By Rev. Rick Davis
Unitarian Universalist Congregation of Salem, Oregon

When Samuel Joseph May was a young boy living in Boston in the early 19th Century he fell and seriously injured himself some distance from his home—there he lay bleeding and afraid when suddenly a Black woman he did not recognize scooped him up in her arms and said “don’t you worry. I know where you live, I’ll take you there.” And so she did. As she approached the May household all attention was focused upon the injured, bleeding boy and then when the grateful parents turned to thank this woman she had already disappeared. All efforts to locate and thank her were of no avail. But May never forgot how protected she made him feel.

An equally powerful memory for May was of a Black classmate who he and his other students adored—everyone recognized him as the brightest and kindest student in the class. His smile was like sunshine.

May was too modest to note that he himself was a very popular boy in his own right. He was born with a great love for humankind in his heart and a kind and caring nature so you can well understand why this was so. These early life experiences made him profoundly aware that his love for humankind naturally included Blacks on a sure and equal footing with Whites. The same held true for the Native Americans and everyone with whom he interacted. Everyone could sense was a deeply spiritual and trustworthy person.

Knowing his personal history helps you better grasp a searing experience he had when he was a very young man. On a pleasant sojourn down South one afternoon around 1820 he found himself riding in a carriage full of hospitable locals. As they rode along May spied a long line of black convicts in chains with doleful expressions on their faces being led along by their overseers with whips and guns.

Suddenly the truth of the situation struck May like a thunderbolt—these were not convicts—they were slaves being torn apart from their families and sent to a life of bondage elsewhere. This was Samuel May’s “Gates of Hell Moment” when he fully recognized that chattel slavery was a crime against humanity and a grievous sin against God. That word “chattel” comes from the word “cattle” which is livestock property that can be moved around, and chattel slaves fell into this same category—unlike serfs and slaves in other lands chattel slaves could be, and often were, torn away from their families with no recourse. May immediately recognized how our entire nation was complicit in robbing a whole race of people of the gift of life, the gift of freedom.

Because of his great love for all humankind May was overwrought by this sight of men in chains and cried out in agony in the middle of that carriage full of southerners: “I am ashamed of my nation and my race.” May’s moral outburst put him at risk. Indeed, there were laws throughout the South that forbade even writing about of the evils of slavery—you could be whipped if you were even found to be in possession of abolitionist literature. As far as slavery was concerned freedom of expression was outlawed in the South for decades before the Civil War—you couldn’t even discuss it. So that day May’s fellow passengers, more accustomed to and accepting of such tragic scenes as slaves in chains, were not happy to be reminded of their own complicity in this sinful practice.

Reminding people of our common high callings in life became May’s chosen career—that is to say, he began studying for the Unitarian ministry at Harvard. Then he went through a theological evolution in his thinking and he thought the whole thing was over—he wasn’t going to be able to pretend to believe things he no longer believed, and he feared his new theological views would disqualify him. He honestly confided this to his professor, and the good man assured May that being true to oneself, honestly examining matters freely and thoroughly and deciding upon them impartially and independently was a good path to walk. Indeed, this was “the liberal principle” that they hoped would guide all Harvard divinity students in their lives.

Few have ever entered the Unitarian ministry with more solid social standing than young Samuel Joseph May. His family was part of the Unitarian elite in Boston. As a boy young Sam would sometimes visit the Rev. William Ellery Channing, “the Father of American Unitarianism,” in his office. One day Rev. Channing gave young Sam a piece of candy as he was leaving. On the way home May saw a destitute boy and gave him the candy. Proud of his virtuous act May dashed back to Channing’s study to tell him of this good deed, expecting to be rewarded with another piece of candy. All he got was the Reverend’s praise for doing this good thing for the poor boy. The lesson hit home for young May—virtue is its own reward—loving sacrifice should not expect payback.

Yet a time would come—in 1834—when the student would become the master and May would awaken Channing’s conscience at a critical time.

As young Reverend May entered the ministry the spiritual values and moral truths that guided him compelled him to cast aside fear of consequences for his words and actions. He was naturally confident, bright, personable, and all the Unitarian elite warmly welcomed the well-connected Rev. May into their pulpits—they could see that he would be a bright star in their firmament—that is, until they heard what he had to say—he was a bright star all right and his light burned uncomfortably intense in those New England Unitarian pulpits because the young Rev. was speaking plainly and bluntly about the evil of slavery—whilst amongst his listeners sat the merchants and others whose wealth was dependent upon slavery. May’s sermons were seen as uncouth. One was not supposed to talk about such controversial matters from the pulpit, especially when the church was so dependent upon the largesse of these merchants and other members who indirectly benefitted from this cruel, exploitive system.

May’s own father tried to bring him to heel by telling him that he was “losing caste” (i.e., social standing) by speaking like a rabble rousing abolitionist rather than a respectable member of the Unitarian clergy. May refused to desist and suffered social consequences, but this was of little concern to him because he was aware of the very slow beginning of a moral awakening happening in the free states, and he knew that he was called to play a key role.

One night at a rally in 1830 he heard the radical abolitionist William Lloyd Garrison speak—his raw passion and vivid characterizations of the evil practices of chattel slavery inflamed May’s heart—it was a spiritually transformative experience. Afterwards May introduced himself to Garrison and offered his full support. During the next three decades Garrison would have no better friend and colleague in this abolitionist movement that served to awaken the nation the evils of slavery.

May also continued to serve in parish ministry—a role for which he would prove to be well suited. Yet there were some painful moments along the way. During his ministry at South Scituate from 1836 to 1842 Rev May told the ushers who were sending Blacks and poor people up into the cramped, uncomfortable balcony during worship to instead welcome them into the pews with other worshippers. A few years ago I spoke at that church—from the very same pulpit as had Samuel May—and from there I could see his picture hanging on the back wall—it serves as a perpetual gesture of atonement for the inhospitable way some of the members strongly resisted May’s desire to welcome everyone equally.

This change was too much for some members and a polarizing conflict was brewing in the congregation so May decided the best thing he could do for all concerned was to move on to other opportunities. Which is not to say that May was afraid of conflict. Indeed, because of his unwavering condemnation of slavery, as well as racism, it was inevitable that he would fall into conflict with those who denied the full equality of Blacks.

Consider the great conflict he had with citizens of Canterbury, Connecticut, where the Quaker woman Prudence Crandall founded a school that had admitted one young Black woman, making this the first integrated school in America. Long story short—all the White students left the school and it was about to go under when Crandall recruited twenty other young Black girls to come which now provided a rare opportunity for Black females in New England to get a stellar education. The Canterbury citizenry was instantly outraged and since women were not generally given the opportunity to speak in public Crandall prevailed upon Rev. May to be her spokesperson and advocate. It was a bitter struggle for them. May, almost alone, did all he could to save the school, but after the citizens threw dead animals in the school well and set the building afire Crandall and May realized that keeping the school open would endanger the students—they were understandably embittered and had to acknowledge defeat. Such was the level of virulent, undisguised racism in that era.

For May, eradicating slavery was paramount, but he saw how racism itself underlay this institution and virulent racism was pervasive in the north, as well as the south. This made it all the more challenging for the radical abolitionists because there were many in the north who were sympathetic to the southern slaveholding oligarchy or indifferent to the plight of Black people. The abolitionists faced daunting odds. The public was not particularly supportive in the 1830s and 1840s, including New England Unitarians. Yes, they knew that slavery was wrong, but they imagined it would eventually die out on its own.

One day in 1834, May was visiting his mentor, William Ellery Channing, who began to complain about the disruptive manners of the abolitionists. This was too much for the normally deferential May who noted that it was out of place for Channing to judge the abolitionists for their clumsy efforts when the Unitarian establishment wasn’t doing anything at all.

Channing calmly listened to May’s outburst and then said to him. “Brother May, I acknowledge the justice of your reproof—I have been silent too long.” May later noted that he admired Channing more at this moment than he ever had before—he was willing to humbly accept May’s “just reproof” and acknowledge the need to speak out—and he did so. Channing now actively opposed slavery, and sad to say, this had negative consequences for this, the most esteemed minister in our movement at that time. Alas, the time was not yet ripe even for the Unitarians to truly get into the act.

May began his abolitionist activities in 1830—serving as a key leader in the antislavery movement in many capacities—there were innumerable times when he was out publicly calling for the complete and immediate abolition of slavery, and it was a very rough business—during one 18-month stretch he was attacked by pro-slavery mobs on five occasions. That only served to strengthen his resolve. Indeed, the tide would one day turn and it would be Rev. May who would be at the head of a mob—albeit a peaceful one.

It all began when Congress passed the Fugitive Slave Act in 1850 which required authorities in the free states, as well as all citizens, to help slave holders recapture runaway slaves. May considered this law no better than a pact with the devil and he let it be known that he would not obey this law and would do all he could to subvert it.

One October evening in 1851 in Syracuse, N.Y.—where Rev. May had his longest and final ministry—he heard the alarm bell rung by abolitionists that warned that a runaway slave had been apprehended by the authorities. He secretly met with other abolitionists as they hatched their plan of action. A local Black man, Jerry McHenry, who had escaped slavery a few years before, had been apprehended. He escaped, but they recaptured him and took him to the jail where he was screaming and yelling and doing all he could to escape, but he was trapped.

May first went to the jail in his ministerial capacity and the authorities asked him to sit with McHenry so as to calm him down. May went to despairing McHenry’s cell and whispered to him that they were going to bust him out of the jail. And that news helped calmed him down.

Rev. May had always been a devout pacifist and so he and the other abolitionists resolved to use force but not violence. They returned en masse and stormed the jail and overpowered the authorities, freed Jerry McHenry and dashed away in a wagon with horses faster than the slave patrol in hot pursuit—they took him to a secret location where they sawed off his manacles, and after a time they found a boat pilot willing to ferry McHenry to Canada and freedom. Once there, McHenry sent a warm note of appreciation to May and the others who had done so much to free him.

Meanwhile May and the other leaders of the “Free Jerry” effort were put on trial, but the courts were losing heart in enforcing the Fugitive slave law and they were never prosecuted. Eventually, the Free Jerry culprits would be seen as heroes. Today in Syracuse, N.Y., you can see the “Jerry Rescue” monument downtown—it depicts Jerry McHenry with Samuel J. May to one side and Reverend Jermain Loguen, a former slave himself, as they are escaping through the doors of the jail. A plaque underneath notes: “When courage and compassion combine to influence public opinion human life is enlarged.”

Yes, Samuel J. May enlarged life in many realms—as a minister, educational reformer, women’s rights advocate. It’s estimated that he personally helped about a thousand Blacks escape to Canada and then he crossed the border to see how they were doing.

The Fugitive Slave Law created dreadful, tragic public sights of recaptured slaves being led down the streets while the public looked on with increasing anger at the authorities for executing the will of the southern slave owners. This law was so odious that it helped turn the tide of public opinion against slavery as more and more people came to recognize how wrong America’s compromise with slaveholders was.

And finally, as we all know, it came to a head in the most violent conflict our nation has ever known. The pacifist Rev. May who was always motivated by a love for humankind, grieved that it took a war to end the unholy institution of slavery and that it claimed the lives of young men he knew and loved. Yet he knew that slavery must end—it was fundamentally incompatible with the American dream—a dream partially forged at our nation’s founding by slave owners themselves who sowed the seeds of the destruction of slavery by lifting up the ideal of liberty and justice for all—a liberty and justice that most did not have at our nation’s founding and yet our nation is founded on this ideal that transcends the historical limitations from which it arose. And so we abolished slavery and became—slowly, painfully with much blood spilled—a more perfect union. But also far from perfect as we know all too well today. But this was a vital step on our nation’s pilgrimage towards wholeness. Tomorrow—Juneteenth—celebrates the genuine progress that was made in this long journey.

The abolitionist period—ca. 1830 to 1861—is a fascinating period of American history to study. Reading May’s anti-slavery memoirs, publicly and freely available online, reads like a great historical novel—such study of our history helps you gain a deeper, broader perspective. Today, we lack such perspective.

Yet today is a good day to regain a truer, deeper perspective on the continued unfolding of our national narrative. It’s a good day to remember the great, decades long historical struggle that led up to that day on 19th of June, 1865 when slaves in Galveston, Texas, learned that they were former slaves, and so they celebrated their freedom. It’s good day to restore one’s faith that, despite the daunting challenges we face, we can overcome and we can get closer to the time when “liberty and justice for all” is not an aspiration but a reality. Samuel J. May would say that that is a dream worth fighting for no matter how long and hard the road may be.

Someday I hope to make a trip—a pilgrimage really—to the Abolitionist’s Hall of Fame and Museum in Upstate New York. There I can learn more about the tremendous commitment and courage that the twenty five inductees displayed in the abolitionist movement—it’s a very select group that includes Frederick Douglass, Harriet Tubman, Sojourner Truth, William Lloyd Garrison and, of course, the Reverend Samuel J. May—who is recognized there as “a moral giant ahead of his time.”

Given that he is so widely neglected, virtually unknown, in our own Unitarian Universalist movement, I have felt a call throughout my entire ministry to promote the memory of this great soul that our hearts might be touched and our souls enlarged.