When, a few minutes later, Mrs. Strong came up, Philip told her exactly how he had decided.
"I cannot leave these poor fellows in the tenements yet; my work is just beginning to count with them. And the church, oh, Sarah, I love it, for it has such possibilities and it must yield in time; and then the whiskey men—I cannot bear to have them think me beaten, driven out, defeated. And in addition to all the rest, I have a feeling that God has a wonderful blessing in store for me and the church very soon; and I cannot banish the feeling that if I should accept the call to Fairview, I should always be haunted by that ghost of Duty murdered and run away from which would make me unhappy in all my future work. Dear little woman," Philip went on, as he drew his wife's head down and kissed her tenderly, while tears of disappointment fell from her—"little woman, you know you are the dearest of all earthly beings to me. And my soul tells me the reason you loved me enough to share earth's troubles with me was that you knew I could not be a coward in the face of my duty, my conscience, and my God. Is it not so?"
The answer came in a sob of mingled anguish and happiness:
"Yes, Philip, but it was only for your sake I wanted you to leave this work. It is killing you. Yet,"—and she lifted her head with a smile through all the tears—"yet, Philip, 'whither thou goest I will go, and where thou lodgest I will lodge; thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God. Where thou diest will I die, and there will I be buried; the Lord do so to me and more also if aught but death part thee and me.'"
There were people in Milton who could not undersatnd[sic] how a person of such refined and even naturally expensive and luxurious habits as the minister's wife possessed could endure the life he had planned for himself, and his idea of Christian living in general. Philip could have told them if he had been so minded. And this scene could have revealed it to any one who knew the minister and his wife as they really were. That was a sacred scene to husband and wife, something that belonged to them, one of those things which the world did not know and had no business to know.
When the first Sunday of another month had come, Mr. Strong felt quite well again. A rumor of his call to Fairview had gone out, and to the few intimate friends who asked him about it he did not deny, but he said little. The time was precious to him. He plunged into the work with an enthusiasm and a purpose which sprang from his knowledge that he was at last really gaining some influence in the tenement district.
The condition of affairs in that neighborhood was growing worse instead of better. The amount of vice, drunkenness, crime and brutality made his sensitive heart quiver a hundred times a day as he went his way through it all. His study of the whole question led him to the conviction that one of the great needs of the place was a new home life for the people. The tenements were owned and rented by men of wealth and influence. Many of these men were in the church. Discouraged as he had so often been in his endeavor to get the moneyed men of the congregation to consecrate their property to Christian uses, Philip came up to that first Sunday with a new phase of the same great subject which pressed so hard for utterance that he could not keep it back.
As he faced the church this morning he faced an audience composed of very conflicting elements. Representatives of labor were conspicuous in the galleries. People whom he had assisted at one time and another were scattered through the house, mostly in the back seats under the choir gallery. His own membership was represented by men who, while opposed to his idea of the Christian life and his interpretation of Christ, nevertheless continued to go and hear him preach. The incident of the sexton's application for membership and his rejection by vote had also told somewhat in favor of the minister. Many preachers would have resigned after such a scene. He had said his say about it, and then refused to speak or be interviewed by the papers on the subject. What it cost him in suffering was his own secret. But this morning, as he rose to give his message in the person of Christ, the thought of the continued suffering and shame and degradation in the tenement district, the thought of the great wealth in the possession of the church which might be used almost to transform the lives of thousands of people, if the men of riches in Calvary Church would only see the kingdom of God in its demands on them—this voiced his cry to the people, and gave his sermon the significance and solemnity of a prophet's inspiration.
"See!" he exclaimed, as he went on after drawing a vivid picture of the miserable condition of life in the buildings which could not be called homes, "see what a change could be wrought by the use of a few thousand dollars down there. And here this morning, in this house, men are sitting who own very many of those tenements, who are getting the rent from them every month, who could, without suffering one single sorrow, without depriving themselves of one necessity or even luxury of life, so change the surroundings of these people that they would enjoy the physical life God gave them, and be able to see His love in the lives of His Disciples. O, my brethren, is not this your opportunity? What is money compared with humanity? What is the meaning of our discipleship unless we are using what God has given us to build up His kingdom? The money represented by this church could rebuild the entire tenement district. The men who own these buildings," He paused as if he had suddenly become aware that he might be saying an unwise thing; then, after a brief hesitation, as if he had satisfied his own doubt, he repeated, "The men who own these tenements—and members of other churches besides Calvary are among the owners—are guilty in the sight of God for allowing human beings made in His image to grow up in such horrible surroundings when it is in the power of money to stop it. Therefore, they shall receive greater condemnation at the last, when Christ sits on the throne of the universe to judge the world. For will He not say, as He said long years ago, 'I was an hungered and ye gave me no meat, naked and ye clothed me not, sick and in miserable dwellings reeking with filth and disease, and ye drew the hire of these places and visited me not?' For are these men and women and children not our brethren? Verily, God will require it at our hands, O men of Milton, if, having the power to use God's property so as to make the world happier and better, we refused to do so and go our ways careless of our reponsibility[sic] and selfish in our use of God's money."
Philip closed his sermon with an account of facts concerning the condition of some of the people he himself had visited. When the service closed, more than one property owner went away secretly enraged at the minister's bold, and, as most of them said and thought, "impertinent meddling in their business." Was he wise? And yet he had been to more than one of these men in private with the same message. Did he not have the right to speak in public? Did not Christ do so? Would he not do so if he were here on earth again? And Philip, seeing the great need, seeing the mighty power of money, seeing the indifference of these men to the whole matter, seeing their determination to conduct their business for the gain of it without regard to the condition of life, with his heart sore and his soul indignant at the suffering he had witnessed came into the church and flung his sword of wrath out of its scabbard, smiting at the very thing dearest of all things to thousands of church-members to-day—the money, the property, the gain of acquisition; and he smote, perhaps, with a somewhat unwise energy of denunciation, yet with his heart crying out for wisdom with every blow he struck, "Would Christ say it? Would He say it?" And his sensitive, keenly suffering spirit heard the answer, "Yes, I believe He would." Back of that answer he did not go in those days so rapidly drawing to their tremendous close. He bowed the soul of him to his Master and said, "Thy will be done!"
The week following this Sunday was one of the busiest Philip had known. With the approach of warmer weather, a great deal of sickness came on. He was going early and late on errands of mercy to the poor souls all about his own house. The people knew him now and loved him. He comforted his spirit with that knowledge as he prayed and worked.
He was going through one of the narrow courts one night on his way home, with his head bent down and his thoughts on some scene of suffering, when he was suddenly confronted by a young man who stepped quickly out from a shadowed corner, threw one arm about Philip's neck and placed his other hand over his mouth and attempted to throw him over backward.
It was very late, and there was no one in sight. Philip said to himself: "This is the attack of which I was warned." He was taken altogether by surprise, but being active and self-possessed, he sharply threw himself forward, repelling his assailant's attack, and succeeded in pulling the man's hand away from his mouth. His first second's instinct was to cry out for help; his next was to keep still. He suddenly felt the other giving way. The strength seemed to be leaving him. Philip, calling up some of his knowledge of wrestling gained while in college, threw his entire weight upon him, and to his surprise the man offered no resistance. They both fell heavily upon the ground, the man underneath. He had not spoken and no one had yet appeared. As the man lay there motionless, Philip rose and stood over him. By the dim light that partly illuminated the court from a street lamp farther on, he saw that his assailant was stunned. There was a pump not far away. Philip went over and brought some water. After a few moments the man recovered consciousness. He sat up and looked about in a confused manner. Philip stood near by, looking at him thoughtfully.
As the man looked up at Philip in a dazed and uncertain manner, Philip said slowly:
"You're not hurt badly, I hope. Why did you attack me?"
The man seemed too bewildered to answer. Philip leaned over and put one arm about him to help him rise. He struggled to his feet, and almost instantly sat down on the curb at the side of the road, holding his head between his hands. For a moment Philip hesitated. Then he sat down beside him, and after finding out that he was not seriously hurt, succeeded in drawing him into a conversation which grew more and more remarkable as it went on. As he thought back upon it afterward, Philip was unable to account exactly for the way in which the confidence between him and his assailant had been brought about. The incident and all that flowed out of it had such a bearing on the crucifixion that it belongs to the whole story.
"Then you say," went on Philip after they had been talking brief in question and answer for a few minutes, "you say that you meant to rob me, taking me for another man?"
"Yes, I thought you was the mill-man—what is his name?—Winter."
"Why did you want to rob him?"
The man looked up and said hoarsely, almost savagely, "Because he has money and I was hungry."
"How long have you been hungry?"
"I have not had anything to eat for almost three days."
"There is food to be had at the Poor Commissioners. Did you know that fact?"
The man did not answer, and Philip asked him again. The reply came in a tone of bitter emphasis that made the minister start:
"Yes, I knew it! I would strave[sic] before I would go to the PoorCommissioners for food."
"Or steal?" asked Philip, gently.
"Yes, or steal. Wouldn't you?"
Philip stared out into the darkness of the court and answered honestly:"I don't know."
There was a short pause. Then he asked:
"Can't you get work?"
It was a hopeless question to put to a man in a town of over two thousand idle men. The answer was what he knew it would be:
"Work! Can I pick up a bushel of gold in the street out there? Can a man get work where there ain't any?"
"What have you been doing?"
"I was fireman in the Lake Mills. Good job. Lost it when they closed down last winter."
"What have you been doing since?"
"Anything I could get."
"Are you a married man?"
The question affected the other strangely. He trembled all over, put his head between his knees, and out of his heart's anguish flowed the words, "I had a wife. She's dead—of consumption. I had a little girl. She's dead, too. Thank God!" exclaimed the man, with a change from a sob to a curse. "Thank God!—and curses on all rich men who had it in their power to prevent the hell on earth for other people, and which they will feel for themselves in the other world!"
Philip did not say anything for some time. What could any man say to another at once under such circumstances? Finally he said:
"What will you do with money if I give you some?"
"I don't want your money," replied the man.
"I thought you did a little while ago."
"It was the mill-owner's money I wanted. You're the preacher, ain't you up at Calvary Church?"
"Yes. How did you know?"
"I've seen you. Heard you preach once. I never thought I should come to this—holding up a preacher down here!" And the man laughed a hard, short laugh.
"Then you're not——" Philip hardly knew how to say it. He wanted to say that the man was not connected in any way with the saloon element; "you're driven to this desperate course on your own account? The reason I ask is because I have been threatened by the whiskey men, and at first I supposed you were one of their men."
"No, sir," was the answer, almost in disgust. "I may be pretty bad, butI've not got so low as that."
"Then your only motive was hunger?"
"That was all. Enough, ain't it?"
"We can't discuss the matter here," said Philip. He hesitated, rose, and stood there looking at the man who sat now with his head resting on his arms, which were folded across his knees. Two or three persons came out of a street near by and walked past. Philip knew them and said good-evening. They thought he was helping some drunken man, a thing he had often done, and they went along without stopping. Again the street was deserted.
"What will you do now? Where will you go?"
"God knows. I am an outcast on His earth!"
"Have you no home?"
"Home! Yes; the gutter, the street, the bottom of the river."
"My brother!" Philip laid his hand on the man's shoulder, "come home with me, have something to eat, and stay with me for a while."
The man looked up and stared at Philip through the semi-darkness.
"What, go home with you! That would be a good one after trying to hold you up! I'll tell you what you ought to do. Take me to the police station and have me arrested for attempt at highway robbery. Then I'd get lodgings and victuals for nothing."
Philip smiled slightly. "That would not help matters any. And if you know me at all, you know I would never do any such thing. Come home with me. No one, except you and myself and my wife need ever know what has happened to-night. I have food at my home, and you are hungry. We both belong to the same Father-God. Why should I not help you if I want to?"
It was all said so calmly, so lovingly, so honestly, that the man softened under it. A tear rolled over his cheek. He brushed his hand over his eyes. It had been a long time since any one had called him "brother."
"Come!" Philip reached out his hand and helped him to rise. The man staggered, and might have fallen if Philip had not supported him. "I am faint and dizzy," he said.
"Courage, man! My home is not far off; we shall soon be there." His companion was silent. As they came up to the door Philip said: "I haven't asked your name, but it might save a little awkwardness if I knew it."
"William——" Philip did not hear the last name, it was spoken in such a low voice.
"Never mind; I'll call you William if it's all the same to you." And he went into the house with the man, and at once made him feel at home by means of that simple and yet powerful spirit of brotherhood which was ready to level all false distinctions, and which possibly saw in prophetic vision the coming event in his own career when all distinctions of title and name would be as worthless as dust in the scales of eternity.
Mrs. Strong at once set food upon the table, and then she and Philip with true delicacy busied themselves in another room so as not to watch the hungry man while he ate. When he had satisfied his hunger Philip showed him the little room where the Brother Man had stayed one night.
"You may make it your own as long as you will," Philip said. "You may look upon it as simply a part of what has been given us to be used for the Father's children."
The man seemed dazed by the result of his encounter with the preacher. He murmured something about thanks. He was evidently very much worn, and the excitement of the evening had given place to an appearance of dejection that alarmed Philip. After a few words he went out and left the man, who said that he felt very drowsy.
"I believe he is going to have a fever or something," Mr. Strong said to his wife as he joined her in the other room. He related his meeting with the man, making very light of the attack and indeed excusing it on the ground of his desperate condition.
"What shall we do with him, Philip?"
"We must keep him here until he finds work. I believe this is one of the cases that call for personal care. We cannot send him away; his entire future depends on our treatment of him. But I don't like his looks; I fear he is going to be a sick man."
His fear was realized. The next morning he found his lodger in the clutch of fever. Before night he was delirious. The doctor came and pronounced him dangerously ill. And Philip, with the burden of his work weighing heavier on him every moment, took up this additional load and prayed his Lord to give him strength to carry it and save another soul.
It was at the time of this event in Mr. Strong's life that another occurred which had its special bearing upon the crisis of all his life.
The church was dear to his thought, loved by him with a love that only very few of the members understood. In spite of his apparent failure to rouse them to a conception of their duty as he saw it, he was confident that the spirit of God would accomplish the miracle which he could not do. Then there were those in Calvary Church who sympathized heartily with him and were ready to follow his leadership. He was not without fellowship, and it gave him courage. Add to that the knowledge that he had gained a place in the affection of the working-people, and that was another reason why he kept up good heart and did not let his personal sensitiveness enter too largely into his work. It was of course impossible for him to hide from himself the fact that very many members of the church had been offended by much that he had said and done. But he was the last man in the world to go about his parish trying to find out the quantity of opposition that existed. His Sunday congregation crowded the church. He was popular with the masses. Whenever he lectured among the working-men the hall was filled to overflowing. He would not acknowledge even to himself that the church could long withstand the needs of the age and the place. He had an intense faith in it as an institution. He firmly believed all that it needed was to have the white light of truth poured continually on the Christ as he would act to-day and the church would respond, and at last in a mighty tide of love and sacrifice throw itself into the work the church was made to do.
So he began to plan for a series of Sunday-night services different from anything Milton had ever known. His life in the tenement district and his growing knowledge of the labor world had convinced him of the fact that the church was missing its opportunity in not grappling with the problem as it existed in Milton. It seemed to him that the first step to a successful solution of that problem was for the church and the working-man to get together upon some common platform for a better understanding. He accordingly planned for a series of Sunday-night services, in which his one great purpose was to unite the church and the labor unions in a scheme of mutual helpfulness. His plan was very simple. He invited into the meeting one or two thoughtful leaders of the mill-men and asked them to state in the plainest terms the exact condition of affairs in the labor world from their standpoint. Then he, for the church, took up their statements, their complaints, or the reasons for their differences with capital, and answered them from the Christian standpoint: What would Christ advise under the circumstances? He had different subjects presented on different evenings. One night it was reasons why the mill-men were not in the church. Another night it was the demand of men for better houses, and how to get them. Another night it was the subject of strikes and the attitude of Christ on wages and the relative value of the wage-earners' product and the capitalists' intelligence. At each meeting he allowed one or two of the invited leaders to take the platform and say very plainly what to his mind was the cause and what the remedy for the poverty and crime and suffering of the world. Then he closed the evening's discussion by a calm, clear statement of what was to him the direct application of Jesus' teaching to the point at issue.
Finally, as this series drew to a close at the end of the month, a subject came up which roused intense feeling. It was the subject of wealth, its power, responsibility, meaning, and Christian use. The church was jammed in every part of it. The services had been so unusual, the conduct of them had so often been intensely practical, the points made had so often told against the existing Church that great mobs of mill-men filed into the room and for the time took possession of Calvary Church. For the four Sunday nights of that series Philip faced great crowds, mostly of grown-up men, crowds that his soul yearned over with unspeakable emotion, a wonderful audience for Calvary to witness, the like of which Milton had never seen.
We cannot do better than give the evening paper account of this last service in the series. With one or two slight exaggerations the account was a faithful picture of one of the most remarkable meetings ever held in Milton. The paper, after speaking of the series as a sensational departure from the old church methods, went on to say:
"Last night, it will be safe to say that those who were fortunate enough to secure standing-room in Rev. Philip Strong's church heard and saw things that no other church in this town ever witnessed.
"In the first place, it was a most astonishing crowd of people. Several of the church-members were present, but they were in the minority. They[sic] mill-men swarmed in and took possession. It is not exactly correct to say that they lounged on the easy-cushioned pews of the Calvary Church, for there was not room enough to lounge, but they filled up the sanctuary and seemed to enjoy the comfortable luxury of it.
"The subject of the evening was Wealth, and the President of the Trades Assembly of Milton made a statement of the view which working-men in general have of wealth as related to labor of hand or brain. He stated what to his mind was the reason for the discontent of so many at the sight of great numbers of rich men in times of suffering, or sickness, or lack of work. 'Why, just look at the condition of things here and in every large city all over the world,' he said. 'Men are suffering from the lack of common necessaries while men of means with money in the bank continue to live just as luxuriously and spend just as much as they ever did for things not needful for happiness. It has been in the power of men of wealth in Milton to prevent almost if not all of the suffering here last winter and spring. It has been in their power to see that the tenements were better built and arranged for health and decency. It has been in their power to do a thousand things that money and money alone can do, and I believe they will be held to account for not doing some of those things!'
"At this point some one in the gallery shouted out, 'Hang the aristocrats!' Instantly Rev. Mr. Strong rose and stepped to the front of the platform. Raising his long, sinewy arm and stretching out his open hand in appeal, he said, while the great audience was perfectly quiet, 'I will not allow any such disturbance at this meeting. We are here, not to denounce people, but to find the truth. Let every fair-minded man bear that in mind.'
"The preacher sat down, and the audience cheered. Then before the President of the Assembly could go on, a man rose in the body of the house and asked if he might say a word.
"Mr. Strong said he might if he would be brief. The man then proceeded to give a list of people, who, he said, were becoming criminals because they couldn't get work. After he had spoken a minute Rev. Mr. Strong asked him to come to the point and show what bearing his facts had on the subject of the evening. The man seemed to become confused, and finally his friends or the people near him pulled him down, and the President of the Trades Assembly resumed the discussion, closing with the statement that never in the history of the country had there been so much money in the banks and so little of it in the pockets of the people; and when that was a fact something was wrong; and it was for the men who owned the money to right that wrong, for it lay in their power, not with the poor man.
"He was followed by a very clear and intensely interesting talk by Rev. Mr. Strong on the Christian teaching concerning the wealth of the world. Several times he was interrupted by applause, once with hisses, several times with questions. He was hissed when he spoke of the great selfishness of labor unions and trades organizations in their attempts to dictate to other men in the matter of work. With this one exception, in which the reverend gentleman spoke with his usual frankness, the audience cheered his presentation of the subject, and was evidently in perfect sympathy with his views. Short extracts from his talk will show the drift of his entire belief on this subject:
"'Every dollar that a man has should be spent to the glory of God.
"'The teaching of Christianity about wealth is the same as about anything else; it all belongs to God, and should be used by the man as God would use it in the man's place.
"'It is a great mistake which many people make, church-members among the rest, that the money they get is their own to do with as they please. Men have no right to use anything as they please unless God pleases so too.
"'The accumulation of vast sums of money by individuals or classes of men has always been a bad thing for society. A few very rich men and a great number of very poor men is what gave the world the French Revolution and the guillotine.
"'There are certain conditions true of society at certain times when it is the Christian duty of the rich to use every cent they possess to relieve the need of society. Such a condition faces us to-day.
"'The foolish and unnecessary expenditures of society on its trivial pleasures at a time when men and women are out of work and children are crying for food is a cruel and unchristian waste of opportunity.
"'If Christ were here to-day I believe he would tell the rich men of Milton that every cent they have belongs to Almighty God, and they are only trustees of his property.
"'This is the only true use of wealth: that the man who has it recognize its power and privilege to make others happy, not provide himself luxury.
"'The church that thinks more of fine architecture and paid choirs than of opening its doors to the people that they may hear the gospel, is a church that is mortgaged for all it is worth to the devil, who will foreclose at the first opportunity.
"'The first duty of every man who has money is to ask himself, What would Christ have me do with it? The second duty is to go and do it, after hearing the answer.
"'If the money owned by church-members were all spent to the glory of God there would be fewer hundred-thousand-dollar churches built and more model tenements.
"'If Christ had been a millionaire he would have used his money to build up character in other people, rather than build a magnificent brown-stone palace for himself. But we cannot imagine Christ as a millionaire.
"'It is just as true now as when Paul said it nearly twenty centuries ago: "The love of money is a root of all kinds of evil;" it is the curse of our civilization, the greatest god of the human race to-day.
"'Our civilization is only partly Christian. For Christian civilization means more comforts; ours means more wants.
"'If a man's pocket-book is not converted with his soul the man will not get into heaven with it.
"'There are certain things that money alone can secure; but among those things it cannot buy is character.
"'All wealth, from the Christian standpoint, is in the nature of trust funds, to be so used as the administrator, God, shall direct. No man owns the money for himself. The gold is God's, the silver is God's! That is the plain and repeated teaching of the Bible.
"'It is not wrong for a man to make money. It is wrong for him to use it selfishly or foolishly.
"'The consecrated wealth of the men of Milton could provide work for every idle man in town. The Christian use of the wealth of the world would make impossible the cry for bread.
"'Most of the evils of our present condition flow out of the love of money. The almighty dollar is the God of Protestant America.
"'If men loved men as eagerly as they love money the millennium would be just around the corner.
"'Wealth is a curse unless the owner of it blesses the world with it.
"'If any man hath the world's goods, and seeth his brother have need, and shutteth up his compassion from him, how dwelleth the love of God in him?
"'Christian Socialism teaches a man to bear other people's burdens. The very first principle of Christian Socialism is unselfishness.
"'We shall never see a better condition of affairs in this country until the men of wealth realize their responsibility and privilege.
"'Christ never said anything against the poor. He did speak some tremendous warnings in the face of the selfish rich.
"'The only safe thing for a man of wealth to do is to ask himself, What would Christ do with my money if he had it?
"'Everything a man has is God's. On that profound principle the whole of human life should rest. We are not our own; we have been bought with a price.'
"It would be impossible to describe the effect of the Rev. Mr. Strong's talk upon the audience. Once the applause was so long continued that it was a full minute before he could go on. When he finally closed with a tremendous appeal to the wealth of Milton to use its power for the good of the place, for the tearing down and remodeling of the tenements, for the solution of the problem of no work for thousands of desperate men, the audience rose to its feet and cheered again and again.
"At the close of the meeting the minister was surrounded by a crowd of men, and an after meeting was held, at which steps were taken to form a committee composed of prominent church people and labor leaders to work, if possible, together toward a common end.
"It was rumored yesterday that several of the leading-members of Calvary Church are very much dissatisfied with the way things have been going during these Sunday-evening meetings, and are likely to withdraw if they continue. They say that Mr. Strong's utterances are socialistic and tend to inflame the minds of the people to acts of violence. Since the attack on Mr. Winter nearly every mill-owner in town goes armed and takes extra precautions. Mr. Strong was much pleased with the result of the Sunday-night meetings and said they had done much to bridge the gulf between the church and the people. He refused to credit the talk about disaffection in Calvary Church."
In another column of this same paper were five separate accounts of the desperate condition of affairs in the town. The midnight hold-up attacks were growing in frequency and in boldness. Along with all the rest, the sickness in the tenement district had assumed the nature of an epidemic of fever, clearly caused by the lack of sanitary regulations, imperfect drainage, and crowding of families. Clearly the condition of matters was growing serious.
At this time the minsters[sic] of different churches in Milton held a meeting to determine on a course of action that would relieve some of the distress. Various plans were submitted. Some proposed districting the town to ascertain the number of needly[sic] families. Others proposed a union of benevolent offerings to be given the poor. Another group suggested something else. To Philip's mind not one of the plans submitted went to the root of the matter. He was not popular with the other ministers. Most of them thought he was sensational. However, he made a plea for his own plan, which was radical and as he believed went to the real heart of the subject. He proposed that every church in town, regardless of its denomination, give itself in its pastor and members to the practical solution of the social troubles by personal contact with the suffering and sickness in the district; that the churches all throw open their doors every day in the week, weekdays as well as Sundays, for the discussion and agitation of the whole matter; that the country and the State be petitioned to take speedy action toward providing necessary labor for the unemployed; and that the churches cut down all unnecessary expenses of paid choirs, do away with pew rents, urge wealthy members to consecrate their riches to the solving of the problem, and in every way, by personal sacrifice and common union, let the churches of Milton as a unit work and pray and sacrifice to make themselves felt as a real power on the side of the people in their present great need. It was Christian America, but Philip's plan was not adopted. It was discussed with some warmth, but declared to be visionary, impracticable, unnecessary, not for the church to undertake, beyond its function, etc. Philip was disappointed, but he kept his temper.
"Well, brethren," he said, "what can we do to help the solution of these questions? Is the church of America to have no share in the greatest problem of human life that agitates the world to-day? Is it not true that the people in this town regard the Church as an insignificant organization, unable to help at the very point of human crisis, and the preachers as a lot weak, impractical men, with no knowledge of the real state of affairs? Are we not divided over our denominational differences when we ought to be united in one common work for the saving of the whole man? I do not have any faith in the plan proposed to give our benevolence or to district the town and visit the poor. All those things are well enough in their place. But matters are in such shape here now and all over the country that we must do something larger than that. We must do as Christ would do if He were here. What would He do? Would He give anything less than His whole life to it? Would He not give Himself? The Church as an institution is facing the greatest opportunity it ever saw. If we do not seize it on the largest possible scale we shall miserably fail of doing our duty."
When the meeting adjourned Philip was aware he had simply put himself out of touch with the majority present. They did not, they could not, look upon the Church as he did. A committee was appointed to investigate the matter and propose a plan of action at the next meeting in two weeks. And Philip went home almost bitterly smiling at the little bulwark which Milton churches proposed to rear against the tide of poverty and crime and drunkenness and political demagogy and wealthy selfishness. To his mind it was a house of paper cards in the face of a tornado.
Saturday night he was out calling a little while, but he came home early. It was the first Sunday of the month on the morrow, and he had not fully prepared his sermon. He was behind with it. As he came in, his wife met him with a look of news on her face.
"Guess who is here?" she said in a whisper.
"The Brother Man," replied Philip, quickly.
"Yes, but you never can guess what has happened. He is in there with William. And the Brother Man—Philip, it seems like a chapter out of a novel—the Brother Man has discovered that William is his only son, who cursed his father and deserted him when he gave away his property. They are in there together. I could not keep the Brother Man out."
Philip and Sarah stepped to the door of the little room, which was open, and looked in.
The Brother Man was kneeling at the side of the bed praying, and his son was listening, with one hand tight-clasped in his father's, and the tears rolling over his pale face.
When the Brother Man had finished his prayer he rose, and stooping over his son he kissed him. Then he turned about and faced Philip and Sarah, who almost felt guilty of intrusion in looking at such a scene. But the Brother Man wore a radiant look. To Philip's surprise he was not excited. The same ineffable peace breathed from his entire person. To that peace was now added a fathomless joy.
"Yes," he said very simply, "I have found my son which was lost. God is good to me. He is good to all His children. He is the All-Father. He is Love."
"Did you know your son was here?" Philip asked.
"No, I found him here. You have saved his life. That was doing as He would."
"It was very little we could do," said Philip, with a sigh. He had seen so much trouble and suffering that day that his soul was sick within him. Yet he welcomed this event in his home. It seemed like a little brightness of heaven on earth.
The sick man was too feeble to talk much. The tears and the hand-clasp with his father told the story of his reconciliation, of the bursting out of the old love, which had not been extinguished, only smothered for a time. Philip thought best that he should not become excited with the meeting, and in a little while drew the Brother Man out into the other room.
By this time it was nearly ten o'clock. The old man stood hesitating in a curious fashion when Philip asked him to be seated. And again, as before, he asked if he could find a place to stay over night.
"You haven't room to take me in," he said when Philip urged his welcome upon him.
"Oh, yes, we have. We'll fix a place for you somewhere. Sit right down,Brother Man."
The old man at once accepted the invitation and sat down. Not a trace of anxiety or hesitation remained. The peacefulness of his demeanor was restful to the weary Philip.
"How long has your son," Philip was going to say, "been away from home?" Then he thought it might offend the old man, or that possibly he might not wish to talk about it. But he quietly replied:
"I have not seen him for years. He was my youngest son. We quarreled. All that is past. He did not know that to give up all that one has was the will of God. Now he knows. When he is well we will go away together—yes, together." He spread out his palms in his favorite gesture, with plentiful content in his face and voice.
Philip was on the point of asking his strange guest to tell something of his history, but his great weariness and the knowledge of the strength needed for his Sunday work checked the questions that rose for answer. Mrs. Strong also came in and insisted that he should get the rest he so much needed. She arranged a sleeping-place on the lounge for the Brother Man, who, after once more looking in upon his son and assuring himself that he was resting, finally lay down with a look of great content upon his beautiful face.
In the morning Philip almost expected to find that his visitor had mysteriously disappeared, as on the other occasions. And he would not have been so very much surprised if he had vanished, taking with him in some strange fashion his newly discovered son. But it was that son who now kept him there; and in the simplest fashion he stayed on, nursing the sick man, who recovered very slowly. A month passed by after the Brother Man had first found the lost at Philip's house, and he was still a guest there. Within that month great events crowded in upon the experience of Mr. Strong. To tell them all would be to write another story. Sometimes into men's lives, under certain conditions of society, or of men's own mental and spiritual relation to certain causes of action, time, as reckoned by days or weeks, cuts no figure. A man can live an eternity in a month. He feels it. It was so with Philip Strong. We have spoken of the rapidity of his habit in deciding questions of right or expediency. The same habit of mind caused a possibility in him of condensed experience. In a few days he reached the conclusion of a year's thought. That month, while the Brother Man was peacefully watching by the side of the patient, and relieving Mrs. Strong and a neighbor who had helped before he came, Philip fought some tremendous battles with himself, with his thought of the church, and with the world about. It is necessary to understand something of this in order to understand something of the meaning of his last Sunday in Milton—a Sunday that marked an era in the place, from which the people almost reckoned time itself.
As spring had blossomed into summer and summer ripened into autumn, every one had predicted better times. But the predictions did not bring them. The suffering and sickness and helplessness of the tenement district grew every day more desperate. To Philip it seemed like the ulcer of Milton. All the surface remedies proposed and adopted by the city council and the churches and the benevolent societies had not touched the problem. The mills were going on part time. Thousands of men yet lingered in the place hoping to get work. Even if the mills had been running as usual that would not have diminished one particle of the sin and vice and drunkenness that saturated the place. And as Philip studied the matter with brain and soul he came to a conclusion regarding the duty of the church. He did not pretend to go beyond that, but as the weeks went by and fall came on and another winter stared the people coldly in the face, he knew that he must speak out what burned in him.
He had been a year in Milton now. Every month of that year had impressed him with the deep and apparently hopeless chasm that yawned between the working world and the church. There was no point of contact. One was suspicious, the other was indifferent. Something was radically wrong, and something radically positive and Christian must be done to right the condition that faced the churches of Milton. That was in his soul as he went his way like one of the old prophets, imbued with the love of God as he saw it in the heart of Christ. With infinite longing he yearned to bring the church to a sense of her great power and opportunity. So matters had finally drawn to a point in the month of November. The Brother Man had come in October. The sick man recovered slowly. Philip and his wife found room for the father and son, and shared with them what comforts they had. It should be said that after moving out of the parsonage into his house in the tenement district, Philip had more than given the extra thousand dollars the church insisted on paying him. The demands on him were so urgent, the perfect impossibility of providing men with work and so relieving them had been such a bar to giving help in that direction, that out of sheer necessity, as it seemed to him, Philip had given fully half of the thousand dollars reserved for his own salary. His entire expenses were reduced to the smallest possible amount. Everything above that went where it was absolutely needed. He was literally sharing what he had with the people who did not have anything. It seemed to him that he could not consistently do anything less in view of what he had preached and intended to preach.
One evening in the middle of the month he was invited to a social gathering at the house of Mr. Winter. The mill-owner had of late been experiencing a revolution of thought. His attitude toward Philip had grown more and more friendly. Philip welcomed the rich man's change of feeling toward him with an honest joy at the thought that the time might come when he would see his privilege and power, and use both to the glory of Christ's kingdom. He had more than once helped Philip lately with sums of money for the relief of destitute cases, and a feeling of mutual confidence was growing up between the men.
Philip went to the gathering with the feeling that a change of surroundings would do him good. Mrs. Strong, who for some reason was detained at home, urged him to go, thinking the social evening spent in bright and luxurious surroundings would be a rest to him from his incessant labors in the depressing atmosphere of poverty and disease.
It was a gathering of personal friends of Mr. Winter, including some of the church people. The moment that Philip stepped into the spacious hall and caught a glimpse of the furnishings of the rooms beyond, the contrast between all the comfort and brightness of this house and the last place he had visited in the tenement district smote him with a sense of pain. He drove it back and blamed himself with an inward reproach that he was growing narrow and could think of only one idea.
He could not remember just what brought up the subject, but some one during the evening, which was passed in conversation and music, mentioned the rumor going about of increased disturbance in the lower part of the town, and carelessly wanted to know if the paper did not exaggerate the facts. Some one turned to Philip and asked him about it as the one best informed. He had been talking with an intelligent lawyer who had been reading a popular book which Philip had also reviewed for a magazine. He was thoroughly enjoying the talk, and for the time being the human problem which had so long wearied his heart and mind was forgotten.
He was roused out of this to answer the question concerning the real condition of affairs in the lower part of the town. Instantly his mind sprang back to that which absorbed it in reality more than anything else. Before he knew it he had not only answered the particular question, but had gone on to describe the picture of desperate life in the tenement district. The buzz of conversation in the other rooms gradually ceased. The group about the minister grew, as others became aware that something unusual was going on in that particular room. He unconsciously grew eloquent and his handsome face lighted up with the fires that raged deep in him at the thought of diseased and depraved humanity. He did not know how long he talked. He knew there was a great hush when he had ended. Then before any one could change the stream of thought some young woman in the music-room who had not known what was going on began to sing to a new instrumental variation "Home, Sweet Home." Coming as it did after Philip's vivid description of the tenements, it seemed like a sob of despair or a mocking hypocrisy. He drew back into one of the smaller rooms and began to look over some art prints on a table. As he stood there, again blaming himself for his impetuous breach of society etiquette in almost preaching on such an occasion, Mr. Winter came in and said:
"It does not seem possible that such a state of affairs exists as you describe, Mr. Strong. Are you sure you do not exaggerate?"
"Exaggerate! Mr. Winter, you have pardoned my little sermon here to-night, I know. It was forced on me. But——" He choked, and then with an energy that was all the stronger for being repressed, he said, turning full toward the mill-owner, "Mr. Winter, will you go with me and look at things for yourself? In the name of Christ will you see what humanity is sinning and suffering not more than a mile from this home of yours?"
Mr. Winter hesitated and then said: "Yes, I'll go. When?"
"Say to-morrow night. Come down to my house early and we will start from there."
Mr. Winter agreed, and when Philip went home he glowed with hope. If once he could get people to know for themselves it seemed to him the rest of his desire for needed co-operation would follow.
When Mr. Winter came down the next evening, Philip asked him to come in and wait a few minutes, as he was detained in his study-room by a caller. The mill-owner sat down and visited with Mrs. Strong a little while. Finally she was called into the other room and Mr. Winter was left alone. The door into the sick man's room was partly open, and he could not help hearing the conversation between the Brother Man and his son. Something that was said made him curious, and when Philip came down he asked him a question concerning his strange boarder.
"Come in and see him," said Philip.
He brought Mr. Winter into the little room and introduced him to the patient. He was able to sit up now. At mention of Mr. Winter's name he flushed and trembled. It then occurred to Philip for the first time that it was the mill-owner that his assailant that night had intended to waylay and rob. For a second he was very much embarrassed. Then he recovered himself, and after a few quiet words with Brother Man he and Mr. Winter went out of the room to start on their night visit through the tenements.
As they were going out of the house the patient called Philip back. He went in again and the man said, "Mr. Strong, I wish you would tell Mr. Winter all about it."
"Would you feel easier?" Philip asked gently.
"Yes."
"All right; I'll tell him—don't worry. Brother Man, take good care of him. I shall not be back until late." He kissed his wife and joined Mr. Winter, and together they made the round of the district.
As they were going through the court near by the place where Philip had been attacked, he told the mill-owner the story. It affected him greatly; but as they went on through the tenements the sights that met him there wiped out the recollection of everything else.
It was all familiar to Philip; but it always looked to him just as terrible. The heartache for humanity was just as deep in him at sight of suffering and injustice as if it was the first instead of the hundredth time he had ever seen them. But to the mill-owner the whole thing came like a revelation. He had not dreamed of such a condition possible.
"How many people are there in our church that know anything about this plague spot from personal knowledge, Mr. Winter?" Philip asked after they had been out about two hours.
"I don't know. Very few, I presume."
"And yet they ought to know about it. How else shall all this sin and misery be done away?"
"I suppose the law could do something," replied Mr. Winter, feebly.
"The law!" Philip said the two words and then stopped. They stumbled over a heap of refuse thrown out into the doorway of a miserable structure. "Oh, what this place needs is not law and ordinances and statutes so much as live, loving Christian men and women who will give themselves and a large part of their means to cleanse the souls and bodies and houses of this wretched district. We have reached a crisis in Milton when Christians must give themselves to humanity! Mr. Winter, I am going to tell Calvary Church so next Sunday."
Mr. Winter was silent. They had come out of the district and were walking along together toward the upper part of the city. The houses kept growing larger and better. Finally they came up to the avenue where the churches were situated—a broad, clean, well-paved street with magnificent elms and elegant houses on either side and the seven large, beautiful church-buildings with their spires pointing upward, almost all of them visible from where the two men stood. They paused there a moment. The contrast, the physical contrast was overwhelming to Philip, and to Mr. Winter, coming from the unusual sights of the lower town, it must have come with a new meaning.
A door in one of the houses near opened. A group of people passed in. The glimpse caught by the two men was a glimpse of bright, flower-decorated rooms, beautiful dresses, glittering jewels, and a table heaped with luxuries of food. It was the Paradise of Society, the display of its ease, its soft enjoyment of pretty things, its careless indifference to humanity's pain in the lower town. The group of new-comers went in, a strain of music and the echo of a dancing laugh floated out into the street, and then the door closed.
The two men went on. Philip had his own reason for accompanying the other home, and Mr. Winter was secretly glad of his presence, for he was timid at night alone in Milton. He broke a long silence by saying:
"Mr. Strong, if you preach to the people to leave such pleasure as that we have just glanced at to view or suffer such things as are found in the tenements, you must expect opposition. I doubt if they will understand your meaning. I know they will not do any such thing. It is asking too much."
"And yet the Lord Jesus Christ 'although He was rich, for our sakes became poor, that we, through His poverty, might be rich.' Mr. Winter, what this town needs is that kind of Christianity—the kind that will give up the physical pleasures of life to show the love of Christ to perishing men. I believe it is just as true now as when Christ lived, that unless they are willing to renounce all that they have they cannot be his disciples."
"Do you mean literally, Mr. Strong?" asked the rich man after a little.
"Yes, literally, sometimes. I believe the awful condition of things and souls we have witnessed to-night will not be any better until many, many of the professing Christians in this town and in Calvary Church are willing to leave, actually to leave their beautiful homes and spend the money they now spend in luxuries for the good of the weak and poor and sinful."
"Do you think Christ would preach that if he was in Milton?"
"I do. It has been burned into me that He would. I believe He would say to the members of Calvary Church, 'If any man love houses and money and society and power and position more than Me, he cannot be My disciple. If any man renounceth not all that he hath he cannot be My disciple.' And then he would test the entire church by its willingness to renounce all these physical things. And if He found the members willing, if He found that they loved Him more than the money or the power, He might not demand a literal giving up. But he would say to them, 'Take My money and My power, for it is all Mine, and use them for the building up of my kingdom.' He would not then perhaps command them to leave literally their beautiful surroundings. But, then, in some cases, I believe He would. Oh, yes!—sacrifice! sacrifice! What does the Church in America in this age of the world know about it? How much do church-members give of themselves nowadays to the Master? That is what we need—self, the souls of men and women, the living sacrifices for these lost children down yonder! Oh, God!—to think of what Christ gave up! And then to think of how little His Church is doing to obey His last command to go and disciple the nations!"
Philip strode through the night almost forgetful of his companion. By this time they had reached Mr. Winter's house. Very little was said by the mill-owner. A few brief words of good-night, and Philip started for home. He went back through the avenue on which the churches stood. When he reached Calvary Church he went up on the steps, and obeying an instant impulse he kneeled down on the upper step and prayed. Great sobs shook him. They were sobs without tears—sobs that were articulate here and there with groans of anguish and desire. He prayed for his loved church, for the wretched beings in the hell of torment, without God and without hope in the world, for the spirit of Christ to come again into the heart of the church and teach it the meaning and extent of sacrifice.
When he finally arose and came down the steps it was very late. The night was cold, but he did not feel it. He went home. He was utterly exhausted. He felt as if the burden of the place was wearing him out and crushing him into the earth. He wondered if he was beginning to know ever so little what a tremendous invitation that was: "Come unto me all ye that are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest." All! The weary, sinful souls in Milton were more than he could carry. He shrank back before the amazing spectacle of the mighty Burden-Bearer of the sin of all the world, and fell down at his feet and breathed out the words, "My Lord and my God!" before he sank into a heavy sleep.
When the eventful Sunday came he faced the usual immense concourse. He did not come out of the little room until the last moment. When he finally appeared his face bore marks of tears. At last they had flowed as a relief to his burden, and he gave the people his message with a courage and a peace and a love born of direct communion with the Spirit of Truth.
As he went on, people began to listen in amazement. He had begun by giving them a statement of facts concerning the sinful, needy, desperate condition of life in the place. He then rapidly sketched the contrast between the surroundings of the Christian and the non-Christian people, between the working-men and the church-members. He stated what was the fact in regard to the unemployed and the vicious and the ignorant and the suffering. And then with his heart flinging itself out among the people, he spoke the words which aroused the most intense astonishment:
"Disciples of Jesus," he exclaimed, "the time has come when our Master demands of us some token of our discipleship greater than the giving of a little money or the giving of a little work and time to the salvation of the great problem of modern society and of our own city. The time has come when we must give ourselves. The time has come when we must renounce, if it is best, if Christ asks it, the things we have so long counted dear, the money, the luxury, the houses, and go down into the tenement district to live there and work there with the people. I do not wish to be misunderstood here. I do not believe our modern civilization is an absurdity. I do not believe Christ if he were here to-day would demand of us foolish things. But this I do believe He would require—ourselves. We must give ourselves in some way that will mean real, genuine, downright and decided self-sacrifice. If Christ were here He would say to some of you, as He said to the young man, 'Sell all you have and give to the poor, and come, follow me.' And if you were unwilling to do it He would say you could not be His disciples. The test of discipleship is the same now as then; the price is no less on account of the lapse of two thousand years. Eternal life is something which has only one price, and that is the same always.
"What less can we do than give ourselves and all we have to the salvation of souls in this city? Have we not enjoyed our pleasant things long enough? What less would Christ demand of the church to-day than the giving up of its unnecessary luxuries, the consecration of every dollar to His glory and the throwing of ourselves on the altar of His service? Members of Calvary Church, I solemnly believe the time has come when it is our duty to go into the tenement district and redeem it by the power of personal sacrifice and personal presence. Nothing less will answer. To accomplish this great task, to bring back to God this great part of His kingdom, I believe we ought to spend our time, our money, ourselves. It is a sin for us to live at our pleasant ease, in enjoyment of all good things, while men and women and children by the thousand are dying, body and soul, before our very eyes in need of the blessings of Christian civilization in our power to share with them. We cannot say it is not our business. We cannot excuse ourselves on the plea of our own business. This is our first business, to love God and man with all our might. This problem before us calls for all our Christian discipleship. Every heart in this church should cry out this day, 'Lord, what wilt Thou have me to do?' And each soul must follow the commands that he honestly hears. Out of the depths of the black abyss of human want and sin and despair and anguish and rebellion in this place and over the world rings in my ear a cry for help that by the grace of God I truly believe cannot be answered by the Church of Christ on earth until the members of that Church are willing in great numbers to give all their money and all their time and all their homes and all their luxuries and all their accomplishments and all their artistic tastes and all themselves to satisfy the needs of the generation as it looks for the heart of the bleeding Christ in the members of the Church of Christ. Yea, truly, except a man is willing to renounce all that he hath, he cannot be His disciple. Does Christ ask any member of Calvary Church to renounce all and go down into the tenement district to live Christ there? Yes, all.
"My beloved, if Christ speaks so to you to-day, listen and obey. Service! Self! That is what He wants. And if He asks for all, when all is needed, what then? Can we sing that hymn with any Christian honesty of heart unless we interpret it literally?—
"'Were the whole realm of nature mine,That were an offering far too small;Love so amazing, so divine,Demands my soul, my life, my all!'"
It would partly describe the effect of this sermon on Calvary Church to say what was a fact that when Philip ended and then kneeled down by the side of the desk to pray, the silence was painful and the intense feeling provoked by his remarkable statements was felt in the appearance of the audience as it remained seated after the benediction. But the final result was yet to show itself; that result was not visible in the Sunday audience.
The next day Philip was unexpectedly summoned out of Milton to the parish of his old college chum. His old friend was thought to be dying. He had sent for Philip. Philip, whose affection for him was second only to that which he gave his wife, went at once. His friend was almost gone. He rallied when Philip came, and then for two weeks his life swung back and forth between this world and the next. Philip stayed on and so was gone one Sunday from his pulpit in Milton. Then the week following, as Alfred gradually came back from the shore of that other world, Philip, assured that he would live, returned home.
During that ten days' absence serious events had taken place in Calvary Church. Philip reached home on Wednesday. He at once went to the house and greeted his wife and the Brother Man, and William, who was now sitting up in the large room.
He had not been home more than an hour when the greatest dizziness came over him. He sat up so much with his chum that he was entirely worn out. He went upstairs to lie down on his couch in his small study. He instantly fell asleep and dreamed that he was standing on the platform of Calvary Church, preaching. It was the first Sunday of a month. He thought he said something the people did not like. Suddenly a man in the audience raised a revolver and fired at him. At once, from over the house, people aimed revolvers at him and began to fire. The noise was terrible, and in the midst of it he awoke to feel to his amazement that his wife was kneeling at the side of his couch, sobbing with a heartache that was terrible to him; he was instantly wide awake and her dear head clasped in his arms. And when he prayed her to tell him the matter, she sobbed out the news to him which her faithful, loving heart had concealed from him while he was at the bedside of his friend. And even when the news of what the church had done in his absence had come to him fully through her broken recital of it, he did not realize it until she placed in his hands the letter which the church had voted to be written, asking him to resign his pastorate of Calvary Church. Even then he fingered the envelope in an absent way, and for an instant his eyes left the bowed form of his wife and looked out beyond the sheds over to the tenements. Then he opened the letter and read it.