The “Loyal Church” Then and Now . . .

DRIFTING AND DREAMING
by W. Carl Ketcherside

It was Sunday evening and the fashionably attired members were filing into the large brick church edifice. The men halted upon the top step and took a last long draw upon their cigarettes before flipping them into the yard. Ushers in faultless dress led them down soft carpeted aisles to the deeply cushioned pews. The jingle of gold bracelets was heard as painted women put dainty hands to well-arranged coiffures. Everyone was relaxed in the air-conditioned comfort. It was a momentous occasion because the new minister was to speak on “Restoring the New Testament Church.” A special invitation had been given through a costly advertisement in the Saturday paper, for all members of sectarian churches to attend. Some of these had accepted and were already present.

The minister left his air-conditioned study in the six room parsonage adjoining the church building. He paused in front of the hall mirror to give his tie a final pat, and to arrange the flower on his coat lapel. In front of the church building, he paused again to admire the large lighted sign: “CHURCH OF CHRIST — James A. McKendree, Minister.” It was a distinct honor to be the minister of such a congregation. He recalled the statement of his instructor at the theological seminary in Nashville when he was a preacher student. “You men can write your own paychecks. You can get fifty, eighty or a hundred dollars per week. It just depends upon what will satisfy you. We want the graduates of this institution to demand and receive what they are worth, so it will not reflect against the school” The minister smiled. His check read much more than the maximum mentioned each week. Now if he could just convince some of the prominent Baptists and Methodists that this was the New Testament church, his reputation would be made.

During his sermon he was irked by the lack of attention by his own members. One of the elders slept off the effects of a heavy afternoon meal. Two of the women who taught classes on Sunday morning whispered to each other during the service. But the people he sought to impress—the sectarians—gave good attention. He belabored human creeds, sprinkling for baptism and instrumental music in the worship. He pointed out that none of these were characteristic of the New Testament church, and we must eliminate them if we would restore the church our Lord died to purchase. He was eminently satisfied with the sermon. He had delivered it before as a trial sermon at two other places, and in both cases it had won him the pulpit over other candidates.

After the sermon he took his place in the foyer, his wife by his side, and shook hands with the departing guests. He was thrilled when the Vice-president of the First National Bank, congratulated him, and informed him that he and his wife were thinking of affiliating themselves with the Church of Christ. He said, “Two of your elders are members of the Rotary Club, and while we were playing cards at my house the other night, they were kidding me, as they always do at our noon luncheons at the hotel on Wednesday. They told me that my sprinkling didn’t have enough water in it to wash away any very big sins, and I could see they had Bible for what they said.”

The preacher did not often dream. His slumber was generally undisturbed. But on this Sunday night, he had the church on his mind. Perhaps it was that, or it may have been the Swiss cheese on rye bread that he ate just before retiring. In any event, he had a strange experience in his sleep. He found himself in a narrow cobble-stone street in a foreign city. He knew it was the Lord’s Day, and he had never missed a gathering of the church. But how could he locate it? Strange though it seemed, he found himself able to understand the language of those on the street, and to speak it. He accosted a man who was richly dressed in native costume, “Sir, can you tell me where I can find the Church of Christ?” The man stared at him uncomprehendingly and shook his head in the negative. But a poorly clad individual with a slave owner’s brand upon his forehead, waiting until the rich man passed on, stepped to his side, and whispered, “Perhaps, sir, you look for the community of the holy ones. Come with me!”

They walked a mile before turning down a darkened alley. The preacher shuddered. His feet were paining him from the exertion. In a narrow aperture between two buildings a flight of stairs led upward. The guide began to climb. Two full flights he went before he stopped in front of a rude door. He opened it and entered, beckoning for the preacher to follow. A company of men and women sat around a long table containing food. “It is the feast of love,” said the guide, “come, be seated.”

An aged man with long beard arose, and spoke, “Welcome brothers, to the feast of charity. We have been awaiting your arrival. As our beloved brother Paul has instructed so have we done. When we came together to eat, we tarried one for another. Now let us thank God for his rich mercy.” Food was passed to the guest, strange food but well-prepared. Those who appeared to be possessed of some means served the poor, the slaves, and the ill-clad. Each appeared to esteem others better than himself. Inquiries were made as to the welfare of those not present.

At the close of the meal, the aged man who had extended the welcome at the beginning, now took his place at the head of the table. Before him rested a loaf of bread and a cup of liquid. The aged one spoke, “Dearly beloved, let us engage in praise to God and edification of one another.” A man arose and began a hymn of praise. It was different than anything the visitor had ever heard. It was more like a chant than a song. At its conclusion, a man arose who identified himself as a shoe cobbler. His fingers were blackened with the prick of the awl. But he lifted his stained hands in a gesture which seemed gentle and kind, as if in benediction. He spoke feelingly of the need for personal consecration and for separation from the world. He told of his own surrender to the Christ, and how the Spirit had fashioned his life into one of utility and service even as he took scraps of leather and made from them the sandals which brought comfort to the feet of those who journeyed along the roads.

When he sat down, the slave who had guided the preacher arose, and declared the preceding remarks had stirred him to give personal testimony to his own faith. He belonged to an unbelieving master. He was often beaten. His body bore the marks of the lash. He had secured the right to attend the service by toiling all night, treading the waterwheel in the irrigation canal. But his spirit was free. He urged all who were free in body to use that freedom to free others from sin. The lash of the master could not make a mark upon the spirit. Some wept openly as he spoke.

He was followed by a fruit merchant from the bazaar, who relinquished his place to a weaver of cloth. Each shaped his words from the experience of his own life or trade. When no one else signified a desire to speak, the president, with a tone of sadness, said, Brethren, beloved, you know that our dear Jason was apprehended in the week past for proclaiming the words of this life in the market-place. At his trial he was sentenced to banishment. He is now in custody awaiting a ship sailing from our shores. He will need our prayers and our assistance. Let those whose hearts are moved to have fellowship in his suffering, give to his succor, and the servants of the community of holy ones will see that he receives your grace ere he sails.” Everyone except the preacher arose as if by common impulse and moved toward the head of the table. Some placed money on the table in front of the president. One man, stripped off a beautiful cloak, and folding it, placed it on the table, saying, “He will need it more than do I, and may our dear Lord grant him abundant mercy.” Another removed the sandals from his feet and placed them with the garment.

A solemn hush fell over the assembly. The bearded patriarch took the loaf in his hand. He gazed upon it and the tears welled to his eyes and trickled down his cheeks. He spoke of suffering, of cruel death on a tree, of hope springing anew from an open tomb. Lifting his eyes toward heaven he gave thanks. Every man and woman present at the table said, “Amen!” The bread was passed to all. Next the cup was given to them, and tears coursed down the cheeks of rich and poor, master and slave, alike. Afterwards all of them kneeled. One after another they prayed fervently. The slave, kneeling beside the preacher, prayed, “Dear Master, bless our brother who has come to us from afar to be our guest this day”—and just at this juncture the preacher awakened.

The next morning, as his wife set the ham and eggs before him for breakfast, he said to her, “I had the craziest dream last night. I thought I was in some foreign country, but I couldn’t tell where. I stopped a man on the street and asked the location of the church. Some fellow who looked like a tramp took me upstairs in a building that had no sign on it, so I couldn’t tell what it was. We went into a room where some crackpot group was holding some kind of religious service. I don’t know what they belonged to, but they were fanatics. They cried a lot, even while one of their number was trying to sing a solo. It was the funniest place you ever saw—no pulpit, no minister, no sermon, no song leader, and no order to their service. Anyone who wanted to could get up and talk, even shoe cobblers and servants. I wonder what on earth makes a person have such fantastic dreams?”

“Did they use instrumental music?” asked his wife, smilingly.

“No, they didn’t have that,” he replied.

“Well, they were right on one thing at least,” she said.

“Yeah, but that’s about the only thing,” said the preacher. “If you’ll excuse me, I believe I’ll go up and polish up another talk on restoration. I think we’ve got some of the sectarians in this town eating out of our hand.”

Remember that within four decades communism, as a state power, has spread through roughly 40 per cent of the world’s population and 25 per cent of the earth’s surface.

When the Communist Party was at its peak in the United States it was stronger in numbers than the Soviet Party was at the time it seized power in Russia.—J. Edgar Hoover

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We are not afraid to follow truth wherever it may lead, or to tolerate error so long as reason is left free to combat it.—Thomas Jefferson