Project Canterbury

I Corinthians iv. 2. “Moreover it is required in stewards, that a man be found faithful.”

When my thoughts turned to the preparation of this sermon, and a text was needed on which to base it, instinctively those words came to mind. Of course there should go with them the preceding words, “ministers of Christ, and stewards of the mysteries of God.” But it is on that thought of “faithfulness,” especially, that I wish to dwell.

Every minister of Christ is a steward. He is in a position of responsibility. He has the oversight and care of things of great value. It is of supreme consequence that he should possess the qualities which must of necessity belong to a good steward. What is the first great quality, without which no stewardship would be worth while? Let me answer that as another has answered it: “The great requisite for the office of a steward is fidelity. As a servant, he must be faithful to his master. As a disciple, he must be faithful to those under his oversight.”

Apply that to the minister of Christ. Does it not fit him exactly? Must he not be true to his Lord and Master? Do not the very essence and power of his service lie in that fidelity? Is it not the first thing which the Master expects of his steward, or minister? And the time will come, will it not, when he must render a full account of his stewardship? That is a humbling, yes, an appalling thought; and when that time comes will fidelity be the mark of his stewardship?

It is obvious, of course, whither my thoughts are leading in these few preliminary words. It is obvious that the minister of Christ, the steward of the mysteries of God, is a definite person, one well-known to us all, at the moment much in our thoughts. George Thomas Linsley is that definite person. Here in this beautiful church, over which he presided as rector for so many years, we are dedicating a tablet to his memory. Perhaps no tablet is needed to preserve his memory, preserved as it will be in the hearts of those who knew and loved him, but we do like to have an outward tangible sign that he is not forgotten, that the record is not forgotten.

Down in New Haven, in that part of the town known as Fair Haven, on September 4th, 1864, a boy was born to Frederick H. and Sarah S. Linsley. He was given the name of George Thomas. There he grew up, receiving his early education in the public schools of New Haven. And it was in New Haven also that he received his academic training, for there was Yale College, and Yale was to be his Alma Mater, as is the case with so many New Haven boys. He graduated in the class of 1885.

Linsley was a Churchman by birth and training, as a boy and young man, regular and earnest in the exercise of his religious duties. It was not difficult for him, indeed it was an easy matter, with the aid of judicious and sympathetic words of guidance from his spiritual leaders, to turn his thoughts to the ministry of the Church, when the time came for him to decide what should be his life-work. The bent of his mind was in that direction. It needed no persuading. But if it did the magnetic-influence of his Bishop, that great personality, Bishop John Williams, would soon have removed all hesitation.

Having once determined upon his course, the next thing was his preparation for his work, his special preparation, that is. In those days Connecticut candidates for the ministry quite generally went to Berkeley Divinity School, not only because it was a Connecticut institution, but more important than that, because Bishop Williams was at the head of it, and the young men were brought under his personal supervision and instruction. As one looks back he might, perhaps, be critical, if he were disposed to be, and there are always those who are disposed to be, wisely or unwisely, of certain methods of teaching, but there is no gainsaying the inspiring influence of Bishop Williams on the men whom he trained. And parishes were always glad to get those men for rectors. If Dr. Linsley were here he-would echo, I am sure, every word I am saying.

Linsley entered Berkeley Divinity School in the fall term of 1885. The accommodations were not such as to pamper the men, and make them unduly soft. They were being trained for any kind of life they might encounter when they went out into the world as ministers of the Church. They were being hardened, not by deprivations, but by the rugged simplicity and wholesomeness of their manner of living. And no man was the worse for it.

If I bring myself into the story just a bit you will forgive me, I know, for I am not speaking as one wholly detached, as a stranger. I am speaking as a long time acquaintance and friend, and therefore as one who has a certain right to be personal. I was two years Linsley’s junior, and when I entered Berkeley in the fall term of 1887, he was entering his last year at the School. Then began my acquaintance with him. The line of demarcation in a small Divinity School between upper and lower classes is not what it is in college. An upper classman is altogether human, and recognizes lower classmen as human also, with the result that they begin to know each other at once, and the acquaintance ripens through the whole scholastic course.

When I entered the School Linsley was at the head of the refectory, a position of some practical importance, a position which he filled with tact and success, aided, of course, by the criticisms freely offered of a voracious student body. He brought to this task that business ability which he later displayed in the leadership of parishes, and especially in the managing editorship of our diocesan paper. It is my recollection that we fared as well as we had any right to expect under the circumstances.

Graduation time came, and with his class he was ordained Deacon by Bishop Williams, May 30th, 1888. While still an undergraduate in the School he had just a taste of work in the Mission field, an experience of value, whether a man has it in mind or not to remain there indefinitely.

But the young Deacon was Connecticut born and bred, and here in Connecticut lay his interests. Bishops, as a rule, are very jealous of their young men. Aside from the fact that they have a certain canonical obligation regarding them, they like to see them working and developing under their own observation. That can not always be the case, because the law of unselfishness prevails among Bishops as elsewhere, and men must be spared to work in other fields, where, perhaps, they are needed more. After all we are a Church, you know.

Linsley’s Bishop had a place for him in which to serve his Diaconate, and a little longer. That was down in Fairfield County, in the region about Stamford, in Glenville, Round Hill and Byram. They were small places, but there Were people there to be shepherded. It was a good place in which to begin, a good place in which to take stock of one’s position, and, if possible, to see what it was all about.

When he had completed his Diaconate he was advanced to the Priesthood by Bishop Williams, May 31st, 1889. He was now equipped to do the full work of the ministry. He had faithfully served in the small work to which he had been assigned, he had demonstrated his ability to undertake a larger work. He was destined to go on and up. There will be little doubt of a man’s advance once he has demonstrated his fitness to do so. “He that is faithful in that which is least is faithful also in much.”

There came to him the call to serve as rector of one of our finest rural parishes, Trinity Church, Newtown, and in earlier days one of the strong parishes of the Diocese, associated with which were such men as John Beach, Philo Perry and Daniel Burhans, and later Newton Marble, rectors of worth, to follow whom it was indeed an honor.

I doubt not that the young rector fully understood and appreciated that. And more, I doubt not that it had a certain historic appeal for him. Of our forty-two colonial parishes it was the fifth in order of organization, dating from 1732. Standing high on Newtown Street, the square-towered, buttressed gray stone church commands all the country-side around, beautiful in itself and beautiful in its setting. Here amid rural scenery, as fair and lovely as any our State can boast, Linsley began his first rectorship. An ardent lover of Nature himself, he could not fail to enjoy, and respond to, the wooded hills and rolling meadows that made up the landscape.

And there is evidence that he did. Twelve happy fruitful years passed, years of strengthening and growth for himself, of peace and prosperity for the parish. His quiet, confident and wise leadership left its indelible mark, and the parish rejoiced and rejoices in the memory of it. “Moreover it is required in stewards, that a man be found faithful.” We are witnessing the working out of the proof of that sage statement.

His work in Newtown had been noted and appraised, and in nineteen hundred and two there came the call to Hartford, to this beautiful church built here on the lower meadows primarily for the accommodation of the families of those who worked in the Colt Fire Arms factory near by. It was the rich outpouring of love, in memory of the founder of the factory, by his widow, who, also by other evidences of her generosity, placed her name high on the honor roll of Hartford’s benefactors, and certainly enshrined it here in this Church of the Good Shepherd.

We have come along the way to this point, only touching upon the things which have happened by the way, and which have helped to shape our course. It would be the height of presumption, certainly the carrying of coals to Newcastle, for me to attempt to tell you anything about Mr. Linsley’s work here, and what he meant to you. All that is in the record and well-known to you. Many of you were co-workers with him.

In Newtown he was the young rector, the faithful pastor; the good citizen, doing such things in the community as naturally fall to one in his position. But here in his new sphere of work, while he was all that, yet the scope of his activities broadened. As rector of one of the larger parishes in the Diocese, and with his recognized ability, it was inevitable that now he should be called upon to serve in one diocesan capacity or another. In a Diocese as large as Connecticut promotion comes not at once. A man must make his way step by step. But fitness counts, and will be recognized sooner or later. And always there is that rule in operation, which has more to do with promotion than anything else, “He that is faithful in that which is least is faithful also in much.” It is sometimes forgotten by those who seek easy and quick promotion that hard work, at all events work, is the path that leads to it. Linsley was not afraid of work, and because of that he was called upon to work. Some of it savored of drudgery, perhaps, but before the honors came the drudgery.

I have no intention of enumerating the various things he was called upon to do in the Diocese, the various capacities in which he was elected, or appointed, to serve. Time will not permit. I shall content myself with mentioning only two or three. He had no sooner come to this rectorship than he was made the Secretary of the Church Scholarship Society, a Society the purpose of which was to aid young men in their educational’ preparation for the ministry. For thirty-four years he served faithfully and acceptably in that position.

Some men, it would seem, are born to be secretaries. There isn’t anything strange about that. If a man is a good secretary under one set of conditions he is very likely to be under other conditions. It seems as if everywhere I turned Linsley was the secretary. It has been my experience that, as a rule, the secretary does all the work. In 1914 he was elected to the Standing Committee of the Diocese, and in 1917 became its Secretary in succession to Dr. Samuel Hart. This involves work, much and careful work. I was associated with him on this Committee for, twenty-two years, and I know from experience the conscientious, painstaking and accurate manner in which he discharged the duties of that office. You knew instinctively that the records were in order, that the Minutes contained whatever action was taken, and that whatever instructions were authorized were faithfully carried out.

There was one bit of work which, in my judgment, deserves more attention than it has received. When Bishop Brewster became the head of the Diocese he felt that a diocesan paper would be a valuable asset in furthering diocesan unity, and in keeping all parts of the Diocese informed. Consequently, The Connecticut Churchman came into being under the editorship of Mr. Linsley. In appointing him the Bishop says: “He who has consented to serve as Editor is one who has the esteem and confidence of the entire Diocese. He accepts the burden in a spirit of conscientious loyalty which, I confidently trust, will receive the recognition and support of the Diocese.”

The Bishop had made no mistake. Mr. Linsley brought to his task an experience gained in editing his own parish paper, and for eleven years he continued to guide its’ destiny with ability and enthusiasm. Owing to the pressure of parish duties arid illness in his. family, he was constrained to resign the editorship, and the Bishop reluctantly accepted the resignation with expressions of gratitude for Mr. Linsley’s faithful service. It was a task which involved much work and much anxiety, with little or no return beyond the satisfaction of doing a necessary job well. I have had occasion to go somewhat carefully through the issues of the paper, as edited by Mr. Linsley, in quest of facts relating to Bishop Brewster, and I have been greatly interested to find so much valuable historical matter scattered throughout the volumes. Of course Mr. Linsley was historically minded, historically minded, that is, as concerned the Church in Connecticut. He was a good man to have around when parish anniversaries approached, and, always good-natured and accommodating, he contributed to many such anniversaries with the historical sermon or address. I particularly wish to give this recognition to his work as editor of our diocesan paper. It is always easy to be critical, it is not so easy to do the job better.

I have said that he was historically minded. He certainly was, so far as the history of our Church in Connecticut was concerned, as I said, for the bulk of his writings had to do with some aspect of that work, either parochial or diocesan. When Bishop Acheson called for assistance for the restoration of the Glebe House at Woodbury, that ancient rectory where in 1783 Samuel Seabury was chosen to go abroad for consecration as Bishop, Mr. Linsley responded with alacrity and enthusiasm. It was a task much to his liking, and when the Seabury Society for the Preservation of the Glebe House was organized in 1925, he was made its Secretary. I don’t recall by what process, whether by appointment of the Bishop or by election, probably just by the plain working of nature, he continued as Secretary until his death, giving efficient and loving service. It was all so joyously done that it could hardly be spoken of as work, though there was much work connected with it.

And in all the “celebrations connected with that precious shrine, precious to us Connecticut Churchmen, he played an important part, preaching and writing on Bishop Seabury and. his Episcopate, writing on the old house, with intelligent and reverential affection. To his pen we owe much that has contributed to our understanding and appreciation of that ‘whole interesting and unique episode in our Connecticut Church history. He fitted into it as naturally as if he were born to it; perhaps he was.

It would require no stretch of the imagination to picture him on that memorable March day in 1783, if we wished to revert to that time, wending his way to Woodbury by whatever mode of transportation was available, by stage coach, on horse back, on foot, yes, we may include the last, in view of his well-known enthusiam for mountain climbing, and arriving there take his place in that group of serious and determined men, gathered in the southeast room of the old rectory, and after long and solemn discussion, and earnest prayer, casting his vote first for Learning and then for Seabury.

It would be to him a pleasant duty performed not wholly unmindful of its grave responsibilities. It would be to him a congenial group which he joined, old time Connecticut Churchmen, for he belonged to that group and gloried in it. There have been and there are those whose eye-brows lift at the mention of Connecticut Churchmanship. But, after all, it was something genuine and sturdy, and the men who were exponents of it in those early days were genuine and sturdy Churchmen, hewing close and clean to the line which the Church, as they believed, had drawn for them. From his Divinity School days to his death that always seemed to me to be Linsley’s proper classification. He was at the end what he was in the beginning.

But my story is running to its close, a sketch only, for time does not permit too much detail. As we view the work which men accomplish from day to, day, it does not seem so much, of course, but when it is all spread out before us, and we try to comprehend and evaluate it, it is rather overpowering. Looking at Mr. Linsley’s work in the aggregate one is amazed at what he accomplished. And yet he always seemed unhurried, never flustered, never straining nervously at the leash, never wasting energy, and yet the task he was called upon to do was always done, and well done. He had the faculty of so organizing and utilizing his time, and conserving his energy, that somehow additional burdens never seemed to weigh him down.
Many honors came to him through the years; not the least among them was the degree of Doctor in Divinity, deservedly conferred upon him in 1928 by the Berkeley Divinity School. He prized it as he had a right to do, for Berkeley was the “school of the prophets,” wherein he had received his preparation for his life work, and it was richly associated with Bishop Williams.

After a rectorship of thirty years, one of the longer rectorships in the Diocese, Dr. Linsley, we may now call him that, I have purposely refrained from* doing so, feels that his period of retirement has come, that he has earned cessation from the exacting cares and labors of an active rectorship. And so in 1932 he resigned as rector and was made rector emeritus. Of the sixty-six years of the corporate life of the parish up to that point, Dr. Linsley had served thirty.

When he withdrew from the parish he went “to the lovely home which he had provided for himself in Farmington, where he hoped and his friends hoped, that he might for many years enjoy the blessed rest and contentment which come to those who have faithfully done their work, and have “stepped aside to let other and younger men take up the burden. From the vantage point of his home in Farmington he was able to fulfill his duties as Chaplain of Armsmear, duties dear to his heart, and to respond to other calls as they came to him, as long as the vigor of mind and body permitted.

But though man proposes it is God who disposes. The days he was allowed to live in his charming retreat at Farmington were happy days. But they were soon over, and on August 5th, 1937, he was called to give an account of his stewardship. They buried him in Newtown where were spent those radiant years of his first rectorship.

It was his wont to send you a message for All Saints’ Day, “one feast of holy days the crest.” In one of his last messages” were these beautiful words:—”We all have our saints of the home and fireside, the ordinary souls, those living in the trivial round, at the common task. We hope we may fairly say of our beloved, theirs too was utter simplicity; theirs was gallant purpose; theirs was complete consecration; they wrought bravely and well.”

But now in closing I want to assure you that I have not forgotten those words of St. Paul with which I started out, “Moreover it is required in stewards, that a man be found faithful.” No, instead, they have been playing on my mind all along like the sunlight on the distant hills, and everything that I have said of my dear friend Linsley has been but a proof, a substantiation, an exemplification, of the truth of those words. He was indeed a steward of the mysteries of God, a minister of Christ, and who shall say that in the conduct of his stewardship he was not faithful, aye, faithful unto death?

Here in this beautiful church, in itself a beautiful memorial, you are dedicating a tablet to his memory. It is well that you should; it is well that you should have some visible sign and reminder of him, though there are finer and deeper reminders, reminders which reach down into the hearts and lives of those whom he loved and served, whom by word and example he helped along the way of life. Do we not have a suggestion of those reminders here in these lines of Wordsworth—

“when his course
Is run, some faithful eulogist may say,
He sought not praise—and praise did overlook
His unobtrusive merit, but his life
Sweet to himself, was exercised in good
That shall survive his name and memory.”