WITH EMPTY HANDS
In the long after years Mark Griffin used to wonder at the strange way
in which love for Ruth Atheson entered his life. Mark always owned
that, somehow, this love seemed sent for his salvation. It filled his
life, but only as the air fills a vacuum; so it was, consequently,
nothing that prevented other interests from living with it. It aroused
him to greater ambition. The long-neglected creative power moved
without Mark's knowing why. His pen wrote down his thoughts, and he no
longer destroyed what he committed to paper. It now seemed a crime to
destroy what had cost him only a pleasure to produce. The world had
suddenly become beautiful. No longer did Japan and Siberia call to
him. He had no new plans, but he knew that they were forming, slowly,
but with finality and authority.
Yet Mark's love was never spoken. It was just understood. Many times
he had determined to speak, and just as many times did it seem quite
unnecessary. He felt that Ruth understood, for one day, when an avowal
trembled on his lips, she had broken it off unspoken by gently calling
him "Mark," her face suffused the while with an oddly tender light that
was in itself an answer. After that it was always "Ruth" and "Mark."
Father Murray also seemed to understand; with him, too, it was "Ruth"
and "Mark." After one week of that glorious September, Mark was at
Killimaga daily; and when October came and had almost passed, without a
word of affection being spoken between them, Ruth and Mark came to know
that some day it would be spoken, quite as naturally as she had uttered
his Christian name for the first time. When Mark thought of his love,
he thought also of his mother. He seemed to see her smile as if it
quite pleased her; and he rejoiced that he could believe she knew, and
saw that it was good.
"I love many things in men," said Father Murray one day as he and Mark
watched the waves dashing against the bluff. "I love generosity and
strength, truthfulness and mercy; but, most of all, I love cleanness.
The world is losing it, and the world will die from the loss. The
chief aid to my faith is the clean hearts I see in my poor."
"Uncle Mac again?" ventured Mark.
"Uncle Mac, and Uncles Mac--many of them. They have a heritage of
cleanness. It is the best thing they brought to this new world, and
_we_ were the losers when they left us."
"_We_? But you are English, are you not?" asked Mark courteously.
"Ah! So you caught me then, did you? Yes, I am English, or rather
British. But don't question me about that; I am real Yankee now. Even
my tongue has lost its ancestral rights."
Mark was persistent. "Perhaps you, too, have a little of the 'blessed
drop' that makes the Uncle Macs what they are? I really think, Father,
that you have it."
"Not even a little of the 'blessed drop.' I am really not English,
though born in England. Both father and mother were Scotch. So I am
kin to the 'blessed drop.'"
"And you drifted here--"
"Not exactly 'drifted,' Mark. I came because I wanted to come. I came
for opportunity. I was ambitious, and then there was another
reason--but that is at present forbidden ground. Here is your
constable friend again."
The constable passed with a respectful touch of his helmet. _He_ at
least was of the soil. Every line of his face spoke of New England.
"He is a character worth studying," remarked Father Murray. "Have you
ever talked with him?"
"No. I have had no chance."
"Then find one, and put him in a book. He was once rich for Sihasset.
That was in the lumber days. But he lost his money, and he thinks that
the town owes him a living. That is the Methodist minister to whom he
is speaking now. He, too, is worth your attention."
"Do you get along well with the Protestant clergy of the town?" asked
Mark.
"Splendidly," said Father Murray; "especially with the Universalist.
There is a lot of humor in the Universalist. I suspect the 'blessed
drop' in him. One day I happened to call him a Unitarian, and he
corrected me. 'But what,' I asked, 'is the difference between the
Universalists and the Unitarians?' The little man smiled and said:
'One of my professors put it like this: "The Unitarians believe that
God is too good to damn them, and the Universalists believe they are
too good to be damned."'"
"Still, it cannot be an easy life," said Mark, "to be one of seven or
eight Protestant pastors in such a small town."
"It certainly is hard sledding," replied Father Murray. "But these men
take it very philosophically and with a great deal of self-effacement.
The country clergyman has trials that his city brother knows nothing
about. He has to figure on the pennies that rarely grow to dollars."
The two friends walked on, Mark's mind reverting to his own lack of
faith and contrasting his dubiety with the sincerity of men who firmly
believe--foremost among them the man who walked by his side. Ah, if
he, too, could only _know_! He broke the silence.
"Father." He spoke hurriedly, as if fearing he might not have courage
to continue what he had so boldly begun. "Father, I can't forget your
words regarding those who claim to have studied religion and yet who
deliberately leave out of the reckoning the greatest part of religion.
I believe I did that very thing. I was once a believer, at least so I
thought. I let my belief get away from me; it seemed no longer to
merit consideration. I thought I had studied and discarded it; I see
now that I simply cast it away. Afterwards, I gave consideration to
other religions, but they were cold, lacking in the higher appeal. I
turned at last to Theosophy, to Confucianism, but remained always
unsatisfied. I never thought to look again into the religion I had
inherited."
Father Murray's face was serious. "I am deeply interested," he said,
"deeply, although it was only as I thought. But tell me. What led you
to do this? There must have been a reason formed in your mind."
"I never thought of a reason at all; I just did it. But now it seems
to me that the reason was there, and that it was not a very worthy one.
I think I wanted to get away. My social interest and comfort, my
independence, all seemed threatened by my faith. You will acknowledge,
Father, that it is an interfering sort of a thing? It hampers one's
actions, and it has a bad habit of getting dictatorial. Don't you see
what I mean?"
"I do," said the priest; and paused as if to gauge the sincerity of his
companion. "In fact, I went through a similar experience."
"Then you can tell me what you think of my position."
"I have already told you," said the priest earnestly. "You are the one
to do the thinking now. All I can do is to point out the road by which
you may best retrace your way. You have told me just what I expected
to hear; I admire your honesty in telling it--not to me, but to
yourself. Don't you see that your reason for deserting your Faith was
but a reason for greater loyalty? The oldest idea of religion in the
world, after that of the existence and providence of God, is the idea
of sacrifice. Even pagans never lost that idea. Nothing in this world
is worth having but must be paid for. Its cost is summed up in
sacrifice. Now, religion demands the same. If it calls for right
living, it calls for the sacrifice that right living demands. An
athlete gets his muscle and strength, not by coddling his body, but by
restraining its passions and curbing its indolence, by working its
softness into force and power. A river is bound between banks, and
only thus bound is it anything but a menace. If a church claims to
have the Truth, she forfeits her first claim to a hearing if she asks
for no sacrifice. That your Church asked many sacrifices was no cause
for your throwing her over, but a sign that she claimed the just right
to put religion in positive form, and to give precepts of sacrifice,
without the giving of which she would have no right to exist at all.
Am I clear?"
"You are clear, Father, and I know you are right. I have never been
able to leave my own Faith entirely out of the reckoning. I am not
trying to excuse myself. I could not ignore it, for it intruded itself
and forced attention. In fact, it has been forcing itself upon me most
uncomfortably, especially of late years."
"Again," said Father Murray, "a reason why you should have attended to
it. If there is a divine revelation confided to the care of a church,
that revelation is for the sake of men and not for the sake of the
church. A church has no right to existence for its own sake. He was a
wise Pope who called himself 'Servant of the Servants of God.' The
position of your Church--for I must look upon you as a Catholic--is,
that a divine revelation has been made. If it has been made it must be
conserved. Reason tells us that something then must have been
established to conserve it. That _something_ will last as long as the
revelation needs conserving, which is to the end of the world. Now,
only the Catholic Church claims that she has the care of that
revelation--that she is the conserving force; which means that she
is--as I have told you before--a 'City set upon a Mountain.' She can't
help making herself seen. She _must_ intrude on your thoughts. She
_must_ speak consistently through your life. She can permit no one to
ignore her. She _won't_ let anyone ignore her. Kick her out one door,
and she will come in another. She is in your art, your music, your
literature, your laws, your customs, your very vices as well as your
virtues--as she was destined to be. It is her destiny--her manifest
destiny--and she can't change it if she would."
Mark drew in a deep breath that sounded like a sigh. "I suppose,
Father," he said, "I could argue with you and dispute with you; under
other circumstances perhaps I should. I hate to think that I may have
to give up my liberty; yet I am not going to argue, and I am not going
to dispute. I wanted information, and I got it. The questions I asked
were only for the purpose of drawing you out. But here is another: Why
should any institution come between a man and his God? Is that
necessary?"
The priest's eyes held a far-away look. It was some little while
before he spoke, and then very slowly, as if carefully weighing his
words.
"There is nothing," said the priest, "between the trees and the flowers
and their God--but they are only trees and flowers; they live, but they
neither think nor feel. There is nothing between the lower animals and
their God; but, though they live and feel, they have none of the higher
power of thought. If God had wanted man thus, why should he have given
him something more than the lower animals? Man cannot live and feel
only and still be a man. He must feed not only his body but his heart
and soul and intellect. The men who have nothing between themselves
and their God are mostly confined in lunatic asylums. The gift of
intelligence demands action by the intellect; and there must be a
foundation upon which to base action. When the foundation is in place,
there never can be any limit to the desire for building upon it. Now,
God willed all that. He created the condition and is, therefore,
obliged to satisfy the desires of that condition. Some day He must
satisfy the desires to the full; but now He is obliged only to keep
them fed, or to give them the means to keep fed. Of course, He could
do that by a direct revelation to each individual; but that He has not
done so is proved by the fact that, while there can be but one Truth,
yet each individual who 'goes it alone' has a different conception of
it. The idea of private religious inspiration has produced public
religious anarchy. Now, God could not will religious anarchy--He loves
truth too much. So reason tells us that He _must_ have done the thing
that His very nature would force Him to do. He _must_ have confided
His revelation to His Church in order to preserve it, to teach it, to
keep it for men. That is not putting any man or institution between
Himself and His creatures. Would you call the hand which drags you
over a danger an interference with your liberty? Liberty, my dear
Mark, is not the right to be blind, but the privilege of seeing. The
light that shows things to your eyes is not an interference between
those things and your eyes. The road you take to your destination is
not an obstacle to your reaching it."
The priest was silent for a moment, but Mark knew that he had not quite
finished.
"The rich young man of the Scriptures went to Christ and asked what he
should do to be saved. He got his answer. Was Christ in his way? Was
the answer a restraint upon his liberty?"
"No," answered Mark, breaking in, "it was not a restraint upon his
liberty. But you say that Christ is God, so the young man had nothing
between himself and his God."
"Oh, yes, he had," said the priest. "He had the command or counsel
that Christ gave him. It was against the command or counsel that he
rebelled. Now have not I, and you, and all the world, the same right
to get an answer as that young man had? Since we are all equal in the
sight of God, and since Christ came for all men, have we not the right
to an answer now as clear as His was then?"
"It seems logical," admitted Mark.
"Then," said Father Murray, "the unerring Voice must still be here.
Where is it?"
"Yes," retorted Mark, "that is my cry. Where is it? I think it's the
cry of many other men. What is the answer?"
"It is the thing that you threw over--or believed you had thrown
over--and that you can't get away from thinking about. It waits to
answer you."
A silence settled between the two men. It lasted for over a minute.
Finally Mark broke it.
"You told me, Father," he said, "that what I called 'Mrs. O'Leary's
philosophy' was religion. I now know better what you meant, for I have
been gossiping about you. The best point you make is--yourself. I
know what you have been, what you have done, and how sadly you have
suffered. Doesn't your religion demand too much--resignation? Does a
God of Justice demand that we tamely submit to injustice? I am not
saying this to be personal, or to pain you, but everyone seems to
wonder at your resignation to injustice. Why should such a fault be in
the Church you think so perfect?"
The priest looked at Mark with kindly and almost merry eyes. "I can
answer you better, my friend, by sticking to my own case. I have never
talked of it before; but, if it helps you, I can't very well refuse to
talk of it now. I came to the Church with empty hands, having passed
through the crisis that seems to be upon you. She filled those empty
hands, for she honored me and gave me power. She set me in high
places, and I honestly tried to be worthy. I worked for her, and I
seemed to succeed. Then--and very suddenly and quietly--she pulled me
down, and tore my robe of honor from me. My fellow priests, my old
friends, criticised me and judged me harshly. They came no more to see
me, though I had been generous with them. In the college I built and
directed, one of my old friends sits in my place and forgets who put
him there. Another is the Bishop who disgraced me. Now, have I a
right to feel angry and rebel?"
"To me," said Mark, "it seems as if you have."
"I have not," and the priest spoke very earnestly. "I have no such
right. I never knew--for I did not ask--the reason of my disgrace.
But one thing I did know; I knew it was for my good. I knew that,
though it was a trial given me by men, there was in it, too, something
given by God. You judge as I should have judged ten years ago--by the
standards of the world. I judge now by other standards. It took
adversity to open my eyes. We are not here, my dear Mark, for the
little, but for the big things. I had the little and I thought they
were big. My fall from a place of honor has taught me that they were
really little, and that it is only now that I have the big. What is
religion for but to enlighten and to save--enlighten here that the
future may hold salvation? What were my purple, power and title?
Nothing, unless I could make them help to enlighten and to save myself
and others. I ought to have fought them, but I was not big enough to
see that they hindered where I could have made them help. Like a bolt
out of the sunlight came the stripping. My shame was the best offering
I have made during all the days of my life. In my misery I went to God
as naturally as the poor prodigal son went to his father when he was
reduced to eating husks from the trough of the swine. I asked nothing
as to the cause of my fall. I knew that, according to man's
standard--even according to the laws that she herself had made--that
the Church had been unjust; but I did not ask to know anything about
it, for the acceptance of the injustice was worth more to my soul than
was the great cathedral I had been instrumental in building. I was
grieved that my friends had left me, but I knew at last that I had
cultivated them at the expense of greater friends--sacrifice and
humility. Shorn of my honors, in the rags and tatters left of my
greatness, I lay before my Master--and I gained more in peace than I
had ever known was in life."
"God!" Mark's very soul seemed to be speaking, and the single word
held the solemnity of a prayer. "This, then, is religion! Was it this
that I lost?"
"No one has lost, Mark, what he sincerely wishes to find."