THE VESTRY OBJECTS
The vestry of Christ Church was a conservative body. Not
ultra-conservative, but reasonably so; the conservatism that might be
expected of successful business men. Nor was it an overly religious
body. Some of its members were not, never had been, and never
expected to be communicants of the Church. But, as a whole, it was
unquestionably and sincerely devoted to the welfare of Christ Church.
Possibly the material welfare of the church loomed larger in the eyes
of these gentlemen than did its spiritual interests. Be that as it may,
they left nothing undone which, in their judgment, it was desirable
to do to promote the prosperity of the church of which they were the
governing body. They had this purpose in mind when they called the
Reverend Robert Bruce Farrar to be their rector. They felt that they
were acting with wisdom and foresight. He was certainly a rising young
man. He was idolized by the people to whom he had ministered, and he
came with a splendid recommendation from the bishop of his diocese. He
was understood to be fairly liberal in his social views, but he had,
as yet, developed no dangerous tendencies; and it was thought that, in
his new environment, there could be no possibility of such development.
Since the day of his installation, however, the minds of many of the
members of the vestry had undergone a gradual change concerning him.
They no longer felt that he was quite safe. And to that feeling the
sermons that he had been preaching of late had given a decided impetus.
It is true that, up to this time, there had been no serious or open
differences between the rector and his vestry. But it was plainly
apparent, both to him and to them, that the day was fast approaching
when such differences would become acutely developed unless either
he changed his course or they changed their opinions. Certain of the
vestrymen, in their consultations with each other, on the street, at
the club, or in their homes, had deprecated, in rather strong language,
the social theories of the rector, and had suggested that it was about
time to call a halt. But nothing had been done. Then came the sermon
of Sunday, with its strange and radical plea for social equality in
the church, and what had been merely a thought in the minds, or a
suggestion on the tongues, of certain members of the vestry, suddenly
developed into a desire for action. The man had taken the bit in his
teeth and was trying to run away with them. It was necessary that
something should be done.
The regular monthly meeting of the vestry was to be held on the Friday
evening following the Sunday on which the objectionable sermon had
been preached, and it was agreed, among those who protested, that this
would be an opportune time to voice their protest, and express their
determination, and reach, if possible, some kind of an understanding as
to the future. Nor was the Reverend Mr. Farrar so dull of comprehension
that he failed to anticipate that there might be expressions of opinion
at the meeting adverse to his views and policy. Indeed, he set out
deliberately to invite such expressions of opinion, if there were
any members of the vestry who disagreed with him. He felt that there
must be no longer any evasion or paltering on either side; that, if
necessary, armed neutrality must give way to active warfare; that a
crisis had been reached beyond which Christ Church would advance in
accordance with her God-given privilege, or else recede, disintegrate,
and be lost. The stage was surely set for dramatic developments.
The meeting was to be held, as usual, in the rector’s study, after the
mid-week evening service. Judge Bosworth, the senior warden, was the
first to arrive. He was followed closely by Westgate. While they were
awaiting the coming of the others there was some casual conversation on
different topics, but it was marked by an air of restraint of which all
three men were aware. Then, in rapid succession, the remaining members
of the vestry came in――all but old Mr. Ray, who was ill and unable to
leave his house.
They knelt with due devotion while brief prayers were read, and then
the usual order of business was taken up. The treasurer’s report was
made and commented on, and other matters of more or less importance to
the parish were considered and disposed of.
When the order of “new business” was reached, the rector said:
“There is a matter, gentlemen, on which I desire to have your judgment,
and, if possible, your favorable action. You have doubtless observed
the increased attendance on our services by people of the laboring
class. I am convinced that it is among these people, during the next
few years, that our work must largely be done. We must break down the
indifference, the prejudice, the open antagonism which so many of them
manifest, not wholly without reason, toward the Church. If we extend
to them a fitting welcome, and if we properly provide for them, I
have no doubt they will continue to come to us in increasingly large
numbers, to their own spiritual benefit, and to the great strengthening
of the Church. It is plain that we cannot accommodate them under our
present system by which we rent pews for the exclusive use of our
several families. It is my recommendation, therefore, and my hearty
desire, that the renting system shall be abolished, and that all pews
shall be open freely to all worshipers. It is for you to act on the
recommendation.”
For a moment no one spoke. The proposition was too startling,
too revolutionary, to be replied to at once. The parishioners of
Christ Church had occupied exclusive pews for two generations and
more. They had come to consider them as much their private property
as were their own dining-rooms, or their front porches. How could
this vestry shatter, in a night, the traditions of years? It was a
foregone conclusion that the rector’s recommendation would meet with
disapproval――and it did. Mr. Hughes, capitalist, was the first to
express his dissent.
“I, for one,” he said, “am opposed to it. It would deprive us of a
fixed income. It would revolutionize the policy and the customs of the
church in this respect. I do not believe the bulk of our pewholders
would ever consent to it. I, myself, would be entirely unwilling to
relinquish my right to the exclusive use of a pew. I am ready to pay
for one, and I do pay for it, and when I pay for it I propose to
reserve the right to say who shall sit in it.”
“I appreciate your point of view, Mr. Hughes,” replied the rector; “but
I feel that we must look at the matter from a broader standpoint. Do
we want these people to worship with us or do we not? If we do, it is
plain that we must provide for them. They, themselves, feel that it is
something of an intrusion for them to occupy pews set apart for the
exclusive use of others. Many of them cannot afford even to pay rentals
for sittings; and, if they could, we have not the vacant sittings for
them. What shall we do with them? Shall we give them to understand
that they are unwelcome, or shall we admit them to the privileges of
Christ Church on an equal footing with ourselves? The problem is yours,
gentlemen.”
“We might,” suggested Rapalje, engaged in real estate and insurance,
“provide a certain section of the church in the rear to accommodate
them, moving our own people farther to the front, and doubling up in
the occupancy of pews, if necessary.”
“That, in my judgment,” replied the rector, “would only be an affront
to them. They would not accept discrimination of that kind. It would be
equivalent to saying to them that the Church reserves the ‘chief seats’
for the rich; that the rear pews are good enough for the poor. If we
say that to them they will leave us, without doubt. It is because of
such an attitude on our part that the poor have been lost to us for so
many years.”
Then Colonel Boston, president of the S. E. & W. Railroad, his patience
nearly exhausted, spoke up:
“Well, I, for one, am willing to lose them. I don’t see why we should
be called upon to house the rabble from Factory Hill. They have
churches nearer their homes, run by their own kind, with preachers of
their own sort. Let them go there. I don’t propose, when I come to
church, to hunt for a vacant seat somewhere, and push myself into it;
and I’m utterly opposed to having my wife and daughter crowded and
elbowed in their pew by all kinds of people. I simply won’t stand for
it.”
The rector was still calm and deliberate, but tremendously in earnest,
as he replied:
“You can close the doors of your church in the faces of God’s poor
if you wish, gentlemen. They will not come if they find they’re not
wanted; you can rest assured of that. But the moment you refuse to
welcome them, the moment you make it openly manifest that ours is a
church exclusively for the rich and the well-to-do, that moment you
deprive the Church of its life and soul, you separate it wholly from
Jesus Christ, whose message and whose mission was primarily to the
humble and the poor.”
Judge Bosworth sought to pour oil on the waters which were becoming
dangerously troubled.
“Would not the proper solution of this whole question,” he asked, “be
the founding and support of a mission chapel for these people in their
own neighborhood? We have such a chapel on the east side, why not
establish one on Factory Hill? I would be glad to contribute for such a
purpose.”
“It would not solve the difficulty, Judge,” responded the rector.
“These people do not want missions and chapels when they are within
walking distance of the church itself. The thing implies exactly the
same sort of discrimination as would be implied by herding them in
rear pews. They don’t want to be accommodated, they don’t want to be
patronized, they want to be recognized as having equal rights with us
in the House of God. And until we are willing to accord to them that
recognition we may as well let them alone, for we shall never be able
to hold them.”
Again the railroad magnate broke in. His patience, which was already
running low when he first spoke, appeared now to be entirely exhausted.
“Then I say let them alone!” he exclaimed. “I’m sick and tired of this
everlasting kow-towing to a class of people who are never satisfied
with what’s being done for them.”
To this last explosion the rector paid no heed. He looked around over
the persons assembled in the room. “I would like to hear,” he said,
“from other gentlemen of the vestry. If most of you are opposed to
the proposition, I will not press it at this time; but I will begin
a campaign of education among the people of the parish, so that when
it again comes before you, it will come backed by the force of public
opinion. What is your thought in the matter, Mr. Cochran?”
“I quite agree with Mr. Hughes and Colonel Boston,” replied Mr. Cochran.
“I think it would be extremely unwise to abolish our system of rentals.”
“And what is your opinion, Mr. Emberly?”
“I am heartily in favor of adopting the suggestion of the rector,” was
Emberly’s answer.
Nobody was surprised at Emberly. He always sided with the rector. But
his opinion carried no great weight. He contributed sparsely, from a
lean purse, for the support of the Church. How could he be expected to
have a leading voice in her councils?
Probably Mr. Hazzard, junior warden, and superintendent of the
Sunday-school, would also have agreed with the rector if his opinion
had been asked; but, before he could be interrogated, Westgate
interrupted.
“It seems to me,” he said, “to be quite futile to discuss this question
at this time. Our pews are rented until Easter Monday of next year,
and it is now only September. We cannot abrogate the contracts already
made. I suggest, therefore, that we postpone discussion of the matter
until some future meeting. In the meantime, the parish as a whole will
have opportunity to consider it, and we can take it up later if it
should be deemed advisable to do so.”
“An excellent suggestion!” exclaimed Mr. Hughes.
“I am quite willing to yield to Mr. Westgate’s judgment,” said the
rector.
“But,” added Mr. Hughes, “there is another matter closely related to
the one just under discussion, about which I desire to speak. I mean
no disrespect, and I have no ill-will toward Mr. Farrar. But there has
been much criticism in the parish concerning the sermons he has been
preaching to us of late, especially the one of last Sunday morning. It
is needless for me to specify in what manner it was objectionable. We
feel that a continuance of such sermons will seriously affect, if not
entirely disrupt, the church. It has occurred to me, therefore, that
if the vestry, as a body, should inform the rector of the feeling in
the parish, and request him to discontinue the advocacy of his favorite
sociological doctrines from the pulpit, he would probably heed the
request, and thus save the church from possible disaster.”
The rector looked into the eyes of his critic without flinching.
Moreover, there was in his own eyes a light that might or might not
have been a signal of contempt and defiance.
“Do you really mean that, Mr. Hughes?” he asked.
“I am very much in earnest,” was the reply. “And I believe I express
the feeling of a majority of the members of the vestry. How is it,
gentlemen? Am I right?”
He looked around on the men in the room, and all save two of them
nodded their heads or spoke in approval. The rector noted their
attitude, but neither in his voice nor manner did he display surprise,
disappointment or resentment.
“Then let me tell you,” he said quietly, “that any backward movement
on my part is entirely out of the question. I feel that I am preaching
Christ’s gospel, and that His message is to the poor as well as to the
rich. To-day, so far as material things are concerned, the poor are
poor because they are not receiving their just share of the wealth
which they produce. Some day all this will be changed. There will be
economic justice, and with economic justice will come social equality.
There will be no rich, no poor, no aristocracy, no proletariat. I shall
welcome that day. But, so far as things spiritual are concerned, that
day dawned when Jesus Christ was born. In His religion there is no
room for distinction between the classes. The Church which He founded,
and its house of worship, should be open, freely and always, without
distinction of any kind, to ‘all sorts and conditions of men.’”
“Good!” exclaimed Emberly.
The rector paid no heed to the interruption, but went on:
“And so long as I am rector of Christ Church I shall endeavor to break
down, and to keep down within it, all distinctions between rich and
poor, and between class and class. That is why I have been urging you
gentlemen of wealth to blot out social differences in the House of God.
I want the humblest parishioner to feel that he has an equal right with
any of us to the use and benefit and enjoyment of Christ Church. It is
only because you stand aloof and will not welcome him on equal terms
that he does not feel so now. I hope that, eventually, your attitude
will be changed; and, in that hope, I shall keep on inviting the poor
to come to us, and I shall continue to preach the abolition of social
distinctions in the Church.”
It is not probable that the Reverend Mr. Farrar had any expectation
of bringing the members of the vestry, offhand, to the acceptance of
his views. If he had, it needed only a glance at their faces to show
him that his words had had no convincing effect. Of course Emberly and
Hazzard, both of whom had been with him from the beginning, showed
marked signs of approval; but as to the others, their opposition to his
theories appeared only to have become accentuated by his speech.
“That sounds to me,” said the capitalist, “very much like socialism.
I hope we are not going to have that fallacious and sinister doctrine
preached to us, also, from the pulpit of Christ Church. Do I understand,
Mr. Farrar, that you are a socialist?”
“A Christian socialist, yes,” was the answer. “So far as socialism
is in accord with the articles of our religion, with the canons of
our Church, and with the message of Jesus Christ, I am a socialist. I
believe, gentlemen, that socialism is coming, and that eventually it
will be the policy of the state. It is foolish to blind our eyes to it.
As it exists to-day there is much in its theory and propaganda that is
anti-Christian. Some of its leaders are distinctly irreligious. Some
of them are bitterly antagonistic to the Church. If such men as these
are permitted to dominate the socialism of the future, religion and
Christian morals will be in jeopardy. There is only one power on earth
that can rescue society from such an evil, and that is the power of the
Church. If the Church will but recognize socialism for the good that
is in it; help to conserve its vital principles and to rob it of its
evil excrescences, it will, in my judgment, have performed a mighty
service for humanity. If, then, the Church will go still farther, and
help it on, thus reformed, to political and economic victory, we shall
carry out the principles for which Christ contended. I shall make it
my business, gentlemen, both in the pulpit and out of it, to urge that
policy upon the Church, and upon all Christian people. I believe, Mr.
Hughes, that I have answered your question.”
He had answered it, indeed. But his answer was anything but comforting
or satisfying to the greater part of the gentlemen who sat around him.
Colonel Boston was especially indignant.
“Socialism,” he declared, growing red in the face, “is a pernicious
doctrine; and it doesn’t help it any to tack the word Christian to
it. There always have been class distinctions in the world, and there
always will be. It’s human nature. There always have been men of brains
and energy and principle who have outraced and outranked their fellows,
and there always will be. You can no more reduce living men to a dead
level of equality in everything, or in anything, than you can make
every blade of grass to grow exactly like every other blade. The thing
is simply abhorrent to nature. I’m opposed to socialism in any form,
under any name. And, so far as I have any influence, it shall not be
preached from the pulpit of Christ Church.”
Before the rector could reply, or any one else could break into the
discussion, Mr. Claybank, a retired merchant, rose to his feet and drew
a folded paper from his pocket.
“Apropos of Colonel Boston’s remarks,” he said, “and in line with the
thought so well expressed by Mr. Hughes in opening the discussion,
and after consultation with one or two of my fellow-vestrymen, I have
prepared a resolution which I desire to offer.”
He adjusted his eye-glasses with nervous haste, unfolded the paper
with trembling fingers, cleared his throat and began to read.
“RESOLVED that the vestry of Christ Church view with disapproval
and alarm the tendency toward socialism and its dangerous theories
as manifested in the recent sermons of our rector, the Reverend Mr.
Farrar. We regard those theories as harmful to religion and destructive
to society; and it is our request that our rector discontinue the
preaching of such sermons, and confine himself hereafter to such
doctrines as are commonly accepted by the Church, and taught in the
Christian religion.”
Before Claybank had scarcely finished reading, Mr. Hughes was on his
feet.
“If the senior warden will take the chair,” he said, “I will move the
adoption of this resolution.”
But, before the senior warden could put the question, or even assume
charge of the meeting, Westgate broke in:
“Gentlemen,” he exclaimed, “I hope this resolution will not be adopted
nor put to vote. I was not consulted in its preparation or I should
have disapproved of it. I am as heartily opposed to socialism as any
man here. I have no sympathy even with Christian socialism. I regret
that our rector sees fit to advocate it. But we should not be hasty in
putting on him the indignity implied in that resolution. There is a
better way out. We should approach him in a friendly, not in a hostile
spirit. We should first reason together. I, myself, will undertake, in
a half hour’s friendly talk with him, to show him the utter fallacy
of the whole socialistic creed. It is a mistake to pounce upon him
suddenly in this fashion. I beg that the gentleman will withdraw his
resolution.”
But the Reverend Mr. Farrar did not wait for the resolution to be
withdrawn. Westgate’s last word was hardly out of his mouth before the
rector was on his feet.
“I very deeply appreciate,” he said, “the kind thought of Mr. Westgate.
I shall be glad to discuss with him, at any time, the questions that
have been raised here to-night. But I do not ask for the withdrawal
of the resolution. If there is to be a breach between my vestry and
me, it may as well come now as later. If my appeals to the rich and my
concern for the poor have brought me into disrepute with this body, the
situation is not likely to grow less acute. For I say to you plainly
that, even if you were to adopt this resolution by unanimous vote, I
should continue to preach not only the straight, but the whole gospel
of Christ. And it is a gospel that demands the abolition of classes,
the recognition of the humble, the placing of the toiler, no matter
what the character of his toil, on the same social plane with you in
every phase of the life of the Church. If you knew these people as I
do, if you understood them as I do, if you loved them as I do, you
would bid me Godspeed in my work. And it is because I want you to know
them and love them and honor them that I shall not cease to preach as
I have done, to you and to them, until my object in so preaching shall
have been fully accomplished. So, gentlemen, if you choose to throw
down the gauntlet, I shall pick it up; and God shall stand as judge
between us.”
Claybank, who was still on his feet, and who was still holding his
eye-glasses in one trembling hand, and his resolution in the other,
broke in immediately.
“In deference to Mr. Westgate,” he said, “for whose judgment I have
great respect, I will withdraw my resolution. But I want to give
notice now, that if there is a continuance, as has been threatened,
of the kind of sermons we have been having of late, I shall, at the
next meeting of the vestry, offer a resolution demanding the immediate
resignation of the Reverend Mr. Farrar as rector of Christ Church.”
“Mr. Chairman, I protest against this attempt to muzzle a true servant
of Christ!”
It was Hazzard who spoke. He was indignant to the core.
“Then let him preach Christianity and not socialism,” retorted Mr.
Claybank.
“You――you don’t know what Christianity is!” shouted Emberly.
“I know what it isn’t!” roared Colonel Boston. “It isn’t the deification
of the rabble!”
By this time every man in the room was on his feet. A half-dozen voices
were struggling to be heard. A most unchristian scene was on the verge
of enactment. It was then that Westgate, quick-witted and masterful,
saved the day for decency.
“Mr. Chairman,” he shouted, “if there is no further proper business to
come before the meeting, I move you, in the name of Christian charity,
that we do now adjourn.”
The motion was put and carried. The wrangling ceased. The gentlemen
of the vestry said good-night to the rector, and passed out into the
street. But the fires of opposition had not been quenched. They only
awaited encouragement from the first hostile breeze to blaze up anew.