“What did you find to talk about with ’em?” I says, casual.
“Well,” he said, “I hardly know. The range of interests, I must say, is not very wide. There has been a good deal of sickness in the congregation this Summer——”
“Yes,” I says, “I know. Mis’ Emmons’s limb has been troubling her again. Mis’ Temples’ headaches have come back. Old Mr. Blackwell has got hold of a new dyspepsia remedy. At the Holmans’ the two twins fell into an empty cistern and got scraped. And Grandma Oxner don’t see any change in the old complaint. I’m familiar with ’em.”
He smiled at that. “They have a good many burdens to bear,” he says, patient. “But——”
“But,” I says, “don’t it seem wicked to ask a man to set and listen to everybody’s troubles for one hundred and fourteen calls a month, and expect him to feel he’s doing the Lord’s work?”
“The office of comforter——” he began.
“When,” says I, “was complaints ever lessened by dwelling on ’em—tell me that? Oh,” I says, “it ain’t you I’m blaming, nor the other ministers either. I’m blaming us, that calls a minister to come and help us reveal the word of God to ourselves, and then expect a social call a month, or more, off’n him, once around the congregation—or else be uppish and mebbe leave the church.”
“The office of spiritual adviser always demands——” he started in, and concluded it as might have been expected.
“How much religion really, really, do they let you talk on these calls?” I ask’ him. “Don’t it seem kind of bad taste if you say much about it? And as a matter of fact, don’t ministers pride themselves nowdays on being all-around men who can talk about everything, from concerts to motion pictures, and this here city gollif? Of course they do. That is, if folks keep off their complaints long enough to leave you prove how really broad your interests are.”
“Yes, I know—well,” he says patient, “they expect the calls. What,” he adds, “had you thought of for the order of the four Sunday services?”