Christ before Pilate

Chapter I

There were two Norwegian churches in town. One was a large and beautiful edifice in a desirable locality, while the other was a small wooden structure whose steeple scarcely rose above the neighboring chimneys.

Rev. Mr. Mosevig, who served the small church, looked with scorn upon Rev. Mr. Welde, who served the large one. He did not even like the church build¬ ing itself. Stained glass windows and decorations in general were to him only the lust of the eyes and a superfluity. The Lord would certainly permit His gracious Spirit to descend upon His servant even tho the pulpit had no gilded moldings or carved panels, and He received the sinners who came to Him even tho there were no velvet cushions for them to kneel upon. Pastor Mosevig often gave expression to these sentiments, and could not avoid drawing comparisons between himself and Pastor Welde. Like the apos¬ tles of old, he himself had been called, so to speak, from the workshop to the pulpit. In his youth he had been a sailor, and after coming over to this country he had worked as a carpenter and had preached the Gospel to his countrymen whenever an opportunity presented itself. With joy he dwelt upon this period of his life, for his efforts had not been without fruit, and it was upon the urgent request of his many friends that he had decided to enter the ministry. There had, in fact, been something unusual about his whole life. With only two years’ schooling, and those at an ad¬ vanced age, he had succeeded in mastering the essen¬ tials, and he felt the divine call so clearly. When he had handled his carpenter’s tools, they had all seemed to have a spiritual significance to him. The hammer was a reminder of the Word of God, which breaketh the rock to pieces; the square was a symbol of the measure with which all shall be measured; and a piece of lumber would remind him of the tree of knowledge and the tree of life described in Genesis 11:9, as well as of the true Vine upon which he, in spite of his im¬ perfections, could count himself a branch.

Having thus been incessantly reminded of his duty to testify to others, he had found no peace until he decided to enter a theological school for a brief period of training, and then to take up the work of guiding human souls back to the fold in earnest.

His thoughts dwelt with humility upon his lowly parentage and the fisherman’s hut which had been his home in Norway. But the humility was also mingled with a spark of pride. Who would have thought that the little boy who sat shivering with cold in the old fisherboat, often suffering from want, should grow up to be a minister of the Gospel? Surely he had been guided by a power other than that of man.

But what manner of call had this Pastor Welde received? Again and again he asked himself this question, and with an ironical smile he summed up the answer: the Welde family belonged to the old aristocracy of Norway. The father and the grand¬ father were both ministers, the one more austere and unbending than the other. Call? Yes, the call passed from father to son as a family inheritance among the Weldes. The one appointed the other, the eldest son entering his father’s profession as a matter of course. But did they have any call from their heavenly Fa¬ ther? Mosevig shrugged his shoulders at the thought but could not shake it off. Descending from such a family, one could enjoy all the advantages of travel and study, could learn all the languages of the world, and there would be no difficulty in securing the pastorate of a wealthy church. But as to the Spiritual, that was a different matter. He could expound all the difficult theological periodicals, but in order to deliver a sermon he would first have to write it down on paper, take it to the pulpit, and read it. As for himself, he had never taken thought of what he should speak. His sermons came to him as an inspiration, and he could preach as often and as long as he desired and never run out of words. He drew from the in¬ exhaustible fountain and could not but pity those who sought to refresh famished souls from the dusty shelves of their own worldly wisdom. And still, was not that what the world wanted? But in order to show others the way of salvation it was necessary for one to have trodden upon it himself. He recalled his early life, previous to his conversion in the Sea¬ men’s Church in Pensacola. It had been no worse than that of others, perhaps, but he found a certain joy in dwelling upon the darkest phases of it. His life was divided into two distinct epochs—the time of darkness and the time of light, and against the dark background he seemed to see the light with greater clearness, as when one who has been blind regains his sight. But how could anyone guide others over a path upon which he himself had not trodden? He doubted that Rev. Mr. Welde had ever experienced any real conversion.

The charge Pastor Mosevig was now serving was not his first. It had been his fate, that when he had worked in a place until the church had become selfsupporting, something would turn up and his services were transferred to another locality. He was able to get along with meager means, a thing necessary in the place where he now was. The larger church on the East Side hindered the growth of the smaller one. All the new families moving in joined that one, and the minister over there was called to officiate at nearly all weddings, funerals, christenings, etc., thereby in¬ creasing his income at the expense of the other. Those who had never formally joined either of the two churches considered themselves as members at the larger one, and when an inquiry was made in town for a Norwegian church or minister, they were di¬ rected there as a matter of course, as few seemed to be aware of the existence of another Norwegian church in the town. The ladies’ aid society in Pastor Welde’s church would take in twenty dollars at a meeting, and the offerings in his church would run into hun¬ dreds. Mr. Brooten, the rich banker, contributed more alone to the church treasury than the amount of Pas¬ tor Mosevig’s salary for the entire year. The young people sought Pastor Welde’s church as they felt more at home there, and rooms were fitted up in the basement, where they could have their meetings. Pastor Mosevig reflected with bitterness that it was small wonder that the East Side church prospered materially, tho to him it resembled the valley filled with dead bones. ,

Rev. Conrad Walther Welde was returning from a walk. He was still almost a stranger in town, and the desire to become better acquainted with his sur¬ roundings, as well as the enchanting air of early spring, had drawn him out of doors. During his walk he had made the discovery that the place was very beautiful, and he had seen several bits of scenery that ought to be painted. The mill-pond, for instance, was very picturesque. Especially he had noticed a great rock projecting into the pond. In a rift there grew a dwarfed pine. The large roots lay gnarled and bare, but they evidently struck deep somewhere, for the growth of the tree was as vigorous as its appearance was scraggy. It fitted in so admirably with the sur¬ roundings. Hundreds of thousands of logs had pas¬ sed it on their way to the saw-mill, where they had lost their identity amid much groaning and buzzing. The giants of the forest had been felled, but the mis¬ shapen pine had been spared. There was a wonderful play of colors on the mill-pond. The pale green back¬ ground, the dead leaves from last year, all sought re¬ flection in the water, but there fell also the shadow of the dwarfed pine, and the various shades of green found reflection in that deeper green. That was what made the mill-pond so interesting.

Yes, it ought to be painted. To him everything ought to be painted—faces, horses, cows, old houses, even mud puddles,—yes, everything ought to be paint¬ ed. But she—who was to do all this painting—how did she fare? He could still see her as she sat at her easel, always in a strong light, always with a half-finished canvas before her, and with a halo of light about her as she worked. He had often watched her when she painted and had to direct his conversation at her neck—a slim little neck that could make re¬ sponses to what he said with expressive half-turns, which he could interpret to his own liking. Occa¬ sionally she would turn around to glance at him, radiantly, teasingly. It had affected him like a warm shower, followed by a slight chill. “Maggie, Maggie!” He repeated the name audibly, with an effort.

He had now reached Main Street. The perfect lines of his tall figure were brought out by his modish, close-fitting coat, and a wealth of wavy hair was vis¬ ible beneath his tall hat. He carried an umbrella under his arm and his slender, gloved hand was con¬ stantly being raised to his hat in recognition of the greetings he received. Many of those whom he met, especially among the ladies, seemed to know him, and a smile of pleasure lighted up his youthful face at the thought that so many already knew him.

Suddenly he noticed the bent and awkward figure of a man with a blond beard and nickel-rimmed glas¬ ses. It was Pastor Mosevig. Welde grew attentive immediately and glanced toward him. He had met him several times in the same manner but Mosevig had never spoken. Would he notice him now? As he drew nearer, Pastor Welde observed how the threadbare coat had faded to a yellowish brown across the shoulders and that the crown of his hat was quite green. He also noticed the large, protruding jaws and mouth, scantily covered with a thin beard, the freck¬ led hands and his large, flat shoes. Would Pastor Mosevig recognize him this time? No! He absent-mindedly gazed at the row of houses across the street. Welde, himself, would have spoken first had Mosevig only looked his way, but this he did not do. After they had passed each other, Welde could not keep from turning to catch another glimpse of him. As on former occasions, the sight of the bent figure touched him with a feeling of pity and an inexplicable sense of guilt. There was a sullen, helpless expres¬ sion in the lines about that protruding mouth of his, —harassed, but also brutish, at once reminding one of a fish and a bulldog.

Pastor Welde reflected as he passed on, that just such an expression would be developed in people who for generations have had to keep their mouths shut, people forced to suffer in silence, people who have had to fight back the hot tears and the bitter words which clamored for utterance, people who have swallowed choking grievances down a parched throat. Such mouth and jaw outfits stand for the complaints of generations, complaints to which no one has cared to listen. And besides, he recalled things he had heard about Pastor Mosevig and his church. The young ladies of his own choir often held up the Mosevig church choir to ridicule, and told how Mrs. Mosevig would sometimes sing contralto with the baby in her arms when their regular alto was absent. A married woman, two half-grown girls, the minister's daughter, an old deacon who functioned as basso, and a grocery clerk who courted the minister’s daughter—these com¬ pleted the whole personnel. They would also tell that Mosevig wore the strangest looking collars with his clerical garb because his wife had to do the flut¬ ing at home.

Welde could, in his mind, see Mosevig speaking to the sparsely occupied pews, and he wondered how a family could subsist on five hundred dollars a year. He had never been able to rid his mind of this shabby and careworn figure. It confronted him in church, at prayers, and while in his study, and it always seemed to remind him of some wrong committed long ago—a debt which he could neither admit nor deny, a sort of claim which he could neither acknowledge nor yet refuse to recognize. But why this feeling? It could not possibly be his fault that Mrs. Mosevig had to sing in the choir with the baby in her arms, nor could he help that she had to do up her husband’s collars herself. Should he, a stranger, be blamed because these obstinate people persisted in maintain¬ ing a positively superfluous Lutheran church in town? Could he be held responsible for their minister’s faded coat and hat? Or for the reproach and suffering ex¬ pressed by that mouth and those jaws of his? No, No—the thought was absurd. But Pastor Mosevig had entered his mind as an accusation or protest against himself—against Rev. Conrad Walther Welde and against no one else. He tried to dismiss this foolish feeling, telling himself over and over again that Mosevig was really of a type common in all denom¬ inations—ignorant and aggressive, a type of men who seek to make themselves conspicuous by a loud voice, sullenness, and disregard of personal appearance. This was an entirely satisfactory conclusion when in the company of others; but when Pastor Welde was alone, Mosevig would always rise before him in re¬ proach. This feeling increased whenever he was told that some of Mosevig’,s people had begun to attend his church. He could not bear the thought of taking anything away from one who had so little, and, after all, Pastor Mosevig preached the same Gospel and administered the same sacraments as Pastor Welde did.

Pastor Welde had now reached home. Having no family, he made use only of two or three rooms, leav¬ ing the rest of the parsonage to the disposal of his trusty housekeeper, a very capable, elderly woman. She always had coffee ready for him when he returned from his habitual walks in the afternoon. She had kept house for two ministers in this country, and knew how things should be done. She arranged the dainty sandwiches on a small plate and appeared with the tray just as the minister was hanging up his coat and hat. His slippers were ready for him, not a speck of dust could be detected anywhere. Jorgina herself stood before him irreproachable, righteous, and grave of mien, holding the tray in her hand and courtesying. This was what the occasion demanded of her. Frank¬ ly, Welde liked neither her nor her coffee. He would have preferred a younger person, and a cup of tea. He had always noticed that tea-drinkers develope a taste for weaker tea the more they learn to appreciate it, while, on the other hand, coffee-drinkers increase both quantity and quality until it becomes positively harmful. He would have given a good deal for a cup of tea instead of the usual coffee, but had never dared to make a direct request for it. Jorgina herself, en¬ joyed a cup of coffee in the afternoon and would likely deny herself this if he did not also drink one. He had once bravely ventured the suggestion that some people prefer tea to coffee in the afternoon, but when Jorgina had flatly denied this he had dropped the subject and resigned himself to his fate. He even cracked jokes about it:

“You spoil me with this delicious coffee of yours so I learn to like it—and to think that once upon a time I drank only tea!”

With beaming face, Jorgina said: “Yes, the pastor knows there are two ways of making coffee. There is coffee and there is coffee. Pastor Wangel of the Synod wanted his coffee steeped, but Pastor Nelson of the United Church wanted it just the way we made it in Norway, just as strong as it could be made.” And as she filled his cup while her adoring gaze rested upon the clear, brown stream, she wondered if the minister noticed how clear it was. He felt that he ought to say something and ventured:

“So they liked different kinds of coffee? You mean to say that they had different tastes with regard to coffee, do you? You and I stick to the Synod coffee, do we not?” but instantly he saw his mistake.

With an injured air Jorgina set the cup down and pulled nervously at the corner of her apron. The minister felt that he had to make amends in some way; so he tasted the coffee, dropped a piece of sugar into it, and seemed lost in meditation. Then cautious¬ ly: “Pastor Nelson is still living, is he not?”

“Still living? Why, yes, he is alive and well, as far as I know.”

'‘So he is still living, is he? Strange, is it not? Per¬ haps we had better drink the same kind of coffee that he did, it can be no worse for us than for him. He must be pretty old by this time?”

He got no further, for Jorgina was already on her way out of the room, and as she vanished she sharply retorted: “Yes, perhaps the pastor also may live to be old, but it is very uncertain if I am to be much older in this place!” And the door closed with a bang.

The minister ate his sandwiches in dismay. He had certainly acted like an ass. Why did he refer to age, anyway? Jorgina herself was old. Her wrinkled face was a veritable burial-place for dead hopes and prospects. She, too, no doubt, had had her dreams a score of years ago or more, two-score, perhaps. A score more or less would not matter much in a case like hers. He pondered for a while, and then, drain¬ ing his cup, he opened the door and called: “Jorgina?”

“Yes, Sir!” The voice in the kitcheta sounded muffled.

“May I have another cup of coffee?” There was a clatter of crockery, and she appeared in the door, holding the coffee pot in her hand. As she poured, her hand trembled slightly, but there was a smile on her lips. The victory was her’s.

When she had gone the minister walked about the room, cup in hand, seeking for a place where he might pour it out and yet escape detection, but he gave it up. Besides, it did not seem quite fair to her, so he gulped it down, knowing that he would sacrifice half a night’s sleep. Then he dropped resolutely into his chair, murmuring: “Another such victory, and I am undone! Poor Pyrrhus!” Had Jorgina known that he had taken poison just to please her, she would not have flared up in such anger. He laughed to himself and lit a cigar. He did not smoke often, but after the coffee a cigar would always taste good.

He remained a while before the open window. His life was really altogether too tranquil. All his parish¬ ioners were so kind and congenial—too kind, in fact, well-nigh carrying him on their hands. He was grow¬ ing spoiled, hopelessly spoiled. Yet there was enough work to do, work that ought to be taken up imme¬ diately. Something should be done, especially for the young people. He had thought of starting a society for them which would not be too exclusively religious, something of a rather literary nature, with debates, perhaps, and dialogs, recitations, readings, etc. Some¬ thing that would draw the young people to the church. He began to pace back and forth in the room, but could formulate no definite plan. Again Mosevig came before him with his thin beard and protruding mouth. He would have to gain this man’s good will, try to think of some way—try to let him understand. Well, what could he think of? What should he let him understand? He had done him no harm, and had nothing to explain.

He paused as if in doubt before a picture on the wall. He had many pictures, some were framed and some were not. He loved pictures, and his room at home had been filled with them, as was also his room at college. Pictures, pictures everywhere! The pic¬ ture in front of which he was standing was conspic¬ uously large. It was a copy of the famous Muncaczy’s “Christ before Pilate,” which had been left there by the former pastor. He had often studied it and had made up his mind that this picture represented real art. At times he flattered himself that he was some¬ thing of an art critic, and would tell himself that the figure of Pilate on the judgment seat was out of pro¬ portion, that the left shoulder was too large, and that the left arm of the one who stood shouting was too long, and also the arm of the one who was pointing from the background. But it was art; no doubt about that! There is Pilate, and before him Christ in His white raiment, while a Roman soldier with a lance forces the people, the mob, back. Around the tribune sit the priests and the Pharisees—where else should they be? A high priest to whom no one seems to listen is arraigning Jesus; in the rear a woman with a child in her arms emerges from the shadows.

He had seen various types of people in this picture before. He had noted the cruel ones, the vulgar, the ignorant, the malicious, the thoughtless ones—all the different elements who wished Barabbas liberated. But now it was as if the picture took on a new aspect —it became more intensified, as he looked at it. There were really only two kinds of people there—the wo¬ man with the child excepted, of course—and they were those who had huge jaws and mouths and those who did not. It was Christ and Pilate—and certainly that woman with the child—against all the others. But as no one took any account of women in those days anyway, it was Christ and Pilate against all the rest. The mob was the Mosevigians, he thought with reck¬ less abandon. The whole “Crucify Him” crowd was a people with large snouts—or accumulations around the mouth—pressing forward. It was—yes, what else could it be?—it was surely the unhappy and oppressed Jewish people who had become enraged because Je¬ sus had not brought the long expected salvation from political bondage. Yes, it was the vast amount of hate and the suppressed accusations which the proud tribe of Judah had stored up for generations, back of their mouths. Look at that soldier’s lance! It has certainly taught them respect; but who thinks of that old lance now? And then the Jews with their keen intelligence. The Romans knew how to make them keep their mouths shut. The prophets were dead and gone. Grief, subdued hate, choked-down aspirations had pressed against the forcibly closed mouth and seemingly broken its moorings. Denied a voice poli¬ tically, they had swallowed their degradation and kept the bursting bag closely tied—and thus developed a terrible apparatus with which to cry “Crucify Him” —and to spit.

The Irish had also such huge jaws and mouths, but their noses were next to nothing. They, too, were in political bondage and, as they had nearly always been so, they had failed to grow noses, just mouths. But the Hebrew nose had held its own, glory to Moses and the prophets!

A bursting bag tied down—yes, that was the cause of such protruding mugs.

Amused by his own reflections, the pastor again paced up and down the room, but finally made another pause before the picture:

Yes, Christ and Pilate belonged to another race— or type, he corrected himself. Pilate represented the civil state in its highest potency—the world empire, the ruling, the organizing principle. Christ also rep¬ resented an empire, a kingdom, in its highest potency, that “which is found within you,” the most powerful of all kingdoms. The one represented order and power and civil justice, the other grace and love. Roman power had to be crushed, but it had given to the world a solid foundation for a well ordered political state and for civil laws. Christ had to suffer an igno¬ minious death, but He gave us eternal life and salvation thru faith in Him, His death, and resurrection to right¬ eousness. The world had never attained higher types than these.

He walked to and fro for a while, but again re¬ turned to the picture.

They should have been standing together, those two, against the mob. Pilate appears to be perplexed, and Christ looks grave. The situation had made a different appeal to each of them. Pilate was groping for something which Jesus knew, or rather which Jesus Himself was. “What is truth?” he asked, not knowing that Jesus was the truth. They should have come to an understanding, these two—against the mob. Pilate should have made common cause with Christ, for he had the power.

He paced the floor, but stopped abruptly.

What would have been the fate of the crowd, the men with the protruding mouths and jaws, if Pilate and Christ had come to an understanding?

How about that person Conrad Walther Welde? How about all those in bondage whom Christ had come to set free with His death and resurrection?— A Christianity without the cross, but with Latin law books—and lances.

Why, yes—even that had been tried.

It was those with the protruding mouths that Christ had come to save! With them He had spent His time, and from them He had chosen His apostles.

“That which was lost,” that was what He had come to save—that for which the Roman empire cared nothing.

Pastor Welded cigar was forgotten. Slowly he drew near the window and gazed for a long time at the lilac bushes in bloom. Jorgina had wanted to put a boquet of them on his table, but he detested cut flowers. They reminded him of funerals, but he gave of these flowers generously to others.

Chapter II

Pastor Welde had known since his earliest child¬ hood that he would become a minister, or had at least heard it from many others. This had placed a damper on his spirits while at play, so that he had, as a rule" been satisfied to watch the other children without tak¬ ing any part in their games himself. To him some children were good and others were bad. Those who were bad often caused the games to break up and end in quarrels and even in fights, and when this oc¬ curred, it fell to his lot to establish peace. That he was the son of a minister gave him authority; and he was large and well built, so that when called upon to separate two who were settling their differences in a fist fight, he would frequently forget himself and handle them so roughly that they would unite in a counter-attack upon him. Big and good-natured as he was, he would, as a rule, simply hold the two bel¬ ligerents off at a safe distance and let them bite and scratch until they were exhausted. If they grew too aggressive, he might throw them and hold them down for a while, but he could not beat them. He would afterwards seek to regain their favor and attempt to coax them back into good humor, but became in turn the object of their deepest contempt in spite of his superior physical strength.

His father was a man of few words, and had received his academic training in Norway; a man with a deep, refined nature, who had crossed the ocean to cast his lot with his countrymen in their new home as soon as he learned that they were in crying need of spirit¬ ual guidance. On the other hand, the field was great¬ ly overcrowded in Norway. He felt this as his call, and one day he and his young wife set sail for the new country amid much weeping and lamentations at the pier. It was his wife’s relatives who gathered for a demonstration against such an outrage. They were people of importance—some of the men wearing of¬ ficers’ uniforms, and holding high political offices in a city on the coast. Amid the rustling of silken drap¬ eries, indignant tears were shed into dainty, perfumed handkerchiefs. Had the aunts but known that Jo¬ han Welde contemplated anything like going to Am¬ erica, they would surely have prevented the alliance. Poor little Laura would now in all likelihood be scalped by the Indians or made to suffer at the stake. They had all read “The Pathfinder’’ and others of Cooper’s Indian tales, and knew what was in store. To think that Welde could do a thing like that!

But on deck stood the “poor little Laura,” pitying the aunts because they pitied her. She had begun to breathe more freely as soon as she came aboard. She had not understood quite all that Welde had told her about the necessity of having someone from home to look after the spiritual needs of the emigrants, that they might stick to their church and religious tradi¬ tions and not get adrift amid the new conditions; and her relatives had not understood any of it, but she knew that her husband was right. She could see it in the very gleam of his eye, the expression about his mouth, the outlines of his figure, and the waves of his hair. She could see it in the way he squared his mas¬ sive shoulders when he had his back turned, and in his firm stride when he walked; and she would gladly have followed him to the ends of the earth. Should one like him wrestle with other candidates for an ap¬ pointment as pastor’s assistant there at home? One like him? Not much!