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Laicus; Or, the Experiences of a Layman in a Country Parish, a fiction by Lyman Abbott |
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Chapter 16. Mr. Gear Again |
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_ CHAPTER XVI. Mr. Gear Again OUR Bible class at the Mill has prospered greatly. Mr. Gear was better than his word. The first Sabbath he brought in over a dozen of his young men; the half dozen who were already in the Sabbath School joined us of course. Others have followed. Some of the children of the Mill village gathered curiously about the school-house door from Sunday to Sunday. It occurred to me that we might do something with them. I proposed it to Mr. Gear. He assented. So we invited them in, got a few discarded singing books from the Wheathedge Sabbath-school, and used music as an invitation to more. Mrs. Gear has come in to teach them. There are not over a dozen or twenty all told as yet. If the skating or the sliding is good they are reduced to five or six. Still the number is gradually increasing, and there are enough to constitute the germ of a possible Mission-school. I wish we had a Pastor. He might make something out of it. Mr. Gear adheres to his pledge, and I to mine. We have no theological discussions in the class. Occasionally, indeed pretty frequently, we get on themes on which we are not agreed. But we never debate. Mr. Gear has made several attempts at a theological discussion out of the class, but I have avoided them. I hope he does not think I am afraid of discussion. I am not. But I am convinced that no mere intellectual opinion is a sin. If Mr. Gear is in darkness it is because he neglects some known if not some recognized duty. My work is not to convince him of the error of his opinions. I probably never could do that. And his opinions are not of much consequence. My work is to find out what known duty he is neglecting, and press it home upon his conscience. And so far I have not discovered what it is. He is one of the most conscientious men I ever knew. Yet something is wanting in Mr. Gear. I believe he half thinks so himself. He is mentally restless and uneasy. He seems to doubt his own doubts, and to want discussion that he may strengthen himself in his own unbelief. But still I make no progress. Since that first night I have got no farther into his heart. "John," said Jennie, "I wish you would call and see Mr. Gear. He has not been in church for six or eight weeks." "It is no use," said I, "I have asked him once or twice, and he always says that he is not coming till we get a Pastor. He says he does not care to hear candidates; he does not consider himself a good judge of the article. 'Hardcap,' says he is a ministerial expert, but I am not." "How is he getting on?" said Jennie. "To tell the truth, Jennie, I don't know," I replied. "I don't see that he gets on at all. He seems to be just where he was." Jennie drew a long sigh. "Patience, Jennie, patience," said I, "time works wonders." "No, John," said Jennie, "time never works. It eats, and undermines, and rots, and rusts, and destroys. But it never works. It only gives us an opportunity to work." Perhaps Jennie is right. Perhaps we expect time to work for us, when time is only given us that we may work. "Besides," said Jennie, "there is that volume of Theodore Parker's sermons which you borrowed of him the other day, you have never returned it." No! And I had never read it. Our theme in Bible class had touched on prayer. After the class Mr. Gear had tried to get me into a theological discussion about prayer. I had been silent as to my own views, but had asked him for his. And he had handed me this volume in reply. It contained a sermon by Theodore Parker on the subject which Mr. Gear said expressed his own views exactly. Jennie's remark brought this volume to mind, I took it down from the shelf, opened to the sermon, and read it aloud to Jennie. We both agreed that it was a good sermon, or rather, to speak more accurately, a sermon in which there was good. It is true that in it Mr. Parker inveighed against the orthodox philosophy of prayer; he denied that God could really be influenced or his plans changed. But on the duty of prayer he vehemently insisted. Mere philanthropy and humanity, he said, are not religion. There must also be piety. The soul must live in the divine presence; must inhale the Spirit of God; must utter its contrition, its weaknesses, its wants, and its thanks-givings to its Heavenly Father. That evening's reading suggested a thought to me. The next evening I started for Mr. Gear's to try if it were time, and to try the practicability of the plan it had developed in my mind. Mr. Gear welcomed me cordially. Mrs. Gear went off almost immediately on pretence of putting the children to bed, and left us two alone together. I opened the conversation by handing her husband the volume of sermons and thanking him for it. "What do you think of the sermon?" said he. "I liked a great deal of it very much indeed," said I. "I believe you told me that you liked it." "Very much," said he. "I think its one of Theodore Parker's ablest sermons." "And you believe in it?" said I interrogatively. "With all my heart," said he. "Who can believe that the Great Infinite First Cause can be influenced, and his plans changed by the teasing of every one of his insignificant little creatures?" "But the rest of the sermon," said I. "Do you believe that?" Last Sunday Professor Strait preached for us. He preached against what he called humanitarianism. He said it was living without God; that there was very little difference between ignoring God and denying his existence, and that the humanitarians practically ignored him; that they believe only in men. "It is not true," said Mr. Gear, somewhat bitterly. "You can see for yourself that it is not true. Theodore Parker believes in prayer as much as Professor Strait. I don't believe but that he prayed as much." "And you agree with him?" said I, with a little affectation of surprise. "Agree with him, Mr. Laicus!" said he, "of course I do. There can be no true religion without prayer, without piety, without gratitude to God, without faith in Him. Your Church has not the monopoly of faith in God, by any means, that it assumes to have." "And you really believe in prayer?" said I. "Believe in prayer? Why, of course I do. Do you take me for a heathen?" replied he, with some irritation. "And every night," said I, "you kneel down and commend yourself to our Heavenly Father's protection? and every morning you thank him for His watchfulness, and beseech divine strength from Him to meet the temptations of the day; and every day you gather your family about His throne, that you may teach your children to love and reverence the Father you delight to worship?" There was a long pause. Mr. Gear was evidently taken by surprise. He made no answer; I pressed my advantage. "How is it, my friend?" said I. "Well, n--no!" said he, "I can't honestly say that I do." "You believe in prayer, and yet never pray," said I, "is that it?" "It is so much a matter of mere habit, Mr. Laicus," said he, excusingly; "and I never was trained to pray." "All your lifelong," said I, taking no heed of the excuse, "you have been receiving the goodness of God, and you never have had the courtesy to say so much as 'thank you.' All your lifelong you have been trespassing against Him, and never have begged his pardon, never asked his forgiveness. Is it so?" There was a moment's pause. Then he turned on me almost fiercely. "How can I thank him Mr. Laicus," said he "when you say that I do not love him, and cannot love him." "Did I ever say that you do not love God?" said I gently. "Well then," said Mr. Gear, "I say it. There is no use in beating about the bush. I say it. I honor him, and revere him, and try to obey him, but I do not particularly love him. I do not know much about him. I do not feel toward him as I want my children to feel toward me. What would you have me do Mr. Laicus? Would you have me play the hypocrite? God has got flatterers enough. I do not care to swell their number." "I would have you honest with him as you are with me," I replied. "I would have you kneel down, and tell him what you have told me; tell him that you do not know him, and ask him that you may; tell him that you do not love him and ask him that you may." "You orthodox people," said he, "say that no man can come to God with an unregenerate heart; and mine is an unregenerate heart. At least I suppose so. I have been told so often enough. You tell us that no man can come that has not been convicted and converted. I have never suffered conviction or experienced conversion. I cannot cry out to God, "God be merciful to me a sinner." For I don't believe I am a sinner. I don't pretend to be perfect. I get out of temper now and then. I am hard on my children sometimes, was on Willie to-night, poorly fellow. I even rip out an oath occasionally. I am sorry for that habit and mean to get the better of it yet. But I can't make a great pretence of sorrow that I do not experience." "You have lived," said I, "for over thirty years the constant recipient of God's mercies and loving kindnesses, and never paid him the poor courtesy of a thank you. You have trespassed on his patience and his love in ways innumerable through all these thirty years, and never said so much as I beg pardon. And now you can look back upon it all and feel no sorrow. I am sorry if it is so, Mr. Gear. But if it is, it need not keep you from your God. You can be at least as frank with him as you have been with me. You can tell him of your indifference if you can not tell him of your penitence or your love." There was a pause. "You believe in prayer," I continued. "You are indignant that I suspected you of disbelief; and yet you never pray. Are you not living without God; is it not true of you that 'God is not in all your thoughts?'" He was silent. "Will you turn over a new leaf in your lifebook?" said I. "Will you commence this night a life of prayer?" He shook his head very slightly, almost imperceptibly. "I will make no promises," said he. But still he spoke more to himself than to me. "Mr. Gear," said I, "is it not evident that it is no use for you and me to discuss theology? It is not a difference of doctrine that separates us. Here is a fundamental duty; you acknowledge it, you assert its importance, but you have never performed it; and now that your attention is called to it you will not even promise to fulfil it in the future." "Mr. Laicus," said he, "I will think of it. Perhaps you are right. I have always meant to do my duty, if my duty was made clear. Perhaps I have failed, failed possibly in a point of prime importance. I do not know. I am in a maze. I believe there is a knowledge of God that I do not possess, a love of God that I do not experience. I believe in it because I believe in you M. Laicus, and yet more because I believe in my wife. But may be it will come in time. Time works wonders." My very words to Jennie. And Jennie's answer was mine to him. "Time never works Mr. Gear. It eats, and undermines, and rots, and rusts, and destroys. But it never works. It only gives us an opportunity to work." And so I came away. _ |
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