Chapter Eight


The People's Temple, 1887-1888

On April 17, 1887, the Chicago Daily Inter Ocean reported, “A New Pastor: The members of Bethesda Baptist Church, Thirty–fourth and Butterfield streets, are jubilant indeed. The cause of it is that they have secured the Rev. Bird Wilkins, B. D. of St. Paul, Minn., for their pastor.” According to the article, my great-grandfather was reputed to be “the most eloquent colored preacher in America to-day.”1

In the 1880s religious leaders were considered celebrity figures by the press. When John Bird gave his first sermon at Bethesda Baptist Church, a Chicago Tribune reporter was there to cover the story. Rev. Wilkins is described as “of medium size, slender and graceful build, with very light complexion, and heavy, straight, black hair, which he wears long and combs back from his forehead in a pleasing manner. He has black side whiskers and mustache, but his chin is smooth shaven. In the pulpit he is perfectly self possessed, graceful, and fluent in speech.” My great-grandfather's liberal theology impressed the reporter: “Unlike most Baptists, he does not believe in future punishment by fire and brimstone, and says he ‘would rather preach no God at all than to preach that my God does all the dire, and dirty, and mean things some preachers say He does.’”²

Chicago was the ideal city for a person of Bird Wilkins's broad interests and boundless energy. The city's elite blacks were articulate, college educated, and passionately involved in the issues of the day. The Prudence Crandall Club, founded by journalist Fannie Barrier Williams, held weekly meetings to discuss the latest developments in science, literature, philosophy, and the arts, while Bethel African Methodist Episcopal Church and Quinn Chapel offered lectures by leading intellectuals on Sunday afternoons.³ These were exciting times, and the Reverend Bird Wilkins, always outspoken, was soon in the thick of a new controversy.

During the summer of 1887, a state law forbidding commerce on Sundays was being debated in the Illinois legislature. On June 13, the Reverend Dr. W. M. Lawrence, a prominent Chicago clergyman, preached a sermon to his white congregation supporting the bill. Sunday should be a religious—not a civil— holiday, Dr. Lawrence declared. On the same day, on the other side of town, Rev. Bird Wilkins addressed his congregation at Bethesda Baptist Church:

Whenever I think the religion of love given by Jesus needs the arm of the State to support it or protect it I will renounce it. . . . To indorse these Sunday laws as a church is to indorse or to approve one of the festivals of the ancient Sun-god. . . . [H]ow our Protestant divines . . . can defend a law that attempts to consecrate a day which is made holy by the decree of a heathen idolator I do not understand nor can they explain it.

Not only was John Bird opposing the established position of many Protestant ministers, he was also saying that church creeds had no place in civil law. I can only imagine the reaction of his staid congregation to this sermon.4

My great-grandfather was not alone in advocating a more secular view of government's role in public affairs. New, more liberal ideas were circulating among the city's intellectuals, and many reformers were calling for change. Chicago in 1887 was a city of economic extremes. While Philip Armour, Marshall Field, and other wealthy businessmen lived in luxurious mansions along the lakefront with retinues of servants at their disposal, Irish, German, and Polish immigrants lived in dilapidated shacks without toilets or running water on the other side of town. It is not surprising that such marked income disparities fostered a state of war between the opposing factions of capital and labor. In May 1886 a bomb exploded during a labor demonstration in Haymarket Square, killing eight policemen. The ensuing trial and subsequent conviction of eight radical labor activists put the whole city on edge.

For most blacks, however, the events surrounding the Haymarket bombing held little interest. In his Black Chicago's First Century, historian Christopher Reed points out that “racism on the part of organized labor in the North had excluded African Americans” from participation in the city's industrial sector. “The great conflict between capital and labor playing out on the national stage would not affect blacks in significant numbers until the turn of the next century.”⁵

But John Bird Wilkins, always a maverick, paid close attention to the labor issue. Although he had lived in Chicago barely six months, my great-grandfather once again placed himself at the center of a controversy. On August 22, 1887, the Chicago Tribune reported, “A Remarkable Sermon: The Rev. Bird Wilkins likens Henry George to Christ.” Henry George was a controversial New York politician, editor, and economist who saw unearned wealth as the direct cause of poverty. George also believed that large monopolies such as railroads and power companies should be nationalized, and that land—rather than income—should be taxed. John Bird must have known that the very mention of George's name would cause a stir among Chicago's wealthy citizens.

The Tribune, after describing Rev. Wilkins as “a man of fine personal appearance” who was “gifted with a fluent tongue,” quotes extensively from my great-grandfather's sermon. Telling his congregation that Jesus “preached and practiced Communism,” John Bird reminded his listeners of the parable of the vineyard, in which the workers who were hired late in the day and only worked one hour “received as much pay as those who had worked eleven hours through the heat of the day. Why? Because their needs were as great as those who had worked eleven hours.” John Bird Wilkins was, after all, a former slave and a man intimately acquainted with poverty. In this sermon he criticized the government's failure to better the lives of the nation's poor: “We have no business to have poverty in the United States. To say that our Government is all right is foolishness. . . . The world is not fit to live in now. Christians living on the first, second and third floors of a house and a Christian committing suicide from want and starvation on the fourth floor.” My great-grandfather concluded his sermon with a challenge to his congregation: “Brother Jones has $600; Sister Smith has $2,000 in the bank; Brother Johnson has a house and a lot. They give their worldly possessions to the church and we all share alike. Do you know what would happen? The spirit of God would descend upon the people, men would speak with tongues of fire, the millennium would reign, and Heaven would be upon the earth.”6

I love this sermon. It is, as the newspaper headline promised, quite remarkable. However, in 1887, Bethesda Baptist was still a relatively new church, competing with more established churches for worshippers to fill its brand-new sanctuary. The radical theology of their unconventional new pastor was not likely to bring Bethesda many new converts. For most African American churchgoers, life was a daily struggle just to put food on the table. When they went to church on Sunday, these hardworking folks sought reassurance, not controversy.⁷

John Bird was unrepentant, however. In an acerbic letter to the Tribune's editor the following week, he defended his sermon and fired off a broadside against the “green-eyed monopolists, the soulless corporations which devour all the honey” that plain working people bring into society. The rich enjoy the sweets, while working people can “scarcely keep body and soul together.”⁸ In an era when blacks were virtually invisible in the white press, my great-grandfather's unconventional take on the standard pieties and his witty, irreverent delivery made him a good source of news. He was even quoted in the New Orleans Daily Picayune: “Rev. Bird Wilkins of Chicago says good bread, tender steak, nicely cooked potatoes and clear, fragrant coffee at breakfast will do more to make a man a Christian than soggy bread, burnt toast and warmed over coffee, followed by an hour and a half of Bible reading and family prayers.”⁹

A more conservative person might have thought it prudent to assume a lower profile. John Bird was, after all, a relatively new minister, with a large and conservative congregation to represent. But, it seems, prudence was not one of my great-grandfather's main attributes. Within the month he would involve himself in an even more controversial situation. In 1887 Rev. Lloyd Jenkins opened the doors of his previously all-white Unitarian Church to Chicago's African Americans. Although only a few black intellectuals worshipped at All Souls church regularly, my great-grandfather took notice.10

The Unitarian denomination encourages discussion and intellectual enquiry; it does not require its members to adhere to any particular creed or dogma. Unlike the Baptists and most other Christians, Unitarians do not believe in the divinity of Jesus. Rather, they accept religious pluralism and find value in the teachings of many different spiritual traditions. Unitarians believe that Christ's table should be open to all comers. Baptists, on the other hand, believe that only people who are of the Baptist faith should receive communion. At Bethesda Baptist Church, John Bird began to offer an “open” communion, allowing Christians of different denominations to participate in the sacrament.¹¹ As my great-grandfather moved further from the philosophical underpinnings of the Baptist faith, his congregation became increasingly uncomfortable and irritated.

Even before he gave his sermon in praise of Henry George, John Bird had begun receiving threats from irate members of his congregation. On July 1, 1887, he received this anonymous letter:

MR. WILKINS: It affords us with pleasure to let you know if the Baptists dont put a stop to your having open communion we will put a stop if you do it again. You cant live in Chicago if we cant get you one way we will get you another. We thought you were a gentleman or we would not try to support you but as it is, the sooner you get out of Chicago the better for you. We will see whether you come here and put down the Baptist cause to suit yourself. If you want to commune with the Methodist you better live with them no more insults we want to here.¹²

Things at Bethesda had clearly reached a crisis point. My great-grandfather, it seems, would have to step back from his unorthodox practices or leave the church. On September 5, 1887, John Bird Wilkins addressed a letter to his congregation: “ Deacons, Officers, and Members of Bethesda Church,—Dear friends: Being no longer in sympathy with the Baptist denomination, I hereby tender you my resignation as pastor, which I hope will take effect in accordance with our agreement. This resignation will not be recalled. It must be accepted.”¹³

That same week, John Bird sat down with a reporter from the Chicago Tribune. In this interview, my great-grandfather spoke about the reasons for his resignation:

I believe in the fatherly kindness of God. The old idea of a God of vengeance, ready to burn up the world in hell-fire, is opposed to reason and common sense and abhorrent to me. I no longer endorse the doctrine of the Trinity, nor can I swallow the three persons in one and all omnipotent. My belief is that the Bible has a divine and human line of thought running through it; there is much good in the Bible and a great deal that is the entire opposite. I preached a sermon which caused a great fuss in my congregation, in which I showed that slavery, polygamy, Communism, murder, intemperance, and Socialism were not only taught by precept in the bible, but also by example. I am also a free believer in open communion: that a Methodist, Presbyterian, Catholic, or a member of any denomination is entitled to the sacrament at my hands as well as a Baptist. I have acted on this belief, and this has been a constant cause of dissatisfaction to a minority of my flock.14

Millions of today's Christians continue to believe that every word of the Bible is divinely inspired, and the Trinitarian Divinity of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit remains the cornerstone of standard Christian theology. My great-grandfather's views would be considered provocative in many contemporary churches. In 1887 they would have been utterly shocking.

When asked about his future plans, John Bird told the Tribune's reporter: “I am going to stay in Chicago and build a large church, to be known as ‘Liberty Temple.’ I have already collected subscriptions amounting to $9,200, and any necessary amount can be obtained from my sympathizers. Here the liberal minded colored people of all denominations will be gathered, and I intend to show Chicago and the world a new sight—an advancing and progressing colored congregation.”¹⁵

On October 9, 1887, the first service of John Bird's new church was held at the Freiberg Opera House. Once again, my great-grandfather's activities earned him media attention. Philadelphia's Christian Recorder reported that he had been offered a hundred dollars a night (a hefty sum of money for the time) to lecture for the Rockport Lecture Association. The Milwaukee Sentinel commented that John Bird's new church would be “the first African Unitarian Church in the history of the world.” Boston's Congregationalist took a dimmer view: “If we are to judge this movement by other similar ones that were to turn the world upside down, it will hardly be heard of again.”¹⁶

I do not know how my great-grandmother felt about the controversy swirling around her husband. Just a few weeks earlier, Susie had given birth to Byrd, the couple's second son. Now that John Bird had resigned his steady position at Bethesda, the family had no reliable source of income and two small children to feed. My great-grandmother was a small-town girl who was still only nineteen in 1887. Like most women of her day, she had probably been raised to regard her husband as the unequivocal king of the family. Although John Bird's flamboyant activities may have caused concern, I doubt whether Susie questioned them.

In November 1887, my great-grandfather met with a reporter from the Cleveland Gazette. In this interview, John Bird, exuding confidence and optimism, states that he has just been offered an editing position at the Chicago Illustrated Graphic News, “the largest and probably the best illustrated weekly paper published west of New York.” The Gazette, an African American newspaper, made much of the fact that my great-grandfather would now be working for a white weekly. The article goes on to mention John Bird's growing national prominence: “He is pronounced by many as the leading colored minister in the city, if not in the country, as well as the leading colored journalist.”17

As 1887 drew to a close, John Bird Wilkins seems to have been on the verge of an exciting new life. Fund-raising for his new church was proceeding apace, a new job was in the offing, and the national media was taking notice. But so, apparently, were some disgruntled Baptists.

On January 6, 1888, the Chicago Tribune printed the following story: “Wilkins Is Persecuted: The Pastor of Liberty Church in Hard Lines. The residence of the Rev. Bird J. Wilkins was partially burned last Sunday night, and thereby hangs a tale. Bird J. Wilkins was formerly pastor of the Bethesda Baptist Church, and preached to the largest colored congregation in the city.” After describing John Bird as “a young man of pleasing personal appearance and of more than average intelligence,” the paper reports that, while he was preaching at a Sunday night service nearby, John Bird's home was intentionally set ablaze. According to the Tribune, John Bird received this letter the day after the fire:

CITY, Jan. 5, 1888, Mr. Wilkins—We have warned you that you cannot preach against orthodox religion. We believe you are tending a religion from the devil and we set your house afire in three places but it burned in only one. We will kill you before you shall hurt us with your new religion. Our white orthodox churches tell us to run you out of this town and you have got to go. If you stay you will do so at the risk of your life. we tell you in time. This is our last warning. We don't want to hurt you, but you must leave this place. Now get out as quick as you can. AN ORTHODOX”

The article goes on to describe my great-grandfather's response to the threats. “I have no clew as to who wrote the letter, but would give considerable to find out,” he is reported as saying. “I could not give much money, the fire having destroyed everything I have except a few books. The fire also burned all the threatening letters but the one of July 1, which as you see, is scorched and partly burned. All the letters were in different hand-writing, most of them plainly in a disguised hand.” When asked by the Tribune's reporter if he had been threatened personally, my great-grandfather replied: “Yes, several times. Just before I resigned in the early part of September, Louis Wills of No. 1643 State street, came up to me in church one Sunday night, put his hand to his hip-pocket, and threatened to shoot me. The women were worse than the men. Mrs. Tim Cooper, No. 4509 Dearborn street, threatened to cowhide me on sight. I have not met her since.”

John Bird's Unitarian views had riled other ministers in the black community as well as the members of his own congregation. He told the Tribune:

All the orthodox preachers have warned their congregations against me and said I was in league with the devil. . . . With them a person [who] is not an orthodox Baptist is about the same as a Socialist or an Anarchist. They take exception to my doctrine that there is not a personal devil and no literal hell. I have known all along that there were persons very bitter against me, but have thought that a man too cowardly to sign his name would be too cowardly to burn a house. The rapid growth of my church has probably made them desperate.

When asked whether he intended to leave town, my great-grandfather replied passionately: “Never in the world. I have been threatened by the Ku-Klux of South Carolina when I taught school there after the war. They burned my school and I taught the poor colored children out doors under the trees. I am not scared by a lot of cowards whose only weapon is the incendiary's torch. I have called the attention of the city authorities and the Fire Department to the case and expect to discover the guilty parties.”18

I have always been a bit of a maverick. When all my friends were teasing their hair and dreaming about the senior prom, I was hanging out in jazz clubs learning how to play the drums. I am leery of traveling in lockstep with any kind of group mentality, particularly where matters of the spirit are concerned, and it pains me to imagine John Bird being persecuted for his unconventional beliefs. Although my great-grandfather appears defiant in his newspaper interview, the burning of his home must have shaken him. Even if he were unafraid for his own safety, he would have had his young wife and two small children to think about.

I do not know how long John Bird stayed in Chicago after the arson attack. The position he had hoped for with the Illustrated Graphic News never materialized. It is possible that my great-grandfather met the paper's editor—Benjamin Franklin Underwood, a prominent Unitarian journalist and freethinker— through a mutual connection in the Unitarian Church. But in the few copies of the Illustrated Graphic News that survive, John Bird Wilkins's name is not listed among the paper's employees.

Without a steady job to support him, it was only a matter of time before my great-grandfather would be driven out of town. After 1888 his name no longer appears in the Chicago city directory. Although he would live another fifty-three years, I could not find any evidence that the Reverend Bird J. Wilkins ever led another church.