Lewis

Men differ in their creeds, their aspirations and the cut of their coats; it is hard to find two people who accept the same God in their hearts, though they may worship in the same church. But there is a certain dogma of behavior--the unwritten doctrine of good taste--that binds together in liberty of thought, forbidding any individual to thrust upon another his tailor, his ambition, his belief in God. When Sinclair Lewis, able novelist, violated this universal doctrine in a church in Kansas City, he offended equally believers and skeptics, as hundreds of editorials in last week's press bore witness.

The facts of Mr. Lewis' offense are simple. Standing on the rostrum of the Linwood Boulevard Christian Church, he took his watch out of his pocket with a theatrical gesture and laid it on the prayer desk before him. It was an accurate watch, he said. He would give God ten minutes precisely. . . ten minutes to demonstrate that He existed by striking him, Sinclair Lewis, author, dead where he stood. The people in the Linwood Boulevard Christian Church waited patiently. In the Independence Avenue Methodist Episcopal Church a few blocks away, a "golden wedding choir" (men and women who had been married 50 years) was singing "Shall We Gather at the River?" Some of Mr. Lewis's listeners had thought of going to the other church that morning; they wished now that they had gone. "Shall we gather, shall we gather. . ." Perhaps, if God did not take all the time that Mr. Lewis allowed him, they would be able to get to Independence Avenue in time for the solo "At the R-i-i-iver..." The old revival song, very far away, strummed in their minds, a dwindling obligate to the nasal voice that harangued them from the pulpit.

"Is there no joy, no greatness in living? Is it the fear of hell that makes us good? If this theory is part of your Christian religion, then damn your Christian religion."

Surely, God would laugh at a man who talked like that. "Damn your Christian religion." That was a bad word. A man had no business in a parlor, let alone a church, if he talked like that. God might strike a great man dead, but he would never waste his lightning on a man who had no manners.

"Luther Burbank . . . they say he forgot heaven and hell. . . . I say that Burbank gave back to God all that God gave him. If he had to stop and take care of heaven and hell, they must be puny institutions indeed. . . ."

Small wonder that, throughout the week, editorial comment scathed loud Lewis.

The New York World spoke for the literate, prosperous bourgeoisie:

"The parallel with the burly coward who terrorizes an alley, a block, a school or a town is well-nigh perfect. Mr. Lewis thought he was annihilating religion by his defiance of the Deity to strike him dead. He was, in fact, giving an amazing exhibition of bad taste, insulting and shocking to every religious mind."

The New York Daily Mirror, with characteristic emphasis, spoke for the gum-chewers. At the top of its editorial page two pictures were printed, one of Sinclair Lewis with a monocle in his eye, and one (on the left) of a large hairy baboon with enormous ears, a wise, sad, underslung mouth, a flat nose. The baboon also wore a monocle.

"The one on the right," explained the Daily Mirror, "is Sinclair Lewis."