In the early days of the COVID-19 pandemic, as the volunteer archivist of the Diocese of Pennsylvania, I received several requests for information about the 1918 influenza epidemic—how parishes responded, what they endured, and what long-term effects followed. With the archives closed, I turned to digitized parish records I had collected over the past decade, including those of St. Peter’s. These sources reveal a city already under strain before the first influenza cases appeared in the fall of 1918—and help explain the challenges St. Peter’s and our fellow Center City parishes would face in the decades to come. The epidemic’s story is, in many ways, the prequel to St. Peter’s later resolve to remain rooted in its neighborhood despite the “downtown church problem.”
As we learned again during COVID-19, such public health crises reshape habits, accelerate demographic shifts, and force churches to choose between chasing those who have left or focusing on serving those still nearby.
Philadelphia in 1918: A City Already Under Strain
St. Peter’s began 1918 in a curious position. Its rector, The Rev. Dr. Edward Miller Jefferys, was not in Philadelphia but in France, serving at the Western Front as chaplain to Red Cross Base Hospital No. 10, connected with Pennsylvania Hospital, near Flanders, Belgium. Over the course of the war, he also ministered as a hospital chaplain in France for the British Expeditionary Forces and later as a chaplain and First Lieutenant in the United States Army after America entered the conflict—becoming one of the first, if not the first, American chaplains to set foot on the battlefield.
In Dr. Jefferys’ absence, day-to-day spiritual leadership fell to The Rev. John W. Walker, priest-in-charge, assisted by The Rev. Herbert B. Satcher and The J. W. B. Stewart. Broader parish stewardship rested heavily on W. Moylan Lansdale, the rector’s warden, who guided St. Peter’s through a year marked by both war abroad and strain at home.
Philadelphia itself was grappling with a coal shortage caused by a miners’ strike in Northeastern Pennsylvania, leaving clergy across the city to puzzle over how to keep churches open without heat during the coldest months. Some parishes combined services, others borrowed space from neighbors, or as Lansdale advised St. Peter’s parishioners to simply “dress warmly.” By spring, as the weather eased and the fuel crisis abated, the city’s energy shifted back toward war support and patriotic duty.
As was customary, services wound down after Trinity Sunday, and many parishioners left the city to avoid the summer heat—including Mrs. Jefferys and her children, who left their apartment at the Gladstone Hotel for the cooler breezes of North East Harbor, Maine. When fall brought parishioners back to the city, the congregation settled into its usual autumn rhythm—unaware that the most difficult weeks of the year lay just ahead.
A City Shuts Down
Influenza’s arrival was sudden and devastating. On September 28, 1918, Philadelphia held the Liberty Loans Parade—a patriotic rally that drew more than 200,000 people into crowded streets. Within days, cases surged, making this event one of the deadliest public gatherings in American history.
By October 3, the Board of Health ordered the closure of all schools and churches, along with a ban on public gatherings. Across the city, some rectors welcomed the precautions; others objected to closing “sanitary and well-ventilated” churches while department stores and trolleys remained packed. All evidence suggests that the vestry of St. Peter’s complied with public health regulations without complaint.
Toward the middle of the month, the city compromised, allowing small services capped at 25 attendees. The Rev. Franklin Joiner of St. Clement’s—one of the most vocal opponents of the city’s decision to shut the churches—admitted that this limit was more than adequate for his parish at the time. St. Peter’s suspended regular worship but remained open for funerals, resuming services formally on the first Sunday in November.
The parish register makes the toll of October clear. In a typical month of 1918, St. Peter’s recorded an average of two burials. That October, there were eight—six of them influenza-related. Those who died came from the more working-class evening congregation rather than the pew-holding morning congregation, underscoring the uneven social toll of the epidemic.
Citywide, some neighborhoods saw bodies outnumber available coffins—a measure of just how severe the crisis was.
From Sorrow to Celebration
Just days after services resumed, the Armistice was declared on November 11. Center City Episcopal parish magazines that December—though sadly, I could not find one from St. Peter’s—were filled with joy at victory abroad, tempered by grief for parishioners lost to war. The brief window between reopening and peace celebrations helped ensure that any lessons of October faded quickly from public memory.
Yet the epidemic’s more profound legacy was only beginning to take shape. For the city’s well- to-do, it reinforced the risks of close urban living. In the years after the war, more Protestant families moved to the suburbs—a pattern central to the “downtown church problem”—leaving many urban parishes with shrinking attendance and shifting demographics.
St. Peter’s: Defying the Trend
Many East-of-Broad Street Episcopal parishes either relocated or closed in the following decades. St. Peter’s did neither. Even in a predominantly Jewish neighborhood, it maintained a strong local congregation—three-quarters of its members lived nearby—while using its endowment to support ministries that met the diverse needs of its community.
The influenza epidemic provides valuable context for 1932, when St. Peter’s communicants publicly recommitted to their mission, pledging to “preserve and more firmly root the Christian ideals” of the church in their neighborhood. It also frames Dr. Jefferys’ conviction that “the more the neighborhood changes, the more St. Peter’s will be needed here.” His words remain an implicit answer to the question parishes faced after the epidemic: Should we chase those who left—or serve those who remain?
Lessons for Now
From 1918 to the present, St. Peter’s story demonstrates the enduring wisdom of the latter choice. While other churches mourned vanished congregations, St. Peter’s invested in the life immediately outside its doors. The lesson is clear: communities change, epidemics pass, but the church’s call is to meet people where they are.
As we continue to navigate our post-COVID reality, St. Peter’s history—rooted in the trials of 1918 and strengthened in the decades that followed—reminds us that faithfulness to place is not just survival; it is a mission.
A monthly feature brought to you by the St. Peter’s History Committee. This article was written by parishioner Michael Krasulski.