SHEPHERD OF A DIVIDED FLOCK
On my return from Europe, as I have said, I t ook up immediately and most buoyantly the work of my new parish. My previous occupation of various pulpits, whether long or short, had always been in the role of a substitute. Now, for the first time, I had a church of my own, and was to stand or fall by the record made in it. The ink was barely dry on my diploma from the Boston Theological School, and, as it happened, the little church to which I was called was in the hands of two warring factions, whose battles furnished the most fervid interest of the Cape Cod community. But my in- e xperience disturbed me not at all, and I was bliss- f ully ignorant of the division in the congregation.
So I entered my new field as trustfully as a child enters a garden; and though I was in trouble from the beginning, and resigned three times in startling succession, I ended by remaining seven years.
My appointment did not cause even a lull in the warfare among my parishioners. Before I had crossed the threshold of my church I was made to realize that I was shepherd of a divided flock.
Exactly what had caused the original breach I never learned; but it had widened with time, until it seemed that no peacemaker could build a bridge large enough to span it. As soon as I arrived in East Dennis each faction tried to pour into my ears its bitter criticisms of the other, but I made and consistently followed the safe rule of refusing to listen to either side, I announced publicly that I w ould hear no verbal charges whatever, but that if my two flocks would state their troubles in writing I would call a board meeting to discuss and pass upon them. This they both resolutely refused to do (it was apparently the first time they had ever agreed on any point); and as I steadily declined to listen to complaints, they devised an original method of putting them before me.
During the regular Thursday-night prayer-meet- i ng, held about two weeks after my arrival, and at which, of course, I presided, they voiced their diffi- c ulties in public prayer, loudly and urgently calling upon the Lord to pardon such and such a liar, men- t ioning the gentleman by name, and such and such a slanderer, whose name was also submitted. By the time the prayers were ended there were few un- t arnished reputations in the congregation, and I k new, perforce, what both sides had to say.
The following Thursday night they did the same thing, filling their prayers with intimate and sur- p rising details of one another's history, and I en- d ured the situation solely because I did not know how to meet it. I was still young, and my theo- l ogical course had set no guide-posts on roads as new as these. To interfere with souls in their com- m union with God seemed impossible; to let them continue to utter personal attacks in church, under cover of prayer, was equally impossible. Any course I c ould follow seemed to lead away from my new parish, yet both duty and pride made prompt action neces- s ary. By the time we gathered for the third prayer- m eeting I had decided what to do, and before the services began I rose and addressed my erring chil- d ren. I explained that the character of the prayers at our recent meetings was making us the laughing- s tock of the community, that unbelievers were ridiculing our religion, and that the discipline of the church was being wrecked; and I ended with these words, each of which I had carefully weighed:
``Now one of two things must happen. Either you will stop this kind of praying, or you will re- m ain away from our meetings. We will hold prayer- m eetings on another night, and I shall refuse ad- m ission to any among you who bring personal criti- c isms into your public prayers.''
As I had expected it to do, the announcement created an immediate uproar. Both factions sprang to their feet, trying to talk at once. The storm raged until I dismissed the congregation, telling the members that their conduct was an insult to the Lord, and that I would not listen to either their protests or their prayers. They went unwillingly, but they went; and the excitement the next day raised the sick from their beds to talk of it, and swept the length and breadth of Cape Cod. The following Sunday the little church held the largest attendance in its history. Seemingly, every man and woman in town had come to hear what more I would say about the trouble, but I ignored the whole matter. I preached the sermon I had pre- p ared, the subject of which was as remote from church quarrels as our atmosphere was remote from peace, and my congregation dispersed with expres- s ions of such artless disappointment that it was all I could do to preserve a dignified gravity.
That night, however, the war was brought into my camp. At the evening meeting the leader of one of the factions rose to his feet with the obvious pur- p ose of starting trouble. He was a retired sea-cap- t ain, of the ruthless type that knocks a man down with a belaying-pin, and he made his attack on me in a characteristically ``straight from the shoulder'' f ashion. He began with the proposition that my morning sermon had been ``entirely contrary to the Scriptures,'' and for ten minutes he quoted and mis- q uoted me, hammering in his points. I let him go on without interruption. Then he added:
``And this gal comes to this church and under- t akes to tell us how we shall pray. That's a high- h anded measure, and I, for one, ain't goin' to stand it. I want to say right here that I shall pray as I l ike, when I like, and where I like. I have prayed in this heavenly way for fifty years before that gal was born, and she can't dictate to me now!''
By this time the whole congregation was aroused, and cries of ``Sit down!'' ``Sit down!'' came from every side of the church. It was a hard moment, but I was able to rise with some show of dignity.
I was hurt through and through, but my fighting blood was stirring.
``No,'' I said, ``Captain Sears has the floor. Let him say now all he wishes to say, for it is the last time he will ever speak at one of our meetings.''
