When my income was about forty dollars a month, subscribed by very poor people, a pastor who had been building up his church at the expense of his neighbours, wrote me that he was trying to persuade one of our members to join his church.  It was the most brazen thing I had ever known.  He felt that our dissolution was a matter of time, and he wanted his share of the wreckage.  He went after the only person in our church who had an income that more than supplied personal needs.  Afterward, this same minister entered into a deal with the trustees of the hall we used, by which the hall and the Sunday School were handed over to him.  Of course, we made no fight over the thing—­we just let him take them.  This is called “bringing in the Kingdom of God.”

We were not free from dissension within our own ranks, either.  Mr. Bryan came to lecture for us in the largest theatre in town.  Admission was to be by ticket, on Sunday afternoon.  The committee of our church that took charge of the tickets began to distribute seats—­the best seats and boxes—­to their personal friends.  Thousands were clamouring for tickets.  It was an opportunity to give the city a big, helpful meeting, and to do it democratically and well.  But the committee would brook no interference.

I announced in the papers that all tickets were general admissions, and “first come, first served” would be our principle.  Sunday morning, when I was half-way through my discourse, one of the committee handed me a note.  I did not open it until I finished.  It was a threat that if I did not call off the democratic order, the committee would leave the church.  The meeting was a great success, and the committee made good its threat.  What the writer of the following letter expected of me I have no idea, nor did his letter enlighten me: 

  “DEAR SER: 

  “Wen I gave my name for a church member it was fer a peeples
  church, not a fol-de-rol solo and labour union church.

  “Drop my name.”

We had at our opening a solo by the finest singer in the city, and I had thanked the labour unions for their help.  His name was dropped.

An educated woman thought she saw in our simple creed an open door she had been seeking for years.  She joined us with enthusiasm.  One day I was calling on her, and as I sat by the door I saw a dark figure pass with a sack of coal on his back.  The figure looked familiar.

“Pardon me,” I said, as I stepped out to make sure.

“Hello, Fritz!” I called.  The coal heaver had only trousers and an undershirt on, and looked as black as a Negro.  Sweat poured over his coal-blackened face.  We gripped hands.  The lady watched us with interest.

“Do you know him?” she asked.

“Yes, indeed!” I said.  “And you must know him, for he is one of our deacons.”

She never came back.  Democracy like that was too much for her.  The deacon himself left our church a few months later because he discovered that I did not believe in a literal hell of “fire and brimstone,” whatever that is.