I was born February 14, 1864 in Albany, Vermont and reared in the Baptist faith of my parents. When I was nearly four, our family moved to Iowa where I grew to manhood. As that country was thinly populated, social and religious opportunities were at a minimum. In course of time, a church was built by the Baptists in a village three miles from us and we attended as regularly as possible. The preaching and teaching in the Sunday school was of a very crude nature and consequently created little interest among the younger generation.
Standard doctrines
In those days, practically everyone who called himself a Christian believed in heaven going at death, the immortality of the soul, a personal devil, eternal torment for the wicked and a lot of other foolishness. I grew up under such teachings and was taught to read the Bible from cover to cover, which I did faithfully, though I had no distinct idea of what it was all about (which was also true of those who were preaching and teaching it).
To California
My mother died when I was 17 and four years later I migrated to California, which was quite a different place then from what it has grown to be in the last 65 years (from 1886 to 1951). I first spent several years on the great grain ranches of the San Joaquin Valley which was a vast wheat field hundreds of square miles in extent. Since houses were miles apart, little attention was paid to religious and social life. For a few years after this, I roamed over the state working here and there to determine what location I liked best.
When I was about 29,1 was working in a lumber yard in the town of Woodland, a few miles from Sacramento. There were several churches of different denominations. Out of force of habit, I always attended one or the other of them as the early teachings of my mother had not been forgotten. Three of the churches joined in a series of revival meetings and employed a professional evangelist to stir up the people. All converts were allowed to choose the church they wished to affiliate with.
Getting religion
It was my first opportunity since coming to the state to hear much in the way of a religious service. As I was naturally of a religious turn of mind and had so far escaped most of the pitfalls of the “wild and woolly west” — for that’s what it really was then — I soon became interested in the meetings. Under the influence of the speaker’s oratory, I thought I had gotten religion and went to the mourner’s bench along with dozens of others. I was told that I was saved and various other things, all of which I took for granted were true. As there was no Baptist church there, I chose to worship with the Congregational’s. The pastor of the group was but a few years my senior and seemed a very likeable fellow.
They would admit members with or without baptism of any kind, but I insisted on immersion as I, at least, knew the Bible taught that. I immediately took an interest in the church work and attended all the meetings and social affairs. After a few weeks, I began to feel that I was hearing much from the pulpit that I could not find proof for in the Bible. However, I thought it was owing to my ignorance as I had all confidence in the preacher. He was a good speaker and apparently of far more than ordinary education.
Asking questions
Assuming the pastor could easily set me right with his superior knowledge of the Scriptures, I decided to have a talk with him and get the matters cleared up that had been bothering me. I made an appointment and spent an evening with him in his study asking questions about the things I did not understand. To my horror, I discovered that he knew no more about the answers than I did and evidently cared far less. He dodged most of the questions with the remark, “That is a mystery not revealed and we must spiritualize it.”
I left his study so disappointed and disgusted that I had no desire to ever see him again. A few weeks later, I moved to San Francisco where all denominations were available. I proceeded to shop around hoping that some one of them might have a solution to my problems. The landlady of the house where I lived was a Catholic and persuaded me to accompany her to church. This proved very interesting as a sort of entertainment I had never witnessed before but did nothing to solve my problems.
During the year of my stay in San Francisco, I went the rounds of all the denominations listed in the directory, even the Jewish synagogues, and found nothing to satisfy my mind.
As I did not have sufficient knowledge of the Scriptures to ferret out the answers for myself, and no one seemed able to do it for me, I actually became so discouraged that I was tempted to discard the search for right doctrine and pin my future hopes on living as godly a life as I could with my feeble understanding.
The truth in North Dakota
In the spring of 1895, I decided to visit the old home in Iowa where most of the family still lived. I purchased a 60-day round-trip ticket intending to spend half of that time in Iowa and the balance with an older brother who lived in Grand Forks, North Dakota and was in the farm machinery business. When I arrived there, he told me he was short of help and urged me to stay for at least a year to help him out. My nine years in California had dimmed my memory of North Dakota winters and since it was lovely spring weather, I consented. As he had a family large enough to fill his house, I fitted up a small room off the office where I worked for sleeping quarters and boarded at a nearby hotel.
As usual, I attended church on Sunday from force of habit, though I did not believe half they said and it was of little interest to me. About the second or third Sunday after my arrival, I returned to the hotel for dinner after church. I seated myself at a table just large enough for two opposite a fine looking young man a few years my senior. After a few commonplace remarks, he asked if I had been to church. I said, yes, I always attend church when I can. Then he asked if I was affiliated with any church. As he seemed interested in religious matters and as I was full to the bursting point with my experience of the previous year, I said I had no choice as they were all alike to me and the whole matter of religion had proved too much for me to fathom to my satisfaction. I then related to him in as few words as possible my experience.
With a Christadelphian
He was a very unassuming young fellow; but in his quiet way, he soon dropped a few remarks about the Scriptures that were new to me and set me to thinking very seriously. He was employed by an abstract and title company and lived in the hotel where I was eating daily. Before we parted, I had a most cordial invitation to spend all the evenings I cared to with him in his room and we would talk over my difficulties. I grabbed at that opportunity as a drowning man at a rope. With very few exceptions, my evenings during the following year were spent in Edgar MacDonald’s room absorbing the blessed gospel that Christ taught and for which I had been searching for so long. He was the youngest of a large family of a Baptist preacher in London, Canada and had been practically disowned by his father for adopting Christadelphian doctrines.
At the close of my year of service for my brother, and after a winter in North Dakota, I was anxious to return where the oranges grow. After being immersed in the baptistry of the Christian church which was kindly offered for our use, I was prepared to return to California. Edgar had a brother and sister living in Wenatc ha, Washington, which I would pass through, and he decided to go that far with me. When he discovered that I had stop-over privileges on my ticket, he gave me the address of a brother and sister Watson in Tacoma. They were Canadian friends of his and he said they would be pleased to see me. I stopped over night with them and had a delightful visit.
A Christadelphian wife
It happened to be the first birthday of their baby girl and it was well celebrated. After I came home, we corresponded occasionally to keep in touch with each other. About five years later, brother Watson died. Some four years after that, I married his widow, Jean Watson, the first Christadelphian sister I ever met. She died here in Santa Barbara, June, 1944, shortly before the 40th anniversary of our wedding. The baby girl is now in the autumn of life living in San Francisco.
Edgar MacDonald died about two years after I left Dakota of tuberculosis with which he knew he was afflicted when I made his acquaintance. I hope to meet him again in the not distant future and tell him the story of the result of his efforts on my behalf.
Needless to say, it would take a lot of argument to induce me to believe that the hand of God did not guide me on that trip. It was the most direct answer to prayer that I ever experienced.
Yes, God does answer prayer.
It may not be in just the way we ask for it or just at the time we want it, but He knows best about that. If we serve Him faithfully, He will give what is best for us. We must learn to trust when we cannot understand.
The Origin of the Organic World – Part One