.’¹² Good made much the same case. In the mission field his chief antagonist was not an inscrutable racial other but the (as yet) ‘ignorant savage.’¹³ Both West and Good tied savagery to a lack of knowledge, not to a fixed racial taxonomy. For many Europeans an innate racial trait, barbarism was for Anglican missionaries a moral expression of spiritual dearth.¹⁴

The essential assumption of mission work was that this heathen ignorance could be cured. As Lillooet missionary Lundin Brown put it, ‘wherever there is a human face, however disfigured by sin, is there not a human mind which can apprehend God's truth, and a human heart which is in need of it?’¹⁵ To the extent that missionaries anticipated and enacted change, their representations of the colonized were mutable. The rhetoric of savagery authorized mission work but was obsolete once Natives converted. Barbarians before they encountered Christ, Natives were civilized through faith. In referring to these converts missionaries disclaimed discourses they had previously propagated; savagery was now a redundant trope. ‘I really cannot sometimes attach the idea of “barbarian” and “savage,”’ Good reported from Nanaimo in 1862, ‘to the orderly, devout, and decently-attired assembly of Indians before me.’¹⁶ This disavowal marks the caesura of Anglican missionary discourse, the point at which heathens become Christians, others become the same. Secular discourses of empire did not share this break between old and new—they turned on binding racial hierarchies and, as such, could not codify Anglican imperial intent.

HUMAN UNITY AND CATHOLIC FAITH

In 1867, the year that Good began his mission to the Nlha7kápmx, an anonymous contribution to The Mission Field detailed the broader demands upon colonial Christianity. The author stressed Anglican obligations to the ‘heathen’—‘those who, if they differ from us in religious belief, are of the same flesh and blood, with like affections, like fears and hopes, and like capacities of knowing and loving Him who has revealed Himself to us for our loving adoration.’¹⁷ My argument in this book is that such statements contributed to a discourse of empire but not of race. Peoples were distinguished from one another by religious belief, not by genus or skin colour. In the words of David Scott, ‘it was not race but religion (or more properly, the lack of one) that constituted the discursive frame within which the difference of the non-European was conceived and represented.’¹⁸ Europeans stood apart only to the degree that non-Europeans lacked Christianity; in all other respects, humankind was considered uniform. Of the same stock as their colonizers, the colonized were no more unworthy of God's grace and had an equal aptitude for worshipping Him.

This mission discourse posited Christianity as a catholic religion and traced its catholicity to St. Paul. Raised a Jew, Paul's conversion was tied to his refutation of national covenance. He maintained that God's salvation was at the hands ‘not of the Jews only, but also of the Gentiles’ (Romans 9:24). Since Jesus had died for all, the Christian community in turn should be inclusive. This charge was echoed in other early Christian writings—by the end of the Gospel of Matthew, for example, a religion originally directed at the Israelites had shed ethnic bias in favour of a potentially universal membership¹⁹—but it was Paul who laid the theoretical groundwork for an ecumenical Christianity. The Apostle held that God's truths were available to, and could be apprehended by, all peoples, and that mission was therefore a viable Christian project. Paul was as good as his word. The breadth of his vision was rivalled by his appetite for souls, and to this day the Pauline Church is renowned for ‘the vigor of its missionary drive.’²⁰

Paul has had a towering influence on successive generations of missionaries, and as we shall see in later chapters, his thought and practice inspired virtually every facet of Good's Nlha7kápmx mission. That Good's intellectual genealogy was Pauline is apparent in the bare facts of his career. His ordination took place in Newark Church in 1858 on 25 January—the Conversion of St. Paul—and his churches in Nanaimo and Lytton were both named in honour of the Apostle.

The foundation stone for the Lytton St. Paul's was laid in the fall of 1871. Bishop Hills organized his annual trip through the interior so that his arrival in town coincided with the date Good had chosen for the service: 18 October. Good had invited Hills to perform the ceremony, and both men would later recall the event with satisfaction, each dwelling on the symbolic implications of the consecration. Good thought it telling that the bishop had put aside a mallet and instead had used ‘an ancient stone instrument of rare interest, value, and construction’ for the purpose of planting the foundation block. This, Good claimed, was no ordinary stone: ‘It was proof amongst many of the common origin of the human family, similar instruments having been found not only amongst the Chympseans in the north and the Delawarres in the east, tribes of the great Indian family separated by thousands of miles and by different languages, but also among the New Zealanders.’²¹ Hills, too, recognized the symbolism of this implement, citing the same archaeological finds as ‘proofs of a wide spread unity … confirming so far the Scriptures which assert the derivation of man from one stock and that God made of one blood all nations upon earth.’ The bishop also invoked the man in whose honour they had gathered: St. Paul, ‘the great apostle who taught the catholicity of the Church breaking down the partition wall of prejudice.’²²

The catholic basis of Christianity was a central theme of the Oxford Movement, which rejigged nineteenth-century Anglicanism. Starting with John Keble's assize sermon of 14 July 1833, this High Church revival, with protagonists dubbed Tractarians, had an explicitly Pauline agenda. Both Hills and Good subscribed to this position, although the strength of the bishop's views is unclear—one commentator said he was not High Church,²³ and yet the faith he advocated was clearly the ‘golden mediocrity’ that, according to the men of the Oxford Movement, could accommodate puritans at one extreme and Roman Catholic sympathizers at the other.²⁴ Most scholars would now accept that Hills was a Tractarian, if only a moderate one.²⁵ He respected the patristic scholarship that fuelled the Oxford Movement, and when embattled sought inspiration in Chrysostom, not Calvin.²⁶ From his perspective and that of other High Church Anglicans,²⁷ catholicity entailed realignment with the ancient and undivided church—the tradition of Paul and the other Fathers—rather than surrender to papal authority. Paul had taught Christians that as members of a universal religion, they belonged to an invisible fold of redeemed souls. The Tractarians took this lesson to heart, insisting that the Church of England, as direct heir of the Early Church, could be a truly Catholic institution.

As we saw with Paul, it is a short step from the belief that all people can apprehend Christ to the conviction that a Christian's duty is to help the ‘heathen’ turn. In her discussion of evangelism in the nineteenth-century Solomon Islands, Sara H. Sohmer ties the Anglican missionary impulse directly to this tenet of catholicity. Indeed, she claims that for those involved in the propagation of the gospel, mission represents tangible ‘proof’ of Christianity's universal substance.²⁸ Through the nineteenth century and beyond, many were the Anglican missionaries who believed that because their religion was universally relevant, the unification of humanity under Christ was a legitimate objective; they located the origins of this desire for unity in the Early Church, and in Paul in particular. ‘The whole thunder of the Pauline message echoes around Christians corporately as well as individually,’ maintains one apologist in a book on the Catholic theology of Anglican mission work.²⁹

Underlying this modern rationalization of mission was the concept of human unity, which contradicted the thrust of contemporary racial theory. Such theory, to be sure, was relatively recent. Robert Young has usefully reconstructed European anthropological controversies over human speciation, demonstrating that for much of the age of empire, it was agreed that humanity reduced to a single species. ‘The Enlightenment humanitarian ideals of universality, sameness and equality,’ observes Young, ‘reigned supreme.’ In the mid-nineteenth century, however, this view was displaced by a racial doctrine of polygenesis (multiple species). ‘From the 1840s,’ Young reports, ‘the new racial theories based in comparative anatomy and craniometry in the United States, Britain and France endorsed the polygenetic alternative.’³⁰

Good dismissed this new scientific consensus. He insisted on the inclusive theory of monogenesis and even corresponded with the Anthropology Department at Berkeley in an attempt to intervene in prevailing debates.³¹ He was, of course, only one among many Anglican missionaries, not all of whom shared his views. As an SPG man who largely ignored white settlers, Good dodged his sponsors' guidelines; other SPG missionaries, Alexander Pringle among them, were less disposed towards Native work, adamant that ‘they came out to preach & elevate, first of all and foremost a white race.’ Based in Yale in the early 1860s, Pringle was troubled by the small number of white ‘agriculturalists and settlers,’ and recommended the summary confinement of Natives on reserves.³² For Pringle, the notion of a distinct racial hierarchy was perhaps not unpalatable.

Yet among the Anglicans such views were atypical. Most clergymen accepted a fundamental human unity. ‘In the sight of God,’ said John Garrett, brother of SPG missionary Alexander and commissary of Bishop Hills, ‘the white man and the coloured man are of equal value.’³³ Hills, for his part, was keen to ensure that this gracious rhetoric was translated into a practical equality that (as much as possible) transcended prejudice. His sympathies surfaced in a dispute that divided white Victoria in the fall of 1860. The city's population included a number of African Americans who had looked to the British colony as a refuge from the bigotry they suffered in California.³⁴ Initially, their hopes of fair treatment seemed dashed. In the summer of 1859, a year after the first blacks arrived in Victoria, a disillusioned migrant wrote to the editor of The British Colonist. ‘Have the colored people realized their fond anticipations in coming to Vancouver's Island?,’ he wondered. ‘I answer no.’³⁵ Even religious institutions proved illiberal. Under Father Demers, the Roman Catholics yielded to whites who threatened to withdraw their children from Catholic schools unless they were segregated.³⁶ The Congregationalists also segregated, albeit only after bitter infighting had split their ranks; the Reverend William Clarke, a Canadian, spoke out against slavery and welcomed blacks as equals in his church, but the Reverend Matthew Macfie, a racist Briton, ultimately won the day.³⁷

Bishop Hills, on the other hand, decided that St. John's, his new church, would not be segregated, a contentious decision in a settler colony in which prejudice was a fact of life. The bishop often mused that this climate of intolerance was a product of an immigrant American mining society, but his fellow British colonists were not blameless.³⁸ Even for some of those who opposed segregation, ‘race’ was a de facto biological distinction. Hills spoke of one Briton who, while outwardly sympathetic to his new policy towards African Americans, ‘evidently believes the race is a different species of man & spoke of them rather patronizingly with pity rather than honour & respect as of fellow immortals & equal in the sight of God.’³⁹ These attitudes worried Hills greatly, for racial hierarchies flew in the face of Catholicism. Yet the bishop stood firm. Supported by fellow Anglicans Edward Cridge and the Reverend Robert J. Dundas, Hills found strength and direction in Paul and resisted public pressure; he would not segregate church services, for ‘there should be no difference in the house of God.’⁴⁰

OTHERNESS: A MOMENT WITHIN THE SAME

In step with his bishop's example, Good also tried to be open-minded and therefore evenhanded. He claimed that his instruction of Natives and whites was identical.⁴¹ Similarly, he chose not to discriminate within and between different Native groups. Even when his Nlha7kápmx mission began to produce results, he insisted that prospective converts would not be separated from the ‘heathen’ majority. I analyze this policy in some detail in Chapter 5; it suffices to note here that Good treated the Nlha7kápmx as a single social body. If the ‘heathen’ mixed freely with enlightened peers, they might learn by example—such was the crux of Good's mission philosophy.

This strategy drew on time-honoured mission principles that crystallized during the first few centuries of the church. Good's work can only be understood in the light of this patristic theology, particularly the thought of St. Paul and St. Augustine. More generally, Good appears to have favoured those Fathers who rejected the hermetism associated with certain forms of asceticism. On the grounds that exposure to the world was contaminating, some ascetics sought absolute isolation from everyday life. While this picture of lonely hermits is something of a stereotype—it admits neither the transformation of asceticism into monasticism, nor the ascetic bent of worldly men such as Ambrose of Milan and Augustine himself—it was the one familiar to Good. His chief nemesis was the Donatist movement of the fourth and fifth centuries. It was against Donatist thinking that Good propounded mission endeavour, so the shadow cast by Donatism serves to illuminate (by way of contrast) the mechanics of his colonialism. In the sense that they urged Christians to resist contact with pagans, the Donatists reinforced difference and discounted unity under Christ. Good knew that Donatism was introspective and, as such, anything but colonizing; he had no time for this stagnant Christianity. Good's taste was for Augustine, the Donatists' antagonist.⁴²

But yet again Paul was lurking in the background. Indeed, Augustine was himself strongly influenced by the Apostle.⁴³ Besides its missionary drive, Pauline Christianity was perhaps most notable for its urbanity. It was, according to Wayne Meeks, ‘entirely urban.’⁴⁴ This geography distinguished Paul's mission from Christian traditions that shunned the world, as did Anthony and the other Desert Fathers. Why this spatial contrast? One reason is that Paul rejected ascetic views on intercourse between Christians and pagans. In the cities of the Roman Empire, desert ascetics located a profanity that threatened to pollute Christian purity. Paul argued that this ascetic fear of the world was misplaced; morality could only be violated from within, he maintained, not by contact with pagans.⁴⁵ Thus, Paul saw the city not as a source of contamination but as an aggregation of nonbelievers in need of Christianity. His vast urban mission embodied his belief, somewhat unconventional in its day, that Christians should convert the Gentiles rather than repel their otherness.

Paul always saw in the outsider a potential insider. He was convinced that religious difference would yield to Christian unity and relied on proselytism to achieve this goal. In effect, Paul's mission mediated between sameness and otherness—the basic categories of nineteenth-century imperialism. As Elizabeth Castelli has argued, the Apostle indicted difference of any kind. ‘Christians are Christians,’ she writes of Paul's message to the Gentiles, ‘insofar as they strive for the privileged goal of sameness.’ Castelli's most profound insight is her identification of the ‘colonizing potential’ harboured by this Pauline Christianity.⁴⁶ Paul delimited otherness as that which was not Christian, but vowed to absorb that difference into the sameness of God's fold. This desire for mutual identity was a thoroughly colonialist gesture and has provided an enduring theological benchmark for the Christian mission. The vision of a newly united humanity was evoked with graphic intensity in the Pauline Letter to the Colossians, which envisioned a future in which ‘there is neither Greek nor Jew, circumcision nor uncircumcision, Barbarian, Scythian, bond nor free: but Christ is all, and in all’ (Colossians 3:11). Paul's quarry was paganism, and the dissolution of this otherness was the objective of the Catholic mission he commenced.

‘Augustine's mystique of the Catholic Church,’ described excellently by Peter Brown, appealed directly to this Pauline tradition.⁴⁷ Like Paul before him, Augustine envisaged a universal Christianity. But his contemporaries did not all endorse this prospect. Awarded the bishopric of Hippo in 395, Augustine entered a North African church riven with conflict. The chief dissenters were the Donatists, whom Augustine battled tirelessly in the early fifth century. This movement of protest preceded Augustine by almost a century, born in 312 of the nonconformist views of Donatus, bishop of Carthage. In some respects Donatism was a local phenomenon, and its extraordinary persistence in Southern Numidia (to 596) was, by all accounts, a function of regional Berber history. Yet the dispute with Augustine reflected more fundamental tensions within the church at large, and it was these key debates that animated Good's interest in Donatism.

Simply stated, the issue at hand concerned the position of the church in the world. The Donatist position was that the church comprised a union of the righteous, and that this elect body should be separated from the corrupt because sin was contagious. A religion of joyous praise, Donatist Christianity proclaimed the virtue of spiritual life. Martyrdom was encouraged and devotion to the Scriptures enforced. Contact with outsiders was avoided for it jeopardized the Christian's exclusive relationship with God. The Donatists, then, would separate good and bad before the Day of Judgment. The church was considered a place of refuge, a holy retreat from the worldly Roman Empire. This was an ‘other’ space reserved for the pious. And if some Donatists tempered the claim that their church had no sinners, they, unlike Augustine, would strive to purge their ranks of infidels.⁴⁸

This division between the church and the world precluded precisely the growth that Augustine championed. It was impossible for the church to expand if, as the Donatists had it, paganism infected Christian purity. Concerned above all to police its borders, Donatism was at best a stagnant religion, at worst a regressive one. It was certainly not aggressive. It was constrained by neurosis or, in Brown's words, ‘immobilized by anxiety to preserve its identity.’ The same cannot be said of Augustine's church. Whereas Donatism held paganism at arm's length, Augustine vowed to swallow that other world whole. In the Old Testament God had promised a global faith, and in the New Testament Jesus had told His disciples to speak His name to the ends of the earth. Augustine's mission was to realize this covenant; he would reunite humanity under Christ. Instead of fleeing from the world, the church should consume its being and permeate its every pore. In the North Africa of his day, Augustine's vision challenged introspective Donatists. In the nineteenth century it gave European Christians an estimable rationale for empire, for the Catholic mandate was to seize the ‘heathen’ and reduce their otherness to sameness. ‘This church,’ says Brown, ‘was hungry for souls: let it eat, indiscriminately if needs be. It is a group no longer committed to defend itself against society; but rather, poised, ready to fulfill what it considered its historic mission, to dominate, to absorb, to lead a whole Empire.’⁴⁹

These Augustinian prescriptions were of lasting significance. Until the late fourth century, Christians had been deeply suspicious of the Imperial Government, which, to the Donatists as to their predecessors, represented the world that endangered steady faith. By the mid-fifth century, however, the church was fully allied with the Roman Empire, which now served as a conduit for the dissemination of Christianity. The conversion of Emperor Constantine had paved the way for this union, and Augustine hastened its consummation. Imperialism no longer represented mere Roman expansion; empire was now invested with Christian destiny. Ernest Barker suggests that the bond between imperialism and religion remained firm until the early nineteenth century—and even then it was only partly unsettled—and traces this symbiosis to Augustine. The debate with Donatism was a pivotal moment, for henceforth imperialism was Christian and Christianity was missionary. In Augustine's wake, Barker tells us, empire was ‘charged with a deeper and far more sovereign content. Empire had never been mere power. It had always been a vessel carrying, and existing to carry, some great cargo or freight. From AD 400 we may say that it carries, and exists to carry, the freight of the Christian faith.’⁵⁰

The salience of Augustine's teaching was evident to many agents of the nineteenth-century Anglican mission. In contrast to the Donatists, for whom caution and isolation ensured holiness, these modern English missionaries revived Augustine's conviction that expansion and confrontation were the true means of preserving moral fibre. ‘Progression,’ argued a review article in the Church Missionary Intelligencer of 1851, ‘is the law of Christianity. Not to advance is to retreat: and the only hope of preserving the light for ourselves, is to let it shine, brighter, wider, more intensely, than any past era has witnessed.’⁵¹ This rhetoric was positively imperial, and its roots were in the Early Church.

We can now return to our original question and ask why it was that Good refused to separate Nlha7kápmx converts from Natives still regarded as ‘savages.’ The answer is that Donatist-style division was inimical to the logic of catholicity. Segregation would entail inertia and partial conversion, which were not in Good's interest. Rather than accept lingering heathenism as inevitable, and best sequestered, Good maintained that Christianity could absorb otherness in toto by giving the lie to it. He insisted, moreover, that the most appropriate means of demystification was the new convert. Augustine argued that a good Christian does not hide from the heathen, but instead ‘must coexist with sinners in the same community,’ and ‘must also be prepared, actively, to rebuke and correct them.’⁵² Good envisaged exactly this role for his most successful Nlha7kápmx students:

I am more and more convinced that it is the true apostolic and primitive system for those who come out, and who are called out of darkness and begin to run well, to let their light shine amidst the wastes of their own dwellings and surroundings, until the little one shall have become a thousand, and the whole lump shall be leavened. The Donatist idea of separating the wheat and the chaff I never could understand. It seems wrong, unnatural, and productive of the worst consequences, to draw an arbitrary line of demarcation between what we may term the saved and the unsaved.⁵³

As ventured by Good, the Anglican mission reconfigured a set of ancient Christian tenets—many of them Augustinian. Otherness, namely heathenism, could be subdued by a faith of universal substance, and Anglicanism was ostensibly that: a catholic religion. In a speech of 1860 the bishop of London spoke for all his High Church colleagues when he predicted ‘one Church on both sides of the globe.’⁵⁴ This was an imperial prognosis driven by a powerful syllogism. The two essential premises were that sin was innate—‘As it is written,’ reads Romans 3:10, ‘There is none righteous, no, not one’—and that Christianity's redemptive force was in the gospel.⁵⁵ These propositions fed the conclusion that mission was not only viable but obligatory. In short, empire was a Christian duty because the need for the gospel was ubiquitous and the church controlled access to its redemptive power. Anthony Grant, a leading advocate of the Anglican mission, summed up this principle in an influential lecture series in 1843, noting that the gospel ‘addresses itself not to this or that people, or condition of thought, or social state, or political organization, but to fallen human nature; and therefore it is designed of God to be universal; and the Church as the depository of this remedial scheme, the channel of its spiritual blessings, is evermore to expand.’⁵⁶ To any eye this was resolutely imperial stuff, and Good, as it happens, knew it well—Grant's Bampton lectures were his chief text during his final year at St. Augustine's.⁵⁷

This mission discourse turned on shifting relations between sameness and otherness. The basic maxim was that of a common humanity. Sin was universal, as, therefore, was the need for salvation. While many Europeans had been justified by God's grace through redemption in Christ, the colonized generally had not; their otherness was religious and (most important) temporary. Missionary work could restore lost unity by introducing sinners to the universal household of faith. In this spirit the bishop of Oxford spoke of the Columbia Mission enhancing ‘the indissoluble union of the Church of the Redeemed.’⁵⁸ We appear to have, in the theory of the Anglican mission, a discourse of difference within sameness. Human oneness was absolute but fractured, temporarily, by sin. If the mission enterprise was successful, Christianity would dominate and assimilate the heathen world it deemed other. This otherness, identified as savagery, legitimated empire but would not survive its fruition. The Other was a temporary break in the Same, a moment in its imperial history.⁵⁹ This moment was the definitive temporality of mission.

TIME, SPACE, AND THE PEOPLE OF GOD

If race was the ‘organizing grammar’ of secular colonialism,⁶⁰ time and space were vital surrogate languages. It is clear from the critical literature on European colonialism that discourses of history and geography often served to articulate racial difference. They did not reveal the nature of this otherness, just evidence of its location—apart. Otherness was somehow more apparent when rooted in a separate time and place. Identified as primitives and foreigners, non-Europeans were displaced from the here and now, their otherness accentuated by distance (historical and geographical) from the familiar and the everyday. In many cases the reference point for this othering was the modern West: other races were described as premodern and non-Western. More generally the construction of otherness assumed ‘a denial of “coevalness” in time, and a radical discontinuity in terms of human space.’⁶¹

Temporal and spatial discourses demarcated empire's internal borders, placing Europeans in one time and space, ‘savages’ in another. Said first touches on these themes when he outlines the concept of an imaginative geography. He argues that only the notion of a strict spatial divide between metropolitan authors and colonial subjects can legislate a discrete imperial discourse such as Orientalism. ‘Orientalism,’ he claims, ‘is premised upon exteriority.’⁶² This detachment allows in turn the constitution of ‘the Orient,’ a distinctive foreign space. The difference of ‘the Oriental’ is consolidated by her distance from the West, and by the exotic nature of the space she inhabits.⁶³ Said maintains that this divisive spatiality is common to all European discourses of empire.⁶⁴ Imaginative geography helps the mind ‘to intensify its own sense of itself by dramatizing the distance and difference between what is close to it and what is far away.’⁶⁵

In an acclaimed study of his own discipline, Johannes Fabian, an anthropologist, shows that the othering of non-Europeans occurs through discourses of time as well as space. Assuming that the societies they study are not contemporary with the West, anthropologists have made ‘traditional’ culture the focus of their inquiry. This, Fabian argues, is a colonialist posture; Native primitivism automatically implies European progress. He adds that this temporal discourse functions in much the same way as imaginative geography—otherness is construed in terms of distance from a European norm, in this case a white modernity. Thus, ‘anthropology's efforts to construct relations with its Other by means of temporal devices implied affirmation of difference as distance.’⁶⁶ Time, like space, distanced one people from another. And it is worth nothing that these histories and geographies were intertwined, an imbrication captured in Anne McClintock's phrase ‘anachronistic space.’⁶⁷ Her argument is simply that if people were separated by history and geography, then space was itself fissured by time. Travelling to the colonies, Europeans visited a bygone era; on returning, they went back to the future.

But many Anglican missionaries denied that time and space divided people in this manner. For obvious reasons, the High Church Anglican mission could brook no such obstacles to eventual Christian oneness. Although its agents did acknowledge otherness (or as they had it, heathen sin), they were wary of discourses that downplayed the potential for unity by fixing this otherness to distant times and spaces.

Consider, for example, Bishop George Hills and his rejection of this rhetoric of distance. His first impression of the Columbia Diocese in 1860—its climate seemed ‘thoroughly English’⁶⁸—was not that of a man keen to distance colony from metropole. Quite the contrary, in fact. On a mission to absorb otherness, the bishop was interested in breaking barriers down, not erecting them—in taming ‘savagery’ rather than keeping it at bay. He enthused, therefore, about technology that gave the Anglicans quick access to virgin mission fields; Marx's ‘annihilation of space by time’ was an exciting concept for an imperialist church.⁶⁹ The bishop's voyage from England to British Columbia included a four-hour train journey across the isthmus of Panama, and the new railroad pleased him. ‘Altogether,’ he wrote in his journal, ‘I felt deeply interested in this enterprise so successfully carried out and forming another connecting link of nations—and tending by bringing nearer together to promote the civilisation of mankind.’⁷⁰ Hills, clearly, did not visualize otherness through geography. Space was merely a physical obstacle, and its submission nourished Anglican destiny.

If contiguity replaced distance in this spatial imagination, what of the divisive histories discussed by Fabian? Again, Anglican missionary discourse tends to deviate from the typical colonial model. To use Fabian's own terminology, the contrast is between ‘secular’ and ‘sacred’ discourses of time. The former excludes on the basis of split histories, the latter accommodates (or appropriates) through simultaneity.⁷¹ An otherness confined to the past contradicted the vision of a reunited humanity. Against this distancing, Anglican missionaries maintained the oneness of a common history.

‘The history of Vancouver Island and British Columbia,’ the Anglicans announced, ‘may be said to commence from the summer of 1858.’⁷² Indigenous peoples were not consigned to a prehistory equated with savagery. Instead, Anglican missionaries invoked a single history that bound God's children together. Natives belonged to the present, not the past, so precolonial history was immaterial. By denying British Columbia a heritage, the Anglicans inferred that Christianity gave Native existence a meaning it had hitherto lacked. Mission discourse constructed a present without a past; history began with the arrival of Christianity on foreign soil. The creation of the Crown Colony in 1858 was the focal point of this originary myth. When the Anglicans proclaimed just months later that ‘We … erect found make ordain and constitute’ a colonial diocese, they secured the image of British Columbia as a terra nulla awaiting history.⁷³ The bishop of Oxford, speaking in London on the urgency of mission work in the new colony, noted simply that it ‘should begin from the beginning.’⁷⁴

This Anglican reading does not dovetail with other colonialist histories of British Columbia, though the myth of origins is common to most. As Daniel Clayton notes, the history of British Columbia has been given various different starting dates, 1858 but one among them; Clayton identifies George Vancouver's circumnavigation of Vancouver Island (1792), Fraser's exploration of the mainland (1808), the creation of the colony of Vancouver Island (1849), and British Columbia's entry into Confederation (1871) as others. While the colonialist narrative of origins is pervasive, the position of Natives in these histories varies significantly. If Anglican missionaries deemed Natives integral to empire, other commentators suggested that Natives belonged to a past that European civilization displaced. According to this scenario, Natives were obstacles to, rather than beneficiaries of, progress.⁷⁵ The Anglican mission also constituted otherness through a discourse of time, but its tactic was erasure, not distancing. The past featured only as an absence that the foundational rhetoric (erect found make …) obscured from view. Michel de Certeau describes this absence as ‘what we do not know, what is not endowed with a proper name. In the form of a past which has no locus that can be designated,’ he goes on, ‘it is the law of the other.’⁷⁶ Instead of using time to distance and consolidate otherness, Anglican historiography colonized otherness; it posited a shared history that prefigured Christian unity.

History and geography did not separate Christian from heathen, and yet unity was not yet at hand. Before the Word arrived in British Columbia, sameness was in abeyance and otherness prevailed. If neither time nor space framed this difference, was a more suitable register of distance available? The answer is yes; but this distance was in no sense worldly, and could be bridged through faith alone. The distance between saint and sinner was moralized, for it was religion, not race, that kept people apart, and earthly histories and geographies could not codify otherness of this order. Again, Augustine was edifying, for it was his thesis that moral virtue offered closeness to God; sexual sin, on the other hand, was experienced as alienation. Distance was a measure of moral worth. ‘To be far from your face,’ Augustine wrote in his Confessions, ‘is to be in the darkness of passion.’ If nearness to God was a function of morality, it was, likewise, sin that distanced one human being from another. Geography, at any rate, was dismissed out of hand. ‘One does not go far away from you or return to you,’ Augustine said, ‘by walking or by any movement in space.’⁷⁷

Such thoughts stirred Bishop Hills as he prepared to leave England for the mission field. Facing a long voyage to British Columbia, he was daunted only by the sin, not the geography, that separated him from the ‘heathen.’ ‘Time and space,’ Hills declared at his farewell sermon, ‘do not separate the people of God. It is only sin that really separates us from one another, and from God. We may be one in Christ by a living faith.’⁷⁸ This was an astonishing statement, a pithy discourse on otherness and sameness as understood by Anglican missionaries of the bishop's persuasion. Faith would reunite a humanity divided, for the moment, by sin. It is surely significant that empire's racial exclusions, grounded in discourses of geography and history, were flouted. At the very least, it is clear that scholars who attempt to theorize the discourse of colonialism are being unduly ambitious and terribly reductive.⁷⁹ Anglican thinking on mission did not conform to a dominant set of ideas about cultural difference and the imperative of empire. These missionaries repeatedly distanced themselves from other colonial agents. To admit this is not to be an apologist for mission work: it is to insist that a reductive approach will not yield a better understanding of imperialism and its consequences.

DISCOURSES OF NATION AND EMPIRE

The remainder of this chapter examines links between nation and empire in discourses of the Anglican mission. I have argued that for many Anglicans, the presumption of Christianity's catholicity enjoined mission practice, and that we should read the discourse of universality as a theology of empire. Yet as John S. Moir points out, a Catholic disposition entails a different set of forces for Anglicans, who belong to a specifically national church, than it does for Roman Catholics, members of an international religious and political body.⁸⁰ Is there a contradiction between the national basis of the Church of England and the universal pretensions of some of its clergy? Not necessarily, say those who have studied the place of catholicity in the theology of national churches.⁸¹ The national element of Christianity has flowered in recent centuries, but though reacting in some cases against the tenet of universality, it has not supplanted it. While Christianity in its early, Catholic guise may not comfortably accommodate national identity, the two are not inherently hostile.⁸²

In Anglican missionaries we can detect something of this duality, and it is clear that for those so inclined, universal designs did not preclude a nationalist sensibility. Good encouraged his charges to respect English authority and purred on hearing them sing his national anthem, yet his Catholic agenda remained to the fore.⁸³ Bishop Hills, similarly, assumed his message to be universal, but was known to lecture in mining saloons with a British flag draped across the wall behind him.⁸⁴ If Christianity was intended for all nations, the nationality of its emissaries was not in doubt, and was strongly felt. Indeed, I suspect that both Good and Hills would have approved of an 1849 article in the Church Missionary Intelligencer that yoked national pride to Catholic intent. ‘Surely it is a lesson of all History,’ it read, ‘that the living, earnest, expansive Christian, who has a heart large enough to embrace the whole world, is the only true patriot.’⁸⁵

How should we understand this relationship between imperial vision and nationalist sentiment? First, we must grasp that Anglican missionaries often struggled to reconcile them. Catholicity, as we have seen, implied willingness to overlook worldly difference, whereas nationalism, by its very nature, entailed a certain partiality. The conjunction of nation and empire was not always harmonious. As a bishop of the national church, Hills experienced this tension as intensely as any of his missionaries. He wrote tellingly of his anxieties when, en route to his diocese in 1859, he was asked to perform a funeral service at Colón in Panama. In this unfamiliar territory, his patriotism seemed to confuse his Catholic remit:

In the service I remembered that I was not on British soil and that it was a Christian principle to pray for the authorities. It is a difficulty at most times in these theatres of frequent revolution to know who are the authorities. Just now this is a special difficulty here. So I prayed generally for all Christian rulers and omitted mention of Queen Victoria, though I included her in my heart. Perhaps if acting under the British Consulate my duty would have been to identify myself with England—but holding service as a Christian minister travelling through another land my duty was to pray only for the authorities of the land and so realise the Catholic character of Christianity.⁸⁶

Even in British Columbia, a British colony, the relationship between nation and empire was not altogether clear. Anglican missionaries were Englishmen for whom empire was rightly British, but often, for political reasons, they were compelled to muffle their allegiance. When Hills arrived in Victoria he had to allay fears that the establishment of the Anglican diocese would jeopardize religious freedom. Many colonists seemed to think that the Anglicans intended a state church. The bishop countered: ‘When I arrived, I found the papers full of warfare about the “attempt” to have a “State Church,” the idea of an English Bishop being apparently inseparable from tithes, Church-rates, & c. In my first sermon I proclaimed for liberty, and told the people of the Church that upon them rested the burden, and that I did not dream of resting upon the State. This had the desired effect. The movement was crushed. There has not been a syllable since.’⁸⁷ Within British Columbia historiography the conventional view, first articulated by F. W. Howay in the early twentieth century, has been that the Anglicans did aspire to the status of an established church, but while some scholars still accept this account, others now argue that Hills wanted independence from the state.⁸⁸ What we do know is that the Church of England remained oriented to Britain in British Columbia long after having been Canadianized in the east.⁸⁹ My own impression is that Hills was an unqualified Anglophile, and that like Good, he coveted the symbiosis of colonial church and state that many domestic Anglicans, not required to mollify concerned colonists, advocated.⁹⁰ The bishop knew, however, that to stress his Englishness in British Columbia was to risk causing offence. ‘Though I am a Protestant, I am a foreigner,’ one miner told him, ‘and I will never consent to come under the British flag.’⁹¹

Although the politics of empire could unsettle Anglican nationalism, such concerns were not disabling. Hills and Good, both defenders of Catholic Christianity, would remain patriots. That they coupled nationalist and imperialist sentiment suggests that links between nation and empire were central to Anglican missionary discourse. Indeed, the belief that imperial evangelism affected England as well as heathen nations was a sine qua non of this mission. The Anglicans tied English national virtue to the fate of those they evangelized. The imperative of mission was a discourse of both periphery and core; when they spoke of the fruits of mission work, the Anglicans evoked a centripetal flow that enriched England because heathen souls were touched. ‘In gospel propagation,’ said the Church Missionary Intelligencer, ‘there is a wonderful re-action, and the more the divine element of truth is communicated to others, the more it augments in the influence it exercises on ourselves.’⁹²

It is thus conceivable that Anglican discourses of empire were always discourses on the English nation at the same time.⁹³ Take the popular argument that only Christianity could save the heathen from the decimation that occurred with European colonization. The Anglicans maintained that the white impact on indigenous peoples was fatal unless mitigated by Christianity. The following is the opening refrain of a hymn sung at SPG annual services:

The heathen perish; day by day
Thousands on thousands pass away.
O Christians! to their refuge fly,
Preach Jesus to them 'ere they die.(94)

The bishop of Oxford addressed similar themes when he spoke at the Mansion House in November 1859. ‘How cruel have been the wrongs they have suffered at our hands!’ he noted of North America's Native peoples. ‘Whole tribes’ had been ‘mowed down’ by violent British colonialisms. ‘Well, I say,’ he concluded, ‘England owes them a deep debt for past wrongs, which she is bound to repay.’⁹⁵

The bishop's vision was certainly imperial. He authorized a foreign mission (in this case to British Columbia) by claiming that powerless Natives had capitulated to white might, and that only Christianity could repair this damage.⁹⁶ But the bishop also showed great concern for English national integrity. He clearly rejected Ruskin's characterization of England's past as ‘a thousand years of noble history’⁹⁷ and described dreadful English crimes against other cultures. And when Bishop Hills returned to England in 1863 to raise funds for the Columbia Mission, he warned audiences that there would always be a ‘blot upon the history of their Christianity’ if these colonial wrongs were not redressed.⁹⁸ For both Hills and Wilberforce, the obligation to missionize turned on the shame caused by English misdoings, as well as on the need to convert those who had been violated. By helping the heathen, Anglicans hoped to expiate these national sins and repair England's tainted image. Mission discourse was therapeutic for Anglicans embarrassed by the national heritage.⁹⁹

Anglican discourses of empire, therefore, were centrally concerned with a politics and poetics of nationhood. The temper of this Anglican nationalism needs to be carefully delineated, for it was not the post-Reformation patriotism that claimed England as an elect nation. Linda Colley thinks that this particular fallacy, disseminated in tracts such as John Foxe's Book of martyrs (1563), played a major role in consolidating British national identity; Britons came to see themselves as a chosen people, blessed with God's special care.¹⁰⁰ The notion of divine election, moreover, offered a fitting rationale for empire. ‘If it really was the case that England was thought to be God's peculiar place, not just an elect nation but the elect nation,’ writes Patrick Collinson, ‘then we have unearthed in Protestant religious consciousness a root, perhaps even the taproot, of English imperialism.’¹⁰¹ Perhaps. To my mind, however, Anglicans such as Good and Hills had no truck with this rhetoric, for the concept of election directly contradicted their theology. In denying an exclusive covenant between God and Israel, the Apostle Paul had discounted national privilege. ‘Particularism, national limitation, in religion is abolished,’ observes Stephen Neill of Paul's injunction, ‘through the simple fact that Jesus Christ has died for all.’¹⁰² Several discourses of the nation were harnessed to Anglican visions of empire, but none accorded the English special rights to God's care.

For Anglicans such as Hills and Good, England was not an elect nation so much as the hearth of an elect Christianity. These were very different propositions. The Anglicans held that it was not God that set England apart from other nations but truth.¹⁰³ Only Anglican missionaries preached a pure faith. In this spirit the Anglicans considered evangelizing the Roman Catholic nations of Europe as well as the heathen nations of empire.¹⁰⁴ Similarly, the decline of the Iberian empires was attributed to the corrupt creed they propagated.¹⁰⁵

Why was England special? Because its national religion, and no other, was faithful to God's Word. Anglican missionary societies recognized that access to truth laid a heavy imperial responsibility on English shoulders, for the truth had to be promulgated¹⁰⁶ and churches that sullied it could not be trusted with God's mission. To the Anglicans it was self-evident that they, the English, were His most qualified servants. ‘If our age is the era for Missions,’ the CMS declared, ‘no less plainly is our country the messenger-people to the whole earth. The Heathen cry, and they cry to us—to us Englishmen of the nineteenth century.’¹⁰⁷ In the Anglican imagination of empire, it was the concept of pure Christianity that gave mission work a nationalistic cast. If the indigenous people of British Columbia were savages, it followed that only England could save them from sin: ‘although in a state of debased idolatry and superstition,’ Hills said of them, ‘they are nevertheless friendly disposed towards England, and they look to Englishmen to do them good.’¹⁰⁸

In Anglican mission discourse nationalism and imperialism were indelibly linked. The strings that bound nation to empire were durable, if at times frayed. It is important to emphasize this connectivity, for it is now commonly held that nation and empire were incompatible under British colonialism.¹⁰⁹ This case has been well made by Benedict Anderson, who describes nineteenth-century English nationalism as a discourse of belonging. This field of thought, Anderson claims, demarcated an ‘imagined community’ excluding, among other people, the indigenous inhabitants of British colonies. Natives became de jure members of the British Empire upon colonization, but would never be English. This disjuncture constitutes Anderson's ‘inner incompatibility of empire and nation.’¹¹⁰

It is easy to see how and why Anderson identifies this cleavage. His account is secured by a genealogy that equates the dawn of European nationalism with the ‘dusk of religious modes of thought.’¹¹¹ His nationalism is both modern and secular.¹¹² Anderson argues that the secularization of postmedieval Europe entailed a fundamental shift in the conceptualization of human fellowship, as language replaced religion as the chief axis of social identification, and that with this transition came smaller imagined communities, for nationalism did not reproduce Christianity's universal designs. ‘No nation imagines itself coterminous with mankind,’ Anderson explains. ‘The most messianic nationalists do not dream of a day when all the members of the human race will join their nation in the way that it was possible, in certain epochs, for, say, Christians to dream of a wholly Christian planet.’¹¹³ In the nineteenth century, empire and nation deviated in the sense that one was totalizing and the other was not. An indiscriminate appetite fuelled empire, but as an imagined community that screened its membership, England rebuffed most of those it colonized; Anderson believes that this rejection occurred on many grounds, whereas other scholars reduce its rationale to racism.¹¹⁴

But what of Anglican nationalism? Anderson accords imperialism a pivotal role in the process of territorialization that eventually spawned nationalist sensibility. Early imperial forays, he claims, convinced Europeans that their own beliefs were not universal, and he uses Marco Polo's thirteenth-century encounter with Kublai Khan as an example. In Polo's subsequent description of Christianity ‘as “truest,” rather than “true,” we can detect the seeds of a territorialization of faiths which foreshadows the language of many nationalists.’¹¹⁵ This example is poorly chosen, however, for Catholic Christianity denied the relativism of modern nationalism. Compare Anderson's reading of comparative truths with this passage from the Church Missionary Intelligencer (1852): ‘It is not merely that [Protestant Christianity] is the superior religion, so that there are others which are true, although this is more true; but that it is the truth exclusively, so that all other combinations of principles and opinions on matters connected with religion are false, and this alone is true.’¹¹⁶ Here are radically different truth claims, one relative, the other absolute. If Anderson's incompatibility of nation and empire rests on the finitude of Englishness, what of nation and empire in Anglican discourse, which equated English Christianity with universal, not bounded, truth?

Nineteenth-century Anglican nationalism was of an entirely different order than the secular nationalism that excluded empire's unwanted. The most important distinction was between means and ends. David Bebbington argues that the concept of means was essential to the nineteenth-century evangelical mission.¹¹⁷ We have seen that English Christians regarded their national religion as a medium for the dissemination of the gospel; their nationalism was a discourse of agency. By contrast, the contemporary rhetoric of national belonging was a discourse of ends; as posited by nineteenth-century educationists such as Thomas B. Macaulay, Englishness was the consummation of colonial subjectivity.¹¹⁸ As secular entities nation and empire were incongruous, for, as Bhabha reminds us, there was a big difference between ‘being English and being Anglicized,’ residence in the British Empire never offering the colonized inclusion in the English nation, even for those who did conform to English ways.¹¹⁹ As Anglican categories, on the other hand, nation and empire were compatible, for imperial ambition (in other words, universal conversion) could only be realized through investment in the national creed.

The sameness promoted by Anglican missionaries was not the normalized English civility that Anglicization policies proffered but withheld. The Anglicans intended a godly unity that would transcend national specificity; the nation, as expressed in its religion, was merely a tool to achieve this oneness, and Anglican empire was but temporary, held in trust until Christ returned to claim God's Kingdom for Himself.¹²⁰ What were the respective consequences of these distinctive constellations of nation and empire? Bhabha argues, convincingly, that in the case of official state colonialism, the incompatibility of nation and empire was manifested in colonial subjects who, while urged to mimic English ways, were denied the equality tendered by this rhetoric. Bhabha reads the predicament of being almost the same, but not quite—where to be Anglicized was not to be English—as being almost the same, but not white; racism determined partial mimicry to be the most appropriate form of colonial subjectivity. The result was a compromised ‘mimic man’—told to be English yet refused the prerogative of Englishness—whom Bhabha finds in E. M. Forster, V. S. Naipaul, and other literature of empire.¹²¹

In Bhabha's view of things, the disjuncture between nation and empire required an agreeable Other, a colonial subject reformed but not quite equivalent. According to the Anglican mission, which fused nation and empire, ‘appropriate’ reform meant complete conversion, and equivalence would be in God rather than in the country that delivered His Word. Unlike Bhabha's colonists, concerned with racial boundaries and national identity and, in this spirit, intent on compromised colonial subjects, Good aimed to introduce to the Nlha7kápmx a ‘perfect code of social and domestic reform and regimen,’¹²² and English Christianity was the means at his disposal.

In its objective of absolute, as opposed to partial, sameness, this mission was colonizing to a fault, for if truth was singular, all other cultures were invalid, and would have to be disabused of their error. Such was the generic course of mission history; judged against a foreign Christian norm, Native societies were misconstrued, violated, and often ravaged. But in Good's case, as with other missions, there were limits to the process of normalization. He did not intend that otherness endure—the ground that separated him from his charges could be covered—but it did. This was partly because some Natives resisted change, but mostly because the Nlha7kápmx, not unlike Bhabha's ‘mimic men,’ had equality withheld by the colonial state, and in the struggle over sameness in the secular domain, Good ultimately proved impotent.

Notes

1. The phrase is from Said, Culture and Imperialism, 130.

2. Bhabha, ‘The Other Question,’ in his The Location of Culture, 70.

3. Young, Colonial Desire, 92, argues that from the 1880s ‘permanent racial superiority’ was ‘the presiding, justifying idea of the [British] empire.’

4. Good to the Secretary, SPG, RQE 30 June 1876, USPG, E Series, vol. 31, 1876.

5. Good, ‘The utmost bounds,’ 29-30.

6. Good to the Secretary, SPG, RQE 30 June 1871, USPG, E Series, vol. 26, 1870-1. Neither discussion of this blunder was ever published. Good's June 1871 report did appear in an SPG publication (The Mission Field 16 [1871]: 293-7), but the section in which he criticized his editor was omitted. As for Good's protracted bid to publish ‘The utmost bounds,’ all his effort was in vain; see his early-twentieth-century letters to his alma mater, CCA, U88/A2/6/John Booth Good.

7. Bhabha, ‘The Other Question,’ 66.

8. Ibid.

9. Said, Orientalism, 38.

10. Good, ‘The utmost bounds,’ 74.

11. Thomas, ‘Colonial Conversions,’ 385.

12. West, The substance of a journal, 44, v.

13. Columbia Mission Report 9 (1867): 76.

14. Cf. Thomas, ‘Colonial Conversions,’ 387: ‘Savagery was a contingent state of heathenism, illness, or adherence to false doctrine, not an immutable character of a distinct kind of human being.’

15. Brown, Klatsassan, 4.

16. The Mission Field 8 (1863): 8.

17. Ibid., 12 (1867): 46-7.

18. D. Scott, ‘Colonial Governmentality,’ 197.

19. See Kee, ‘From the Jesus Movement,’ 58-61.

20. Meeks, The First Urban Christians, 107.

21. Columbia Mission Report 13 (1871): 50. Elsewhere Good wrote of ‘the common origins of all nations.’ Good to the Secretary, SPG, RQE 30 September 1871, USPG, E Series, vol. 26, 1870-1.

22. Hills, Diary, 18 October 1871.

23. D. B. Smith, ed., Lady Franklin, 22, entry for 27 February 1861.

24. ‘Golden mediocrity’ was how Matthew Parker, first Elizabethan archbishop of Canterbury, described the via media position of the Anglican Church; see Chadwick, The Mind of the Oxford Movement, 13. Bishop Hills denounced the Protestant tendency to lurch ‘from one extreme to another’ and appealed to fellow Anglicans to avoid extremes and ground themselves in ‘broad truth.’ Hills, Diary, 25 June 1863.

25. See most recently Bagshaw, ‘The Hills Enigma,’ in her No Better Land, 287-8.

26. Bagshaw, ‘Jottings Made at the Time,’ in ibid., 38.

27. Among those of influence in colonial British Columbia were William S. Reece, Archdeacon of Vancouver and advocate of ritualism, and Henry Wright, Archdeacon of Columbia and close friend of Hills.

28. Sohmer, ‘Christianity without Civilization,’ 174-97, especially 181-2.

29. Tomkins, ‘The Anglican Communion,’ 114. The Reverend E. Sambayya's essay on ‘The Genius of the Anglican communion’ talks about the corporatism of Anglicanism and its attendant missionary edge.

30. Young, Colonial Desire, 8, 11.

31. For one of Good's frequent, sketchy (and flawed) ruminations on the provenance of the Nlha7kápmx, see his ‘The utmost bounds,’ 79.

32. Pringle to the Secretary, SPG, 13 July 1860, USPG, E Series, vol. 8, 1860; Pringle to the Secretary, SPG, 15 December 1861, USPG, E Series, vol. 10, 1861; Pringle to the Secretary, SPG, 1 October 1860, USPG, E Series, vol. 8.

33. A sermon preached in St. Stephen's, 10.

34. Howay, ‘The Negro Immigration,’ 101-13, gives the main reasons for this black migration from California—which included both southern-born ex-slaves and freeborn northerners.

35. The British Colonist, 13 June 1859; original emphasis.

36. D. B. Smith, ed., Lady Franklin, 10, entry for 25 February 1861.

37. Kilian, Go Do Some Great Thing, 49-60.

38. The British were as bad as the Americans, according to the blacks, and contributed in equal measure to a racist rhetoric ‘in which the words “niggers” and “slaves” dance in all the mazes of negro-hating parlance.’ The British Colonist, 14 January 1860.

39. Hills, Diary, 15 March 1860. This woman was the wife of Joseph Trutch, a prominent figure in colonial British Columbia; see chapter 7.

40. Columbia Mission. Occasional Paper, 13; original emphasis. On Hills and Dundas, see Carey, ‘The Church of England and the Colour Question’; on Cridge, Kilian, Go Do Some Great Thing, 36-7, 54-5.

41. Columbia Mission Report 9 (1867): 73.

42. On the worldliness and sociability of early Christian asceticism, see especially Chitty, The Desert a City; Rousseau, Ascetics, Authority, and the Church; and Robinson, ‘Christian Asceticism.’ On Donatism, Frend, The Donatist Church, is still the best general history.

43. See the excellent Babcock, ‘Augustine and Tyconius,’ 1209-15.

44. Meeks, The First Urban Christians, 8.

45. Ibid., 105.

46. Castelli, Imitating Paul, 117, 128.

47. Brown, Augustine, 224.

48. This brief overview comes primarily from Frend, The Donatist Church, 315-21, with caveats added from Eno, ‘Some Nuances,’ 417-21.

49. Brown, Augustine, 221, 214.

50. E. Barker, The Ideas and Ideals, 20. This paragraph also draws on several other sources, including Frend, The Donatist Church, 324-32; Morrison, ‘Rome and the City of God’; and Pagden, Lords of All the World, 29.

51. Church Missionary Intelligencer 2, 1 (1851): 3.

52. Brown, Augustine, 223.

53. Columbia Mission Report 10 (1868): 38-9. This is a seminal statement as far as Good's mission is concerned. He often spoke of allowing the wheat and chaff to mingle. As Faul, ‘Sinners in the Holy Church,’ 404-15, points out, this was among Augustine's favourite metaphors. The church would contain good and bad, but the former would support and sway the latter through charity, the very substance of Christian life.

54. Columbia Mission Report (1860): 17. Good's prophecy was similar: he cherished the thought that his church might one day ‘reach and embrace tribes and peoples most remote, till all the ends of this part of the earth shall have seen the salvation of our God.’ The Mission Field 15 (1870): 294.

55. E.g., Columbia Mission Report 18 (1876): 28.

56. The past and present extension of the Gospel, 3.

57. Good to the sub-Warden, St. Augustine's College, 17 April 1905, CCA, U88/A2/6/John Booth Good.

58. A sermon, preached at the farewell service, 34.

59. I take ‘moment within the Same’ from Bernstein, ‘Incommensurability,’ 69.

60. As argued by Stoler, Race and the Education of Desire, 27.

61. Said, Culture and Imperialism, 130.

62. Said, Orientalism, 20.

63. The discourse of Orientalism posited a feminized Orient to be held in view by a male European observer; Said said little of this gendering, but other scholars have put right his omissions. Gregory, Geographical Imaginations, 175, introduces this subsequent literature; Lewis, Gendering Orientalism, is the latest monograph.

64. Said, Culture and Imperialism, 130. Other work has largely concurred. See, for example, Gregory, ‘Between the Book and the Lamp,’ 29-57.

65. Said, Orientalism, 55.

66. Fabian, Time and the Other, 16; original emphasis.

67. McClintock, Imperial Leather, 40-2. See also Low, White Skins/Black Masks, 75-84.

68. Columbia Mission. Occasional Paper, 6. See also extracts from speeches Hills made while in England in 1863, printed in Columbia Mission Report 5 (1863): 11-3.

69. Marx, Grundrisse, 524.

70. Hills, Diary, 12 December 1859.

71. See Fabian, Time and the Other, 26.

72. Columbia Mission Report 10 (1868): 99.

73. ‘Registrar's Register—Royal Letters Patent,’ ADC, Text 168, 12 January 1859.

74. A sermon, preached at the farewell service, 31.

75. Clayton, Islands of Truth. See also A. Smith, ‘The Writing of British Columbia History,’ 73-102.

76. de Certeau, ‘The Historiographical Operation,’ 91; original emphasis.

77. Augustine, Confessions, I. xviii (28).

78. A sermon, preached at the farewell service, 10.

79. Bhabha's disquisition on ‘the discourse of post-Enlightenment English colonialism’ (in ‘Of Mimicry and Man’ in his The Location of Culture) comes to mind. At least one critic feels that in this respect, Bhabha offers the kind of totalizing account he would usually disparage. See Parry, ‘Signs of Our Times,’ 5.

80. Moir, Church and State in Canada, x. W. A. Scott, Historical Protestantism, 73, identifies the Church of England as the paradigmatic national church.

81. See, in particular, Dvornik, National Churches and the Church Universal.

82. Ibid., especially 34-48.

83. Columbia Mission Report 9 (1867): 66; Good to the Secretary, SPG, 26 July 1864, USPG, E Series, vol. 16, 1864.

84. Columbia Mission Report 5 (1863): 15.

85. Church Missionary Intelligencer 1, 3 (1849): 52.

86. Hills, Diary, 11 December 1859.

87. Columbia Mission. Occasional Paper, 13. See also Hills's response to the address he received upon arriving in Victoria: ‘From the State we seek no exclusive privileges—we ask only for liberty, a fair field and no favor.’ The British Colonist, 31 January 1860. The media continued to criticize the Anglicans, and Hills in particular. See The Daily British Colonist, 31 January and 11 September 1861.

88. Howay, British Columbia, 616; McNally, ‘Church-State Relations,’ sides with Howay; Bagshaw, ‘The Hills Enigma’ and ‘Church of England Land Policy,’ claims that Hills did not plan a state church.

89. Moir, The Church in the British Era, 206.

90. See, for example, comments made by John Downall, Archdeacon of Totnes, in ‘The voice of him that crieth in the wilderness,’ 6, on allowing church and state to ‘nurture and foster and bless each other’ in the colonies.

91. Cited in Columbia Mission Report 5 (1863): 15.

92. Church Missionary Intelligencer 7 (1856): 5. See also ibid., 1 (1849): 3: ‘To communicate the Gospel, as freely as we have ourselves received it, to the unevangelized tribes of mankind, is a Christian duty of primary importance. It is one we cannot neglect without serious injury to ourselves and others, nor endeavour with fidelity to fulfil without receiving personal benefit.’

93. A note on terminology is necessary here. Since the Anglican Church is the national church of England, I discuss Anglican nationalist discourses as discourses of Englishness; I only refer to the British nation when I talk about political dominion, or when I use secondary materials that themselves prefer the broader ascription.

94. A copy of this hymn sheet can be found in the collected documents of Bishop Hills, VST, PSA 42/6.

95. A sermon, preached at the farewell service, 33-4.

96. The ‘fatal impact’ thesis was (and is) a colonialist narrative that Anglican missionaries found very convenient: mission work was readily justified by the thought that secular colonialism was deadly. As the Reverend John Sheepshanks, referring to British Columbia's First Nations, had it: ‘Ought we not therefore to endeavour, that, since they have received evil from us, we may also impart to them some good?’ Columbia Mission Report 6 (1864): 50.

97. Cited in Said, Culture and Imperialism, 123.

98. Columbia Mission Report 5 (1863): 18.

99. A Columbia Mission occasional paper of 1860 provides an evocative example of this therapeutic discourse. Empire was a means of national redemption: ‘Reflecting then with grief upon the terrible history of the first family of America, it cannot fail to add a lively interest to the opening colony of Columbia to find within it a remnant of 75,000 natives. There, behind the Rocky Mountains, in their last refuge upon earth, they stand with painful wonder, while the smoke of the white man is rising up all around them; and Britain has before her another opportunity, on the same great Continent, while pursuing the path laid before her to further influence and prosperity, to give a different treatment to the Indian whose fair lands she is called upon to occupy and govern.’ Columbia Mission. Occasional Paper, 29-30. See also part of a speech made by the bishop of London at the London Tavern in 1862: ‘To the Indians we owe a deep debt for the mischief that has been inflicted upon them by the approach of European civilization, and the only way to wipe out that debt is by sending them, tardily though it may be, the blessings of European religion.’ Columbia Mission Report 3 (1861): 57.

100. Colley, Britons, chapter 1; a rich account.

101. Collinson, ‘The Protestant Nation,’ 5; original emphasis.

102. Neill, A History of Christian Missions, 22-3. ‘For there is no difference between the Jew and the Greek: for the same Lord over all is rich unto all that call upon him. For whosoever shall call upon the name of the Lord shall be saved’ (Romans 10:12-3).

103. E.g., Church Missionary Intelligencer 3, 6 (1852): 137.

104. Ibid., 2 (1851): 2.

105. Ibid., 1 (1849): 52.

106. Ibid., 3 (1852): 138.

107. Ibid., 1 (1849): 76-7.

108. A sermon, preached at the farewell service, 23.

109. See, especially, B. Anderson, Imagined Communities, chapter 6; Bhabha, ‘Of Mimicry and Man,’ 86-8.

110. B. Anderson, Imagined Communities, 93.

111. Ibid., 11.

112. Suleri, The Rhetoric of English India, 7, maintains that Anderson is ‘obsessed with the modernity of nationhood.’

113. B. Anderson, Imagined Communities, 7.

114. See, for example, Bhabha, ‘Of Mimicry and Man’; Balibar, ‘Paradoxes of Universality.’ A more refined argument is offered by Stoler, Race and the Education of Desire, especially chapter 4.

115. B. Anderson, Imagined Communities, 17.

116. Church Missionary Intelligencer, 3 (1852): 138.

117. Bebbington, Evangelicalism, 41: ‘it was increasingly held that human beings could be the appointed agents of bringing the gospel to unevangelised nations.’ Also Dvornik, National Churches and the Church Universal, 50-2.

118. B. Anderson, Imagined Communities, 91-3.

119. Bhabha, ‘Of Mimicry and Man,’ 90. Bhabha's account is strongly influenced by Anderson's discussion of British nationalism and imperialism, and he cites approvingly the trope of ‘the inner incompatibility of empire and nation’ (87).

120. As encapsulated in the lecture ‘Occupy till I come,’ especially 4.

121. This summary of Bhabha's ideas is derived from ‘Of Mimicry and Man,’ 85-90.

122. Good, ‘The utmost bounds,’ 90.

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