In the first place the minority in the church held a meeting and voted
to ask Philip to remain, pledging him their hearty support in all his
plans and methods. The evening paper, in its report of this meeting,
made the most of the personal remarks that were made, and served up the
whole affair in sensational items that were eagerly read by every one in
Milton.
But the most important gathering of Philip's friends was that of the
mill-men. They met in the hall where he had so often spoken, and being
crowded out of that by the great numbers, they finally secured the use
of the court house. This was crowded with an excited assembly, and in
the course of very many short speeches in which the action of the church
was severely condemned, a resolution was offered and adopted asking Mr.
Strong to remain in Milton and organize an association or something of a
similar order for the purpose of sociological study and agitation,
pledging whatever financial support could be obtained from the
working-people. This also was caught up and magnified in the paper, and
the town was still roused to excitement by all these reports when Philip
returned home late Saturday afternoon, almost reeling with exhaustion,
and his heart torn with the separation from his old chum.
However, he tried to conceal his weariness from Sarah, and partly
succeeded. After supper he went up to his study to prepare for the
Sunday. He had fully made up his mind what he would do, and he wanted to
do it in a manner that would cast no reproach on his ministry, which he
respected with sensitive reverence.
He shut the door and began his preparation by walking up and down, as
his custom was, thinking out the details of the service, his sermon, the
exact wording of certain phrases he wished to make.
He had been walking thus back and forth half a dozen times when he felt
the same acute pain in his side that had seized him when he fainted in
church at the evening service. It passed away and he resumed his work,
thinking it was only a passing disorder. But before he could turn again
in his walk he felt a dizziness that whirled everything in the room
about him. He clutched at a chair and was conscious of having missed it,
and then he fell forward in such a way that he lay partly on the couch
and on the floor, and was unconscious.
How long he had been in this condition he did not know when he came to
himself. He was thankful, when he did recover sufficiently to crawl to
his feet and sit down on the couch, that Sarah had not seen him. He
managed to get over to his desk and begin to write something as he heard
her coming upstairs. He did not intend to deceive her. His thought was
that he would not unnecessarily alarm her. He was very tired. It did not
need much urging to persuade him to get to bed. And so, without saying
anything of his second fainting attack, he went downstairs and was soon
sleeping very heavily.
He awoke Sunday morning feeling strangely calm and refreshed. The
morning prayer with the Brother Man came like a benediction to them all.
Sarah, who had feared for him, owing to the severe strain he had been
enduring, felt relieved as she saw how he appeared. They all prepared to
go to church, the Brother Man and William going out for the first time
since the attack.
We have mentioned Philip's custom of coming into his pulpit from the
little room at the side door of the platform. This morning he went in at
the side door of the church after parting with Sarah and the others. He
let Brother Man and William go on ahead a little, and then drawing his
wife to him he stooped and kissed her. He turned at the top of the short
flight of steps leading up to the side entrance and saw her still
standing in the same place. Then she went around from the little court
to the front of the church, and went in with the great crowd already
beginning to stream toward Calvary Church.
No one ever saw so many people in Calvary Church before. Men sat on the
platform and even in the deep window-seats. The spaces under the large
galleries by the walls were filled mostly with men standing there. The
house was crowded long before the hour of service. There were many
beating, excited hearts in that audience. More than one member felt a
shame at the action which had been taken, and might have wished it
recalled. With the great number of working-men and young people in the
church there was only one feeling; it was a feeling of love for Philip
and of sorrow for what had been done. The fact that he had been away
from the city, that he had not talked over the matter with any one,
owing to his absence, the uncertainty as to how he would receive the
whole thing, what he would say on this first Sunday after the letter had
been written--this attracted a certain number of persons who never go
inside a church except for some extraordinary occasion or in hopes of a
sensation. So the audience that memorable day had some cruel people
present--people who narrowly watch the faces of mourners at funerals to
see what ravages grief has made on the countenance.
The organist played his prelude through and was about to stop, when he
saw from the glass that hung over the keys that Mr. Strong had not yet
appeared. He began again at a certain measure, repeating it, and played
very slowly. By this time the church was entirely filled. There was an
air of expectant waiting as the organ again ceased, and still Philip did
not come out. A great fear came over Mrs. Strong. She had half risen
from her seat near the platform to go up and open the study door, when
it opened and Philip came out.
Whatever his struggle had been in that little room the closest observer
could not detect any trace of tears or sorrow or shame or humiliation.
He was pale, but that was common; otherwise his face wore a firm, noble,
peaceful look. As he gazed over the congregation it fell under the
fascination of his glances. The first words that he spoke in the service
were strong and clear. Never had the people seen so much to admire in
his appearance, and when, after the opening exercises and the regular
order of service, he rose and came out at one side of the desk to speak,
as his custom was, the people were for the time under the magic sway of
his personality, that never stood out so commanding and loving and
true-hearted as then.
He began to speak very quietly and simply, as his fashion was, of the
fact that he had been asked to resign his pastorate of Calvary Church.
He made the statement clearly, with no halting or hesitation or
sentiment of tone or gesture. Then, after saying that there was only one
course open to him under the circumstances, he went on to speak, as he
said he ought to speak, in defense of his interpretation of Christ and
His teaching.
"Members of Calvary Church, I call you to bear witness to-day, that I
have tried to preach to you Christ and Him crucified. I have doubtless
made mistakes; we all make them. I have offended the rich men and the
property-owners in Milton. I could not help it; I was obliged to do so
in order to speak as I this moment solemnly believe my Lord would speak.
I have aroused opposition because I asked men into the church and upon
this platform who do not call themselves Christians, for the purpose of
knowing their reasons for antagonism to the church we love. But the time
has come, O my brothers, when the Church must welcome to its counsels,
in these matters that affect the world's greatest good, all men who have
at heart the fulfilment[sic] of the Christ's teachings.
"But the cause which more than any other has led to the action of this
church has been, I am fully aware, my demand that the church-members of
this city should leave their possessions and go and live with the poor,
wretched, sinful, hopeless people in the lower town, sharing in wise
ways with them of the good things of the world. But why do I speak of
all this in defense of my action or my preaching?"
Suddenly Philip seemed to feel a revulsion of attitude toward the whole
of what he had been saying. It was as if there had instantly swept over
him the knowledge that he could never make the people before him
understand either his motive or his Christ. His speech so far had been
quiet, unimpassioned, deliberate. His whole manner now underwent a swift
change. People in the galleries noticed it, and men leaned out far over
the railing, and more than one closed his hands tight in emotion at the
sight and hearing of the tall figure on the platform.
For the intense love of the people that Philip felt had surged into him
uncontrollably. It swept away all other things. He no longer sought to
justify his ways; he seemed bent on revealing to men the mighty love of
Christ for them and the world. His lip trembled, his voice shook with
the yearning of his soul for the people, and his frame quivered with
longing.
"Yes," he said, "I love you, people of Milton, beloved members of this
church. I would have opened my arms to every child of humanity here and
shown him, if I could, the boundless love of his heavenly Father! But
oh, ye would not! And yet the love of Christ! What a wonderful thing it
is! How much He wished us to enjoy of peace and hope and fellowship and
service! Yes, service--that is what the world needs to-day; service that
is willing to give all--all to Him who gave all to save us! O Christ,
Master, teach us to do Thy will. Make us servants to the poor and sinful
and hopeless. Make Thy Church on earth more like Thyself!"
Those nearest Philip saw him suddenly raise his handkerchief to his
lips, and then, when he took it away, it was stained with blood. But the
people did not see that. And then, and then--a remarkable thing took
place.
On the rear wall of Calvary Church there had been painted, when the
church was built, a Latin cross. This cross had been the source of
almost endless dispute among the church-members. Some said it was
inartistic; others said it was in keeping with the name of the church,
and had a right place there as part of its inner adornment. Once the
dispute had grown so large and serious that the church had voted as to
its removal or retention on the wall. A small majority had voted to
leave it there, and there it remained. It was perfectly white, on a
panel of thin wood, and stood out very conspicuously above the rear of
the platform. It was not directly behind the desk, but several feet at
one side.
Philip had never made any allusion in his sermons to this feature of
Calvary Church's architecture. People had wondered sometimes that with
his imaginative, poetical temperament he never had done so, especially
once when a sermon on the crucifixion had thrilled the people
wonderfully. It might have been his extreme sensitiveness, his shrinking
from anything like cheap sensation.
But now he stepped back--it was not far--and turning partly around, with
one long arm extended toward the cross as if in imagination, he saw the
Christ upon it, he exclaimed, "'Behold the Lamb of God that taketh away
the sin of the world!' Yes--
"'In the cross of Christ I glory,
Towering o'er the wrecks of time;
All the light of sacred story
Gathers round----'"
His voice suddenly ceased, he threw his arms up, and as he turned a
little forward toward the congregation he was seen to reel and stagger
back against the wall. For one intense tremendous second of time he
stood there with the whole church smitten into a pitying, horrified,
startled, motionless crowd of blanched staring faces, as his tall, dark
figure towered up with outstretched arms, almost covering the very
outlines of the cross, and then he sank down at its foot.
A groan went up from the audience. Several men sprang up the platform
steps. Mrs. Strong was the first person to reach her husband. Two or
three helped to bear him to the front of the platform. Sarah kneeled
down by him. She put her head against his breast. Then she raised her
face and said calmly, "He is dead."
The Brother Man was kneeling on the other side. "No," he said with an
indescribable gesture and untranslatable inflection, "he is not dead. He
is living in the eternal mansions of glory with his Lord!"
But the news was borne from lip to lip, "He is dead!" And that is the
way men speak of the body. And they were right. The body of Philip was
dead. And the Brother Man was right also. For Philip himself was alive
in glory, and as they bore the tabernacle of his flesh out of Calvary
Church that day, that was all they bore. His soul was out of the reach
of humanity's selfishness and humanity's sorrow.
They said that when the funeral of Philip Strong's body was held in
Milton, rugged, unfeeling men were seen to cry like children in the
streets. A great procession, largely made up of the poor and sinful,
followed him to his wintry grave. They lingered long about the spot.
Finally, every one withdrew except Sarah, who refused to be led away by
her friends, and William and the Brother Man. They stood looking down
into the grave.
"He was very young to die so soon," at last Sarah said, with a calmness
that was more terrible than bursts of grief.
"So was Christ," replied Brother Man, simply.
"But, oh, Philip, Philip, my beloved, they killed him!" she cried; and
at last, for she had not wept yet, great tears rolled down into the
grave, and uncontrollable anguish seized her. Brother Man did not
attempt to console or interrupt. He knew she was in the arms of God.
After a long time he said: "Yes, they crucified him. But he is with his
Lord now. Let us be glad for him. Let us leave him with the Eternal
Peace."
. . . . . . . .
When the snow had melted from the hillside and the first arbutus was
beginning to bud and even blossom, one day some men came out to the
grave and put up a plain stone at the head. After the men had done this
work they went away. One of them lingered. He was the wealthy
mill-owner. He stood with his hat in his hand and his head bent down,
his eyes resting on the words carved into the stone. They were these:
PHILIP STRONG.
PASTOR OF CALVARY CHURCH.
"In the cross of Christ I glory,
Towering o'er the wrecks of time;
All the light of sacred story
Gathers round----"
Mr. Winter looked at the incomplete line and then, as he turned away and
walked slowly back down into Milton he said, "Yes, it is better so. We
must finish the rest for him."
Ah, Philip Strong! The sacrifice was not in vain! The Resurrection is
not far from the Crucifixion.
. . . . . . . .
Near to its close rolls up the century;
And still the Church of Christ upon the earth
Which marks the Christmas of His lowly birth,
Contains the selfish Scribe and Pharisee.
O Christ of God, exchanging gain for loss,
Would men still nail thee to the self-same cross?
It is the Christendom of Time, and still
Wealth and the love of it hold potent sway;
The heart of man is stubborn to obey,
The Church has yet to do the Master's will.
O Christ of God, we bow our souls to thee;
Hasten the dawning of Thy Church to be way!
THE END.
[Transcriber's note: typographic errors in the original are noted within
square brackets.]