ourselves from those who reject us, and all of this simply that we can worship our common Father in the spirit He intended. now, ironically, He has visited upon this city's whites a plague of medieval proportions. It is a swift disease. It can kill in a single day. Week by week, the death toll mounts. Frightened whites flee this capital city of Philadelphia by the thousands, abandoning their families and friends. Those who remain are helpless in the grip of this growing malignancy, for the country's government is paralyzed. The crisis is unparalleled in this country's history. But word has spread that Negroes are immune to the disease, which is not true, of course. Nonetheless, the Abelites believe we are protected, and so Dr. Benjamin Rush, knowing of the leadership position I occupy through God's grace among my own people, has appealed to me to plead with them to assist the city's remaining civic leaders in combating the curse that is laying them low.
I prayedâand prayedâon his proposal. And in the midst of my appeal to the Most High for guidance, I remembered the injunction, "Bear ye one another's burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ" (Galatians 6:2). This crisis, the Lord let me see, is possibly our invitation as a people back from our exile east of Eden. If we help the Abelites in their hour of need, mightn't they be thankful to the Negroes of Philadelphia? Wouldn't their hatred be replaced by gratitude? Such has been my hope since I enlisted my people in the dangerous work of saving others who have long despised them.
JULY 21, 1793
SUNDAY , 6 P.M.
Preached four sermons today in the Commons, in Southwark, and Northern Liberties, and as always after such a day I feel a bit emotionally drained, yet also exhilarated, so I know it will be difficult to fall asleep at my usual hour of 9 P.M. But do I preach? It seems more fitting to say that when I stand before my people, the Book in my left hand, the words come flooding out of me, as if I were merely a conduit, an anonymous instrument through which the music of our Lord and Savior bursts forth. Afterwards, it's true, I cannot recall everything I said, though the laity always seem pleased and tell me that I am good. No, I've told them time again, not I but the Father within me doeth the works, and I ask them to read Matthew 19:17.
However, that glow that comes after a day of sermonizing lasted no longer than it took for me to step back onto the streets of Philadelphia and begin my walk home. The dead lie in ditches alongside the roads. I saw a white child who was crying, wandering about like a phantom because she has the plague and her parents turned her out into the street. They did not want her to infect the test of their family. Yellow fever is no respecter of age, color, sex, caste, or social positionâthe doctors are dying just as swiftly as their patients, which reminds me that I must look in on Dr. Benjamin Rush, a good and decent white man, and a true Abolitionist.
Note: My businesses need attention.
One other thing about this plague troubles me. God does nothing, we know, without having a purpose in mind. We cannot, of course, fathom His will entirely, though my hope, as I've written, is that this affliction will soften the hearts of whites to the Negroes laboring to help them. But is there a deeper message in this sickness that has befallen Philadelphia like the Flood, or locusts darkening the sky? I have taken this question each day into my mid-afternoon meditation, but as of yet I have no answer.
***
AUGUST 6, 1793
TUESDAY, 5:20 P.M.
Spent this morning digging a common grave outside the city for burying the dead, which we loaded onto wagons at 6 A.M. Three of my congregation and I rode slowly up one street, down another, shouting, "Bring out your dead." Which six people did, dragging the corpses from their homes, then pitching them onto our wagon. As we bore them out of town, I looked back at their bodies. They were heaped together like
I prayedâand prayedâon his proposal. And in the midst of my appeal to the Most High for guidance, I remembered the injunction, "Bear ye one another's burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ" (Galatians 6:2). This crisis, the Lord let me see, is possibly our invitation as a people back from our exile east of Eden. If we help the Abelites in their hour of need, mightn't they be thankful to the Negroes of Philadelphia? Wouldn't their hatred be replaced by gratitude? Such has been my hope since I enlisted my people in the dangerous work of saving others who have long despised them.
JULY 21, 1793
SUNDAY , 6 P.M.
Preached four sermons today in the Commons, in Southwark, and Northern Liberties, and as always after such a day I feel a bit emotionally drained, yet also exhilarated, so I know it will be difficult to fall asleep at my usual hour of 9 P.M. But do I preach? It seems more fitting to say that when I stand before my people, the Book in my left hand, the words come flooding out of me, as if I were merely a conduit, an anonymous instrument through which the music of our Lord and Savior bursts forth. Afterwards, it's true, I cannot recall everything I said, though the laity always seem pleased and tell me that I am good. No, I've told them time again, not I but the Father within me doeth the works, and I ask them to read Matthew 19:17.
However, that glow that comes after a day of sermonizing lasted no longer than it took for me to step back onto the streets of Philadelphia and begin my walk home. The dead lie in ditches alongside the roads. I saw a white child who was crying, wandering about like a phantom because she has the plague and her parents turned her out into the street. They did not want her to infect the test of their family. Yellow fever is no respecter of age, color, sex, caste, or social positionâthe doctors are dying just as swiftly as their patients, which reminds me that I must look in on Dr. Benjamin Rush, a good and decent white man, and a true Abolitionist.
Note: My businesses need attention.
One other thing about this plague troubles me. God does nothing, we know, without having a purpose in mind. We cannot, of course, fathom His will entirely, though my hope, as I've written, is that this affliction will soften the hearts of whites to the Negroes laboring to help them. But is there a deeper message in this sickness that has befallen Philadelphia like the Flood, or locusts darkening the sky? I have taken this question each day into my mid-afternoon meditation, but as of yet I have no answer.
***
AUGUST 6, 1793
TUESDAY, 5:20 P.M.
Spent this morning digging a common grave outside the city for burying the dead, which we loaded onto wagons at 6 A.M. Three of my congregation and I rode slowly up one street, down another, shouting, "Bring out your dead." Which six people did, dragging the corpses from their homes, then pitching them onto our wagon. As we bore them out of town, I looked back at their bodies. They were heaped together like
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