Vilhelm Moberg - The Settlers

“No. I am a minister in the Swedish Church.”

“What’s that. .?”

“A minister!”

The exclamation came from Kristina. She almost dropped the jar of maple syrup. “A minister from Sweden? Did I hear aright?”

“Yes, I am sent by the Church at home.”

Karl Oskar stared at the man whose feet in worn-out socks rested on the hearth. This country was a gathering place for all sorts of people; a great many crooks and swindlers found their way here, as well as lazy, useless people who wanted to live off others. He was not one to believe an unknown person’s words right off. Here, in the middle of the night, had come to his house a stranger, a man who wandered about in the wilderness without errand; he had arrived muddy, his clothing torn, covered with blood, the toes sticking out of his boots, a hole in his behind, telling them he was a man of the Church from Sweden, consecrated by the bishop to preach. A real minister, not one of those American ministers who apparently were a breed of their own. How could this man expect to be believed right off?

But Kristina had no doubts. She had wondered about his long black coat and his black leather bag and his way of talking. She should have understood at once that he was a churchman. And now she spoke to him as to an entirely different person, respect and reverence in her voice. “When did you leave home, Mr. Pastor?”

“Half a year ago.”

And it seemed he had guessed Karl Oskar’s suspicion — he searched in his bag and found a thick paper. “I’m entirely unknown to you, my dear countrymen. Here are my papers to prove what I said.”

He handed the paper to Karl Oskar, who learned from it that their guest was Pastor Lars Paul Erland Törner, born at Västerstad, Östergötland, in the Kingdom of Sweden, May 16, 1825. The pastor was two years younger than himself.

“We did not doubt you, Mr. Pastor!” Karl Oskar assured him quickly.

“Mr. Pastor, you must change your wet clothes!” said Kristina.

The young minister had begun to revive; he smiled at her. “Don’t call me Mister, Mrs. Nilsson! Pastor is enough.”

“And don’t call me Mrs. My name is Kristina. I’m not of the upper class!”

“But here in America all married women are called Mrs.”

This she must know, he added, there was no difference here between nobles and ordinary people; all were equal. And that was why he liked it so much in this country. God had never created different classes, only people.

“Here, Pastor, are some dry clothes,” said Karl Oskar.

He had found the wadmal suit the village tailor had made for him at the time of his emigration. He had now worn it for three years, on weekdays and Sundays, for he no longer had any special Sunday clothing. Most of the settlers wore equally poor clothes.

“If you can wear them, they’re the best I have. .”

“Thank you, Mr. Nilsson. Any dry clothing is blessed clothing.”

The young minister changed in front of the fire and his host hung up the drenched garments to dry.

Karl Oskar had a full, strong body, while Pastor Törner was lean and spindly; he did not nearly fill the clothes he put on. Around the minister’s thin legs the settler’s pants almost stood by themselves, stiff and unbending, and his hands disappeared entirely in the long coat sleeves. The roomy garments enveloped the thin body and hung on it as if it were a post.

To Kristina, their guest looked like a scarecrow in Karl Oskar’s coat and pants. It was almost a dishonor to the Church to clothe a minister this way; it was a degradation for one anointed for the Holy Church. She was tempted to laugh; she could not help but visualize the decked-out figure in a pulpit! But she must control herself; it meant nothing how Christ’s servant was dressed. Christ himself had no real clothes, only a poor mantle. He did not even own boots, no shoes or footgear of any kind, but walked barefoot like a beggar. And his disciples were dressed even more poorly than the settlers of this valley.

She filled the washbowl and handed it to the minister so that he might wash off the blood on his neck and forehead. And now that she knew who he was she began to worry that the food she offered him was too poor; could one really treat a minister to warmed-up porridge?

She curtsied: would the pastor partake of their simple supper?

“Mrs. Nilsson, you could not offer food to a more grateful being than myself!”

Pastor Törner sat down at the table and turned up the right coat sleeve so that his hand was free to use the spoon. Then he filled his plate to the brim with barley porridge.

His hosts sat down a few paces from the table; they wanted to be courteous. Kristina could not quite believe what was taking place in her home this night. A man of the Church, who had stood in the pulpit and before the altar in Sweden, who had officiated at baptisms, weddings, funerals, and Holy Communion, had come to their house in the wilderness, and was sitting at their table, wearing Karl Oskar’s clothes, and eating the remnants of their supper. It seemed like a miracle.

“I got wet to the skin as I was crossing a creek,” said the young minister.

“The streams are overflowing with all this rain,” said Karl Oskar.

“I lost my way, then I happened onto a field and realized I must be near a settlement. God has led me to this hospitable home.”

With his last words Kristina suddenly held her breath. She was working up to a question.

Karl Oskar sat in amazement. Three kinds of people emigrated from Sweden: the poor and landless ones, those who preached religious opinions differing from the state Church, and those who had committed crimes. A minister was never poor, he had a home and a salary, he was well off. And he preached the right religion. So the question was, had he done something wrong? Why otherwise would a minister emigrate?

He dared a direct question: “Why did you come to America?”

“Because of the emigrants.”

“Because of us. .”

“Yes. I wish to help look after the souls of my countrymen. That’s why I left my homeland and resigned my position there.”

Pastor Törner had eaten with ravenous appetite and having scraped up the last spoonfuls of porridge from his plate, he began to talk. In his parish at home he had preached against the so-called Church Resolution, which decreed heavy punishment for those poor souls who, through negligence of the clergy, became ensnared in heresy. Fines, prison sentences on bread and water, exile — these measures, he said, did not bring any strayed souls back to the fold of the Church. You could not force people onto the right road by severe civil laws, but only through Christ’s mild gospel. For sermons of this kind he had been rebuked by bishop and chapter. By the Church’s grace he had been permitted to resign, and when some farm families from his parish emigrated to America, he had joined them as their pastor. He had not wished to have them or their fellow emigrants become prey to the many false teachings that were sweeping North America. In this country he aimed to give spiritual aid to his landsmen wherever he found them.

And he added, with a look at the sleeping children, “I am sent to prevent your children from growing up heathens in this foreign land.”

He rose from the table. Kristina’s eyes were fixed on him. This thin, pale young man, with little strength to endure physical tribulations, had traveled the same long, hazardous road and had sought them out in their new settlement to help them in their spiritual vexations.

He had come to the right place; he had himself said that God had shown him the way through the wilderness to their home.

And now she realized fully the miracle that had taken place tonight.

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