St. Stephen's History
150th Anniversary Reminiscences and History
The
Episcopal Church was much different in 1957 than it is today; indeed, the face
of Christianity in
This was
the situation when I arrived at St. Stephen’s in late August 1957. This was also the sort of robust
postwar Christianity I had been trained to expect. My predecessors had entirely different
challenges and opportunities and, of course, problems, as have my
successors. Whatever I say must not be
interpreted as dismissive of Hugh Dickinson, who was rector of St. Stephen’s
from 1922 to 1957. He faced more than
his share of burdens in those thirty-five years. He was also a familiar and esteemed member of
the wider
There
were three parish buildings: The Church,
built in 1853, was designed by a genius, John Priest. The Rectory was added in 1867 and had been
almost untouched since then, and the Parish Hall, built in
A
nursery wing had been attached to the old Parish Hall about 1954—a certain sign
of the renewal of the parish before my arrival.
But still, the old building was but an auditorium, a kitchen, and an
upstairs room that had once been a popular poolroom. We had no problem explaining the need for a
truly functional educational and social building. If memory serves, the parish house we built
in 1961 cost $60,000. We were very proud
of it, and it was fully used for parish purposes. But time is a harsh teacher, and I am ashamed
now to think that while the church was designed to be accessible to handicapped
people in 1853, the parish house we built so many years later ignored the
problems posed by steps and stairs. In
the early 1960’s we started a nursery school.
Some parishioners were not happy about this, for they believed it
undermined public education.
St.
Stephen’s had always been a fairly “Low” Episcopal Church. That was
my own preference too. But suburban
Episcopal churches in those days, and certainly now, found it necessary to be
sensitive to newcomers from varied traditions.
Therefore, we began to use Eucharistic vestments at the 8 o’clock
service. I shied away from using
them at
It may
be of some interest for future liturgical historians to know that we never even
thought of using a Pascal candle. We
began having baptisms at whichever of the three services was attended by the
family. Very few burial services were
held in the church in the years immediately prior to my time, and I was
surprised—how naive I was—when families expressed amazement that they were
welcome, even urged, to use the church building for that purpose. On the whole, it was an easy transition,
since the embalmer of choice was on the opposite corner of
Quite
early in my time the choir departed the chancel, and we reverted to Priest’s
original plans for a wide-open chancel.
The choir “stalls” I found were actually pews which had been moved to
the chancel, and they were too big and cumbersome for that limited space. People were very encouraging about moving the
choir to the nave just in front of the organ (then still located behind the
organ screen to the left of the chancel).
The proximity of organist and singers was very convenient, and the
acoustics decidedly improved.
The
organ itself was a floor-model Estey, bought I think
in 1932 to replace the ailing but much larger and golden-throated Johnson. We were excited to be given an
Aeolian-Skinner from a residence, and we moved it carefully from the house to
storage. I forget why we never did
install that organ. Over the years the Estey proved less and less satisfactory, and frankly, the
musical expectations of Episcopalians made them critical of the Estey. The
congregation was ready for a completely new organ by 1964. Of course, I was eager to see a new one in
place, but I cannot say I had all that much to do with acquiring it. A committee of two or three energetic men,
consulting with real experts, moved fairly quickly. Douglas Rodie,
whose young son Gerald had just died, assured the committee that he would foot
a major part of the cost. It was at my
last Vestry meeting, September 1966, that Mr. Von Beckerath sent us the contract. Alas, it was in German, and of course, the
Vestry couldn’t sign it until it had been reviewed by a lawyer knowledgeable in
German. So, to my everlasting disappointment
I have never been able to say that the splendid organ at St. Stephen’s was
purchased in my time there.
In
reciting these liturgical developments, I have jumped ahead in years. As I recall, we prospered nicely but
certainly not in any phenomenal way in those late 1950’s. Why shouldn’t we have prospered? Springfield and Millburn Township were
growing—and as might have been pointed out, Christ Church was too big! Furthermore we had a decent level of
camaraderie and informality in the congregation. Nothing promotes prosperity more than the feeling
that growth is in the air.
I think
the church seated considerably more people in those days before the new organ
was situated in the back of the nave.
There is an old statement one hears from time to time about the good old
days when “they had to bring benches in” to seat the crowds. What benches?
Who brought them in? Church
statistics are notoriously optimistic. I
am particularly sensitive about this because my immediate successor claimed I
padded the figures. So let me be clear: We never
had to bring in benches. There was one
service—possibly a midnight Christmas Eucharist—when some chairs had to be
brought from the parish hall. I recall a
time when we could expect more than 250 on a Sunday morning. For a brief time we hit 300, or maybe a few
more. In those days Irving Livingston
counted at the second and third services.
Later someone gave us an automatic hand clicker that was by no means
noiseless. People complained about the
sound of “counting souls,” and I think we discouraged the sexton from using the
clicker.
There
were always about twenty people at the 8 o’clock Eucharist, perhaps more in
summer. We had a rollicking second
service at 9:30 (changed to 9:15 because of traffic at Springfield four
corners). Eucharist was every third Sunday;
otherwise, Morning Prayer. We liked to
think there were 200 at that service, children and parents. In place of a formal sermon there was what—I
hate to admit it—I called an “aisle talk” geared to all ages, and an adult
class later, concurrent with the Sunday School. I remember that for a time we had a reliable
attendance of forty at that class. It
was usually led by a seminarian or tutor from General Theological Seminary. St. Stephen’s began using the seminary people
in the mid 1950’s. The adult class was
sometimes raucous—indeed, riotous the day one zealous member informed us that
we should convert all the Jews we knew to Christianity.
It is
ironic that it was the third service at 11 o’clock that received most of our
attention. The choir had one or two paid
members when I arrived. There was always
an Offertory anthem. As in most
Episcopal churches at the time, it was Morning Prayer except for the first
Sunday in the month. We all know that
there has been a dramatic change in this schedule. It is a rare Episcopal church today that does
not celebrate the Communion at every Sunday service.
When I
left, I told the parish secretary that I supposed our communicants would go
over the 500 figure when the next Parochial Report was due. My prediction was accurate, as I later
learned. The subsequent claim about
padding the figures arose when the communicant list and the mailing list were
confused. Like every church or other
organization we had a “Friends” list.
These were people to whom we mailed our weekly bulletin. I need to make it clear that they were never
counted as members of St. Stephen’s. The
two lists, communicants and members, were always kept separate as long as I was
rector. Having mentioned these figures,
I don’t want to be accused again of statistical optimism, so authentic records
should be consulted to support a memory that is reaching back almost 45 years.
Again I
need to make clear that I am speaking of another era. The immediate neighborhood of St. Stephen’s
was largely people bearing Italian names.
The adjacent South Mountain Estates area was considered Jewish; Vauxhall
was black. Short Hills was, well, you
know. But forty and more years ago we
were not usually candid about ethnic distinctions.
Thinking
about changes at St. Stephen’s, I need to tell about
the longtime, but by then retired, Senior Warden who had for years parked his
car smack in front of the church entrance.
He was a fairly gruff and critical man, and entered the church one Sunday
furious because he’d had to park his car halfway down the block. He let me know that for years he parked the
car in “his” space—but I could tell he was terribly pleased that there was a
parking problem at church. I should add
also that we had by this time blacktopped the Dickinsons’
back lawn and garden, only to find some years later that St. Stephen’s didn’t
own much beyond the back stoop of the Rectory.
Fortunately for us, the true owners of that space realized the church
had used and maintained the land for so long that it would be easier for them
to give St. Stephen’s a quitclaim for the parcel.
Speaking
of that Senior Warden, he had a second wife who was an unreconstructed
Presbyterian. She attended services
regularly and was a warm friend to me.
But I would never have thought to ask her to be confirmed. She, for her part, often twitted me about my
unmarried state. Once,
when she was reminding me that time was passing by, I said to her, “All right,
you get confirmed, and I’ll get married.” She took my challenge, and I had to honor
hers.
There
were still one or two people in the parish who remembered when Christ Church in
Short Hills was founded. The split
doomed St. Stephen’s to some years of poverty, and many years of feeling like
poor relations, for it occurred about the same time that some of the initial
supporters of the parish died or moved away.
The rector at the time (1882) was Lewis P. Clover who, as an artist in
the Midwest, is said to have painted the first portrait of Abraham Lincoln,
whose wife, Mary Todd, was Clover’s cousin.
Among other things, Dr. Clover was remembered for telling the
congregation when Christ Church was formed, “Don’t let them take your church
away from you”—gratuitous advice inasmuch as Dr. Clover himself soon
resigned. There was then a garden path
with a gate leading from the “vestry” (i.e., sacristy) door to the front
door of the Rectory, and Dr. Clover was remembered as walking after church to
the house down that path arm in arm with Mrs. Clover. The ghost of their daughter, Bertha, who died
New Year’s Day 1882, is supposed to have haunted the Rectory. Indeed, strange noises like heavy trunks
being dragged about did emanate from the attic.
Even my collie dog was disturbed by them. But they ceased soon after I married. Barbara still says Bertha didn’t like
competition.
Returning
to the distant past, I might say that when I came to St. Stephen’s, there were
still one or two people who remembered Israel Dodd Condit, the lay founder of
the parish. One of them remembered him
saying as they walked home after Evensong that “kindliness is the most
important thing.” When
I first heard that, my fresh-from-seminary orthodoxy dismissed it. Since then, and probably because of the
inhumanities life makes known to us, I have appreciated Mr. Condit’s
sentiment. It emerged from his practical
experience as a Christian who in a long life lost practically everything but
his devotion to Christ. I remember
another thing someone quoted him as saying.
The 1890’s were a halcyon period for men’s clubs and Bible classes in
churches. Israel Condit had seen sharp
ups and downs in the fortunes of St. Stephen’s.
Hearing that the number of men in the Bible Class had
just exceeded one hundred under the able rector
William A. Wasson, he exclaimed
of himself, “Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace.”
It was a true nunc dimittis for Condit, who died soon after, rejoicing in
one of the moments of renascence that seem to characterize St. Stephen’s as it
seeks to minister in various times to the people who seek it out.
Speaking
of former rectors, I have often thought of the time I called on a lifelong
member of the parish, a woman of few words.
Conversation was uphill work for me, and after we had covered the
weather several times, I turned in desperation to the long-ago days at St.
Stephen’s. That subject didn’t arouse
much response either, so I began to name my predecessors. When I came to Mr. Van Ingen,
I got a spirited, “He was the best one we ever had.” Whenever I have entertained exalted ideas
about myself, I’m corrected by remembering that. I might add that Mr. Van Ingen
was still well remembered and esteemed, though he had left the parish forty
years before I arrived. It meant a very
great deal to me when his daughters returned to the area and re-entered the St.
Stephen’s community. This reminds me of
another historical episode.
In the
1890’s, before the days of Mr. Van Ingen, the
incumbent or a member of his family installed new altar rails and a new
pulpit. Both were of brass, common ware,
straight out of a church-furnishings catalogue, unworthy of a building designed
by John Priest. Sometime in Mr.
Dickinson’s time those brass rails were replaced by ones thought to be similar
to the originals. But the old pulpit,
which many people hated to see discarded, leaned up against the west wall of
the church. It was eventually given to
the Church of St. Mary Magdalene in Newark.
But old timers still remembered it—and wanted to get it back. We negotiated with the Vestry of St. Mary’s
and made an exchange. We had a fund
drive to restore the pulpit, which had in the meantime lost its wineglass base
and steps. I think it was on Pentecost
1958 that the new-old pulpit was dedicated in memory of James Van Ingen. Several years
later I had the words from Acts, “Sir, we would see Jesus" inscribed on
the pulpit’s desk. I did this as a
reminder to myself, but I am afraid I have not always remembered those words.
A
tradition at St. Stephen’s had been the Fish-and-Chips Luncheon the women of
the parish served once or twice a year.
Indeed, it was a tradition in the entire downtown community, for almost
everyone in the schools, banks and stores poured into the parish hall to
partake of what was supposed to be the best luncheon anywhere. It was catered by a couple from
Paterson. My first experience of it was
during a blizzard. People were already
arriving when the caterers telephoned from, I think, South Orange Avenue to say
they wouldn’t be able to make it. I told
our Women’s Guild president, who was almost hysterical, to find out where the
van was, and I’d go and get them.
However, the couple did manage to get through, and when they arrived he
declared, “I guess you got a new minister.” He didn’t know how really heroic I was, for I
don’t like fish.
Church
Suppers were genial occasions. I’d known
them since childhood. My parents always
took tickets for them in country churches or the Grange. They have an old-fashioned Norman Rockwell
ambience of friendship and cheer about them.
But I confess that my attitude about church suppers as fund-raisers
changed soon after I went to St. Stephen’s.
The Fish-and-Chips Luncheon was all right because it was catered. That reduced the amount of labor for our
women. Also it was popular in town and
a stellar public-relations event. But
when I saw our elderly women toting heavy trays in order to help pay my salary,
I secretly resolved to discourage that kind of project, for it depended upon
the good will and hard work of a comparatively few people in the congregation,
and all of them women. As I look back
now, I can’t remember any church suppers at St. Stephen’s, though I’m sure we
had one or two. Our women’s fund-raisers
were rummage sales, bazaars, fashion shows—very popular—and, once, a costume
show put on by a collector of old gowns.
Attitudes about church money were changing fast in those days. I doubt that the rising generation had much
sympathy with the tried-and-not-so-true methods of raising money. Nor did young marrieds
have the time. As I look back, I have to
say the people at St. Stephen’s preferred the straightforward annual pledge
plus extra giving in the year. At least
one person, who would have been reluctant to work at a rummage sale, told me
that she was so accustomed to making payments on the family’s pledge toward
building the Parish House that we ought to think up another project now that
the building was almost paid for. We
were never an affluent church, but our income, and our expenses, increased
steadily year after year. My salary,
when we departed, was $8,500. We always
paid our diocesan Assessment, but we did reduce our Quota somewhat when we were
building the parish house.
After
meetings of the Evening Group, some of the women often retired to Gruning’s in South Orange for ice cream. The rector was not invited. And once a year there was a dinner, I heard,
at Snuffy’s in Scotch Plains.
There
had always been an Altar Guild at St. Stephen’s. One of my predecessors insisted that the
members be unmarried. He was, of course,
thinking of the virgins dedicated to the Vestal temple in ancient Rome. Personally, I think he was going too
far. When he married one of the Altar
Guild members, he made her resign. When
I came to St. Stephen’s, the Directress was an Englishwoman of quiet, saintly
character. She was assisted by another Englishwoman, Muriel James, who
meticulously managed Altar Guild funds.
Later on Eileen Sisco directed the Altar Guild
with genial firmness.
Another
“organization” was the Prayer Group led by Mildred Kienzle
that met every Tuesday after the 10 o’clock Eucharist. I was not tempted to impose professional
clericalism on those people, for I had complete confidence in them. For some years the Prayer Group sponsored a
Healing Mission, a most satisfactory event that brought people from various
churches from all over North Jersey.
We also
had a strong acolytes’ organization—all boys in those days, of course—with
great esprit de corps. We used to
go on camping trips to a place my family owned in the Poconos. But concerning teenagers, I don’t think I was
notably successful as a high school group leader at St. Stephen’s. Six men did enroll in seminary, and five were
ordained. We also had a father-son club
for a time.
The
Church in the 1950’s was indeed a (mostly) men-only affair as far as
administration was concerned. Women were
not allowed on the Vestry or at Diocesan conventions. The idea of a woman ordinand
was laughable. When the canon permitting
women on a Vestry became effective, we thought we would be really modern and
elect a woman. Unfortunately, our
particular choice was not a good one, for the lady tended to weep whenever a
decision displeased her. That made the
more chauvinistic men present more than ever convinced it was unwise to have
women on Vestries. I understand that in
this regard things have changed at St. Stephen’s.
In the
years since we left St. Stephen’s, I have often heard clergy elsewhere complain
about living in a rectory next to the church.
I always reply that for nine years we lived across the lawn from the
church, and only very rarely did people intrude on us. Indeed, we encouraged the use of the
house. It was always used for Vestry
meetings and some Sunday School classes before the
Parish House was built. There was at
least one wedding in our front room, and we had two wedding receptions
there. One of them was when Alice
Dickinson was married in the church and we invited her to have the reception
afterward in her old home. We found it a
charming, convenient house.
All of
what I’m writing seems to evoke an unsullied Eden-on-the-Rahway, nine years of
pure joy. So it does seem now. But I know my recollection of perfect times
in Millburn isn’t entirely accurate.
Barbara reminds me that there were times when the sailing wasn’t
easy. We did indeed have one bruising
Parish fight. It had to do with a man
who wanted to be elected to the Vestry.
He was defeated two consecutive years.
(But I never announced the number of votes for and against him, so I
suppose he went to his grave thinking it was a close call; it wasn’t.) He left the parish in considerable rage,
which I regretted because I enjoyed his company. Now I realize I could have managed the contretemps more
adroitly. Less well known by the congregation
at large was the agitation that arose when some of us promoted an “equal
housing” document in Millburn Township.
Our proposal would hardly raise an eyebrow now, but the 1960’s had not
yet hit in all their fury. Some people
hissed, “We know you signed THAT PAPER” (to which I wanted to reply, “Hell, I
helped write it!”). We lost a few
families because of the equal-rights paper.
One
awkward episode amuses us still. There
was a woman in the congregation who was usually annoyed at someone or something. On one occasion—it was about a month after
Barbara and I were married—I was the object of the lady’s wrath. Passing Barbara at the Parish House door, she
said, “Oh! I could wring your husband’s neck.” “So could I,” replied Barbara.
When Mr.
Dickinson resigned, the Vestry was fearful that candidates would be deterred by
the responsibilities of a cemetery at St. Stephen’s. The cemetery was Mr. Dickinson’s pride and
joy, and he left it in excellent condition.
In those days the cemetery was far better endowed than the church, and
its funds were managed by the Summit Trust Company. The Vestry engaged a parishioner to manage
the cemetery, Amy Powell. She was
capable at the financial records and payrolls, but it was soon obvious that the
rector of St. Stephen’s was not easily relieved of cemetery chores. Undertakers and families from far and near
telephoned St. Stephen’s when they wanted to have a grave opened or discuss an
old plot or purchase a new one. Also, I
had some experience in cemetery management and, most important, saw the
cemetery as a pastoral opportunity. The
records were somewhat casual, and the actual places of burial were not always
known. I tried, as far as I was able, to
draw up a file of all the lots. I think
this was later used, and much improved.
I need to say that I inherited two excellent groundskeepers, John Columbro (who was loved in our family) and his assistant,
Salvatore. When I departed the parish,
these two were also maintaining the church grounds, for we had long since lost
our sexton in the academic gown.
I have
tried not to name the lay people who were so conspicuously loyal and such
enthusiastic members in the congregation.
The one or two I have mentioned were so very special in sharing their
talents that I couldn’t avoid their names.
As I write, the faces and the kindnesses of many, many people flow
through my memory. When I read the
parish paper these days, I see few familiar names. Many people have died, including young persons whom we expected to live much longer. Many people have moved elsewhere and, I
trust, strengthened their new churches with the same energy we saw at St.
Stephen’s. I suppose some have lost
their faith, at least for a while, and are adrift.
It would
be folly to list names, but it might be informative on this 150th anniversary
if I tried to categorize the families I knew at St. Stephen’s. There were, first of all, those who had been
members of the church since it was founded in 1852. Yes!
We still had some such families; the Whittinghams
and Hamiltons come to mind. Then there were those, and there were many,
whose parents or grandparents had come to work in Millburn’s paper and hat
factories in the later years of the 19th century. The next great spurt of growth—and it was
after some years of decay because the factories had closed—was in the 1920’s,
when families moved to Millburn and Springfield, where housing developments
offered opportunities for people from Newark and Elizabeth. It is worth a sociological note to say that
in the 1950’s we had few families in the South Mountain neighborhood. I was told that many of our families there
lost their homes in the Depression. We
still had our share of Millburn Avenue shopkeepers. I think there are none of their shops left
now, and the character of Millburn’s shops has changed. In 1957 we drew our membership mostly from
Millburn and Springfield, and a few from Union.
The garden apartments had just been opened, and some of the people
there, especially retirees, joined us.
Later we had a surprisingly strong coterie from Summit seeking an
intimate parish life. Again on a
sociological note, I might add that the Welcome Wagon refused to provide us
with names and addresses of newcomers—but did supply them to Christ
Church. The people who came to us sought
us out or were brought to St. Stephen’s by our members.
Those
who knew her will expect me to mention the name of Myrtle Livingston. I think she was one of the most Christian
people I have ever known, but Oh, how she would shrink from my saying
that. When I came to St. Stephen’s, she
and her brother Irving, both lifelong members of St. Stephen’s—and Irv a Warden
for many years— were retired and living in the Spring Street house where Myrtle
was born. She was a Registered Nurse and
a trained secretary. If memory serves,
Myrtle was still (in 1966) the Millburn High School graduate holding the
highest average in its history, but of course, she was not among those who told
me that. For many years she was
Executive Director of the Neighborhood House.
It was indeed an inspired moment when I asked Myrtle to be parish
secretary—three mornings at $15 a week.
She was thoughtful, wise, and loving.
She had been in on the Sunday school revival in the early 1950’s and, of
course, knew everyone in the parish.
When I would propose something, she was likely to say, “But Mr. Lindsley, we ALWAYS did it” such-and-such a way. And then we would both laugh because though
she was a conservative old-timer, no one was more exultant about the progress
of St. Stephen’s. She was also
generously optimistic about the abilities of the rector, but I cannot say she
was entirely uncritical. I wish every
priest in the Church had a helpful and caring assistant like Myrtle Livingston.
There is
no place as dear to a minister as his first parish. One of the reasons for this, I think, is that
people are apt to be understanding and forgiving of earnest youth. In this, St. Stephen’s measured up admirably. It was God’s gift to me, and I will never
forget His bounty or cease to be grateful for St. Stephen’s.
James Elliott Lindsley
29 June 2001