Wanted--A Pastor.
WE are in a sorry condition here at Wheathedge. The prospects are,
that it will be worse before it is better. For weeks now (it seems
like a year or two) we have been without the Gospel. I do not mean
that literally the preaching of the Gospel has been dispensed with.
On the contrary, I have heard more sermons on the text, "I am
determined to know nothing among you save Jesus Christ, and Him
crucified," than I ever heard before in my life. We are hearing
candidates, and every candidate seems to feel it necessary to
declare himself, to propound a sort of religious platform. The
sermons seem to me to have about as much relation, as a general
thing, to the spiritual condition of the hearers as Gov. Hoffman's
last message to the real interests of the people of the State. In
fact, if the truth were told, it is not a sermon we want, but a
platform. We invite the candidate to preach, not that we may profit
by the Gospel, but that he may show us his face. It has become a
psychological curiosity to see how many different sermons can be
evolved from that one text. I wonder sometimes if St. Paul would
know himself in his modern attire.
I am very glad that Maurice Mapleson did not accept my invitation to
come to Wheathedge, to preach as a candidate. For listening to a
candidate and listening to the Gospel are two very different things.
The candidate preaches to show us how he can do it. We listen to
hear how he can do it. From the moment he enters the pulpit all eyes
are fixed upon him. His congregation is all attention. Let him not
flatter himself. It is as critics, not as sinners, that we listen.
We turn round to see how he walks up the aisle. Is his wife so
unfortunate as to accompany him? We analyze her bonnet, her dress,
her features, her figure. If not, he monopolizes all attention. In
five minutes we can, any of us-there are a few rare exceptions-tell
you the cut of his coat, the character of his cravat, the shape of
his collar, the way he wears his hair. If he has any peculiar pulpit
habit, woe betide him; he is odd. If he has not, woe betide him; he
is commonplace and conventional. He rises to invoke the blessing of
God. If he goes to the throne of God he goes alone. We go no farther
than the pulpit. We tell one another afterwards that he is eloquent
in prayer, or that his prayers are very common. If his style is
solemn, we condemn him as stilted. If it is conversational, we
condemn him as too colloquial and familiar. He reads a hymn. We
compare his elocution with that of our own favorites, or with some
imaginary ideal, if we have no favorites. He preaches. We can, any
of us, tell you how he does it. But what he says, there are not half
a dozen who can tell. Does he tell us of our sins? We do not look at
our own hearts, but at his picture, to see if it is painted well.
Does he hold before us the cross? We do not bow before it. We ask,
is it well carved and draped? The Judgment is only a dramatic poem;
the Crucifixion only a tableau.
So, though we have preaching, we have no Gospel at Wheathedge.
Perhaps the lack of the parish is quite as painfully felt in other
departments as in the pulpit. The Church is without a head. It
flounders about like a headless chicken; excuse the homely simile,
which has nothing but truth to commend it. When Mrs. Beale died last
week, we had to send to Wheatensville to get a minister to attend
the funeral. When Sallie D. was married she sent there, too, for a
minister. He was out of town, and the ceremony came near being
delayed a week for want of him. The prayer-meeting lags. Little
coldnesses between church members break out into open quarrels.
There is no one to weld the dissevered members. Poor old Mother
Lang, who has not left her bed for five years, laments bitterly her
loss, and asks me every time I call to see her, "When will you get a
pastor?" The Young People's Association begins to droop. Even the
Sunday-school shows signs of friction, though Deacon Goodsole
succeeds in keeping it in tolerably good running order by his
imperturbable good humor. One advantage we have gained by this
interregnum-only one. Even Mr. Hardcap is convinced that pastoral
labors are not so unimportant as he had imagined.
For myself, I am in despair. I made no very serious objection to
being put on the supply committee. I fancied the task a
comparatively easy one. I had understood that there was no lack of
ministers wanting places. There is none. We have applications three
or four deep, of all sorts and kinds, from parishless clergymen. But
such a jury as the Wheathedge congregation affords, I never saw and
hope never to see again. I only wish there was some law to treat
them as other juries are treated: shut them up in the jury-room till
they agree on a verdict.
The first minister was too old; he would not suit the young folks.
The second, just out of the seminary, was too young; the old folks
said he had not experience. The third had experience. He had been in
a parish three years. He was still young, with the elastic hopes and
strong enthusiasm of youth. But he was a bachelor. The people pretty
universally declared that the minister should have a wife and a
house. The women all said there must be somebody to organize the
sewing circles, and to lead the female prayer-meetings. The fourth
was married, but he had three or four children. We could not support
him. The fifth was a most learned man, who told us the original
Greek or Hebrew of his texts, and, morning or evening, never came
nearer to America than Rome under Augustus C‘sar. He was dull. The
sixth afforded us a most brilliant pyrotechnic display. He
spluttered, and fizzed, and banged, as though Fourth of July himself
had taken orders and gone to preaching. The young people were
carried away. But the old folks all said he was sensational.
Then, besides those we have heard, there are several we have talked
about. There is the Rev. Mr. C-- who has the reputation of being a
most excellent pastor. He is indefatigable in visiting the sick, in
comforting the afflicted, in dealing with the recreant and the
unconverted. But Mr. Wheaton says emphatically he will never do for
our people. "He is no preacher, Mr. Laicus," says he; "and our
people demand first-rate preaching. We must have a man that can
draw."
We talked over Mr. K--. He is a rare preacher, by all accounts. I
understand that his health has suffered somewhat by excessive study,
and he would like another parish, a quieter one, where he can have
more time to his study, and can use his old sermons. He preached
once or twice in exchange with our old pastor before he left. But
Solomon Hardcap would not hear of him, and even Deacon Goodsole
shook his head at his suggestion, "He is not social," said the
Deacon. "He does not know half the people in Highkrik, where he has
been settled for over five years. He often passes his best friend
without noticing him, on the street." "Never would do," says Mr.
Hardcap. "He only visits his people once a year. I want to know my
minister. We want a man who will run in and out as though he cared
for us. Preaching is all very well, but we don't want a minister who
is all talk."
I am in despair. And despite the breach of ecclesiastical etiquette,
I have resolved to resort to advertising. I have not submitted my
advertisement to the other members of the committee, but I am sure
that it is in accord with the general feelings of the Church.
"Jennie, what do you think of my sending this advertisement to the
Christian Union?"
WANTED.-A pastor. He must be irreproachable in his dress, without
being an exquisite; married, but without children, young, but with
great experience; learned, but not dull; eloquent in prayer, without
being colloquial or stilted; reverential, but not conventional;
neither old nor commonplace; a brilliant preacher, but not
sensational; know every one, but have no favorites; settle all
disputes, engage in none; be familiar with the children, but always
dignified; be a careful writer, a good extempore speaker, and an
assiduous and diligent pastor. Such a person, to whom salary is less
an object than a "field of usefulness," may hear of an advantageous
opening by addressing Wheathedge, care of "The Christian Union," 27,
Park Place.