persons we once were. You knew me, and I knew you, as we were
yesterday; but we did not know one another as we were going to be,
or should want to be, tomorrow. It was necessary that we should meet
not on the plane of the past, nor even of the present, but on the
plane of the future, and thus find ourselves again, and discover
what now, in this new world, we wanted, and would be able, to do
together. Months before the War was ended, it had clearly entered
into my mind to summon you to conference on our future relations as
minister and people. This invitation from Chicago but precipitated
suddenly what was in itself inevitable sooner or later. It
introduced into a problem already existing between you and me, a
third element--namely, the people of Abraham Lincoln Centre. The
problem, however, in its nature, remained the same. I have work to
do. I have set my hand to the plow, and I must find the field where
I can best drive this plow through the furrow of my sowing.

In order to make plain the situation, as it has presented itself to
my mind during the last five weeks, I must turn to the past for a
moment, and bring to you therefrom some fragments of autobiography.
Those of you who were present at the meeting on last Monday night,
have already heard what I am about to say. I beg your undivided
attention, none the less, that you may note the bearing of this
recital not on a problem presented, as then, but on a decision made,
as now.

I entered the Unitarian ministry in the year 1904, [5] under the
influence of motives not unfamiliar. In the first place, I saw the
pulpit. I went into the ministry for the same primary reason which
has held me there through all these years gone by--a desire to
preach. I think I can say, in no spirit of boasting, that from my