shuffling the pages on his podium in a vain attempt to remind himself of the next part of his oration. Rather than hiding his subterfuge, he would begin again, under the concept that the need to impart God’s wisdom was more important than hiding behind a façade.
The monotony of the circuit began to wear upon him; his restlessness was heightened by the disturbing news from the southern churches. Talk of secession should the “Black Republicans” come to power reached his ears in the run-up to the 1860 elections. The balance between slave and free states and territories was a decades-old topic. Secession, however, was a decidedly new and unthinkable one. Moreover, many in his circuit migrated and still had relations in Kentucky and Virginia; even as late as a generation prior, people with a decidedly southern flavor and sympathy were opening up the rich farmland in the river valleys. Although none brought slaves with them, they were uneasy with the abolitionist platform of the Republicans. The time of the campaign and vote was tense. Each visit to his societies was progressively more distressing with talk of dividing of the country. Many parishioners after vespers voiced support for the southern complaint that northern interests were wielding a heavy hand on their southern brethren, both financially and morally. When asked what the good Lord would say in those troubled times, Philip was unable to reconcile his own feelings from those of the movement.
Even the Methodist leadership could not answer that question with a unified voice. Word coming from the national assemblies was of bitter recriminations and debate as to the propriety of slavery and the clergy’s response based on biblical teachings. At times, in the debate chambers, a southern apologist would harangue his listeners with biblical proofs of God’s ordination of slavery, only to be replaced at the podium by a northern speaker who would use the same scripture to prove the opposite. Without a solid foundation to deal with the worried looks of his parishioners, Philip attempted to reason his own way through.
Then the unthinkable occurred. The Republicans were swept into the White House and both houses of Congress. South Carolina’s secession began the feared break-up of the country; one state after another followed her lead. Divided in loyalty by family ties to the states seceding, but contemptuous of the secession ordinances, the residents of the Ohio River valleys girded themselves for what was to come. Overnight, Methodists as a movement became sectional, though little divided them relationally. His parishioners whole-heartedly supported the federal government, and overnight the debates over God’s ordination of slavery ended.
The question of war had not manifested itself after the election, although both politicians and traveling orators fanned the patriotic fervor. In his own heart, Philip began to see a way that he could quietly slip away from the pressure he felt in tending to the spiritual needs of his circuit and not disappoint his father too terribly. He was torn by his desire to see the life through but relieve the burden of responsibility. Then, in 1861, the brazen acts of the Confederates in Charleston Harbor released a national tension that had peaked with the election of Abraham Lincoln. Faces that day were grim with the talk of war, and southern recalcitrance became indignity. Faint stirrings of his own patriotism were realized that day in Waynesville at a war rally. He would volunteer, not as a regimental chaplain, but as a foot soldier and join the familiar faces he found in the crowd from his own circuit.
Relieved at the release from his ministerial burdens and the chance to relinquish his collar, before the events of the Harper affair forced the Bishop’s hand, he bade farewell to his parents and joined with his fellow volunteers in Waynesville, Ohio. They traveled to Columbus by rail for muster into Federal service. The life of
The monotony of the circuit began to wear upon him; his restlessness was heightened by the disturbing news from the southern churches. Talk of secession should the “Black Republicans” come to power reached his ears in the run-up to the 1860 elections. The balance between slave and free states and territories was a decades-old topic. Secession, however, was a decidedly new and unthinkable one. Moreover, many in his circuit migrated and still had relations in Kentucky and Virginia; even as late as a generation prior, people with a decidedly southern flavor and sympathy were opening up the rich farmland in the river valleys. Although none brought slaves with them, they were uneasy with the abolitionist platform of the Republicans. The time of the campaign and vote was tense. Each visit to his societies was progressively more distressing with talk of dividing of the country. Many parishioners after vespers voiced support for the southern complaint that northern interests were wielding a heavy hand on their southern brethren, both financially and morally. When asked what the good Lord would say in those troubled times, Philip was unable to reconcile his own feelings from those of the movement.
Even the Methodist leadership could not answer that question with a unified voice. Word coming from the national assemblies was of bitter recriminations and debate as to the propriety of slavery and the clergy’s response based on biblical teachings. At times, in the debate chambers, a southern apologist would harangue his listeners with biblical proofs of God’s ordination of slavery, only to be replaced at the podium by a northern speaker who would use the same scripture to prove the opposite. Without a solid foundation to deal with the worried looks of his parishioners, Philip attempted to reason his own way through.
Then the unthinkable occurred. The Republicans were swept into the White House and both houses of Congress. South Carolina’s secession began the feared break-up of the country; one state after another followed her lead. Divided in loyalty by family ties to the states seceding, but contemptuous of the secession ordinances, the residents of the Ohio River valleys girded themselves for what was to come. Overnight, Methodists as a movement became sectional, though little divided them relationally. His parishioners whole-heartedly supported the federal government, and overnight the debates over God’s ordination of slavery ended.
The question of war had not manifested itself after the election, although both politicians and traveling orators fanned the patriotic fervor. In his own heart, Philip began to see a way that he could quietly slip away from the pressure he felt in tending to the spiritual needs of his circuit and not disappoint his father too terribly. He was torn by his desire to see the life through but relieve the burden of responsibility. Then, in 1861, the brazen acts of the Confederates in Charleston Harbor released a national tension that had peaked with the election of Abraham Lincoln. Faces that day were grim with the talk of war, and southern recalcitrance became indignity. Faint stirrings of his own patriotism were realized that day in Waynesville at a war rally. He would volunteer, not as a regimental chaplain, but as a foot soldier and join the familiar faces he found in the crowd from his own circuit.
Relieved at the release from his ministerial burdens and the chance to relinquish his collar, before the events of the Harper affair forced the Bishop’s hand, he bade farewell to his parents and joined with his fellow volunteers in Waynesville, Ohio. They traveled to Columbus by rail for muster into Federal service. The life of
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