Little book-learning had Andrew Pengilly in his youth, and to this day he knew nothing of Biblical criticism, of the origin of religions, of the sociology which was beginning to absorb church-leaders, but his Bible he knew, and believed, word by word, and somehow he had drifted into the reading of ecstatic books of mysticism. He was a mystic, complete; the world of plows and pavements and hatred was less to him than the world of angels, whose silver robes seemed to flash in the air about him as he meditated alone in his cottage. He was as ignorant of Modern Sunday School Methods as of single tax or Lithuanian finances, yet few Protestants had read more in the Early Fathers.
On Frank Shallard’s first day in Catawba, when he was unpacking his books in his room at the residence of Deacon Halter, the druggist, the Reverend Mr. Pengilly was announced. Frank went down to the parlor (gilded cattails and a basket of stereopticon views) and his loneliness was warmed by Mr. Pengilly’s enveloping smile, his drawling voice:
“Welcome, Brother! I’m Pengilly, of the Methodist Church. I never was much of a hand at seeing any difference between the denominations, and I hope we’ll be able to work together for the glory of God. I do hope so! And I hope you’ll go fishing with me. I know,” enthusiastically, “a pond where there’s some elegant pickerel!”
Many evenings they spent in Mr. Pengilly’s cottage, which was less littered and odorous than that of the village atheist, Doc Lem Staples, only because the stalwart ladies of Mr. Pengilly’s congregation vied in sweeping for him, dusting for him, disarranging his books and hen-tracked sermon-notes, and bullying him in the matters of rubbers and winter flannels. They would not let him prepare his own meals—they made him endure the several boardinghouses in turn—but sometimes of an evening he would cook scrambled eggs for Frank. He had pride in his cooking. He had never tried anything but scrambled eggs.
His living-room was overpowering with portraits and carbon prints. Though every local official board pled with him about it, he insisted on including madonnas, cinquecento resurrections, St. Francis of Assisi, and even a Sacred Heart, with such Methodist worthies as Leonidas Hamline and the cloaked romantic Francis Asbury. In the bay window was a pyramid of wire shelves filled with geraniums. Mr. Pengilly was an earnest gardener, except during such weeks as he fell into dreams and forgot to weed and water, and through the winter he watched for the geranium leaves to wither enough so that he could pick them off and be able to feel busy.
All over the room were the aged dog and ancient cat, who detested each other, never ceased growling at each other, and at night slept curled together.
In an antiquated and badly listed rocking-chair, padded with calico cushions, Frank listened to Mr. Pengilly’s ramblings. For a time they talked only of externals; gossip of their parishes; laughter at the man who went from church to church fretting the respectable by shouting “Hallelujah”; local chatter not without a wholesome and comforting malice. Frank was at first afraid to bare his youthful hesitancies to so serene an old saint, but at last he admitted his doubts.
How, he demanded, could you reconcile a Loving God with one who would strike down an Uzza for the laudable act of trying to save the Ark of the Covenant from falling, who would kill forty-two children (and somewhat ludicrously) for shouting at Elisha as any small boy in Catawba today would shout? Was it reasonable? And, if it wasn’t, if any part of the Bible was mythical, where to stop? How would we know if anything in the Bible was “inspired”?
Mr. Pengilly was not shocked, nor was he very agitated. His thin fingers together, far down in his worn plush chair, he mused:
“Yes, I’m told the higher critics ask these things. I believe it bothers people. But I wonder if perhaps God hasn’t put these stumbling blocks in the Bible as a test of our faith, of our willingness to accept with all our hearts and souls a thing that may seem ridiculous to our minds? You see, our minds don’t go far. Think—how much does even an astronomer know about folks on Mars, if there are any folks there? Isn’t it with our hearts, our faith, that we have to accept Jesus Christ, and not with our historical charts? Don’t we feel his influence on our lives? Isn’t it the biggest men that feel it the most? Maybe God wants to keep out of the ministry all the folks that are so stuck on their poor minds that they can’t be humble and just accept the great overpowering truth of Christ’s mercy. Do you—When do you feel nearest to God? When you’re reading some awful’ smart book criticizing the Bible or when you kneel in prayer and your spirit just flows forth and you know that you’re in communion with him?”
“Oh, of course—”
“Don’t you think maybe he will explain all these puzzling things in his own good time? And meanwhile wouldn’t you rather be a help to poor sick worried folks than write a cute little book finding a fault?”
“Oh, well—”
“And has there ever been anything like the Old Book for bringing lost souls home to happiness? Hasn’t it worked?”
In Andrew Pengilly’s solacing presence these seemed authentic arguments, actual revelations; Bruno Zechlin was far off and gray; and Frank was content.
Equally did Mr. Pengilly console him about the intelligent workmen who would have none of the church. The old man simply laughed.
“Good Heavens, boy!
