Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote in his Journal in 1847: "We do not live an equal life, but one of contrasts and patchwork, now a little joy, then a sorrow, now a sin, then a generous or brave action." A calendar consists of twelve pages and every four weeks one of them is torn off and wadded up and tossed in the wastebasket. Each of these discarded pages represents a segment of existence, but what has happened to one during its tenure cannot be carelessly discarded seeing that it has been woven into the warp and woof of the pattern of memory by the slamming batten of experience on the loom of life.
Every year that passes accumulates its own assortment of pleasure and pain, of tears and laughter. The ship of life cannot sail for fifty-two weeks in perpetual sunshine. It was that way with 1948 during which I reached my fortieth birthday. The year began as usual with a packed house in Saint Louis on New Year's Eve. It was a time of spiritual enrichment, of the manifestation of a fellowship so precious that when the stroke of midnight signalled the beginning of a new year ushered in with prayer many were reluctant to leave. We clung to one another as a huddle of strangers and pilgrims in a foreign land. The songs we sang were hymns about a home none of us had ever seen, but the tolling of the bells at midnight told us that we were nearer to it than we had ever been before.
In March I went to California for a meeting of three weeks' duration in the new meetinghouse at Compton. I took advantage of the opportunity to speak two nights in Oakland where the saints met in the home of George Robinson, which was surrounded by the campus of the great university. I also spent one night each with the saints in Pomona, Riverside, and West Riverside. I was especially anxious to visit the latter place for several reasons. While there were a few others in the little group of brethren, the majority were members of the Stone and Fiscus families. The latter family had worked its way westward from Indiana, but the Stone family migrated from the Missouri Ozarks. They had purchased a small "ranch" which was well irrigated and all of the married children erected their homes in a small domain over which the aged father and mother exercised a kind of patriarchal sway. It was always a blessing to be associated with them in their kind of isolated splendor. But I was just as eager to meet the little colony of Armenian refugees, a good many of whom I had baptized on a previous visit.
During World War I the Turks, encouraged by the withdrawal of Russian troops from Armenia due to the Bolshevik Revolution, began a reign of terror in Armenia which shocked the world. Whole cities and villages were literally destroyed. The men were murdered, the women raped, and the houses reduced to smoking ruins and heaps of ashes. Before it was all over 800,000 corpses littered the land, most of them shot down or decapitated with the sword, although many perished from hunger and privation. Some of them froze to death in thickets, their bodies becoming food for wild animals.
Those who finally made their way to Riverside, California, had formerly lived in the village of Boethos, near Musa Dagh (the mount of Moses) and when word reached them of the approach of the Turks they fled to the mountains taking with them only what they could hastily tie into a bundle and carry on their backs. After many days and nights when they held the children close to their bodies to keep them from freezing, their supply of food began to run out and they were forced to become scavengers of the forest, eating bark and roots. When it appeared that all hope was gone and they were composing themselves for death they saw a French ship steaming into the disputed waters and they were rescued. In a frenzy of weeping they threw themselves onto the deck and kissed the planks in gratitude.
For some reason, during my meeting at West Riverside, a number of the Armenians began to attend. Since the older ones could not understand English, those who could asked if I would hold a special meeting with an interpreter for the elderly after the close of the regular meeting each night. Rose Philian, a devout Christian, stood by my side and interpreted. Soon several of the Armenian families expressed a desire to be baptized, but the greatest joy came when Grandfather and Grandmother Egarian reached the decision. It was these two, now grown old, who had kept the little band together and given them heart when they wanted to take their lives rather than fall into the hands of the Turks.
When the aged patriarch stood before the members of the Armenian colony and their friends, I said to Rose, "Ask him if he truly believes that Jesus is the one of whom the prophets spoke, and God's Son." In reply he faced his neighbors and spoke at some length in Armenian. I was anxious to know what he was saying, and I can remember the words of the translator as if I had heard them this morning. "He say, I believe Jesus Son of God, that born of virgin, that he die on cross for his sin, and that he buried and raised again third day. He also say Jesus is coming again, and he will see him, and Jesus will take him and he will be with Jesus." When I led the aged man into the water the interpreter stood close and told him what I said. I think I have never seen before or since such weeping for joy as when all surged forward to embrace the old brother and his companion.
It was a great experience to see the Armenian saints again and to eat shish kebab made of lamb and other ingredients. They went all out with their cuisine and I ate a lot of things I could neither spell nor describe. The one thing that really interested me was to talk with them about their traditions related to Noah's ark which had landed on a mountain not too far from where they had been born and grew up.
Some interesting things happened at Compton where I baptized twenty persons, one of whom was Robert T. Hartmann. Bob was a reporter for the Los Angeles Times who later became head of the Times bureau in Rome and finally chief of the Washington Bureau. It was here he became acquainted with Senator Gerald Ford from Michigan and when the latter became president of the United States, Bob became his favorite speechwriter. He married Roberta Sankey with whose parents I was staying in North Long Beach and I came to know him well.
When I baptized him he agreed to become a writer for Mission Messenger. His articles were both powerful and provocative. The first one titled "The Essence of Faith" appeared in the issue for May 1948. It was followed by such pieces as "Suffer Little Children" and "Words to Live By." Finally, after eight months of such varied productions it was decided he would do a regular column called "Views of the News." It began in January 1949 with a story of how Sohn Ryang Won, a Korean Christian, adopted into his family the 24-year-old Communist leader who had slain his two sons. The story went on to tell how Sohn converted the young murderer and his whole family to Christ.
For two years Brother Hartmann furnished an article each month until his promotion and transfer increased his responsibilities. His final article bore the title, "Was Peter in Rome?" I got a bang out of his articles. He had not grown up in the background of our party and he wrote what he thought with a kind of fearless disregard for criticism or consequences. He had a kind of journalistic honesty not too characteristic of a lot of the brethren.
Almost a year before I went to Compton, James Lovell, editor of West Coast Christian wrote me that, in spite of our differences, he thought I would be glad to see him at one of my meetings. We engaged in a brief period of correspondence and discussed some areas of divergency. Neither of us conceded an inch, but it was all in good humor. There was no way of making him angry. When I arrived in Southern California I called him and invited him to visit my meeting and he countered by asking me to a top-level conference at Pepperdine College. I invited J.B. Ruth, one of the elders, to accompany me. When we arrived at the Administration Building we met with Hugh Tiner, the president; Ralph Wilburn of the Bible Department; Wade Ruby of the English Department; Dean Pullias and Jimmie Lovell.
In spite of the criticism I had leveled at the school and its policies, our meeting was conducted with proper decorum. I think George Pepperdine would have approved of the nature of our confrontation. We were reared in the same partisan background and I knew him when he went to Denver from Parsons, Kansas, where I preached for several years with members of his family always in the audience.
I suggested that, in the interest of better relationships, Brother Lovell print three articles in his paper presenting my point of view, while I would present the same number of articles written by one of the faculty members in Mission Messenger. It was agreed this would be a good thing but it never came to pass. Instead, a shake-up occurred, and before too long the president, dean and head of the Bible Department were all gone. Ralph G. Wilburn, who was probably the only real theologian in the group, in the classical sense, went with the Disciples of Christ, where he began teaching at Lexington Theological Seminary. He was selected as a member of the Panel of Scholars which contributed to the restructure program of the Disciples, and gravitated to the Department of Higher Education in Chapman College at Orange, California.
On September 5, 1948, I began a series of meetings in Windsor, Ontario, Canada, which lasted for two weeks. It was an especially pleasurable experience since most of the members were from Scotland and England and I had visited their home congregations abroad. There were two elders -- Adam Bruce from the Slamannan District of Scotland, and William Horrocks from Albert Street congregation in Wigan, England. I stayed with the latter and it was an unforgettable experience. My work opened up a period of endeavors which lasted over a period of several years and resulted in some unique experiences as well as in some outstanding friendships.
One day before I went to Canada I was visited in Saint Louis by the three principal instructors of Midwestern School of Evangelism, located in Ottumwa, Iowa. Donald G. Hunt, Burton W. Barber and James McMorrow drove all the way to deliver to me a personal challenge to debate Burton Barber on the subject of instrumental music at the school. I felt no particular inclination to take time out from a busy life for such a discussion but they were insistent. Hershel Ottwell accompanied me to Ottumwa, and we debated at the school on the nights of October 11, 12, 13. On the final night, after the discussion ended, the five of us met in an upper room and prayed that God would overcome our differences and use our mistakes to His glory. The debate had been serious and pointed, but without a single untoward incident or expression of partisan hostility.
Tragedy struck for us shortly afterwards. Nell's father and mother were returning from an evening meeting at Fredericktown, Missouri, when their automobile was hit by a man who was intoxicated. Her mother was thrown from the car by the impact and her body dragged along until the car turned over. She was taken to Bonne Terre where the skill of the physicians and surgeons saved her and started her on the long, slow road to recovery. On the afternoon of December 13 she was in good spirits when a well-meaning nurse massaged her arm because of soreness. A blood clot was loosened and found its way to the heart. In a few minutes she was gone.
I was at Carrollton, Missouri, in a meeting, when Nell called me and relayed to me the sad news. As soon as I finished the meeting that night I started home. On the third day following I conducted the service of memorial before a large audience. My "second mother" was beloved by hundreds. Nell's father was mayor of the city, to which he was elected for several terms, and the family had earned the respect of the whole community. But it came home to me then what a difference there is in a home when the wife and mother is gone. The Christmas season which had always been one of joy and brightness became a kind of weary experience through which we stumbled with our eyes more often filled with tears than with stars.
In the year that was hastening to a close Brother Zerr had completed the second volume of his commentary which we published. Because we had not disposed of enough of the first one to pay for the second, the cumulative effect of the costs became too much and it appeared that we might have to delay work on the third volume until the other two were paid for. Fortunately for the cause, F.R. Bailey of Chillicothe, Missouri agreed to guarantee the cost of production to the printers so we could proceed on schedule. Eventually we brought out three thousand sets containing six books each, a total of 18,000 volumes, at a cost of about $35,000, not including packaging and postal costs. We sold all of the books.
It was during this year my book A Clean Church was published. I had been thinking about it by day and dreaming about it by night until one afternoon I could no longer stifle the urge to write. I sat down at the dining-table and started. I wrote all afternoon, all night, and until almost noon the next day, driven by an inner compulsion which would not allow me to stop. I was afraid that if I slept the fountain might be turned off and not flow again. When I arose from my chair I could hardly walk, but before me lay a stack of pages representing a complete book. I do not recall making any changes when I typed it up. I learned that brain children are like physical children. They must be conceived before they are brought to the delivery room, but once the time has come, they will be born. I suspect that having the first child is most difficult. I never again wrote another major book as I did that one.
In 1948 we also began an outreach program. Brother Leonard Bilyeu opened up his lovely home in the Florissant Valley for a weekly study of the Word. In three months 55 different persons representing all varieties of religious thought had participated. Encouraged by this I secured the conference room of the public library at Kirkwood and launched a study which was surprisingly well attended. I was not alone in this endeavor, for many brethren, old and young, were catching the vision that the post-war world was seeking for a spiritual foundation. As the year drew to a close I wrote, "The quickest way to lose your life is to try and hold it; the best way to gain your life is to lose it for Jesus' sake."
The year of 1949 was an eventful one historically and personally. On January 20, Harry S. Truman from Missouri was sworn in as President, with Alben W. Barkley as his vice-president. They had been elected November 2 in a stunning upset victory over Thomas E. Dewey and Earl Warren. On April 4 the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO) was sworn into being, and on April 14 the German war crimes trial was ended with the conviction of 19 of 21 former Nazi officials.
We began by dropping the word "Missouri" from the name of the paper. It had long since ceased to be merely a journal recording news from our state and henceforth would be known as Mission Messenger. We coined the slogan "The paper with a mission and a message." We signalled the change by introducing open forums upon such subjects as "The Work of Women in the Church," and "Marriage and Divorce." I published the divergent views in articles and letters exactly as they were written and without editing. It was a new day for fairness and apparently the people liked it. In ninety days we received a thousand new subscriptions. Our writers demonstrated a considerable amount of "unity in diversity," especially since most of them denied there was such a thing.
I rather suspect the year marked a new kind of "high" for our particular segment of the restoration movement. This was reflected in the attendance and enthusiasm shown in the "annual meetings" which had long been a part of our life. Some of these were anniversary gatherings marking the date the congregation had been planted. Others, such as the Labor Day meeting at Hammond, Illinois, were scheduled to take advantage of the freedom from work on holidays. There were 256 at the 39th anniversary meeting at Bonne Terre, Missouri, June 12; 330 at Hartford, Illinois, June 26; 200 at Sullivan, Illinois, July 17; 350 at Richmond, Missouri, July 24; and 452 at Hammond, Illinois, September 5. The latter embraced brethren from 51 congregations in 8 states.
A part of the attendance was due to the presence among us of Albert Winstanley from England. Albert and Jean, with their little son David, a babe in arms, arrived in New York on the liner Queen Mary, on June 20. Nell and her elder sister Nova went to New York to accompany them to Saint Louis, where the stifling heat of the midwest was almost too much for them. Although still a young man, Albert was an excellent student of God's Word, clear and lucid in his thinking, and articulate in his presentation. He visited scores of congregations with Hershel Ottwell as his guide and travel companion. They covered many states. Wherever Albert went, God used him in a marvelous manner and the six months he spent among us seemed to fly.
In September I returned to Windsor, Ontario, for a Bible Study which I taught every night with an average of more than sixty in attendance. On Sunday I spoke to the edification of the saints gathered for the breaking of the bread, and that night proclaimed the good news in the gospel meeting. It was during the study of the Word that I met William Keenan, an atheist and former Communist organizer. He came to my meeting through the influence of a former alcoholic, now a fellow-member of Alcoholics Anonymous. After three nights of attendance at my class they asked me if I could come and talk with them the following day.
I went at 9:00 a.m., and was ushered into the drab quarters, a "bachelor pad" with sparse furnishings. We sat down in the kitchen with its single naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling. There were just three battered chairs and we pulled them up to the table with its chipped enamel top. As we talked an occasional mouse made a foray across the floor to pick up a crumb, dashing back to safety when someone shuffled his feet. I watched a huge cockroach crawling around on a rickety cabinet.
When I requested the privilege to pray the two former alcoholics and I bowed our heads, while the cold autumn rain coursed its way in rivulets down the outside of the unwashed window-panes. I asked William Keenan to tell me where he was and how he had arrived there. It was like opening the flood-gates to allow a long pent-up river of feelings to surge through. He talked for three hours while drinking cup after cup of strong coffee. I sipped a little of it and it tasted like I think varnish remover might taste. At times during the narrative his nervous hands shook until he had to use both of them to lift the cup to his lips.
As a boy he was turned from the Christian faith by a preacher in the Established Church, whom he idolized, and who had formed a boys' club which was the height of his joy in the small English town where he lived. He had resolved to grow up and become a clergyman and devote his life to helping underprivileged children when he discovered that the man he revered was a homosexual and the boys' club was a cover for dealing in seduction. The night after the rector made an indecent proposal to him, he shook and cried all night. The next morning when he tried to tell his quarreling parents who were heading for a divorce they only berated and abused him verbally.
He ran off and ended up in an English city where he was taken into the home of a Communist labor infiltrator. Here he was shown kindness and love. He was treated daily to the idea that religion was a means by which the wealthy exploiters enslaved the sweating masses for their own profit. The term God became a dirty word to his mind. God was the designation of an ogre conjured up in primitive minds. When he was sent to Moscow he already hated God and regarded the Christian faith as a retreat from reality by weak persons. He was trained as an infiltrator of youth groups in the English speaking world, but after several years began to "hit the bottle." He became useless to Moscow and they kicked him out, convinced he would end up in a drunkard's grave. But he had gone to Alcoholics Anonymous and found understanding and compassion, and his friend had brought him to my meetings where we were friendly and kind to him.
What I said that night made sense if there was a God. If not, it was merely a house of straw. I had listened for three hours without interruption. At one o'clock I began the real struggle for the soul of a desperate and destitute man. The minutes ticked away while the rain lessened in force. Three more hours passed, and at four o'clock he said, "That's enough. I believe that God is, and that Jesus Christ is His Son." Just as he said it, the sun broke through for the first time that day and cast a shaft of light across the dingy table where we had been sitting for seven hours. That night I baptized him into the name of the Father and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.
When I arrived back home in Saint Louis there was a letter written on lined notepaper asking if I would come for a series of meetings in Beech Grove, a little Arkansas village clustered around a cotton gin a few miles from Paragould. I assumed that it resulted from my reply to a letter received in March from Herbert Johnson, a humble farmer near Beech Grove. He wrote to encourage me to continue my opposition to the one-man hireling ministry system which was foisting a special clergy caste upon the congregations. I agreed to go to Beech Grove for a meeting in July 1950, if God willed.
In the December 22 issue of Gospel Advocate, John Allen Hudson unleashed a four-column blast against me in an article titled "The Divisive Leadership of W. Carl Ketcherside." In it he used such terms as "Carl's diocese" and "archbishopric." He spoke of my cantankerous spirit and referred to accusations made against me by members of the Sommer family and by Fred Fenton, who once wrote for Mission Messenger and was very complimentary of my efforts, until he dropped out to start a short-lived periodical of his own called Radiant Truth. Brother Hudson made dire predictions of my rising power and influence, and warned that if the brethren listened there would be great changes come about in the churches.
I was amazed when I read the article, not only by its appearance, but by its harsh and caustic tone. I immediately wrote B.C. Goodpasture, the editor, and asked for space to reply to the personal attack upon my motives and integrity. After a number of days had gone by I received a curt reply consisting of four lines in which Brother Goodpasture said that he did not think an article from me would contribute to the peace or well-being of the brotherhood. To this day I cannot figure why Brother Hudson reacted so bitterly in print in an attempt to destroy me unless it was because the British brethren had ignored his letters generally circulated among them urging them not to hear me. Their willingness to hear for themselves, coupled with the coming of Brother Winstanley, was probably more than our brother could take.
As the year of 1949 drew to a close we had just concluded a six-weeks Bible Study on December 6, which brought together capable students from ten states. Many of these were young, being just out of high school, but a goodly number were older men seeking to improve their knowledge so they might render better service as elders of their congregations. The study was greatly enhanced by the presence of Brother Winstanley who contributed much to our spiritual knowledge as well as to our understanding of the work of the brethren in Great Britain. Our hearts were sad as the time drew near for the departure of this little family. Nell and I were especially touched because they had made their home with us. It had been good to have a baby in the house once more.
On Saturday night, December 24, we had a farewell gathering for them. The next day, Christmas, Albert spoke in the morning for the congregation on Manchester Avenue. That night he addressed the Lillian Avenue congregation for the last time. The next day they left us but not before Albert had agreed to contribute an article each month under the heading "As Others See You." His discussion of his impressions of America and of the congregations he visited provided interesting reading for those who had come to love him for his work's sake. Long after he had gone to labor in Tunbridge Wells and Ikeston, the congregations over here continued to pray for him by name. He had drawn us close to those of like precious faith in Great Britain "whom having not seen we loved."
Early in 1950, while in Indiana, I went to the office of the American Christian Review, to discuss our differences with Allen R. Sommer, and Bessie, his sister. Our visit was amicable and gracious, despite the rifts which had occurred in the past. The same afternoon I went to Butler University for a talk with some of the faculty members. I was received in a spirit of courtesy and kindness.
Meanwhile in Arkansas the exact opposite attitude was being manifested toward the little congregation at Beech Grove. When word of the forthcoming meeting was released the machinery of opposition went into high gear. There were two congregations in Paragould, the county seat. The one at Second and Walnut had J.A. McNutt as minister, the one at Seventh and Mueller had Emmett Smith. George W. DeHoff of Murfreesboro, Tennessee, was in a meeting in Paragould when the announcement of my coming was made. He immediately launched an attack against Beech Grove from the pulpit, demanding that they cancel their arrangement with me forthwith.
When the brethren at Beech Grove declined to do this it was decided to bring in reinforcements, and a call was made to Harbert Hooker at Poplar Bluff, Missouri, who had several times held meetings at Beech Grove and was generally well liked. Brother Hooker did not even consult the brethren as to whether they wanted him to come. One of the leaders at Beech Grove found a note in his rural mailbox that Brother Hooker would speak at Beech Grove the next Sunday afternoon and wanted all the members present. It was announced on Sunday morning and all of the members went. Brother Hooker delivered a talk on supporting preachers, then asked everyone to leave except the Beech Grove members.
He told of his deep regret at learning that the brethren were making the saddest mistake of their career in bringing in the worst extremist in the whole United States. He said I was so opposed to women speaking in the church that when a woman wanted to make a confession of faith we took her out on the front porch of our meetinghouses. The brethren asked him if he would sign a statement to that effect so they could go to Saint Louis and investigate. He refused and told them he was not signing anything, but they would be sorry if they did not listen to him. He then shook the dust off his feet and departed.
Two weeks later a preacher showed up on Sunday morning and announced he had been sent to warn the brethren not to go through with their plans for me to come. He warned them I was so liberal I believed in women preachers. After the meeting they "collared him" and told him that either he or Brother Hooker was guilty of falsehood and perhaps both were. He excused himself and fled the scene, and never returned.
Sterl Watson then entered the fray by writing a booklet filled with diatribe under the silly title "Ketcherside and Killebrew Keeled." Fred Killebrew was then working with a small congregation in Senath, Missouri, after having renounced the clergy system while living in Tennessee. It was the intention of Brother Watson to wipe Fred and myself off the map with one swipe. Amazingly, Dr. James D. Bales sent out an endorsement of the book urging all to read it. Actually, it was so wild that we immediately recognized that if we could get it into the hands of brethren it would do more good than anything we could write or say.
Fred Killebrew began to advertise the books and offer them free in his meetings. It was so effective that when he went to Sterl to get a couple of hundred additional copies he refused to let him have them or to tell him where he might secure them.
I feel certain that many of my readers will be inclined to sit in judgment upon me for spending so much time detailing events surrounding one little semi-rural congregation in Arkansas. If I need to justify my own conscience I can do so by recalling that it is in such places the Spirit always works to turn the tide of sectarianism. It cannot be done initially in large metropolitan areas where pride and tradition, those twin evils which oppose all reformation, have entrenched themselves. No one in the restoration movement of which we are heirs, who remembers Washington, Pennsylvania, or Cane Ridge, Kentucky, should ever "despise the day of small things."
The struggle of men to free themselves from the encroachment of a System seeking to destroy their freedom needs to be chronicled so that future generations basking in the warm sun of liberty will not forget the price that was paid to drive the ominous clouds away. And the names of those who warred upon one side or the other need to be engraved on the pillars of history since movements are but men in action. Before I went to Beech Grove, Arkansas, there had gradually developed a kind of super-church mentality which tended to elevate to dominance large congregations whose preachers and elders were promoters and who could control rural congregations and use them as feeder units to enhance their own image.
One if the congregations in Paragould had actually proposed to all of the rural and village churches in the county that they send their finances in to it, and allow them to arrange for a stable of preachers who could be assigned to various places and paid for from the central fund. The argument was used that since the Paragould congregation had elders and many of the smaller places did not, these elders could oversee the preachers and assure that country congregations would hear "better preaching." It is to the eternal credit of the rural congregations that they rejected this blatant attempt to take over their rights and violate their autonomy.
But what a proposed centralized presbytery could not accomplish was then attempted through "area preacher meetings." In such monthly gatherings needs were discussed, plans were devised, and machinery set up to accomplish what a professional clergy wanted to see done. Smaller congregations without preachers on their payroll had no representation. They did not know of the plans until they were already being carried out and they received a letter or visit from someone asking them to send finances to help "bear the burden." Such little places had to submit or be ostracized and castigated for refusal to cooperate in "the work of the Lord."
When W.L. Otty, who lived in Indianapolis, Indiana, heard that I was going to Beech Grove he fired off a letter to the church in Paragould to tell them how to handle the matter. He advised his brethren to assault the ramparts and go in a body to Beech Grove each night. As soon as I finished my message they were to arise and take over and hold another meeting in which they could defeat anything I said. He also recommended that the Paragould brethren publicly withdraw from the two brethren at Beech Grove who had first suggested to the congregation to have me come. By some quirk of the mail service his letter was delivered to the church in Beech Grove instead of to the one in Paragould. One of the brothers whose exclusion was recommended stood up and read it publicly to the saints.
In desperation, the preachers published a notice in Firm Foundation at Austin, Texas, under the heading "Ketcherside Invades the South." It called upon all preachers and members everywhere not to give aid or comfort to the brethren at Beech Grove until they repented of the grievous sin of inviting me to speak to them and renounced me and what I advocated. It was signed by J.A. McNutt and Emmet Smith, among others.
As soon as the notice appeared preachers began to enter the fray. Some called long distance. Others drove to Beech Grove. All frantically urged the brethren to cancel the work before it was too late. Sinclair Slatton, Joe Blue, George Dehoff, G.C. Brewer, W. Curtis Porter, and James D. Bales, were but a few of those who injected themselves into the business of the congregation and vainly tried their hand. The more pressure that was brought to bear from the outside the more determined did the little group become not to be shoved around.
It was about this time I began receiving crank letters from some of the brethren in Paragould. A few of them contained overt threats and implied I might even suffer bodily injury. One said if I did not cancel the meeting and hurry up about it a group of men from all over that section would meet me as "a welcoming committee" and make it so hot for me I would wish I had never come. I sent the letters to the brethren at Beech Grove who called me by telephone to say that it was they who invited me to come and only they had the right to invite me not to come. They told me to come on and pay no attention to letters from the congregations at Paragould or Commissary.
On Saturday, July 15, I went to Beech Grove with Allen Phillips and his good family. They had lived in the vicinity of Lafe, Arkansas, for a number of years and knew most of the saints at Beech Grove. They took their vacation to go with me to help in the meeting and they were a real strength and blessing. I went to the home of Herbert and Ruby Johnson where I was to stay. I have never found the hospitality which they extended to me surpassed. I had not been there an hour until brothers and sisters began to drive in from all around. None of them had ever seen me and they had come to "size me up." They were sincere, humble and unpretentious. It was easy for me to love them every one.
We began the next day under auspicious circumstances. There was a large crowd in the morning and at night the building was filled. The attention was perfect in spite of the heat. On the final night the audience overflowed the building and many could not get in. Everyone came except the preachers. They were conspicuous by their very absence. Always before they rallied to a "big meeting" and were on the front seats. Now they had resolved to lie low and allow me to hold the meeting and after it had all "blown over" they would move back in and straighten the congregation out. When I announced that I would return in six months and conduct a study of the Word for two weeks, open to all in the area, it began to dawn upon them that a boycott would no more serve their purpose than open attack.
The day our meeting began the church in Paragould started one with E.R. Harper, of Abilene, Texas. It was calculated to keep their members away. On the first Sunday morning Brother Harper went on the air and made an attack upon Beech Grove and upon me personally. The next day three of us went in to the station, met with the manager, and requested time in which to reply. It was granted us at the regular station rate. We announced it well in advance and publicized it in the Paragould paper. It is possible we may have had the largest listening audience in the history of the station. We were particularly fortunate in that our program was aired just after the noon news broadcast.
During the week letters were mailed to every boxholder on the rural routes near Beech Grove. They were signed by the elders and preachers at Paragould and demanded that I debate W.L. Totty or Sterl Watson. I read one of the letters from the pulpit and over the radio station and stated I had already debated both men publicly and did not consider either of them a representative man on the issues at hand. I countered by offering to met either N.B. Hardeman, G.C. Brewer, or George Benson, as top men in the college ranks. But the meeting closed without a debate being arranged. In spite of the tension I immersed four souls in the nearby drainage ditch. Two more made public acknowledgment of wrongs and asked to be restored to the active service of the Lord.
When the time came for me to leave, all of us realized that we had simply gone through the first skirmish and the real battle lay ahead. Men like James King, Avery Cunninghan, and Herbert Johnson had been tested by fire for a year. They were ably assisted by a number of others, among whom special mention should be given to Louis Kappelman, Ellis Hots and Franklin Cunningham. Not a person left the congregation, even under pressure from relatives in Paragould. Every time I thought of the brethren as I made my way back to Saint Louis a phrase from Emerson kept ringing in my mind, "Here once the embattled farmers stood, and fired the shot heard round the world."
In August I went to Midland, Texas for a Bible Study which was held in a room at the Air Terminal where so many men had received their flight training during the war. The parachute jumping platforms and the dummy bombs were still in evidence. Our meetings were in Building T-284, which was formerly used for storing ammunition. Here where men had been taught to kill we sought to teach others how to live. From Texas I returned to Windsor, Ontario, where our series was blessed of God and several were immersed into Christ. The congregation was growing in grace and knowledge as well as in number, under the guidance of Adam Bruce and William Horrocks as shepherds. But now there were consecrated younger men such as William Brown and Robert Liles who were developing rapidly.
When I returned from Canada there was a letter urgently requesting me to come to Belfast, North Ireland. I postponed a reply for a few days in order to give thought to all the ramifications involved since I was leading a busy life. While I hesitated another letter arrived pleading that I come. I finally consented to go in February after the annual Saint Louis study and the follow-up meeting at Beech Grove. Our daughter, Sharon Sue, who had recently finished high school and was attending the Gradwohl School of Laboratory Technique agreed to edit the paper during our absence. Jerry would look after the mailing and Nell would continue to take care of the subscription and address files.
Arvel Watts, Ellis Crum and Bob Duncan taught special subjects during the Saint Louis study which reached its conclusion on December 15. Students were in attendance from Kansas, Missouri, Illinois, Indiana, Ohio, Iowa, Colorado and Pennsylvania. We were particularly blessed in having with us two capable black brethren -- Leroy Durley and William Baker.
I arrived back in Beech Grove on January 7, prepared to begin our two weeks of study the next day. The opposition had been busy during the interim. The latest prepared "bomb" was a tract by J.A. McNutt attacking O.C. Dobbs, Sr., of Birmingham, Alabama, and me. I had never met Brother Dobbs but had heard a great deal about him. He was in the first graduating class of the original Alabama Christian College when G.A. Dunn was president. He came away from the school convinced that the gravest threat to the primitive order of things was the growth of the one-man preacher-pastor system.
Brother Dobbs developed a hernia and in order to contain or control it, cut a piece of material from an old automobile tire, out of which he fashioned a truss. The hernia corrected itself with this assistance. This led him to experiment until he invented trusses for various types of hernia after which he created the Dobbs Truss Company to market his product. Since this was prior to the time when surgery was used for the condition, the company soon became international in scope with representatives in the major cities of the world. During the years when the business flourished Brother Dobbs became quite well-to-do. With characteristic enthusiasm he plunged into the fight against the "growing pastor system."
When he learned of the growing storm at Beech Grove he mailed the brethren a bundle of his booklets which they passed out with considerable eagerness. This injected a new political angle into the fracas. It had been previously hinted that I was leading a "Yankee invasion" into one of the strongholds of the "Old South" and bringing in northern doctrine. It was purposely made to appear that I was a "religious carpetbagger." But O.C. Dobbs was from Birmingham, only a little way from where Jefferson Davis had been named President of "The Confederate States of America." He spoke with a southern accent and even wrote with one.
Brother McNutt knew he had to act quickly. He printed a book for general distribution in the area under the heading "Pastoring and Evangelizing." While a lot of it was devoted to trying to patch up what Brother Harper had said and my reply to him on the radio, quite a lot of space was devoted also to Brother Dobbs. He was accused of being one-sided, biased and prejudicial, and also of being "beside himself." Coming from the source it did, Brother Dobbs felt highly complimented and fired off a letter inviting Brother McNutt to a written debate which he would print at his expense.
All of this had kept the interest from waning and when I came for the Bible Study excellent audiences gathered every afternoon and night. We did not dwell on the troublesome issues but concentrated on teaching the Word. One afternoon the class was visited by Brother McNutt and the elders from Paragould. Sterl Watson had been imported from Saint Louis to bolster the cause. As soon as I had finished the lesson he arose and demanded that I debate either Rue Porter, W. Curtis Porter, or G.K. Wallace. I agreed to meet either one or all of them. They asked me to write out propositions and submit them. I did so that week. But they could not agree upon them and the attempt fell flat.
One thing that gave me a great deal of hope was the eagerness of the people to know the Word. At each session we had folk from the community who were not members of the Church of Christ. The leaven of peace seemed to be working and I left feeling that good was being done in spite of outside agitation. Arrangements had been made that when I returned from Ireland I would hold another meeting, if the Lord willed. It was a great prospect!
There was more than one reason why the brethren in Belfast felt that I could serve the cause we loved by coming to North Ireland. For one thing there had been some upsetting things happen during a recent mission conducted by C.E. McGaughey. Brother McGaughey had attempted to persuade those who had previously been immersed upon their faith in Jesus, in various groups, to be baptized again at his hands. The office-bearers of the congregation forbade him to "un-Christianize" those who had lived for Christ for years in order to "re-Christianize" them through his offices.
Brother McGaughey was quite adamant and when he influenced a few members of the Irish Baptist movement to cast their lot with the brethren he insisted that he was going to baptize them "for the remission of sins." The leaders argued that when one is immersed in order to obey God and upon his firm conviction that Jesus was the Messiah and God's Son it was for the remission of sins whether the believers knew it at the time or not. Forgiveness of sins was the design of God for those who were immersed in conformity with His will and not the design of man for being immersed. It was their contention that to immerse those who had previously been immersed, just to make them members of "the Church of Christ" was sectarian in nature and would be what American Baptists had always practiced.
The Irish brethren also resented the padding of reports in American journals of the number of baptisms abroad when, as they said, most of the people had been children of God for years before being taught the way of truth more perfectly and made into statistics by American preachers. The issue came to a head one night when Brother McGaughey had convinced some they should make their calling "safe" by submitting to baptism again. When he announced this at the close of the meeting the elders arose and turned the service over to another brother while they held a conference with the preacher in a rear room. An hour passed by while the congregation sang and praised God, but when another hour was well on its way and the participants in the discussion had not reappeared, the audience was dismissed. The contention behind the scenes continued as the Irish brethren fought to keep from becoming a foreign auxiliary to an American religious movement. Unalterable in their position against re-immersion, the mission of Brother McGaughey ended, but not until some unrest had been created among the saints.
It was felt that if I came to engage in a positive effort it would be a settling influence and have a quieting effect upon the disciples. Too, it was proposed that I do a good deal of evangelistic work, proclaiming the Good News in street meetings and visiting industrial plants for noon meetings with the workers. The brethren were already in the process of leading an effort in a new housing development which had grown up in the suburbs after the Nazi bombers had wrecked a great deal of the city and literally gutted some sections of it.
We had our final prayer together as a family around the breakfast table on February 8, before Jerry, dressed in his air force uniform, had to leave for work with his fellow airmen. He was twenty-one years old and six feet tall. At nine o'clock, in Union Station, I said goodbye to Nell, Sharon Sue, and a little girl from Honduras who was living with us. As the gate closed behind me and I boarded the train there was a lump in my throat and a prayer in my heart. Two days later I went aboard the S.S. America, the largest and fastest passenger ship ever built in our country. Promptly at noon the gangplank was lifted and we edged away from the pier.
Both of my travel companions in the tourist stateroom to which I was assigned were Catholic men, but poles apart in life. One was an illiterate seaman off the streets of Cork who had sailed the seven seas. He knew every major port on the face of the earth. When I first saw him he was lying in a stupor in one of the top bunks, sleeping off a hard drinking spree which had lasted two days and nights. The other was a member of the faculty of the University of Chicago, a graduate of Illinois University and Notre Dame, and an authority in the history and language of the Celts. A more divergent trio to occupy a single room could not have been selected by a computer with an electrical short in its mechanism. We were together for five days and nights, and if I learned nothing else I found out that Catholics are not all cut from the same pattern. It was a good lesson for one who had grown up stereotyping them as we did about every other group.
I had engaged in many interesting spiritual conversations with scores of folk before we anchored off Cobh early in the morning of February 16. Ireland-bound passengers disembarked here and were taken to shore in a lighter and transported to Cork by ship's train. I had a half day to explore this ancient city which began with a religious settlement in 622 A.D. I already knew from my study of history that it fell to Oliver Cromwell during the English Civil War and I wanted to see as much of it as possible. I walked at a rapid pace all morning from one point to another and it was a relief when, at 1:15 p.m. I boarded the crack train "The Enterprise," and settled down for the almost seven hours of travel to Belfast.
I shall never forget that when I stepped from the train in the huge station I heard voices raised in song. Almost the entire congregation was present and the waves of music reverberated through the corridors, "For Christ and the church let our voices ring." It was long after midnight when I retired to my room at 8 Sunninghill Garden, in the hospitable home of William and Margaret Hendren and their good family.
We lost no time getting into the work. The next evening was a welcome meeting with tea being served at the humble meetinghouse on Berlin Street. A beautiful table was set on the speaker's platform where I was to sit with the five men in the oversight -- Brethren Hamilton, Millar, George, Charles and William Hendren. A well-arranged program continued until time to hurry to the nearest stop to catch the double-decker bus to the Cavehill area where I lodged. During the evening a program of events was outlined to occupy every night of the more than three months I would be in Belfast.
On each Lord's Day morning we would meet at 11:30 for the breaking of bread. The edification talk at these meetings would be delivered by a member of the congregation. At 3:00 p.m. I would teach the children of the community, and at 4:00 p.m. have a class of young men and women. Following that we would hold three or four street meetings at strategic corners and return for the gospel meeting at 7:00 p.m. On Monday nights we would have a meeting for singing and praise led by George Hendren. On Tuesday nights I would teach the neighborhood children (there were more than a hundred at the first session). On Wednesday nights there would be a gospel meeting, on Thursday evening a meeting for prayer and devotion in a home, and on Friday night a study in depth which I would lead.
During my stay we would also arrange for two weeks of gospel proclamation which would be especially publicized in the area. I wish that I might take you on a day-by-day trip with us and let you share every exciting minute, but space will not permit. Each new day brought its own thrill of being and at night we usually gathered in the little home of "Granny Hendren" who lived with her daughters Edith and Mary close to the meetingplace. Here we recounted the events of the day and talked and prayed together until time for the last bus to run.
On March 6, I was invited by Mr. Oliver, assistant supervisor of the government press bureau, to attend a sitting of the Parliament, with eleven other observers. After being conducted to my seat in the beautiful Senate room by an usher in full dress, I was treated to a scene of almost medieval dignity and pageantry. The Speaker, who sat upon a throne-like chair on a raised dais, wore an imposing robe and a powdered wig which fell in waves to his shoulders. The Clerk of the Senate, who sat before him, had a shorter wig, with marcelled waves and two tiny tails tied with ribbons and hanging down his back.
It was my good fortune to be present in a session in which cabinet ministers were being seriously questioned as to their action. I was especially interested in the Minister of Agriculture who was charged with supervising rationing. All of us were limited to four ounces of red meat per week. The cooking fat ration amounted to two ounces, and we were allowed two eggs per week. This could be supplemented by horse, whale or beaver meat, which were not limited when available. A black market had developed in pork ribs, knees and bones, which the Secretary affirmed was being carried on from England in spite of the efforts of the secret service of Her Majesty's government.
It was when the Minister of Home Affairs was put on the grill that things really "got cracking." Ireland seemed to have more than her share of gypsies who roamed the countryside in their gaily-colored horse-drawn caravans. Parliament had ordered that some method be devised and steps taken to ensure a suitable education for the children of gypsies and other vagrants. Included in the directive was religious training. The Ministry might as well have ordered to contrive a means of educating the winds that blew across the landscape, or the waves of the sea. Gypsy children were as elusive as little wild animals.
During this discussion which became heated I heard some of the most penetrating satire and biting sarcasm delivered under cover of urbane politeness. I could catch a glimpse of the deep hostility which has long since burst its bonds in what is now referred to in Ireland as "the troubles." Some of the members of Parliament represented a Catholic constituency. They raised pointed questions as to the kind of religious teaching to be bestowed by law upon gypsy children. I trust I am not prejudiced but I want to testify that the Protestants who sat on the benches were among the most capable and quick-witted men I have ever heard. Their sharp repartee was something else!
The next day, Mr. McIvor, the efficient headmaster of Mount Collyer School, invited me to spend the entire day, or as much time as I could spare, at the public school which he supervised. I had already spent two hours with him, exploring the difference in educational concepts and goals in our two countries. Mount Collyer was a new adventure in schooling for the more than 800 youngsters in attendance. School began each morning with prayer, scripture readings from the Old and New Testaments, and a brief devotional talk.
The law requires that there be five classes in religion each week for public school students. I was permitted to examine the course of study which had to be non-sectarian in content and presentation. It was very comprehensive of the narrative portions of the Old and New Testaments through the book of Acts. The discipline was both rigid and remarkable. When the headmaster and I visited certain rooms every pupil arose and stood at respectful attention until he told them to be seated. When we left a room the student nearest the door arose and opened it, remaining at attention to close it after we had gone.
I stayed for lunch and would not have missed the experience. Most of the children went home for their noon meal but about 200 stayed. Luncheon was prepared in a central kitchen and conveyed by special vans to each school. The day I was present the supervisor of all lunch rooms in city schools was present and graciously answered all of my questions. The 200 children filed in and quietly took their places at the tables. It was unbelievably quiet. A teacher gave the signal and all bowed their heads and returned thanks in unison, then quietly arose and passed by where the food was being dipped up by student helpers. The menu was Irish stew, mashed potatoes and cake with pudding sauce over it. Milk was provided at each plate. The cost of the meal was six cents in American monetary value. The day I attended more than 30 children were fed free because of poverty-stricken conditions in their homes.
The next day I was invited to speak to a group of men at the shipyards, the largest such yards in the world. I was taken on an inspection tour where I saw three huge aircraft carriers were in the process of construction as well as numerous other vessels. One of these was a mammoth oil tanker for Norway. Another was a whaling ship to be fully equipped to process every ounce of the huge catches. Daily religious meetings were held in the Plumbing Department and here I was greeted by more than 250 men. A loudspeaker system had been set up for our use so that all might hear. Sandy and Nat Cooper, who had accompanied me, sang a hymn at the beginning and end of the thirty minute period, and after the message had been given we passed out more than 200 tracts to the workmen going back to their appointed stations.
My life was enriched when Albert Winstanley came over from England to work with me for four days. We shared together in the children's meeting, where he was especially adept, and in the gospel meeting where we took turns announcing the blessed facts about the divine breakthrough of the flesh curtain by God's Son. Together we went to a lecture on "The Seven Seals" by a recognized leader of the British-Israel theory and remained to question some of the more rabid followers of the view. But, best of all were the street meetings, four of which we held one afternoon in company with Nat Cooper, a young man of promise. We gathered some 80 boys and girls and led them down the street, singing at the top of their voices. We stopped at street corners where everyone who passed by halted and gave us audience and we took turns preaching the kingdom of God and the way of the cross.
Time was passing rapidly and the days were filled with all kinds of intriguing things. There were visits to linen mills, to manufacturing concerns, to public parks, and other places where opportunities were presented to witness of the grace of God. We were seeing precious souls added to the one body each week. Some of these came in response to public declaration of God's love, others after I had conversed and prayed with them privately. The saints were rejoicing in the confessions of faith made in our meetings and all of us were made aware of the power of the Word and the moving of the Spirit in the hearts of men. The old, old story was still new and vital!
I come now to the place where I must recount a life-changing experience which was destined to completely re-orient the whole philosophy of my relationship to the kingdom of heaven. I apologize to my readers for the time to be spent in narrative, seeing that nothing is ordinarily quite so boring as listening to another recount what happened to him. I must preface what I shall say with the statement that I am a pragmatist, and not a mystic, by nature, although all of us are combinations of both. I suspect that every wholehearted follower of Jesus is confronted sooner or later with a sense of a great gulf which exists between what he believes and what he really is. For some, the confrontation with the Living Lord is gradual and almost academic. For others it may come as a flash of light in a crisis situation. That the latter should have been my lot is as unexplainable to me as it will be to those of you who now read about it.
It occurred on the afternoon of March 27, 1951. I know where it took place and I know the moment it took place. I am convinced now that if I had never left America it would not have happened at all. Before I went to Ireland I conveyed to the brethren there my hope of visiting the little village of Ahorey, and the meetinghouse in which Thomas Campbell had ministered. William Hendren and Joe Hamilton made contact with Mr. T.S. Hoey, secretary of the little Presbyterian congregation, and he graciously suggested that we conduct a service in the quaint little place. Arrangements were made for Easter Monday, which is a "bank holiday" upon which all business places are closed and workers are free.
Sixty-five of us met at the little Berlin Street meetinghouse early in the morning of a dark and dreary day with the rain pouring down. After a time of prayer we boarded the two chartered buses and set out upon our trip. Fortunately, by the time we reached Ahorey, the rain had ceased. The little village where Alexander Campbell spent his early boyhood was small indeed. Only three Irish farm cottages could be seen. One of them was used as a post office. The meetinghouse sat back in a yard which could have been the setting for Gray's Elegy. We made our way along the path which was flanked by the moss-covered grave markers to the door of the lovely little building where we were warmly greeted by the Presbyterian welcoming committee.
In the entrance hall was a bronze plaque of Thomas Campbell inscribed with the words Prophet of Union. He was the second pastor of the congregation, assuming his charge in 1798. When we entered the place of meeting its quaintness and old-worldliness struck our attention. It was lighted with paraffin lamps. The pews had to be entered through little gates which had first to be unlocked. When the brethren had filed in and our Presbyterian hosts were seated, I unlocked the door leading to the speaker's platform and took my place behind the stand containing the same large pulpit Bible from which Mr. Campbell had often read.
The audience stood and sang "The Lord's My Shepherd" to the haunting melody of the tune Crimond. William Hendren led a prayer for the unity of all believers in the Lord Jesus. I turned to Ephesians 2 and read the chapter. I was moved to speak, as never before, on verse 14. "For he is our peace, who hath made both one, and hath broken down the middle wall of partition between us." I must have spoken more to myself than to the others, because all the rest of the day the expression "He is our peace" kept rising to the surface of my consciousness, to be repeated silently.
We were taken on a tour of the manse which had been completely refurbished in anticipation of the coming of the new pastor a fortnight hence. Then a gentle elderly woman who lived in a low whitewashed cottage with a thatched roof, sent word asking if the American visitor would grace her humble abode for tea. Five of us readily accepted her invitation and sat down for a country repast in a dark little room where chunks of peat glowed in the tiny fireplace. Legend had it that when the Campbells resided in the manse, Alexander often stopped at this ancient cottage while returning from Armagh, which was about four miles distant.
We went to Armagh, which dates its existence from 300 B.C., and to the great library established by Primate Robinson in 1771. We walked across the city to the observatory, founded on "The Hill of Honey" in 1790, to be greeted by the present director, Dr. E.M. Lindsay, of Harvard fame, and now recognized in astronomical circles throughout the world. Dr. E.J. Opik, driven from his home in Estonia by the Soviet invasion, explained to us at length his research into the nature of solar eclipses. We ended our visit in the area by exploring Saint Patrick's Cathedral, more than six centuries old, and now the headquarters for the Anglican Church in North Ireland.
As we boarded the buses for the return to Belfast the weather became nasty and bad, and soon the rain turned to snow which took the form of a sweeping blizzard by the time we reached the city streets. Because of the long and tiresome journey of the day, those with whom I lodged went on home, while I lingered with the George Hendren family for tea before the cheerful fireplace. Later, when I stepped out into the night to begin the more than two mile walk, I was engulfed in swirling snow. I had to make my way from one faint street light to another as I trudged along through five inches of accumulated snow.
I have never experienced a greater sense of loneliness. It was as if I was walking through a universe devoid of all life but my own. The only sound to be heard in a great city was that of my shoes crunching the snow beneath them. The activities of the day came surging back into my mind and mingled with the reveries were the images of the noble souls who dared, in the midst of division, to dream of a united church. I thought again of the text which came to me as I read the Word, and of how it had also stirred the mind of a Presbyterian minister in such a rustic setting. I recalled the message I had recorded in the home of Mr. Hoey to be played at the next meeting of the Synod in Belfast. In that talk I urged that if they had others of the caliber of Mr. Campbell, that they send them to American shores to encourage unity among the frightfully-divided heirs of the movement launched by their gentle minister of yesteryear.
I was smitten with the hypocrisy of a plea for a humble peasantry to provide another apostle for oneness while I was among them as a factional representative. It came home to me with force that I had never really labored for the unity of all who believed in Jesus. I had actually, in mistaken zeal, contributed to the fragmentation of the very movement which Thomas Campbell had launched with such high hopes and great promise. Instead of furthering the noble "project to unite the Christians in all of the sects," I had absorbed and sometimes even gloried in a sectarian spirit.
As I stumbled along through the deepening snow, alone in a foreign city, I found myself weeping and praying and making promises to God of what I would do if my life was spared through His grace. The word grace came like a ray of hope and I rolled it on my tongue like a juicy morsel. What I needed to make life worth living, to overcome my frustration, to rise above the futility of my own efforts was grace. In all of my forty-three years no other thought had ever struck me with such force.
In my darkened room I lay awake all night wrestling with my own thoughts. The hours dragged on in the velvety blackness as I went back over every step of the day before. When dawn came I was empty, drained and helpless. Every dream of my life had vanished. Every ship of hope I had launched lay in broken pieces upon the rocks of my own past. I went downstairs to gaze out upon a world of diamond-flecked whiteness but even its scintillating beauty impressed me but a fleeting second.
I sat down before the little hearth with its one lump of coal (the last one of our ration) and picked up the Bible. My eyes were dim from weeping and from staring into darkness through a sleepless night. Without design I began reading with verse one of Revelation. I became aware that thoughts were leaping from the pages which I had read so often and taking lodgment in my benumbed brain. It was fascinating to have words come alive and to see their souls separate from the characters which the typesetter had given them as bodies, and free themselves from the prison of print to take up abode in my mind.
I read until I came to the letter addressed to the community of the reconciled ones at Laodicea. I could identify with it as representative of our movement. We thought of ourselves as rich and increased with goods, and needing nothing. I remembered the oft-repeated question, "What is there left to restore?" or, sometimes, "What do we need that we do not have?" But I could also realize that we were poor, and wretched, and blind, and naked, as God saw us. I read on and came to realize what was meant by the gold tried in the fire which could be purchased only at the divine currency exchange by those willing to pay the staggering price. At last I knew what was meant by the white raiment which covers the nakedness of congregations which parade unashamedly, unaware that their garments of fig leaves and their masks are transparent, and they are wearing see-through apparel while the world looks and laughs. For the first time I also knew what was meant by the ointment which restores sight to eyes that are blinded by cataracts of pride, ambition and sectarian prestige.
And then I saw the answer to all of my longings, all of my loneliness, all of my lovelessness to others, "Behold, I stand at the door, and knock; if any man hear my voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with me." I had never once invited Jesus to come in. True, I had never asked Him to stay out, but I had never shared with Him the kind of intimacy He had promised, the warm glow of companionship at the supper table, the convivial atmosphere in which friends talk and laugh and joke together, and let themselves go in the firm trust that they perfectly understand one another.
I had come to Jesus thirty years before, and then some, but it is one thing to come to Jesus at His invitation, and a wholly different thing to have Jesus come in to you at your invitation. I came to Him out of a state of alienation, like a refugee fished out of the muck and mire who needs to be cleaned up in the bath of regeneration and given an abiding place. But the statement to the Laodiceans was not made to those outside. It was made to those inside. It was Jesus who was outside. Regardless of the state of the things in the congregation with which one was identified, that one could have a royal guest sitting at his supper table and gracing his abode with His presence.
He did not need to leave where he was. He did not need to look for another "church." In the midst of poverty of spirit, wretchedness, misery, blindness and shameless nudity, he could be filled with joy unspeakable and full of glory. I had never really experienced that kind of joy. In fact, nothing had ever happened to me that I could not describe and glibly enough at that. I had been dubious of anyone who had been too happy. It did not seem right for a Christian who ought to be "walking on eggshells" for fear there was a minute law he might have overlooked and which would bring the wrath of God down upon his unsuspecting skull like the pagan temple which killed blind Samson while the idolators were laughing at him.
Now I was being tendered an offer of genuine, thrilling, life-changing association which could have been mine all along if I had not wandered in the fog boiling up from the dank and boggy marshes of legalism and tradition. All I had to do was to hear a voice and open the door. That was it. There was no other condition, no regimen of penance, no burden of regret about yesterday. There was no high-pressure selling, no arm-twisting. Loneliness would leave through the same door by which He entered, exactly as light must dispel darkness.
I heard his knock! I heard His voice! I am not talking about audible impressions or things like sound waves or reverberation. It was too deep "for sound or foam" as the poet said. So I arose and put on my overcoat and the borrowed overshoes which had been loaned to me by a kind brother, and walked the two blocks over to where the double-decker bus stopped to pick up riders bound for the heart of the city. I swung off of the platform at Shankill Road and walked up to the little meetinghouse on Berlin Street. Inside it was dark and filled with cold which caught warm breath and sent it swirling upward like a cloud.
I sat down in a pew selected at random and counted the cost of what I was about to do. I realized that I had been tracked down and brought to bay by "the hound of heaven." It must have been an hour I sat there with the cold seeking the openings in the fibers of my clothing. At last I kneeled down and spoke, perhaps audibly, "This is it! I have come to the end of the road and I'm opening the door! Come in!" Immediately He did exactly what He promised He would do, and I knew it! There were no hot flashes, no hair standing on end, no goose-pimples, no spinal chills, no "speaking in tongues." There was none of that!
But there was the indescribable feeling of the rightness of all things, the possession of a peace which transcended human rationality and understanding. I knew a part of me had died and that part would never be resurrected. It had been replaced with a new "me" who was not all of my own creation. I was different and I knew that I was different. I also knew I would never be the same again. Never, regardless of what happened. And then there was that joy! Perhaps the most powerful thought which gripped me was that I had no further enemies among the brethren. They were all children of God! We had a common Father. It struck me like a flash that I could never again hate those whom He loved.
As J.B. Phillips put it, "We know that we have passed from death unto life because we love the brethren." It was months before I learned that the love of God had been poured out in my heart by the Holy Spirit He had given me (Romans 5:5).
In these days I am often asked in public how I explain the traumatic experience which I described in the previous chapter. It is not a satisfactory reply to say that I do not explain it, but simply recount it. Our brethren have been conditioned to think there must be a specific explanation for everything. The explanation must harmonize with and conform to our traditional thought-patterns or be summarily rejected or laughed out of court. I know how they feel for I once felt exactly the same way. Nothing can possibly happen beyond our power of comprehension. If we could not explain it, it obviously did not happen. One who said it did was either deceived or a deceiver.
I am grateful that God's grace has made it possible for me to outgrow that kind of arrogance. Now I can be like the man who was healed by Jesus after having been blind from birth. He was subjected to the third-degree and given a Star-chamber grilling by the local Pharisees who would rather have him blind than healed by someone as unorthodox as Jesus. He was ignorant about a lot of things as they related to the "how." But he said, "One thing I do know: I was blind and now I see." That was not enough for the Pharisees, so they threw him out of the local congregation, which is "par for the course" when there are Pharisees around. Jesus heard about it and looked him up, realizing that He was closer to the one on the outside than to those on the inside.
At first I said nothing to anyone about the soul-satisfying entrance of Jesus and the inward supper-sharing experience every day. I just continued to feast with Him and He with me, rejoicing in the Spirit. You must remember that I grew up among good brethren who prayed out of a sense of duty. It was a command, a legal requirement, an act of worship. You had to go through the act to be safe. If you neglected it God would clobber you. We did not so much pray as we "said prayers." I do not think we expected anything to happen, and it generally did not. If it did we regarded it as a fortunate accident.
As time went on and I was driven by the Spirit within to make myself vulnerable by going among those from whom I had been isolated, the fruits of the Spirit were beginning to be detected in my advocacy of love, joy and peace, as opposed to accusation, challenge and debate. At first no one thought it was real. They freely predicted it would not last and that I would eventually return to sanity and be as mean as I was before. But since I had spent some time in "Arabia" before I returned to "Jerusalem," by the time I began to write on my growing conviction as to the fellowship of the reconciliation, a new wave was beginning to sweep across the religious strand. Eventually it would affect both the Catholic and Protestant establishments and wash over into every segment of the restoration movement.
It ushered in what came to be known as the "charismatic age" although this was a serious misnomer. The more profound student of the new covenant scriptures will at once recognize there can be no charismatic age, for the simple reason that there has never been a non-charismatic age. The work of God has always been made possible by the gifts of God. The Spirit is no less powerful and no more inactive in one century than another. He does not activate in spasms nor motivate in spurts. He has always been the life of the body and will be while the Son sits at the right hand of the Father.
But a lot of branches which had become lifeless and devoid of fruit were led by cultural conditions (I think) to open up their hearts to the will of God for the first time, and as a result of fervent entreaty, were filled with the Spirit. They mistook this filling with the baptism of the Holy Spirit and were ecstatic over the boldness and inner might which became theirs. As a result, when I was asked what had brought about my change of attitude, and I reluctantly described what had transpired, I was repeatedly interrogated as to whether I had received "the baptism of the Holy Spirit."
The answer is simple. I did not. I consider the baptism of the Holy Spirit a one-time experience to bring the body into union, as I regard baptism in water a one-time experience to bring me into union with the body. Before the one body existed, mankind was divided into two great classes. One of these was nigh, the other was far off. One was called the circumcision, the other the uncircumcision. On Pentecost, the representatives of the Jewish nation received the baptism of the Holy Spirit. At the home of Cornelius, several years later, the representatives of the Gentile nations received the "like gift" as did the Jews at the beginning. Jesus became the peace who made both one. He reconciled both unto God in one body by the cross. Both then had access by one Spirit unto the Father.
The baptism of the Holy Spirit is never mentioned again in the word of God. It was unrepeatable because it was unnecessary. The good news was to the Jew first and also to the Greek. After it was established that both must enter into the new relationship and be justified by faith, there was no further need to exhibit the baptism. I reject, as untenable for me, the interpretation of I Corinthians 12:13 which makes this equivalent to what occurred in Jerusalem and Caesarea. Before me, as I write, lies a copy of the Pentecostal Evangel. It contains an article by G. Raymond Carlson, Assistant General Superintendent of the Assemblies of God. The title is "The Charismatic Movement Today."
The article contains many good things. It is extremely well written. But it uses the term "Baptized in the Holy Spirit" more times in three pages than it is mentioned in all of the letters to the individuals and saints, as written by the holy apostles. It also makes repeated reference to "the Pentecostal experience." With all due respect to our friends who differ with me, there is no such thing. Pentecost marked the birthday of the earthly phase of the kingdom of God. There can be but one birthday, although there may be many anniversaries to remember or celebrate it. The writer should probably call his "a Corinthian experience," since those who claim the experience distinguish what happened on Pentecost from what happened at Corinth. I do not personally recognize the difference. But I can readily understand why one would not want to be too closely identified with Corinth.
I am quite convinced that the Holy Spirit has dwelt in me since the day I validated my faith in Jesus by being baptized into the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. He was God's gift to me according to His promise when I was granted the forgiveness of my sins and was justified by His grace. The Holy Spirit is the present possession of every child of God in this whole wide world. But I was ignorant that He was my Comforter, my Advocate, my Helper. At first I was taught that the Spirit was the Word. We confused Him with the Bible which tells us about Him, because of an unfortunate and tragic misunderstanding of John 6:63. When gradually forced to relinquish that mistaken notion we drove Him into a corner, bounded by the first century and the lifetime of the apostles, and sheared Him of all power in the present.
Driven to the wall by my own weakness and unbrotherly attitude, when I opened the door of my heart to invite Jesus to come in, the Spirit was freed from the bondage and limitations of my own littleness and unworthiness, to pour out the love of God in my heart. I no longer had to try and "finish by my own power" what had begun by the Spirit (Galatians 3:3). Having said this, I want to clarify my position with reference to those brethren who claim "the baptism of the Holy Spirit." I am not upset by their descriptive terminology even though I think they are mistaken.
It seems to me that many of them confuse the baptism of the Holy Spirit with the filling of the Holy Spirit. There is a real and valid difference between the two. I'm not certain that those within the scriptural context prayed for the baptism of the Holy Spirit, although the filling of the Spirit is connected with prayer and manifests itself in a sense of boldness in speaking God's message, as in Acts 4:31. The baptism of the Holy Spirit was to create a new body; the filling of the Holy Spirit is to renew the members of the body. The experience of the Spirit is more important than what one calls it, just as any deed is more important than its designation. One who is not free to make mistakes is not free to make anything else. So I do not propose to engage in strife about words. Regardless of how one labels what happened to him to produce a closer walk with God I am thrilled that it happened. The result is a blessing and I rejoice in that.
In my case the happening drove me to more than six years of prayerful, and sometimes tearful, re-examination of my whole religious philosophy. I was forced into painful introspection and meditation. It was agonizing to have my idols torn from their pedestals. I came to realize that I had been wrong all of my life in my usage of the scriptures to condone and defend our divisions. When the true meaning and significance of the fellowship began to enter into my consciousness, it was as if a huge burden had been lifted. But that did not come until weary years had passed, and meanwhile I was still abroad. Worse yet, I must return to America and face brethren who had experienced no change. The more charitable of them would come to think I had lost my mind. Many of the others would conclude that I had denied the faith and was worse than an infidel. I would see the day in which I was misrepresented, lied about, and actually hated because of His name's sake!
On the evening of March 30 I left Belfast for a brief interlude in England. Taking the cross-channel steamer for Heysham at night, the next morning I caught the train to Ulverston where I found Brother Walter Crosthwaite waiting. In two months he would celebrate the sixtieth anniversary of his first public message in defense of the gospel. I found him still busy teaching the Word, corresponding with the saints, and editing Scripture Standard. The five days and nights spent in the home of this godly patriarch of the faith will linger in my memory as one of the most fruitful periods of my earthly sojourn.
We sat before the little grate fire and talked for hours. Never a moment of it was wasted upon trivia, but the subtle humor and tremendous fund of anecdotes and reminiscences of an old soldier who bore the scars of spiritual conflict made the hours pass all too rapidly. It was hard to tear myself away to mount the stairs to the little triangular bedroom where I slept, and after a few hours' repose I arose eagerly to go downstairs and resume our conversation. I am sure that these few days with a veteran in the service were desperately needed to enable me to withstand in the trying years in which I would face growing opposition while trying to divest myself of the party spirit. The morning I left Brother Crosthwaite walked with me to the station. As we clasped hands, both of us knew we would never talk again on earth. I wiped the tears away as I boarded the train.
Albert Winstanley and Will Hurcombe were waiting on the platform as the train pulled into Wigan, and they conducted me to the hospitable home of Leonard and Doris Morgan where Nell and I had stayed four years before. I spoke at a different place each night -- Scholes, Argyle Street at Hindley, Blackburn, Ince, Albert Street in Wigan -- and souls were added to the Lord. Each day Albert and I went from house to house, exhorting the saints, pleading with the unsaved, and comforting the afflicted. Through the mists of the years I can still see the faces of the brethren -- Stephen Winstanley, Leonard Morgan, Carlton Melling, Harry Wilson, John Pritt, and a host of others. Many have departed to be with the Lord, but as I write this, some are still camped on this side of Jordan waiting to enter the promised land.
My arrival back in Belfast on April 12 was propitious. The Evening Telegraph announced a baccalaureate address for the Reformed Presbyterian Seminary to be delivered to the graduates on April 12, by Dr. James Campbell, M.A., of Larne. The subject of the discourse was to be "Psalms, Hymns and Spiritual Songs." The paid advertisement said the speakers would also discuss the reason for the church's opposition to the use of instrumental music in public praise. I went early and found myself in the company of aged professors from the school, most of them in clerical garb. For almost thirty minutes I was privileged to converse with the instructors in Hebrew, Greek, Homiletics and Church History. Not one was less than seventy years of age and all were richly endowed with scholastic degrees.
The moderator introduced me to the graduates. I was much impressed with one who had prepared himself to go as a missionary to Syria. I met Dr. Campbell before he spoke and he insisted that I address the assembly briefly following his formal speech. Our meeting created a contact which we kept alive for five years through exchange of letters.
The text of his speech was Colossians 3:15-17. He contended against the use of uninspired songs as expression of public worship, equating hymns and spiritual songs as descriptive of certain types of psalms found in the old covenant scriptures. In his outspoken opposition to the use of instrumental music he declared that it was never really introduced until the 13th century, and then by an apostate church. He asserted that the only acceptable instrument for offering praise was the human heart indwelt by the Spirit of God, and said that every reformer worthy of the title had always seen the need of removing the organ and other human instruments as an indication of the serious attempt to return to the ancient order.
In the closing moments of his speech, the learned Presbyterian decried the use of choirs, solos, and quartets in the praise service. He asserted that public praise in the time of the apostles was always congregational. It was always rendered to God and never used to entertain men. In a rather impassioned peroration he besought the graduates going forth into the world to resist the tug of the spirit of this age and seek to imitate the holy apostles rather than the unholy world about them.
He was dressed in somber garb with a long black clerical coat and with knee breeches fastened with silver buckles. His feet were clad in gaiters common to clergymen in the land. As I sat and listened it was not difficult to imagine that Thomas Campbell had returned after all these years, again to address the Belfast Synod, as he was wont to do in days of yore.
On May 10, 1951, I celebrated my forty-third birthday, far from home and in a foreign land. In honor of the occasion we broke open some of the food parcels from home and served a little dinner for the saints in Belfast. Two days later I began my journey by train to Southern Ireland where I was to meet Nell who was coming over on the America. I was especially pleased that my itinerary called for me to spend a night and the greater part of a day in Dublin. I chose as my overnight abode the Four Courts Hotel on the River Liffey.
Four centuries ago it was known as Angel Inn, and became the home of Jonathan Swift, the author of Gulliver's Travels. A clever and brilliant satirist, he punched holes in the political and religious pretensions of his day. In 1713 he was appointed dean of Saint Patrick's Cathedral, but with the fall of the Tory Administration a year later his political career ended, and he retired to Angel Inn where he died in 1745. When the inn was remodeled, the decorator made lavish use of mirrors and statuary, so that one feels he is staying in a museum.
The original floor of wide boards fastened with wooden dowels has been left throughout, so that one can literally walk where the author of Tale of a Tub trod. There is, among the public rooms, a spacious lounge and writing room with a huge open-grate fireplace. Since I always seem to get more from my reading when I am in the proper atmosphere, I settled down in a leather chair in this room, resolved to read some of the poetry by Swift which I had never taken time to read. It was an evening well-spent. I shall always remember scanning the poem "A Description of a City Shower" while the face of its author stared out at me from its frame.
I cannot forbear saying a little about Dublin, the capital of the Irish Free State. It is a city famous for its educational and cultural background. When I became acquainted with the works of Richard Chenevix Trench, and especially his volume On the Study of Words, I learned that he had been Archbishop of Dublin. This motivated me to learn all I could about the city and especially the Protestant influence within it. I remember having been impressed with the fact that the Alexandrian geographer, Ptolemy, who lived about 150 A.D., had mentioned the original settlement which grew into Dublin.
As I walked the streets I felt like Paul did at Athens when he saw the city wholly given over to idolatry. Images for worship were everywhere. Candle factories were prominent, manufacturing tapers to be lighted before saintly statuary. Clerical garb was everywhere manifest as priests and nuns walked the streets. Advertisements of pilgrimages to Rome and Lourdes appeared on bulletin boards and in shop windows. I read through the long list of obituaries to see if one Protestant was listed. Apparently the Protestants are extremely healthy. I found not one name. That thousands of Irish had gone to America was evidenced by the number of death notices containing the words: "American papers please copy."
On May 13, I went to Cork, a train ride of 165 miles to the southwest of Dublin. In the knowledge that I might never be there again I walked as rapidly as possible to cover important areas in this city of more than 80,000. Cork is the home of two cathedrals, one Roman Catholic, the other Anglican. Both are called St. Finbar, after the name of the founder of the city in 622 A.D. It was late when I got to Cobh, and the Hotel Commodore where I was to spend the night.
I arose early the next morning to go to the dock. The America had anchored about four miles offshore before daybreak, and passengers who were to be taken off on the tender were given an early breakfast. I saw Nell as she stepped off the lighter and soon she saw me and waved. But we could not be together until she had cleared customs. What a blessing it was to hold her in my arms again after an absence of months. We had much to talk about on the long train journey to Belfast. When we arrived at the station we heard the beautiful strains of "The Lord's My Shepherd" being sung to the tune Crimond. The whole congregation was there and their singing stopped even the train crews who paused to listen to every word.
We had one more week in Belfast and our hearts were torn that the time of our departure was so close. The final days created a kaleidoscope of memories. Each day the members vied with each other to show us something of interest. Each night I spoke to a gathering of the saints. A visit to a large linen factory, a trip to the magnificent City Hall, crowned by a view of the private office of the Lord Mayor, through the courtesy of his secretary, a final tour of inland Ireland, a day at Bangor by the seaside, and then the final night and the farewell tea at the meetinghouse.
The chorus sang beautifully. Different brethren made brief talks. We wept unashamedly. We clung to one another, reluctant to take leave. The congregation gave us a lovely picture of the Mountains of Mourne, personally autographed by the painter. Nell received numerous gifts of linen and some of the sisters presented her with treasured heirlooms and keepsakes, out of hearts filled with generosity.
The next evening we had our final tea at the hospitable home of William and Margaret Hendren, and then drove to the docks where we were to board The Royal Ulsterman for the cross-channel trip. Almost the whole congregation was at the dock, and as the ship drifted slowly away from the wharf and out into the darkness, we could hear the strains of "God Be With You Till We Meet Again." A feeling gripped our hearts that we would never again see these precious ones upon this earth.
I have never forgotten Belfast. I can still envision the children swinging on ropes attached to the street lamps. I can still see the women on their knees scrubbing the sidewalks in front of their homes with reddened hands. I remember the groups harmonizing in song on the street corners at night, the women draped with thick shawls or blankets to shelter them from the cold as they walked to unheated shops, the many pushcarts on the street, the window washers carrying their ladders and buckets. I shared the agony and the ecstasy of a people who had just come through a devastating war and had triumphed and I left a little bit of myself in Ireland.
We were met at the dock in Glasgow by John and Mary McCallum and spent the day resting in their home while catching up on letter writing. It is a good thing we found this little time for relaxation because I was getting ready to go into a hectic schedule without realizing it. The next afternoon we left for Tranent, where I had spent my time exhorting the saints of the Slamannan District, in my final meeting in Scotland four years before. We stopped enroute at the home of Joe and Agnes Kerr where we were to stay all night. They had moved from Harthill to Prestonpans since our visit.
The place was rife with history. The house where the Kerrs lived was on the banks of Red Burn which flowed red with blood on September 21, 1745 when the Jacobite forces led by Charles Edward Stuart known as the "Young Pretender" or "Bonnie Prince Charlie" defeated the British under Sir John Cope. The monument to the victory of the wild tartan-clad clansmen still stands on the field in Prestonpans. It marks the high tide of the rally of the Stuarts before their forces were completely routed at Culloden Moor in April, 1746, and Charles Edward became a hunted fugitive.
Just as interesting to me was what had happened here in 1590 when witchcraft became an organized institution. A number of persons who claimed to have seen and conversed with the devil, and who had entered into a compact with him, began to exercise a great deal of influence. Superstition ran riot. Special meetings were held at night in the church building at Old Berwick, and graves were opened by these progenitors of modern spiritualism who collected human skulls and bones to use in their incantations. Some there were who predicted that Satan was preparing to capture the world and this would be his headquarters and the place of his throne.
King James, who became a specialist in witch-hunting, and who defied the curses pronounced upon him, effectively put an end to the ambition of the witches. He had his soldiers gather up a group of them and ordered that they be publicly strangled and their bodies burned. Some of their more ardent followers declared secretly that no fire would be able to burn them. Not only did their bodies burn, but their leader, Dr. Fian, was executed at Castle Hill in Edinburgh on December 26, 1591. This halted the immediate outbreak of superstition, but that it did not completely crush it is evidenced by the fact that the last person to be executed as a witch in England was in 1716, while the last one in Scotland died in 1722.
Fifty Bible teachers from the Slamannan District gathered at Lochside Chapel, which I remembered so well, on this Saturday afternoon, for a discussion of means and methods of improving their efforts. The meeting was ably presided over by John Steel, an art instructor at Airdrie Academy. We sang a hymn, had a prayer, and then sat down together for tea. I recalled that it had been said that Gabriel would have to be careful about when he sounded his trumpet, for if it was at teatime, no Scotsman would show up. After tea, I spoke briefly and then opened the meeting for questions.
Before we realized it three hours had slipped away. Afterwards a number of folk gathered at the Kerr home and entertained us with Scottish ballads and songs of the Jacobites, as the defenders of the house of Stuart were called. I have never again heard "By Yon Bonnie Banks and By Yon Bonnie Braes" done as effectively as that night. And when I hear "Will Ye No Come Back Again?" my mind reverts to that Saturday night in May. It was an unforgettable time of love and fellowship and genial good-feeling.
The next morning Joe and I walked the three miles to Tranent where I was to teach for more than an hour in a gathering of the saints who came early. It was a refreshing walk along a road in Scotland, past the monument to the battle, and with the town always in sight. The "breaking of bread service" as our brethren designate it, began at 11:30 a.m. and continued until 1:00 p.m. I spoke again to the edification of those present, and then Nell and I went to the nearby home of Sister Wilson, and her daughter Jean, for a quick luncheon. In the interval between my trips to Scotland Brother Wilson had departed to be with Jesus. I missed him greatly. Sister Wilson remembered my taste for Scotch oatcakes and had laid in a goodly supply.
I spoke to different groups at 2:00 p.m., 3:00 p.m., and 4:00 p.m., and at the gospel meeting at 6:00 p.m. This was not enough and after I had finished the brethren convened again to hear me for another hour. All of us were tired after we felt our way back through 32 miles of pea soup fog to the McCallum home. It was 1:00 a.m. when we finally retired. Before I could go to sleep I thought back over the entire day. I had a good feeling about the cause at Tranent. A number of younger brethren were identified with the work. The possibilities for growth seemed great. The brethren were firmly grounded in the concept of "mutual ministry" and the utilization of all the gifts.
We had one more week remaining in the "land of the thistle." If I were to tell you all that happened this literary effort would be expanded far beyond its worth. There were scenic tours to Loch Lomond along roads lined with colorful rhododendron, while snow-capped Ben Lomond towered high in the distance; to Gareloch, the salt water lake off the Clyde, which was filled with the ships of the famed British Navy; to the mighty Forth Bridge, an engineering wonder; and to the renowned Castle Hill in Edinburgh where kilted sentries paced back and forth.
But even more interesting was the return to congregations we had previously visited and to the homes of saints we had seen four years ago. There was the meeting in Glasgow, the one in Motherwell, where David Dougal had labored with diligence and effectiveness for two months. Then on to Slamannan which gave its name to the district. We went into the homes of folk I had met in Canada. One was the home of a sister whom I had immersed during one of the meetings when she had come over to visit in Windsor, Ontario. It was a rich experience to see her now in her native land.
One day I discovered a huge bookstore on Charles IV Bridge in Edinburgh. It was a half-block long and stocked only used religious volumes, thousands upon thousands of them. I went up one aisle and down another, reading titles and viewing works I had heard about for years and had never seen. I was like a country lad turned loose in a city candy store. I stayed all day until there was just time to go to historic Wallacestone for the evening meeting, after tea in the gracious home of David Dougal.
Our last week in Scotland was spent at Kirkcaldy. I have previously mentioned this as the place where Alexander Campbell had spoken a century before my first visit. Kirkcaldy was the birthplace of Adam Smith, who wrote The Wealth of Nations. He was greatly influenced by his close association with David Hume, and I have often wondered what Alexander Campbell had to say about Smith and Hume while he was in Kirkcaldy. He was familiar with both and expressed opposition to Hume's theory about the rights of man.
Nell and I stayed again in the hospitable home of the Mellises. On Saturday evening a welcome tea had been arranged at the meetingplace on Rose Street, and brethren came from Dunfermline, Leven, Pittenweem, and other towns in "the kingdom of Fife," as well as from the region across the Firth of Forth. The program was excellent. The hymns of praise lifted our spirits. So did the meat pies and biscuits (cookies) which we ate while talking as rapidly as we could about our marvelous relationship in our precious Lord. It was a season of refreshing from His very presence.
Our final day in "auld Scotia" was the Lord's Day. It is etched into my memory. I spoke at "the breaking of the bread" and remained to talk to the lads and lasses in the Sunday School in the afternoon. When we came out the rain was pounding the pavement. At the end of the street the sea was breaking against the wall with resounding slaps as the spume and spray leaped high. It was still raining hard at the time for the evening meeting but the house was filled. Some of the older men wore kilts of lovely plaid.
At the close of my talk three precious souls announced their desire to put on Christ in baptism. It was a time of rejoicing with tears of gladness. We said good-bye to one another, and walked out into the rainy night. All of us were aware that we would meet again some day where the light of the sun was not needed and the storm clouds would never rise.
On May 28 we arrived in Yorkshire, the largest county in Great Britain. It was once the foremost manufacturing center of the world. We went to Leeds, which is famous for being in the midst of the textile industry. Fred and Hilda Hardy met us, and took us to the home of their son-in-law, Geoffrey Lodge. Almost every home in England has a name and Geoffrey and Bessie called theirs Maranatha. It was a constant reminder of the fact that the Lord is coming.
The next day two carloads of us drove through the beautiful Wharfe River Valley to the lonely Ilkley Moors. We left our cars and tramped through the wild gorse and bracken covered country. It is a land of grouse shooting. We heard the call of the curlews and saw the shaggy sheep which pasture on this awe-inspiring stretch of deserted country. As I looked back upon it from the car window my mind was full of "Wuthering Heights," by Emily Bronte, written about these same moors.
That night I spoke at Morley to a crowd which filled the little place of meeting. Geoffrey Lodge presided. We engaged in discussion with the Nazarene and Pentecostal folk who attended until we were late for dinner at the Thomasson home. After the dishes had been cleared away, we got our Bibles and talked about the Word until midnight. It came to me that this could be the strength of the Cause all over the earth, for little groups to meet in homes and discuss frankly and without formality the truth from heaven.
The following day we drove to Knaresborough where a ruined castle looks down from the height where it has stood a thousand years. It was market day and this quaint town which looked like an illustration from a book of Mother Goose rhymes was crowded with stands and temporary little shops set up. We wandered through narrow winding streets and alleys, flanked by age-old buildings with slate roofs. Far below flowed the picturesque river. That evening found us at East Ardsley where I spoke at a gospel meeting presided over by Brother E. Worth. It was Memorial Day at home but no one knew that in England.
The next morning we departed for Tunbridge Wells, in Kent, the garden spot of southeastern England, bordering on the English Channel. The white cliffs of Dover have made it justly famous. The congregation was small and had an inadequate and poorly-situated meetingplace. It had been plagued by internal troubles, but under the guidance of Albert Winstanley and Ralph Limb had overcome them. I was in a ten-day series of meetings, during which Nell and I made our abode in the hospitable home of a beloved sister, Gertrude Hill. One man was restored, and one immersed. He was the thirtieth person I had baptized into Christ since crossing the ocean.
On the morning of June 13 we bade farewell to the saints in England. We boarded an early train for London, where we spent the day at the World's Fair which was then in progress. That evening we caught the boat train to Harwich, where we embarked on a steamer which landed us at Hook of Holland the next morning. We began a tour of historical sights in Holland, Belgium and France. It was an impressive time but I shall mercifully spare you the details.
We went aboard the great ship which was to bear us back home at Le Havre, and arrived in New York on the last day of June. On our train trip back home I stopped at New Castle, Indiana, where a four-day mass meeting was starting which brought hundreds together from California to Pennsylvania. On the first night Adam Bruce and William Horrocks from Canada spoke. On Tuesday night I addressed a packed auditorium on "The Name of the Church." I took the position that the body of Christ was given no title, and did not need a distinctive name since it had no rivals. To name it was to denominate it, and thus to separate the family of God. This was my first attempt to state convictions which were beginning to form. Fortunately no one seemed to know what I was saying and those who mentioned it thought it was great. It was only later, after I became convinced from reading Alexander Campbell that I came to the conclusion that even the term "church" was a misnomer.
Three days after I arrived home in Saint Louis, Brother J.H. Mabery of Bonne Terre, Missouri left this world to be with Jesus. Fred Killebrew and I spoke words of comfort to the huge audience which had gathered in his honor. He had proclaimed the Word all during his long employment as the chief electrician for Saint Joseph Lead Company. Many men who had been assigned to work under him had been led to Christ. He had started several congregations of believers and we had worked together in weak places with full understanding and appreciation of one another. It was a grievous loss to me.
When the time came to return to Beech Grove, Arkansas, Darrell Bolin went with me. He spoke at Beech Grove and Evening Star. The attempted boycott was completely broken. Brethren came from nearly all congregations. Emotions were running high. One morning we received word to appear at the meetinghouse. When we arrived there were ten men there, including several elders and deacons from Paragould. Present also were Franklin Puckett and G.K. Wallace. When we entered the building and were seated, Brother Wallace took the floor and announced it was time to call my hand and he was there to do it.
He presented propositions he had drawn up on the preacher-pastor system and colleges. With a flourish he threw them down on the table and demanded that we put up or shut up. I waited for a minute while the awed silence seemed like an eternity. I slowly arose and walked to the pulpit. Looking the brethren in the face I said I would accept the offer to debate and the propositions as drawn. I proposed that we include a discussion of the scripturality of an evangelist looking after and exercising oversight of a congregation he had planted until elders could be developed and ordained. I felt this needed some clarification. Brother Wallace in a meeting at Paragould which was held to stop my inroads into the southland had misrepresented my position on the question. It was agreed to include it.
We decided to not have moderators but to allow each man to be responsible for his own conduct. Each of us was to choose a timekeeper. I agreed to meet Brother Wallace anytime, and his supporters selected the week containing the Fourth of July the following year. We announced the debate that night. The interest in it was intense, and many regretted that it was so far in the future. As one old brother put it, "We are ready to see the fur fly now and it looks like the best thing to do would be to put the two of you up on the stand and let you go at one another!"
I was really too busy to think much of the debate or to make preparation for it. On August 7 I began a one-week study at Farmington, Missouri, during which one was immersed. On September 9 Ellis Crum and I entered into a series of meetings at Independence, Missouri, and it was at Eureka congregation, a fine rural group near Meadville, Missouri, close to the home of General John J. Pershing at Laclede. On October 7 I began at Nixa, Missouri, in the Ozarks, the scene of so many meetings in my earlier days. James Baysinger led the singing and did a marvelous job. We immersed 22 in the three meetings.
The fall and winter months were filled with activity. Three things stand out in my mind as I review events. First, the amount of training of men in various congregations. The Saint Louis Bible Study began November 5 with students from many states. E.M. Zerr came for three lectures on Prophecy. But there were special studies and training classes all over the United States. Brethren were being developed to edify, to do personal work, and to share the Good News.
Second, the continuing contact by mail with the saints in Great Britain. There were letters and articles from England, Scotland and Ireland. Many of these were from humble saints who had come to love Nell and me. They wrote about their families and what was happening in their congregations. We answered them all immediately. They sent calendars and shortbread and other things at Christmas. It was several years before the correspondence dropped away and finally slowed down to a trickle. Death was taking its toll of those who had met us. It meant much to hear from these precious ones.
Third, the intensification of feeling in the southland because of the coming debate. Brethren in many congregations who had entertained grave doubts about the rise of the clergy system began to surface. As they did so, local preachers felt forced to speak in defense of their position publicly. This only served to increase suspicion that something was wrong. But it gave the Baptist Church a respite from attack. Since I was regarded as the greatest enemy to the church in this generation, my name began to be heard with increasing frequency in sermons. It appeared in bulletins, in tracts, on the radio, and even in public advertisements in newspapers as brethren sought to stifle and kill my influence before people had even heard me.
H.F. Sharp of Blytheville, Arkansas, took up the cudgel with an article in the October issue of Gospel Guardian. He titled it, "Reckless Reporting by the Saint Louis Pope." In it he called me, among other things, a heretic, a troublemaker, and a pope. He accused me of malicious falsehood, divisive teaching, damnable heresy, and preaching filth. All of this was because of my conviction relative to the ministry of all the saints and the priesthood of all believers. Our brother only served to inflame the issue and to encourage others who had never met me to inveigh against me.
For weeks I became the subject of radio programs in Arkansas, Kentucky and South Missouri. Those who spoke against me had never met me. They had never read a word I had written. They operated purely on hearsay. Some of them were contradictory. But they sought to prejudice the minds of men against me. The preachers all expected to attend the debate but they did not want the "common people" to come. It was alleged that I could make black appear to be white, that I was a master brainwasher, and that what I said should go in one ear and out the other. It did not work as intended because many of those who heard resolved to come and listen to me out of curiosity.
At the time I had not yet formulated my present conviction that public debating of issues among brethren achieves but little lasting good. It would be several years before I would become bold and brave enough to hang up my verbal gloves and announce that my participation in such partisan encounters belonged to my days of spiritual immaturity. At the time I liked to debate. I liked the exchange of wit and repartee. I gloried in being chosen as a champion. I rejoiced in and responded to the audience reaction.
I made my preparation with full conviction that I was battling for the truth. I still believe that. I am not sure I was as prayerful as I ought to have been. I may have relied too much upon my own ability and knowledge. But I realized it was a battle to the death. One of the combatants was wrong, and one of us would lay his life on the line spiritually.
My first discussion with Brother G.K. Wallace has been referred to as "The Cow Pasture Debate." There was no place in the area large enough to accommodate the expected crowds, so brethren secured a huge tent and pitched it in a large field five miles north of Paragould. Hundreds of people came from many states. Hotels and motels for miles around were filled to capacity. The debate began on June 30 and closed July 4. J.A. McNutt was selected as timekeeper for Brother Wallace. My uncle, L.E. Ketcherside, operated in the same capacity for me.
The first two nights Brother Wallace affirmed, "The employment of a preacher to preach for the congregation as now practiced by the church of Christ, at 2nd and Walnut Streets, in Paragould, Ark., is scriptural." The third night I affirmed, "The New Testament authorizes an evangelist to exercise authority in a congregation which he has planted until men are qualified and appointed as bishops." On the fourth night, Brother Wallace affirmed, "The organization, by Christians, of schools such as Freed-Hardeman College is in harmony with the New Testament scriptures." On the last night I affirmed that it was contrary to the New Testament scriptures.
It is not my intention to review the substance of the debate. It was put into print and can be read in its entirety. Brother Wallace was a worthy opponent. A typical "Church of Christ" debater, he was constantly watching for a chance at the jugular. He knew all of the debater's tactics, was witty and sharp and one did not dare to let down his guard. I think his weakest moments came in his dealing with the difference between preaching and teaching and gospel and doctrine. He read the wrong definitions from both Thayer's Lexicon and Webster's Dictionary.
There were scores of preachers present, many representing both positions. A few did not have clearcut ideas about either. Each afternoon public meetings were held at Beech Grove. In these any brother could say anything upon his heart by way of strength and edification. It was decided that no discussion of or reference to the debate would be made in these meetings. It was probably the greatest array of public talent ever assembled at Beech Grove. Every meeting was stimulating and uplifting.
The debates drew people from the area who came as Puritans would attend a bear-baiting, or those south of the border would go to a cock-fight. Not too many of them understood the issues but they liked the excitement. This was evidenced when men gathered in country stores like the one at Hooker's Switch. The question of the debate came up as they sat talking on the front porch, and one old resident said, "Well, for my money, that Baptist from Saint Louis is giving that Campbellite about all he needs."
One of the greatest blessings which came to me during the debate was to meet Leroy Garrett. Students from David Lipscomb College called him in Dallas after the first night of debate, urging him to come. He deeply impressed me when I first shook hands with him. We held much in common but we also differed in our concepts regarding many items. We had been reared in different areas. I did not know the brethren with whom he had worked. He did not know the ones with whom I had labored. But both of us knew Jesus, and because of Him we wanted to know each other better.
It was only a short time later when he called me from Winfield, Alabama, where he was in a tent meeting. I went down to spend several days with him in the small hotel. There, in the presence of three David Lipscomb College students, we explored the points upon which we differed for three whole days. We began talking early in the morning and continued until late at night, merely taking time out to go to the tent for meeting. The people in the community did not know what was taking place as we sought to understand one another and the Word of God. Later we set up meetings in homes in Dallas, and then decided to widen the scope and invite all to participate. These were some of the most profitable and soul-searching experiences of my life.
Two weeks after the debate I returned to Beech Grove for two weeks. Each afternoon we held a two-hour session of Bible study. It was open, free and positive. It was generally agreed the debate had helped our cause. People from many other congregations came to hear and be blessed. An instructor from Harding College came to lead the singing. Brethren from various parties came and went away without rancor. The little congregation now had a reputation all over the United Sates. It had refused to roll over and play dead!
Before I leave the debate I must tell you of what happened to our antagonists later on. G.K. Wallace who was a Bible teacher at Florida College left the school and turned against it. Franklin Puckett who came with him to issue the challenge split with Brother Wallace and died on the other side of a rift which knew no reconciliation. The two congregations in Paragould whose preachers signed the article in Firm Foundation sounding the alarm that I had invaded the south, fell out with one another. My uncle and I attended a debate between them at 2nd and Walnut. The alienation exists to this day. Many of the preachers who attended the debate have since become involved in another schism and are attacking each other.
I am not glad these things happened. They are a built-in part of the System. There will be trouble in every congregation eventually. There will be new divisions in every generation. All of the programs, all of the excitement, all of the hullabaloo, will not prevent it. Legalism leads to division. It can lead nowhere else for men in the flesh. So long as men substitute love of law for the law of love trouble is waiting in the wings. It will come in on cue. Church of Christism is like any other "ism."
Four days after the debate finished, Brother D. Austen Sommer died of a heart attack as he sat in his home in Indianapolis, Indiana. He was born in Kelton, Pennsylvania, on March 28, 1878, and was 74 years of age. His departure brought home to me the fact that the generation of those who had influenced my younger years in the faith was retreating into the shadows. The Sommer family, which once exercised such an influence in the northern states was disappearing. Composed of men who knew the Book but who were jealous of each other, they had fragmented both their family and congregations throughout the land. Yet it was sad for me to see them die disillusioned and forlorn.
In October, 1952, Brother Garrett launched a monthly journal called Bible Talk. In his initial editorial he wrote: "We feel that institutionalism and professionalism are teammates in that inauspicious game of apostasy into which they have enticed the church." He proposed to expose them for what they were, while at the same time dealing with worldliness, health habits, use of leisure time, the Christian home and worship. It was quite a sizable order for a paper.
The first issue bore a picture of the youthful-looking editor and Ansel Chandler of Tyler, Texas, wrote that he was a graduate of Freed-Hardeman College, Abilene Christian College, Southern Methodist University, Princeton University and Harvard University. Bible Talk was the forerunner for Restoration Review and did much to define issues confronting a great segment of the restoration movement sparked by the Campbells and their contemporaries.
The 1953 Mission Messenger featured a series of articles by Albert E. Winstanley, on various topics. At the same time I started one on "The Elders of the Church." There were twelve articles about the bishops dealing with an in-depth study of their qualifications, selection and appointment. The January issue carried a picture and an account of the golden wedding anniversary of Brother and Sister W.E. Ballenger. He had begun preaching two years after I was born and had planted new congregations all over the central states. Meticulous in dress and with shoes shined like a mirror, he had endeared himself to rural and village people because of his genial attitude. Some of them said he could walk through mud and none of it would dare rub off on him.
In February I went to Valdosta, Georgia at the invitation of brethren who had attended the debate. My mission was to visit and talk with preachers and others in the area. It was the first time I had been that far south, but I knew that Valdosta was the home of Jessie F. Love who had visited us in Missouri shortly after my father was immersed into Christ. He was a curiosity in our village with his broad southern dialect. I located his wife who was still living in Valdosta.
I talked with Joe Goodspeed, minister at Remerton, and Evans McMullen who was laboring at Hahira. Both were graduates of Florida Christian College. Other brethren came from Florida, Alabama and other parts of Georgia to converse with me. We met in a home and talked until midnight every day.
On January 24, J.A. Freed died at Topeka, Kansas, at the age of 77 years. The day of his death was also that of his 49th wedding anniversary. He had been a friend of our family for many years and was a relative of the brother Freed who founded the college at Henderson, Tennessee. J.A. Freed had proclaimed the gospel for a half century, and was well known.
On February 20 I began a series of Bible studies in the American Legion hall in Paragould, Arkansas, despite a good deal of opposition. I was on the radio daily discussing trends in the religious world. The result was that our crowds were good, reaching a total of 150 in many sessions. In the April issue of our paper I announced that I was scheduled for studies in Texas, Tennessee, and Georgia during that year. The increasing number of calls made it impossible to continue the Saint Louis studies. We cancelled them after fifteen years of continuous teaching.
During the Arkansas debate, Sterl Watson, who was preaching for the West End Church of Christ in Saint Louis, arose and issued a challenge for me to debate Brother Wallace on the same issues in Saint Louis. Being satisfied with the Arkansas encounter, I saw little use of a repetition of the debate. But before Brother Watson left Arkansas for Saint Louis he announced that he was coming to the city to run me out of it, so when he repeated the challenge to the congregation at Manchester Avenue there was little we could do except to agree to another debate.
Each congregation appointed a committee to work out the details and it was agreed that I would debate Brother Wallace in Carpenter's Hall October 26-30. It was decided that the debate would again be printed and thus four of my discussions would be in book form.