AN UNUSUAL SERMON
When the rector of Christ Church entered the chancel on the Sunday
morning following the funeral of John Bradley, and looked out over the
well-filled pews, he had no reason to be dissatisfied with the size
of his congregation. Yet a full church was no unusual thing. For many
Sundays now, people had been coming in ever greater numbers to hear him
preach. They were attracted not alone by his ability, his earnestness
and his spirituality; but also by the novelty of his message to society
concerning the proper relation of the Church to the wage-workers and
to the poor. It was by the attendance of the wage-working class that
congregations had, for the most part, been swollen. There were few
accessions from homes of wealth. To the rich and the exclusive the new
interpretation of the Gospel of Christ had not proved to be especially
attractive. They had not formally repudiated it. They had not absented
themselves from the services in order that they might not hear it.
They had not relinquished any proper effort to uphold and maintain the
dignity and usefulness of the Church, notwithstanding the divergent
views of the rector on certain matters of no little importance. So
that, on this particular Sunday morning, there was no evidence of
desertion on the part of the rich and the well-to-do. It was noted,
however, that the pews in the rear of the church, those renting at low
prices and therefore occupied by parishioners in moderate or humble
circumstances, were the ones that were filled to overflowing. It was
plainly evident that more than one laboring-man and working-woman
had followed the example of the lookers-on at John Bradley’s funeral,
and had come to hear the minister preach. The story of his address at
the grave on the preceding Sunday had spread through the ranks of the
toilers, and was responsible in no small degree for the size of the
congregation to-day. People wanted to hear, in his own pulpit, the
clergyman who could stand by the open grave of a common laborer, one
not given either to religious beliefs or practices, and say things
acceptable to all of the dead man’s friends, believers and disbelievers
alike. So they had come, men in rusty attire, with stolid countenances
and awkward bearing, women with bent shoulders and toil-hardened
hands, and care-worn faces looking out from under the brims of hats
and bonnets that had done Sunday service for unknown years. They did
not respond to the prayers, nor join in the litany, nor kneel nor
rise in accordance with the rubrics. But they were silent, attentive,
respectful. They came not so much to worship as to listen.
The text that morning was the question asked by those offended
aristocrats of old:
“Is not this the carpenter, the son of Mary?”
The preacher called the attention of his hearers to the fact that the
founder of the Christian religion, in His early manhood, had been a
laborer. He had gone about, with hammer and axe, working for wages,
as did the carpenter of to-day. He was born of humble parents, reared
in adversity, hardened to toil. Why should not the wage-earner of the
twentieth century listen to His gospel and follow in His footsteps? His
message was especially to the humble and the poor. His condemnation
was for the haughty and self-sufficient rich. He founded His Church
on the brotherhood of man. Its very existence was declaratory of the
solidarity of the human race. There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is
neither bond nor free, there is neither male nor female, for ye are
all one in Christ Jesus. No other Messiah, no other religion in the
history of the world has made so strong, so sympathetic an appeal to
the humble and toil-worn. How utterly inconsistent it was, therefore,
for the workers of the world to permit any other class to monopolize
the benefits and enjoyments of the Church, an institution founded by
one of their own, and dedicated to the principle that we are all “heirs
of God, and joint heirs with Christ; if so be that we suffer with Him.”
But the preacher’s special appeal this morning was to the men and women
of wealth and prominence in his church and parish, on behalf of their
brothers and sisters on whom fortune had not so abundantly smiled. It
was not an appeal for kindness and charity, or material help of any
kind. It was an appeal for recognition.
“I say to you,” he said, in concluding his sermon, “that until we
professed followers of Christ utterly abandon the idea that the Church
is an institution to be enjoyed, managed and patronized only by the
cultured, the wealthy and the well-to-do, we shall not begin to
understand the lesson taught us by the carpenter of Nazareth. Until we
abandon the pleasing delusion that we have measured up to our full duty
as members and supporters of the Church when we attend its services,
recite its prayers, contribute to its charities, relieve its poor and
visit its suffering; until we take a vastly broader view than that
of our duty and privilege as Christian men and women, we are yet in
our sins. Neither my work as minister nor your work as laymen will
be satisfactory in the sight of God until these church portals and
pew-doors stand equally wide open to the poor and the rich. If we would
do as the Master would have us do, we must hold out welcoming hands to
the toiler, no matter how humble the character of his toil, and we must
say to him, not ‘Come and be my guest to-day in the House of God,’ but
‘Come and be my fellow-worshiper, my comrade in Christ, my brother and
my friend.’ I say to you frankly that I shall not be satisfied with my
labors here until the workingman and the toiling-woman sit, side by
side, in every pew, with the cultured and the rich; until they read
together from the same prayer-book, recite together the same creed,
kneel by each other at the same chancel-rail, and partake together of
the Holy Communion in loving memory of Him who died for all men, ‘the
carpenter, the son of Mary.’”
Whether or not the humble folk who crowded the rear pews enjoyed the
rest of the beautiful and solemn service, they were at least pleased
with the sermon. On many a homely and rugged face, as these people
passed out into the street, there was a smile of approval, and on many
a lip that had never moved in prayer there was a comment of rejoicing
that at least one preacher in the city understood the hearts of the
poor and was not afraid to tell the rich, to their faces, what they
ought to do.
But the regular, influential parishioners of Christ Church, those to
whom the appeal had been made, were, apparently, not so well pleased
with the sermon. It was not noticed that any among them made immediate
response by mingling in friendly intercourse with the humble strangers
who had come to their house of worship.
For the most part they waited in their pews until the unfamiliar
faces had vanished beyond the outer doors. Then, by ones and twos
and in little groups they moved slowly down the aisles. The stamp of
unimpeachable respectability was on them all. They were well-mannered
and well-dressed.
The majority of the men wore black coats and gray trousers and carried
silk hats and canes in their hands, while the women were handsomely and
appropriately gowned. The principal topic of conversation among them
was, of course, the rector’s sermon; and, regrettable as it may seem,
there were few who were heard to speak of it approvingly. Why should
they approve of it? These people and their ancestors had worshiped
in Christ Church through more than two generations. Their wealth and
social standing had given to the church a position in the diocese
second to none. Their polished manners and timely courtesies and
gracious hospitality had attracted to the church many other people of
wealth and prominence who, in their turn, had become regular attendants
and liberal supporters. By their concern for the welfare of the poor
they had made the name of Christ Church a synonym for well-organized
and widely distributed Christian charity. Surely it hardly lay in the
mouth of this young preacher, who had been scarcely two years in their
pulpit, to announce to them that, notwithstanding all this, they were
yet in their sins. It is no wonder that a mild spirit of resentment had
been roused within them, or that it found expression as they talked
with each other on their way to the street. It was noticeable that the
men, as a rule, were not outspoken in their disapproval of the sermon.
Business and professional men are apt to be cautious in the matter of a
hasty expression of opinion. Experience has taught them the policy of
being conservative. But the women were under no similar restraint. They
did not hesitate to say what was in their minds. And their minds were,
apparently, made up. Of course Mr. Farrar was an eloquent preacher
and, personally, a most attractive man, and Mrs. Farrar was perfectly
lovely; but really, the sermons they had been having of late were
unpardonable, and the one of to-day had simply capped the climax. Such
things were so unjust to the people who were doing the work of the
Church and bearing its financial burdens; so subversive of all accepted
theories and customs; so well calculated to stir up discontent and
jealousy, if not open antagonism, in the breasts of the envious and
ignorant. One woman, prominent in the church, pompous and matronly,
declared that she would not again humiliate herself by coming to
listen to such heterodox preaching. She considered such sermons as the
one of to-day to be positively irreligious, and destructive of the
first principles of Christianity.
Following her down the aisle came Ruth Tracy and her mother, and it was
to them that this opinion had been expressed. Ruth’s face flushed and
she made no reply; but Mrs. Tracy nodded her head in approval and said,
“Yes, indeed!” Mr. Tracy, the husband and father, was not present. He
went to church only on rare occasions. His week-days were strenuous,
and his Sundays were needed for rest and recreation. He was the senior
partner in the law firm of Tracy, Black and Westgate, of which firm
Ruth’s fiancé was the junior member.
Before Mrs. Tracy and her daughter reached the curb where their car was
waiting, Westgate joined them.
“And what did you think of the sermon?” asked the elder woman, after
the morning greetings had been exchanged.
“Oh, I know what Philip thought of it,” interrupted Ruth. “He thought
it was an unwarranted attack on the supporters of the church, and a sop
to socialism. Didn’t you, Philip?”
The young man laughed and colored a little as he replied:
“While I wouldn’t want to be quoted in just that way, you have gauged
my mind with reasonable accuracy.”
“I knew it,” responded the girl. “And now I’ll tell you what I think. I
think it was a brave and conscientious sermon, and fully warranted by
existing conditions.”
She stood there, handsomely and good-naturedly defiant, attractive in
the eyes of her lover, even in her opposition to him.
“It was brave enough,” he responded; “and there’s no doubt about the
man’s conscientiousness; but I believe he’s mistaken.”
At that moment Barry and Miss Chichester came up.
“Are you talking about the sermon?” asked Miss Chichester. “Barry and I
are agreed that it was simply impossible, aren’t we, Barry?”
“Preposterous!” asserted Barry. “Why, don’t you know, the thing would
never work out. We couldn’t really have those people in our pews with
us. Could we, Mrs. Tracy?”
“I’m pretty sure that I couldn’t have them in mine,” Mrs. Tracy replied.
“Why, just think of it!” added Barry. “For instance, the vice-president
of the Malleson Manufacturing Company reading the responses out of the
same prayer-book with a common day-laborer in his employ. How could the
proper attitude be preserved on week days between the employer and the
employee? Why, Phil, old man, the whole thing is absurd!”
“You might stay away from church, Barry,” suggested Ruth.
“Don’t put that idea into his head,” said Westgate. “Barry needs all
the religion he can possibly absorb.”
Then Mrs. Tracy came to the rescue of the vice-president.
“Barry’s not so far wrong,” she declared. “It’s ridiculous to think of
having these people in our pews. Just imagine Lucy Breen sitting with
me. You all know poor Lucy, with her green gown and her red hat with
the enormous white feather in it. Why, I should go into hysterics.
Really I should.”
“And,” laughed Ruth, “if Red-nosed Mike the burglar should sit with you
he’d steal your Sunday dollar before ever the alms-basin came around.”
“Now, I don’t think it’s fair,” said Miss Chichester, “to make fun of
Barry and Mrs. Tracy that way. It’s really a serious matter. Don’t you
think so, Phil?”
“Very!” responded Phil gravely.
“And,” continued Mrs. Tracy, “he said we should commune together.
Now, just think of it! There’s our gardener, Jim, you know, who chews
tobacco constantly. Imagine having him next you at communion, and
having him drink first out of the cup! Heavens!”
She shuddered and drew her skirts closer about her ample figure, lest
haply some unclean member of the proletariat, passing by, should brush
advertently against them.
“I think,” said Miss Chichester, “that some one ought to speak to Mr.
Farrar. I don’t believe he really knows how objectionable his theories
are.”
“Good idea!” exclaimed Barry. “I’ll speak to him myself. He’ll listen
to me. The thing has got to be stopped before some of those people
actually intrude themselves into our pews. There isn’t one of them――――”
Barry stopped suddenly. A vision of the fascinating face and trim
figure of the woman of Factory Hill had flashed into his mind.
“What is it, Barry?” inquired Miss Chichester in apparent alarm.
“I was just thinking,” replied Barry, hesitatingly, “that there might
be exceptions――exceptions, you know.”
“Mrs. Bradley, for instance?” asked Miss Chichester.
“Why,” responded Barry, “I don’t think Mrs. Bradley would be what you
might call really objectionable.”
“And who is Mrs. Bradley?” inquired Mrs. Tracy.
“Oh,” replied Westgate, “she’s one of Barry’s discoveries in humble
life.”
“Is she the one who lost the lawsuit?” inquired Ruth.
“The very one,” answered Westgate. “I shall not soon forget how you
took me to task for my part in that case.”
“I did think,” responded Ruth, “that it was a shame to send her out of
court empty-handed. And I think so still, begging Barry’s pardon for
expressing myself so forcibly in his presence.”
“You can’t hurt my feelings, Ruth,” exclaimed Barry. “Phil did his
duty. And I must say that the woman behaved very decently about it
afterward.”
“So decently,” added Westgate, “that Barry went up the other day to
make her a gift. Tell the ladies about that adventure, Barry.”
“Oh, I know all about it,” exclaimed Miss Chichester. “Barry told me
about it the same evening.”
“But we don’t know,” said Ruth. “What happened, Barry?”
“Why,” replied Barry, “I went up, as Phil says, to make her a gift of
a little money, four hundred dollars, to be exact. We usually make a
gift to widows of our employees. And, would you believe me, the woman
declined to accept it.”
“Remarkable!” exclaimed Mrs. Tracy.
“It’s true,” continued Barry. “But I’m going up again before long to
try to persuade her to change her mind. I――I really think she needs the
money.”
“And Barry’s going to take me with him. Aren’t you, Barry?” broke in
Miss Chichester.
“Why, I suppose so,” replied Barry, “if you still want to go.”
“Indeed, I want to go.”
Then Mrs. Tracy inquired: “Is she the woman who is so irreligious? has
no use for the Church? and wouldn’t have a preacher at her husband’s
funeral?”
“She’s the one,” replied Westgate.
“Then I think,” said Mrs. Tracy, turning to Barry, “that you might find
better use for your money. Why don’t you give it to religious people
who are in want; people of our own church?”
“Why,” responded Barry, “I think there’s a fair chance of getting her
into the church. I spoke to Farrar about her and he’s going to see what
he can do with her in a religious way.”
“It seems to me, Barry,” said Ruth mischievously, “that you’re very
much interested in the handsome Mrs. Bradley.”
This time Miss Chichester responded for Barry. “He is, Ruth; but purely
in a sociological way. He hasn’t the faintest idea of becoming unduly
impressed by her beauty. Have you, Barry?”
“She’s a deucedly handsome woman,” replied Barry.
“Handsome or not,” said Mrs. Tracy, “I don’t think such persons should
be encouraged and made much of. Mr. Farrar is certainly making a very
serious mistake when he caters to the lower classes. Why, if he had his
way, there’d be no exclusiveness in the church at all.”
“Indeed there wouldn’t,” replied Ruth heartily.
“Right you both are!” exclaimed Barry. “That is as――as a rule. Every
rule has its exceptions, you know.”
“Well,” added Mrs. Tracy, moving toward her car, “don’t let’s talk
about it any more. It doesn’t leave a good taste in the mouth. You’ll
ride up with us, won’t you, Philip, and have luncheon? No? Then give my
love to your mother and tell her I’m coming over to see her to-morrow
afternoon. Come, Ruth!”
She entered her car, assisted by Westgate, but her daughter hesitated.
“I’ve a mind,” she said, “to walk up the hill with Philip; it’s such a
beautiful day. I’ll be home long before luncheon time, mother.”
“A very wise suggestion,” remarked Westgate, “and one which I shall be
delighted to adopt.”
“What a happy thought!” exclaimed Miss Chichester. “We’ll do that too,
won’t we, Barry?”
“Why,” said Barry, “I thought of going down-town for a little while
before luncheon. I want to slip into the office and look at something.”
“Oh, Barry! And it’s such a beautiful day!”
Miss Chichester looked up at him pleadingly.
“I know, but this is really a matter I ought to attend to.”
“You can go down early to-morrow morning and attend to it. I shall
be so disappointed if you don’t walk up with me. And stop and have
luncheon with us. Do! Father is so fond of discussing politics with
you.”
“Thank you, Jane. But it’s out of the question for me to stop to
luncheon. It really is.”
“Then walk up with me, anyway.”
“All right! I’ll do that.”
Mrs. Tracy was already moving homeward in her luxuriously appointed
car, and Ruth and her lover had started slowly up the walk. His eyes
were alight and his cheeks aglow with pleasant anticipation. To walk
a mile with Ruth Tracy through the invigorating air of a beautiful
September noonday was a privilege that any man might covet, much more
a man in whose heart she filled so large and so queenly a place as she
did in Philip Westgate’s.
But no sooner were they on their way than recurrence was had to the
subject of the morning sermon.
“I like Mr. Farrar,” said Westgate. “I believe he intends to say and
do the right thing. But he has permitted himself, by reason of his
sympathy with toiling humanity, to be led off into strange paths.”
“I like him too,” responded Ruth. “And I can’t help feeling that he’s
on the right track. I don’t believe there’s any other way than the one
he suggests to evangelize the working people. Just think what he’s
done already. Did you ever see more persons of all kinds coming to the
services at Christ Church than he is drawing there now?”
“No; but big congregations do not necessarily make the Church
prosperous, nor advance the cause of religion. These people come
because it pleases them to hear attacks made on the rich, and
commendation given to the poor. It is simply an expression of class
consciousness with them. They have no religious motive in coming.”
“But how else are you going to get them at all under the influence of
the Church? Here I’ve been doing guild work for years. I’ve distributed
I don’t know how many bushels of food and loads of outgrown garments to
the poor; and how many people do you suppose I’ve been able to bring
into the Church by doing it? Just four. I counted them up yesterday.
I tell you, Phil, these people will not be bribed into accepting
religion. What they want, as Mr. Farrar explained, is recognition, not
charity. When they get that we’ll get them into the Church. The Church
needs new life, and Mr. Farrar has chosen the only way to supply it.”
“I’m afraid he’s putting into it more discord than life. I can’t
believe that the pulpit is the place from which to propound doctrines
of social and political economy. And there are many in Christ Church
that are not only like-minded with me, but who resent the rector’s
attitude far more than I do.”
“That’s because you’re all of you behind the times. Because you’re over
conservative, just as mother is; just as all these people are who have
more than enough for themselves, and can’t begin to appreciate the
desires and struggles and needs of the poor.”
Westgate’s patience was ebbing. He felt that the girl was taking an
entirely unreasonable attitude.
“Ruth,” he said, “you are losing your head over this thing. You are
being carried away by your sympathies and by this man’s plausible
appeal. You don’t detect the fallacies in his position. You are not
exercising your judgment.”
“Oh,” she replied, “I know my own mind, and I’ve thought it all out,
and I’ve read, and I’ve investigated on my own account, and I’ve come
to the conclusion that if all these dreadful social ills, and this
degrading and unremitting toil, and this hopeless poverty are ever to
be done away with, the Church must be the leader in the movement to
abolish them. There’s no earthly power or influence that can accomplish
the task unaided by the power and influence of the Church. Oh, I know
that Mr. Farrar is going about the work in the right way, and I know
that in the end his work will produce splendid results.”
She paused, half out of breath, wondering a little at her own temerity,
and, with a look partly of defiance, partly of anxiety, she glanced
up into her lover’s face. He was plainly distressed. He felt that
their views were so utterly divergent that the discussion could not be
continued without endangering the harmony that should prevail between
them. Yet it was hard to hold his peace and permit this girl with whom
he was so profoundly in love, whose future was to be so irrevocably
bound up in his, to enter on a course of which both his conscience and
his judgment so heartily disapproved.
“I’m sorry,” he said after a moment’s pause, “more sorry than I can
tell you, that we don’t agree in this matter. Unless Mr. Farrar adopts
a complete change of policy, I can see serious trouble ahead. And when
that trouble comes I should like to have you in harmony with me.”
“And I should like to be in harmony with you, Philip; I should like
it dearly; but I can’t afford to stifle my conscience and ignore my
reason――not even for you.”
It was plain that her mind was made up, and that neither argument,
appeal nor entreaty would move her from the path on which she had set
out.
“Well,” said Westgate, “don’t let’s talk about it any more now. The
crisis hasn’t come yet. Maybe it won’t come. I hope to heaven it
won’t! At any rate there’s no use to-day in our borrowing trouble for
to-morrow.”
They walked on in the mild September sunlight, up the hill, by the
pleasant streets that bordered on Fountain Park, past homes of ease
and luxury, until Ruth’s own home was reached. But a reserve had fallen
on them. The first shadow had drifted across their common path and lay
impalpably about them. Could it be possible that so slight a shadow as
this, deepening and darkening, would eventually so blind their eyes
that, unseen each by the other, they would go stumbling and alone,
by cruelly divergent paths, toward unknown goals as far apart as the
antipodes of eternity?
This was the thought and fear that hugged Westgate’s mind as he
strolled back down the hill that day to his mother’s home in the city.
And, as he walked, the glory of the day was obscured. Gray clouds
dragged their unwelcome bulk across the sun, a chill and hostile wind
set the shadowed leaves of the trees to trembling and sighing, and the
gloom that forebodes the coming storm settled down upon the earth.