The following week Calvary Church held a meeting. It was one of the most
stormiest meetings ever held by the members. In that meeting Mr. Winter
again, to the surprise of nearly all, advised caution, and defended the
minister's action up to a certain point. The result was a condition of
waiting and expectancy, rather than downright condemnation of the
proposed action on Philip's part. It would be presenting the church in
a false light to picture it as entirely opposed, up to this date, to
Philip's preaching and ideas of Christian living. He had built up a
strong buttress of admiring and believing members in the church. This
stood, with Mr. Winter's influence, as a breakwater against the tidal
wave of opposition now beginning to pour in upon him. There was an
element in Calvary Church conservative to a degree, and yet strong in
its growing belief that Christian action and Church work in the world
had reached a certain crisis, which would result either in the death or
life of the Church in America. Philip's preaching had strengthened this
feeling. His last move had startled this element, and it wished to wait
for developments. The proposal of some that the minister be requested to
resign was finally overruled, and it was decided not to oppose his
desertion of the parsonage, while the matter of reduction of salary was
voted upon in the negative.
But feeling was roused to a high pitch. Many of the members declared
their intention of refusing to attend services. Some said they would not
pay their pledges any longer. A prevailing minority, however, ruled in
favor of Philip, and the action of the meeting was formally sent him by
the clerk.
Meanwhile Philip moved out of the parsonage into his new quarters. The
daily paper, which had given a sensational account of his sermon, laying
most stress upon his voluntary proposition referring to his salary, now
came out with a column and a half devoted to his carrying out of his
determination to abandon the parsonage and get nearer the people in the
tenements. The article was widely copied and variously commented upon.
In Milton his action was condemned by many, defended by some. Very few
seemed to understand his exact motive. The majority took it as an
eccentric move, and expressed regret in one form and another that a man
of such marked intellectual power as Mr. Strong seemed to possess lacked
balance and good judgment. Some called him a crank. The people in the
tenement district were too much absorbed in their sufferings and
selfishness to show any demonstration. It remained to be seen whether
they would be any better touched by him in his new home.
So matters stood when the first Sunday of a new month came, and Mr.
Strong again stood before his church with his Christ message. It had
been a wearing month to him. Gradually there had been growing upon him a
sense of almost isolation in his pulpit work. He wondered if he had
interpreted Christ aright. He probed deeper and deeper into the springs
of action that moved the historical Jesus, and again and again put that
resplendently calm, majestic, suffering personality into his own pulpit
in Milton, and then stood off, as it were, to watch what he would, in
all human probability, say. He reviewed all his own sayings on those
first Sundays and tried to tax himself with utmost severity for any
denial of his Master or any false presentation of his spirit; and as he
went over the ground he was almost overwhelmed to think how little had
been really accomplished. This time he came before the church with the
experience of nearly three weeks' hand-to-hand work among the people for
whose sake he had moved out of the parsonage. As usual an immense
congregation thronged the church.
"The question has come to me lately in different forms," began Philip,
"as to what is church work. I am aware that my attitude on the question
is not shared by many of the members of this church and other churches.
Nevertheless, I stand here to-day, as I have stood on these Sundays, to
declare to you what in deepest humility would seem to me to be the
attitude of Christ in the matter before us.
"What is a church? It is a body of disciples professing to acknowledge
Christ as Master. What does He want such a body to do? Whatever will
most effectively make God's kingdom come on earth, and His will be done
as in heaven. What is the most necessary work of this church in Milton?
It is to go out and seek and save the lost. It is to take up its cross
and follow the Master. And as I see Him to-day he beckons this church to
follow Him into the tenements and slums of this town and be Christs to
those who do not know Him. As I see Him He stands beckoning with pierced
palms in the direction of suffering and disease and ignorance and vice
and paganism, saying: 'Here is where the work of Calvary Church lies.'
I do not believe the work of this church consists in having so many
meetings and socials and pleasant gatherings and delightful occasions
among its own members; but the real work of this church consists in
getting out of its own little circle in which it has been so many years
moving, and going, in any way most effective to the world's wounded, to
bind up the hurt and be a savior to the lost. If we do not understand
this to be the true meaning of church work, then I believe we miss its
whole meaning. Church work in Milton to-day does not consist in doing
simply what your fathers did before you. It means helping to make a
cleaner town, the purification of our municipal life, the actual
planning and accomplishment of means to relieve physical distress, a
thorough understanding of the problem of labor and capital; in brief,
church work to-day in this town is whatever is most needed to be done to
prove to this town that we are what we profess ourselves to
be--disciples of Jesus Christ. That is the reason I give more time to
the tenement district problem than to calling on families that are well,
and in possession of great comforts and privileges. That is the reason I
call on this church to do Christ's work in His name and give itself to
save that part of our town."
This is but the briefest of the sketches of Philip's sermon. It was a
part of himself, his experience, his heart belief. He poured it out on
the vast audience with little saving of his vitality. And that Sunday he
went home at night exhausted, with a feeling of weariness partly due to
his work during the week among the people. The calls upon his time and
strength had been incessant, and he did not know where or when to stop.
It was three weeks after this sermon on church work that Philip was
again surprised by his strange visitor of a month before. He had been
out making some visits in company with his wife. When they came back to
the house, there sat the Brother Man on the door-step.
At sight of him, Philip felt that same thrill of expectancy which had
passed over him at his former appearance.
The old man stood up and took off his hat. He looked very tired and
sorrowful. But there breathed from his entire bearing the element of a
perfect peace.
"Brother Man," said Philip, cheerily, "come in and rest yourself."
"Can you keep me over night?"
The question was put wistfully. Philip was struck by the difference
between this almost shrinking request and the self-invitation of a month
before.
"Yes, indeed! We have one spare room for you. You are welcome. Come in."
So they went in, and after tea the two sat down together while Mrs.
Strong was busy in the kitchen. A part of this conversation was
afterward related by the minister to his wife; a part of it he afterward
said was unreportable----the manner of tone, the inflection, the gesture
of his remarkable guest no man could reproduce.
"You have moved since I saw you last," said the visitor.
"Yes," replied Philip. "You did not expect me to act on your advice so
soon?"
"My advice?" The question came in a hesitating tone. "Did I advise you
to move? Ah, yes, I remember!" A light like supremest reason flashed
over the man's face, and then died out. "Yes, yes; you are beginning to
live on your simpler basis. You are doing as you preach. That must feel
good."
"Yes," replied Philip, "it does feel good. Do you think, Brother Man,
that this will help to solve the problem?"
"What problem?"
"Why, the problem of the church and the people--winning them, saving
them."
"Are your church members moving out of their elegant houses and coming
down here to live?" The old man asked the question in utmost simplicity.
"No; I did not ask them."
"You ought to."
"What! Do you believe my people ought literally to leave their
possessions and live among the people?"
Philip could not help asking the question, and all the time he was
conscious of a strange absurdity mingled with an unaccountable respect
for his visitor, and his opinion.
"Yes," came the reply, with the calmness of light. "Christ would demand
it if he were pastor of Calvary Church in this age. The church members,
the Christians in this century, must renounce all that they have, or
they cannot be his disciples."
Philip sat profoundly silent. The words spoken so quietly by this
creature tossed upon his own soul like a vessel in a tempest. He dared
not say anything for a moment. The Brother Man looked over and said at
last: "What have you been preaching about since you came here?"
"A great many things."
"What are some of the things you have preached about?"
"Well," Philip clasped his hands over his knees; "I have preached about
the right and wrong uses of property, the evil of the saloon, the Sunday
as a day of rest and worship, the necessity of moving our church
building down into this neighborhood, the need of living on a simpler
basis, and, lastly, the true work of a church in these days."
"Has your church done what you have wished?"
"No," replied Philip, with a sigh.
"Will it do what you preach ought to be done?"
"I do not know."
"Why don't you resign?"
The question came with perfect simplicity, but it smote Philip almost
like a blow. It was spoken with calmness that hardly rose above a
whisper, but it seemed to the listener almost like a shout. The thought
of giving up his work simply because his church had not yet done what he
wished, or because some of his people did not like him, was the last
thing a man of his nature would do. He looked again at the man and said:
"Would you resign if you were in my place?"
"No." It was so quietly spoken that Philip almost doubted if his visitor
had replied. Then he said: "What has been done with the parsonage?"
"It is empty. The church is waiting to rent it to some one who expects
to move to Milton soon."
"Are you sorry you came here?"
"No; I am happy in my work."
"Do you have enough to eat and wear?"
"Yes, indeed. The thousand dollars which the church refused to take off
my salary goes to help where most needed; the rest is more than enough
for us."
"Does your wife think so?" The question from any one else had been
impertinent. From this man it was not.
"Let us call her in and ask her," replied Philip, with a smile.
"Sarah, the Brother Man wants to know if you have enough to live on."
Sarah came in and sat down. It was dark. The year was turning into the
softer months of spring, and all the out-door world had been a
benediction that evening if the sorrow and poverty and sin of the
tenement district so near had not pervaded the very walls and atmosphere
of the entire place. The minister's wife answered bravely: "Yes, we
have food and clothing and life's necessaries. But, oh, Philip! this
life is wearing you out. Yes, Brother Man." she continued, while a tear
rolled over her cheek, "the minister is giving his life blood for these
people, and they do not care. It is a vain sacrifice." She had spoken as
frankly as if the old man had been her father. There was a something in
him which called out such confidence.
Mr. Strong soothed his wife, clasping her to him tenderly. "There,
Sarah, you are nervous and tired. I am a little discouraged, but strong
and hearty for the work. Brother Man, you must not think we regret your
advice. We have been blessed by following it."
And then their remarkable guest stretched out his arms through the
gathering gloom in the room and seemed to bless them. Later in the
evening he again called for a Bible, and offered a prayer of wondrous
sweetness. He was shown to his plainly-furnished room. He looked around
and smiled.
"This is like my old home," he said; "a palace, where the poor die of
hunger."
Philip started at the odd remark, then recollected that the old man had
once been wealthy, and sometimes in his half-dazed condition Philip
thought probable he confounded the humblest surroundings with his once
luxurious home. He lingered a moment, and the man said, as if speaking
to himself: "If they do not renounce all they have, they cannot be my
disciples."
"Good-night, Brother Man." cried Philip, as he went out.
"Good-night, Christ's man," replied his guest. And Philip went to his
rest that night, great questions throbbing in him, and the demands of
the Master more distinctly brought to his attention than ever.
Again, as before when he rose in the morning, he found that his visitor
was gone. His eccentric movements accounted his sudden disappearances,
but they were disappointed. They wanted to see their guest again and
question him about his history. They promised themselves he would do so
next time.
The following Sunday Philip preached one of those sermons which come to
a man once or twice in a whole ministry. It was the last Sunday of the
month, and not a special occasion. But there had surged into his thought
the meaning of the Christian life with such uncontrollable power that
his sermon reached hearts never before touched. He remained at the close
of the service to talk with several young men, who seemed moved as never
before. After they had gone away he went into his own room back of the
platform to get something he had left there, and to his surprise found
the church sexton kneeling down by one of the chairs. As the minister
came in the man rose and turned toward him.
"Mr. Strong, I want to be a Christian. I want to join the church and
lead a different life."
Philip clasped his hand, while tears rolled over the man's face. He
stayed and talked with him, and prayed with him, and when he finally
went home the minister was convinced it was as strong and true a
conversion as he had ever seen. He at once related the story to his
wife, who had gone on before to get dinner.
"Why, Philip," she exclaimed, when he said the sexton wanted to be
baptized and unite with the church at the next communion, "Calvary
Church will never allow him to unite with us!"
"Why not?" asked Philip, in amazement.
"Because he is a negro," replied his wife.
Philip stood a moment in silence with his hat in his hand, looking at
his wife as she spoke.