Personality Portraits
The Wit and Wisdom of Our Fathers (1967), with page numbers identified after each entry.
Per August Hultman, “with his ailing leg,” ... once chided his friends by saying: “You always say, 'Here comes Hultman with his ailing leg'; why don't you ever say, 'Here comes Hultman with his good leg'?" (p. 10).
“Hist-August” (Horse-August) Andersson was a man of tremendous physical strength. On one occasion a bear of a fellow came up to him with the intention of felling him. But he met his match. Andersson took the man as though he had been a child and lifted him up on a stone wall where he held him as in a vise and then compelled him to thank God that he, Andersson, was a saved man. This was a hard requirement, but the grip of Andersson's large hands was even harder and as the grip tightened the fellow finally was forced to exclaim: “Thank you, God, that August is saved.” Only then did the preacher lift his opponent down from his uncomfortable perch (p. 13).
A farm-hand once became incensed at [Johan] Utter because he approached him on the subject of the salvation of his soul. “If that man ever comes here again, I am going to shoot him,” he said. Utter, who had been told of his threat, did return and said to the man when he saw him: “You don't want to shoot me, my dear friend, because utterskins (otter skins) bring such low prices nowadays that it wouldn't pay you at all” (pp. 10,11)
When one of [Paul Peter Waldenstrom’s, 1838-1917] sons, seeking to test him, asked him one day whether it was possible for God to shoot a cannonball so that it would turn a corner, he answered, “God does not shoot with cannons, my son.”
Again someone asked him whether he could play the piano, and his answer was that he did not know because he had never tried (p. 27).
[Carl August] Björk [1837-1916] was particularly known for his humor and quick repartee. When the Rev. John Peterson of Oakland, who was known for his somewhat careless appearance, complained to him about the younger ministers as being entirely too fastidious in dress, saying that the apostles were not as concerned about their dress as these young preachers who had to wear a white vest and have their necktie placed just so, right under the chin, Björk replied in his artless way: “Well, it might as well sit there as to sit back under the ear the way it does with you!”
At a great meeting at which a number of preachers were gathered, the Rev. E. A. Skogsbergh preached one night but found it particularly heavy going. He complained to Björk the following morning that he had been unable to sleep all night because he had preached so poorly.
“Did you hear brother X the other evening?” asked Björk. “Oh, I certainly did,” was Skogsbergh's response, thinking that Björk meant to console him. “Well, what did you think of his preaching?” “Oh, that was terrible, that was terrible, that was much worse than mine.”
“Well,” said Björk, “were you able to sleep after his sermon?”
During a mission meeting a younger minister was his roommate. In the morning the latter reproached Björk because he had snored so loudly as to ruin his sleep. "How did you know I snored?" asked Björk. "Why, I heard it." "Well, you should not believe everything you hear" was Björk's response.
In his younger years Bjork was thin and slender, but as the years went by he became corpulent and the possessor of quite a paunch. His good friend Pastor Palmblad joshed him because he had gotten so heavy. “Listen, Björk,” he said, "you get to look more and more like the backside of a spoon.” “And you,” retorted Björk to Palmblad, who was exceedingly spare, “are just like the inside of the spoon.”
To another of the older preachers who had a hunched back he said when he met him one day: “It is a strange God we have; you've got your hump behind, and I have mine in front.”
Björk was often away on gospel journeys. Once when he departed for such a trip his wife said to him: “Sometime when you are out traveling, in case you come close to home you can drop in to see how we are getting along” (pp. 37,38).
When a new physician came to take up practice in Dassel [Minnesota], [John] Sjoquist [1832-1930] went to call on him as a matter of courtesy and friendliness. While he was in the doctor's office, he decided that he might as well have a physical examination. The result was that he was given a prescription for some minor ill. This is the way he afterwards told the story: “I gave the doctor $2 for the examination because, after all, the doctor has to live. Then I took the prescription he gave me to the druggist to have it filled, and I gave him $2 because the druggist also has to live. Then I took the medicine home and put it on the shelf and there it has been for two years because, you know, I also have to live” (p. 58).
In common with many of the pioneer preachers, Sjoquist did not have much interest in speculative theology, particularly in so-called "prophetic truth." At one time the church which he attended was pastored by a man who believed strongly in what was called “dispensational truth” and in “rightly dividing” the word of truth. This school of thought allocated particular sections of the Bible to the Jews, other parts to the Gentiles, and other parts to a coming age. Our pioneers were pietists who took the whole Bible, Old and New Testaments, and applied it spiritually to Christ. One Sunday morning when Sjoquist was returning home from church, he was met by a friend who said to him, “Well, did you get anything in church today?” to which Sjoquist replied with a gesture of disgust: “Humpf. Get anything? Why he even wanted to take away from that which I already had” (pp. 63,64).
In the early days [Adam] Lidman [1849-1933] and E. A. Skogsbergh [1850-1939] were very good friends, and he writes glowingly of Skogsbergh's early preaching in Sweden. But as time went on and Skogsbergh became increasingly popular, it is possible that a little bit of “the old Adam” asserted itself in Lidman. On one occasion when Skogsbergh went up on the platform to preach, Lidman, who had been standing outside, said: “Now it is best that we go in because the Northwest Missionary Society has just gone up on the platform.”
When Lidman met the Rev. Carl Turnquist [1874-1951] soon after the latter had come to Omaha as pastor of the church, Lidman asked him: “And who are you?” “I am Carl A. Turnquist, the pastor of First church in Omaha.” Lidman's response was characteristic: “O Lord God, you don't mean to tell me” (p.70).
On another occasion, at an annual meeting of the Covenant, one of the ministers was reading the Old Testament lesson, which happened to be in Genesis, the third chapter. He read very sonorously and impressively, giving great emphasis to the reading. When he came to the question: “Adam, where art thou?” he read it with great oratorical flourish, whereupon Lidman piped up in a thin, wavering voice from where he sat: “Here I am” (p. 71).
When he lay dying, two men, members of the board of deacons in a local Baptist church, came to pray with him. He saw them coming and pretended to be in a coma during their visit. They sought to arouse him but without avail, and so they stood and talked together about all the good that this brother had done in his lifetime. Then one of them said piously to the other: “Perhaps we should have a word of prayer before we leave even though he does not hear us.” Whereupon Adam Lidman, true to himself to the end, opened one eye and said: “Well, then, make it snappy” (p. 74).
At the annual meeting in Jamestown in 1919, the morning session had just been concluded and the delegation was standing for adjournment. The moderator called on John A. Peterson [1838-1915, “Peterson in Oakland,” in Nebraska] to close the session with a word of prayer, but he had just finished putting two generous pinches of snuff in his mouth. With one long, elaborate scoop of his finger under his tongue, Peterson removed the snuff and deposited it with great solemnity between the pipes of a nearby radiator and then folded his hands in great seriousness and proceeded to call on the Almighty.
At another annual meeting a certain man was under consideration for a position on the faculty of North Park College. The man in question was admittedly a very scholarly man, but he was also known to be eccentric, for which reason someone raised the question whether he was temperamentally and emotionally suited for the place. Peterson then arose and said: “So crazy? Certainly it can't be that he isn't qualified to teach at North Park College.”
When [Erik August Skogsbergh, 1850-1939] once communicated his interpretation of prophecy to my father [A.E. Palmquist, 1870-1949], the latter replied: “But that is not what your brother-in-law David Nyvall [1863-1946] thinks.” “Well,” he drawled in characteristic fashion, “Nyvall, you see, does not understand prophecy.” Later my father met Professor Nyvall and related this to him. Nyvall laughed heartily and answered, “Well, you see, Skogsbergh and I are so much alike in that respect” (p. 92).
Mrs. Skogsbergh was an unusually lovely and charming person. “Don't you think I have a good-looking wife?” said Skogsbergh on one occasion to my father. My father did not answer. “Why don't you answer?” asked Skogsbergh. “Don't you agree with me?” “Oh, yes, indeed I do,” was the rejoinder, “but I was just sitting here wondering how it was possible for such a homely little man to get so good-looking a wife" (p. 93).
...Some years ago the president of the Covenant Theological Seminary at Lidingö in Sweden was here in America on a visit. His name was Mosesson. The annual meeting that year was held in Duluth, Minnesota, and a member of the publicity committee was trying to make clear to a newspaper man over the telephone who it was that was going to speak. “Moses-son, Moses-son,” he repeated over and over again. Finally he said: “You have heard of Moses, haven't you, the man who led the people of Israel through the wilderness?” “Oh, yes,” said the other, “is this his son?” (p. 114).
In between his songs he [J. A. Hultman, 1861-1942, “The Sunshine Singer”] might mention that he happened to have a few copies of his sunshine songs or his records with him. “Here I have copies of over thirty songs together with the music. They cost a dollar, but I also include my photograph and that changes the price--so I sell both for fifty cents” Who could resist such a bargain? (p. 134).
One of [John Johnson Daniels, 1862-1957] most ingenious ideas had to do with the length of the sermon. It was his belief that most sermons are much too long. Whatever was said after twenty minutes was wasted, and here men kept on for an hour or more! The congregation ought to have a voice in the sermon's length. For this reason every seat should be equipped with a button. When the listener felt that he had had enough, he would merely press the button; when a majority of the buttons had been pressed, a trap door would open and carry the preacher and the pulpit down into the basement of the church. But in order that he might not be embarrassed overmuch and so be tempted to lose heart, there should be a kind old lady down there ready to comfort him with a cup of delicious Swedish coffee [p. 143].
Daniels’ interests were varied. More than most of his preaching brethren he concerned himself about social issues of the day and spoke out about them. This got him into frequent dialogue and debate. One reason for his boldness lay in the fact that he was fluent, as some of the other men were not, in the English tongue. He exposed the trickery of Spiritism, its fake photographs and occult rappings, and had himself photographed surrounded by “spirits.” He gave temperance addresses, patriotic sermons, and sermons about the home. He published a number of songs and hymnals for young people, and in his old age he had elaborate plans for lecture tours crusading for home and country. Financial problems and physical--if not mental--infirmities plagued him, and towards the end he wrote pathetic appeals in the columns of our newspapers to help him “save my old home.” But the stories he never forgot. “There is so much bad in the best of us,” he parodied, “and so much more in the worst of us, that it behooves all of us to keep an eye on the rest of us” (p. 144).
When [Hjalmar Sundquist, 1869-1949] complained on one occasion that he had been unjustly stopped by a police officer for exceeding the speed limit which at that time was twenty miles an hour, he quoted this little parody:
Lives there a man with soul so dead
Who never to the cop has said,
Why didn't you catch the guy ahead? (p. 145).
[Isak] Skoog [1868-1948] was one of our first ministers to own an automobile. While he was still learning to drive the car, an old Model T Ford which had a very high carriage, he failed to maneuver a turn and almost ran over a policeman. “Say, what is the matter with you?” said the latter. “Oh,” he answered, “I just got a new Ford, and I'm a minister.” “Well,” responded the officer, “that explains it.” One Sunday evening Skoog came out from the church in Spokane to find that someone had stolen his elaborate radiator cap, which in those days doubled as a thermometer. Skoog purchased another cap. The next Sunday night he said, “I'll fool them” and took the cap with him into the church only to discover when he came out that someone had stolen his car (pp. 155,156).
We had a certain Professor F. among us who had had more than the usual amount of schooling and who never tired of telling that he had graduated from Carleton College and Yale University and in addition had studied extensively elsewhere. Notwithstanding, he failed to prosper to the extent that his schooling might have seemed to promise. One day he complained to his landlady about how much he had paid out for schooling and how much money he had sunk in his library, to which she answered: “Well, I guess when one has to buy brains, one does not get very much for one's money” (p. 163).
The congregation at L. had a preacher who had stayed with them a considerable length of time. In fact, he had overstayed his time, and the congregation was restive and anxious for a change. Finally the good man resigned. Then the members of the congregation came to him and said: “But is our dear pastor going to leave us? What in all the world are we going to do now?” This is what they said to him, but among themselves they said: “It is about time he is leaving.” Finally a church meeting was called to elect a successor. The chairman opened the meeting with words something to this effect: “Well, now our pastor has resigned, and we are here for the purpose of choosing another. And now I hope you will all express yourselves, for now the meeting is open.” For a while nothing was said, and then one member got up and drawled: “Well, I only want to say one thing, and that is that when we now elect another preacher we should choose one that we'll be able to get rid of.”
The same congregation had met on another occasion for the same purpose, that of choosing a new minister. The discussion was heated, and the meeting was making little headway. Every name suggested met some kind of opposition. This man had this fault, this man's wife had another fault. Finally one of those present became irked and suggested that the best thing they could do would be to pick a man out of a SearsRoebuck catalogue. (pp. 163,164).
In a church in one of the mid-eastern states there was a member who was a bit of a “thorn in the flesh” for every preacher who came along. He was one of these men, of whom nearly every congregation has at least one, who regards himself as divinely called to keep the pastor in line. Now the pastor had resigned and was about to leave. One day as he was strapping together some boxes on the front porch prior to his going, the man in question came by and engaged him in conversation. “I have a little problem,” he said, “that I would like to have you solve for me. In the Book of Revelation the angels are pictured as having wings, but they are also described as being clothed in shining white garments. How are they going to get the robes down over their wings?” The minister stopped his packing, measured the man with a long look, and then drawled his answer: “That is a problem which does not need to concern you. What you need to worry about is how to get the crown down over your horns” (pp. 164,165).
When the Covenant annual meeting was held in St. Paul, Minnesota, in 1920, a free railroad pass was secured for [A. R.] Anderson [1859-1934] from Seattle to St. Paul and return. The pass was obtained on what was perhaps not an entirely proper representation, for the railroad understood that Anderson was going east on a preaching mission. This was partly true, of course, because he did stop enroute here and there to preach. But while he was in St. Paul, he decided to try to have his pass extended. When he went to the railroad office, he made the mistake of wearing his delegate's badge. “Are you here attending a conference?” said the official, somewhat taken aback. “Oh, yes,” he replied, “you see we are here on business for the king.” “Where are your headquarters?” asked the official. “Our headquarters are in heaven,” answered Anderson. “Yes, but don't you have any headquarters here on earth?” “Well, we do have a headquarters in Chicago. but it doesn't amount to very much” (pp. 170,171).
Constantine Olson [1857-1943] brought a good laugh to the annual meeting of the Northwest Conference one year when in seeking to explain what a majority is he said that it consists of one more than all the votes cast.
Another time, when there had been some dissension in the Red River Valley district, he declared that the Northwest Conference was the tower of the Covenant but that the Red River Valley was the cross on the tower (p. 173).
A well-known character from the old north-side church in Chicago was a man by the name of Johan Löf (John Leaf). Once when Professor Carl Hanson preached in the North Park church, which Löf attended in his later years, the old man became so inspired that he shouted “Amen.” This upset Professor Hanson, who answered: “I will say the amen when I am finished.” And then he added: “Maybe Löf will be quiet the next time.” “That I will never promise,” said Löf, to which the speaker observed: “Well, better to speak in season and out of season than never to speak at all” (p. 194).
Perhaps one ought not forget the brother in Tacoma who said once of the critics of the Bible that they complicated the Word of God and made it worse than it was. The same brother-- indoctrinated in “dispensational truth”--once thanked God publicly that he was not one of the wise virgins.
There might also be room for the brother in St. Paul who was so inspired at the twenty-fifth anniversary of the founding of the church that he came forward at the close of one of the meetings and said under deep emotion that he hadn't had so much fun since his wife died (p. 195).
