Who Broke the Beer Bottle?
Soon after the Moyes began work in Ararat they learned that the Methodist minister had arrived there about the same time as they did. The Salvation Army Captain had been in town twelve months already so he was an old hand and the two ministerial newcomers relied heavily on him for wisdom and advice. The Anglican vicar had been in the community for twenty-four years but he took very little part in the life of the town.
The Salvation Army’s Captain Alan Wilson was just the opposite. A bundle of energy and thin as a whip, he was into everything. His was the simple commitment of many fine Salvation Army officers. He and his family lived in quarters attached to the local citadel.
One day Gordon visited them and Captain Wilson showed him the inventory of the house and its furnishings. Nothing looked new.
“Everything belongs to the Army. If we accidentally break anything we’re expected to replace it before we move on,” he chuckled. “Not surprising that none of the crockery matches, is it?
Like their Master, these workers knew from experience what it was like to be as poor as the people to whom they ministered.The two men got along well. Quite often they met when it happened that they both visited the hospital or gaol at the same time. Alan had no car so Gordon suggested that they travel together.
“Look here, we both go to the various schools two or three times a week, why don’t I pick you up? It will save your time and shoe leather. We’re both teaching the Christian faith to the children of our members”.
During one of these car trips Gordon found out that Captain Wilson was regarded with some awe by the unchurched locals because of an incident that had happened the Christmas before the Moyes arrived in Ararat.
The Pastoral Arms Hotel stood at the intersection of the highway and the main road through Ararat. It was an imposing three-storied structure with an impressive facade and a huge bar inside its swinging doors. A tall pinnacle above the front door supported a twelve feet high, illuminated metal beer bottle of Ballarat Bitter.
“Yes,” the Captain admitted when asked about the matter. “That sign dominated the landscape by day and night and to me it became a symbol of all that’s evil. Gordon, I know better than most people, the deadly effects of alcohol. I’ve seen hungry children crying for food and tearful wives waiting helplessly at home while their husbands squander the weekly pay on liquor. I’ve seen health and happiness, and even life destroyed by ‘Demon Drink.’
“In our Saturday night open-air meetings I didn’t beat about the bush, I loudly denounced alcohol and tobacco. One night I got a bit carried away and I even prayed publicly that the Lord would give me the joy of seeing that devilish metal bottle removed during my ministry in Ararat.”
Gordon nodded as he listened to the remainder of the story. No doubt some of the hearers lingering outside the circle of faithful Salvation Army followers sniggered. A contest between God and the brewery barons would be something to see.
But the sneers were wiped off their faces a few days later when one of the fiercest storms in local history hit Ararat. A bolt of lightning struck the gigantic beer bottle, severing the metal supports and sending the whole structure crashing down in a heap of twisted metal and glass.
“Of course, the local paper made a big thing of it,” Captain Wilson concluded, “the ‘Ararat Advertiser,’ published a picture of the smashed metal sign lying on the road and raised the question,
WAS THIS A DIRECT RESULT OF THE INTERVENTION OF GOD IN ANSWER TO THE PRAYERS OF THE SALVATION ARMY CAPTAIN, OR WAS IT A RESULT OF THE FIERCE WINDS AIDED BY THIRTY YEARS OF RUST ON THE STRUCTURE’S METAL FOOTINGS?
“The local people still argue the issue if the subject is raised, but the majority give me the credit—or the blame.”
It was while residing in this country town that Gordon actually became aware of the importance of weather. He had long ago noticed that if it wasn’t for the weather, ninety percent of Australians could not begin a conversation. Now he learned that among country people `the weather’ was the all absorbing topic.
Farmers, meeting casually in the street, could talk for half an hour about “the winter of fifty-three” or “the spring of forty- eight,” and hold each other’s absorbed attention. Perhaps it was no cause for wonder, so much of these men’s livelihood depended upon the weather. Excessive rain could ruin crops and heat and drought could kill animals or start bushfires.
Remembering St Paul’s observation in 1 Corinthians 9:20-23: “I am made all things to all men, that I may by all means save some. And this I do for the gospel’s sake….” Gordon quickly became adept at talking about the weather. What he lacked in experience his quick mind made up for in intelligent comment: “Looks like this wind might whip up a dust storm. I noticed that the barometer’s falling, we might get some rain tomorrow.”
In his efforts to build up the church membership Gordon visited families in the district who did not attend any church, introduced himself and invited them to worship with him at the Church of Christ. This method had worked well in the Melbourne slums where he could offer material help as well as fellowship, but he was not quite sure how it would work here with these fiercely independent farmers.
He soon discovered that busy farmers did not take kindly to breaking off their day’s work to sit in the front room and talk religion with a minister, the best way to win their friendship was to offer a helping hand. If he visited a farmer who was crutching sheep, or milking cows, or bagging wheat, whatever the task, Gordon peeled off his coat and offered to help.
The fact that he knew absolutely nothing about the job was inconsequential. The farmer could usually find some task for the inexperienced `new-chum,’ and even if he couldn’t, he appreciated the pastor’s willingness to help. Using this method, he visited a young couple named Judd and invited them to attend his church. They did, and were so happy with the experience that they decided to be baptized and become members of the Churches of Christ.
About two weeks later Gordon received a phone call from the local Methodist minister, Rev Geoffrey Stanton Crouch. Nearing retiring age he and his wife, Lorna, had spent more than thirty years as missionaries in Papua. The Moyes and Crouches had met several times socially, and though their ages differed so greatly they had an amicable relationship.
“Is that you, Gordon?” Geoffrey’s voice asked.
“Yes it is, Geoff. How are you and Lorna?”
“Oh, we’re fine thank you. Now I want to come straight to the point, Gordon. Yesterday I visited the Judds.”
“Really.” Suddenly a dreadful premonition struck. Before Rev Crouch went on with his story Gordon knew how it was going to end—the Judds must have been lapsed Methodists. Now he was in for it.
“Yes, and…” Rev Crouch launched into a harrowing recital of his long drive out in the rain to visit these people whose name was on his church roll, though they had not attended a service in years.
He described how he twice became bogged and his rain-soaked clothes stuck to his skin and he was afraid of contracting pneumonia. He told how eventually he waded across muddy ploughed fields to the farmhouse and Mr Judd brought his tractor and dragged the bogged car out of the mud, but not before its churning wheels had flung up a stone and broken the car’s windscreen.
“Then,” Rev Crouch paused and Gordon cringed.
“Then,” Rev. Crouch took up his story again. “When I invited them to come back to church they told me that you had visited them and they had already decided to join the Churches of Christ.
“Now, young man, I’ll come straight to the point,” Rev Crouch continued and Gordon prepared for the blast that was sure to follow. “I want to say that you are doing a good thing. It is absolutely right that you should go after people who are not attending church anywhere and urge them to commit their lives to the Lord. They are no use to any church if they don’t worship the Lord. God bless you, son, you are doing a great job and Lorna and I will pray for you.”
Stunned, Gordon sat and stared at the telephone. Instead of accusation and bitterness he had found magnanimity and Christian grace. Instead of words of reproach about the misfortunes occasioned by his fruitless visit to the Judds’ farm, Rev Crouch offered his rival words of encouragement and praise. What a wonderful Christian man. Little wonder that the two maintained a lasting friendship. To this day Reverend Crouch, now in his nineties, supports Gordon’s TV ministry.
