“You can never make a preacher, we feel—excuse us for telling you so frankly—you have no voice, you do not read well, your grammar is poor, your themes are not interesting. Your last Sunday morning’s talk on ‘Conscience’ was beyond our understanding. Several good supporters have threatened to forego their subscriptions if we have you another Sunday. Will you kindly suggest some one to come to us next Sunday and oblige, yours in Christian sincerity, etc.”
“Blunt, isn’t it?” he half smiled.
“The idea of asking you to send them somebody, after that!” I gasped.
“Oh,” he sniffed, “it’s all in Christian sincerity, you know!”
“Well,” I added, “there are other places, Tucker. Cheer up!”
Then a most discouraging change came into his eyes, he nodded his head, and replied, with vigor,
“The trouble of it is, Priddy, what they say is all true, every word of it! I have a terrible voice and can’t seem to get my words out. I don’t know much about grammar; never had much of a chance on the farm. I’m not quick to learn like so many here. I have to plod and plod and plod. As for interesting sermons, why, if they aren’t interesting I do the best I can!”
I wanted to ask him, then, why he persisted in entering the ministry, but I couldn’t find courage to do so, but he had read my thoughts, for he said, immediately,
“You wonder why, if I know all this, I enter the ministry, and fight against hope? Well, I’ll tell you. I have felt, right along, that I might break down my handicaps. At least I thought I would give myself a thorough trial, no matter how bitter the disappointment of failure might be. I didn’t mind losing two or three places at first, if I could finally master myself. It was a sort of inherent vanity of mine that I could succeed. But this—this seems to be a judgment on me, I guess. I think I’ll pack up and go out and become—oh, anything that pays day wages. At least, I can try to be a good layman!”
“Why don’t you try it another year?” I suggested. “Things might turn.”