Within a week, Philip Strong had moved to Milton, as the church wished
him to occupy the pulpit at once. The parsonage was a well-planned house
next the church, and his wife soon made everything look very homelike.
The first Sunday evening after Philip preached in Milton, for the first
time, he chatted with his wife over the events of the day as they sat
before a cheerful open fire in the large grate. It was late in the fall
and the nights were sharp and frosty.
"Are you tired to-night, Philip?" asked his wife.
"Yes, the day has been rather trying. Did you think I was nervous? Did I
preach well?" Philip was not vain in the least. He simply put the
question to satisfy his own exacting demand on himself in preaching. And
there was not a person in the world to whom he would have put such a
question except his wife.
"No, I thought you did splendidly. I felt proud of you. You made some
queer gestures, and once you put one of your hands in your pocket. But
your sermons were both strong and effective; I am sure the people were
impressed. It was very still at both services."
Philip was silent a moment. And his wife went on.
"I am sure we shall like it here, Philip; what do you think?"
"I cannot tell yet. There is very much to do."
"How do you like the church building?"
"It is an easy audience room for my voice. I don't like the arrangement
of the choir over the front door. I think the choir ought to be down on
the platform in front of the people, by the side of the minister."
"That's one of your hobbies, Philip. But the singing was good, didn't
you think so?"
"Yes, the choir is a good one. The congregation didn't seem to sing
much, and I believe in Congregational singing, even when there is a
choir. But we can bring that about in time, I think."
"Now, Philip," said his wife, in some alarm, "you are not going to
meddle with the singing, are you? It will get you into trouble. There is
a musical committee in the church, and such committees are very
sensitive about any interference."
"Well," said Philip, rousing up a little, "the singing is a very
important part of the service. And it seems to me I ought to have
something important to say about it. But you need not fear, Sarah. I'm
not going to try to change everything all at once."
His wife looked at him a little anxiously. She had perfect faith in
Philip's honesty of purpose, but she sometimes had a fear of his
impetuous desire to reform the world. After a little pause she spoke
again, changing the subject.
"What did you think of the congregation, Philip?"
"I enjoyed it. I thought it was very attentive. There was a larger
number out this evening than I had expected."
"Did you like the looks of the people?"
"They were all very nicely dressed."
"Now, Philip, you know that isn't what I mean. Did you like the people's
faces?"
"You know I like all sorts and conditions of men."
"Yes, but there are audiences, and audiences. Do you think you will
enjoy preaching to this one in Calvary Church?"
"I think I shall," replied Philip, but he said it in a tone that might
have meant a great deal more. Again there was silence, and again the
minister's wife was the first to break it.
"There was a place in your sermon to-night, Philip, where you appeared
the least bit embarrassed; as you seem sometimes at home, when you have
some writing or some newspaper article on your mind, and some one
suddenly interrupts you with a question a good way from your thoughts.
What was the matter? Did you forget a point?"
"No, I'll tell you. From where I stand on the pulpit platform, I can see
through one of the windows over the front door. There is a large
electric lamp burning outside, and the light fell directly on the
sidewalk, across the street. From time to time groups of people went
through that band of light. Of course I could not see their faces very
well, but I soon found out that they were mostly the young men and women
operatives of the mills. They were out strolling through the street,
which, I am told, is a favorite promenade with them. I should think as
many as two hundred passed by the church while I was preaching. Well,
after awhile I began to ask myself whether there was any possible way of
getting those young people to come into the church instead of strolling
past? And then I looked at the people in front of me, and saw how
different they were from those outside, and wondered if it wouldn't be
better to close up the church and go and preach on the street where the
people are. And so, carrying on all that questioning with myself, while
I tried to preach, causing a little 'embarrassment,' as you kindly call
it, in the sermon."
"I should think so! But how do you know, Philip, that those people
outside were in any need of your preaching?"
Philip appeared surprised at the question. He looked at his wife, and
her face was serious.
"Why, doesn't everybody need preaching? They may not stand in need of my
preaching, perhaps, but they ought to have some preaching. And I cannot
help thinking of what is the duty of the church in this place to the
great crowd outside. Something ought to be done."
"Philip, I am sure your work here will be blessed, don't you think so?"
"I know it will," replied Philip, with the assurance of a very positive
but spiritually-minded man. He never thought his Master was honored by
asking him for small things, or doubting the power of Christianity to do
great things.
And always when he said "I," he simply meant, not Philip Strong, but
Christ in Philip Strong. To deny the power and worth of that incarnation
was, to his mind, not humility, but treason.
The Sunday following, Philip made this announcement to the people:--
"Beginning with next Sunday morning, I shall give the first of a series
of monthly talks on Christ and Modern Society. It will be my object in
these talks to suppose Christ Himself as the one speaking to modern
society on its sins, its needs, its opportunities, its responsibilities,
its every-day life. I shall try to be entirely loving and just and
courageous in giving what I believe Christ Himself would give you, if He
were the pastor of Calvary Church in Milton to-day. So, during these
talks, I wish you would, with me, try to see if you think Christ would
actually say what I shall say in His place. If Christ were in Milton
to-day, I believe He would speak to us about a good many things in
Milton, and He would speak very plainly, and in many cases He might seem
to be severe. But it would be for our good. Of course I am but human in
my weakness. I shall make mistakes. I shall probably say things Christ
would not say. But always going to the source of all true help, the
Spirit of Truth, I shall, as best a man may, speak as I truly believe
Christ would if he were your pastor. These talks will be given on the
first Sunday of every month. I cannot announce the subjects, for they
will be chosen as the opportunities arise."
During the week Philip spent several hours of each day in learning the
facts concerning the town. One of the first things he did was to buy an
accurate map of the place. He hung it up on the wall of his study, and
in after days found occasion to make good use of it. He spent his
afternoons walking over the town. He noted with special interest and
earnestness the great brick mills by the river, five enormous structures
with immense chimneys, out of which poured great volumes of smoke.
Something about the mills fascinated him. They seemed like monsters of
some sort, grim, unfeeling, but terrible. As one walked by them he
seemed to feel the throbbing of the hearts of live creatures. The
unpainted tenements, ugly in their unfailing similarity, affected Philip
with a sense of almost anger. He had a keen and truthful taste in
matters of architecture, and those boxes of houses offended every
artistic and home-like feeling in him. Coming home one day past the
tenements he found himself in an unknown street, and for the curiosity
of it he undertook to count the saloons on the street in one block.
There were over twelve. There was a policeman on the corner as Philip
reached the crossing, and he inquired of the officer if he could tell
him who owned the property in the block containing the saloons.
"I believe most of the houses belong to Mr. Winter, sir."
"Mr. William Winter?" asked Philip.
"Yes, I think that's his name. He is the largest owner in the Ocean Mill
yonder."
Philip thanked the man and went on toward home. "William Winter!" he
exclaimed. "Is it possible that man will accept a revenue from the
renting of his property to these vestibules of hell? That man! One of
the leading members in my church! Chairman of the board of trustees and
a leading citizen of the place! It does not seem possible!"
But before the week was out Philip had discovered facts that made his
heart burn with shame and his mind rouse with indignation. Property in
the town which was being used for saloons, gambling-houses, and dens of
wickedness, was owned in large part by several of the most prominent
members of his church. There was no doubt of the fact. Philip, whose
very nature was frankness itself, resolved to go to these men and have a
plain talk with them about it. It seemed to him like a monstrous evil
that a Christian believer, a church-member, should be renting his
property to these dens of vice, and taking the money. He called on Mr.
Winter; but he was out of town and would not be back until Saturday
night. He went to see another member who was a large owner in one of the
mills, and a heavy property owner. It was not a pleasant thing to do,
but Philip boldly stated the precise reason for his call, and asked his
member if it was true that he rented several houses in a certain block
where saloons and gambling-houses were numerous. The man looked at
Philip, turned red, and finally said it was a fact, but none of Philip's
business.
"My dear brother," said Philip, with a sad but winning smile, "you
cannot imagine what it costs me to come to you about this matter. In one
sense, it may seem to you like an impertinent meddling in your business.
In another sense, it is only what I ought to do as pastor of a church
which is dearer to me than my life. And I have come to you as a brother
in Christ to ask you if it seems to you like a thing which Christ would
approve that you, His disciple, should allow the property which has come
into your hands that you may use it for His glory and the building up of
His kingdom, to be used by the agents of the devil while you reap the
financial benefit. Is it right, my brother?"
The man to whom the question was put made the usual excuses, that if he
did not rent to these people, other men would, that there was no call
for the property by other parties, and if it were not rented to
objectionable people it would lie empty at a dead loss, and so forth. To
all of which Philip opposed the plain will of God, that all a man has
should be used in clean and honest ways, and He could never sanction the
getting of money through such immoral channels. The man was finally
induced to acknowledge that it was not just the right thing to do, and
especially for a church-member. But, when Philip pressed him to give up
the whole iniquitous revenue, and clear himself of all connection with
it, the property owner looked aghast.
"Why, Mr. Strong, do you know what you ask? Two-thirds of the most
regular part of my income is derived from these rents. It is out of the
question for me to give them up. You are too nice in the matter. All the
property owners in Milton do the same thing. There isn't a man of any
means in the church who isn't deriving some revenue from this source.
Why, a large part of your salary is paid from these very rents. You will
get into trouble if you try to meddle in this matter. I don't take
offense. I think you have done your duty. And I confess it doesn't seem
exactly the thing. But, as society is organized, I don't see as we can
change the matter. Better not try to do anything about it, Mr. Strong.
The church likes you, and will stand by in giving you a handsome
support; but men are very touchy when their private business is meddled
with."
Philip sat listening to this speech, and his face grew whiter and he
clenched his hands tighter as the man went on. When he had finished,
Philip spoke in a low voice:
"Mr. Bentley, you do not know me, if you think any fear of the
consequences will prevent my speaking to the members of my church on any
matter where it seems to me I ought to speak. In this particular matter,
I believe it is not only my right, but my duty to speak. I would be
shamed before my Lord and Master if I did not declare His will in regard
to the uses of property. This question passes over from one of private
business, with which I have no right to meddle, into the domain of
public safety, where I have a right to demand that places which are
fatal to the life and morals of the young men and women of the town,
shall not be encouraged and allowed to subsist through the use of
property owned and controlled by men of influence in the community, and
especially by the members of Christ's body. My brother," Philip went on,
after a painful pause, "before God, in whose presence we shall stand at
last, am I not right in my view of this matter? Would not Christ say to
you just what I am now saying?"
Mr. Bentley shrugged his shoulders and said something about not trying
to mix up business and religion. Philip sat looking at the man, reading
him through and through, his heart almost bursting in him at the thought
of what a man would do for the sake of money. At last he saw that he
would gain nothing by prolonging the argument. He rose, and with the
same sweet frankness which characterized his opening of the subject, he
said, "Brother, I wish to tell you that it is my intention to speak of
this matter next Sunday, in the first of my talks on Christ and Modern
Society. I believe it is something he would talk about in public, and I
will speak of it as I think he would."
"You must do your duty, of course, Mr. Strong," replied Mr. Bentley,
somewhat coldly; and Philip went out, feeling as if he had grappled with
his first dragon in Milton, and found him to be a very ugly one and hard
to kill. What hurt him as much as the lack of spiritual fineness of
apprehension of evil in his church-member, was the knowledge that, as
Mr. Bentley so coarsely put it, his salary was largely paid out of the
rentals of those vile abodes. He grew sick at heart as he dwelt upon the
disagreeable fact; and as he came back to the parsonage and went up to
his cosey study, he groaned to think that it was possible through the
price that men paid for souls.
"And this, because society is as it is!" he exclaimed, as he buried his
face in his hands and leaned his elbows on his desk, while his cheeks
flushed and his heart quivered at the thought of the filth and vileness
the money had seen and heard which paid for the very desk at which he
wrote his sermons.
But Philip Strong was not one to give way at the first feeling of
seeming defeat. He did not too harshly condemn his members. He wondered
at their lack of spiritual life; but, to his credit be it said, he did
not harshly condemn. Only, as Sunday approached, he grew more clear in
his own mind as to his duty in the matter. Expediency whispered to him,
"Better wait. You have only just come here. The people like you now. It
will only cause unpleasant feelings and do no good for you to launch out
into a crusade against this thing right now. There are so many of your
members involved that it will certainly alienate their support, and
possibly lead to your being compelled to lose your place as pastor, if
it do not drive away the most influential members."
To all this plea of expediency Philip replied, "Get thee behind me,
Satan!" He said with himself, he might as well let the people know what
he was at the very first. It was not necessary that he should be their
pastor, if they would none of him. It was necessary that he preach the
truth boldly. The one question he asked himself was, "Would Jesus
Christ, if he were pastor of Cavalry[sic] Church in Milton to-day, speak
of the matter next Sunday, and speak regardless of all consequences?"
Philip asked the question honestly; and, after long prayer and much
communion with the Divine, he said, "Yes, I believe he would." It is
possible that he might have gained by waiting or by working with his
members in private. Another man might have pursued that method, and
still have been a courageous, true minister. But this is the story of
Philip Strong, not of another man, and this is what he did.
When Sunday morning came, he went into his pulpit with the one thought
in mind, that he would simply and frankly, in his presentation of the
subject, use the language and the spirit of his Master. He had seen
other property owners during the week, and his interviews were nearly
all similar to the one with Mr. Bentley. He had not been able to see Mr.
William Winter, the chairman of the trustees, as he had not returned
home until very late Saturday night. Philip saw him come into the church
that morning, just as the choir rose to sing the anthem. He was a large,
fine-looking man. Philip admired his physical appearance as he marched
down the aisle to his pew, which was the third from the front, directly
before the pulpit.
When the hymn had been sung, the offering taken, the prayer made, Philip
stepped out at one side of the pulpit and reminded the congregation
that, according to his announcement of a week before, he would give the
first of his series of monthly talks on Christ and Modern Society. His
subject this morning, he said, was "The Right and Wrong Uses of
Property."
He started out with the statement, which he claimed was verified
everywhere in the word of God, that all property that men acquire is
really only in the nature of trust funds, which the property holder is
in duty bound to use as a steward. The gold is God's. The silver is
God's. The cattle on a thousand hills. All land and water privileges and
wealth of the earth and of the seas belong primarily to the Lord of all
the earth. When any of this property comes within the control of a man,
he is not at liberty to use it as if it were his own, and his alone, but
as God would have him use it, to better the condition of life, and make
men and communities happier and more useful.
From this statement Philip went on to speak of the common idea which men
had, that wealth and houses and lands were their own, to do with as they
pleased; and he showed what misery and trouble had always flowed out of
this great falsehood, and how nations and individuals were to-day in the
greatest distress, because of the wrong uses to which God's property was
put by men who had control of it. It was easy then to narrow the
argument to the condition of affairs in Milton. As he stepped from the
general to the particular, and began to speak of the rental of saloons
and houses of gambling from property owners in Milton, and then
characterized such a use of God's property as wrong and unchristian, it
was curious to note the effect on the congregation. Men who had been
listening complacently to Philip's eloquent but quiet statements, as
long as he confined himself to distant historical facts, suddenly became
aware that the tall, palefaced, resolute and loving young preacher up
there was talking right at them; and more than one mill-owner, merchant,
real estate dealer, and even professional man, writhed inwardlly[sic],
and nervously shifted in his cushioned pew, as Philip spoke in the
plainest terms of the terrible example set the world by the use of
property for purposes which were destructive to all true society, and a
shame to civilization and Christianity. Philip controlled his voice and
his manner admirably, but he drove the truth home and spared not. His
voice at no time rose above a quiet conversational tone, but it was
clear and distinct. The audience sat hushed in the spell of a genuine
sensation, which deepened when, at the close of a tremendous sentence,
which swept through the church like a red-hot flame, Mr. Winter suddenly
arose in his pew, passed out into the aisle, and marched deliberately
down and out of the door. Philip saw him and knew the reason, but
marched straight on with his message, and no one, not even his anxious
wife, who endured martyrdom for him that morning, could detect any
disturbance in Philip from the mill-owner's contemptuous withdrawal.
When Philip closed with a prayer of tender appeal that the Spirit of
Truth would make all hearts to behold the truth as one soul, the
audience remained seated longer than usual, still under the influence of
the subject and the morning's sensational service. All through the day
Philip felt a certain strain on him, which did not subside even when the
evening service was over. Some of the members, notably several of the
mothers, thanked him, with tears in their eyes, for his morning message.
Very few of the men talked with him. Mr. Winter did not come out to the
evening service, although he was one of the very few men members who
were invariably present. Philip noted his absence, but preached with his
usual enthusiasm. He thought a larger number of strangers was present
than he had seen the Sunday before. He was very tired when the day was
over.
The next morning, as he was getting ready to go out for a visit to one
of the mills, the bell rang. He was near the door and opened it. There
stood Mr. Winter. "I would like to see you a few moments, Mr. Strong, if
you can spare the time," said the mill-owner, without offering to take
the hand Philip extended.
"Certainly. Will you come up to my study?" asked Philip, quietly.
The two men went upstairs, and Philip shut the door, as he motioned Mr.
Winter to a seat, and then sat down opposite.