There used to be Sunday mornings in fair-lawned Montclair, N. J. when prosperous commuters, resting from their labors, dallied over the name of Harry Emerson Fosdick. He was queer, discussible, young.
Members of the First Baptist Church, especially the men, began to be proud of him. He knew a lot. His sermons were not merely repetitions of abstract nouns and pious adjectives. When he preached, he set his verbs to work, pulling facts, incidents, aphorisms, from Classical History, Renaissance, Art, Modern Business.
Some Baptist women wondered whether...
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