Though the letter of the Constitution does not use the word ” slave,” yet in its representative basis, if not in its fugitive clause, there is a recognition of its existence, a bowing to its behests, Two small States, by their firmness and vehemence, brought the other eleven to their feet, made them surrender their convictions, and obey the soft voice, but nailed arm, of Belial. AlViat though Franklin and Jay organize abolition societies, and Washington and Jefferson favor emancipation, and Madison gets the word ” slavery excluded from the Constitution? What though every cliinen-t tnan of the age is hostile to the iniquity? Still they let it find entrance into their Constitution. It is there, entrenched in the national fortress; it knocks at all objections and objectors, and commences its march to universal dominion.

When the sons of God came together for their sublime deliberations, Satan came also; and though, as in the days of Job, he gained not every point, yet, more than with him, he gained the chief, and, with the gleefulness of perdition, he snatched at his success, and plotted and waited, waited and plotted, year and year, for larger prizes. He won them.

A law to execute more perfectly the Fugitive Slave clause followed within six years. A law which never could have passed the First Congress passed the Third. A law which would have been pronounced unconstitutional by the founders of the Constitution triumphed under the very eyes of those founders. And the hand of Washington signed his name as president to an edict which five years before he would have abhorred himself for approving.

New territory is sought. Louisiana is purchased. She seeks erection into States. The strife commences afresh. Again the slave power gains all it wants by asking for more; and Missouiri, Louisiana, Arkansas wheel into line under its pirate flag, while the desert lands, which will not be needed for a generation, are professedly abandoned to freedom, then, as of old, driven into the wilderness thence, also as of old, to be driven out when its enemy would make this desert his dwelling-place. In that controversy slavery triumphed. Many then saw that when those remoter regions became the seat of population, it would claim them as its own, would make them its owni. But then it could not have been done. The spirit of the fathers was not yet utterly lost. One half only of the fair acres was given up to this ravenous beast. One half alone of its pure soil was to be wet with the blood of God’s persecuted saints. One half of its air was to be filled with shrieks under the scourge, with moans over sold and stolen children, with the unutterable agony of that prison-house of humanity. The anaconda rested content with its gorged appetite, which two hundred thousand square miles had momentarily satisfied, assured that thlose who had granted him so much would bestow the balance when his appetite returned. His assurance was well grounded.

But before that hour came, the old religious and philanthropic anti-slavery sentiment, which had glowed in the souls that burned with the revolutionary fires, was kindled afresh. A little, despised sect, their name a stench in the nostrils of the country and the Church, cast out of men as evil, lifted up their voice like a trumpet, and told the house of Israel its transgressions, and the house of Judah its sins. They started from the only Christian, the only true basis – sympathy with the slave as a son of man and a son of God, an heir of heaven, a joint heir with Jesus Christ. This was new doctrine to our degenerate fears – a doctrine no Church in this land had ever fully and faithfully preached. We mocked at and reviled them. We drove them from our churches, halls, and homes. We hauled them before our judgment-seats. We issued edicts against them from State and National Congresses, and executive speeches from the chairs of governors and presidents. What the Madisons and Jeffersons, the Hancocks and Storys, would have approved was denounced and proscribed by the Van Burens and Everetts of this generation.

Still they fought for the right. It may be with lack of discretion, yet how shall you and I in our idleness dare to take up a railing accusation against them? How dare you say that William Lloyd Garrison, George Thompson, Orange Scott, and their compeers were not the wisest of their generation in action, as they certainly were in their fears, their prophecies, and their entreaties? Their errors will yet be lost in the splendor of their daring, sincerity, and zeal. If ever freedom becomes the possession, as it is the birthright, of every man in this land, he who will be honored with the loftiest monument a monument built by every hand that has been raised against him – will be that yet hated and proscribed, that somewhat error-led, but for more truth-led, man, William Lloyd Garrison.

This stone, cut out of the mountain without hands, rolled by few but tireless arms, grew, and grew, until, when the slave power set up its claim to national domain, a new voice mingled in the tumults of the hour, and made its triumphs Bunker Hill victories, that betokened an ultimate destruction.

Again the anaconda stirs. It demands Texas – Texas with a war; and it wins. It claims that the new regions acquired by war should be his, and they are given it. Maddened with lust and success, it says, ” Return to me my fugitives hiding in your own Free States; give me that nurse and playmate of your children; that industrious citizen whose family looks up to him for protection; the minister from the altar. They are mine.” And all the people hasten to give them up. No, not all. Among the faithless, faithful stood a few. Seven thousand were found who bent not the knee to this Baal of America. May they soon become seventy times seven, and deliver the land from this idolatry and the Jezreel abominations which so fiercely flourish under its dominion.

PART THREE (COMING SOON)

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Source: University of Michigan, Making of America, National Sermons, The Death of Freedom

Further Reading

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Another of my former FaithWriters Challenge entries…

Slough of Despondence – 08.14.08

I sat in the crook of a majestic Tupelo, bewildered and betwixt. Shadows, formed by a yellow half-moon, taunted my imagination. Beyond the stinging and ringing in my head came the ratcheting click-click-click of the King Rail and the throaty yelp of the Black Crowned Heron. Rather than speaking to me, they seemed to speak about me. A mosquito buzzed relentless about my ear as if it too had something to say.

The gray woolen jacket that hung on my shoulders was damp and cold. A fire would lift my spirit. As I gathered small sticks and twigs, I noticed a bullet-shaped hole in my right sleeve, stained red. A fire might not be safe, but I was strangely cold. I placed the woody bundle on the soft mossy ground.

As I drew out a small box of Lucifers from my pocket, a paper fell to the ground, but it was unreadable in the faint light. I struck a match and lit the bundle. Hungry flames licked at the twigs as I added more to the pile. The growing fire cast new shadows that frolicked and danced with those of the moon above. I reached for the paper and through blurred eyes made out the bold text: “Lieutenant Fallon, 35th Alabama Regiment.”

“No, its Jeff…” the strange words came from my mouth with mixed restraint. I sat down to warm myself. “Secesh.” That didn’t sound right. My memory was a jumble of thoughts and scarce reality. Another word came, “Yellow Hammer.”

Something inside told me the voice was out of place. There was a distinct tone and inflection that jerked at my conscience. I looked at the paper again. A sudden rush of hatred and pain boiled up so hot within me that I doubled over on my side.

A single ray of sun warmed my face and woke me from my slumber. I raised my hand to shield my eyes and through crimson stained fingers I saw a familiar form. Above me, in the jumble of tupelo and cypress, two limbs came together to form a cross. Another round of ringing came and I fought off the urge to close my eyes.

My right hand failed me, so with my left, I pushed against the ground and rose to my knees. “My Lord, my God, I have forgotten myself, but I have not forgotten you. I pray that if it be your will, that I may be rescued from this present trouble.”

A breeze stirred up the stale air and the whisper through Spanish moss calmed me. Then, above the breeze, I heard footsteps splashing and dripping from behind. There was nowhere to run! I reached for a pistol that should have been there, but it wasn’t. I searched my belt, jacket, and the ground around me, but for naught.

I leapt into the crook of the tree and waited, and listened. The King Rail and Heron were gone, but the faithful mosquito still nipped at my ear. I wanted to swat but dared not move. The buzz grew louder as the footsteps drew near, then all went silent. I risked a slight turn to get a look.

In front of me, ankle deep in the dank brown slough stood a chestnut mare with an empty saddle. With little to lose, I approached her with tender, easy steps. She turned her head towards me and appeared to snicker at my caution. I grabbed the reigns, stepped into the stirrup and lifted myself onto her muscular back.

Without knowing where I was, or where to go, I gave her a mild nudge and let the reigns hang free. Her gentle steps carried us forward through the mud and water and soon found solid ground. The gentle, familiar sway of her gait lulled me to sleep.

“Whoa there!” The voice startled me from my dreams and I began to slide from the saddle. Someone caught me. “It’s Lieutenant Jeffries! Call the surgeon at once!”

The word “surgeon” snapped me from my haze. “Bully for the surgeon! He’ll saw my arm of for the joy of it. Take me to Chaplain Reynolds. I reached into the saddlebag and removed a map marked with my own hand. “Make sure this gets to Colonel Maskin. The marks are the enemy positions.”

I reached Chaplain Reynolds’ tent and he allowed me to fall upon his cot. “So Lieutenant, how is the life of a spy?”

“Chaplain, I did my job, and God did His.”

I knew of course that I would be able to put it down due to my rather busy schedule, but I thanked her none-the-less. I got home and put it on my nightstand, then it migrated to my closet. One Saturday afternoon I found myself with a few hours to myself so I picked up The Shack.

Two hours later I was still holding The Shack and turning page after page. I found it very well written from an entertaining point of view. I came across a few theological points that I didn’t agree with completely, but I was so interested in the end, I continued reading.

Now, Mr. Young has repeatedly disclaimed his interest in teaching theology through The Shack, which is good because as a theology book is concerned, this one misses the mark. On the other hand, God’s love shines through in so many layers that it encouraged and inspired me.

I don’t like to read reviews with spoilers so I would be remiss to write any spoiler information of my own here. All I can say is that if you want a suspenseful, sometimes humerous glimpse into a wonderfully crafted fictional tale that touches on some of the beautiful aspects of God the Father, I encourage you to read this book. If you are worried that your theology could be led askew by a fictional tale that can come across in some places as theological, please find a more suitable book.

As for me, once I finished the book, I spent several cool winter nights in front of the fireplace reading The Shack to my wife and children. They enjoyed it and the suspense held over from each time I had to close the book to the next time I opened it.

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"Eástre" by Jacques Reich - 1909

No, I didn’t ignore my spell-checker on this one. Before I delve a little deeper, please note that my intended use for this blog is rarely, if ever, to publish intrinsically researched facts and opinions. From day-to-day I experience a myriad of thoughts and ideas and sometimes my eyes come across things that either surprise or intrigue me. Such items are kindling for further study, but in the meantime, such incomplete thoughts and ideas are placed upon this medium for others to comment upon and consider. Now to today’s entry.

Recently I was asked to put together a short radio drama skit portraying a Civil War soldier’s celebration of Easter. The challenge seemed simple enough so I began perusing my usual research nooks. A few hours later I had become rather frustrated with the fact that I had come up with nothing, nada, zilch!

In frustration I turned to my good friend Google, who can sometimes point me towards information that is at least suspectedly credible. What happened next was akin to an archaeologist digging to expect Roman artifacts, but instead finds items of the Mayan culture.

One of the first internet hits I came across was a posting from 2005 that gave a brief history of Easter Traditions. I have been aware for many years that many of the Christian holidays coincided with pagan holidays for a multitude of reasons. Therefore, most of what I read on this page was not as spectacular. However, when I came across the name of the pagan festival, “Eastre,” my breath stopped for a split second. I stared at that page for several minutes trying to decide whether to continue this rabbit trail or not. I continued and my jaw felt loose in its socket.

I did a little more Google mining and each hit confirmed what I had just read. I felt in some way violated. I grew up with Easter eggs and Easter bunnies and all that comes along with the traditional Easter celebration. Like most everyone else though, I was taught that these were Christian symbols of new birth and celebration. I was never taught that the origins of these things were pagan symbols whose use was in the worship and reverence of a pagan goddess named Eostre.

I am level-headed enough to know that our Christian leaders are not worshipping ?ostre and that kids love egg hunts and little chocolate bunnies. I also firmly believe that doing so certainly does not place one’s salvation and/or soul in jeopardy. However, as the very resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead is the crux upon which Christianity stands separate from every other religion, I am somewhat dismayed that we name that most holy of days after a pagan goddess. WHY!

Just like the birth of Christ has been taken over by Wal-Mart and Toys-R-Us, the rebirth of Christ has been taken over by Cadbury and well, Wal-Mart. Since this discovery, my whole body twinges at the mere mention of the word Easter.

It would be my hope that we of the Christian faith could muster enough courage to break ties with tradition and begin taking back our most holy of celebrations, starting with its name. In fact, there are countries and ethnicities who have never given into the taking of a pagan name for the resurrection of Christ.

The following names refer to passover, but recently I am more inclined to maintain the name passover than Easter.

Greek/Latin: Pascha
Arabic: Pesach
Spanish: la Pascua
Italian: Pasqua
Portugese: Páscoa

Actually, from what I have found so far, the Macedonians, Ukrainians and Bulgarians are among the few who got it right. Their names for this celebration are defined as “Great Day.”

Macedonian: Velykden
Ukrainian: Velikden
Bulgarian: Vyalikdzyen

I know there are plenty of readers out there that would label me a literalist or a fundamentalist for this reformed thinking. They may even think I am absurd for wanting to move away from the word Easter, but in my way of thinking, words have meanings and definitions. The true meaning and definition of the word Easter points to a pagan godess and a pagan celebration. The apostles would have never associated the name Easter with their risen savior, so why should I; why should you?

Think of the pagans who roll on the floors of their homes while they see Christians rolling colored eggs and biting the heads off of chocolate bunnies in celebration of their godess.

This is why I have been unable to find any information regarding the celebration of Easter by Civil War soldiers. It was not until AFTER the Civil War that more European influences and traditions began to be practiced in the United States. I tend to think it is because there was so much religious tension before and during the Civil War over the interpretation of biblical slavery, that the population had grown weary of scripture battles. Rather than continue to fight for purity and righteousness, they let the sleeping dog lay. Unfortunately, when they turned the corner, that sleeping dog got up, found a mate and multiplied.

In conclusion, from this point forward, the celebration of our risen Savior will no longer be referred by me as Easter. Instead, at the very least, this will be Resurrection Day!

1. I, Patrick, a sinner, a most simple countryman, the least of all the faithful and most
contemptible to many, had for father the deacon Calpurnius, son of the late Potitus, a priest, of the settlement [vicus] of Bannavem Taburniae; he had a small villa nearby where I was taken captive. I was at that time about sixteen years of age. I did not, indeed, know the true God; and I was taken into captivity in Ireland with many thousands of people, according to our deserts, for quite drawn away from God, we did not keep his precepts, nor were we obedient to our priests who used to
remind us of our salvation. And the Lord brought down on us the fury of his being and scattered us among many nations, even to the ends of the earth, where I, in my smallness, am now to be found among foreigners.
2. And there the Lord opened my mind to an awareness of my unbelief, in order that, even so late, I might remember my transgressions and turn with all my heart to the Lord my God, who had regard for my insignificance and pitied my youth and ignorance. And he watched over me before I knew him, and before I learned sense or even distinguished between good and evil, and he protected me, and consoled me as a father would his son.
3. Therefore, indeed, I cannot keep silent, nor would it be proper, so many favours and graces has the Lord deigned to bestow on me in the land of my captivity. For after chastisement from God, and recognizing him, our way to repay him is to exalt him and confess his wonders before every nation under heaven.
4. For there is no other God, nor ever was before, nor shall be hereafter, but God the Father, unbegotten and without beginning, in whom all things began, whose are all things, as we have been taught; and his son Jesus Christ, who manifestly always existed with the Father, before the beginning of time in the spirit with the Father, indescribably begotten before all things, and all things visible and invisible were made by him. He was made man, conquered death and was received into Heaven, to the Father who gave him all power over every name in Heaven and on Earth and in Hell, so that every tongue should confess that Jesus Christ is Lord and God, in whom we believe. And we look
to his imminent coming again, the judge of the living and the dead, who will render to each according to his deeds. And he poured out his Holy Spirit on us in abundance, the gift and pledge of immortality, which makes the believers and the obedient into sons of God and co-heirs of Christ who is revealed, and we worship one God in the Trinity of holy name.
5. He himself said through the prophet: ‘Call upon me in the day of’ trouble; I will deliver you, and you shall glorify me.’ And again: ‘It is right to reveal and publish abroad the works of God.’
6. I am imperfect in many things, nevertheless I want my brethren and kinsfolk to know my nature so that they may be able to perceive my soul’s desire.

7. I am not ignorant of what is said of my Lord in the Psalm: ‘You destroy those who speak a lie.’ And again: ‘A lying mouth deals death to the soul.’ And likewise the Lord says in the Gospel: ‘On the day of judgment men shall render account for every idle word they utter.’
8. So it is that I should mightily fear, with terror and trembling, this judgment on the day when no one shall be able to steal away or hide, but each and all shall render account for even our smallest sins before the judgment seat of Christ the Lord.

You can read the entire document here:

http://www.ccel.org/ccel/patrick/confession.i.html