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The Roaring '20s were a decade of flappers, bathtub gin, prohibition, movies and an opportunity for America's most noted evangelist, Bill Sunday, to "hit a home run for Christ." For although America was becoming increasingly urbanized and secularized, old Americans still cried out for the tried, true and familiar - the Old Gospel. And Billy Sunday knew how to deliver.
A talent for baseball drew the attention of manager Cap Anson to Billy Sunday in 1883, and he began his first career in the infield for the old Chicago White Stockings that year. Eight years later he became converted, or "born again" as the popular expression phrased it, and launched a thirty year career as an evangelist where his plain-speaking and bedrock beliefs drew thousands who shared his beliefs. His earlier career as a big-league baseball player augmented his image, particularly among the young boys who were brought to the tent-meetings and chataqua revivals by their parents.
As Dr. Sunday (he received a honorary Doctor of Divinity degree from Westminster College) put it,
I want to preach the gospel so plainly that men can come from the factories and not have to bring a dictionary.
Never one for subtlety, Billy Sunday admitted that he "knew less about theology than a jackrabbit knew about ping pong," but was convinced that those who drank, danced, and played cards were on the road to perdition. He frowned upon movie-going and wasn't fond of the fashions of the 1920s.
It's a damnable insult some of the rigs a lot of fool women are wearing up and down our streets.... No man with good, rich red blood in his veins can look at them with prayer meeting thoughts.
In 1915, at the height of his career, Billy Sunday came to Omaha, Nebraska at the request of local ministers. He stayed for nearly two months in order to rid the city of "civic vice, greed, corruption, and liquor." In an 11,000 seat tabernacle built expressly for his appearance, Sunday went to bat for the Lord, inveighed against the sins and evil of the day and invited the audience to "hit the trail." "Converts" came forward at the close of the sermons to "accept Christ as their Savior."
Most of the local newspapers printed Sunday's sermons in their entirety, although conceding that the language and pulpit antics of the evangelist were extraordinary. But the Omaha Excelsior took exception after Sunday labeled Omaha society matrons as "selfish prigs" without whom "the world would be well off." Another Omaha newspaper found Sunday's campaign emphasis on the offering plate decidedly un-Christlike." The editor of the Omaha Examiner also doubted that Jesus would suggest "smashing anyone in the jaw," as Sunday proposed; and unlike the preacher, the editor noted that Jesus "forgave his critics and enemies. He didn't tell them to go to hell."
Vigorously opposed to the theory of evolution, Sunday denounced those who accepted it as "bull-necked, beetle-browed, hog-jowled, peanut-brained, weasel-eyed, four-flushers, false alarms and excess baggage." He also came down on the Christian Science Church, categorizing the religion as "three parts mental suggestion, three parts Hindoophitia, and ninety one parts pure humbug." The crusade was a huge success. Sunday had touched a responsive cord in his audience. When the campaign ended, more than 742,000 people had heard Sunday preach. Some 13,000 had experienced a "second birth" or "spiritual renewal," and professed their commitment to the Billy Sunday brand of Christianity.
Some critics questioned the long-term effects of the crusade, pointing out that almost 45% of the converts were children who came forward at special juvenile meetings. Others questioned the length of the conversion of the adults. Unfazed by such criticism, Sunday retorted "They tell me a revival is only temporary; so is a bath, but it does you good." One thing about which there is no question. Sunday's seven-week "clean-up" of Omaha was a phenomenon that the citizens would not soon forget. Ten years later, Sinclair Lewis, searching for a central figure to illustrate the old line Protestant evangelist in his classic novel, Elmer Gantry,looked no further than the figure of Billy Sunday.
By 1935, Sunday had preached to millions in over two hundred campaigns. He was a moving figure behind the enactment of the Prohibition Amendment and saw the hand of God behind America's involvement in World War I. But his forte was that of an independent evangelistic crusader, a role outside of the normal confines of denominational authority which dates back to at least the 1840s when American experienced their second "Great Awakening." and the Protestant Evangelists made their first appearance.
Sunday's revival meetings were held in temporary structures called tabernacles erected out of wood, specifically for the event. After the "crusade," the "tabernacle" could be torn down and the lumber sold to help recover costs. Since such amenities as flooring were considered too expensive for a temporary shelter, the tabernacle had sawdust strewn across the aisles. Those who responded to Sunday's "alter call" to come forward and profess their commitment to Christ, literally "hit the sawdust trail." A committee of local pastors and others, invited Sunday to their city and usually paid for and built the tabernacle. They also were responsible for "following-up" on the new converts in order to sustain their commitment. About two dozen associates were needed to help Sunday organize and lead his meetings.
Large scale evangelistic campaigns received much less national attention after the first world war. However they continued to be an important of the life of fundamentalist and pentecostal churches. Sunday was affected by a parallel decrease in his national exposure and influence, although until his death he never lacked invitations to speak and hold campaigns. Besides leading meetings, Sunday spent much of his time defending the constitutional amendment on the prohibition of alcoholic beverage and fighting its repeal. He was involved as well in the management of the Winona Bible Conference (later Winona Institutions and later the Winona Christian Assembly). Personal troubles such as the well publicized difficulties and divorces of his sons, George Marquis and William Ashley, added great sorrow and financial difficulties of his later years. He suffered greatly from major illnesses in 1918, 1933, and the early part of 1935. Other trials were the death of his daughter, Helen, in 1932, and his son, George Marquis, in 1933, an apparent suicide. Throughout most of 1935, he was in poor health and for this reason was unable to attend the ceremony at Bob Jones College at which a Doctor of Divinity degree was conferred upon him. (He had also received a Doctor of Laws degree from Westmont College in 1912.) He died November 5 of that year in Chicago from a heart attack. His memorial service was held at Moody Church in Chicago on November 9.
