On a sleepy Saturday afternoon, something is in the air at the Divine Tracy. The hotel's staff is buzzing with excitement, everyone standing in twos and threes in the dimly lit lobby. Miss Meekness Faith, the hotel manager, sits behind the desk, surveying her employees from behind the glass window. They have worked hard, and they are ready.
Outside, before she steps into the lobby of the Divine Tracy, a tiny woman stops to straighten her hairnet in her reflection in the door. As she enters, Miss Lydia Precious, another hotel employee, rushes over with a bucket of red roses.
"Peace," she exclaims, grinning. The employees -- mostly elderly women -- are wearing their everyday clothes: modest skirts and high-necked blouses. But today they are standing tall -- Mother Divine is coming.
"All Heaven is smiling over!" somebody announces over the hotel loudspeaker. The women start moving, in a routine that appears well choreographed and enthusiastic. Miss Precious hands out a rose to each, and they cluster near the door. Somebody lifts up a red doormat from the lobby and lays it on the sidewalk in front of the hotel, where a black limo has just pulled up.
An old woman steps out, and her chauffeur -- Mr. Phillip Life -- offers his hand both out of respect and because she seems to need something to steady her. She is in her 80s, but her eyes are bright.
The hotel employees squeal with excitement as she makes her way down the impromptu red carpet and up the stairs into the lobby. They hold their roses in an arch over her as she walks, singing a medley of songs of praise. There is no need for her to stop at the desk, because a room is already prepared for her.
To these hotel employees, Mother Divine is the wife of God, and she is spending the night at the Divine Tracy.
The Divine Tracy -- just a block north of campus, at 36th and Chestnut streets -- is a relic from another era, full of kitschy knick-knacks and garish fake flowers. Founded in 1950, it does not appear to have aged one day. The guest book lies open in the sitting room, with a span of dates -- 1982-1987 -- written across its title page, but nobody has signed it. An elderly employee whose Girl Scout style vest is embroidered with the Divine Tracy logo groans each time she stands to take a guest upstairs in the elevator.
But the Divine Tracy is not an ordinary hotel. People with names like Miss Meekness Faith, Miss Lydia Precious and Miss Peaches Love are the ones who take reservations and clean the rooms. Their standard greeting is not "Hello," but "Peace."
Guests who stay at the hotel (and with its rate of about $50 a night, cash only, people from as far away as Romania and France do) must abide by a strict code of conduct. Floors are segregated by gender. Since men stay on the first and third floors, women cannot even take the stairs past the male rooms to get to their own on the second. Women must wear long skirts and stockings; men cannot wear shorts.
The hotel rules call for "no undue mixing of the sexes," so the lobby is the only place where men and women can congregate. The rooms are sparse and clean, with single beds and no television sets. If guests do not want to abide by the rules, Miss Faith says, they can find another place to stay.
"We're just here to be a blessing," she says. "We do not believe in proselytizing."
The Divine Tracy is owned and managed by the Peace Mission Movement, a religious cult that peaked in the '30s. It is not a cult in the sense of mass suicide or alien abduction. Members consider themselves Christians: they believe that Jesus is their savior, and women strive to emulate Mary. The major difference is that the movement's founder, Father Divine, said he was God.
Also known as the Reverend Major Jealous Divine, Father Divine drew in over 50,000 core members in the '30s, according to California State University, San Marcos historian Jill Watts, author of God, Harlem U.S.A: The Father Divine Story.
But although Father Divine said he was God, he died in 1965. Since then, the cult has been led by his wife, aptly named Mother Divine. She lives in the Philadelphia suburbs at Woodmont, the mansion she and Father Divine shared. It now serves as the religion's headquarters. She comes to the Divine Tracy weekly, employees say.
Most of the hotel's quirks are remnants of Father Divine's "International Modest Code," a cornerstone of the religion that promotes "modesty, independence, honesty and righteousness," according to the hotel's official rules and regulations. "Vulgarity, obscenity or blasphemy," smoking and drinking alcohol are all forbidden. Men and women are separated because virginity is one of the cult's celebrated virtues.
But the movement has been losing steam since Father Divine's death. Its call for celibacy has given the Peace Mission Movement fewer and fewer members each generation. Harvard historian Richard Newman last estimated in the '80s that there were only a few thousand followers. Now it seems as though this hotel -- a major Peace Mission hub in the Philadelphia area -- is almost all the cult has left.
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Set foot in the Divine Tracy, however, and Father Divine's spirit is alive and well. A poster-sized photograph of Father and Mother Divine on their wedding day -- standing at an International Modest Code-sanctioned distance from one another -- greets passers-by on 36th Street.
Father Divine's preachings, lettered in ornate script, cover the lobby walls. A quotation, one of many, greets visitors: "Virtue is the strength of every nation, the life-giving force of all creation." A portrait of Mother Divine as a young woman gazes out over the sitting room, her fur-lined dress and flawless skin making her look like a movie star. There are separate coat racks for "brothers" and "sisters." Even the hotel's business center is called the "Divine Enterprise."
Hotel employees, most of them disciples of Father Divine, are unfailingly friendly and welcoming. Miss Faith rules with an iron fist when it comes to the dress code, but she is happy to chat about Philadelphia or the guests who have come in and out of the hotel over the years. She will not say how long she has worked there, but she promises it has been a "long time."
And their dedication to Father Divine is unwavering.
"I just felt at home. This was it," said Mr. Life, Mother Divine's limo driver. "He was God. He had all the solutions to all the problems."
Miss Faith directs questions about Father Divine's teachings to the ample propaganda available on a table in the lobby. Copies of The New Day, the Peace Mission Movement's official newsletter, lie next to pamphlets for tourists about the Liberty Bell and Valley Forge. A copy of Father Divine's book sits on the desk in every room.
Father Divine was originally named George Baker, but began calling himself "the Messenger" after getting involved with radical Christian preachers in the Baltimore area in the early part of the 20th century. Now, cult members worship him specifically.
While the exact date and place of his birth is unknown, most researchers agree that he was born at the end of the 19th century to former slaves in Rockville, Maryland. He offered a compelling theology to thousands of impoverished African Americans and is often hailed as an early civil rights activist.
But in 1946, he married Sweet Angel, a white Canadian woman who was born Edna Rose Ritchings, and is now known as Mother Divine. She was supposedly the reincarnation of his first wife Peninniah, who died in 1943. Peace Mission Movement members maintain that Father Divine did not sleep with either of his wives.
Father Divine may have had heavenly ambitions, but "he never laid his hands on any money," Watts says. Members are not missionaries, although they welcome non-believers to their services and, of course, their hotels.
"Only the most dedicated belong .... You don't compromise," Watts says. "I think it's harder to stay in than other cults. If you don't live the life, they don't want you in it. They're not hypnotizing people.
"I think the hardest thing is within families, with someone who really decides to dedicate themselves," she continues. "They cut themselves off and walked away."
At the movement's height, groups of celibate men and women would pool their resources and live in houses together, referred to as "heavens." If members had been married prior to joining the movement, they were usually restricted to formal interactions with their children and spouses.
Members change their names after joining to show their devotion to the movement, Watts says. Miss Love says she was "born with it," but she, along with thousands of others, likely adopted her new name after committing herself to Father Divine's teachings.
To most members of the Peace Mission Movement, personal histories are irrelevant. When asked about how she found Father Divine, Miss Love says, "I won't dare tell you." Likewise, Miss Faith says, "I don't think my own [story] would be the thing to write about." How and why they joined the Movement is beside the point -- it only matters that they did.
In the waning years of the Peace Mission Movement, Philadelphia has been its epicenter. Father and Mother Divine moved in 1953 to Woodmont, a gothic mansion in Gladwyne, where most of Father Divine's sermons took place. After her husband's death, Mother Divine has become the Movement's unofficial leader, and the Divine Tracy has assumed the role of holding many of its services. And seeing the fervor with which the hotel employees attend to Mother Divine, it is clear they truly do believe.
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At the Divine Tracy the Sunday after Mother Divine's grand arrival, about 75 men and women are singing about celibacy.
"We are virgins," they sing, gathered around an elaborate table in the hotel's banquet room. "We express the virginity of Mary."
Waiters and waitresses, humming along with the crowd, serve a meal that lasts into the early evening. Audience members are black and white, male and female, although men and women sit on opposite sides of the room. They are dressed in their Sunday finest.
Mother Divine sits at the head of the table, beneath portraits of Father Divine and herself as a young woman. There is an empty seat next to her, set for her husband. The group sings for hours, and members deliver speeches extolling Father Divine between the seemingly endless arsenal songs about their God. There is no apparent leader to the ceremony. Songs emerge when somebody starts singing; when people are moved to speak, they do.
"We didn't know you personally," Miss Faith tells Father Divine, her eyes pointed heavenwards. "But your holy spirit drew us to you."
The service is the Rosebuds' Heart Celebration, in honor of the 64th anniversary of Father Divine's reading of his legendary poem, "A Rosebud's Heart." The Rosebuds are a group of virgin women, akin to nuns, who best exemplify the virtues of Mary. About 20 of them are at the service at the Divine Tracy. They wear berets and cropped red blazers, emblazoned with a "V" for "Virtue" in the style of varsity football jackets. Being named a Rosebud is one of the highest honors in the Peace Mission Movement.
Most of the Divine Tracy regulars are Rosebuds. Miss Faith has a seat of honor near Mother Divine, singing and clapping with an energy unapparent in her mundane duties behind the hotel desk. Miss Precious also wears the beret. In the Rosebuds' red uniform, these women are in their element.
"A Rosebud's heart is submissive, meek and sweet," they chant, reciting Father Divine's poem from memory. "A Rosebud's heart is a heart that is willing to suffer .... A Rosebud's heart is a heart for God."
Some of the speakers throw up their arms as they talk, others cry. As the group listens to a recording of one of Father Divine's speeches, one woman hunches over in her glittery blouse, her hands steepled. She smiles as tears well up in her eyes.
"I don't have to worry about children, and I don't have to worry about a husband," another Rosebud announces to the crowd. "Wonderful."
Today, a new Rosebud named Rosalind hands a rose to Mother Divine, part of her induction ceremony to the group. Members will not describe the initiation process specifically, but they say it involves memorizing Father Divine's teachings and maintaining one's virginity. Rosalind is overjoyed to wear the uniform.
"My heart is bubbling over. This has been a warm journey," she says. "I am so happy! I am so free!" She spreads her arms in triumph and begins a wild dance around the room, throwing her limbs in all directions.
As Rosalind grows more hysterical, the crowd sings louder and louder. "Happy is the Lord," they shout, clapping in time with her dance. "Happy, happy, happy," they repeat.
Mother Divine -- a Rosebud herself -- seems pleased with the new member, although at 80 years of age, the long service appears to have tired her out. She dutifully gives a speech, thanking her late husband for the service. She adds, "It's so wonderful to have an upright spirit."
As the wife of God nears the end of her life, it is unclear what direction the movement will take next. Mother Divine has proven a resilient leader for Father Divine's remaining disciples, but the fate of the Peace Mission Movement and the Divine Tracy is shaky. Membership continues to plummet.
But the day after the emotional Rosebuds' Heart Celebration, Miss Faith is back behind the desk in the lobby of the Divine Tracy. She counts money and hands guests their keys. To this Rosebud, the immediate future is clear: keeping the hotel up and running.
"I've been coming to this hotel for a long time," Miss Faith says. "I have no regrets to the life that I am privileged to lead." n
