A Book of American Martyrs(26)

For some perplexing minutes Reverend Dennis even inquired after my parents, who lived in Sandusky, whom he had met only once, at my wedding three years before.

It was hard for me to reply. I could not think of the right words. My parents were not happy with me, for converting to the St. Paul Missionary Church, though my mother was eager to see her grandchildren, and deeply hurt, that Edna Mae and I did not seem to have time to visit Sandusky as my mother wished, and that we did not invite them to visit us often. (This was not Edna Mae’s wish of course. For Edna Mae declared that she “loved” my parents—all of my family. But I did not care to visit with my father, as my father did not care to visit with us. In this way, there was a stalemate as it is called, I think—for neither my father nor I would give in. As I was a husband and a father now, embarked upon my own life, I did not intend to give in to the old man.)

“You might begin with missionary work, Luther. You don’t need to be an ordained minister to ‘minister’ to our brethren in Africa.”

Missionary! I had not expected this.

Reverend Dennis went on to tell me, much of what I already knew from his sermons, that he had been a missionary in West Africa for six years, in his early twenties; he was fond of saying, with one of his quick, pained smiles, that some of the “most joyous” days of his life were spent there, despite many difficulties including illness (malaria, dengue fever).

“The challenges of a Christian in such a place are—well, almost overwhelming! Africans don’t seem so impressed with a ‘savior’ as you would think, considering how they live—how poor, and uneducated. They didn’t seem to take Hell seriously—they’d smile, and shake their heads. Heaven was very hard to explain to them as a spiritual place. They seemed confused about Jesus, if He was a man or a ‘god,’ and it was clear that they had no concept of ‘immortality.’ Half the time I didn’t know how much they understood of our teachings, and how much they were just pretending to understand, as children will do. We’d established a little school there, teaching English and arithmetic as well as instruction in the Gospels. We had many converts, or at least it had seemed so . . . as I say, it was difficult to tell how serious they were when they welcomed Jesus into their hearts, and how deep our teachings went. They were very somber sometimes, and then at other times they laughed uproariously—we never knew why! Our mission ended tragically when a civil war broke out and we had to flee. Eventually, half the population was slaughtered by the other half.”

Reverend Dennis’s lips twitched in a smile. A shiver of mirth passed through his body.

For the first time, as I was seated facing our pastor, I could see his face close up, and marveled at the pale, stony hue of his eyes; and saw a thin, jagged line, seemingly a scar, across his throat, that made me shudder with the thought that it had been inflicted in Africa, by one of his savage “converts.” Reverend Dennis did not look so young and handsome as he appeared in the pulpit when his face was transformed with the joy of the Lord.

What did I care about the African mission! How could Reverend Dennis who had seemed so friendly to me, like a true brother, and not like my own brothers who were indifferent to me, imagine that I would willingly leave my home, my young family, my work and responsibilities to live with African natives, to convert them to Christianity? Nor did I feel comfortable around Negroes here in the United States, much of the time.

“They are ‘children of God,’ too, you know, Luther—the Africans.”

Reverend Dennis spoke in a slight chiding way, as if reading my mind.

I could not think of a reply. It seemed that Reverend Dennis was staring at my mouth, that began to tremble.

“If you have come to think that you have a ‘calling’ . . .”

A calling. The word that had seemed sacred to me, and to Edna Mae, was sounding now faintly preposterous. I was reminded of Mrs. S—— whose sly intonations and jarring laughter were so confusing to us in Sunday school.

“ . . .you are interested, Luther, in enrolling in a ministry school? When would this be practical for you, d’you think?”

I was trying not to betray my disappointment, that the pastor whom I so admired was speaking to me in so doubtful and discouraging a tone as if he did not seem to think that I had a “calling”—as obviously, he’d had himself at my age. I knew that Reverend Dennis had studied and been ordained at the Toledo School of Ministry, and had hoped that he would recommend me there.

Soon after our marriage Edna Mae and I moved to Muskegee Falls, to be closer to the St. Paul Missionary Church. This was a small town of about the size of Sandusky where there were opportunities for me to find work that did not depend upon the intervention of my father. For I was a proud young husband and father, and did not like to be known as Nathaniel Dunphy’s youngest son. And if I found work as a roofer or carpenter, I did not like to be working for the same construction company as my father, as I had been doing since the age of fourteen.

In this new place, in a rented clapboard house on Front Street that I had repainted outside and in, I was very happy with my life. There were commonplace worries about supporting my family, and a fear that a child might be taken ill, or that Edna Mae might lapse into melancholy (as she had following the birth of our second child, for several months), but these were of little consequence set beside the certitude that the St. Paul Missionary Church of Jesus was the “true” church, and that I was meant, like Reverend Dennis, to be a minister in this church.