“But dat’s de bes’ deacon I got,” pleaded Eph sadly.
“Turn him out I tell you!”
“But dey all does little tings.”
“Turn ’em all out!”
“Den we ain’t got no chu’ch, en de shepherd ain’t got no flock ter tend, er ter shear. You des splain how de Lawd tempers de win’ ter de shorn lam’. Den ef I doan shear ’em, de win’ mought blow too hard on ’em. En ef I doan keep ’em in de pen, how kin I shear ’em? I axes you dat?”
The Preacher smiled and continued, “Then I’ve heard some ugly things about you, Eph,” suddenly darting a piercing look straight into his face.
“Who, me?”
“Yes, you. And I can’t afford to go into the pulpit with you any more. In the old slavery days you were taught the religion of Christ. It didn’t mean crime, and lust, and lying, and drinking, whatever it meant. Your religion has come to be a stench. You are getting lower and lower. You will be governed by no one. I can’t use force. I leave you alone. You have gone beyond me.”
“But de Lawd lub a sinner, en his mercy enduref for-eber!” solemnly grumbled Ephraim.
“In the old days,” persisted the Preacher, “I used to preach to your people. I saw before me many men of character, carpenters, bricklayers, wheelwrights, farmers, faithful home servants that loved their masters and were faithful unto death. Now I see a cheap lot of thieves and jailbirds and trifling women seated in high places. You have shown no power to stand alone on the solid basis of character.”