In eighteenth-century Europe, reformers of church practices often had to contend with inflexible systems of ecclesiastical law or with church ordinances (whatever form they took) formed during previous centuries. In spite of the zeal for improvement that characterized the age, reform of ecclesiastical statutes was often a slow, gradual and many times a haphazard process.¹ In the Nordic countries, canon law was abolished as part of the Lutheran Reformation. In Denmark–Norway, the Lutheran Kirkeordinansen (Church Ordinance) gained royal sanction as early as 1537–1539. By 1571 a similar set of statutes was in place in the Swedish realm. Although less ambitious in scope, these sets of ecclesiastical statutes aimed at replacing canon law as the legal framework of the nationalized churches together with Lutheran confessional documents. As a result of the process of seventeenth-century confessionalization, however, ecclesiastical statutes came to be included in national law. This occurred with the Danish Code of 1683, and in Sweden the Church Law of 1686 had a similar effect.

In the European North, generally speaking, much of the statutory framework regulating local church life was hence rooted in the ideals of Lutheran orthodoxy. As a consequence, most ecclesiastical reformers – of whom there were many in the Nordic countries during the eighteenth century, not least the Danish-Norwegian bishop Erik Pontoppidan – had to learn to be loyal to, or to operate from within, rather inflexible systems of regulations. This did not mean that change was impossible or out of reach for those who sincerely believed that traditional religious habits should be transformed. On the one hand, church authorities – however much they embraced a reforming agenda and a rationalizing theology – were forced to promote ecclesiastical dictates rooted in an age with a different spiritual ambiance; on the other hand, we may say that proponents of what we call the Enlightenment found ways to work from within the machinery of traditional religious cultures (here represented by church laws and ordinances) in order to enforce and propagate the new. As Jeremy Gregory has remarked, ‘[i]f the procedures were old-fashioned, it did not mean that there was no room for manœuvre, and if major changes cannot be found in the legislative structures of the Church, they may nevertheless be found in its local history’.² This occurred at a time when many European rulers, Sweden’s Gustav III being only one example among many, tried to promote Enlightenment by way of ‘top-down’ dictate and a centralized state apparatus. Throughout Europe, local persons of ecclesiastical authority could therefore easily find official sanctioning for their frequently inventive ways of promoting change.³

Even though the new often lived under the guise of the old, or in its close proximity, this feature of eighteenth-century reform has received surprisingly little scholarly attention. The present chapter approaches this issue by way of a micro study. By studying how the late eighteenth-century Swedish bishop Olof Wallquist (1755–1800) introduced novel ideas by way of legal commentary, and exploited a top-down system of ecclesiastical management in his diocese, this chapter picks up on the cue offered by Gregory. Analysing Wallquist’s systematic methods of promoting change, as well as the ways in which local rectors responded to their superior’s initiatives, produces a case study of how individualizing practices could be introduced within intractable, and largely collectivistic, legal and social frameworks. The outcome is another perspective on ‘pastoral Enlightenment’.

A changing social landscape

Before we take a closer look at Bishop Wallquist and his reforming measures, the scene needs to be set by means of some basic information about the cultural and social/demographic conditions in Sweden during the long eighteenth century. In terms of geography, the realm then known as Sweden was of considerably larger proportions than today. Historically speaking, much of today’s Finland was an integral part of the Swedish kingdom. Duties and privileges were extended in equal measure to the inhabitants of both the western and the eastern part of the kingdom. Finland and Sweden, for example, both took part in the Swedish parliament, the Riksdag. As a result of a series of unsuccessful wars during the 1740s, parts of the eastern border region were lost to Russia; it was, however, not until 1809 that Sweden was forced to cede the eastern part of the realm to the Tsar. During the period covered by this volume, a few coastal cities and regions in today’s Germany were under Swedish governance, too (unlike Finland, though, they did not form part of Sweden proper). Following the Peace of Nystad (1721), they consisted of the town of Wismar in Mecklenburg and so-called Swedish Pomerania.

In terms of population, numbers rose steadily from the 1740s onwards. In 1800, today’s Sweden had about 2,347,000 inhabitants;⁴ in what is now Finland, the population figure for the same year amounted to approximately 833,000.⁵ In terms of the ratio between urban and rural populations, Sweden was, just like Norway, markedly less urbanized than Denmark. About 10 per cent of the population lived in towns and cities, a figure that remained fairly constant throughout the period covered by this volume. In the 1730s, the smallest of these densely populated places, Falsterbo in southernmost Sweden, had just a little over 100 inhabitants, whereas the largest, Stockholm, had about 57,000 during the same decade.⁶ In Finland, twenty-four towns were scattered along the Baltic coast in the south. Turku (Åbo in Swedish), the largest of these, boasted approximately 5,700 inhabitants in 1749.⁷ The largest of the cities grew significantly during the eighteenth century. By 1800, Stockholm had a population of 75,500. Still, most regional centres (most of which were also cathedral cities) only had a population of 1,000–2,000 in the early 1800s.⁸

All in all, eighteenth-century Sweden consisted of fourteen dioceses. Two of these – Turku and Porvoo – were located in what is now Finland. Within the different dioceses, the traditional, medieval, structure of parishes remained intact throughout the period. Especially in the easternmost regions of the realm and in the far north, the dioceses (but also the parishes) were of considerable geographical proportions, which made proper episcopal supervision a more than troublesome charge. Both parochial visitations and regular clergy conferences (prästmöte) were powerful control instruments placed in the bishop’s hands by the Church Law.

Contrary to what was the case in most other European nations at the time, local landowners (a majority of whom were commoners) had a considerable influence on local church life. Direct aristocratic patronage was relatively uncommon (save in the southernmost, and previously Danish, Province of Scania). In most parishes, the power to elect the pastor rested either with the local community or with the diocesan chapter. In comparison with Denmark–Norway, this gave a distinctive flair to early modern Swedish church life.

Apart from those who belonged to a thinly dispersed nobility, most men who entered the clergy and the civil service had received their basic intellectual training at the cathedral schools located at the diocesan centres of the realm. For those aiming for the Church, and for a considerable proportion of other prospective office holders at the Stockholm-based centres of national administration, a degree from one of the four universities of the nation – Uppsala (1477), Åbo [Turku] Royal Academy (1640) in today’s Finland, Greifswald in Pomerania (Swedish from 1648) and Lund (1666) in the Province of Scania – increasingly became a prerequisite. Though mostly traditionally orientated, these universities, most of which were poorly endowed, became channels of new philosophical ideals and new techniques of scientific enquiry (see also the introduction to this volume).

Church Law and eighteenth-century religious life

Most scholars of early modern church life in Sweden regard the Church Law as the apogee of Lutheran orthodoxy. In many ways it was the culmination of the so-called ‘confessionalization’ of Swedish society, seemingly marking the end of much clerical endeavour to bring about a unified Lutheran nation.⁹ Yet the passing of the Church Law was also the terminus of a long religio-political struggle for power in which the devout, and absolute, King Charles XI (r. 1672–1697) had finally gained the upper hand. The Church Law of 1686, which was to a considerable extent a product of the King’s closest advisers, aimed at creating uniform ecclesiastical practices within the Swedish domains.¹⁰ Hitherto, the statutes (of which the most important was the Church Ordinance of 1571) regulating national church life had given ample scope to the evolution of varying observances within the different dioceses. Seventeenth-century bishops, vested in both political and religious power, created ordinances and practices that were to be observed throughout their respective dioceses. As a consequence, medieval ‘diocesan particularity’ endured within the Lutheran Church. With the ratification of a national Church Law, the hope was that this state of things was to come to an end.

With this new set of statutes in place, the emphasis on the need for national unity in all matters ecclesiastical was more strongly felt. There were to be no discrepancies among the parishes in terms of services, the obligations of the clergy and the religious duties of parishioners. Even though the passing of a Church Law was a deed at first regretted by a significant proportion of the Church leadership, its main objective (to enforce a national religious uniformity) was to be shared by leading ecclesiastics throughout the eighteenth century.¹¹

The ambition to create homogeneity in a hitherto heterogeneous Church resulted in the regulation of minute details in church life and practice. Even in respect of particulars, the clergy – bound by oath to uphold and abide by the king’s law – had to be sensitive to the intentions and precise regulations found in the statutes. It goes without saying that the law passed in 1686 could be seen both as a codification of the church practices that had evolved within Swedish domains since the late sixteenth century (in many cases the Church Law was an attempt to create a national benchmark among varying practices) and as a ‘project’ to be realized in the future. Throughout the eighteenth century (and beyond), the correct application of the Church Law was an issue that was to trouble both ecclesiastics and the leading men of the realm. It should be noted that in 1760, Sven Wilskman (1716–1797), at the time a schoolmaster at the cathedral school of Skara, edited Swea rikes ecclesiastique wärk, an encyclopaedia-like volume containing abstracts from the Church Law and additional – both later and earlier – statutes and royal proclamations.¹² This work, very much in line with the contemporary vogue for exhaustive knowledge and for publishing tomes of collected documents, came to be extensively used in diocesan chapters and thereby contributed to consistency in diocesan decision-making.

As is often the case, the ambition to create sameness results in new uncertainties; a void appears which is filled with regulation, interpretation and commentary. The need to explain and augment the Church Law was a theme that kept recurring throughout the eighteenth century. As the century progressed, it became evident that the Church Law had not managed to create a standard in all matters of church life, even though that had been the lawgiver’s ambition. The spread and acceptance of new modes of thought and conduct caused new conflicts to which the legal edifice was ill suited. The issue of how the new ideas, tastes and manners that came with Enlightenment and Pietism might be combined with the Church Law of 1686 was a challenge, as well as an opportunity, for most of those who desired the reform of religion.¹³

It was the duty of bishops and diocesan chapters to monitor the observance of the Church Law among the clergy, and their subordinates were of course obliged to adhere to it. Through a variety of means – such as circular letters, charges and local visitations – bishop and chapter tried to ensure that the applicable statutes were followed and interpreted in the correct manner. In those cases where detailed measures and procedures were not to be found in the Church Law, or explained in later statutes, the bishops often saw it as their duty to issue instructions on proper conduct. Such episcopal directives were to be followed by the diocesan clergy. Regional homogeneity was often regarded as a first step towards national uniformity. As this chapter argues, there was more than a degree of ambivalence in the struggle to standardize religious practices during the final decades of the eighteenth century. A language of uniformity could be used to justify and enforce the most rigid Lutheran orthodoxy; at the same time, though, it could be used by those wishing to introduce novel ideas into the body of national religion.

An enlightened bishop and his diocese

Olof Wallquist was appointed to the See of Växjö after a phenomenally rapid ecclesiastical career that was eventually to launch him into the higher echelons of national political life. After having graduated from Uppsala University in 1779, he had served as chaplain to various members of the royal household from 1780. As a royal favourite, he was appointed to the lucrative living of Alseda (in the north-eastern part of the Diocese of Växjö) in 1783. However, Wallquist did not relocate until the autumn of 1785. Following the death of the increasingly incapacitated bishop Olof Osander (1700–1787) in June 1787, Wallquist was appointed his successor at the age of thirty-two. Wallquist was decidedly a man of enlightened tastes. A practical man, he favoured usefulness and delighted in the progress of human society. In coming years, he was to become a reputed scholar of ecclesiastical law. As a preacher, he advocated simplicity and biblical commentary over the heavy scholasticism associated with Lutheran orthodoxy. Legalism and the slow but steady reform of traditional customs were to mark his episcopacy. He was on amicable terms with Jacob Axelsson Lindblom, perhaps the most consistent and learned representative of Enlightenment among the contemporary clerical elite. Lindblom was made Bishop of Linköping the year before Wallquist’s appointment to the See of Växjö.¹⁴

Wallquist knew little about the diocese that was now entrusted to his care. It consisted of the rural inland of much of the Province of Småland in southern Sweden; the coastal region of the county formed the Diocese of Kalmar. All in all, the Diocese of Växjö comprised ninety-one benefices. Only three cities were to be found within the diocese – Växjö (the cathedral city), Jönköping and Gränna. These cities were of very modest proportions. The number of inhabitants found in the most sizeable rural parishes (such as Urshult and Rydaholm) almost equalled that of the largest city parish, Jönköping, which in the early 1800s consisted of just over 2,500 parishioners. As in most other parts of rural Sweden, the population had been growing slowly but steadily since the early 1700s.¹⁵

Only a few months after his appointment, Wallquist issued a questionnaire to the rectors of the diocese. It consisted of no less than twenty-three questions to which he wanted accurate and instantaneous responses.¹⁶ These questions were constructed with the aim of ensuring full adherence to the applicable statutes. Teaching activities, parish poor relief and the maintenance of ecclesiastical records were topics covered by the young bishop’s questions. Even issues that might seem insignificant today, such as the time of the early Christmas Day morning service, were mentioned in this dispatch.

Wallquist was not the first bishop to use questionnaires as a means of gaining a general view of the state of the parishes.¹⁷ In the latter half of the eighteenth century, bishops were far from the only persons of authority who distributed surveys of various kinds to be answered by local clergy. This was a manifestation of the inclination of contemporaneous Swedish government officials and private scholars alike to collect empirical evidence as a means of getting to grips with the problems of the day and suggesting future measures of reform.¹⁸

Wallquist was to prove an able ecclesiastical administrator. He obviously had a talent for twisting bureaucratic procedures into effective means of monitoring and influencing his subordinates. As we are about to see, the composition of this questionnaire was but a first step towards a ‘streamlining’ of ecclesiastical supervision brought about by the young bishop. Submitted answers to the questionnaire became a point of departure for interviews conducted during episcopal visitations; subsequently, gathered reports and protocols from the visitations formed the basis for a coming episcopal charge issued at the next clerical synod. A bureaucratic rationalism was to be an integral part of Wallquist’s episcopacy.

Towards the end of the letter attached to the questionnaire, Wallquist stated: ‘In the execution and compliance of the law a public official has his only, but most reliable, defence.’¹⁹ In spite of this declaration, Wallquist did not only try to enforce strict adherence to the Church Law, he also forcefully boosted practices that were not to be found within the legislative framework in this dispatch. We might say that he was using his mandate as an interpreter of relevant statutes to give sanction to new manners and customs in local religious life. In this way, Wallquist could skilfully manoeuvre the statutory framework in order to promote Enlightenment among the populace.

The most important among the reforming measures found in the young bishop’s questionnaire of 1787 was the instruction he gave for a solemn rite to be performed at the terminus of the catechetical instruction of the parish youth (an act of, as was the term gradually gaining acceptance in eighteenth-century Sweden, confirmation). The Church Law had not stipulated in what manner the catechetical instruction of the young was to be concluded. It only prescribed that the younger members of the congregation could not be admitted to Holy Communion without sufficient knowledge of the fundamentals of the Christian creed as mediated by central Lutheran catechetical works.²⁰ Over the course of the eighteenth century, the need for a proper rite by which the young were to be given access to Holy Communion asserted itself. Public examination in the company of the entire congregation was a custom that spread gradually, and without much controversy, over the course of the eighteenth century. Whether this practice was to be accompanied by a solemn liturgical rite was a more contentious issue, though. Within the Danish realm, such a rite had been introduced during the era of ‘state Pietism’, as early as 1736. Conservative-minded Lutherans feared that such a ceremony, which to them threatened to cloud the meaning of baptism, seemed to be nothing but an expression of a pietistical orientation.²¹ When Wallquist wrote these instructions, however, those objections had by and large evaporated.²² During the Riksdag of 1769–1770, the Clerical Estate had taken measures to introduce a liturgical rite of confirmation.²³ This suggestion was repeated during the Riksdag of 1778–1779.²⁴ Still, these advances were not to receive any official sanctioning before the early nineteenth century.²⁵

In other words, the rite recommended by Wallquist (the fact that he mentioned that its ‘universal acceptance’ would ‘delight him’ indicates that it was not a mere proposal²⁶) in his questionnaire is far from unique. His liturgical instructions are worth citing in full. According to Wallquist’s recommendations, those who have passed the pastor’s final catechetical examination are to be

The ways in which this rite collided with the traditional customs of a rural majority are easily missed. Wallquist mentions explicitly that the young catechumens will take Holy Communion among themselves (in the Swedish original: Communicera samma dag ensame). To put it differently, Wallquist supported an ‘individualization’ of communion; the young who had just been granted access to the Eucharist by passing an examination (both in the rectory and, after that, publicly in the presence of the congregation) were to receive the sacrament on their own, and not together with their parents and certain other members of their household, as was the traditional custom (one I will hereafter refer to as ‘household communion’).²⁸ It should be noted that the practice of household communion was actually implied in the Church Law.²⁹ The exact origin of the practice the bishop now wanted to introduce remains unclear. We know that Wallquist was far from the first bishop to issue such recommendations. In 1758 Engelbert Halenius (1700–1767), Bishop of Skara 1753–1767, had endorsed such a practice during his visitations, and a few years later the powerful and conservative Bishop of Strängnäs, Jacob Serenius (1700–1776), had issued similar instructions to his area deans.³⁰ In fact, the rite suggested at the Riksdag of 1769–1770 had as its finale the communion of the recently confirmed (but it left the exact manner in which the rite was to be performed undefined).

Given that the introduction of such a novel practice went against the largely collectivistic nature (above all in a rural context) of early modern Sweden, one might easily connect it to rising pietist and/or Enlightenment sentiment and frames of mind. The individualizing drift of both aforementioned ‘movements’ is well known; but it should also be borne in mind that leading adherents of Lutheran orthodoxy had had their qualms vis-à-vis the ingrained collectivism of much of the population.³¹ There was more than a degree of ambivalence in their attitude. On the one hand, traditionally orientated ecclesiastics were always suspicious of attitudes that could be associated with what they saw as an ex opere operato way of understanding communion (in other words, that the rite in itself, without repentance and belief, was a religiously effective act). Such attitudes reeked of Catholicism (as they understood it, that is). On the other hand, such acts could be understood as perfectly natural representations of the pious community. They were reflections of the prescribed social order according to which the household was the fundamental component of the Lutheran ecclesiastical edifice.³²

It is evident that a majority among the local clergy, and indeed a significant number among the bishops, had been prepared not only to tolerate but to endorse collectivistic habits. Of course, most parish clergy realized the need to come to a modus vivendi with their parishioners; if reforms were needed, you had to tread carefully in order not to upset the religious instincts of the people at large – this was part of the rural ecclesiastical ‘political culture’. However, a change began in the latter half of the eighteenth century. Whereas an older breed of Lutheran orthodox clergy had been relatively tolerant towards the vestiges of traditional religion, new generations – touched by Enlightenment and/or pietist ideas, tastes and practices – were not equally patient. For the new to gain ground, traces of the old had to be removed.³³

The following sections take a closer look at how the rectors of the diocese responded to this set of instructions in their written replies to the bishop. Did they notice the ways in which Wallquist’s suggested rite ran against the customs, and backbone reflexes, of a majority among their parishioners? What impact did the bishop’s instructions have?

Opposition and compliance: the rectors’ responses

Judging from the communications the rectors sent to their bishop in response to his questionnaire, liturgical usage was already being employed in the diocese, albeit only in a limited number of parishes. Of the all in all fourteen responses indicating that such a practice was already in place, two came from benefices where Wallquist had already managed to intervene to promote change.³⁴ The remaining twelve included the city parish of Jönköping. In terms of geography, these benefices were fairly well distributed across the diocese. In other words, novel practices were neither restricted to, nor did they emanate from, any particular regions within the diocese. The only observable pattern is that most rectors who tended to affirm that the bishop’s instructions were already in place were those that had been recently appointed to their livings.³⁵ Two out of three had been beneficed during the 1780s. This by no means amounts to suggesting that it was among the younger clergy that such habits spread (only the best-connected among the clergy could expect to be appointed to a benefice before the age of forty), but perhaps that such alterations were more easily carried out when the rector was new in post.

A majority among the rectors testified to the continued strength of household communion. According to the acting vicar of Skatelöv’s parish, Per Abraham Bursie (1758–1840):

Lars Rosengren (1723–1807), a blacksmith’s son who in his late fifties had managed to secure the living of Ölmstad in the northernmost part of the diocese, had even devised a somewhat unusual ritual to be used in his parish. It included prayers and communion not only for the young catechumens but also for their parents. Before the rest of the congregation, they were summoned to the altar to receive communion together.³⁷

It is also noticeable that not every rector who had introduced the custom of a liturgical confirmation (often with apparent similarities with the confirmation rite introduced in Denmark in 1736) had included a separate communion for the young. The learned rector of Visingsö’s benefice, Johannes Almqvist (1731–1816), who many believed would have been appointed bishop in 1787 instead of Wallquist, mentions that upon confirmation, young people had hitherto been granted liberty to register for Holy Communion ‘whenever they wished’.³⁸ With the bishop’s instructions in place, however, this was to change. In the future, declared Almqvist, the act of communion was to be an integral part of confirmation.

It was the clergy’s backbone reflex, and their bounden duty, to adhere to the decree of their superiors. Acting vicar of Kulltorp Carl Rosenblad (1755–1810), eager to please his superior, mentioned that he had already announced this alteration from the pulpit.³⁹ Others declared an even greater enthusiasm when reading the new bishop’s instruction, recognizing in his edict the establishment of a rite of confirmation and an evolution of ideals they had cherished themselves. Jonas Johan Lagergren (1759–1833), at that time acting vicar of Svarttorp’s benefice, affirmed: ‘what greater satisfaction than to demonstrate one’s serene obedience in matters that surely promote God’s glory and must appear edifying and moving to both young and old hearts’.⁴⁰ Interestingly enough, quite a few of these rectors mentioned that an act of confirmation would elicit pious emotions on the part of the congregation; they might add that such acts would provide ample opportunities to instruct the entire congregation in ‘practical Christianity’. Yet in some answers we can sense more than a bit of hesitation as to the feasibility of such a reform in local parish life. Carl Lundh (1729–1796), rector of Fröderyd’s benefice, declared, somewhat waveringly, his willingness to follow ‘what the Most Reverend Bishop had benevolently decreed, zealous for the glory of God and the true prosperity of the young, I will as far as possible, through the grace of God, observe’.⁴¹

In spite of the natural inclination of the clergy, there were a few that protested against the bishop’s instructions. The rector of Moheda benefice, Magnus Stålhös (1734–1790), for instance, objected on the grounds that such a novelty would be unworkable in large and populous parishes. He also mentioned that a departure from household communion would go against the religious instincts of both young and old: ‘On such a tender occasion the child wishes to accompany its father and mother, and the father and mother desire to have their offspring in joy … by their side on Good Friday or on Easter Sunday.’⁴² On similar grounds, Nils Alin (1732–1784) – rector of Järstorp on the outskirts of Jönköping and a man, unlike Stålhös, inclined to express Enlightenment sentiment – remonstrated against a departure from the habit of household communion. When the young were to receive communion together with their parents for the first time, this was an act that elicited ‘much pious stirring’ among those involved. Even though Alin declared his willingness to adhere to the bishop’s ‘method’ (the standard term used in eighteenth-century Swedish) in every other respect, he was apparently reluctant to abandon this custom, even at his bishop’s bidding.⁴³

As we have seen, the rectors’ responses to the bishop’s instructions were varied. As mediators they had to find a way to abide by the instructions of their superior; and yet, simultaneously, they needed to maintain the confidence of their parishioners. Historical research has revealed that the Swedish parish council (sockenstämman) provided an arena for debate on certain customs related to the liturgical life of the parish church. It was far from the humdrum gathering where landholding farmers, under the auspices of their rector and local gentry, were only to decide on matters related to the fabric of the local church or the upkeep of the rectory.⁴⁴ Interestingly enough, Wallquist cautions the rectors in his questionnaire not to let matters regulated by Church Law (and, implicitly, by ecclesiastical authorities) be subjects of debate on parish councils.⁴⁵ Some rectors were, understandably, reluctant to enforce reform because they feared opposition among their flock (or, perhaps, because they were themselves tied to the customs of old). Others greeted Wallquist’s instructions with enthusiasm. Measures suggested by Wallquist were lauded as they were deemed to result in religious uplift among the populace at large.

Wallquist’s questionnaire and its aftermath

What happened after the rectors had sent their replies to their bishop? Can we establish that Wallquist’s questionnaire actually resulted in changes in local church practices regarding the instruction of the parish youth? The only way to ascertain this is to consult the preserved church records. Even though eighteenth-century Swedish clergymen were diligent keepers of records on their flocks, there are limits to the usefulness of the documents they compiled. Preserved communion records (of which there are many) were composed in such a manner that they do not reveal the introduction of individualizing communion practices. These records allow us to see which households took communion on a given Sunday, but not the exact order in which the members of a household received the sacrament. Even though the parish youth who had recently passed their examinations may have received communion independently, their kin may have followed them just a few minutes later during the same service.

Alternative sources that may be consulted are the books of announcements (pålysningsböcker) kept for each church. In these records, the preacher mostly noted messages orally presented to the congregation regarding coming services or more general changes concerning the liturgical life. It seems probable that the changes suggested by the bishop would have been announced in due time to the entire congregation and therefore noted in these books. The only problem is that the information recorded in these volumes was understood to be of an ephemeral character; very few of them have survived to the present day. For the years 1787 and 1788, only two such volumes are preserved for the Diocese of Växjö. It is interesting to note that both these books (for the parishes of Åseda and Moheda, where, as we have seen, the recalcitrant Magnus Stålhös was rector) contain notes revealing that the rector announced the alteration initiated by Wallquist to their flock in good time before Easter.⁴⁶ That the separate communion of the catechumens was explicitly mentioned in both parishes indicates that this was a controversial measure which should be imbued with the authority of official dictate.

Local changes can also be observed if we take a closer look at visitation records. During the summer months of 1788, Wallquist embarked on an extensive tour of the southern parts of the diocese. Within two months, no less than eighteen parishes were inspected by the energetic bishop with entourage. The preserved and detailed minutes reveal that Wallquist used both the questionnaire and the submitted answers as templates for interviews conducted with the local rector. Here, Wallquist once more emerges as a systematic and rational bureaucrat bent on using his authority to secure the full obedience of his subordinates. In almost every case, the local clergyman affirmed that the bishop’s recommended changes had been followed meticulously. Whether this was in fact the case is, of course, a completely different matter. On one occasion, in the small parish of Hallaryd, the minutes reveal that the bishop decided to address the issue of an altered communion ritual in the presence of the entire congregation.⁴⁷ The reasons for this decision remain unclear, but it is likely that the bishop’s choice was motivated by acts of resistance on the part of the local community.

The questionnaire of 1787 made a final appearance at the diocesan synod of clergy of 1793. According to the printed transcripts of this gathering (that the proceedings were printed for the benefit of a reading public was in itself a novelty at this time), the bishop frequently used both visitation transcripts and his dispatch of 1787 to remind the assembled clergy of their obligations. When it came to instruction of the parish youth, the bishop was emphatic in his insistence that this was a prime duty of all parish clergy. Instructions given in the questionnaire were to be followed to the last detail. In the mind of the bishop, such fidelity was not without its compensations: ‘the Teacher reaps benefits in his office, love and reverence from all his listeners’.⁴⁸ In the end, to a late eighteenth-century ecclesiastic the fulfilment of one’s duty was not only to be rewarded in the world to come.

Conclusion

‘Gradual reforms for sensible reasons, obedience and fidelity to the Code and those in positions of authority, proper benevolence and fellowship to all, in particular to the common people with whom my brethren in office must live, [these] I struggled to impart.’⁴⁹ In this manner Wallquist summarized his efforts during the 1793 clergy synod in a letter to the pastor of his home parish in central Sweden. Indeed, it could be seen as an idealized summary of how this gifted eighteenth-century ecclesiastic understood his episcopacy.

When considering the wider theme of this volume, what could be learnt from the ways in which Wallquist contrived to instigate religious change within a solidified statutory framework, and from the ways in which the rectors responded to the wishes of their bishop? This chapter seems to point in the direction of a – far from surprising – ‘received view’ of the Enlightenment in a Nordic (and indeed a European) rural setting. New ideas were launched by a high-ranking member of a clerical elite, negotiated by (clerical) intermediaries and resisted by the people at large. Wallquist was far from being the only high-ranking proponent of Enlightenment who used a position of authority to promote change.

Yet on closer inspection the encounter between Wallquist, the rectors and the parishioners – whose voices are only heard here as mediated by local clerics – reveal some intriguing features.

The episcopal duty to interpret the Church Law and to establish uniformity in religious customs within the diocese was used by Wallquist to enforce a new practice which went against the deep-seated collectivism of a rural majority. In Wallquist’s hands, the language of uniformity became a means not only to secure the religious ethos of confessional Lutheran culture, but to pursue an individualizing practice and train of thought. In other words, at a micro-level we have seen how Wallquist employed the rationale of confessional culture to promote Enlightenment in a rural setting. This testifies to a process of gradual, microscopic dislocations in which key elements of a previous social order were overtaken step by step by different standards of behaviour.

The urge to improve the people at large was actually not a feature novel to the eighteenth century, nor did it arrive with the Enlightenment. On the contrary, Lutheran confessional culture was imbued with notions of reform. The people were to live in conformity with certain religious and social standards. To a clerical elite, they (as a collective) were always seen as wanting. Especially during the first half of the eighteenth century, when it was widely believed that Moravianism and early Pietism were threatening the religious unity of the nation, the need to reform and elevate the laity was strongly felt among elites. Wallquist stood in a long line of bishops who aimed to improve the people. Changes that must have been seen as novelties in the eyes of ordinary people had occurred long before the advent of Enlightenment. Wallquist’s directives offer an example of how the struggle for what was considered the religious improvement of the populace gained new connotations. For the rectors, as well as their parishioners, his measures were but the latest expression of imposed change that had to be negotiated and interpreted in the local arena.

The changes brought by the Enlightenment were innovations in the rural milieu, yet the struggle for reform was in itself far from a new thing in late eighteenth-century Sweden. If we attempt to see the changes imposed by Bishop Wallquist from the vantage point of the eighteenth-century rural Swedish milieu, we may even ask ourselves: was the Enlightenment such a ‘big deal’ after all? It brought innovation that followed other innovations and measures of reform (although the latter were bearers of a different theological and philosophical stance). To put it another way, when the Enlightenment did become a ‘big deal’ – when conflict arose upon the introduction of new practices – was this due to an intrinsic ‘quality’ in the alterations implemented, or to a failure to establish a new point of convergence in local society?