Sin is not a monster to be mused on, but an impotence to be got rid
of.
—MATTHEW ARNOLD.
Use sin as it will use you; spare it not, for it will not spare you;
it is your murderer and the murderer of the world: use it,
therefore, as a murderer should be used. Kill it before it kills
you; and though it kill your bodies, it shall not be able to kill
your souls: and though it bring you to the grave, as it did your
Head, it shall not be able to keep you there.—BAXTER.
John Gregory met the demand thus made upon him with all the moral and
spiritual resources of which he was master, for all were needed. The
full strength of the man’s personality was brought into action, the
lofty severity, the unflinching hate of sin, and yet the clear vision
which could see beyond the torture and taint of it, and sound the depth
of a nature which thus agonized for redemption and for righteousness.
“The only sin,” he said, in the words of another, “which is unforgiven
is the sin which is unrepented of. That early yielding to a paroxysm of
jealousy and rage had a fearful, and yet it may even be a merciful,
result. There are those who have given way to worse, and, no result
following, have lived on in hardness of heart and contempt of God’s law.
Christ’s inflexible law, far more rigorous than the old law of Moses,
says he that hateth his brother is a murderer. Murder, then, is the
commonest of social sins, rather than the rarest. Christ also says that
it was for sinners that he came to die, not for the righteous. His love
overflows all our sin, and finds no halt at the degrees of guilt which
men emphasize in their shallow judgment. Men judge by consequences, by
outward events; God looks upon the heart.
“Looking upon the heart, as far as we may, with God, I say then, you
have been guilty of murder, but so have other men. Many a man has
cherished a spirit of bitter revenge and hatred against one who had
injured him, who has not suffered what you have, not having caused or
profited by the death of that person, directly or indirectly; but before
God you are perhaps equally guilty.
“I do not count your sin slight. I would not seek to make it small in
your own eyes, but I believe that you are released from the guilt and
burden borne so long, and should no longer stagger under it. Has not
Almighty God given to his servants power and commandment to declare to
those who are penitent the absolution and remission of their sins?
“What did our Lord say to the leper who sought his cleansing? ‘I will,
be thou clean.’ Even this he says to you. Throw off that old yoke of
bondage. It is your right. Go free in the liberty of the sons of God,
but go to sin no more.”
These words, spoken with the authority of a priest, and with the
solemnity of absolute conviction, brought something of light and release
to the troubled heart of Ingraham.
The hour was late, indeed, morning was at hand, when, lifting his face
upon which a certain calmness had settled, he said to Gregory,
earnestly:—
“I believe I grasp the truth of what you say, and that there is for me a
certain peace, a partial release, although forgetfulness never. But this
is not enough; the cry of my whole soul is to make restitution in some
sort, somewhere, although how and to whom I cannot see. I still have the
stain that I profit by my sin. What can you tell me? Do you see a way
for me?”
John Gregory looked at Ingraham steadily for a moment before speaking,
and then said very slowly:—
“Do you remember what the Master said to a certain ruler, ‘Sell all that
thou hast, and distribute unto the poor, and come, follow me’? If you
are in earnest, Mr. Ingraham, and if you feel that, as your experience
of sin has been in no light and common form, but in a depth of agony
which few men ever know, so your repentance should be along no mild and
easy lines, but should reach to the foundations of your life—if, I say,
you see things thus, and can bear so strong a prescription, I should
repeat to you _literally_ what Christ said to the rich ruler. It is a
hard saying; not every man can receive it.”
The two men faced each other in silence for a moment, and Gregory saw
the leap of a sudden question in the other’s eyes.
“No,” he said sternly, as if in answer to a spoken inquiry, “I am not
advising you with an eye on my own advantage. My thought was not of my
own cause, but of the cause of humanity anywhere. Pardon me if I speak
plainly; I could not use a farthing of your money, were it all at my
disposal, for building up the work I am seeking to establish in
Fraternia. Recall what you heard me say to-night of the true Kingdom of
God. I could not use your money, Mr. Ingraham, in seeking to show forth
that kingdom; but I could use you, should you wish to come with us, if
you came empty-handed.”
The lawyer felt the pitiless severity of Gregory’s moral standard and
all that this dictum implied, but he did not resist it. His humiliation
and submission were sincere, and, for the time at least, controlling;
but doubt and conflict were plainly read in his face.
“Is it a hard saying?” John Gregory asked, with a slight smile.
“Yes, harder than you know. I could do what you say, were I alone to be
considered; but to reduce my family to beggary, to cut short my career
and stain my reputation by the cloud which would inevitably rest upon it
in the community by such an unheard-of course of action, to take my wife
and daughters from their social world to follow me, sent like a
scapegoat into some wilderness—really, Mr. Gregory, what you name is
beyond reason!”
Gregory made absolutely no response. After a long silence, Ingraham said
thoughtfully:—
“This is about the way I see for myself: from this time on I shall seek
to live a humbler and a sincerely Christian life, and shall strive in
every way open to me to aid and further the cause of righteousness, with
my money and with my influence. In this way I shall bring happiness and
satisfaction to my wife, to whom I owe the highest obligation, next to
God, instead of destroying her comfort by dragging her with me into some
late missionary endeavour or eccentric experiment. Pardon me, Mr.
Gregory, if I too speak plainly.
“But this is not all. Although I feel no individual call in the
direction of your coöperative colony, and am not over sanguine of its
success, I do believe profoundly in you, personally, as I must have
shown you. Now I want you to reconsider what you said a little while
ago. Frankly, this discriminating between money made in one way or
another savours to me of superstition. This money, which is mine, cannot
be destroyed; even you would hardly advise that. Why not put it to a
good use, the best possible from your point of view? I have never given
away money largely, but I am able to, and I want to seal our interview
to-night with a substantial gift.”
As he spoke, Ingraham turned to his desk and touched a check-book which
lay upon it.
“Mr. Gregory, I want to write my check for fifty thousand dollars to be
placed unconditionally in your hands. You want a little church down
there in your settlement, and you want it beautiful, worthy of its
purpose; you want a library—both are necessary to carry on the kind of
work you project. Here they are,” and again he touched the little
leather book with his forefinger; “let me do that much as a memorial of
this night and what you have done for me.”
John Gregory met the look of sincere and even anxious appeal with which
these words were spoken with unyielding, although not unkindly,
firmness.
“This is a generous impulse on your part, Mr. Ingraham. Do not for a
moment think I fail to appreciate it. You are right; the money must be
used, and will be, I hope, promptly and wisely. You must pardon me a
certain over nicety perhaps in preferring not to build my church in
Fraternia, or even my library, with it. You will find plenty of men less
fastidious, and no one but myself will, I suppose, have reason to
entertain such scruples.”
Gregory had risen, and was ready now to go. It was four o’clock, he
found, by his watch, and it had been a long vigil; but, while Ingraham’s
face was haggard and even ghastly, that of Gregory was unchanged in its
massive firmness and its strong, fine lines.
Ingraham stood at his desk plainly chagrined and ill at ease.
“In your eyes, I see,” he said ruefully, “I am still in the place of the
man who went away sorrowful because he had great possessions.”
“Perhaps,” said Gregory; “it is too soon to tell.”
“Every man must judge for himself, Mr. Gregory, when it comes to the
supreme acts of his life.”
“Yes,” said the other, sadly; “to the supreme acts or to the supreme
compromises. Will you excuse me now? I believe that I must go.” Gregory
held out his hand, which Ingraham grasped with eagerness. “You have
honoured me by your confidence and your generosity. Count me your friend
if you will. Good night.”