How the Minister’s Cause Was Won by Susan Hubbard Martin

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D.C. · Jul 11, 1907

How the Minister’s Cause Was Won

By Susan Hubbard Martin

The congregation at Holland Center used many times to wish that they might get some minister who would please Matthew Fairbanks, but somehow none could ever be found. According to Matthew Fairbanks’ ideas, they either preached too long or too short, visited too much or too little, were too much educated or else were not educated enough, were too narrow or too broad, and so on. And expressing his opinion as he did, freely and at all times, and being the successful man of business he was, he soon found followers. And somehow there was never good pastoral work done in that congregation at Holland Center.

The minister seemed to feel the chilliness of unfriendly eyes, and his sermons in some way fell to the ground. There being no one there to hold up his hands, he felt his helplessness. So, little by little, owing to Matthew Fairbanks, the critical feeling grew until each minister cut short his pastorate there with but small regret. The congregation dwindled more and more as time went on, and friction arose between the members.

“I’m sure I don’t know what in the world is the matter with us,” spoke up Mrs. Collier at prayer-meeting one evening. “Our members are growing fewer and fewer, the young people don’t like to come, and even the people outside are beginning to regard us with suspicion. We have good members. Why is it?”

There was no minister present that evening, and this was a prayer-meeting just by themselves, but no one answered the question, and the little woman sat down. But the reason of the condition of that church at Holland Center was due solely to one man, Matthew Fairbanks, who, on account of his criticizing, uncharitable, unjust, unchristian manner of talking, had brought things to just such an unhappy pass. The last minister had resigned and gone away, and a new one had taken his place. He was a clean-faced, ruddy young man, with frank eyes and a decided, businesslike manner.

“Well, Matthew,” asked old Caleb Powers, standing outside of his carpenter shop one morning, as Matthew Fairbanks passed by, “I hear you’ve got a new minister. Like him?”

Matthew stopped. “No, I don’t,” he replied, testily. “Thinks just because he’s out of college he knows it all. He’s gone and done away with the old hymn-books we’ve used for over twenty years, and got new ones.”

“Maybe they’re better than the old ones,” mildly suggested Caleb, but Matthew frowned.

“Instead of preaching Sunday nights, as he ought to, he’s begun a series of lectures, too,” went on Matthew, sternly.

“Guess he thinks you’ve been preached to enough,” remarked Caleb, with a laugh. “I myself can’t see that you’re any the better for it. What you need,” he added, with a shrewd look on his face, “is some one to get you out of the rut. You’ve had your way; let the new minister have his.”

But Matthew deigned no reply, and went on his way. Old Caleb looked after him thoughtfully.

“There ain’t a preacher in the whole of Christendom that could please that man,” he said to himself. “A pity, too, Matthew Fairbanks has the makin’ of a fine character, but that fault-findin’, criticizin’ way of his would kill any church on earth. I’ve always said,” continued the old man, “if a church-member sees everything wrong under the sun in his own church, he’d better, for that church’s good, be out of it.”

Just about that time Matthew Fairbanks’ only child fell sick. It seemed a trifling ailment at first, but as days passed, the slight cold developed into pneumonia. He had married late in life, and this little child, his only son, was the dearest object of his life. He was a sweet little boy of seven, with big brown eyes, a rosy mouth, and dimpled cheeks. How his father loved him! How he hung over him in speechless grief, as he grew no better!

“Matthew, you must rest,” his wife would tell him, but none of her entreaties could move him from that little white bed.

“He has only a chance,” the doctor finally acknowledged.

Matthew Fairbanks looked up. “I knew it!” he cried. “He will die!”

That afternoon the minister called. He had begged to be allowed to go up for only a minute.

Matthew sat by his child’s bed, his eyes sunken, his face white. He scarcely looked up at his visitor.

The little boy lay flushed and worn among the pillows, his breath short. The minister took a seat by him.

“Well, Jamie,” he began cheerily, taking up the little, wasted hand, “you’re pretty sick, aren’t you?—but see here, my boy. My wife and I have been thinking what would make you better, and finally we hit on this.” He took up a package as he spoke, and opened it.

The child looked at it with interest. He had roused a little.

“It’s a game, Jamie,” explained the minister, “and it’s called ‘The Merry Men of War.’ See, here are the soldiers, and you set them on this board on these pegs. At the end of the board opposite the men, is a little spring. Now you take this big marble and see if you can hit it. If you can, down goes your man—like this.” With a dexterous move of his wrist, he took a marble, touched the spring, and, quick as a wink, over toppled the tall soldier.

Jamie laughed—even laughed. He reached out to take one of the fascinating men of war, but he was too weak.

“Papa,” he said feebly, turning to his father, “come and see them. Will you play them with me?”

“Yes, my boy, yes,” replied Mr. Fairbanks, huskily.

Jamie was worse that night, but he babbled of the toy soldiers, and how he was going to play with them when he got well.

As morning dawned, it seemed that the frail life must go out, but some little thread held him to life.

“It seems to be a matter of mere will power,” spoke up the doctor, as restoratives were administered. “He’s clinging to something.”

And then Matthew Fairbanks thought of the toy soldiers, ‘The Merry Men of War,’ that Jamie and he were to play together when he grew better, and how, too, the minister had done his best to impress the child with the thought that they would make him better.

“He’s living so he can play that game,” thought the father.

Jamie did not die, but slowly and surely came back to life, and during his convalescence ‘The Merry Men of War’ were never off his coverlet, except as his bed was made. He played with

them at morning, he played with them at night, he played with them at all times.

One day while Jamie slept, with a soldier clasped in the frail hand, Matthew Fairbanks fell on his knees and asked the pardon of his Heavenly Father. The scales had fallen from his eyes, and he saw himself as he really was, the one cause of all the discord in the Holland Center church, from which so many bitter springs had sprung.

“I’ll never, dear Father,” he prayed, “never so long as I have life, speak one word against thy messengers again. O Lord, I’ve been wicked; I’ve been bitter; I’ve been censorious. And thou hast heaped coals of fire upon my head. When the minister brought my child that game, it came to me: Would I have done the same in his case? He knew the unkind things I had said of him. He knew the seeds of strife I had sown, but he came, Lord, he came—came into the enemy’s house because he had thy Spirit.”

And down there by Jamie’s bed as he wept and prayed, it seemed to him that, for the first time in his life, he felt the full sunshine of his Father’s love. A new Matthew Fairbanks got up from his knees by that bed and went about his business. The first thing he did was to go to the minister, and, with tears in his eyes, ask his forgiveness.

“No matter what others attribute Jamie’s recovery to,” he said, brokenly, “I know—I feel sure—it was owing to you. And God revealed to me by that gracious act my own wrong-doing. Can you forgive me?”

The minister wrung his hand. There were tears in his eyes, too. “Praise the Lord,” he said, brokenly. “Take ye away the stone. I’ve been praying for that, and he has.”

The church at Holland Center grows now, the minister stays, and the right feeling prevails; and Matthew Fairbanks no longer finds fault, but is the minister’s right hand in everything, and especially in all good works.

And why?—Because by a single loving act toward a little sick child that minister, through God, wrought—shall I say it?—almost a miracle.—Susan Hubbard Martin.