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Crucifixion of Philip Strong

<h2 id="id00545" style="margin-top: 4em">CHAPTER XII.</h2> In the morning Philip knocked at his guest's door to waken him for breakfast. Not a sound could be heard within. He waited a little while and then knocked again. It was as still as before. He opened the door softly and looked in. To his amazement there was no one there. The bed was made up neatly, everything in the room was in its place, but the strange being who had called himself "Brother Man" was gone. Philip exclaimed, and his wife came in. "So our queer guest has flown! He must have been very still about it; I heard no noise. Where do you suppose he is? And who do you suppose he is?" "Are you sure there ever was such a person, Philip? Don't you think you dreamed all that about the 'Brother Man'?" Mrs. Strong had not quite forgiven Philip for his sceptical questioning of the reality of the man with the lantern who had driven the knife into the desk. "Yes, it's your turn now, Sarah. Well, if our Brother Man was a dream he was the most curious dream this family ever had. And if he was crazy he was the most remarkable insane person I ever saw." "Of course he was crazy. All that he said about our living so extravagantly." "Do you think he was crazy in that particular?" asked Philip, in a strange voice. His wife noticed it at the time, but its true significance did not become real to her until afterward. He went to the front door and found it was unlocked. Evidently the guest had gone out that way. The heavy storm of the night had covered up any possible signs of footsteps. It was still snowing furiously. He went into his study for the forenoon as usual, but he did very little writing. His wife could hear him pacing the floor restlessly. About ten o'clock he came downstairs and declared his intention of going out into the storm to see if he couldn't settle down to work better. He went out and did not return until the middle of the afternoon. Mrs. Strong was a little alarmed. "Where have you been all this time, Philip?—in this terrible storm, too! You are a monument of snow. Stand out here in the kitchen while I sweep you off." Philip obediently stood still while his wife walked around him with a broom, and good-naturedly submitted to being swept down, "as if I were being worked into shape for a snow man," he said. "Where have you been? Give an account of yourself." "I have been seeing how some other people live. Sarah, the Brother Man was not so very crazy, after all. He has more than half converted me." "Did you find out anything about him?" "Yes, several of the older citizens here recognized my description of him. They say he is harmless and has quite a history; was once a wealthy mill-owner in Clinton. He wanders about the country, living with any one who will take him in. It is a queer case; I must find out more about him. But I'm hungry; can I have a bite of something?" "Haven't you had dinner?" "No; haven't had time." "Where have you been?" "Among the tenements." "How are the people getting on there?" "I cannot tell. It almost chokes me to eat when I think of it." "Now, Philip, what makes you take it so seriously? How can you help all that suffering? You are not to blame for it?" "Maybe I am for a part of it. But whether I am or not, there the suffering is. And I don't know as we ought to ask who is to blame in such cases. At any rate, supposing the fathers and mothers in the tenements are to blame themselves by their own sinfulness, does that make innocent children and helpless babes any warmer or better clothed and fed? Sarah, I have seen things in these four hours' time that make me want to join the bomb-throwers of Europe almost." Mrs. Strong came up behind his chair as he sat at the table eating, and placed her hand on his brow. She grew more anxious every day over his growing personal feeling for others. It seemed to her it was becoming a passion with him, wearing him out, and she feared its results as winter deepened and the strike in the mills remained unbroken. "You cannot do more than one man, Philip." she said with a sigh. "No, but if I can only make the church see its duty at this time and act the Christlike way a great many persons will be saved." He dropped his knife and fork, wheeled around abruptly in his chair, and faced her with the question, "Would you give up this home and be content to live in a simpler fashion than we have been used to since we came here?" "Yes," replied his wife, quietly, "I will go anywhere and suffer anything with you. What is it you are thinking of now?" "I need a little more time. There is a crisis near at hand in my thought of what Christ would require of me. My dear, I am sure we shall be led by the spirit of Truth to do what is necessary and for the better saving of men." He kissed his wife tenderly and went upstairs again to his work. All through the rest of the afternoon and in the evening, as he shaped his church and pulpit work, the words of the "Brother Man" rang in his ears, and the situation at the tenements rose in the successive panoramas before his eyes. As the storm increased in fury with the coming darkness, he felt that it was typical in a certain sense of his own condition. He abandoned the work he had been doing at his desk, and, kneeling down at his couch, he prayed. Mrs. Strong, coming up to the study to see how his work was getting on, found him kneeling there and went and kneeled beside him, while together they sought the light through the storm. So the weeks went by and the first Sunday of the next month found Philip's Christ message even more direct and personal than any he had brought to his people before. He had spent much of the time going into the working-men's houses. The tenement district was becoming familiar territory to him now. He had settled finally what his own action ought to be. In that action his wife fully concurred. And the members of Calvary Church, coming in that Sunday morning, were astonished at the message of their pastor as he spoke to them from the standpoint of modern Christ. "I said a month ago that the age in which we live demands a simpler, less extravagant style of living. I did not mean by that to condemn the beauties of art or the marvels of science or the products of civilization. I merely emphasized what I believe is a mighty but neglected truth in our modern civilization—that if we would win men to Christ we must adopt more of his spirit of simple and consecrated self-denial. I wish it to be distinctly understood as I go on that I do not condemn any man simply because he is rich or lives in a luxurious house, enjoying every comfort of modern civilization, every delicacy of the season, and all physical desires. What I do wish distinctly understood is the belief which has been burned deep into me ever since coming to this town, that if the members of this church wish to honor the Head of the Church and bring men to believe him and save them in this life and the next, they must be willing to do far more than they have yet done to make use of the physical comforts and luxuries of their homes for the blessing and Christianizing of this community. In this particular I have myself failed to set you an example. The fact that I have so failed is my only reason for making this matter public this morning. "The situation in Milton to-day is exceedingly serious. I do not need to prove it to you by figures. If any business man will go through the tenements he will acknowledge my statements. If any woman will contrast those dens with her own home, she will, if Christ is a power in her heart, stand in horror before such a travesty on the sacred thought of honor. The destitution of the neighborhood is alarming. The number of men out of work is dangerous. The complete removal of all sympathy between the Church up here on this street, and the tenement district is sadder than death. O my beloved!"—Philip stretched out his arms and uttered a cry that rang in the ears of those who heard it and remained with some of them a memory for years—"these things ought not so to be! Where is the Christ spirit with us? Have we not sat in our comfortable houses and eaten our pleasant food and dressed in the finest clothing and gone to amusements and entertainments without number, while God's poor have shivered on the streets, and his sinful ones have sneered at Christianity as they have walked by our church doors? "It is true we have given money to charitable causes. It is true the town council has organized a bureau for the care and maintenance of those in want. It is true members of Calvary Church, with other churches at this time, have done something to relieve the immediate distress of the town. But how much have we given of ourselves to those in need? Do we reflect that to reach souls and win them, to bring back humanity to God and the Christ, the Christian must do something different from the giving of money now and then? He must give a part of himself. That was my reason for urging you to move this church building away from this street into the tenement district, that we might give ourselves to the people there. The idea is the same in what I now propose. But you will pardon me if first of all I announce my own action, which I believe is demanded by the times and would be approved by our Lord." Philip stepped up nearer the front of the platform and spoke with an added earnestness and power which thrilled every hearer. A part of the great conflict through which he had gone that past month shone out in his pale face and found partial utterance in his impassioned speech, especially as he drew near the end. The very abruptness of his proposition smote the people into breathless attention. "The parsonage in which I am living is a large, even a luxurious dwelling. It has nine large rooms. You are familiar with its furnishings. The salary this church pays me is $2,000 a year, a sum which more than provides for my necessary wants. What I have decided to do is this: I wish this church to reduce this salary one-half and take the other thousand dollars to the fitting up the parsonage for a refuge for homeless children, or for some such purpose which will commend itself to your best judgment. There is money enough in this church alone to maintain such an institution handsomely, and not a single member of Calvary suffer any hardship whatever. I will move into a house nearer the lower part of the town, where I can more easily reach after the people and live more among them. That is what I propose for myself. It is not because I believe the rich and the educated do not need the gospel or the church. The rich and the poor both need the life more abundantly. But I am firmly convinced that as matters now are, the church membership through pulpit and pew must give itself more than in the later ages of the world it has done for the sake of winning men. The form of self-denial must take a definite, physical, genuinely sacrificing shape. The Church must get back to the apostolic times in some particulars and an adaptation of community of goods and a sharing of certain aspects of civilization must mark the church membership of the coming twentieth century. An object lesson in self-denial large enough for men to see, a self-denial that actually gives up luxuries, money, and even pleasures—this is the only kind that will make much impression on the people. I believe if Christ was on earth he would again call for this expression of loyalty to him. He would again say, 'So likewise whosoever he be of you that forsaketh not all that he hath, he cannot be my disciple?' "All this is what I call on the members of this church to do. Do I say that you ought to abandon your own houses and live somewhere else? No. I can decide only for myself in a matter of that kind. But this much I do. Give yourselves in some genuine way to save this town from its evil wretchedness. It is not so much your money as your own soul that the sickness of the world needs. This plan has occurred to me. Why could not every family in this church become a savior to some other family, interest itself in the other, know the extent of its wants as far as possible, go to it in person, let the Christian home come into actual touch with the unchristian, in short, become a natural savior to one family. There are dozens of families in this church that could do that. It would take money. It would take time. It would mean real self-denial. It would call for all your Christian grace and courage. But what does all this church membership and church life mean if not just such sacrifice? We cannot give anything to this age of more value than our own selves. The world of sin and want and despair and disbelief is not hungering for money or mission-schools or charity balls or state institutions for the relief of distress, but for live, pulsing, loving Christian men and women, who reach out live, warm hands, who are willing to go and give themselves, who will abandon, if necessary, if Christ calls for it, the luxuries they have these many years enjoyed in order that the bewildered, disheartened, discontented, unhappy, sinful creatures of earth may actually learn of the love of God through the love of man. And that is the only way the world ever has learned of the love of God. Humanity brought that love to the heart of the race, and it will continue so to do until this earth's tragedy is all played and the last light put out. Members of Calvary Church, I call on you in Christ's name this day to do something for your Master that will really show the world that you are what you say you are when you claim to be a disciple of that One who, although he was rich, yet for our sakes became poor, giving up all heaven's glory in exchange for all earth's misery, the end of which was a cruel and bloody crucifixion. Are we Christ's disciples unless we are willing to follow him in this particular? We are not our own. We are bought with a price." When that Sunday service closed, Calvary Church was stirred to its depths. There were more excited people talking together all over the church than Philip had ever seen before. He greeted several strangers as usual and was talking with one of them, when one of the trustees came up and said the Board would like to meet him, if convenient for him, as soon as he was at liberty. Philip accordingly waited in one of the Sunday-school class-rooms with the trustees, who had met immediately after the sermon, and decided to have an instant conference with the pastor. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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