Fish On Friday

I have a little Protestant Minister all to myself. I practically own him. I do not wish to imply by this statement that I have stolen him away from his congregation. He is very devoted to his congregation and serves his flock with zeal, edification and much spiritual profit. His people admire and respect him tremendously, as he deserves. But, being a poor pulpit orator (his voice is small and timid), and being ignorant of the tactics employed by those social lions in Israel known as “oyster-supper pastors,” and being temperamentally reverent and unwilling to indulge in any “stunts” in order to attract a crowd to his church on Sundays, he has never been able to make his parishioners enthusiastic about him. There are only four people who are enthusiastic about him: his wife, his two small daughters, and myself. I allow his wife and his two small daughters to possess him for the greater part of the time. But one afternoon a week (usually on Thursdays) he is wholly mine.

I more than enjoy the hours I spend with My Little Minister. He is ten years older than I am, but he never allows me to be afraid of him for that reason. Sometimes we go to the library and discuss books, sometimes we take long walks along the country roads, sometimes we play pinochle on his back porch (he is an astounding pinochle player); but, whatever we do, once a week he becomes my private property and possession. I would not trade him for a whole boatload of High Church ritualists. I would not part with him for much gold.

I did not come by My Little Minister easily. It took much time and considerable patience to get him. Our friendship began in the public library. I used to find him sitting – or else he used to find me sitting – in the “encyclopedia” section of the library, I learned later that we both have a passion for such things as almanacs, directories, and “Who’s Whos.” We both like our erudition in concentrated form.

For weeks we did not speak. I knew he was always painfully aware of my presence opposite him at the library table, and I was definitely aware of his presence opposite me. I could almost feel the clerical crease in his trousers. I knew he could almost feel the Roman collar-button on the back of my neck. We shared a common lamplight together, our elbows rested on the same surface, our shoes nearly touched under the table, but we never spoke. And what wonder! ‘‘Intolerance” was my name on his lips and ‘‘Heresy’’ was his name on mine. We could not sniff a common air in comfort. He glared at my black shirt-front. I glared at his red mustache.

And yet, for all our differences, our antics were, for all the world, like the antics of young lovers before their first avowal. We both pretended to read, but did not read. We looked out the window at each other. I never lost him in the corner of my eye, and he kept my image securely focused in the rim of his spectacles. I cleared my throat at him many times. He rumpled the pages of his book back at me. Once we arose and approached the bookcase together in search of the same volume. Our shoulders bumped. Rome and the Reformation collided. I coughed, and he blew his nose.

It was the lady librarian (may Heaven bless her!) who brought us together. “Here,” she said one afternoon last fall. “Here! This ought to interest you two!” and she laid a folder of ecclesiastical drawings on the table between My Little Minister and me.

“You two” – the words were like magic. He was figuratively converted to the Catholic Faith, and I figuratively apostatized to Calvinism. Priest and parson, we were united by a common dogma: the absurdity of trying to dislike likable people, and – in connection with the drawings we were examining – the complete preeminence of the Gothic for purposes of church or chapel architecture.

“Of course Renaissance architecture is ridiculous, bald, open, devoid of all wonder and awe and mystery,” (He patted me on the back.)

“The Byzantine reminds me of an amorphous beetle.”

“It reminds me of an over-fed octopus.”

“There should be pillars in a church, even though they do cut off the view of pulpit or altar.”

“Better to lose pulpit and altar than lose the reason why pulpit and altar have come into being.”

“The nave should be narrow.”

“And the walls high.”

“Art is never fat and cumbrous.”

“Indeed, no. The Muses are tall girls and slender and graceful.”

“The clerestories should be well elevated, lest Heaven and Earth be confounded.”

“And the window saints should be very much in the sky, because rubbing elbows with their holy presences might make us forget to kiss the hem of their garments.

“Split the organ if necessary, but do not let the best window in the church, the rear one, be blinded with organ pipes.”

“Exactly, The passerby, who may have other errands on church nights, has a right to know that the lights are shining in the House of God.”

“The common argument against the Gothic is that it does not make you ‘feel at home’ in church. That is no argument.”

“No argument whatever. One should never be made to ‘feel at home’ in church. One should be made rather to ‘long for home’ in church, through being enticed by something he sees there to search into the inscrutable wonder of his own soul.”

“Hurrah for the Gothic! Hurrah for crevices and crannies and nooks and frescoes and saintly hiding places out of which, at any moment, a seraph may step or an archangel may poke his wing to startle a worshiper at his orisons.”

“And to perdition with the art (or lack of it) that would give us for churches four walls full of nothing but air, whose mystery is absolved in a single look! . . . ”

My Little Minister and I were laughing out loud together. As we finally agreed to put it: “If the Gothic does nothing else, at least it induces the churchgoer to sit in a different part of the edifice each Sunday, if only for the sake of curiosity,” As to HOW churches should be built, My Little Minister and I were in perfect accord. In this regard we were “one fold and one shepherd.” As to WHY they should be built – I do not remember that we even remotely discussed that question. We were too anxious to become good friends.

I have often tried to decide just why My Little Minister and I are so fond of each other. We have both been made to suffer much for our friendship. Several Catholics have been mildly scandalized at seeing me walk with him on the country highway, The other day the garage man to whom dying in a good fight for the Faith would be a lark, raised his hat to me reluctantly when I passed because “that guy was with you.” The trustees of My Little Minister’s church have openly rebuked him for talking to me in the library; not only that, but one of his most affluent parishioners has cancelled her pew-offering (which, like herself, is a large affair) because “he is known to have played pinochle with a priest.”

And yet, withal, let them wag their noses as they may, My Little Minister and I are loath to give each other up. I think the reason must be because we are a perfect complement one for the other. He is a living example of what I should like to be in the way of nobility, sincerity, kindliness, and singleness of purpose. I am definitely what he longs to be in the way of spiritual power. He can forgive injuries, but I can forgive sins. He can soothe the dying; I can anoint the dying. The size of his Sunday congregation depends on the sun; mine on the Son of God. His sermons are well written, but his service is meaningless. My sermons are very poorly written, but my service is the sublimest act of religious worship ever conceived. He has two lovely children, but his title is “Mister.” I am homeless and childless but thousands of loving hearts call me “Father.” He outweighs me by fifteen pounds, but is sufficiently diminutive to be named “My Little Minister.” Ecce sacerdos magnus the choir sang on my ordination day, and, though I say it with shame and confusion, I do humbly avow they sang the very truth.

My Little Minister said a strange thing to me the other afternoon when we were climbing the hill that leads beyond the town. “Do you know, Father, there is not a single dogma of the Catholic Faith I am temperamentally opposed to. I wish they all were true. The only trouble is that they are not.” This startled me. It was so unlike My Little Minister. We had both tried to be so careful. I stopped and looked at him from head to foot. “And do you know,” I replied with great firmness, “there is not a single doctrine of the Calvinistic Faith that I wish were true. Even if your religion were true, I should wish that it were not so . . . ”

I have found by many sad experiences that it never pays to be sarcastic. I have never once indulged in any bitter or ironical remark that I did not feel miserable about it afterward. My Little Minister had no intention of hurting me. His statement was wholly casual. He was just thinking out loud. My retort was deliberate and willful. Never, till the day I die, shall I want anybody to give me such an appealing and disappointed look as My Little Minister gave me that afternoon. I reached out my hand to him. “Forgive me!” I said, and we walked for half an hour in silence.

Finally My Little Minister spoke. “Please let me think it out for myself, will you? Don’t hurry me. Just let me think it all out for myself, and ask God to help me.” And he put his hand to his head as though thinking were an agony, “Sometimes,” he went on, “I feel so empty and purposeless and disgusted. I feel like a shell. All I can do is talk, talk, talk to people. I can’t do anything for them like you can. I try to preach the Gospel. But how do I know my ideas about the Gospel are the right ones? Many of my colleagues disagree with me on the interpretation of the most fundamental texts. And some of the sayings of Holy Writ are so hard. I can’t make any sense out of them. Last Sunday I preached to my flock on ‘The irremissible sin!’ What is ‘the irremissible sin’? I don’t know what it is. And yet I preached on it for an hour. The people were restless and unimpressed. They were angry because I did not give them a sermon on ‘Hoover.’ Doctor Y over in the next village preached a sermon on ‘Hoover’ and the church was packed. I can’t preach on Hoover. I voted for Hoover, but I haven’t got him mixed up with Jesus Christ!”

It took me a long time to bring My Little Minister back to his usual gay and cheery manner. I reminded him of how happy he ought to be with his pretty home, his lovely garden, his wealth of books, his charming wife, and above all his adorable little daughters. “Do you envy me my little daughters?” he said teasingly, with a twinkle of pride in his eye. I did not answer. But it pleased him so much to know that he had something which I did not have.