The Crucifixion of Philip Strong | Page 4

am going to Milton with that faith very strong in me. I
feel as if a very great work could be done there. Think of it, Alfred! A
town of fifty thousand working men, half of them foreigners, a town
with more than sixty saloons in full blast, a town with seven churches
of many different denominations all situated on one street, and that
street the most fashionable in the place, a town where the police records

show an amount of crime and depravity almost unparalleled in
municipal annals--surely such a place presents an opportunity for the
true Church of Christ to do some splendid work. I hope I do not
over-estimate the needs of the place. I have known the general
condition of things in Milton ever since you and I did our summer work
in the neighboring town of Clifton. If ever there was missionary ground
in America, it is there. I cannot understand just why the call comes to
me to go to a place and take up work that, in many ways, is so
distasteful to me. In one sense I shrink from it with a sensitiveness
which no one except my wife and you could understand. You know
what an almost ridiculous excess of sensibility I have. It seems
sometimes impossible for me to do the work that the active ministry of
this age demands of a man. It almost kills me to know that I am
criticised for all that I say and do. And yet I know that the ministry will
always be the target for criticism. I have an almost morbid shrinking
from the thought that people do not like me, that I am not loved by
everybody, and yet I know that if I speak the truth in my preaching and
speak it without regard to consequences some one is sure to become
offended, and in the end dislike me. I think God never made a man with
so intense a craving for the love of his fellow-men as I possess. And yet
I am conscious that I cannot make myself understood by very many
people. They will always say, "How cold and unapproachable he is."
When in reality I love them with yearnings of heart. Now, then, I am
going to Milton with all this complex thought of myself, and yet, dear
chum, there is not the least doubt after all that I ought to go. I hope that
in the rush of the work there I shall be able to forget myself. And then
the work will stand out prominent as it ought. With all my doubts of
myself, I never question the wisdom of entering the ministry. I have a
very positive assurance as I work that I am doing what I ought to do.
And what can a man ask more? I am not dissatisfied with the ministry,
only with my own action within it. It is the noblest of all professions; I
feel proud of it every day. Only, it is so great that it makes a man feel
small when he steps inside.
Well, my wife is calling me down to tea. Let me know what you do.
We shall move to Milton next week, probably, so, if you write, direct
there. As ever, your old chum, PHILIP STRONG.

It was characteristic of Philip that in this letter he said nothing about his
call to Elmdale, and did not tell his college chum what salary was
offered him by the church at Milton. As a matter of fact he really forgot
all about everything, except the one important event of his decision to
go to Milton. He regarded it, and rightly so, as the most serious step of
his life; and while he had apparently decided the matter very quickly, it
was, in reality, the result of a deep conviction that he ought to go. He
was in the habit of making his decisions rapidly. This habit sometimes
led him into embarrassing mistakes, and once in a great while resulted
in humiliating reversals of opinion, so that people who did not know
him thought he was fickle and changeable. In the present case, Philip
acted with his customary quickness, and knew very well that his action
was unalterable.
CHAPTER II.
Within a week, Philip Strong had moved to Milton, as the church
wished him to occupy the pulpit at once. The parsonage was a
well-planned house next the church, and his wife soon made everything
look very homelike. The first Sunday evening after Philip preached in
Milton, for the first time, he chatted with his wife over the events of the
day as they sat before a cheerful open fire in the large grate. It was late
in the fall and the nights were sharp and frosty.