“We hired you to preach the simple gospel of Christ.”
“Pardon me, Deacon; I am not your hired man. I chose this church as the instrument through which I could best give my message to the world. I answer to God, not to you. The salary you pay me is not the wage of a hireling. My support comes from the free offerings laid on God’s altar.”
“We call them pew-rents. You are trying to abolish this system, as old as our life, and allow a mob of strangers to push and crowd our old members out of their pews.”
“I believe the system of renting pews un-Christian and immoral-a mark of social caste.”
“And that’s why I think you’re a little crazy. Even your best friends say you’re daft on some things.”
“So did Christ’s.”
The Deacon’s face clouded and his black eyes flashed.
“From denouncing private pews you have begun to denounce private property. Our church is becoming a Socialist rendezvous and you a firebrand.” “Deacon, you have allowed your commercial habits to master your thinking, your religion and your character. In your home, you are a good man. In Wall Street,” he smiled, “pardon me, you are a highwayman, and you carry the ideals and methods of the Street into your duties as a churchman.”
“Pretty far apart for a pastor and deacon, then, don’t you think?”
“You ran the preacher away who preceded me, too,” mused Gordon.