11/18/2025
A little mention of Reily Presbyterian Church.
Part 2 of Grave by Grave: The Venice History Hunt — where we choose random stones and uncover the stories behind them.
Todays pick is:
THE SHADOW PASTOR OF VENICE:
The Reverend Who Built a Three-Church Empire… and Walked the Dangerous Path of the Underground Railroad.
Most people in Ross Township walk through Venice Cemetery without realizing a quiet giant rests there — a man whose footsteps shaped churches, communities, and one of the most dangerous movements in American history.
This is Rev. Adam Baird Gilliland (1794–1885) — the man who turned a handful of frontier congregations into a Presbyterian powerhouse, with Venice at the center of gravity.
Gilliland didn’t come up on soft land.
He came out of Hillsboro, hardened, trained, and already known as a preacher who could command a room. By the time he reached Butler County, he stepped straight into the pulpit at Bethel Presbyterian near Millville, becoming one of the strongest voices in the region.
And then something rare happened:
Three churches — Bethel, Venice, and Reily — became linked through his ministry.
He, alongside another minister, guided three congregations at once.
That wasn’t normal.
That wasn’t easy.
That wasn’t safe.
But Gilliland didn’t blink.
When Venice Presbyterian needed leadership after its early years, Gilliland moved in and became the stabilizing force, turning Venice into the central hub of his preaching circuit. People rode miles by wagon or horseback just to hear his sermons. He didn’t build Venice Presbyterian, but just a few years after the church’s first pastor, Rev. Thomas Thomas, passed away, it grew into something truly significant under his leadership.
It became alive.
It became known.
It became his.
And while the churches grew… so did another shadow network.
The Underground Railroad.
This was no side project.
No small-town rumor.
This was danger at a level where one wrong knock could end your life.
Gilliland’s congregations sat right in the region where abolitionist routes threaded through Butler County. His churches - including Venice Presbyterian — weren’t loud about it — they were quiet, coded, trusted. And ministers like Gilliland didn’t just preach conscience… they shaped it. They taught duty. They taught courage. They taught right from wrong even when the law disagreed.
Gilliland walked among people who opened barns, cellars, and wagon beds to freedom seekers—something woven into him since childhood, watching his father, Rev. James Gilliland, fight slavery from the pulpit and from his own doorstep. His father had sheltered fugitives, guided them, and preached boldly against bo***ge when it was dangerous to do so. And beside Rev. Adam Gilliland stood his wife, Sarah, whose own quiet involvement and trusted family ties made her a steady, unseen force in the same hidden chain of rescue.
And he inspired all.
This wasn’t just a preacher.
This was a movement-builder.
A community-shaper.
A man whose influence ran under the surface like a hidden river.
Now he lies in Venice Cemetery, no grand monument, no statue, just a name carved in stone — and a legacy that most of the town has completely forgotten.
Not anymore.