"They're anything but sound," his friend replied, "and that's the plain English of it. Any man who holds them has no right to be in the ministry." My blood began to sizzle. I knew this reverend brother—a comfortable pastor of a comfortable congregation, who spent most of his time simply trying to be "sound," to use his own word; saving doctrines and losing men, as I heard Gordon say once in a sermon.
"What are they?" persisted the other.
"Well," began the first, "I don't believe he's very sound on the miracles. And then, he contends we're all divine—doesn't deny the divinity of our Lord, however. But I think he often closes his prayer without saying 'for Christ's sake'; at least, so I've heard."
"Perhaps he means it just the same," suggested his companion.
"Then he ought to say it—a prayer that hasn't that doesn't go higher than the roof, in my opinion. And I believe he contends no man can explain the Atonement—from an intellectual standpoint, that is. He told me as much—I told him I could explain it all right. He replied that he interpreted it more by his heart than his reason. And that's dangerous ground, Mr. Forest, very dangerous ground."
"Is that all?" the other enquired, evidently not overcome by the arraignment.
"No, it's not. They say he believes prayer has no power to influence the course of events—regards it only as a kind of pious communion; doesn't believe in praying for anything in particular, I'm told. And he has his doubts as to who wrote the Hebrews. I told him it was Paul—but he still seemed to have doubts. And he thinks the Confession of Faith is too long and too intricate. That's dangerous too—it's the thin end of the wedge, Mr. Forest, the thin end of the wedge," and from where I sat I could hear the censor shut his lips.
"He's a mighty devoted minister, anyway," the other interposed; "I've had long talks with him myself. And there's only one thing troubles me—I'm afraid, I really am, that he clings too much to a merely ethical Christ. He's tinged with that, I'm sure; glories in Him as a Teacher, and Healer of mankind, and all that sort of thing. Laird's a great healer himself, you know—he's a marvel with the sick, and the sorrowing, and the poor. But I'm afraid he's drifting—he began with Drummond, and ended with Harnack." I recognized the soporific name.
"Oh, yes, there's another thing," resumed the orthodox one; "Laird has doubts as to whether or not sorrow comes from God. Affliction, you know; bereavement, suffering, the death of little children—everything like that. He's inclined, I'm afraid, to attribute it to another source—doesn't seem to be clear that it's God's will for us to suffer," and I could hear the comfortable one settling back in the softly-cushioned chair. "Now, that never troubles me at all—I always feel certain our sorest sorrows come from God; was just saying so yesterday to a woman whose little boy was drowned. He was her only child."
"Did you ever lose a child?" the other minister asked quietly.