CHAPTER XXII. SERMONS AND WOODBOXES
On the afternoon that Pollyanna told John Pendleton of Jimmy Bean, theRev. Paul Ford climbed the hill and entered the Pendleton Woods, hopingthat the hushed beauty of God's out-of-doors would still the tumult thatHis children of men had wrought.
The Rev. Paul Ford was sick at heart. Month by month, for a year past,conditions in the parish under him had been growing worse and worse;until it seemed that now, turn which way he would, he encountered onlywrangling, backbiting, scandal, and jealousy. He had argued, pleaded,rebuked, and ignored by turns; and always and through all he hadprayed--earnestly, hopefully. But to-day miserably he was forced to ownthat matters were no better, but rather worse.
Two of his deacons were at swords' points over a silly somethingthat only endless brooding had made of any account. Three of his mostenergetic women workers had withdrawn from the Ladies' Aid Societybecause a tiny spark of gossip had been fanned by wagging tongues into adevouring flame of scandal. The choir had split over the amount of solowork given to a fanciedly preferred singer. Even the Christian EndeavorSociety was in a ferment of unrest owing to open criticism of two of itsofficers. As to the Sunday school--it had been the resignation of itssuperintendent and two of its teachers that had been the last straw, andthat had sent the harassed minister to the quiet woods for prayer andmeditation.
Under the green arch of the trees the Rev. Paul Ford faced the thingsquarely. To his mind, the crisis had come. Something must be done--anddone at once. The entire work of the church was at a standstill. TheSunday services, the week-day prayer meeting, the missionary teas, eventhe suppers and socials were becoming less and less well attended. True,a few conscientious workers were still left. But they pulled at crosspurposes, usually; and always they showed themselves to be acutely awareof the critical eyes all about them, and of the tongues that had nothingto do but to talk about what the eyes saw.
And because of all this, the Rev. Paul Ford understood very well that he(God's minister), the church, the town, and even Christianity itself wassuffering; and must suffer still more unless--
Clearly something must be done, and done at once. But what?
Slowly the minister took from his pocket the notes he had made for hisnext Sunday's sermon. Frowningly he looked at them. His mouth settledinto stern lines, as aloud, very impressively, he read the verses onwhich he had determined to speak:
"'But woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye shutup the kingdom of heaven against men: for ye neither go in yourselves,neither suffer ye them that are entering to go in.'
"'Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye devourwidows' houses, and for a pretence make long prayer: therefore ye shallreceive the greater damnation.'
"'Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye pay tithe ofmint and anise and cummin, and have omitted the weightier matters of thelaw, judgment, mercy, and faith: these ought ye to have done, and not toleave the other undone.'"
It was a bitter denunciation. In the green aisles of the woods, theminister's deep voice rang out with scathing effect. Even the birds andsquirrels seemed hushed into awed silence. It brought to the minister avivid realization of how those words would sound the next Sunday when heshould utter them before his people in the sacred hush of the church.
His people!--they WERE his people. Could he do it? Dare he do it? Darehe not do it? It was a fearful denunciation, even without the words thatwould follow--his own words. He had prayed and prayed. He had pleadedearnestly for help, for guidance. He longed--oh, how earnestly helonged!--to take now, in this crisis, the right step. But was this--theright step?
Slowly the minister folded the papers and thrust them back into hispocket. Then, with a sigh that was almost a moan, he flung himself downat the foot of a tree, and covered his face with his hands.
It was there that Pollyanna, on her way home from the Pendleton house,found him. With a little cry she ran forward.
"Oh, oh, Mr. Ford! You--YOU haven't broken YOUR leg or--or anything,have you?" she gasped.
The minister dropped his hands, and looked up quickly. He tried tosmile.
"No, dear--no, indeed! I'm just--resting."
"Oh," sighed Pollyanna, falling back a little. "That's all right, then.You see, Mr. Pendleton HAD broken his leg when I found him--but he waslying down, though. And you are sitting up."
"Yes, I am sitting up; and I haven't broken anything--that doctors canmend."
The last words were very low, but Pollyanna heard them. A swift changecrossed her face. Her eyes glowed with tender sympathy.
"I know what you mean--something plagues you. Father used to feel likethat, lots of times. I reckon ministers do--most generally. You seethere's such a lot depends on 'em, somehow."
The Rev. Paul Ford turned a little wonderingly.
"Was YOUR father a minister, Pollyanna?"
"Yes, sir. Didn't you know? I supposed everybody knew that. He marriedAunt Polly's sister, and she was my mother."
"Oh, I understand. But, you see, I haven't been here many years, so Idon't know all the family histories."
"Yes, sir--I mean, no, sir," smiled Pollyanna.
There was a long pause. The minister, still sitting at the foot of thetree, appeared to have forgotten Pollyanna's presence. He had pulledsome papers from his pocket and unfolded them; but he was not looking atthem. He was gazing, instead, at a leaf on the ground a little distanceaway--and it was not even a pretty leaf. It was brown and dead.Pollyanna, looking at him, felt vaguely sorry for him.
"It--it's a nice day," she began hopefully.
For a moment there was no answer; then the minister looked up with astart.
"What? Oh!--yes, it is a very nice day."
"And 'tisn't cold at all, either, even if 'tis October," observedPollyanna, still more hopefully. "Mr. Pendleton had a fire, but he saidhe didn't need it. It was just to look at. I like to look at fires,don't you?"
There was no reply this time, though Pollyanna waited patiently, beforeshe tried again--by a new route.
"Do You like being a minister?"
The Rev. Paul Ford looked up now, very quickly.
"Do I like--Why, what an odd question! Why do you ask that, my dear?"
"Nothing--only the way you looked. It made me think of my father. Heused to look like that--sometimes."
"Did he?" The minister's voice was polite, but his eyes had gone back tothe dried leaf on the ground.
"Yes, and I used to ask him just as I did you if he was glad he was aminister."
The man under the tree smiled a little sadly.
"Well--what did he say?"
"Oh, he always said he was, of course, but 'most always he said, too,that he wouldn't STAY a minister a minute if 'twasn't for the rejoicingtexts."
"The--WHAT?" The Rev. Paul Ford's eyes left the leaf and gazedwonderingly into Pollyanna's merry little face.
"Well, that's what father used to call 'em," she laughed. "Of course theBible didn't name 'em that. But it's all those that begin 'Be glad inthe Lord,' or 'Rejoice greatly,' or 'Shout for joy,' and all that,you know--such a lot of 'em. Once, when father felt specially bad, hecounted 'em. There were eight hundred of 'em."
"Eight hundred!"
"Yes--that told you to rejoice and be glad, you know; that's why fathernamed 'em the 'rejoicing texts.'"
"Oh!" There was an odd look on the minister's face. His eyes had fallento the words on the top paper in his hands--"But woe unto you, scribesand Pharisees, hypocrites!" "And so your father--liked those 'rejoicingtexts,'" he murmured.
"Oh, yes," nodded Pollyanna, emphatically. "He said he felt better rightaway, that first day he thought to count 'em. He said if God took thetrouble to tell us eight hundred times to be glad and rejoice, He mustwant us to do it--SOME. And father felt ashamed that he hadn't done itmore. After that, they got to be such a comfort to him, you know, whenthings went wrong; when the Ladies' Aiders got to fight--I mean, whenthey DIDN'T AGREE about something," correcte
d Pollyanna, hastily."Why, it was those texts, too, father said, that made HIM think of thegame--he began with ME on the crutches--but he said 'twas the rejoicingtexts that started him on it."
"And what game might that be?" asked the minister.
"About finding something in everything to be glad about, you know. AsI said, he began with me on the crutches." And once more Pollyannatold her story--this time to a man who listened with tender eyes andunderstanding ears.
A little later Pollyanna and the minister descended the hill, hand inhand. Pollyanna's face was radiant. Pollyanna loved to talk, and she hadbeen talking now for some time: there seemed to be so many, many thingsabout the game, her father, and the old home life that the ministerwanted to know.
At the foot of the hill their ways parted, and Pollyanna down one road,and the minister down another, walked on alone.
In the Rev. Paul Ford's study that evening the minister sat thinking.Near him on the desk lay a few loose sheets of paper--his sermon notes.Under the suspended pencil in his fingers lay other sheets of paper,blank--his sermon to be. But the minister was not thinking either ofwhat he had written, or of what he intended to write. In his imaginationhe was far away in a little Western town with a missionary ministerwho was poor, sick, worried, and almost alone in the world--but who wasporing over the Bible to find how many times his Lord and Master hadtold him to "rejoice and be glad."
After a time, with a long sigh, the Rev. Paul Ford roused himself, cameback from the far Western town, and adjusted the sheets of paper underhis hand.
"Matthew twenty-third; 13--14 and 23," he wrote; then, with a gesture ofimpatience, he dropped his pencil and pulled toward him a magazine lefton the desk by his wife a few minutes before. Listlessly his tired eyesturned from paragraph to paragraph until these words arrested them:
"A father one day said to his son, Tom, who, he knew, had refused tofill his mother's woodbox that morning: 'Tom, I'm sure you'll be glad togo and bring in some wood for your mother.' And without a word Tom went.Why? Just because his father showed so plainly that he expected him todo the right thing. Suppose he had said: 'Tom, I overheard what you saidto your mother this morning, and I'm ashamed of you. Go at once and fillthat woodbox!' I'll warrant that woodbox, would be empty yet, so far asTom was concerned!"
On and on read the minister--a word here, a line there, a paragraphsomewhere else:
"What men and women need is encouragement. Their natural resistingpowers should be strengthened, not weakened.... Instead of alwaysharping on a man's faults, tell him of his virtues. Try to pull him outof his rut of bad habits. Hold up to him his better self, his REALself that can dare and do and win out!... The influence of a beautiful,helpful, hopeful character is contagious, and may revolutionize a wholetown.... People radiate what is in their minds and in their hearts. Ifa man feels kindly and obliging, his neighbors will feel that way, too,before long. But if he scolds and scowls and criticizes--his neighborswill return scowl for scowl, and add interest!... When you look forthe bad, expecting it, you will get it. When you know you will find thegood--you will get that.... Tell your son Tom you KNOW he'll be glad tofill that woodbox--then watch him start, alert and interested!"
The minister dropped the paper and lifted his chin. In a moment he wason his feet, tramping the narrow room back and forth, back and forth.Later, some time later, he drew a long breath, and dropped himself inthe chair at his desk.
"God helping me, I'll do it!" he cried softly. "I'll tell all my TomsI KNOW they'll be glad to fill that woodbox! I'll give them work to do,and I'll make them so full of the very joy of doing it that they won'thave TIME to look at their neighbors' woodboxes!" And he picked up hissermon notes, tore straight through the sheets, and cast them from him,so that on one side of his chair lay "But woe unto you," and on theother, "scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites!" while across the smoothwhite paper before him his pencil fairly flew--after first drawing oneblack line through Matthew twenty-third; 13--14 and 23.
Thus it happened that the Rev. Paul Ford's sermon the next Sunday wasa veritable bugle-call to the best that was in every man and woman andchild that heard it; and its text was one of Pollyanna's shining eighthundred:
"Be glad in the Lord and rejoice, ye righteous, and shout for joy all yethat are upright in heart."