"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.