A MINISTERIAL CRISIS
If any parishioner of Christ Church comforted himself with the thought
that the Reverend Robert Farrar had wisely decided to forego his
animadversions on the self-constituted privileges of wealth in the
Church, or his appeals for social equality in the House of God, he was
destined to experience a rude awakening. For, not only did the rector
resume his protests and appeals from the pulpit, but he inaugurated and
carried on a personal campaign among his people for the adoption of his
revolutionary ideas. They were revolutionary indeed. He preached social
justice, and Christian socialism. And while a critical analysis of his
sermons would doubtless have failed to unearth a single unorthodox
phrase, nevertheless he advocated a doctrine which learned commentators
had hitherto failed to discover in the written Word of God, and which
the pious and profound compilers of the Book of Common Prayer had
certainly never contemplated. He dwelt much, as had been his custom,
on the lowly origin and humble environment of the Saviour of mankind.
He did not minimize the spiritual significance of His mission, as have
some professed followers of the Nazarene in order that they might
magnify Him as a social prophet. Nor had he great sympathy with those
materialistic adherents of the Master who hold that the purpose of His
teaching was not so much to point the way to spiritual regeneration as
to arouse the Galilean peasants, by parable and precept, to a sense
of their economic wrongs, and to instill into their minds a hearty
desire to free themselves from the yoke of the Roman oppressor and
the hard ecclesiasticism of the Jewish priesthood. He never sought to
rob the Christ of any of the spiritual adornment or any of the divine
attributes with which the Church from time immemorial has clothed Him.
But he loved to dwell on His passion for the poor.
The rector’s gospel of social equality was rejected and resented, or
accepted and cherished, according to the personal view-point of those
to whom it was presented. The parish was sharply divided. There were
few lukewarm adherents to either side in the controversy. Those who
were not with him were against him, and against him unequivocally. Some
of them went so far as to request that their names be stricken from the
parish roll. Others, less impulsive and more worldly-wise, contented
themselves with voluntary absence from the services of the church.
Still others, and these constituted the greater part of those opposed
to the new régime, unwilling to forego the privileges and customs of
many years, went, with apprehensive minds, to listen to unwelcome
sermons, and came away troubled and depressed.
But the congregations grew in size. Pews given up by former parishioners
did not remain vacant for want of occupants. Pewholders in sympathy with
the rector’s views doubled up with each other or threw their sittings
open freely to the public. In one way and another room was found for all
the common people who came and who heard gladly the new gospel that was
being preached to them.
It is true that the roll of regular supporting parishioners was not
greatly lengthened; but the prospects were bright for many additions,
and there was abundance of hope for large results in the future.
It is true also that while the cost of caring for the newcomers in
all the activities of church life materially increased the amount of
necessary expenditure, the church revenues began, at the same time, to
show a marked falling off.
But these things did not greatly disturb the rector. He knew that
his first duty was to obey the mandates of the religion in which he
believed, and to continue his efforts to reclaim and regenerate the
hundreds of hitherto churchless and unwelcome poor who were now turning
tired feet toward the portals of Christ Church. Matters of finance must
and would adjust themselves to any situation which might result from
his efforts in this behalf.
And he had defenders, plenty of them. He had helpers by the score,
and companions by the hundred. At least two members of his vestry,
Emberly and Hazzard, were outspoken and enthusiastic adherents to his
cause. All of his humbler parishioners, new and old, save those few who
chanced to be under the domination of men and families of wealth, were
with him heartily in his crusade. Class was arrayed against class. To
the observant and disinterested onlooker the struggle formed a most
illuminating chapter in the record of modern sociological activity.
Among his few supporters in what was considered to be the exclusive
social set, Ruth Tracy was by far the most ardent and uncompromising.
Here, there, everywhere, she proclaimed the righteousness and justice
of the rector’s cause. Her faith in him was unbounded, and her faith
was fully evidenced by her works. Her mother was scandalized, her
father was indifferent, her lover was in despair. To seek to restrain
from unwise and unseemly activity a woman who is actuated by religious
motives is a delicate and dangerous task, and Westgate was not equal to
it. He was ready to cross swords with any legal opponent, to face any
legal proposition that might come to his office, to persuade or oppose,
to construct or crush, as occasion might demand, but he had no skill or
persuasion or power to turn this girl whom he loved aside from the hard
path she had deliberately chosen. He had exhausted logic and entreaty,
without avail. There was left to him but one recourse, and that he was
not yet ready to adopt.
One afternoon, in the heart of the city, a half dozen of the vestrymen
of Christ Church met, informally, to discuss the situation which, in
their judgment, had become acute. All but one of them were in favor
of drastic action, let the action take what form it would. That one
was Westgate. Again he appeared as a conservative. The others demanded
that immediate steps be taken to oust the offending clergyman from
his pulpit. Westgate pleaded for delay. He asked for a length of time
within which he might, as a friend, approach the rector and urge upon
him the advisability, if not the necessity, of a quiet, dignified,
unsensational resignation, and relinquishment of his office. Since
the night of the Tracy dinner he had abandoned any idea that he might
have had that the clergyman would listen to reason or to good advice.
His only hope now was that a vacancy in the pulpit might be brought
about without a bitter and unseemly conflict. His fellow-vestrymen
did not agree with him in his view of the case. They maintained that
the Reverend Mr. Farrar was not entitled to so much consideration as
Westgate proposed to show him. But they finally yielded, with the
explicit understanding that this was to be the last proposal for peace.
If it should not be accepted they would at once resort to hostile
measures.
Westgate was to see Mr. Farrar at the earliest opportunity, and report
the result of his visit. But it was not until two days later that he
was able to go forth on his unhappy mission. He found the minister at
home. On his face, as he welcomed his visitor, there was no look of
apprehension or surprise. He was calm, self-assured, quietly expectant.
He appeared to know, by intuition, the purport of the call. Westgate
indulged in no prologue, nor did he make any excuses or apologies. In
courteous phrases, with the deep concern of a friend, he went at once
to the heart of his errand.
The rector heard him through without interruption, apparently
unperturbed.
“I cannot resign,” was his answer.
“Why not?” asked Westgate.
“I will tell you. In the first place it would be a tacit admission
that I am in the wrong. I cannot admit that, for I believe that I am
indubitably right. In the next place, to resign would be breaking faith
with the hundreds of humble folk to whom I have promised the privileges
of Christ Church, and who are even now, in a sense, receiving them.
Were I to leave your pulpit they would be as sheep without a shepherd.
I do not speak in self-aggrandizement. I simply know that no one whom
your vestry would be likely to call to succeed me could fill, or would
try to fill, the place which I now hold in their hearts and confidence.
Were I to go the respect that these people now have for the Church
would disappear, the religious sensibility that has been awakened in
them would be destroyed, they would go back to their old, churchless,
hopeless, irreligious life, unreconciled either to God or man. I tell
you, Westgate, I cannot resign.”
“Do you think that an interest, or even a religion based on a mere
personal relation to a pastor, is likely to become an enduring or a
fundamental thing in any man’s life?”
“Yes; if it is accompanied and followed by conditions which make the
gospel that is being preached to him real and satisfying.”
“But you should know that the people who are flocking to Christ
Church now are merely seeking new sensations. They are improving an
opportunity to gratify class resentment against the rich and the
well-to-do. They have no thought of attaching themselves permanently to
the Church. When the novelty of the thing has worn off they are certain
to drift away.”
“You say that because you do not know them and do not believe in them.
Give me one year to make Christ Church what I would have it to be, and
I will show you such a permanent turning to righteousness in this city
on the part of those who hitherto have had no use for religion, as will
astound the unbelievers in my methods.”
His face glowed and his eyes shone with enthusiasm. No one, looking on
him in that moment, could have doubted his intense earnestness. But to
Westgate’s practical and logical mind the rector’s words carried no
conviction. He was still calm and deliberate as he replied:
“Mr. Farrar, I did not come to argue with you concerning your theories
or your conduct. The time for argument has passed, because your mind
is irretrievably set. I came to make a simple request; that you should
resign. I ask it for the good of Christ Church.”
“I believe I am acting for the best good of Christ Church in refusing.”
“That being your final answer there is no doubt but that the vestry as
a body will demand your removal as rector.”
The ultimatum had come at last, but it brought no surprise nor dismay.
The rector smiled.
“That announcement,” he said, “is not unexpected, nor does it disturb
me in the least. I know what my rights are under the constitution and
canons of the Church, and I shall seek to maintain them. I know also
what my obligations are to the people to whom I minister, and to the
Church to which I have made my ordination vows. Those obligations will
not permit me either to abandon or to let myself be driven from the
post to which God in His wisdom has seen fit to assign me.”
“Then I am to carry back to the gentlemen who are associated with me
your refusal and your defiance?”
“My regret rather, and my determination. I am sorry. These men have
been more than kind to me in the past. But――I cannot change my mind.”
“Very well. I said to you once that I should oppose you openly in the
course you were pursuing. I have done so, but I have at the same time
tried to protect you. That protection is at an end. I say now, frankly,
that I shall use my best effort to force you from the pulpit of this
church, for I believe you are driving the church straight to disaster.”
The rector smiled again, sadly, but his purpose was in no wise shaken.
“You are kind to be so frank with me,” he said. “You have always been
kind to me, and I have been fond of you. I shall still be fond of you,
because I believe you to be honest and sincere, though mistaken. We may
be adversaries; we cannot be enemies.”
Westgate made no reply. He had reached a point where he could not share
the friendly feeling of the rector. He could not be fond of a man who
recklessly and obstinately, however conscientiously, refused to forego
his determination to make Christ Church the forfeit in his game of
Christian socialism. Moreover――
“There is one other thing I want to speak of at this time,” said
Westgate, “a personal matter.”
Both men had risen to their feet and had been moving slowly toward the
door of the study. The lawyer stopped and faced the minister. It was
evident that the “personal matter” was one which lay near to his heart,
for his face had paled and his jaws were set with determination.
“It is this,” he said. “Ruth Tracy has become the chief worker for your
cause in the parish. I assume that it has been your direct influence
that has produced her present abnormal state of mind. She is under the
spell of a powerful personality. She is my fiancée. I have a right
to protect her, and to conserve my own happiness. What you have had
power to do, you have power to undo. I ask you now to relinquish your
control of her conscience and judgment, and to refuse to carry her
farther with you in a course which can only lead her into deep sorrow
and great humiliation.”
The Reverend Mr. Farrar did not at once reply. A phase of the situation
had been presented to him which had not before crossed his mind. He
had met, and had solved to his own satisfaction, every problem in the
controversy which he could foresee. This one was entirely new. But his
clear vision and quick judgment went at once to the heart of it.
“I have used no persuasion on Miss Tracy,” he said at last. “Her
absorption in this crusade has been entirely due to her own innate
sense of righteousness and of social justice. For me to seek now to
dissuade her from any continuance in this work would be to shake her
faith, and to discredit my own sincerity of purpose. I cannot do what
you ask.”
Westgate was annoyed. For the first time in all this unhappy controversy
he felt that forbearance was no longer a virtue.
“Then you insist,” he said, “in making selfish use of her to advance
your own peculiar propaganda, regardless of her happiness, or her
mother’s peace of mind, or of my rights as her affianced lover?”
“I insist on giving her free rein, so far as I am concerned, to work
out the impulses of a noble mind and heart. She has high ideals. I
shall assist her, so far as I am able, to attain them.”
“Even though in doing so you blast her happiness and wreck her life?”
“That is an absurd and irreligious supposition, Westgate. I repeat that
I shall make no attempt to dissuade her from carrying out her high
purpose, and you, even as her affianced lover, have no right to ask it.”
“I do not ask it any longer, I demand it. I demand that you, as an
honest man, and as a minister of God, unseal that woman’s eyes that she
may see.”
“As an honest man and a minister of God I shall do all that lies in my
power to blind her eyes to any less worthy object than the advancement
of Christ’s Kingdom on earth.”
A point had been reached beyond which words were vain. With men in whom
the animal instinct predominates, blows would have been next in order.
To these gentlemen it was simply apparent that the interview was at an
end.
Westgate opened the study door to pass out into the hall, but, facing
him, blocking his way, the rector’s wife stood, white-faced and
trembling. She had heard the high-pitched voices, the demand and the
refusal. Unreasoning fear possessed her. She threw herself into her
husband’s arms.
“Oh, Robert!” she cried. “What awful thing has happened now?”
He laid his hand on her head soothingly.
“Don’t be frightened, dear. It is simply another desertion. Mr.
Westgate definitely joins our enemies.”
She looked apprehensively at Westgate, and he went up to her and took
her hand.
“I am not your enemy, Mrs. Farrar,” he said. “I never shall be.
Whatever happens you shall have sympathy and friendship, both from my
mother and from me, and such help and comfort as we may be permitted to
give to you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Westgate! You and your mother have always been good to
us.”
“And we shall continue to be to the best of our ability. Good-bye!”
When Westgate had gone she turned again to her husband and demanded
that he tell her what had happened. He did so. He told her plainly of
the request for his resignation, and of his refusal to consider it.
“Oh, why didn’t you do what they asked of you?” she wailed. “It would
have been so much better than keeping up this horrid fight. I am so
sick and tired of it. If we could only get away from this dreadful
place!”
“It’s a splendid place, Alice. It’s the field of Armageddon for us. The
Lord’s battle is on. Would you have me branded as a deserter?”
“I don’t know, Robert. I only know that I’m so miserable. If we could
only live somewhere, in any little place, at peace, and let some one
else do the fighting. You said, one day, that I shouldn’t have married
a minister. It hurt me then, but I’ve thought a good deal about it
since,――and now I know it’s true. I’m such a hopeless drag on you.”
“You’re a very great comfort to me, dear.”
It was not true, and he knew in his heart that it was not true; but he
could say no less and be a Christian gentleman.
“Thank you, Robert! And I’ve thought a good many times since then that
if you only had a wife like Ruth Tracy, what a help and blessing she’d
be to you.”
This reflection of his own tenuous dream fell upon him so unexpectedly,
struck him so gruesomely, that, for the moment, he could make no reply.
And before he did find his tongue her thought was diverted into a new
channel. She suddenly remembered something that she had heard at the
door.
“Oh, Robert, what woman’s eyes were they that Mr. Westgate wanted
unsealed? Were they mine?”
“No, dear, they were not yours.”
“Whose then?”
“Ruth Tracy’s.”
She backed away a little and looked at him inquiringly.
“Ruth――Tracy’s? I don’t understand. What did he mean?”
“Why, he appears to think that I have cast some sort of a hypnotic
spell over Miss Tracy to induce her to go along with me in my fight.”
“That’s just what Jane Chichester says that so many people are saying.
She told me so yesterday. They say that Miss Tracy must be hypnotized,
the way she’s sacrificing herself in your interest.”
He became a little impatient at that.
“I wish you wouldn’t take so seriously what Miss Chichester says. She’s
hardly to be depended upon where gossip is concerned.”
“But you haven’t, have you, Robert? You haven’t cast any spell over
her?”
She was entirely serious. So serious that he was moved to mirth.
“No,” he replied, after a moment. “I do not possess hypnotic powers.
Whatever Miss Tracy is doing, she is doing entirely of her own free
will.”
“She has been a very great help to you, hasn’t she?”
“She has been my strongest champion and ablest worker.”
“If she could only have been your wife!”
Many times that day and in the days that followed, his wife’s wish
concerning Ruth Tracy crossed the rector’s mind. He did not dwell so
much on the spirit of self-abnegation which the wish displayed as he
did upon the contemplation of a woman like Ruth Tracy, with her steady
helpfulness, her unfailing courage, her splendid optimism, being a part
of his daily life. It was a gracious vision, indeed; warp and woof of
idealism, with no thread of selfishness running through it, nor of
disloyalty to the woman whom he had really married, and with whom he
was still genuinely in love.
Westgate went back to the gentlemen of the vestry and reported the
result of his errand. They had the pleasure of saying, “I told you so,”
and set about at once to consider ways and means of ridding the pulpit
of Christ Church, in the speediest and most effective manner, of its
ungracious and unworthy incumbent.
“I am with you, gentlemen,” said Westgate, “in any action you may see
fit to take, however drastic. The time for compromise has gone by. It
must be a fight now to the finish.”
They applauded him, and announced that they were ready to take the
first step, and asked him what it should be. He advised them that the
first step was the sending of a letter of information from the vestry
to the bishop. This would require the formal action of the vestry as a
body, the next regular meeting of which would be held the coming Friday
evening. It was decided to bring the matter up at that time. Lest any
charge should lie against them of unfairness or lack of good faith,
they had a notice sent to each member of the vestry, and to the rector,
to the effect that a resolution would be offered at that meeting having
for its purpose an application to the ecclesiastical authority of
the diocese for the dissolution of the pastoral relation between the
incumbent minister and the parish of Christ Church.
At the hour fixed for the meeting every member of the vestry was
present. They were there with anxious and apprehensive minds, dreading
yet not avoiding the issue which they knew would arise.
The rector was chairman of the meeting as usual. It was his right,
under the canons, to act as chairman. But, when the customary business
had been disposed of, he called the senior warden, Judge Bosworth, to
the chair.
“I do this,” he explained, “in order that none of you may be embarrassed
in any formal action you may see fit to take concerning me.”
When the substitution had been made, Westgate arose and said that he
desired to offer a resolution which he had prepared at the request of
certain members of the vestry. His resolution, which he then read, was
as follows:
“_Whereas_, by the XXVI article of our established religion it
becomes the duty of those having knowledge of the offenses of
ministers of the Church to present that knowledge to those in
authority:
“_And Whereas_, the members of this vestry believe that the
Reverend Robert Bruce Farrar, minister of Christ Church, has
violated certain canons of the Church, and certain rubrics
of the Book of Common Prayer, in that he has held and taught
publicly, privately and advisedly, doctrines contrary to those
held by the Church; and has officiated at the burial of the
dead and administered the holy communion in a manner contrary
to that ordered by the said rubrics:
“_Therefore, be it Resolved_ that we, the vestry of Christ
Church, desire a separation and dissolution of the pastoral
relation now existing between the said minister and the parish
of Christ Church, and that we present a notice in writing to
that effect to the Right Reverend, the Bishop of this diocese,
and pray his judgment accordingly.”
“I move the adoption of the resolution,” said Mr. Hughes.
“I second the motion,” added Mr. Cochrane.
Emberly was on his feet in an instant; but before he could speak the
rector had risen.
“If my friend Mr. Emberly will pardon me,” he said, “and permit me to
interrupt him, I desire to say that it is my preference that there
shall be no controversy over this resolution. I am informed that a
majority of the members of the vestry have already pledged themselves
to its support. Argument, therefore, which might lead to harsh words
and unfriendly thoughts, and would be a mere waste of the time occupied
in making it, had better be avoided. However, lest there should be any
possible doubt as to my attitude, let me say now that I deny absolutely
the charges made against me in the preamble to this resolution, and
that, at the proper time and in the proper place, I will defend myself
against them.”
Through the tact and good sense of the rector a scene had been avoided.
The gentlemen of the vestry, relieved of apprehension, breathed more
freely, and Westgate called for the question.
The resolution was adopted without argument. Emberly and Hazzard were
the only ones who voted against it, old Mr. Kay, greatly disturbed in
mind over the unhappy affair, declining to vote.
Those who had voted “aye” then attached their signatures to the
resolution, and the next day it was forwarded to the bishop of the
diocese for his godly consideration. When his reply came it was to
the effect that inasmuch as he intended to make his annual visitation
to the parish early in February, he would postpone a hearing on the
charges until that time. What he wrote privately to the rector, if he
wrote at all, was never disclosed.
No attempt was made to keep secret the action taken by the vestry at
the Friday evening meeting. The whole city knew of it the next morning
and was accordingly aroused. The newspapers which, as a matter of
journalistic policy, had fought shy of the controversy in its earlier
stages, now blazoned forth to the public, under scare head-lines, the
news of the climax of the trouble in Christ Church. Whenever two men of
the parish met each other on the street, or in any business or social
place, the matter was not only mentioned but often freely discussed.
Women went far out of their way to gossip about it. Jane Chichester had
not found such absorbing occupation, either for her feet or her tongue,
in many a day.
Not only the parish, but the whole city was soon divided into two
hostile camps. Old friendships were strained, old relations were
severed, and many a gap was opened between those who had theretofore
walked side by side. In the barroom of the Silver Star saloon a heated
controversy over the matter resulted in a fierce brawl, bruised bodies,
battered faces, and a police-court episode the following day.
And Mephistopheles drew his red cloak about him, concealed his cloven
hoofs therein, sat down in the shadow of an age-old olive tree, and
smiled in sinister content.