Brother Anderson, by Thos. K. Beecher

Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Battle Creek, Mich. · Sep 9, 1873

Brother Anderson,

By Thos. K. Beecher

[WE are decidedly opposed to that style of so-called “Literature” which aims to murder the English language, and experiments to see how far it can diverge from the line of correct spelling and good taste. Whenever we find a good sentiment, as we sometimes do, disguised under outlandish style and abominably bad spelling, we translate it into as good English as possible before using it. But the following, recorded by T. K. Beecher, is natural and unaffected, and must reach the heart of all who can appreciate unlettered simplicity united with fervent Christian love. It is, in truth, a powerful argument in favor of the Christian religion; for what else could so inspire the heart, and raise it from the very depths of its ignorance to the moral sublimity which characterizes this unstudied speech. May we all learn its lesson.—Ed. Rev.]

I was to preach for Bro. Anderson. He was a good pastor. Almost the last time I saw him, he had just called upon a lamb of his flock to ask after her spiritual welfare, and fifty cents toward his salary. He had left his tub and brushes at the foot of the hill, and he resumed them when he had made his call; for, like the great apostle, he used to labor, working with his own hands.

For years I had met him, but had not known him; he was silent and constrained. He never seemed to know, much less resent, the caste prejudice that weighs so heavily on his race. All this was long ago. He has preached his last sermon, and is, I doubt not, restfully awaiting the resurrection of the just.

Punctual to the hour, Bro. Anderson came rolling across the street and up to the door, and we went in together. After the usual songs and prayers, I took for my text Paul’s counsel to the Corinthians as to their disorderly meetings and meaningless noises. The sermon was in the main a reading of the fourteenth chapter of Paul’s first letter, with comments and applications interspersed. I spoke for half an hour, and while showing consideration for the noisy ways of my audience, exhorted them to cultivate intelligence as well as passion.

“When you feel the glory of God in you, let it out of course. Shout glory, clap your hands, and all that. But stop now and let some wise elder stand up and tell what it all means. Men and boys hang round your windows, and laugh at you and religion, because they don’t understand you. Some men have religion all in the head—clear, sharp, dry and dead; others, all in the heart. They feel it in their bones. Now I want you to have religion in your heads and hearts. Let all things be done decently and in order.”

I was very well satisfied with my effort at that time—it seemed a success. As I sat down, Bro. Anderson got up and stood on the pulpit step to give out a hymn—

“Let saints below in concert sing.”

I am not certain that he could read; for he stood, book in hand, and seemingly from memory gave the number of the hymn, and repeated the first two stanzas with deep and growing feeling. Of the third, he read three lines:

One army ob de livin’ God To his comman’ we bow; Part of ’e hos(t) ’av cross’er flood, An’ part——

Here he stopped, and after swallowing one or two chokes, went on to say: “I love brudder Beecher. I love to hear him preach dis afternoon. He’s told us a good many things. He’s our good fren. An’ he sez, sez he, dat some folks goes up to glory noisy ’n shouting, an’ some goes still-like ’z if they’s ’shame of wot’s in ’em. An’ he sez we’d better be more like de still kind, an’ white folks more like us. An’ den I thinks ’taint much ’count no way, wedder we goes up still-like or shouting, ’cause Heaven’s a mighty big place, brudders; an’ wen we all goes marchin’ up to see de Lord, an’ I’s so full ob de lub and de joy and de glory dat I mus’ clap my han’s an’ shout, de good Lord’s got some place whar we won’t ’sturb nobody, and we kin shout—Glory! Glory! Bless de Lord! I’m safe, I’m safe in de glory at las’! I tell you, brudders an’ sisters, dat Heaven’s a mighty big place, an’ dar’s room for brudder Beecher an’ us too.”

Dat’s so! Bless de Lord! Amen! Glory! (from the people).

“An’ brudder Beecher sez dat ’tis’n de folks as makes mos’ noise dat does the mos’ work. He says the injins on the railroad only puff—puff—puff—reg’lar breathin’ like, wen dey’s at work a haulin’ de big loads, and dat de bells and dat de whistles don’ do no work; dey only make a noise. Guess dat’s so. I don’ know ’bout injins much, and I don’ know wedder I’s a puff—puff injin, or wedder I blows de whistle an’ rings de bell. I feels like bofe (with a chuckle) sometimes! An’ I tell you what, wen de fire is a burnin’, an’ I gets de steam up, don’t dribe no cattle on de track; de injin’s comin’! Cl’ar de track!” (This with a voice that shook the little house, and a “magnetism” that thrilled and fixed me. Of course his hearers were by this time swaying, shouting, and amen-ing splendidly.)

“An’ de boys an’ gals, an’ de clarks an’ young lawyers, dey come up yar watch-night, an’ dey peek in de windows an’ stan’ round de doors; and dey laff an’ make fun of lig’n’! an’ brudder Beecher sez, Why don’t we stop de noise now’n den, an’ go out an’ tell ’em ’bout it—’splain it to ’em. An’ I members wot de Bible says ’bout the outer darkness, and de weepin’ an’ de wailin’ an’ de gnashin’ ob teeth. An’—if dese boys an’ gals stan’ dar outside a laffin’, bymby dey’ll com’ to de wailin’ an’ de weepin’ fus dey know. An’ den wen dey stan’ roun’ de great temple of de Lord an’ see de glory shinin’ out, an’ de harpers harpin’, an’ all de music, an’ de elders bowin’, an’ all de shoutin’ like many waters, an’ all de saints a singin’, Glory to de Lam! ’spose God’ll say, Stop that noise dar! Gabriel! You Gabriel! go out an’ ’splain?”

“Yes, I see dem stan’ las’ winter roun’ de doors an’ under de windows an’ laff; an’ dey peep in and laff.” An’ I remember wot I saw last summer ’mong de bees. Some ob de hives was nice an’ clean an’ still, like ’spectable meetin’s; and de odders was a bustin’ wid honey; and de bees kep’ a goin’ an’ a comin’ in de clover; an’ dey jes kep’ on a fillin’ up de hive till de honey was a flowin’ like de lan’ of Canaan. An’ I saw all roun’ de hives was de ants an’ worms, an’ de great drones, an’ black bugs, an’ dey kep’ on de outside. Dey wa’n’ bees. Dey couldn’t make de honey for darselves. Dey couldn’t fly to de clover an’ de honeysuckle. Dey juss hung roun’ de bustin’ hive an’ liv’ on de drippin’s.”

“An’ de boys an’ gals come up yar an’ hang roun. Jes come in an’ we’ll show you how de gospel bees do! Come in, an’ we’ll lead you to the clover! Come in, an’ we’ll make your wings grow! Come in! won’t ye? Well den, poor things, let ’em stan’ roun’ de outside an’ have the drippin’s! We’s got honey in dis hive.”

Raising the hymn-book, and with tender voice, he took up the stanza just where he had left it—

“Part of ’e hos’ av cross’er flood, And part are crossin’ now.”

“Sing, brudders!” said he; and to his “lining out” they sang the whole hymn as only such as they can sing.

All this was ten or twelve years ago. I remember that while he was speaking, my sermon seemed to shrink and fade. And now as I recall the scene, and recall his words but in part, I am feeling the power of his truth—Heaven’s a mighty big place. The Father’s house hath many homes and places prepared for many.

Was he dreaming of these as he went about our streets with tub and brushes to whiten and sweeten the homes of men? Did he wear his rags contentedly, mindful of his robes shining and exceeding white as snow? In that day when those are last that shall be first, few will look down to find BROTHER ANDERSON.—Thos. K. Beecher.