Buckhannon was again the seat of conference, and was in charge of Bishop
Weaver. This was his last visit to West Virginia. My district reported
about 600 conversions and accessions to the church. The average salary
for the pastors of the conference was $230. After paying house rent and
car fare, I had $365.79 left for the support of a family of five, and
with which to purchase books, papers, and stationery; but I did not
complain; it was more than the average circuit-rider was getting. On
this little sum we seemed to live fairly well, and imagined ourselves as
respectable as anybody in the town.
In looking over my report, I see at its close the following significant
statement: “Now, brethren, suffer a word more. I kindly and earnestly
request that you relieve me from district work. Eight years out of the
past eleven have been given to this kind of service. While I certainly
appreciate what you have done for me, I must say that I am tired of the
place, and am anxious that some one else take it. All there is in it,
whether money, distinction, responsibility, or hard work, I cheerfully
surrender to some one else, with the earnest wish that he may prove more
efficient than I have been, and that under his labors enlarged blessings
may come to the district.”
This was my last year as a presiding elder in the dear old conference.
It is now many years since I was transferred to another field, but almost
daily my thoughts go back to my native home, and to the twenty years of
unceasing toil given to the building up of the church in that mountainous
region. Indeed, I could scarcely get away. It was no easy matter to sever
the relations of a life-time. In looking over my brief record of daily
happenings I find that July 16, 1889, while pastor at Buckhannon I wrote:
“Received a letter to-day from Rev. C. Wendle, urging me to come to Rock
River Conference. Bishop Kephart also writes in like manner. Do not know
what to do, but must do right. Lord help me.” October 3, I expressed my
thoughts and feelings as follows:
“At home trying to pack our goods. What a task it is! Is God in this? I
do hope so. It is so hard to leave West Virginia. These hills and valleys
all seem sacred to me.”
The last time I visited my parents before removing West, I was deeply
affected to see how frail they seemed, and thus referred to it: “Parents
are getting old. How they are bending beneath the weight of years! Alas,
how short life is! Twenty years ago when I left home father had no gray
hairs. Now his head is white as wool. Mother! what a faithful soul!
How self-sacrificing! Anything to help her children and make herself a
blessing to others. Heaven is anxious to get such an angel. May earth
keep her yet a long while.”
These excerpts from my diary indicate that it cost me something—a
heart-struggle, at least, to turn my back upon scenes and associations
which were as sacred as life itself. But in making the change I felt I
was following the leadings of Providence, and that all would be well in
the end.
The fellowship of the brethren I left behind was sweet. Those who looked
on were compelled to say, “Behold, how good and how pleasant it is for
brethren to dwell together in unity.” There was as little jealousy and
self-seeking and rivalry in the conference as I ever found anywhere. We
all were poor, and could sing like the old Methodist pioneer on his four
weeks’ circuit:
“No foot of land do I possess,
No cottage in the wilderness;
A poor wayfaring man,
I lodge awhile in tents below;
Or gladly wander to and fro,
Till I my Canaan gain.
“Nothing on earth I call my own;
A stranger to the world unknown,
I all their goods despise;
I trample on their whole delight,
And seek a country out of sight,
A country in the skies.
“There is my house and portion fair;
My treasure and my heart are there,
And my abiding home;
For me my elder brethren stay,
And angels beckon me away,
And Jesus bids me come.”
There was another verse we all cherished, and often sung it, as it seemed
so appropriate:
“A tent or a cottage, why should I care?
They’re building a palace for me over there;
Though exiled from home, yet still I may sing,
‘All glory to God, I’m the child of a King.’”
In all my travels throughout the Church I have never found any conference
that could sing as the West Virginians did. Diddle, Harper, Graham,
Orr, Hitt, Holden, and Wood were among the earlier men. Later their
places were taken by Cunningham, Piggott, Sallaz, Slaughter, Carder, and
Robinson. But it is hardly fair to name a few. All could sing; and so
they can to-day.
Singing was an inspiring feature of every conference gathering. It made
the air electric, and caused high voltage pressure. We would sing on the
train, on the boat, at the hotel—everywhere. On our way from conference,
in 1879, we all stopped at a hotel in Weston for dinner. As usual, the
singers were lined up in a little while, and fairly shook the old inn
with some of their latest and freshest selections. Before we quit, the
town was thoroughly stirred up. People left their business places and
came to listen. Women and children stood in the doors of their homes, or
looked out at the windows, and wondered what it all meant. Two young men,
some blocks away, heard the singing and started on a run for the hotel.
As they passed some parties one of them was heard to say, “I’ll bet five
hundred dollars they are Brethren preachers.”
Professor Diddle, assisted by others, published the _West Virginia Lute_
in 1868, which had a tremendous sale, both among our people and those
of other churches. Then Baltzell’s music, probably _Golden Songs_, came
next among our own publications. This was also a popular book, and one of
great merit. While it contained many imperfections, it was nevertheless
thoroughly “orthodox” from our view-point. The author was not a
scientific music writer. He did not grind his songs out at the organ in
a mechanical way, but manufactured them in his heart. Such music always
takes. There is something about it that gets hold of the soul and stirs
its deepest emotions. I do not understand what that something is, but it
is there, all the same.
It was a very common remark among the people of other churches: “If you
want to hear singing, get a lot of Brethren preachers together.” We had
no organs or pianos in any of the churches, with skilled performers to
lead the audience. To aid in getting the “pitch,” a “tunningfork,” or
horn was used—a clever little device which every leader carried. But few
of the brethren, however, understood the grammar of music. They had had
no special training—but no difference; they could sing anyhow. They were
not poets, but had the poetic touch. I have heard these men of God again
and again sing until the audience was fairly entranced, and until the
fire of joy was kindled to a flame in their own hearts. They were rivals
of Israel’s shepherd king, and wrought things more marvelous than he,
through the melodies they sang.
While their music was not classical, it seldom failed to strike fire.
The people liked it, and were charmed, encouraged, and, in a thousand
instances, saved by it. Mr. Alexander, the great revival singer, has the
right view of things. He writes: “Musicians often say to me, ‘Why do
you not use classical music, above the style of gospel songs?’ I reply,
‘When you can show me similar effects following such high-class music
in moving the hearts of men and women, I will use it fast enough. Until
then I shall keep to gospel songs, which have a wonderful way of reaching
everybody, because they touch the soul.”
Volume, fervor, soul, enthusiasm, is what we want in all our church
music. Away, forever, with that operatic nonsense which the artistic
would introduce into our present-day religious services.
What glorious revivals were promoted. Like cyclones they seemed, at
times, to lay everything low in their course. How sinners wept and
repented! How saints shouted aloud for joy! “Wild fire!” does some one
suggest? May be it was; but it achieved wonderful results. The present
ministry of the conference, with a great majority of the true and tried
laymen who constitute the very backbone of the church, were converted in
just such meetings; and it is quite likely that the leading ministers
and laymen of every other conference in our Zion were converted under
like circumstances. Call it “wild fire” if you will, but I would like to
see a good deal more of it.
A revival that arouses a whole community and brings fifty or a hundred,
or perhaps two hundred into the kingdom, some of whom become prominent
preachers of the word, while others become very pillars in the church,
is not to be ignored or decried by those who are too slow and formal and
dull to create a stir. Better have a little “wild fire” than no fire at
all.
Personally, I believe in excitement. Nothing worth thinking about is ever
accomplished in its absence. We cannot relish food, or enjoy sleep, until
first excited by hunger or fatigue. Why should not the church manifest as
much zeal and enthusiasm in her work as political parties or commercial
clubs do in theirs? I am tired of that contemptible sentiment which
stands ready, everywhere, and all the time, to denounce everything that
has to do with the emotions. Religion, I readily grant, does not consist
of noise and bluster. It means vastly more than that. Nor does it consist
in sitting around like so many lifeless knots on a log.
We are told that it is the lightning and not thunder that kills. True
enough, but lightning in the absence of thunder is harmless. Lightning
makes the thunder.
In our work but little was said about the new theology, or higher
criticism. Watson and Ralston in their theologies, and Smith and Clark
and Lange and Barnes in their expositions, seldom referred to the
new-fangled theories which confuse and chill and curse some of the
churches to-day. We all believed that Moses wrote the Pentateuch, and
Paul the Epistle to the Hebrews; and personally I have never had any
reason for changing my views. It had never occurred to us to put Job and
Jonah on the fictitious list. We actually believed and preached that
they lived and wrought, one in the land of Uz, and the other in Nineveh,
after escaping from the whale’s belly. We tried to tell of the awfulness
of sin, as well as the joys of religion. We believed in a heaven, and
would often talk and sing and preach about it until we felt ourselves
within its very suburbs. When Jesus said, “And these shall go away into
everlasting punishment,” we supposed he meant it, and no one attempted
to put an artificial bottom in the “bottomless pit.” We divided our
time pretty well between Sinai and Zion. The decalogue and beatitudes
were included, ofttimes, in the framework of the same sermon. We knew
there were some inaccuracies in the authorized version, but nothing
sufficiently serious to affect the fundamentals of Christianity. We
were justified, as we thought, in preaching the whole Bible, as it was
commonly understood and interpreted, because in doing so we were blessed
and sinners were saved.
The “mourners’ bench” was always a part of the program in our revival
work. While no one insisted that a man must be saved at the bench,
if saved at all, we believed, nevertheless, that coming forward and
bowing at the altar was a good way of confessing sin, and of plighting
fidelity to Jesus Christ. I would not serve as pastor of a people who
objected to the use of an altar. If some of the unsaved wanted to seek
their Lord elsewhere, and in some other way, I should not object; but I
should insist upon it that those who wanted to come forward for prayers
should have the privilege of doing so. It is refreshing to see how
simple and direct Dr. Torry, “Billy” Sunday, and “Gipsey” Smith are in
their methods, and the wonderful results that follow. They do not mince
matters. They go to the people with a burning message from the Throne,
and deliver it, no matter what anybody may think or say about it. With
sledge-hammer blows they drive it home to the hearts of their hearers,
that no man can be saved until he confesses his sins and his Savior.
They follow, largely, the old line of revival work—and _succeed_.
The preacher who cannot build a fire in his church is a failure. In no
other way can he attract attention. The church of God has been used to
fire from the beginning. Moses got a good warming-up before the burning
bush on Horeb; so did Elijah, and others, on Carmel. The disciples were
not ready to preach or the church to work until a burning Pentecost came,
and fire-flakes fell from heaven upon them. We need great revivals, and
can have them, if we are willing to pay the price.
One serious hindrance to the work is the fact that too many profess to
have found a “new way.” They council moderation, and would have us go
about the business with that cold, mathematical precision which the
astronomer employs in measuring the heavens. As the result, many of
our revival efforts turn out to be very _moderate_ affairs. They are
self-constituted appointees to shut off steam and put down the breaks,
and they succeed. What we need is more steam; that is, purpose, push,
and power. And I rejoice in the thought that the thing for which we have
waited and prayed is at hand. The semi-skepticism and indifference which
have so handicapped the work of evangelism in the last twenty-five years,
are giving place to larger activities and simpler methods. We are facing
the morning light. The reaction and readjustment will bring in a new era
of moral and spiritual triumphs in soul-winning.
The church at large knows but little about the excessive labors and
sacrifices of the earlier ministry in West Virginia. My heart still weeps
as I think of what some of the brethren endured. But, brave souls they
were, they did it because they loved the church and her Christ.
Only three or four remain who were in the conference when I joined
thirty-seven years ago. Four others—Revs. E. Harper, I. M. Underwood, A.
Orr, and Dr. J. L. Hensley—have located in other conferences, but the
great majority have gone to heaven. From hillside and mountain-top they
ascended to a place of honor by their Lord, to live in the white light of
the throne forever.
“Oh, how sweet it will be in that beautiful land,
So free from all sorrow and pain;
With songs on our lips and with harps in our hands,
To meet one another again.”
Does any one inquire to know the real secret of their power? It is
not easily explained. They had intellectual girth, but this was only
incidental to their success. Their surroundings were inspiring, their
spirits exuberant, their physical endurance tremendous, their zeal
unflagging, but the secret lay deeper; these were only tributary. It
seems to me that the one quality which exalted them, and gave them the
mastery over men was _reality_. They were _genuine_. God counted them
among his captains, and they were loyal to the last. _Duty_ and _destiny_
were to them overwhelming suggestions. In them were wrapped up the
present and the eternal hereafter.
I can still hear Brother Graham singing as he rode through storm and
heat, carrying aloft the banners of the church:
“Above the waves of earthly strife;
Above the ills and cares of life;
Where all is peaceful, bright and fair,
My home is there, my home is there.”
Chevaliers, divine!
“Their burning zeal no langour knew,
For Christ, his cause, his tempted few;
At home, abroad, where’er their lot,
Their much-loved theme they ne’er forgot.”
“One soweth and another reapeth,” is the divine law. The foundations
of the church among the Virginia hills and mountains were laid amid
self-givings, known only to Him who gave to his servants their marching
orders, and who accompanied them every foot of the way. A better day has
come to the conference. The fields of labor have been greatly reduced in
size, pastoral support has been improved, educational advantages have
been increased, which means so much to the itinerant’s family, and in
other respects conditions made many-fold better.
The present membership is 15,000 divided among sixty circuits and
stations. Two hundred and six church edifices, worth $243,869, are
reported, and thirty-eight parsonages valued at $31,939.
The territory embraces four districts. While the number of presiding
elders might be diminished, it would not be wise to try the experiment of
giving one superintendent charge of the whole conference. The country is
too rough, the distances too great, and the public facilities for travel
too meager for one man to do it all.
The average salary paid the pastors in 1906 was $379.45, including
house rent and special gifts. Three of the charges went to between $800
and $900; one paid from $600 to $650, and eight others over $500 each.
The presiding elders averaged $563.97. For all purposes $50,589.49 was
collected. These figures show that in spite of the adverse circumstances
with which we have had to battle for the last half century, real progress
has been made. But more ought to be done in the next fifteen years than
has been accomplished in the last fifty.
Some portions of the State are becoming immensely wealthy through the oil
and mining industries. Our people are sharing in the general prosperity,
and many of them are growing rich. The commercial possibilities of the
State are great and promising as its hidden treasures are brought to the
surface, and put on the world’s market. The work of the present ministry
is to broaden the benefactions of our membership by teaching them the
true meaning of Christian stewardship and the obligations which it
imposes. In proportion as this is done, salaries will be increased more
and more, the offerings to the various benevolent societies multiplied,
and larger sums provided for Otterbein University and Union Biblical
Seminary.
There is quite a stretch of time between the penning of these lines and
the day I started for my first circuit. Thirty-seven years is a good
while. My experiences have been numerous and varied. The way at times has
been rough, the tasks difficult, and the responsibilities great, but,
after all, if I had my life to live over _I should spend it in the gospel
ministry, and start again in West Virginia_.