A MATTER OF OPINION
"'Who spoke of condemnation? Is that just the question? Are you not
unfair?'"
Miss Farwell had heard much of the new pastor of the Memorial Church.
Dr. Harry frequently urged her to attend services; Deborah, when Hope
had seen her was eloquent in his praise. Mrs. Strong and the ladies who
called at the house spoke of him often. But for the first two weeks of
her stay at Judge Strong's the nurse had been confined so closely to
the care of her patient that she had heard nothing to identify the
preacher with the big stranger whom she had met at the depot the day of
her arrival.
By the time Miss Farwell began hearing of the new preacher the interest
occasioned by his defense of Denny had already died down, and it chanced
that no one mentioned it in her presence when speaking of him, while each
time he had called at the Strong home the nurse had been absent or busy.
Thus it happened that so far as she knew, Miss Farwell had never met the
minister about whom she had heard so much. But she had several times seen
the big fellow, who had apologized at such length for running into her at
the depot, and who had gone so quickly to the assistance of Denny. It was
natural, under such conditions, that she should remember him. It was
natural, too, that she never dreamed of connecting the young hero of the
street fight with the Reverend Matthews of the Memorial Church.
Her patient had so far improved that the nurse was now able to leave her
for an hour or two in the afternoon, and the young woman had gone for a
walk just beyond the outskirts of the village. Coming to the top of the
hill she had turned aside from the dusty highway, thinking to enjoy the
view from the shade of a great oak that grew on a grassy knoll in the
center of the school grounds.
Dan watched her as she made her way slowly across the yard, his eyes
bright with admiration for her womanly grace as she stopped, here and
there, to pick a wild flower from the tangle of grass and weeds. Reaching
the tree she seated herself and, laying her parasol on the grass by her
side, began arranging the blossoms she had gathered--pausing, now and
then, to look over the rolling country of field and woods that, dotted by
farm houses with their buildings and stacks, stretched away into the blue
distance.
The young fellow at the window gazed at her with almost superstitious
awe. That her face had come before him so vividly, as he sat dreaming in
the old school-room, at the very moment when she was turning into the
yard, moved him greatly. His blood tingled at the odd premonition that
this woman was somehow to play a great part in his life. Nothing seemed
more natural than that he should have come to this spot this afternoon.
Neither was it at all strange that, in her walk, she too, should be
attracted by the beauty of the place. But the feeling forced itself upon
him nevertheless that this perfectly natural incident was a great event
in his life. He knew that he would go to her presently. He was painfully
aware that he ought not to be thus secretly watching her, but he
hesitated as one about to take a step that could never be retraced.
She started when he appeared in the doorway of the building and
half-arose from her place. Then recognizing him she dropped back on the
grass; and there was a half-amused frown on her face, though her cheeks
were red. She was indignant with herself that she should be blushing
like a schoolgirl at the presence of this stranger whose name even she
did not know.
"I beg your pardon, Miss Farwell, I fear that I startled you," he said,
hat in hand. Already Dan had grown so accustomed to being greeted by
strangers, that it never occurred to him that this lady did not know
who he was.
She saw the sunlight on his shaggy red-brown hair, and the fine poise of
the well-shaped head, as she answered shortly, "You did."
Woman-like she was making him feel her anger at herself; and also
woman-like, when she saw his embarrassment at her blunt words and manner,
she smiled.
"I am sorry," he said, but he did not offer to go on his way.
When she made no reply but began rearranging her handful of blossoms, he
spoke again, remarking on the beauty of the view before them; and
ventured to ask if the knoll was to her a favorite spot, adding that it
was his first visit to the place.
"I have never been here before either," she answered. The brief silence
that followed was broken by Dan.
"We seem to have made a discovery," he said, wondering why she should
seem confused at his simple remark. "I know I ought to go," he continued.
"I will if you say the word, but--" he paused.
"You were here first," she returned with a smile. Really, she thought,
there was no reason why she should drive him away. He was so evidently a
gentleman, and the place was on the public thoroughfare.
"Then I may stay?" He dropped on the grass at her feet with an
exclamation of satisfaction and pleasure.
Looking away over the landscape where the clouds and shadows were racing,
and the warm autumn light lay on the varying shades of green and brown,
he remarked: "Do you know when I see a bit of out-doors like that, on
such a day as this, or when I am out in the woods or up in the hills, I
wonder what men build churches for, anyway. I fear I must be something of
a pagan, for I often feel that I can worship God best in his own temple.
Quite heathenish isn't it?" He laughed, but under the laugh there was a
note of troubled seriousness.
She looked at him curiously. "And is it heathenish to worship God outside
of a church? If it is I fear that I, too, am a heathen."
He noted the words "I, too," and saw instantly that she did not know him
but had understood from his words that he was not a church man. He felt
that he ought to correct her false impression, that he ought to tell her
who and what he was, but he was possessed of a curious feeling of
reluctance to declare his calling.
The truth is, Dan Matthews did not want to meet this woman as a priest,
but as a man. He had already learned how the moment the preacher was
announced the man was pushed into the background.
While he hesitated she watched him with increasing interest. His words
had pleased her; she waited for him to speak again.
"I suppose your profession does keep you from anything like regular
church attendance," he said.
"Yes," she answered, "I have found that sick people do not as a rule
observe a one-day-in-seven religion. But it is not my professional
duties that keep me from church."
"You are not then--"
"Decidedly I am not," she answered.
"Really, you surprise me. I thought of course you were a member of some
church."
There was a touch of impatience in her quick reply. "You thought 'of
course'? And why of course, please?"
He started to answer, but she went on quickly, "I know why; because I am
a woman, _the weaker sex_!"
It is not possible to describe the fine touch in her voice when she said
"the weaker sex." It was so delicately done, that it had none of the
coarseness that commonly marks like expressions, when used by some women.
Dan was surprised to feel that it emphasized the fineness of her
character, as well as its strength.
"Because I am not a man must I be _useless_?" she continued. "Is a
woman's life of so little influence in the world that she can spend it in
_make-believe living_ as little girls play at being grown up? Have I not
as great a right to my paganism as you call it, as you have to yours?"
Again he saw his opportunity and realized that he ought to correct her
mistake in assuming from his words that he was not a man of church
affiliation, but again he passed it by saying slowly, instead: "I think
your kind of paganism must be a very splendid thing; no one could think
of one in that dress as useless."
"I did not mean--"
"I understand I think," he said earnestly, "but won't you tell me why
you feel so about the church?"
She laughed as she returned, "One might think from your awful seriousness
that you were a preacher. Father Confessor, if you please--" she began
mockingly, then stopped--arrested by the expression of his face. "Oh I
beg your pardon, have I been rude?"
With a forced laugh he answered, "Oh no, indeed, not at all. It is only
that your views of the Christian religion surprise me."
"My views of the Christian religion," she repeated, very serious now. "I
did not know that my views of Christianity were mentioned."
He was bewildered. "But the church! You were speaking of the church."
"And the church and Christianity are one and the same of course." Again
with a touch of sarcasm, more pronounced, "You will tell me next, I
suppose, that a minister really ministers."
Dan was astonished and hurt. He had learned much of the spirit of
Christianity in his backwoods home, but he knew nothing of churches
except that which the school had taught him. He had accepted the church
to which he belonged at its own valuation, highly colored by biased
historians. Such words as these were to his ears little less than
sacrilege. He was shocked that they should come from one whose
personality and evident character had impressed him so strongly. His
voice was doubtful and perplexed as he said: "But is not that true
church of Christ, which is composed of his true disciples, Christian?
Surely, they can no more be separated than the sun can be separated from
the sunshine; and is not the ministry a vital part of that church?"
Miss Farwell, seeing him so troubled, wondered whether she understood
him. She felt that she was talking too freely to this stranger, but his
questions drew her on, and she was curiously anxious that he should
understand her.
"I was not thinking of that true church composed of the true disciples
of Christ," she returned. "And that is just it, don't you see? _This
true church that is so inseparable from the religion of Christ is so far
forgotten that it never enters into any thought of the church at all._
The sun always shines, it is true, but we do not always have the
sunshine. There are the dark and stormy days, you know, and sometimes
there is an eclipse. To me these are the dark days, so dark that I
wonder sometimes if it is not an eclipse." She paused then added
deliberately, "This selfish, wasteful, cruel, heartless thing that men
have built up around their opinions, and whims, and ambitions, has so
come between the people and the Christianity of the Christ, that they
are beginning to question if, indeed, there is anywhere such a thing as
the true church."
Again Dan was startled at her words and by her passionate earnestness;
the more so that, in the manner of her speaking as in her words, there
was an impersonal touch very unusual to those who speak on religious
topics. And there was a note of sadness in her voice as well. It was as
if she spoke to him professionally of the sickness of some one dear to
her and sought to keep her love for her patient from influencing her
calm consideration of the case.
His next words were forced from him almost against his will. And his eyes
had that wide questioning look so like that of his mother. "And the
ministry," he said.
She answered, "You ask if the ministry is not a vital part of the church,
and your very question expresses conditions clearly. What conception of
Christianity is it that makes it possible for us to even think of the
ministry as a part of the church? Why, the true church is a ministry!
There can be no other reason for its existence. But don't you see how we
have come to think of the ministry as we have come to think of the
church? It is to us, as you say, a part of this great organization that
men have created and control, and in this we are right, for this church
has made the minister, and this minister has in turn made the church.
They are indeed inseparable."
Dan caught up a flower that she had dropped and began picking it to
pieces with trembling fingers.
"To me," he said slowly, "the minister is a servant of God. I believe,
of course, that whatever work a man does in life he must do as his
service to the race and in that sense he serves God. But the ministry--"
he reached for another flower, choosing his words carefully, "the
ministry is, to me, the highest service to which a man may be called."
She did not reply but looked away over the valley.
"Tell me," he said, "is it not so?"
"If you believe it, then to you it is so," she answered.
"But you--" he urged, "how do you look upon the minister?"
"Why should I tell you? What difference does it make what I think? You
forget that we are strangers." She smiled. "Let us talk about the
weather; that's a safe topic."
"I _had_ forgotten that we are strangers," he said, with an answering
smile. "But I am interested in what you have said because you--you have
evidently thought much upon the matter, and your profession must
certainly give you opportunities for observation. Tell me, how do you
look upon the minister and his work?"
She studied him intently before she answered. Then--as if satisfied with
what she found in his face, she said calmly: "To me he is the most
useless creature in all the world. He is a man set apart from all those
who live lives of service, who do the work of the world. And then that
he should be distinguished from these world-workers, these servers, by
this noblest of all titles--_a minister_, is the bitterest irony that
the mind of the race ever conceived."
Her companion's face was white now as he answered quickly, "But surely a
minister of the gospel is doing God's will and is therefore serving God."
She answered as quickly, "Man serves God only by serving men. There can
be no ministry but the ministry of man to man."
"But the minister is a man."
"The world cannot accept him as such, because his individuality is lost
in the church to which he belongs. Other institutions employ a man's
time, the church employs his life; he has no existence outside his
profession. There is no outside the church for him. The world cannot
know him as a man, for he is all preacher."
"But the church employs him to minister to the world?"
"I cannot see that it does so at all. On the contrary a church employs a
pastor to serve itself. To the churches Christianity has become a
question of fidelity to a church and creed and not to the spirit of
Christ. The minister's standing and success in his calling, the amount
of his salary, even, depends upon his devotion to the particular views
of the church that calls him and his ability to please those who pay him
for pleasing them. His service to the world does not enter into the
transaction any more than when you buy the latest novel of your favorite
author, or purchase a picture that pleases you, or buy a ticket to hear
your favorite musician. We do not pretend, when we do these things that
we are ministering to the world, or that we are moved to spend our money
thus to serve God, even though there may be in the book, the picture, or
the music, many things that will make the world better."
The big fellow moved uneasily.
"But" he urged, eagerly, "the church is a sacred institution. It is not
to be compared to the institutions of men. Its very purpose is so holy,
so different from other organizations."
"Which of the hundreds of different sects with their different creeds do
you mean by the church?" she asked quickly. "Or do you mean all? And if
all are equally sacred, with the same holy purpose, why are they at such
variance with each other and why is there such useless competition
between them? How are these institutions--organized and controlled, as
they are, by men, different from other institutions, organized and
controlled by the same men? Surely you are aware that there are
thousands of institutions and organizations in the world with aims as
distinctly Christian as the professed object of the church. Why are
these not as holy and sacred?"
"But the church is of divine origin."
"So is this tree; so is the material in that old building; so are those
farms yonder. To me it is only the spirit of God in a thing that can make
it holy or sacred. Surely there is as much of God manifest in a field of
grain as in any of these churches; why, then, is not a corn field a holy
institution and why not the farmer who tends the field, a minister of
God?"
"You would condemn then everyone in the church?" he asked bitterly. "I
cannot think that--I know--" he paused.
"Condemn?" she answered questioningly, "I condemn?" Those deep gray eyes
were turned full upon him, and he saw her face grow tender and sad, while
the sweet voice trembled with emotion. "Who spoke of condemnation? Is
that just the question? Are you not unfair? In my--" she spoke the words
solemnly, "my ministry, I have stood at the bedside of too many heroes
and heroines not to know that the church is filled with the truest and
bravest. And that--Oh! don't you see--that is the awful pity of it all.
That those true, brave, noble lives should be the--the cloud that hides
the sun? As for the ministry, one in my profession could scarcely help
knowing the grand lives that are hidden in this useless class set apart
by the church to push its interests. The ministers are useless only
because they are not free. They cannot help themselves. They are slaves,
not servants. Their first duty is, not service to the soul-sick world
that so much needs their ministry, but obedience to the whims of this
hideous monster that they have created and now must obey or--" she
paused.
"Or what?" he said.
She continued as if she had not heard: "They are valued for their
fidelity to other men's standards, never for the worth of their own
lives. They are hired to give always the opinions of others, and they
are denied the only thing that can make any life of worth--freedom of
self-expression. The surest road to failure for them is to hold or
express opinions of their own. They are held, not as necessities, but as
a luxury, like heaven itself, for which if men have the means to spare,
they pay. They can have no real fellowship with the servants of the race,
for they are set apart by the church not to a ministry but from it. Their
very personal influence is less than the influence of other good men
because the world accepts it as professional. It is the way they earn
their living."
"But do you think that the ministers themselves wish to be so set apart?"
asked Dan. "I--I am sure they must all crave that fellowship with the
workers."
"I think that is true," she answered. "I am sure it is of the many grand,
good men in the ministry whom I have known."
"Oh," he said quickly, "then there are good men in the ministry?"
"Yes," she retorted, "just as there are gold and precious stones
ornamenting heathen gods and pagan temples, and their goodness is as
useless. For whether they wish it or not the facts remain that their
masters set them apart and that they are separated, and I notice that
most of them accept gracefully the special privileges, and wear the
title and all the marks of their calling that emphasize the distinction
between them and their fellow men."
"Yet you wear a distinguishing dress," he said. "I knew your calling the
first time I saw you."
She laughed merrily.
"Well what amuses you?" he demanded, smiling himself at her merriment.
"Oh, it's so funny to see such a big man so helpless. Really couldn't you
find an argument of more weight? Besides you didn't know my profession
the first time you saw me. I only wear these clothes when I am at work,
just as a mechanic wears his overalls--and they are just as necessary, as
you know. The first time you--you bumped into me, I dressed like other
people and I had paid full fare, too. Nurses don't get clergy credentials
from the railroad."
With this she sprang to her feet. "Look how long the shadows are! I must
go right back to my patient this minute."
As she spoke she was all at once painfully conscious again that this man
was a stranger. What must he think of her? How could she explain that it
was not her habit to talk thus freely to men whom she did not know? She
wished that he would tell her his name at least.
Slowly--silently they walked together across the weed-grown yard. As
they passed through the gap in the tumble-down fence, Dan turned to look
back. It seemed to him ages since he had entered the yard.
"What's the matter, have you lost something?" she asked.
"No--that is--I--perhaps I have. But never mind, it is of no great
importance, and anyway I could not find it. I think I will say good-bye
now," he added. "I'm not going to town just yet."
Again she wondered at his face, it was so troubled.
He watched her down the street until her blue dress, with its white
trimming became a blur in the shadows. Then he struck out once more for
the open country.