I
IN the cottonwood grove by the muddy river, three miles west of Paris,
Kansas, the godly were gathered with lunch-baskets, linen dusters, and
moist unhappy babies for the all-day celebration. Brothers Elmer Gantry
and Edward Fislinger had been licensed to preach before, but now they
were to be ordained as full-fledged preachers, as Baptist ministers.
They had come home from distant Mizpah Theological Seminary for
ordination by their own council of churches, the Kayooska River Baptist
Association. Both of them had another year to go out of the three-year
seminary course, but by the more devout and rural brethren it is
considered well to ordain the clerics early, so that even before they
attain infallible wisdom they may fill backwoods pulpits and during
week-ends do good works with divine authority.
His vacation after college Elmer had spent on a farm; during vacation
after his first year in seminary he had been supervisor in a boys’ camp;
now, after ordination, he was to supply at the smaller churches in his
corner of Kansas.
During his second year of seminary, just finished, he had been more
voluminously bored than ever at Terwillinger. Constantly he had thought
of quitting, but after his journeys to the city of Monarch, where he was
in closer relation to fancy ladies and to bartenders than one would have
desired in a holy clerk, he got a second wind in his resolve to lead a
pure life, and so managed to keep on toward perfection, as symbolized by
the degree of Bachelor of Divinity.
But if he had been bored, he had acquired professional training.
He was able now to face any audience and to discourse authoritatively on
any subject whatever, for any given time to the second, without
trembling and without any errors of speech beyond an infrequent “ain’t”
or “he don’t.” He had an elegant vocabulary. He knew eighteen synonyms
for sin, half of them very long and impressive, and the others very
short and explosive and minatory—minatory being one of his own best
words, constantly useful in terrifying the as yet imaginary horde of
sinners gathered before him.
He was no longer embarrassed by using the most intimate language about
God; without grinning he could ask a seven-year-old boy, “Don’t you want
to give up your vices?” and without flinching he could look a tobacco
salesman in the eye and demand, “Have you ever knelt before the throne
of grace?”
Whatever worldly expressions he might use in _sub rosa_ conversations
with the less sanctified theological students, such as Harry Zenz, who
was the most confirmed atheist in the school, in public he never so much
as said “doggone,” and he had on tap, for immediate and skilled use, a
number of such phrases as “Brother, I am willing to help you find
religion,” “My whole life is a testimonial to my faith,” “To the inner
eye there is no trouble in comprehending the three-fold nature of
divinity,” “We don’t want any long-faced Christians in this church—the
fellow that’s been washed in the blood of the Lamb is just so happy he
goes ’round singing and hollering hallelujah all day long,” and “Come on
now, all get together, and let’s make this the biggest collection this
church has ever seen.” He could explain foreordination thoroughly, and
he used the words “baptizo” and “Athanasian.”
He would, perhaps, be less orchestral, less Palladian, when he had been
in practise for a year or two after graduation and discovered that the
hearts of men are vile, their habits low, and that they are unwilling to
hand the control of all those habits over to the parson. But he would
recover again, and he was a promise of what he might be in twenty years,
as a ten-thousand-dollar seer.
He had grown broader, his glossy hair, longer than at Terwillinger, was
brushed back from his heavy white brow, his nails were oftener clean,
and his speech was Jovian. It was more sonorous, more measured and
pontifical; he could, and did, reveal his interested knowledge of your
secret moral diabetes merely by saying, “How are we today, Brother?”
And though he had almost flunked in Greek, his thesis on “Sixteen Ways
of Paying a Church Debt” had won the ten-dollar prize in Practical
Theology.
II
He walked among the Kayooska Valley communicants, beside his mother. She
was a small-town business woman; she was not unduly wrinkled or shabby;
indeed she wore a good little black hat and a new brown silk frock with
a long gold chain; but she was inconspicuous beside his bulk and sober
magnificence.
He wore for the ceremony a new double-breasted suit of black broadcloth,
and new black shoes. So did Eddie Fislinger, along with a funereal tie
and a black wide felt hat, like a Texas congressman’s. But Elmer was
more daring. Had he not understood that he must show dignity, he would
have indulged himself in the gaudiness for which he had a talent. He had
compromised by buying a beautiful light gray felt hat in Chicago, on his
way home, and he had ventured on a red-bordered gray silk handkerchief,
which gave a pleasing touch of color to his sober chest.
But he had left off, for the day, the large opal ring surrounded by
almost gold serpents for which he had lusted and to which he had yielded
when in liquor, in the city of Monarch.
He walked as an army with banners, he spoke like a trombone, he gestured
widely with his large blanched thick hand; and his mother, on his arm,
looked up in ecstasy. He wafted her among the crowd, affable as a
candidate for probate judgeship, and she was covered with the fringes of
his glory.
For the ordination, perhaps two hundred Baptist laymen and laywomen and
at least two hundred babies had come in from neighboring congregations
by buckboard, democrat wagon, and buggy. (It was 1905; there was as yet
no Ford nearer than Fort Scott.) They were honest, kindly, solid folk;
farmers and blacksmiths and cobblers; men with tanned deep-lined faces,
wearing creased “best suits”; the women, deep bosomed or work-shriveled,
in clean gingham. There was one village banker, very chatty and
democratic, in a new crash suit. They milled like cattle, in dust up to
their shoe laces, and dust veiled them, in the still heat, under the
dusty branches of the cottonwoods from which floated shreds to catch and
glisten on the rough fabric of their clothes.
Six preachers had combined to assist the Paris parson in his ceremony,
and one of them was no less than the Rev. Dr. Ingle, come all the way
from St. Joe, where he was said to have a Sunday School of six hundred.
As a young man—very thin and eloquent in a frock coat—Dr. Ingle had
for six months preached in Paris, and Mrs. Gantry remembered him as her
favorite minister. He had been so kind to her when she was ill; had come
in to read “Ben Hur” aloud, and tell stories to a chunky little Elmer
given to hiding behind furniture and heaving vegetables at visitors.
“Well, well, Brother, so this is the little tad I used to know as a
shaver! Well, you always were a good little mannie, and they tell me
that now you’re a consecrated young man—that you’re destined to do a
great work for the Lord,” Dr. Ingle greeted Elmer.
“Thank you, Doctor. Pray for me. It’s an honor to have you come from
your great church,” said Elmer.
“Not a bit of trouble. On my way to Colorado—I’ve taken a cabin way up
in the mountains there—glorious view—sunsets—painted by the Lord
himself. My congregation have been so good as to give me two months’
vacation. Wish you could pop up there for a while, Brother Elmer.”
“I wish I could, Doctor, but I have to try in my humble way to keep the
fires burning around here.”
Mrs. Gantry was panting. To have her little boy discoursing with Dr.
Ingle as though they were equals! To hear him talking like a
preacher—just as _natural_! And some day—Elmer with a famous church;
with a cottage in Colorado for the summer; married to a dear pious
little woman, with half a dozen children; and herself invited to join
them for the summer; all of them kneeling in family prayers, led by
Elmer . . . though it was true Elmer declined to hold family prayers
just now; said he’d had too much of it in seminary all year . . . too
bad, but she’d keep on coaxing . . . and if he just _would_ stop
smoking, as she’d begged and besought him to do . . . well, perhaps if
he didn’t have a few naughtinesses left, he wouldn’t hardly be her
little boy any more. . . . How she’d had to scold once upon a time to
get him to wash his hands and put on the nice red woolen wristlets she’d
knitted for him!
No less satisfying to her was the way in which Elmer impressed all their
neighbors. Charley Watley, the house-painter, commander of the Ezra P.
Nickerson Post of the G. A. R. of Paris, who had always pulled his white
mustache and grunted when she had tried to explain Elmer’s hidden powers
of holiness, took her aside to admit: “You were right, Sister; he makes
a fine upstanding young man of God.”
They encountered that town problem, Hank McVittle, the druggist. Elmer
and he had been mates; together they had stolen sugar-corn, drunk hard
cider, and indulged in haymow venery. Hank was a small red man, with a
lascivious and knowing eye. It was certain that he had come today only
to laugh at Elmer.
They met face on, and Hank observed, “Morning, Mrs. Gantry. Well, Elmy,
going to be a preacher, eh?”
“I am, Hank.”
“Like it?” Hank was grinning and scratching his cheek with a freckled
hand; other unsanctified Parisians were listening.
Elmer boomed, “I do, Hank. I love it! I love the ways of the Lord, and I
don’t ever propose to put my foot into any others! Because I’ve tasted
the fruit of evil, Hank—you know that. And there’s nothing to it. What
fun we had, Hank, was nothing to the peace and joy I feel now. I’m kind
of sorry for you, my boy.” He loomed over Hank, dropped his paw heavily
on his shoulder. “Why don’t you try to get right with God? Or maybe
you’re smarter than he is!”
“Never claimed to be anything of the sort!” snapped Hank, and in that
testiness Elmer triumphed, his mother exulted.
She was sorry to see how few were congratulating Eddie Fislinger, who
was also milling, but motherless, inconspicuous, meek to the presiding
clergy.
Old Jewkins, humble, gentle old farmer, inched up to murmur, “Like to
shake your hand, Brother Elmer. Mighty fine to see you chosen thus and
put aside for the work of the Lord. Jiggity! T’ think I remember you as
knee-high to a grasshopper! I suppose you study a lot of awful learned
books now.”
“They make us work good and hard, Brother Jewkins. They give us pretty
deep stuff: hermeneutics, chrestomathy, pericopes, exegesis, homiletics,
liturgics, isagogics, Greek and Hebrew and Aramaic, hymnology,
apologetics—oh, a good deal.”
“Well! I should _say_ so!” worshiped old Jewkins, while Mrs. Gantry
marveled to find Elmer even more profound than she had thought, and
Elmer reflected proudly that he really did know what all but a couple of
the words meant.
“My!” sighed his mother. “You’re getting so educated, I declare t’
goodness pretty soon I won’t hardly dare to talk to you!”
“Oh, no. There’ll never come a time when you and I won’t be the best of
pals, or when I won’t need the inspiration of your prayers!” said Elmer
Gantry melodiously, with refined but manly laughter.
III
They were assembling on benches, wagon-seats and boxes for the ceremony
of ordination.
The pulpit was a wooden table with a huge Bible and a pitcher of
lemonade. Behind it were seven rocking chairs for the clergy, and just
in front, two hard wooden chairs for the candidates.
The present local pastor, Brother Dinger, was a meager man, slow of
speech and given to long prayers. He rapped on the table. “We will, uh,
we will now begin.”
. . . Elmer, looking handsome on a kitchen chair in front of the rows of
flushed hot faces. He stopped fretting that his shiny new black shoes
were dust-gray. His heart pounded. He was in for it! No escape! He was
going to be a pastor! Last chance for Jim Lefferts, and Lord knew where
Jim was. He couldn’t— His shoulder muscles were rigid. Then they
relaxed wearily, as though he had struggled to satiety, while Brother
Dinger went on:
“Well, we’ll start with the usual, uh, examination of our young
brothers, and the brethren have, uh, they’ve been good enough, uh, to
let me, uh, in whose charge one, uh, one of these fine young brothers
has always lived and made his home—to let me, uh, let me ask the
questions. Now, Brother Gantry, do you believe fully and whole-heartedly
in baptism by immersion?”
Elmer was thinking, “What a rotten pulpit voice the poor duck has,” but
aloud he was rumbling:
“I believe, Brother, and I’ve been taught, that possibly a man _might_
be saved if he’d just been baptized by sprinkling or pouring, but only
if he were ignorant of the truth. Of course immersion is the only
Scriptural way—if we’re really going to be like Christ, we must be
buried with him in baptism.”
“That’s fine, Brother Gantry. Praise God! Now, Brother Fislinger, do you
believe in the final perseverance of the saints?”
Eddie’s eager but cracked voice explaining—on—on—somniferous as the
locusts in the blazing fields across the Kayooska River.
As there is no hierarchy in the Baptist Church, but only a free
association of like-minded local churches, so are there no canonical
forms of procedure, but only customs. The ceremony of ordination is not
a definite rite; it may vary as the local associations will, and
ordination is conferred not by any bishop but by the general approval of
the churches in an association.
The questions were followed by the “charge to the candidates,” a
tremendous discourse by the great Dr. Ingle, in which he commended
study, light meals, and helping the sick by going and reading texts to
them. Every one joined then in a tremendous basket-lunch on long plank
tables by the cool river . . . banana layer cake, doughnuts, fried
chicken, chocolate layer cake, scalloped potatoes, hermit cookies,
cocoanut layer cake, pickled tomato preserves, on plates which skidded
about the table, with coffee poured into saucerless cups from a vast tin
pot, inevitably scalding at least one child, who howled. There were
hearty shouts of “Pass the lemon pie, Sister Skiff,” and “That was a
fine discourse of Brother Ingle’s,” and “Oh, dear, I dropped my spoon
and an ant got on it—well, I’ll just wipe it on my apron—that was fine
the way Brother Gantry explained how the Baptist Church has existed ever
since Bible days.” . . . Boys bathing, shrieking, splashing one another.
. . . Boys getting into the poison ivy. . . . Boys becoming so infected
with the poison ivy that they would turn spotty and begin to swell
within seven hours. . . . Dr. Ingle enthusiastically telling the other
clergy of his trip to the Holy Land. . . . Elmer lying about his
fondness for the faculty of his theological seminary.
Reassembled after lunch, Brother Tusker, minister of the largest
congregation in the association, gave the “charge to the churches.” This
was always the juicest and most scandalous and delightful part of the
ordination ceremony. In it the clergy had a chance to get back at the
parishioners who, as large contributors, as guaranteed saints, had all
year been nagging them.
Here were these fine young men going into the ministry, said Brother
Tusker. Well, it was up to them to help. Brother Gantry and Brother
Fislinger were leaping with the joy of sacrifice and learning. Then let
the churches give ’em a chance, and not make ’em spend all the time
hot-footing it around, as some older preachers had to do, raising their
own salaries! Let folks quit criticizing; let ’em appreciate godly lives
and the quickening word once in a while, instead of ham-ham-hammering
their preachers all day long!
And certain of the parties who criticized the preachers’ wives for
idleness—funny the way some of _them_ seemed to have so much time to
gad around and notice things and spread scandal! T’wa’n’t only the
menfolks that the Savior was thinking of when he talked about them that
were without sin being the only folks that were qualified to heave any
rocks!
The other preachers leaned back in their chairs and tried to look
casual, and hoped that Brother Tusker was going to bear down even a
lee-tle heavier on that matter of raising salaries.
In his sermon and the concluding ordination prayer Brother Knoblaugh (of
Barkinsville) summed up, for the benefit of Elmer Gantry, Eddie
Fislinger, and God, the history of the Baptists, the importance of
missions, and the perils of not reading the Bible before breakfast
daily.
Through this long prayer, the visiting pastors stood with their hands on
the heads of Elmer and Eddie.
There was a grotesque hitch at first. Most of the ministers were little
men who could no more than reach up to Elmer’s head. They stood strained
and awkward and unecclesiastical, these shabby good men, before the
restless audience. There was a giggle. Elmer had a dramatic flash. He
knelt abruptly, and Eddie, peering and awkward, followed him.
In the powdery gray dust Elmer knelt, ignoring it. On his head were the
worn hands of three veteran preachers, and suddenly he was humble, for a
moment he was veritably being ordained to the priestly service of God.
He had been only impatient till this instant. In the chapels at Mizpah
and Terwillinger he had heard too many famous visiting pulpiteers to be
impressed by the rustic eloquence of the Kayooska Association. But he
felt now their diffident tenderness, their unlettered fervor—these
poverty-twisted parsons who believed, patient in their bare and baking
tabernacles, that they were saving the world, and who wistfully welcomed
the youths that they themselves had been.
For the first time in weeks Elmer prayed not as an exhibition but
sincerely, passionately, savoring righteousness:
“Dear God—I’ll get down to it—not show off but just think of thee—do
good—God help me!”
Coolness fluttered the heavy dust-caked leaves, and as the sighing crowd
creaked up from their benches, Elmer Gantry stood confident . . .
ordained minister of the gospel.