The orthodox devil

Front matter

COPVRIGHT DEPOSIT.

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Contents

PACK

I. The Orthodox Devil 9

II. The Parson and the Shoemaker. . . 21

II The Parson And The Shoemaker

P ENULUNA’S van was a delightful place for gossip. It was slow and leisurely, without the roar and rattle of the train, so that everybody could hear what was said. In Penuluna’s van there was nothing to look at but each other, so you looked and talked — or else were content to listen and think while others talked, as I did on the occasion of which I would tell.

The travelers were few that day, as we journeyed into the church-town. There was the rector of the parish, a big, sturdy man, from up the country somewhere, who would have liked the people better if he had been born and bred amongst them. He knew them mostly, almost only, as antagonistic to his High-Church views and ways. And the people would have liked him better if they could have drawn nearer to him as a man and known him as something more than a parson.

Opposite to him sat the village shoemaker, a little man with black whiskers sinking down in the hollow of his cheeks, and giving to his big, protruding chin a provoking prominence. 21

The mouth was tight and tended downward at the corners; a long upper lip, and above it a round button of a nose. The brows came heavily over his eyes — a grim, defiant kind of man, eager for an argument, whether on politics or religion, yet not without a ready humor that he could turn to good account.

In politics he was a red-hot Radical; in religion a red-hot Particular Baptist. In politics there were a few who went some way with him, but in his religious opinions he was alone, the only representative of the faith, and so its champion. He read much, but only such literature as favored his own way of thinking — he could find no room in his thoughts for what he did not agree with.

Narrow, cocksure, pugnacious as he was, I felt sure that the journey could not go long without his drifting into a controversy with the church parson, who was a Tory as well as High Churchman, and I wondered within myself whether it would be political or religious.

It began very soon. The little shoemaker folded the local paper which he had been reading and put it in his pocket. Then he took off his spectacles and put them in a wooden case. By way of throwing down the gauntlet he leaned forward and tapped the parson’s knee with the spectacle case.

PARSON AND SHOEMAKER

“Deal of talk goin’ on, I see, about the churches coming closer together. What do you think of it, Passen?”

The parson had fallen into a restful doze, and started. “I beg your pardon. I did not quite follow your remark.”

Then the shoemaker’s mouth tightened and bit the words. “All this here talk about the churches coming closer together — what’s the good of it.^ That’s what I do want to know — what’s the good of it?”

“Well, I hope it may bring us nearer to each other; that is my earnest hope.”

“Nearer together!” and the shoemaker drew himself up and said scornfully, “Pooh!” He leaned back in his seat and muttered, “Nearer together!”

“Well, 1 think certainly for us to get nearer together and understanding each other better would be a good thing — a very good thing.”

“Nearer together!” and again the little shoemaker laughed scornfully. “Shall I tell ’ee what it do mind me of? The other day I was going along the road, and there was a storm coming. The great black clouds was in the sky. You could see the rain beating thick on the moors, and now and then came a flash o’ lightning and a roll of thunder. Well, I opened the gate of a field for to get under the

24 !

shelter of the hedge — a big hedge it was, with big thorn bushes on top of it coming over anybody like a great umbrella. I crooked down the hedge so snug as could be.

“Presently the cattle came galloping up to the hedge ’pon my side, and I could hear the scamper of the cattle ’pon the other. ‘B-o-o-h!’ says one of the bullocks ’pon one side. ‘B-o-o-h!’ says one of they bullocks ’pon the other side. But, bless ’ee, Passen, there was that great hedge between them, and they great thorn bushes ’pon top of it. They’d come nearer together, but they didn’t know each other any more for that.”

“But will you not give us credit for more intelligence than the cattle?” said the parson with a little laugh. “It is not a complimentary way to talk of men and women, especially Christian men and women.”

But the shoemaker was not to be checked or turned away by any interruption.

“Well,” he went on, “that there was to my mind a kind of parable, Passen. The churches. Church of England so well as the rest of ’em, can see there’s a storm coming that’s going to shake a good many things that have stood for years. ‘What shall us do?’ says they, a bit anxious and frightened. ‘Let us come together, and understand each other

PARSON AND SHOEMAKER better/ But what’s the good o’ that when there’s that great hedge between ’em with they great thorn bushes ’pon top of it that there’s no getting over? You can’t find a gap in that for to get through, and not so much as a gate from one field to another. So there you are.” The little shoemaker drew himself up and tapped his own knee with his spectacle case triumphantly. ‘Tss, there you are.”

“And what do you mean by the hedge with the thorn bushes on it?” asked the parson.

“Mean by it!” snapped the little shoemaker. “I do mean the Sacrament, what you do call the Holy Communion.”

The parson drew himself back and folded his arms, evidently unwilling to let so sacred a matter become the subject of a heated controversy. But the shoemaker must go on with it.

“Iss, Passen, there’s the hedge that there’s no getting over, and there’s no creeping under, and no gate for to go through, neither. You do believe that when you do take the bit o’ bread in your hand you can turn it into the body of the Lord Jesus Christ. And if anybody else but a passen do give it ’tis nothing but a bit o’ bread still. Aw, dear, dear! ’tis amazin’, amazin’!” And the shoemaker leaned back again.

The parson sat still with folded arms, and made no reply.

“Look at it, look at it!” cried the little shoemaker, thinking the silence meant the confusion of his opponent. “A man that you do call a bishop puts four fingers and a thumb on top of your head, and because of that ”

“You must not talk of these mysteries so flippantly,” said the parson, in a tone of reproof.

“ ’Tisn’t flippant, Passen — no, ’tisnT flippant,” said the shoemaker. “ ’Tis indignant.^^

“I am quite willing to talk of these holy mysteries,” said the parson, quietly, “if you are only willing to think of them reverently. You must not be offended if I remind you that we are not to give things that are holy to those who can only bark and bite. You will forgive me, I am sure.”

It was spoken in such a pleasant and quiet way that the shoemaker was half inclined to soften his tone.

“Well, I do get a bit hot when I think about it,” he said. And he drew out a large red handkerchief and mopped himself with it, as if the heat were physical only.

Then the parson leaned forward and began. “Well, now, let us look at it quietly and de-

PARSON AND SHOEMAKER voutly. You remember that the blessed Lord Jesus said, ‘Except ye eat my flesh and drink my blood ye have no part in me/ ”

Again the little shoemaker blazed as he leaned forward and snapped, “ ’Tis figurative — not literal, o’ course; ’tis figurative.”

“Now, I have listened patiently to you,” said the parson, “and I must ask you to listen as quietly to me. ‘Except ye eat my flesh and drink my blood,’ said the blessed Lord. Think of anyone else saying it, any great religious leader. Think of Saint Paul saying it, John Wesley, or General Booth. It would be absurd, and worse than absurd. From the lips of the Lord Jesus the words must have some great mysterious meaning. Perhaps you remember that many of those who had followed the Lord up to tliat time, were offended at the saying and turned back and followed him no more. They lost the Saviour because they stumbled at his words.

“The Master saw the controversy that would arise out of the words, yet he did not soften them, but repeated them with great emphasis at the most sacred moment of the church’s history. At the Last Supper the Lord Jesus took the bread and brake it, and said, ‘This is my body which is broken for you/ And he took the cup and said, ‘This is my blood which is shed for you.’ Now, to me here is the mystery and miracle that constitutes and declares the Church of Christ — this perpetual miracle which brings to us the very body of the Lord Jesus Christ.”

Now, at this point, when to me the conversation became of the deepest interest, Penuluna’s van drew up at the market town, and we must part.

“Well,” said the shoemaker, as he rose toward the door. “There ’tis again, that great hedge with the thorn bushes ’pon top of it, and without a gap or a gate. Us can’t find our way over that. Good-morning.”

The parson, and shoemaker and I went our several ways.

That night I sat in my little room in the village, thinking of the morning’s talk, and recalled the shoemaker’s words, “Us can’t both be right, Passen.” On his side, at any rate, there had been a look of triumphant assurance, as if the outcome were certain. I smiled as I saw again his clever picture of the great hedge with the thorny bushes and the lowing cattle on either side of it, coming nearer, but not much the better for that.

“The shoemaker is certainly right in one thing,” I said to myself, as I leaned back in

PARSON AND SHOEMAKER the easy chair. “There’s a storm coming that is going to shake a good many things — inside the churches, and outside, too.”

I sat before the fire thinking the matter over until it was late, and I fell asleep. My thoughts gave place to a dream, clear and vivid, as dreams seldom are.

Again I saw the parson and the shoemaker — but they stood before the great White Throne, whereon sat the blessed Lord as Judge. Boldly spoke the parson as he bowed reverently in that sacred Presence. “Here are thine own words, my Lord, which I took as if thou didst mean them. I trust I have not erred.”

I think it must have been my own subconsciousness that softened the tone and words with which the shoemaker made answer to the Lord the Judge. “I read thy words, O Lord, but could not take them literally — could not The very nature that thou hast given me, all my being shrank from a thing that seemed to me so outrageous that I can scarcely put it into words — eating human fiesh and drinking human blood! My Lord, my Lord! I could not. I trust thou wilt bear with thy servant in this thing.”

Then I saw a smile on the face of the Lord, most gracious and loving. “My children, my children,” said he, “there is room for you both in my heart, and there is room for you both in my heaven.”

Then were parson and shoemaker lost in the light.

Ill

CAN GOD REVIVE fflS WORK?

W E are all praying, ‘‘Lord, revive thy work. Lord, save souls.” But, really, can God do it?

There was a time when it was done — and I am not sure that it was in answer to prayer. It came of itself, naturally, irresistibly. To revive his work is surely what the blessed Father of all men desires to do far more than we ever want him to do it. As surely as he revives the earth with sunshine and shower in the spring-time, so surely does he seek to revive all things heavenly and blessed within the souls of men. But can he do it?

There is an awful saying in the Gospels: “LTe could do there no mighty work.^^

Think of it. All the great longing of his heart, all the yearning of his love undone. He who raised Lazarus from the dead, who opened a blind man’s eyes, who healed a trembling leper, could do nothing. The Almighty powerless! Omnipotence paralyzed! Why? Because no man put himself in line with God to fulfill his plans and purposes.

We pray, ‘‘Give us this day our daily bread.” Yet God himself can only answer that prayer when the man puts himself in line with heaven and earth. He must fulfill the conditions, or he will get no bread. Up there is the sunshine and shower; down here is the earth. Then comes the man who puts himself in fine with each of them. He goes forth with the plow to turn the furrows; he goes forth to fling the seed com. Then God can answer our prayer, but only then. Then only is the daily bread ours.

So is it with all life, spiritual as well as natural. We must fulfill the conditions, or God’s love and power can do nothing.

Let us rouse ourselves earnestly to ask, feeling the tremulous significance of it all — When was it that God added to the church daily such as were being saved

It was when his people were consumed with a great brotherliness — it was when the flames of God’s love melted all within them to a divine compassion and eager helpfulness. Here is the record: “All that believed were together and had all things common. And sold their possessions and goods and parted to every man as every man had need. And the Lord added daily to the church such as were being saved.”

Now, honestly, what do we make of it? We pooh-pooh it aside with a breath of in-

CAN GOD REVIVE HIS WORK? 33 difference if we think of it all. And if one should urge it, at once it is met with an angry contempt. What nonsense! You don’t mean seriously to require any such condition as that. It is sheer and blank Socialism. It is simply a rude Communism.

Yes, Socialism — but the Socialism of Jesus Christ, “Who was rich, yet for our sakes became poor, that we through his poverty might be made rich.” Communism — but the Communism of God our Father, whose Fatherhood means a true brotherhood among men.

If that were made a condition of church membership, we see the crowds going forth from its midst of whom it should be again recorded, “He went away grieved; for he had great possessions.”

But let us at any rate be willing to consider this much: Can God revive his work in the church where there is no brotherliness and love? If our religion means a selfish salvation, that, and that only and nothing else, must it not be written to-day as of old, could there do no mighty worW?

What, then, is the matter with the churches? All admit and bewail the fact that there is something the matter. What is it? Here it is; put your finger right on it: Orthodoxy vnthout brotherliness; and religion without love.

We are very familiar with the phrase, “Dear brethren,” and even “Dearly beloved brethren”; but where is the brotherhood? Take one fact, and let it settle the matter. The poor old body that kneels next to me at the Lord’s Table may go to the workhouse to-morrow.

“Well,” you say, “what is that to me? I give something to the collection for the poor, and what more can anybody expect?”

Alas! He could there do no mighty work.

Have we forgotten the saying of the Lord Jesus — “He who saves his soul shall lose it”? It is only he who gives his soul away in love who shall find it.

Is it really worth while for God to revive his work if our religion is only the blind and miserable selfishness of saving our own souls and going to heaven when we die, content to live in utter indifference to our neighbor? If the great test of our religion is ignored, what is it worth? Here it is: “7/ a man say I love God, and loveth not his brother, he is a liar^ that loveth not ahideth in death/^

Is it really worth while for God to revive his work if the man in the church can be as mean and unbroth erly as anybody else? If he can be as snappy and snarly; if he can be as quick to take offense and as spiteful in showing

CAN GOD REVIVE HIS WORK? S5 it; if he can be as jealous as anybody else, and as angry when he cannot have his own way?

Is it worth while for God to revive his work if the man in the church, in spite of the solemn warning against desiring to be rich, can be as eager and keen to be rich as anybody else; can put that first and foremost in his thoughts, his efforts, his life, for which everything else must be set aside; if he can be quick to take advantage of his neighbor’s misfortune or ignorance; if he can be content to ruin his poor brother by mean advantage-taking or by underselling?

Is it worth God’s while to revive his work if the man in the church can spend huge sums of money on luxuries and self-indulgence, and ^ be content to give God only of the superfluity of his wealth that costs him nothing? Can God revive his work in such conditions?

Let the preacher preach this much, at any rate; let the League members take it as the motto for a devotional meeting: The religion that does not save a man out of selfishness into love will never save him out of any hell into heaven.

Where love is, there God is. And where love is not, there God is not. And where God is not, what hope of any revival? Again it shall be recorded. He could there do no mighty work.

IV Becky Murgatroyd Speaks Her Mind

Told by Her Leader

P OOR old Becky — she is a great favorite of mine; clear-seeing and clear-thinking, she can get to the heart of things with as few words in doing it as any one I ever knew. Bright, happy, contented, surprisingly so to many, but not to me who knew her long faith in God, and the bravery with which she has accepted her lot. And a hard lot indeed it is. For years she had toiled in the fields, in bleak weather as well as in fine weather, sometimes drenched to the skin and sometimes numbed with the cold, living on a wage that was hardly enough to keep body and soul together, yet managing to do it somehow, and never failing to give her penny a week and shilling a quarter. Now she lived on her Old Age Pension, and almost hesitated to accept the dole that I got for her from the Poor Fund.

I had persuaded our new young minister to call and see her, and to take her the Quarterly Ticket, thinking it would do them both good. 36

A few days afterward I called, anxious to know how the interview had gone off.

Becky sat in the kitchen of her little cottage, just finishing her midday meal.

“That’s done,” she said, as she put the iron spoon in the empty basin.

“What have you had, Becky?” I said.

“A basin o’ kettle broth. ’Tis nourishin’ and ’tis easy made and ’tis cheap.”

“Do you tell me how you make it,” I said, for she smacked her lips over the last spoonful with evident enjoyment.

Becky laughed. Hers was a face always worth looking at, but best when she laughed — the eyes twinkled then with good humor — but they could blaze when need be — and her lips were more used to smile than to scold, but they could tighten and fling out fierce sayings when the fires were kindled within her — which was not very often.

“Tell thee how to make kettle broth! Thee’lt never come to that. But thee may so well know. You see, when your teeth can’t eat so well as they used to do, crusties is things that’s hard to manage, but for all that they’re things that a poor body can’t afford to throw away. So you sets them in the basin, and puts in a sprinkle o’ salt and pepper, and a lump o’ margarine. Then pour boiling water

S8 over the lot and lev’ it soak — and there you are. A dainty dish to set before a king — at any rate, if he can’t get anything else.” And Becky laughed again. ‘‘So that’s kettle broth, and now thee knows.”

“Well, you had a call from our young minister,” I said, as we gathered by her little fire.

Becky’s face was changed at once. The little eyes flashed, the smile vanished, the mouth tightened, and the underlip was thrust out scornfully. Her only response was a grunt, “Aye.”

“I hope you were glad to see him.”

There was no answer.

“There was nothing wrong?” I said, wondering at the change in her face and manner.

“Glad to see him? Well, if there was any gladness in it, I’m feared it was to see him go.”

“But I gave him the Quarterly Ticket to bring to you.”

“Aye — and he brought it reet enough — he brought it. But he took it away agen.”

Here was a mystery indeed, and I waited for Becky to tell the story. It was some minutes before she began.

“Weel, I’ll tell thee how it came abaht. I were sittin’ in t’ chair when there came a knock to the door. ‘Come in,’ says I. So in he come. My! A proper gentleman. And he put his hat ’pon t’ chair and lays his gloves alongside.

“ ‘Seven and sixpence,’ says I to mysen! Then he set back his coit, and I seed a gold ring on t’ finger, and a great gold chain spannin’ his westcoit. ‘Umphl’ says I to mysen.

“ ‘I have been asked by your leader to come and see you, and to bring you the Quarterly Ticket.’ And he sets it down ’pon table.

‘T looked him over from head to foot, and then says I, ‘If I hadn’t kept t’ rules and regglelaytions o’ Society I shouldn’t have any reet to Ticket, I reckon?’

“ ‘Certainly not,’ says he.

“‘Umphl’ says I. ‘And thee art minister!’

“ ‘Yes,’ says he, like a thing tookt back a bit.

“ ‘And thee art bahnd to keep rules and regglelaytions same as I am, on’y more so, for thee art an example to the flock.’

“ ‘Well!’ says he.

“ ‘Give me t’ Bible off t’ shelf,’ I says. So I opened it and took out rules and regglelaytions. ‘Thou hast brought my Quarterly Ticket,’ I says, ‘and thee may tak’ it back agen, and tell Leader to bring it his sen.’

“ ‘But he asked me to bring it,’ says he.

“ ‘Aye, and I ax thee to tak’ it back.’

“ ‘Really/ says he, ‘this is very amazing/

“ ‘Happen ’tis,’ says I. ‘But if thee’ll tak’ it reet it may be very edifyin’/

“ ‘I don’t understand you at all,’ says he.

“ ‘Weel, lad,’ I says, ‘I’ll show thee. Here’s rules and regglelaytions o’ Methodist Society. And here’s one on ’em sayin’ thee’s not to put on gold or costly apparel.’

“ ‘But ’tis a present,’ says he, fingerin’ the chain.

“‘Then, lad,’ says I, ‘the only thing for thee to do is to make a present of it to some poor body with an empty belly and a bare back, same as rules and regglelaytions tells thee to. Here ’tis,’ — and I read it out to him — ‘Doin’ good to all men, to their bodies by giving food to the hungry and clothing the naked.’ Dost think thy Lord and Master, the Carpenter, would go abaht with a gold ring on his finger and a gold chain over his coit? Nay, lad, tak’ ticket back to Leader, and teft^ him to bring it his sen. And when thou dost begin to keep rules and regglelaytions o’ Society thou can come again.’

“He got up for to go, when I says, ‘Lad, I’ve got a word more for thee if thou canst stop a minute. Folks don’t hke thy preachin’. Preachin’! It isn’t preachin’ to read a bit o’ summat abaht religion from a piece o’ paper.

Think of Jesus Christ on the Mount read them summat abaht religion from a piece o’ paper — maybe with a lot of grand words in it that common folks couldn’t make nowt of! They’d have gone away home — I should — and not come back agen, either.

“ ‘And hast ever thought what he preached abaht? He preached about the wants o’ t’ people, and how the heavenly Father cares for folks same as mother and father cares for their bairns.

“ ‘Seemin’ to me, lad, thou hast been so long with thy Latin and Greek, thou hast forgotten what the common folks is like. If thou would go out and learn about the wants of the people, happen the Lord may have the makkin’ of a preacher in thee yet. It is the same as in any other line o’ bisiness, thine is. ’Tis no good goin’ to market with things folks don’t want, and thou hast got to find out for thysen what they do want. Then thou canst preach. Thee munna be offended. I’ll promise thee one thing, and I can do nowt better — I’ll pray for thee every neet and momin.’ ”

“I am afraid he didn’t like it,” I said.

“Happen not,” said Becky, “happen not. I don’t know as I like salts and senna, but there’s times it does me good. It all depends how he taks it.”

‘T’m afraid he won’t come again.”

will/* said Becky, ^*he will. Thou’It see. Thou canst send next Quarterly Ticket by him, and I’ll be glad to have it.”

Becky was right. Her faith was justified.

What Came of It

The picture that rises before me as I begin is of the incident when two of David’s soldiers came flying down the hill from their pursuers. A woman sat winnowing the corn — a sheet spread and she flinging the grains for the wind to bear away the husks and the chaff — common, dusty work. But underneath the sheet was a shallow well with a bubbling spring. On came the soldiers seeking refuge. In an instant the woman’s heart was filled with pity. “Here,” she cried, “creep under the sheet and hide in the well.” A moment later and they were hidden. Again she sat, and the corn was flung and the husks flew.

On came the pursuers. Had she seen them? With ready wit she said, “Yes, yes, and they have gone over the brook.”

So it is that underneath the dusty work of our common life there are wellsprings of pity, but it is only the wants of others, and our concern for them that can reveal the depths. The wants of other people put us in possession of our best selves. The finest fiddle can only know its music through the scraping of the bow.

It was toward the end of December that a heavy rain had been followed by a keen and sudden frost so that the streets were like a sheet of glass. Our young minister was carefully makng his way late in the evening to his lodgings, when out of the public house came a man who had scarcely reached the steps of the place when he fell heavily to the ground. Our young minister found him quite unconscious with a wound on his head from which the blood flowed.

Soon two or three came up, and whilst one was sent for the doctor, the others bore him to the house where, in a couple of rooms, he lived with his wife and children. A wretched drunkard, he had pawned for drink almost all that could be pawned. When all was done that could be done at the time, the doctor turned to the young minister.

“There is no nurse to be got, and I am afraid his wife cannot manage it. She has a baby to see to. Everything depends upon these bandages being renewed constantly on his head. I don’t see what we can do.”

Then the man woke up in the minister. Off went his coat.

U

“Look here. Doctor, can you trust me?”

“Will you stay?”

“I will,” said he. “Perhaps you will send somebody to my lodgings to say I shall not be home.”

“Well,” said the doctor, “I don’t know yet how it will go with him. Very much will depend upon you.”