By January of 1921, what seemed obvious to the Sioux Center CRC Consistory was just as obvious to whatever portion of the church had been engaged by controversies now almost two years old--God's people were hopelessly rent asunder. "A number of people," Van Dyke says, "began to voice the opinion that, because of the unrest and turmoil, it would be better if the congregation would split."
The plan devised by the Consistory declared the brokenness was created by the issue of language, Dutch or English, an explanation that seems, at best, half-truth. But there was still this matter of the annual congregational meeting the Consistory had canceled. That meeting was rescheduled for February 19, a month later. In anticipation thereof, the Consistory set before the congregation the original slate of candidates for church office. In just a few days, 65 letters of complaint were sent to the Consistory, who simply put them aside.
Suffice it to say that meeting didn't go well either. Some members walked out in disgust during the final song and prayer. Ouch. The rebel Teachers (and their considerable following) were in no way appeased.
Our dear Reformed principles, for which our pious fathers kept their lives pure, in order to be able to pass them on as an inheritance to their descendants. to regain possession of them, for that we fight, whatever the cost.
Thus saith the not-so-loyal opposition.
A month later, March of 1921, Classis Sioux Center rode into town, but their declarations did little to quell the bedlam. Classis found it difficult to support splitting a congregation over the language issue, when most neighborhood congregations were vexed by the same problem but weren't falling apart. What's more, Classis was sympathetic with the dissenters' view that the congregational meeting should have been postponed and a new slate of nominations drawn up, a list created by the members at large.
The Consistory huddled, then declared they were packing up and taking the whole mess to Synod, citing, now, Classis' violation of Article 97 or the Acts of Synod of 1888 (look it up for yourself). And, the Consistory said, there was the original sin of the Teachers Meeting: they'd created a mess and a lie right there in front of the entire congregation in the worst Christmas program ever. That provocation (9th commandment) was--none should forget!--a public sin demanding public confession!
Meanwhile, the March Classis meeting had also resulted in the formation of a seven-man classical committee enjoined to bring peace where the war was raging. Those deputies scheduled a prayer meeting the night before another congregational meeting, this one sure to be messy again. Those deputies, operating under cover, also, surreptitiously, met with Rev. DeLeeuw and a sympathetic elder to talk about deposition--that's right, deposing the Consistory. To that end, the classical deputies then called the Consistory in to chat about (gulp!) the possibility of their resignation.
That didn't go well either.
The Consistory determined taking their objections to the next Synod. At the same time they set out a course to dissolve the church's membership in Classis Sioux Center in order join the Orange City Classis, where they'd been assured they would find a goodly number of like minds.
Let me just add here that Professor Van Dyke, a good friend, was devoted to establishing his own historical objectivity. What's more, it was written for the congregation some 70 years after the tribulation. I say that because his descriptions of the events often feel colorless--that's not a criticism. His way of telling this terrible story is a Sgt. Friday historiography--"just the facts, ma'am." Doubtless, personalities played a significant role on both sides of the abyss, but very few participants are identified or described, not even Pastor De Leeuw. Who those personalities were and how they acted is simply not there, not a matter of public record.
Professor Van Dyke told me back then that he was amazed how closed-mouthed old folks were about what they may have heard 70+ years before. To his credit, he must have found it difficult to create descriptions of the real warriors on both sides when descendant congregational members still sat their in the pews.
Still, I find it amazing that, a century later, what Dr. Lou Van Dyke committed to paper is the only story of that frightful time in congregational history, a time everyone but the participants likely wanted badly to forget.
I guess I shouldn't be surprised.
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