"For hereunto were ye called; because Christ also suffered for you,
leaving you an example, that ye should follow in his steps."
It was Friday morning and the Rev. Henry Maxwell was trying to
finish his Sunday morning sermon. He had been interrupted several
times and was growing nervous as the morning wore away, and the
sermon grew very slowly toward a satisfactory finish.
"Mary," he called to his wife, as he went upstairs after the last
interruption, "if any one comes after this, I wish you would say I
am very busy and cannot come down unless it is something very
important."
"Yes, Henry. But I am going over to visit the kindergarten and you
will have the house all to yourself."
The minister went up into his study and shut the door. In a few
minutes he heard his wife go out, and then everything was quiet. He
settled himself at his desk with a sigh of relief and began to
write. His text was from 1 Peter 2:21: "For hereunto were ye called;
because Christ also suffered for you, leaving you an example that ye
should follow his steps."
He had emphasized in the first part of the sermon the Atonement as a
personal sacrifice, calling attention to the fact of Jesus'
suffering in various ways, in His life as well as in His death. He
had then gone on to emphasize the Atonement from the side of
example, giving illustrations from the life and teachings of Jesus
to show how faith in the Christ helped to save men because of the
pattern or character He displayed for their imitation. He was now on
the third and last point, the necessity of following Jesus in His
sacrifice and example.
He had put down "Three Steps. What are they?" and was about to
enumerate them in logical order when the bell rang sharply. It was
one of those clock-work bells, and always went off as a clock might
go if it tried to strike twelve all at once.
Henry Maxwell sat at his desk and frowned a little. He made no
movement to answer the bell. Very soon it rang again; then he rose
and walked over to one of his windows which commanded the view of
the front door. A man was standing on the steps. He was a young man,
very shabbily dressed.
"Looks like a tramp," said the minister. "I suppose I'll have to go
down and--"
He did not finish his sentence but he went downstairs and opened the
front door. There was a moment's pause as the two men stood facing
each other, then the shabby-looking young man said:
"I'm out of a job, sir, and thought maybe you might put me in the
way of getting something."
"I don't know of anything. Jobs are scarce--" replied the minister,
beginning to shut the door slowly.
"I didn't know but you might perhaps be able to give me a line to
the city railway or the superintendent of the shops, or something,"
continued the young man, shifting his faded hat from one hand to the
other nervously.
"It would be of no use. You will have to excuse me. I am very busy
this morning. I hope you will find something. Sorry I can't give you
something to do here. But I keep only a horse and a cow and do the
work myself."
The Rev. Henry Maxwell closed the door and heard the man walk down
the steps. As he went up into his study he saw from his hall window
that the man was going slowly down the street, still holding his hat
between his hands. There was something in the figure so dejected,
homeless and forsaken that the minister hesitated a moment as he
stood looking at it. Then he turned to his desk and with a sigh
began the writing where he had left off.
He had no more interruptions, and when his wife came in two hours
later the sermon was finished, the loose leaves gathered up and
neatly tied together, and laid on his Bible all ready for the Sunday
morning service.
"A queer thing happened at the kindergarten this morning, Henry,"
said his wife while they were eating dinner. "You know I went over
with Mrs. Brown to visit the school, and just after the games, while
the children were at the tables, the door opened and a young man
came in holding a dirty hat in both hands. He sat down near the door
and never said a word; only looked at the children. He was evidently
a tramp, and Miss Wren and her assistant Miss Kyle were a little
frightened at first, but he sat there very quietly and after a few
minutes he went out."
"Perhaps he was tired and wanted to rest somewhere. The same man
called here, I think. Did you say he looked like a tramp?"
"Yes, very dusty, shabby and generally tramp-like. Not more than
thirty or thirty-three years old, I should say."
"The same man," said the Rev. Henry Maxwell thoughtfully.
"Did you finish your sermon, Henry?" his wife asked after a pause.
"Yes, all done. It has been a very busy week with me. The two
sermons have cost me a good deal of labor."
"They will be appreciated by a large audience, Sunday, I hope,"
replied his wife smiling. "What are you going to preach about in the
morning?"
"Following Christ. I take up the Atonement under the head of
sacrifice and example, and then show the steps needed to follow His
sacrifice and example."
"I am sure it is a good sermon. I hope it won't rain Sunday. We have
had so many stormy Sundays lately."
"Yes, the audiences have been quite small for some time. People will
not come out to church in a storm." The Rev. Henry Maxwell sighed as
he said it. He was thinking of the careful, laborious effort he had
made in preparing sermons for large audiences that failed to appear.
But Sunday morning dawned on the town of Raymond one of the perfect
days that sometimes come after long periods of wind and mud and
rain. The air was clear and bracing, the sky was free from all
threatening signs, and every one in Mr. Maxwell's parish prepared to
go to church. When the service opened at eleven o'clock the large
building was filled with an audience of the best-dressed, most
comfortable looking people of Raymond.
The First Church of Raymond believed in having the best music that
money could buy, and its quartet choir this morning was a source of
great pleasure to the congregation. The anthem was inspiring. All
the music was in keeping with the subject of the sermon. And the
anthem was an elaborate adaptation to the most modern music of the
hymn,
"Jesus, I my cross have taken,
All to leave and follow Thee."
Just before the sermon, the soprano sang a solo, the well-known
hymn,
"Where He leads me I will follow,
I'll go with Him, with Him, all the way."
Rachel Winslow looked very beautiful that morning as she stood up
behind the screen of carved oak which was significantly marked with
the emblems of the cross and the crown. Her voice was even more
beautiful than her face, and that meant a great deal. There was a
general rustle of expectation over the audience as she rose. Mr.
Maxwell settled himself contentedly behind the pulpit. Rachel
Winslow's singing always helped him. He generally arranged for a
song before the sermon. It made possible a certain inspiration of
feeling that made his delivery more impressive.
People said to themselves they had never heard such singing even in
the First Church. It is certain that if it had not been a church
service, her solo would have been vigorously applauded. It even
seemed to the minister when she sat down that something like an
attempted clapping of hands or a striking of feet on the floor swept
through the church. He was startled by it. As he rose, however, and
laid his sermon on the Bible, he said to himself he had been
deceived. Of course it could not occur. In a few moments he was
absorbed in his sermon and everything else was forgotten in the
pleasure of his delivery.
No one had ever accused Henry Maxwell of being a dull preacher. On
the contrary, he had often been charged with being sensational; not
in what he had said so much as in his way of saying it. But the
First Church people liked that. It gave their preacher and their
parish a pleasant distinction that was agreeable.
It was also true that the pastor of the First Church loved to
preach. He seldom exchanged. He was eager to be in his own pulpit
when Sunday came. There was an exhilarating half hour for him as he
faced a church full of people and know that he had a hearing. He was
peculiarly sensitive to variations in the attendance. He never
preached well before a small audience. The weather also affected him
decidedly. He was at his best before just such an audience as faced
him now, on just such a morning. He felt a glow of satisfaction as
he went on. The church was the first in the city. It had the best
choir. It had a membership composed of the leading people,
representatives of the wealth, society and intelligence of Raymond.
He was going abroad on a three months vacation in the summer, and
the circumstances of his pastorate, his influence and his position
as pastor of the First Church in the city--
It is not certain that the Rev. Henry Maxwell knew just how he could
carry on that thought in connection with his sermon, but as he drew
near the end of it he knew that he had at some point in his delivery
had all those feelings. They had entered into the very substance of
his thought; it might have been all in a few seconds of time, but he
had been conscious of defining his position and his emotions as well
as if he had held a soliloquy, and his delivery partook of the
thrill of deep personal satisfaction.
The sermon was interesting. It was full of striking sentences. They
would have commanded attention printed. Spoken with the passion of a
dramatic utterance that had the good taste never to offend with a
suspicion of ranting or declamation, they were very effective. If
the Rev. Henry Maxwell that morning felt satisfied with the
conditions of his pastorate, the First Church also had a similar
feeling as it congratulated itself on the presence in the pulpit of
this scholarly, refined, somewhat striking face and figure,
preaching with such animation and freedom from all vulgar, noisy or
disagreeable mannerism.
Suddenly, into the midst of this perfect accord and concord between
preacher and audience, there came a very remarkable interruption. It
would be difficult to indicate the extent of the shock which this
interruption measured. It was so unexpected, so entirely contrary to
any thought of any person present that it offered no room for
argument or, for the time being, of resistance.
The sermon had come to a close. Mr. Maxwell had just turned the half
of the big Bible over upon his manuscript and was about to sit down
as the quartet prepared to arise to sing the closing selection,
"All for Jesus, all for Jesus,
All my being's ransomed powers..."
when the entire congregation was startled by the sound of a man's
voice. It came from the rear of the church, from one of the seats
under the gallery. The next moment the figure of a man came out of
the shadow there and walked down the middle aisle.
Before the startled congregation fairly realized what was going on
the man had reached the open space in front of the pulpit and had
turned about facing the people.
"I've been wondering since I came in here"--they were the words he
used under the gallery, and he repeated them--"if it would be just
the thing to say a word at the close of the service. I'm not drunk
and I'm not crazy, and I am perfectly harmless, but if I die, as
there is every likelihood I shall in a few days, I want the
satisfaction of thinking that I said my say in a place like this,
and before this sort of a crowd."
Henry Maxwell had not taken his seat, and he now remained standing,
leaning on his pulpit, looking down at the stranger. It was the man
who had come to his house the Friday before, the same dusty, worn,
shabby-looking young man. He held his faded hat in his two hands. It
seemed to be a favorite gesture. He had not been shaved and his hair
was rough and tangled. It is doubtful if any one like this had ever
confronted the First Church within the sanctuary. It was tolerably
familiar with this sort of humanity out on the street, around the
railroad shops, wandering up and down the avenue, but it had never
dreamed of such an incident as this so near.
There was nothing offensive in the man's manner or tone. He was not
excited and he spoke in a low but distinct voice. Mr. Maxwell was
conscious, even as he stood there smitten into dumb astonishment at
the event, that somehow the man's action reminded him of a person he
had once seen walking and talking in his sleep.
No one in the house made any motion to stop the stranger or in any
way interrupt him. Perhaps the first shock of his sudden appearance
deepened into a genuine perplexity concerning what was best to do.
However that may be, he went on as if he had no thought of
interruption and no thought of the unusual element which he had
introduced into the decorum of the First Church service. And all the
while he was speaking, the minister leaded over the pulpit, his face
growing more white and sad every moment. But he made no movement to
stop him, and the people sat smitten into breathless silence. One
other face, that of Rachel Winslow from the choir, stared white and
intent down at the shabby figure with the faded hat. Her face was
striking at any time. Under the pressure of the present unheard-of
incident it was as personally distinct as if it had been framed in
fire.
"I'm not an ordinary tramp, though I don't know of any teaching of
Jesus that makes one kind of a tramp less worth saving than another.
Do you?" He put the question as naturally as if the whole
congregation had been a small Bible class. He paused just a moment
and coughed painfully. Then he went on.
"I lost my job ten months ago. I am a printer by trade. The new
linotype machines are beautiful specimens of invention, but I know
six men who have killed themselves inside of the year just on
account of those machines. Of course I don't blame the newspapers
for getting the machines. Meanwhile, what can a man do? I know I
never learned but the one trade, and that's all I can do. I've
tramped all over the country trying to find something. There are a
good many others like me. I'm not complaining, am I? Just stating
facts. But I was wondering as I sat there under the gallery, if what
you call following Jesus is the same thing as what He taught. What
did He mean when He said: 'Follow Me!'? The minister said,"--here he
turned about and looked up at the pulpit--"that it is necessary for
the disciple of Jesus to follow His steps, and he said the steps are
'obedience, faith, love and imitation.' But I did not hear him tell
you just what he meant that to mean, especially the last step. What
do you Christians mean by following the steps of Jesus?
"I've tramped through this city for three days trying to find a job;
and in all that time I've not had a word of sympathy or comfort
except from your minister here, who said he was sorry for me and
hoped I would find a job somewhere. I suppose it is because you get
so imposed on by the professional tramp that you have lost your
interest in any other sort. I'm not blaming anybody, am I? Just
stating facts. Of course, I understand you can't all go out of your
way to hunt up jobs for other people like me. I'm not asking you to;
but what I feel puzzled about is, what is meant by following Jesus.
What do you mean when you sing 'I'll go with Him, with Him, all the
way?' Do you mean that you are suffering and denying yourselves and
trying to save lost, suffering humanity just as I understand Jesus
did? What do you mean by it? I see the ragged edge of things a good
deal. I understand there are more than five hundred men in this city
in my case. Most of them have families. My wife died four months
ago. I'm glad she is out of trouble. My little girl is staying with
a printer's family until I find a job. Somehow I get puzzled when I
see so many Christians living in luxury and singing 'Jesus, I my
cross have taken, all to leave and follow Thee,' and remember how my
wife died in a tenement in New York City, gasping for air and asking
God to take the little girl too. Of course I don't expect you people
can prevent every one from dying of starvation, lack of proper
nourishment and tenement air, but what does following Jesus mean? I
understand that Christian people own a good many of the tenements. A
member of a church was the owner of the one where my wife died, and
I have wondered if following Jesus all the way was true in his case.
I heard some people singing at a church prayer meeting the other
night,
'All for Jesus, all for Jesus,
All my being's ransomed powers,
All my thoughts, and all my doings,
All my days, and all my hours.'
and I kept wondering as I sat on the steps outside just what they
meant by it. It seems to me there's an awful lot of trouble in the
world that somehow wouldn't exist if all the people who sing such
songs went and lived them out. I suppose I don't understand. But
what would Jesus do? Is that what you mean by following His steps?
It seems to me sometimes as if the people in the big churches had
good clothes and nice houses to live in, and money to spend for
luxuries, and could go away on summer vacations and all that, while
the people outside the churches, thousands of them, I mean, die in
tenements, and walk the streets for jobs, and never have a piano or
a picture in the house, and grow up in misery and drunkenness and
sin."
The man suddenly gave a queer lurch over in the direction of the
communion table and laid one grimy hand on it. His hat fell upon the
carpet at his feet. A stir went through the congregation. Dr. West
half rose from his pew, but as yet the silence was unbroken by any
voice or movement worth mentioning in the audience. The man passed
his other hand across his eyes, and then, without any warning, fell
heavily forward on his face, full length up the aisle. Henry Maxwell
spoke:
"We will consider the service closed."
He was down the pulpit stairs and kneeling by the prostrate form before
any one else. The audience instantly rose and the aisles were crowded.
Dr. West pronounced the man alive. He had fainted away. "Some heart
trouble," the doctor also muttered as he helped carry him out into the
pastor's study.