That Saturday night Mr. Ralph Grimsley had placed a curious but conspicuous insertion on the front page of every issue of the Clarion. No one could miss it; it was outlined by a thick wavy border, calculated to catch the most indifferent eye.
“The Reverend Mr. Joseph Haas, prominent and respected minister of the First Lutheran Church of Andersburg, will give a sermon on a most vital subject at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. It is believed that this sermon is so important, not only to the people of Andersburg, but also to all the American people, that the Clarion urges everyone, irrespective of religious denomination, to hear this sermon, and attend the services.”
Nothing like this had ever been written in the Clarion before, and it aroused immense curiosity and speculation. It was known that Mr. Grimsley had only a cavalier courtesy for Mr. Haas, and that he often spoke of him lightly as “our gilded minister.” Everyone said, after reading this item, that the Reverend Mr. Haas must indeed have something of significance to say. Otherwise, Mr. Grimsley would not have inserted the notice.
Consequently, though it was a hot August Sunday, so sultry that one could hardly breathe, and with a blazing sky ominously piled, in the east, with thunderheads, the big white church began to fill as early as half-past nine. Family pews, usually less than half-filled even on religious holidays, soon became congested with the stiff white skirts and shirtwaists and white gloves and big straw hats of the women, and the formal, hot black figures of their husbands.
The ushers had never seen anything like it. There were folding seats tucked away in store-rooms, dusty from disuse. The ushers, by quarter to ten, were sweatingly scurrying to these store-rooms, catching up dust-cloths from closets, and hastily wiping off the chairs, which were to be placed at the rear of the church, and even in the side aisles. At five minutes to ten even these chairs were filled, and a crowd was hovering at the great open doors, looking in vain for seats. The sun poured in through the stained-glass windows, poured in through the doors. Palm-leaf fans made a soft rustling in the decorously murmurous quiet, and could be heard even above the soft chords of the organ. The church was alive with moving hats and heads; the heat was so great that the perfume of the late roses set in vases near the altar could be detected even in the last pews, and added to the general discomfort. But everyone was excited, everyone crowded up against his neighbor. Not only was practically every member present, but it was obvious that members of other churches were also attending, either as guests of members or just seating themselves at random in the plebeian pews without family plates.
The service began; the choir, obviously excited themselves, were unable to control the tremors in their politely trained voices. But this only added to the momentousness of the occasion. The worshippers stood up, rustling, sat down with louder rustlings, at the proper intervals. The church was tumultuous with a thunder of responses; the brittle sound of the leaves of prayer-books was like the sound of a summer wind.
Charles had brought his son, Jimmy. He was surprised to see his brother Jochen enter the family pew, not only with Isabel, but with his three daughters, Geraldine, May, and Ethel. Jochen did not particularly like Mr. Haas. He had been candid in his opinion that Mr. Haas was “a big, affable rabbit, who never said anything.” But Jochen had come. It was apparent that he was annoyed, but it was also apparent that he was curious. He shot Charles a rather sharp glance, nodded, seated himself pompously. This was all foolishness, his meaty shoulders and stiff neck declared. Phyllis had come; she sat near Isabel, all in white. She gave Charles a faintsmile; her eyes, he saw, were very serious. She understood. But then, Phyllis always understood everything.
The supreme, paralyzing surprise occurred when Friederich Wittmann arrived just after the service had commenced. Charles, Jochen, Isabel, and Phyllis, stared with round-eyed disbelief. Friederich, surlily ignoring all his relatives, crowded roughly beside his niece Ethel, who regarded him blankly, her mouth open. Friederich was as untidy and dusty as always. Only Charles noticed that he was grimly defiant, that his small brown eyes glittered. He did not open a prayer-book; he did not rise when the others rose. He just sat there, thin arms folded across his chest, glaring at the minister.
Jochen leaned across his wife and sister-in-law and whispered to Charles, underneath the music of the choir, and the responses of the people: “Well, I’ll be damned!” Charles smiled slightly, spoke the next response louder. Friederich was not seen to blink as he waited for the minister to begin his sermon. This was his first appearance since the funeral of his father, and now neighbors began to notice him and to whisper behind fans and prayer-books. Friederich ignored them, also, with gigantic contempt.
Charles was uneasy. He was ashamed of his brother’s untidy clothing, his soiled collar, his dirty cuffs, his wrinkled tie. Then he was more ashamed of his conservative shame. Why had Friederich come? Did he have the slightest idea of what the subject of the service would be? Charles was positive that only he and the minister knew. He hoped that Friederich would not create any disturbance. If necessary Jochen and he could suppress Friederich, even if Jochen might be violently antagonistic to the sermon.
Mr. Haas’ appearance had newly excited the people. Usually he wore a bland sweet expression, full of holiness and gravity, with perhaps a genial twinkle of the eye above it all. He always conducted the services in a most urbane fashion, big and handsome and contained in his august black robes. But now he exuded a tenseness and subdued passion never seen before. He was very pale; he looked older, and very tired, but also very determined. His voice did not quaver; it was very quiet, penetrating, and thoughtful. For the first time since Charles could remember, he was the priest, militant, austere, and firm.
But he is afraid, thought Charles, with a profound shame. He will speak out of his fortitude and his anger and his justice. He will do it all, no matter the consequences to himself; he will not temper his speech; he will speak outright. But still, he is afraid. How terrible it is for a priest to be fearful, not for, but of, his flock.
Mr. Haas held several pamphlets in his hands. The last chords of the organ died away. Now there was a great hush in the church. Mr. Haas looked at his people for a long moment or two. Then Charles saw that the minister was praying; his eyes did not leave the crowded faces below him, but his mouth moved soundlessly.
Then, all at once, Charles saw that Mr. Haas was no longer afraid. He began to read, quietly but sonorously. He turned the pages of the pamphlets, betraying no contempt. His voice was dispassionate. He read excerpt after excerpt, neutrally. The people listened, with eyes and ears intent upon the speaker. They leaned forward, not to miss a word. Some, believing they knew in advance what Mr. Haas would say about these pamphlets, nodded meaningly, smiled maliciously. Charles saw the polite hatred on their faces. Wait, he thought, grimly.
The feeling of drama grew in the church, an almost unbearable tension.
Then, one by one, Mr. Haas let the pamphlets drop to the floor. He moved slightly, and stood upon them. The malicious smiles, here and there, faded, were replaced by frowns, or blankness. Friederich, who had sat motionless, stirred.
Now there was silence in the church. Mr. Haas was no longer speaking. His hands were on the edge of the pulpit. He was leaning on them heavily. He surveyed the people, as if studying them, measuring them, commanding them.
“You have heard me read hatred in this church,” said Mr. Haas, and now his voice, breaking the silence, began to mount. “You have heard me read lies and all viciousness and cruelty. You have heard me read the manifesto of the enemy.
“I have quoted the words of the secret enemy in ambush. I have had to profane the sanctity of this Church with the ugly cries of the wicked and the debased, those who would set a man against his brother, a nation against other nations, a people against their Lord and their Savior. You have heard me read the program of murder.”
He paused. “There are some among you, I know, who will think I speak extravagantly, and that I ought not to have given any attention to these foul things upon which I stand. You are good people, reasonable, tolerant, just But you are blind, in spite of this.
“There are many here who would never believe falsehood, and would refuse to hate. But in the end, when hatred becomes widespread, the good are caught in the whirlwind, and they, too, are destroyed by the enemy. In truth, the good are the first victims of the enemy, for evil cannot exist in the presence of virtue.
“We are threatened, all of us, good, bad, and indifferent, by the murderers who have written and issued these pamphlets. There is not a church anywhere, a synagogue, which is not in jeopardy. There is not a man of God, a faithful man, a kind man, a man of integrity, who does not stand in dreadful danger today, this last Sunday of August, in the year of Our Lord 1913.”
Again, he paused. Very slowly, and carefully, Charles turned his head and scanned the church. He saw all those faces, very clearly, now, in the brilliant light that streamed through the windows and the doors. He saw moved faces, thoughtful and concerned, faces full of sternness and disgust, dismayed faces, frightened and confused faces. He saw ashamed faces, bent aside and embarrassed, and for these he was more thankful than for all the others. And then, here and there, like sores, like spots of blight, he saw ridiculing or malevolent faces, faces full of hate, defiantly sneering.
The palm-leaf fans were held in petrified hands. No one moved. It was so quiet that everyone could hear the minister draw a long and exhausted breath.
He said: “To set a man against his neighbor, his brother, is an unpardonable thing before the face of God. The Roman Catholic Church has its list of the seven deadly sins, but the deadliest of all sins is hatred, for it not only injures the hated but it destroys the soul of the hater. It sets him apart from his God. It puts him outside the pale of humanity. It brands him with the stigmata of beasthood.
“It is not fashionable, any longer, to believe in a personal devil, just as it is becoming fashionable in some ‘advanced’ quarters to smile at the idea of a personal God. But there is indeed a personal devil. Each man who hates is that personal devil. Evil has a way, in this world, of often being more powerful than good. It can reach wider, and it can strike deeper. The supreme terror, hatred, has emptied more churches, devastated more cities, murdered more multitudes, killed more innocents, and evoked more tears and mourning, than the black plague and all the plagues put together. Why this is so I do not understand completely, but I feel it is because it is an evil more intolerable to God than any other evil, and one He will never countenance or forgive. There is no mercy for it, for it is without mercy.”
Slowly, he let his eyes roam over the frozen rows of the people. Sternly and accusingly, he picked out the faces that jeered at him silently and malignantly.
His voice rose higher, rang back from the walls:
“It has been suggested to me that this present wave of hatred is organized for a sinister and hidden purpose. The design is as yet dark to me. I pray to Almighty God that it will never be revealed to any of us, that it will fall apart impotently before its perpetrators kill us.
“Let me repeat to you the words of William Penn, the great founder of our State: ‘Those people who are not governed by God will be ruled by tyrants.’
“Those who hate are not governed by God. They are in danger of tyrants, or they are the potential tyrants. The enemy of God.”
Mr. Haas lifted up his hands in a gesture of simple but terrible warning:
“Those of you who are the enemy—search your hearts. And may God have mercy upon your souls before it is too late.”
The choir’s voice rolled out into the church, hushed and portentous. It swelled to the ceiling. Mr. Haas stood there, alone, shaken and white, but still indomitable. Then his eyes met those of Charles.
Charles did not look at his relatives. Usually, there were hushed greetings in the aisles when the services were finished, and the people left the church. But no one spoke; hardly anyone bowed. Gravely, and silently, all streamed out into the hot sunlight. Charles went down the walk with his son. Then, halfway down, he stood and waited.
Jochen was red-faced with rage. He came up to Charles and exploded loudly: “Well! Of all the outrageous performances! The minister of a church, our church! My God! There’s nothing for him to do now but resign, of course—”
“Why?” asked Charles, blandly.
“Why?” cried Jochen, disbelievingly. A number of Charles’ friends, knowing him as the President of the Board, were gathering about him, listening.
“I’m shocked, shocked to the heart. It was disgusting,” said Isabel, putting her hand to her breast as if faint. “How dared he talk like that in a church?”
“Why?” repeated Charles.
Now he saw Friederich coming towards him, and he watched him come. Jochen was clamoring again, Isabel was incredulous, Phyllis was silent. But Charles saw only Friederich.
“So,” said Friederich, significantly. All the muscles in his face were tremulous with fury. “That’s your minister, is it? That’s the man you helped appoint, is it?”
“Yes, ‘it’ is,” said Charles. He kept his voice down. More and more people were gathering about the family group now. “I am proud to say he is our minister.”
Jochen turned to Friederich. “He’s ‘proud,’ he says. You heard him.”
Charles looked at Friederich. “I think Mr. Haas hit home. What do you think, Fred? See, there are our friends, listening. They want to hear what you have to say.”
No one spoke, not even the blustering Jochen. All looked at Friederich, and all, including the increasing group about the family, looked at him. He saw them, waiting. His eyelids began to twitch; he clenched his fists. His stare was one glaze of hatred as it fixed itself upon Charles.
“You come so seldom to this church, Fred,” said Charles, after he had let Friederich’s silence become significant. “We’d like your opinion. Well?”
Jochen opened his mouth. Then he closed it again.
Never had the nervous Friederich been so still. Now Charles detected fear in him, and crafty apprehension, as well as hatred. His sallow skin whitened.
Then, without a word he turned, pushed his way violently through the considerable and increasing crowd about the Wittmanns, and rapidly moved down the walk. All saw him go. People stopped everywhere to look after him, and then to look at Charles. Many joined the crowd, frowning and hesitant.
Charles saw several of the officers of the church among the men. One said, seriously: “Your brother Fred, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
Mr. Schweitzer hesitated. “Strong language, wasn’t it? Right for a church sermon, Charlie?”
Charles said: “Do you think a minister shouldn’t point out evil to his people, and warn them against it? Do you think he shouldn’t imitate Christ?”
Mr. Snyder said, doubtfully: “Well, I don’t know, Charlie. After all, maybe what was in those pamphlets is true. I don’t know. Don’t think I’m bigoted, Charlie. Some of my best friends—”
“Are Catholics,” Charles said, quickly. He smiled. He glanced at his fellow officers. They had immense respect for him. “I think we should give him a vote of gratitude, don’t you?” added Charles.
Jochen, still uneasy, still puzzled, at what had transpired between Charles and Friederich, said angrily: “I think we should ask him to resign. That performance was disgraceful.”
“We go to church to hear of spiritual matters,” said Isabel.
Phyllis spoke for the first time. “And evil has nothing to do with the destruction of the human spirit?” she asked gently.
Isabel glanced at her, haughtily. “I really don’t understand you, Phyllis. But I hardly think this is the time or the place to discuss this very serious matter. Jochen, shall we go?”
She put her hand on Jochen’s arm. He looked about him. “I’m not an officer of this church. But if that man remains here I’ll go to another church, where there’s some respect for—”
“For what?” asked Charles. “Respect for convention? Is our minister to stand in his pulpit and congratulate us for the ‘nice’ people we certainly are not? Dare he never call his soul his own, and act with his conscience, or speak the truth as he sees it? Dare he never call his people what they need to be called, or warn them? Is a minister a minister, or a panderer to our high opinion of ourselves?”
He stood there, stolid and braced, his legs apart, his face flushed and quietly aroused.
Mr. Schweitzer said: “When you put it that way, Charlie, of course—”
Mr. Snyder said: “I guess you’re right, Charlie.” He remembered that Charles had signed a large note for him a year ago, when his hardware business was tottering.
Jochen glared at them. They were smiling at his brother. “I leave this church,” he said, sullenly.
“Good,” said Charles. “Perhaps you’ll be able to find a church where the minister is so afraid of his people that his church is half empty. Plenty of room to move around, Joe. No crowding in the pews. And no one, of course, of any importance.”
Isabel flung up her head grandly. “You misunderstood Jochen, Charles,” she said, blushing with irritation. “He is naturally perturbed.”
Jochen walked away with her, muttering. Isabel’s head was high.
Charles surveyed his officers. They were all small business or professional men. “If anyone wants to leave this church, that is his privilege. But news gets around in this town. And there are quite a number of Catholics here, too, and more coming all the time. It might hurt some of us if the Catholics learned we left this church, or persecuted our minister for defending their rights as Americans.”
One of the officers laughed half-heartedly. “And it might annoy our Protestant customers to find out we didn’t.”
Charles said: “I don’t think so. You haven’t much respect for your fellow Protestants when you say that, Johnnie. We aren’t all liars or hypocrites or haters, you know. Some of us are quite decent people. Or don’t you think so?”
“Still, I think the sermon was, well, sensational,” put in Mr. Schweitzer, confused.
“Truth usually is,” said Charles.
He went away with Jimmy. Jimmy said, softly: “You had a hand in that, didn’t you, Dad? I saw you look at Mr. Haas.”
Charles laughed a little. He began to bow to the ladies, greeted their husbands. They watched him closely. Then they were relieved. If Charles Wittmann, so dependable, so important, so respected, approved of Mr. Haas’ sermon, then it followed that all respectable people should approve of it, also. Certainly, one did not wish to be classed with those whom Mr. Haas had called “outside the pale of humanity.” Charles began to hear approbatory comments upon the sermon, meant for his ears.
Very simple people, he thought. Most of us mean well. Very few of us rascals. It only needs a man like Haas to show us the way. But how many are there, like him? Men who are not afraid of their Boards, and the women?
He said to Jimmy: “Don’t let your imagination run away with you, son. Perhaps Mr. Haas just decided to have a little courage, that’s all.” He added: “Not even the haters will leave the church. It would make them so conspicuous. And besides, it’s Andersburg’s ‘society’ church!”