He began to speak very quietly and simply, as his fashion was, of the fact that he had been asked to resign his pastorate of Calvary Church.  He made the statement clearly, with no halting or hesitation or sentiment of tone or gesture.  Then, after saying that there was only one course open to him under the circumstances, he went on to speak, as he said he ought to speak, in defense of his interpretation of Christ and His teaching.

“Members of Calvary Church, I call you to bear witness to-day, that I have tried to preach to you Christ and Him crucified.  I have doubtless made mistakes; we all make them.  I have offended the rich men and the property-owners in Milton.  I could not help it; I was obliged to do so in order to speak as I this moment solemnly believe my Lord would speak.  I have aroused opposition because I asked men into the church and upon this platform who do not call themselves Christians, for the purpose of knowing their reasons for antagonism to the church we love.  But the time has come, O my brothers, when the Church must welcome to its counsels, in these matters that affect the world’s greatest good, all men who have at heart the fulfilment[sic] of the Christ’s teachings.

“But the cause which more than any other has led to the action of this church has been, I am fully aware, my demand that the church-members of this city should leave their possessions and go and live with the poor, wretched, sinful, hopeless people in the lower town, sharing in wise ways with them of the good things of the world.  But why do I speak of all this in defense of my action or my preaching?”

Suddenly Philip seemed to feel a revulsion of attitude toward the whole of what he had been saying.  It was as if there had instantly swept over him the knowledge that he could never make the people before him understand either his motive or his Christ.  His speech so far had been quiet, unimpassioned, deliberate.  His whole manner now underwent a swift change.  People in the galleries noticed it, and men leaned out far over the railing, and more than one closed his hands tight in emotion at the sight and hearing of the tall figure on the platform.

For the intense love of the people that Philip felt had surged into him uncontrollably.  It swept away all other things.  He no longer sought to justify his ways; he seemed bent on revealing to men the mighty love of Christ for them and the world.  His lip trembled, his voice shook with the yearning of his soul for the people, and his frame quivered with longing.

“Yes,” he said, “I love you, people of Milton, beloved members of this church.  I would have opened my arms to every child of humanity here and shown him, if I could, the boundless love of his heavenly Father!  But oh, ye would not!  And yet the love of Christ!  What a wonderful thing it is!  How much He wished us to enjoy of peace and hope and fellowship and service!  Yes, service—­that is what the world needs to-day; service that is willing to give all—­all to Him who gave all to save us!  O Christ, Master, teach us to do Thy will.  Make us servants to the poor and sinful and hopeless.  Make Thy Church on earth more like Thyself!”