II

_Our National Creed_

The Herr Director and the Frau Directorin wished to go to church on

Sunday, and after eating a piously late breakfast I spread before them

New York City's religious bill of fare, bewildering in its variety and

puzzling in its terminology.

I gave them a choice between four varieties of Catholics: Roman, Greek,

Old and Apostolic; more than twice that number of Lutherans, separated

one from the other by degrees of orthodoxy and nearness to or farness

from their historic confessions.

There were Methodists who were free and those who were Episcopalian,

Episcopalians who were not Methodists but were reformed, and those who

made no such pretensions; all these invited us to worship with them.

Many varieties of Baptists announced their sermons and services,

offering a choice between those who were free and those who were just

Baptists, and between those who were Baptists on the Seventh Day and

those who did not specify the day on which they were Baptists.

We also had a chance to discriminate between Dutch Reformed, German

Reformed or Presbyterian Reformed, and United Presbyterians divided from

other Presbyterians (presumably unreformed) for reasons known to the

Fathers who died long since.

If we had been radically inclined we might have browsed among

Unitarians, Ethical Culturists, and could even have worshipped among

those who make a religion out of not having any.

The most interesting column to the Herr Director was that which

contained our exotic cults, those we have imported and those which prove

that we have not neglected our home industry.

It was disconcerting to me, who was trying to introduce our national

spirit, to realize how varied its religious expression is, and the Herr

Director got no little amusement out of the story I told him of the

student in one of our colleges who, it is said, came to the librarian

and asked for a book on "Wild Religions I have Met." When the librarian

suggested it might be Seton Thompson's book on Wild Animals, he said it

was not in the department of Zoölogy, but in Philosophy in which the

assignment for the reading was given. The book was then quickly found.

It was Prof. William James' "The Varieties of Religious Experience."

When we succeeded in rescuing the Frau Directorin out of the maze of

Sunday Supplements in which she was entangled, we started in pursuit of

a proper place of worship, in anything but a worshipful mood. I was bent

upon showing that which is vastly more difficult to interpret than

sky-scrapers, the Herr Director was doubtful that we had any religious

spirit at all, and the Frau Directorin mourned the fact that she had to

leave behind her so much paper which might have served such good

purposes if she had it at home.

Fifth Avenue recovers something of its departed exclusiveness on Sunday

morning; for although the cheaper stores are crowding upon those which

never descend to bargain counters, this is not true of the churches.

They still are in good repute, and await the stated hour of service on

Sunday morning without excitement, having advertised nothing, offering

no ecclesiastical bargains; content to live as the birds of the air,

whom the "Heavenly Father feedeth." The street was almost deserted; here

and there a taxicab darted on its way to or from the railway station;

the hour of the limousines had not yet come, and the people who strolled

along were evidently, like ourselves, unfashionable sojourners seeking a

tabernacle in Gotham's wilderness.

Sauntering along the street was less interesting than usual, for not

only were there no crowds, the shop-windows were all artistically

curtained and there was nothing to see. The Frau Directorin did not like

it at all, "for what good is it to walk along the shopping streets if

you can't look into the shops?"

"You see, my dear," the Herr Director remarked, "that is to help you

obey one of the ten commandments which womankind is especially prone to

break, 'Thou shalt not covet.' Incidentally it proves that we are in a

country in which you are allowed to do as you please every day and do

nothing on Sunday."

"No," I replied, "it merely proves that we are trying to save one day a

week from the contamination of our materialistic existence."

"It merely proves," he echoed, "that you have inherited from your

Anglo-Saxon ancestors the worst thing they could leave you: their

hypocrisy. I stepped behind a curtained bar this morning and found it

running at full blast. You evidently do your drinking in private on

Sunday and your praying in public. You know we in Germany do the

opposite."

"No, you do your praying and drinking both in public, and both seem to

be a part of your religion," I answered. "Very likely you are right.

There is about us this taint of hypocrisy; but that only shows that we

are a deeply religious people, conscious of the fact that our ideals

are upon a higher plane than our performance. We are not as eager as you

are to proclaim our frailties from the housetop.

"The average American wants you to believe him to be a pretty decent

fellow till you find him out to be different; while you Germans make a

virtue of a certain kind of brutal frankness, which is worse than

hypocrisy, since you try to make it an excuse for all sorts of private

and national sins. The real criminal is never a hypocrite."

I do not know what would have happened to me if at that moment we had

not reached St. Patrick's Cathedral. The full, rich organ notes seemed

to soothe the Herr Director's ruffled spirit, and our discussion ended

as we entered the welcoming portal.

In a church which in all places and all ages remains the same, there was

nothing for my guests to see or hear to which they were not accustomed.

There was the priest, alone with the great mystery which he was

enacting, and by his side the diminutive ministrants. The crowd which

filled every available space in that huge interior was silent and

reverent. Now the tinkling of a bell, like a command from Heaven, bade

all kneel, and now the same bell bade them rise. The incense, the

stately chant, and then the hushed, expectant throng going forward to

partake from the priest's hand of the means of grace, which he alone

could offer in the name of the one Holy Catholic Church--all this could

not fail to impress us.

Into the august and solemn atmosphere there came from a near-by church

the chimed notes of a hymn-tune such as the people once sang defiantly

when they proclaimed their religious freedom. It was a spiritual war

tune which soldiers could sing, and strangely enough it seemed to fit

into this atmosphere as if it were the one thing which the service

needed. It recalled the self-assertion of the people before their God,

their man God, who was born in a stable, who worshipped as He worked,

and worked as He worshipped, hurling His anathemas at those who blocked

the gates of the kingdom to them who would enter, yet did not enter

themselves.

Evidently the Herr Director felt as I felt; for he whispered to me, "The

Reformation." When I nodded my approval, he said: "But see how unmoved

she is, this rock-founded church. It will take something more than

hymn-tunes to disturb her."

We left the Cathedral while the hungry multitude was being fed with the

Sacrament of our Lord, and our spirits, too, had been fed, although we

were not of that fold.

While the Roman Catholics were finishing their worship, the Protestants

were making ready to begin. The first bells had chimed appealingly, not

commandingly, and a thin stream of worshippers appeared on the Avenue,

growing thinner as it divided, entering one or the other of those

edifices where men were to worship according to the dictates of their

conscience, their taste, or their social position.

Many strangers, like ourselves, were looking critically at the church

bulletins as yesterday we had looked into the show windows, and it was

the Frau Directorin who said she felt as if she were going shopping for

religion.

The Herr Director said that he had no objection to our inventing or

importing as many religions as we pleased; but he did object to our

exporting any, for we were making the task of regulating and controlling

them very difficult. Moreover he did not see how we could develop any

kind of common, national ideals with such a confusion of religions. "You

have, or pretend to have, a democratic government, and your strongest

church is monarchic to the core."

I had to admit that religiously we are a very chaotic people, and that

we are daily adding to that chaos; yet these facts might prove what I

had been trying to make clear to him: That this is fundamentally a

religious country, and that as a whole we are the most religious people

in the world. I supported this statement by quoting a good German

authority, the late Prof. Karl Lamprecht, who thinks we have a great

future as a people, because we are "capable of religious improvement."

"Improvement!" The Herr Director sniffed derisively. "Wherever I look I

see improvements: churches turned into theaters, theaters into churches,

and residences which are still perfectly good turned into sky-scrapers.

Chaos is not an improvement upon order. Nothing is finished, nothing

complete, not even your religion."

Just then we were compelled to pass along a wooden walk from which we

looked into a canyon blasted out of the rock, upon which still stood the

foundation of the house which was being turned into a sky-scraper.

"You see, that is the way we improve; we go deeper each time," I

remarked.

"But in religion," the Herr Director retorted, "you do not go deeper,

you go higher, and that is no improvement."

For the second time the chimes were pealing, and we entered a sanctuary

of friendly yet dignified English Gothic. An usher, who looked very

American and well fed and out of place, guided us to a pew in the more

than half empty church, from which nothing was missing in the way of

ecclesiastical furnishings. One thing it lacked and that no architect

can build and no money can buy--Spirit.

The organ was played by a master, the processional was splendidly

staged, the rector looked prosperously pious, prayers were read and

confessions uttered without any disquieting, spiritual agony, and the

anthems were correctly sung by the picturesque boys' choir. The curate

preached a sermon on manliness; a sermon so thin and emasculated that

even the Frau Directorin, whose English is limited, could understand it,

and said she would like to come again "for the good English."

I left the church deeply disappointed, and to the Herr Director's taunts

about "improvements" I did not reply, realizing more than ever how

difficult and dangerous is this task of introducing the _Spirit_,

especially when one goes to church in the spirit of pride, rather than

in the spirit of meekness.

No clergyman can spoil the whole of Sunday, for there is always the

dinner, and having found a _table d'hôte_ in harmony with the Herr

Director's national and religious ideals, we continued our discussion

somewhat fitfully, if, at times, rather vehemently.

One of the things the Herr Director missed in the church where we tried

to worship was reverence. He missed it everywhere and thought it due to

the fact that we do not teach religion in the public schools.

This was rather amusing to me, for just prior to that statement he had

told me of one of his nephews who, upon approaching his final

examinations, said: "If it were not for this accursed religion I could

get through without trouble;" and I called his attention to the fact

that although I had no difficulty with my "exams" in religion,

invariably having an "_Ausgezeichnet_" which is equivalent to an A, I

was always "_Schlecht_" in conduct.

I had found religious instruction a very irreligious procedure, for the

man who taught it was irreligious enough to whip me so that I could not

lie upon my back for a week, the cause being that I would not say yes

to his credo. Moreover I told the Herr Director I thought all religious

instruction irreligious which did not teach the child its whole duty to

society, but taught religion from only the narrowing racial or sectarian

standpoint.

Religion, I pointed out to him, can after all not be taught; it has to

be caught. It is a contagion which comes from a spiritual personality,

and our public schools are not religious or irreligious because certain

subjects are found or not found in their curricula, but because the

teachers have this spiritual personality or lack it. I am convinced that

this ethical quality predominates in our public schools, not only

because so many of our teachers are women, but because we are

fundamentally a religious people.

At this point I became conscious that the attention of the Herr Director

and the Frau Directorin had flagged; for their response to my homily was

an eloquent tribute to the tenderness of the breast of a Long Island

duck, which they had been enjoying while I talked. As they were

consequently in a lenient mood towards the whole world and therefore

the United States, I renewed my laudable and difficult effort, and, as

is often best, through the medium of a story.

At the time the elective system was introduced into Harvard University,

attendance upon chapel was made voluntary. "I understand," said a severe

critic of this procedure, "that you have made God elective in your

college."

"No," replied the astute president, "I understand that God has made

Himself elective everywhere."

The point of my story was lost upon both my guests. When I paused, the

Frau Directorin asked me how it was possible to serve so lavish a bill

of fare for so little money, and the Herr Director asked the waiter why

they called this a Long Island duck when the portions were so short.

Thus the conviction was forced upon me that our environment was not

conducive to the discussion of the American Spirit and that I must await

a more auspicious occasion.

Late in the afternoon that occasion came; not on Fifth Avenue but on one

of those streets where churches are fewest and humanity thickest; where

Sunday brings liberation from toil, where cleanliness and godliness have

an equally difficult task in coming or abiding; where nations and races

must mingle and cannot easily blend, where the America which is to be is

in the making, and where the Spirit must manifest itself if we are to be

a nation with common ideals.

I like to take my friends to the East Side of New York City. I glory in

its self-respect, its brave struggle against poverty and disease, its

bright children filling all the available space and asserting their

childhood by playing in the busy street, defying its noisy traffic. They

make of each hurdy-gurdy the center of a great festival, dancing as the

elves are said to dance, because it is their nature to.

I like to point out the faces of Patriarchs, Prophets and

Madonnas--faces seamed by care and sorrow, yet lighted by a divine

radiance and as unconscious of it as were those upon whom it shone in

such fullness on that great East Side of the Universe which we now call

the Holy Land.

I like to have my friends meet my East Side friends, the young working

girls, who dress in good taste, help support a family, and maintain an

unstained character in spite of small wages and the temptations of a

great city. I like them to meet the growing boys who are hungry for the

best the city holds, and who dream the dream of making the East Side in

particular, and New York in general, a better place in which to live.

I am never ashamed to take my friends into the tenement houses, except

as I am ashamed that they exist at all, with their stenches and the

dearly bought space with twenty-four hours of darkness and no free

access of air. Of the people who live within I am never ashamed, for

they are the brave ones, to whom labor is prayer, and living a

sacrifice. I like best to show off the East Side of New York on Sunday,

for here it is most welcomed with its respite from labor, its chance at

clean clothes, its opportunity to visit and be again something more than

a machine.

On Fifth Avenue the Sabbath is made for the few, on the East Side it is

made for the many; on Fifth Avenue God seems hard to find, on the East

Side He comes down upon the street. They are indeed worse than infidels

who do not feel His Spirit brooding over the crowd, and His guardian

angels watching over those children--else how could they survive? Best

of all I know where those Angels live, and it is there I took the Herr

Director and the Frau Directorin; I was sure they would never leave the

place doubting that we are a religious people. Evidently the children

also knew where their Angels live for the place was in a state of siege.

It is not strange that they knew, for their ancestors had walked and

talked with angels, and they were not yet old enough to have lost the

faith of their fathers. Troops of children there were; mere children

carrying children, and where there was an only child, which is rare on

the East Side, it was brought by a grandfather and grandmother, children

themselves now, and old enough to again believe in angels.

There were flowers in the room and they were for the children; bowers

of roses, red roses, wafting their incense and driving out the mouldy,

tenement house air which clung to the little ones. There was music, and

they sang--sang as I know God wanted them to sing--gay, happy songs,

which seem to be denied the children who sing in the churches.

How I wished that the picturesque little choir boys on Fifth Avenue, who

sang sixteenth century music and Augustinian theology, might have had a

chance to sing as those East Side children sang--full throated, lustily,

joyously; songs which made them shiver from very joy, and which made the

Frau Directorin weep copiously.

How I wished that the priest who chanted Psalms in Latin, and the other

priest who intoned them in English as dead as Latin, could have been

there and have heard those children recite the same Psalms, in East Side

English. Yes, I have often wished that David himself might hear them; I

am sure he would be proud that he had a share in writing them, even as

the priests might be ashamed that they had never known just what

precious reading they are.

No one preached to the children although they heard the good tidings,

and no one told them to be good although they were given a chance to

know how good God is, when men give Him a chance.

There was a sacrament, a holy one; roses were given the children, and

the Angels who gave them shed their blood, for the roses had thorns. The

next week the children were to be taken where the roses grew, and they

would see that

"A garden is a lovesome thing, God wot!

Rose plot,

Fringed pool,

Fern'd grot--

The veriest school

Of Peace:--"

But they would not have to see the garden to know that God is.

We broke bread with the Angels and looked into their joyously weary

faces, and then we talked about the very thing I wanted my guests to

know, namely: That underneath all our religious or rather credal chaos,

we have a national creed if not a national religion.

The Herr Director suggested that the fundamental doctrine of our creed

is "in gold we trust," and then he began a dissertation upon our

national materialism.

Perhaps so, I conceded; but I doubted that we are more materialistic

than the people of the older world, in fact I was inclined to believe

that we are less so; which of course the Herr Director stoutly denied,

and I as stoutly affirmed. In justice to myself I must say that when my

country's honor is not at stake I am less dogmatic.

"Perhaps we are equally materialistic," I continued, "but we are

certainly more generous. We make money faster than the people of the Old

World, but we also give it away faster, and I believe that there is no

country in which there is such a contempt for the merely rich man."

"I suppose the second article in your national creed," the Herr Director

interrupted, "is that you are the biggest country and the best people

under the Sun.

"If I were suggesting a motto for a new coinage I would put on one side

of it 'In Gold We Trust,' and on the other 'The Biggest and The Best.'"

Ignoring this somewhat merited slur I said: "The first and only doctrine

of our national creed which we have as yet formulated is that we have a

great national destiny."

At that the Herr Director jumped excitedly from his seat, and said

somewhat sneeringly, "Oh, you mean you have a place under the Sun. All

nations have such a creed, but when we Germans try to realize it, you

call us a menace to civilization."

It was a tense moment in my relationship to my guests, but I ventured to

say: "We have a better reason for the faith which is in us than most

other nations, for we are trying to realize it without killing off other

people. In fact we are trying to realize it at a greater hazard than

that of being conquered by an alien enemy. We are keeping open these

doors which have swung both ways freely, for nearly three hundred years,

and your Old World weary ones have been coming; bringing their

traditions, their ideals, their worn out faiths and their heaped up

wrath. We did not forbid them; they have come to our towns, our schools,

our homes, they are here for better for worse, and we cannot divorce

them, or drive them away.

"Yes," I continued, much to the discomfiture of the Herr Director, "we

_have_ a meaning to the Old World, a larger meaning than you think. We

have a place under the Sun, not to satisfy national ambitions; but to

keep alive faith in humanity."

The Angels around the table were disquieted by our vehemence, the Frau

Directorin urged that it was growing late, and we left that center of

quiet which we had so disturbed, to return to our hotel. We entered a

street car crowded beyond its capacity by burly Irishmen the worse for

liquor, good-natured Slavs none the better for it, aggressive looking

Russian Jews and sleek Chinamen. There were mothers with their crying

babies, and thoughtless boys and girls chewing gum most viciously.

After the Herr Director and the Frau Directorin had been jostled

unmercifully, we left the uncomfortable car, and when we were again

breathing unpolluted air the Herr Director asked quizzically:

"Do you still believe in humanity?"

Boldly and bravely I answered: "Yes, I believe," and lifting my face to

the stars I whispered: "Lord, help my unbelief."