Philip read the letter through without lifting his eyes from the paper
or making any comment. It was as follows:
PHILIP STRONG, Calvary Church, Milton:
As clerk of the church I am instructed to inform you of the action of
the church at a regularly called meeting last Monday night. At that
meeting it was voted by a majority present that you be asked to resign
the pastorate of Calvary Church for the following reasons:
1. There is a very widespread discontent on the part of the
church-membership on account of the use of the church for Sunday
evening discussions of social, political, and economic questions, and
the introduction into the pulpit of persons whose character and standing
are known to be hostile to the church and its teachings.
2. The business men of the church, almost without exception, are
agreed, and so expressed themselves at the meeting, that the sermon of
Sunday before last was exceedingly dangerous in its tone, and liable to
lead to the gravest results in acts of lawlessness and anarchy on the
part of people who are already inflamed to deeds of violence against
property and wealth. Such preaching, in the opinion of the majority of
pew-owners and supporters of Calvary Church, cannot be allowed, or the
church will inevitably lose its standing in society.
3. It is the fixed determination of a majority of the oldest and most
influential members of Calvary Church to withdraw from the organization
all support under the present condition of affairs. The trustees
announced that the pledges for church support had already fallen off
very largely, and last Sunday less than half the regular amount was
received. This was ascribed to the sermon of the first of the month.
4. The vacation of the parsonage and the removal of the minister into
the region of the tenement district has created an intense feeling on
the part of a large number of families who have for years been firm
supporters and friends of the church. They feel that the action was
altogether uncalled for, and they think it has been the means of
disrupting the church and throwing matters into confusion, besides
placing the church in an unfavorable light with the other churches and
the community at large.
5. It was the opinion of a majority of the members present that while
much of the spirit exhibited by yourself was highly commendable, yet in
view of all the facts it would be expedient for the pastoral relation to
be severed. The continuance of that relation seemed to promise only
added disturbance and increased antagonism in the church. It was the
wellnigh unanimous verdict that your plans and methods might succeed to
your better satisfaction with a constituency made up of non-church
people, and that possibly your own inclinations would lead you to take
the step which the church has thought wisest and best for all concerned.
It is my painful duty as the clerk of Calvary Church to write thus
plainly the action of the church and the specific reasons for that
action. A council will be called to review our proceedings and advise
with reference to the same.
In behalf of the church,
-------- ----------, Clerk.
Philip finished the letter and lifted his eyes again. And again he
looked out through the window across the sheds to the roofs of the
tenements. From where he sat he could also see, across the city, up on
the rising ground, the spire of Calvary Church. It rose distinct and
cold against the gray December sky. The air was clear and frosty, the
ground was covered with snow, and the roofs of the tenements showed
black and white patches where the thinner snow had melted. He was silent
so long that his wife became frightened.
"Philip! Philip!" she cried, as she threw her arms about his neck and
drew his head down nearer. "They have broken your heart! They have
killed you! There is no love in the world any more!"
"No! No!" he cried suddenly. "You must not say that! You make me doubt.
There is the love of Christ, which passeth knowledge. But, oh, for the
Church! the Church which he loved and for which he gave himself!"
"But it is not the Church of Christ that has done this thing."
"Nevertheless it is the Church in the world," he replied. "Tell me,
Sarah, how this was kept so secret from me."
"You forget. You were so entirely absorbed in the care of Alfred; and
then the church meeting was held with closed doors. Even the papers did
not know the whole truth at once. I kept it from you as long as I could!
Oh! It was cruel, so cruel."
"Little woman," spoke Philip, very gently and calmly, "this is a blow to
me. I did not think the church would do it. I hoped----" he paused and
his voice trembled for a brief moment, then grew quiet again. "I hoped I
was gradually overcoming opposition. It seems I was mistaken. It seems I
did not know the feeling in the church."
He looked out of the window again and was silent. Then he asked, "Are
they all against me? Was there no one to stand up for me?" The question
came with a faint smile that was far more heart-breaking to his wife
than a flood of tears. She burst into a sob.
"Yes, you have friends. Mr. Winter fought for you--and others."
"Mr. Winter!--my old enemy! That was good. And there were others?"
"Yes, quite a number. But nearly all the influential members were
against you. Philip, you have been blind to all this."
"Do you think so?" he asked simply. "Maybe that is so. I have not
thought of people so much as of the work which needed to be done. I have
tried to do as my Master would have me. But I have lacked wisdom, or
tact, or something."
"No, it is not that. Do you want to know what I think?" His wife fondly
stroked the hair back from his forehead, as she sat on the couch by him.
"Yes, little woman, tell me." To his eyes his wife never seemed so
beautiful or dear as now. He knew that they were one in this their hour
of trouble.
"Well, I have learned to believe since you came to Milton that if Jesus
Christ were to live on the earth in this century and become the pastor
of almost any large and wealthy and influential church and preach as He
would have to, the church would treat Him just as Calvary Church has
treated you. The world would crucify Jesus Christ again even after two
thousand years of historical Christianity."
Philip did not speak. He looked out again toward the tenements. The
winter day was drawing to its close. The church spire still stood out
sharp cut against the sky. Finally he turned to his wife, and almost
with a groan he uttered the words: "Sarah, I do not to like to believe
it. The world is full of the love of Christ. It is not the same world as
Calvary saw."
"No. But by what test are nominal Christians and church-members tried
to-day? Is not the church in America and England a church in which the
scribes and pharisees, hypocrites, are just as certainly found as they
were in the old Jewish church? And would not that element crucify Christ
again if He spoke as plainly now as then?"
Again Philip looked out of the window. His whole nature was shaken to
its foundation. Repeatedly he drove back the thought of the church's
possible action in the face of the Christ of this century. As often it
returned and his soul cried out in anguish at the suggestion of the
truth. Even with the letter of Calvary Church before him he was slow to
believe that the Church as a whole or in a majority of cases would
reject the Master.
"I have made mistakes. I have been lacking in tact. I have needlessly
offended the people," he said to his wife, yielding almost for the first
time to a great fear and distrust of himself. For the letter asking his
resignation had shaken him as once he thought impossible. "I have tried
to preach and act as Christ would, but I have failed to interpret him
aright. Is it not so, Sarah?"
His wife was reluctant to speak. But her true heart made answer: "No,
Philip, you have interpreted Him so faithfully. You may have made
mistakes; all ministers do; but I honestly believe you have preached as
Christ would preach against the great selfishness and hypocrisy of this
century. The same thing would have happened to him."
They talked a little longer, and then Philip said: "Let us go down and
see the Brother Man. Somehow I feel like talking with him."
So they went downstairs and into the room where the invalid was sitting
with the old man. William was able to walk about now, and had been
saying that he wanted to hear Philip preach as soon as he could get to
church.
"Well, Brother Man," said Philip, with something like his old heartiness
of manner, "have you heard the news? Othello's occupation's gone."
The Brother Man seemed to know all about it. Whether he had heard of it
through some of the church people or not, Mrs. Strong did not know. He
looked at Mr. Strong calmly. There was a loving sympathy in his voice,
but no trace of compassion or wonder. Evidently he had not been talking
of the subject to any one.
"I knew it would happen," he said. "You have offended the rulers."
"What would you do, Brother Man, in my place? Would you resign?" Philip
thought back to the time when the Brother Man had asked him why he did
not resign.
"Don't they ask you to?"
"Yes."
"Do you think it is the wish of the whole church?"
"No, there are some who want me to stay."
"How do you feel about it?" The Brother Man put the question almost
timidly. Philip replied without hesitation:
"There is only one thing for me to do. It would be impossible for me to
remain after what has been done."
The Brother Man nodded his head as if in approval. He did not seem
disturbed in the least. His demeanor was the most perfect expression of
peace that Philip ever saw.
"We shall have to leave Milton, Brother Man," said Philip, thinking that
possibly he did not understand the meaning of the resignation..
"Yes, we will go away together. Together." The Brother Man looked at his
son and smiled.
"Mr. Strong," said William, "we cannot be a burden on you another day. I
am able to get out now, and I will find work somewhere and provide for
my father and myself. It is terrible to me to think how long we have
been living on your slender means." And William gave the minister a look
of gratitude that made his heart warm again.
"My brother, we will see to that all right. You have been more than
welcome. Just what I shall do, I don't know, but I am sure the way will
be made clear in time, aren't you, Brother Man?"
"Yes, the road to heaven is always clear," he said, almost singing the
words.
"We shall have to leave this house, Brother Man," said Sarah, feeling
with Philip that he did not grasp the meaning of the event.
"Yes, in the Father's house there are many mansions," replied the
Brother Man. Then as Mr. and Mrs. Strong sat there in the gathering
gloom the old man said suddenly, "Let us pray together about it."
He kneeled down and offered the most remarkable prayer that they had
ever heard. It seemed to them that, however the old man's mind might be
affected, the part of him that touched God in the communion of audible
prayer was absolutely free from any weakness or disease. It was a prayer
that laid its healing balm on the soul of Philip and soothed his trouble
into peace. When the old man finished, Philip felt almost cheerful
again. He went out and helped his wife a few minutes in some work about
the kitchen. And after supper he was just getting ready to go out to
inquire after a sick family near by, when there was a knock at the door.
It was a messenger boy with a telegram. Philip opened it almost
mechanically and carrying it to the light read:
"Alfred died at four P. M. Can you come?"
For a second he did not realize the news. Then as it rushed upon him he
staggered and would have fallen if the table had not been so close. A
faintness and a pain seized him and for a minute he thought he was
falling. Then he pulled himself together and called his wife, who was in
the kitchen. She came in at once, noticing the peculiar tone of his
voice.
"Alfred is dead!" He was saying the words quietly as he held out the
telegram.
"Dead! And you left him getting better! How dreadful!"
"Do you think so? He is at rest. I must go up there at once; they expect
me." He still spoke quietly, stilling the tumult of his heart's anguish
for his wife's sake. This man, his old college chum, was very dear to
him. The news was terrible to him.
Nevertheless, he made his preparations to go back to his friend's home.
It is what either would have done in the event of the other's death. And
so he was gone from Milton until after the funeral, and did not return
until Saturday. In those three days of absence Milton was stirred by
events that grew out of the action of the church.