In a June blog post here about virulent persecution of LGBTQ folk in Uganda based on a draconian new “kill the gays” law, a correspondent known to us as “William Leddra” issued a call to Quakers, who have two yearly meetings in Uganda, and affiliations with Friends United Meeting [aka FUM] based in Richmond, Indiana, to take up the work of speaking out and defending LGBTQ persons in Uganda (and other Africa countries where they are also persecuted). The call to Friends and others is also to exert pressure toward the repeal of this dreadful repressive legislation.
“I have no idea who this ‘William Leddra ‘ is or purports to be – I have never heard of him, he has never contacted us, and he seems ignorant of the efforts of more than 40 Quaker Meetings and Churches.”
Leddra, banished and then hanged for the same offense as Dyer, is less known; but he ended up just as dead, only for the offense of being true to his convictions. (“Our” correspondent “Leddra” feels pseudonymity is a prudent security precaution today, as “promoting” LGBTQ life in Uganda is now punishable by a 20-year prison sentence.)
Fortunately, what happened in the wake of the Boston Quaker Martyrs’ sacrifice was turned into memorable verse by the famed Quaker poet Whittier, a later native of Massachusetts, in his poem, The King’s Missive.
We take this opportunity to reprint the poem below, as it seems to us that there are strong contemporary echoes and resonance in it. Last month, FUM held an international conference in Kenya, which included Ugandan Friends. All participants were under strict instructions not to speak about the new law; or if they were LGBTQ, not to be visible or vocal about that reality. (Those keep silence instructions are reprinted in the postscript to “Leddra’s” column.)
UNDER the great hill sloping bare To cove and meadow and Common lot, In his council chamber and oaken chair, Sat the worshipful Governor Endicott.
A grave, strong man, who knew no peer In the pilgrim land, where he ruled in fear Of God, not man, and for good or ill Held his trust with an iron will.He had shorn with his sword the cross from out The flag, and cloven the May-pole down, Harried the heathen round about,
And whipped the Quakers from town to town. Earnest and honest, a man at need To burn like a torch for his own harsh creed, He kept with the flaming brand of his zeal The gate of the holy common weal.
His brow was clouded, his eye was stern, With a look of mingled sorrow and wrath; “Woe’s me!” he murmured: “at every turn The pestilent Quakers are in my path!
Some we have scourged, and banished some, Some hanged, more doomed, and still they come . . .
Fast as the tide of yon bay sets in, Sowing their heresy’s seed of sin.
“Did we count on this? Did we leave behind The graves of our kin, the comfort and ease Of our English hearths and homes, to find Troublers of Israel such as these?
Shall I spare? Shall I pity them? God forbid! I will do as the prophet to Agag did They come to poison the wells of the Word, I will hew them in pieces before the Lord!”
The door swung open, and Rawson the clerk Entered, and whispered under breath, “There waits below for the hangman’s work A fellow banished on pain of death– Shattuck, of Salem, unhealed of the whip, Brought over in Master Goldsmith’s ship At anchor here in a Christian port, With freight of the devil and all his sort!”
Twice and thrice on the chamber floor Striding fiercely from wall to wall, “The Lord do so to me and more,” The Governor cried, “if I hang not all! Bring hither the Quaker.” Calm, sedate, With the look of a man at ease with fate, Into that presence grim and dread Came Samuel Shattuck, with hat on head.
“Off with the knave’s hat!” An angry hand Smote down the offence; but the wearer said, With a quiet smile, “By the king’s command I bear his message and stand in his stead.” In the Governor’s hand a missive he laid With the royal arms on its seal displayed, And the proud man spake as he gazed thereat, Uncovering, “Give Mr. Shattuck his hat.”
He turned to the Quaker, bowing low,– “The king commandeth your friends’ release; Doubt not he shall be obeyed, although To his subjects’ sorrow and sin’s increase. What he here enjoineth, John Endicott, His loyal servant, questioneth not. You are free! God grant the spirit you own May take you from us to parts unknown.”
So the door of the jail was open cast, And, like Daniel, out of the lion’s den Tender youth and girlhood passed, With age-bowed women and gray-locked men. And the voice of one appointed to die Was lifted in praise and thanks on high, And the little maid from New Netherlands Kissed, in her joy, the doomed man’s hands.
And one, whose call was to minister To the souls in prison, beside him went, An ancient woman, bearing with her The linen shroud for his burial meant. For she, not counting her own life dear, In the strength of a love that cast out fear, Had watched and served where her brethren died, Like those who waited the cross beside.
One moment they paused on their way to look On the martyr graves by the Common side, And much scourged Wharton of Salem took His burden of prophecy up and cried “Rest, souls of the valiant! Not in vain Have ye borne the Master’s cross of pain; Ye have fought the fight, ye are victors crowned, With a fourfold chain ye have Satan bound!”
The autumn haze lay soft and still On wood and meadow and upland farms; On the brow of Snow Hill the great windmill Slowly and lazily swung its arms;
Broad in the sunshine stretched away, With its capes and islands, the turquoise bay; And over water and dusk of pines Blue hills lifted their faint outlines. . . .
But as they who see not, the Quakers saw The world about them; they only thought With deep thanksgiving and pious awe On the great deliverance God had wrought. Through lane and alley the gazing town Noisily followed them up and down; Some with scoffing and brutal jeer, Some with pity and words of cheer.
One brave voice rose above the din. Upsall, gray with his length of days, Cried from the door of his Red Lion Inn “Men of Boston, give God the praise No more shall innocent blood call down
The bolts of wrath on your guilty town. The freedom of worship, dear to you, Is dear to all, and to all is due.
“I see the vision of days to come, When your beautiful City of the Bay Shall be Christian liberty’s chosen home, And none shall his neighbor’s rights gainsay. The varying notes of worship shall blend And as one great prayer to God ascend, And hands of mutual charity raise Walls of salvation and gates of praise.”
So passed the Quakers through Boston town, Whose painful ministers sighed to see The walls of their sheep-fold falling down, And wolves of heresy prowling free. But the years went on, and brought no wrong; With milder counsels the State grew strong, As outward Letter and inward Light Kept the balance of truth aright.
The Puritan spirit perishing not, To Concord’s yeomen the signal sent, And spake in the voice of the cannon-shot That severed the chains of a continent. With its gentler mission of peace and good-will The thought of the Quaker is living still, And the freedom of soul he prophesied Is gospel and law where the martyrs died.
I’m not much for singing gospel songs; but Bill Staines, who wrote this one, was more of a folkie, and his tune, “All God’s Critters” is more folk than (Lord help us) “praise” music. But whatever the genre, I’m more interested in its theology, because I agree with it.
The forested lower slopes of the Cascade Mountains in Washington State are dense and not much inhabited. But, venturing there in recent decades, walkers might well believe they had discovered an Old Man of the Woods.
He wore a brown peaked cap, like an elf’s, on white dreadlocked hair that fell to his shoulders. His beard was long, his scruffy clothes were matted with mud and straw, and he went barefoot, even in snow.
At times, as he scavenged for berries, dragged branches or enjoyed a swing from perilous trees, his fleeting, shuffling form seemed more animal than human. But his wave, with a hand that held either a chainsaw or a fat hand-rolled “herbal palliative”, would be welcoming and warm.
I’m looking at a headline this morning that screams “AI Creators Fear the Extinction of Humanity,” and I suppose they could turn out to be right. But it’s still a bit early to declare a global emergency and turn all the machines off.