Henry Maxwell and a group of his church members remained some time
in the study. The man lay on the couch there and breathed heavily.
When the question of what to do with him came up, the minister
insisted on taking the man to his own house; he lived near by and
had an extra room. Rachel Winslow said:
"Mother has no company at present. I am sure we would be glad to
give him a place with us."
She looked strongly agitated. No one noticed it particularly. They
were all excited over the strange event, the strangest that First
Church people could remember. But the minister insisted on taking
charge of the man, and when a carriage came the unconscious but
living form was carried to his house; and with the entrance of that
humanity into the minister's spare room a new chapter in Henry
Maxwell's life began, and yet no one, himself least of all, dreamed
of the remarkable change it was destined to make in all his after
definition of the Christian discipleship.
The event created a great sensation in the First Church parish.
People talked of nothing else for a week. It was the general
impression that the man had wandered into the church in a condition
of mental disturbance caused by his troubles, and that all the time
he was talking he was in a strange delirium of fever and really
ignorant of his surroundings. That was the most charitable
construction to put upon his action. It was the general agreement
also that there was a singular absence of anything bitter or
complaining in what the man had said. He had, throughout, spoken in
a mild, apologetic tone, almost as if he were one of the
congregation seeking for light on a very difficult subject.
The third day after his removal to the minister's house there was a
marked change in his condition. The doctor spoke of it but offered
no hope. Saturday morning he still lingered, although he had rapidly
failed as the week drew near its close. Sunday morning, just before
the clock struck one, he rallied and asked if his child had come.
The minister had sent for her at once as soon as he had been able to
secure her address from some letters found in the man's pocket. He
had been conscious and able to talk coherently only a few moments
since his attack.
"The child is coming. She will be here," Mr. Maxwell said as he sat
there, his face showing marks of the strain of the week's vigil; for
he had insisted on sitting up nearly every night.
"I shall never see her in this world," the man whispered. Then he
uttered with great difficulty the words, "You have been good to me.
Somehow I feel as if it was what Jesus would do."
After a few minutes he turned his head slightly, and before Mr.
Maxwell could realize the fact, the doctor said quietly, "He is
gone."
The Sunday morning that dawned on the city of Raymond was exactly
like the Sunday of a week before. Mr. Maxwell entered his pulpit to
face one of the largest congregations that had ever crowded the
First Church. He was haggard and looked as if he had just risen from
a long illness. His wife was at home with the little girl, who had
come on the morning train an hour after her father had died. He lay
in that spare room, his troubles over, and the minister could see
the face as he opened the Bible and arranged his different notices
on the side of the desk as he had been in the habit of doing for ten
years.
The service that morning contained a new element. No one could
remember when Henry Maxwell had preached in the morning without
notes. As a matter of fact he had done so occasionally when he first
entered the ministry, but for a long time he had carefully written
every word of his morning sermon, and nearly always his evening
discourses as well. It cannot be said that his sermon this morning
was striking or impressive. He talked with considerable hesitation.
It was evident that some great idea struggled in his thought for
utterance, but it was not expressed in the theme he had chosen for
his preaching. It was near the close of his sermon that he began to
gather a certain strength that had been painfully lacking at the
beginning.
He closed the Bible and, stepping out at the side of the desk, faced
his people and began to talk to them about the remarkable scene of
the week before.
"Our brother," somehow the words sounded a little strange coming
from his lips, "passed away this morning. I have not yet had time to
learn all his history. He had one sister living in Chicago. I have
written her and have not yet received an answer. His little girl is
with us and will remain for the time."
He paused and looked over the house. He thought he had never seen so
many earnest faces during his entire pastorate. He was not able yet
to tell his people his experiences, the crisis through which he was
even now moving. But something of his feeling passed from him to
them, and it did not seem to him that he was acting under a careless
impulse at all to go on and break to them this morning something of
the message he bore in his heart.
So he went on: "The appearance and words of this stranger in the
church last Sunday made a very powerful impression on me. I am not
able to conceal from you or myself the fact that what he said,
followed as it has been by his death in my house, has compelled me
to ask as I never asked before 'What does following Jesus mean?' I
am not in a position yet to utter any condemnation of this people
or, to a certain extent, of myself, either in our Christ-like
relations to this man or the numbers that he represents in the
world. But all that does not prevent me from feeling that much that
the man said was so vitally true that we must face it in an attempt
to answer it or else stand condemned as Christian disciples. A good
deal that was said here last Sunday was in the nature of a challenge
to Christianity as it is seen and felt in our churches. I have felt
this with increasing emphasis every day since.
"And I do not know that any time is more appropriate than the
present for me to propose a plan, or a purpose, which has been
forming in my mind as a satisfactory reply to much that was said
here last Sunday."
Again Henry Maxwell paused and looked into the faces of his people.
There were some strong, earnest men and women in the First Church.
He could see Edward Norman, editor of the Raymond DAILY NEWS. He had
been a member of the First Church for ten years.
No man was more honored in the community. There was Alexander
Powers, superintendent of the great railroad shops in Raymond, a
typical railroad man, one who had been born into the business. There
sat Donald Marsh, president of Lincoln College, situated in the
suburbs of Raymond. There was Milton Wright, one of the great
merchants of Raymond, having in his employ at least one hundred men
in various shops. There was Dr. West who, although still
comparatively young, was quoted as authority in special surgical
cases. There was young Jasper Chase the author, who had written one
successful book and was said to be at work on a new novel. There was
Miss Virginia Page the heiress, who through the recent death of her
father had inherited a million at least, and was gifted with unusual
attractions of person and intellect. And not least of all, Rachel
Winslow, from her seat in the choir, glowed with her peculiar beauty
of light this morning because she was so intensely interested in the
whole scene.
There was some reason, perhaps, in view of such material in the
First Church, for Henry Maxwell's feeling of satisfaction whenever
he considered his parish as he had the previous Sunday. There was an
unusually large number of strong, individual characters who claimed
membership there. But as he noted their faces this morning he was
simply wondering how many of them would respond to the strange
proposition he was about to make. He continued slowly, taking time
to choose his words carefully, and giving the people an impression
they had never felt before, even when he was at his best with his
most dramatic delivery.
"What I am going to propose now is something which ought not to
appear unusual or at all impossible of execution. Yet I am aware
that it will be so regarded by a large number, perhaps, of the
members of this church. But in order that we may have a thorough
understanding of what we are considering, I will put my proposition
very plainly, perhaps bluntly. I want volunteers from the First
Church who will pledge themselves, earnestly and honestly for an
entire year, not to do anything without first asking the question,
'What would Jesus do?' And after asking that question, each one will
follow Jesus as exactly as he knows how, no matter what the result
may be. I will of course include myself in this company of
volunteers, and shall take for granted that my church here will not
be surprised at my future conduct, as based upon this standard of
action, and will not oppose whatever is done if they think Christ
would do it. Have I made my meaning clear? At the close of the
service I want all those members who are willing to join such a
company to remain and we will talk over the details of the plan. Our
motto will be, 'What would Jesus do?' Our aim will be to act just as
He would if He was in our places, regardless of immediate results.
In other words, we propose to follow Jesus' steps as closely and as
literally as we believe He taught His disciples to do. And those who
volunteer to do this will pledge themselves for an entire year,
beginning with today, so to act."
Henry Maxwell paused again and looked out over his people. It is not
easy to describe the sensation that such a simple proposition
apparently made. Men glanced at one another in astonishment. It was
not like Henry Maxwell to define Christian discipleship in this way.
There was evident confusion of thought over his proposition. It was
understood well enough, but there was, apparently, a great
difference of opinion as to the application of Jesus' teaching and
example.
He calmly closed the service with a brief prayer. The organist began
his postlude immediately after the benediction and the people began
to go out. There was a great deal of conversation. Animated groups
stood all over the church discussing the minister's proposition. It
was evidently provoking great discussion. After several minutes he
asked all who expected to remain to pass into the lecture-room which
joined the large room on the side. He was himself detained at the
front of the church talking with several persons there, and when he
finally turned around, the church was empty. He walked over to the
lecture-room entrance and went in. He was almost startled to see the
people who were there. He had not made up his mind about any of his
members, but he had hardly expected that so many were ready to enter
into such a literal testing of their Christian discipleship as now
awaited him. There were perhaps fifty present, among them Rachel
Winslow and Virginia Page, Mr. Norman, President Marsh, Alexander
Powers the railroad superintendent, Milton Wright, Dr. West and
Jasper Chase.
He closed the door of the lecture-room and went and stood before the
little group. His face was pale and his lips trembled with genuine
emotion. It was to him a genuine crisis in his own life and that of
his parish. No man can tell until he is moved by the Divine Spirit
what he may do, or how he may change the current of a lifetime of
fixed habits of thought and speech and action. Henry Maxwell did
not, as we have said, yet know himself all that he was passing
through, but he was conscious of a great upheaval in his definition
of Christian discipleship, and he was moved with a depth of feeling
he could not measure as he looked into the faces of those men and
women on this occasion.
It seemed to him that the most fitting word to be spoken first was
that of prayer. He asked them all to pray with him. And almost with
the first syllable he uttered there was a distinct presence of the
Spirit felt by them all. As the prayer went on, this presence grew
in power. They all felt it. The room was filled with it as plainly
as if it had been visible. When the prayer closed there was a
silence that lasted several moments. All the heads were bowed. Henry
Maxwell's face was wet with tears. If an audible voice from heaven
had sanctioned their pledge to follow the Master's steps, not one
person present could have felt more certain of the divine blessing.
And so the most serious movement ever started in the First Church of
Raymond was begun.
"We all understand," said he, speaking very quietly, "what we have
undertaken to do. We pledge ourselves to do everything in our daily
lives after asking the question, 'What would Jesus do?' regardless
of what may be the result to us. Some time I shall be able to tell
you what a marvelous change has come over my life within a week's
time. I cannot now. But the experience I have been through since
last Sunday has left me so dissatisfied with my previous definition
of Christian discipleship that I have been compelled to take this
action. I did not dare begin it alone. I know that I am being led by
the hand of divine love in all this. The same divine impulse must
have led you also.
"Do we understand fully what we have undertaken?"
"I want to ask a question," said Rachel Winslow. Every one turned
towards her. Her face glowed with a beauty that no physical
loveliness could ever create.
"I am a little in doubt as to the source of our knowledge concerning
what Jesus would do. Who is to decide for me just what He would do
in my case? It is a different age. There are many perplexing
questions in our civilization that are not mentioned in the
teachings of Jesus. How am I going to tell what He would do?"
"There is no way that I know of," replied the pastor, "except as we
study Jesus through the medium of the Holy Spirit. You remember what
Christ said speaking to His disciples about the Holy Spirit:
'Howbeit when he, the Spirit of truth, is come, he shall guide you
into all the truth: for he shall not speak from himself; but what
things soever he shall hear, these shall he speak: and he shall
declare unto you the things that are to come. He shall glorify me;
for he shall take of mine, and shall declare it unto you. All things
whatsoever the Father hath are mine: therefore said I, that he
taketh of mine, and shall declare it unto you.' There is no other
test that I know of. We shall all have to decide what Jesus would do
after going to that source of knowledge."
"What if others say of us, when we do certain things, that Jesus
would not do so?" asked the superintendent of railroads.
"We cannot prevent that. But we must be absolutely honest with
ourselves. The standard of Christian action cannot vary in most of
our acts."
"And yet what one church member thinks Jesus would do, another
refuses to accept as His probable course of action. What is to
render our conduct uniformly Christ-like? Will it be possible to
reach the same conclusions always in all cases?" asked President
Marsh.
Mr. Maxwell was silent some time. Then he answered, "No; I don't
know that we can expect that. But when it comes to a genuine,
honest, enlightened following of Jesus' steps, I cannot believe
there will be any confusion either in our own minds or in the
judgment of others. We must be free from fanaticism on one hand and
too much caution on the other. If Jesus' example is the example for
the world to follow, it certainly must be feasible to follow it. But
we need to remember this great fact. After we have asked the Spirit
to tell us what Jesus would do and have received an answer to it, we
are to act regardless of the results to ourselves. Is that
understood?"
All the faces in the room were raised towards the minister in solemn
assent. There was no misunderstanding that proposition. Henry
Maxwell's face quivered again as he noted the president of the
Endeavor Society with several members seated back of the older men
and women.
They remained a little longer talking over details and asking
questions, and agreed to report to one another every week at a regular
meeting the result of their experiences in following Jesus this way.
Henry Maxwell prayed again. And again as before the Spirit made Himself
manifest. Every head remained bowed a long time. They went away finally
in silence. There was a feeling that prevented speech. The pastor shook
hands with them all as they went out. Then he went into his own study
room back of the pulpit and kneeled. He remained there alone nearly
half an hour. When he went home he went into the room where the dead
body lay. As he looked at the face he cried in his heart again for
strength and wisdom. But not even yet did he realize that a movement
had begun which would lead to the most remarkable series of events that
the city of Raymond had ever known.