The editor was reading a report of the regular meeting of
the Dallas Pastors' Association, at which the Second
Coming of Christ was learnedly considered. Dr. Seasholes
declared that all good people will rise into the air, like so
many larks, to meet the Lord and conduct him to
earth--with flying banners and a brass-band, I suppose--
where he will reign a thousand years. At the conclusion of
this felicitous period Satan is to be loosed for a little
season, and after he has pawed up the gravel with his long
toe-nails and given us a preliminary touch of Purgatory, we
are to have the genuine pyrotechnics. Some of the divines
did not agree with the spectacular ceremonies arranged by
Dr. Seasholes for the Second Coming; but he seems
determined to carry out his program or enjoin the
procession. The editor was musing on this remarkable
controversy and wondering, in a vague, tired way, why the
fool-killer did not take a pot-shot at the Dallas Pastors'
Association, when there came a gentle rap at his door and
a strange figure stood before him. It was that of a man of
perhaps three-and-thirty years, barefoot, bareheaded and
clothed in a single garment, much worn and sadly soiled.
"Peace to this house," he said, in a voice soft and sweet
as that of a well-bred woman. "A cup of cold water, I pray
you." "Water? Cert. Steer yourself against the cooler
over there. You look above the Weary Willie business. Sit
down until I find a jumping-off place in this article on 'The
Monetary Situation,' and perhaps I can fish up a stray
quarter that's dodged the foreign mission fund." He bowed
his thanks and sank wearily into the proffered seat. In five
minutes he was sleeping softly, and the editor made a
careful study of his face. It was of the Jewish type, strong
but tender. The beard was glistening black and had
evidently never been to the barber's, while a shock of
unkempt hair, burned by the sun, hung around his
shoulders like the mane of a lion.
"Hello," said the business manager, as he helped
himself to the editor's plug tobacco; "another of your
Bohemian friends? Some fellow who's tramping around the
world on a wager of 'steen million dollars? Good face, but
a bath wouldn't hurt him." The stranger roused himself and
the B. M. continued: "Neighbor, we were just about to
crack a bottle of beer. Have you any conscientious
scruples about joining us?" He winked at the bookkeeper,
and the stranger bowed his thanks, accepted the amber
fluid, scrutinized it curiously and drank it off with evident
relish.
"That is very refreshing," he commented as he wiped the
foam from his black beard with his sleeve. "Will it
intoxicate?"
He was informed that if taken on the allopathic plan it would
make one drunk some, but not the wild-eyed, murderons
mania peculiar to Prohibition booze. He declined a second
glass, saying gently, "We should not abuse the good things
of life." The bookkeeper was so startled that he missed his
face with a pint cup, and the mailing clerk did up a package
of hymn books for a dealer who wanted "Potiphar's Wife."
But the stranger was evidently unconscious that he had
forever queered himself with the Bohemian Club. He took
a dry crust from a leathern wallet, and, blessing it, offered a
portion to the editor.
"Jesus Christ! You don't eat that, do you?"
The visitor rose, a startled look on his face.
"You know me, then? Yes, it is I--Jesus of Nazareth. I
have walked the earth an entire year, clad as I was
eighteen centuries ago, living as I did then, mingling with
those called by my name, conversing with those who
profess to teach my doctrine, and none knew me. Nay
more: They sometimes spurned me from their doors, and
even delivered me to the minions of Caesar as a vagabond.
You look incredulous. Behold the nail-prints in my hands
and feet, the spear wound in my side, the scars made
by the crown of thorns upon my brow."
"But I thought your second coming would be in power and
glory, and all the righteous would rise up into the
atmosphere to meet you and show you a soft spot to 'light.
Dr. Seasholes says so, and if he doesn't know, who does?"
"I attended the discussion by the Dallas Pastors'
Association," he said wearily. "They permitted me to
sweep out the room and stand down in the hall. It may
appear incredible; but there are just a few things that the
Dallas Pastors' Association doesn't know. Of course you
couldn't make those gentlemen believe it; but it is a
lamentable fact. The world is young; it must run its course.
Our Heavenly Father did not create it as the Chinese make
crackers--just to hear it pop. Not until its power to produce
and nourish life is exhausted will the end be. Your poet,
Campbell, was a true prophet. The sun itself must die, and
not until that mighty source of light and heat becomes a
flickering lamp, will those fateful words be spoken. 'Time
was, but time shall be no more.' I am not come as yet to
judge the world, but to mingle once again with the sons of
men, and observe how they keep my laws."
An expression of unutterable sadness stole into his face
and he sat a long time silent.
"I have suffered and sacrificed much for this people," he
said at length, as though speaking to himself, "and it has
borne so little fruit. The world misunderstood me. The
church planted by toil and nurtured with my blood has split
up into hundreds of warring factions, despite my warning
that a house divided against itself cannot stand. Nor has it
stood--the Temple of Zion is a ruin, the habitation of
sanctified owls and theological bats. The army of Israel is
striving in its camp, tribe against tribe, or wandering
desolate in the desert while the legions of Lucifer
overrun the land. Here and there, among the simple poor, I
find traces of the truths I taught--here and there a heart that
is a holy temple in which abide Faith, Hope and Charity; but
the shepherds do not keep my sheep."
He leaned his head upon his hands and wept, while the
editor shifted uneasily in his chair and strove in vain to think
of something appropriate to say. During his reportorial
career he had interviewed Satan and the arch-angel
Gabriel. He had even inserted the journalistic pump into
Gov. Culberson and Dr. Cranfill without being overwhelmed
by their transcendent greatness; but this was different. The
city hall clock chimed ten, the hour when the saloons set
out the mock-turtle soup and potato salad, the bull-beef and
sour beans as lagniappe to the heavy-laden schooner.
The editor remembered that Christ first came eating and
drinking, sat with publicans and sinners and was
denounced therefore as a wine-bibber and a glutton by the
Prohibitionists and other Miss Nancys of Palestine. Still he
hesitated. He wanted to do the elegant, but was afraid of
making a bad impression. A glance at the dry and moldy
crust determined him. He tapped the visitor on the
shoulder and said:
"Let's go and get some grub."
"I wouldn't worry about the world if I were you," I
continued, as he led the way to the elevator. "It is really
not worth while. If the devil wants it, I'd let him have it. I
can think of no greater punishment you could inflict upon
him than to make him a present of it. It were equivalent to
England giving Canada to the United States for meddling in
the Venezuelan matter. Perhaps you know your business
best, but I have lived the longest. I used to think that
perhaps the world would pay the salvage for saving it; but
that was before I moved to Waco. I tell you frankly that if I
had your job in the New Jerusalem I'd nurse it and let
Bob Ingersoll, Doc Talmage and the rest of the noisy
blatherskites scrap it out here to suit themselves."
He did not reply, and the editor, remembering that his
advice had not been asked, changed the subject.
"I'm not going to steer you against a first-class hotel. Jim
I. Moore wouldn't let you into his dining-room with your
shoes off, even though you brought a letter of credit from
the Creator. Jim loves you dearly, but business is
business. There's a place down here, however, run by a
man who doesn't trot with the sanctified set, where you can
waltz up to the feed trough in the same suit you wore when
you preached the Sermon on the Mount, and that without
giving the ultra-fashionables a case of the fantods."
"Ah, there we will doubtless meet with many of the good
brethren who do not observe empty forms and foolish
ceremonies."
"Rather. But perhaps I should tell you that the church
does not approve of the place where we are going. They
er--sell wine there you know; also that amber liquid with
the--er--froth on it."
"And why not wine?"
"Damfino--I mean--Oh, you'll have to ask Brother Cranfill. I
s'pose because old Noah jagged up on it."
"Noah who?"
"Why just Noah; that old stiff--I mean that good man who
was saved for seed, when the overflow came, and who's
the great gran'daddy of all the niggers."
"Is it possible that the church is retailing that wretched old
myth which my Hebrew fathers borrowed of the barbarians.
Noah? There was no such man. By the shifting of the
earth's axis about 16,000 years ago a portion of the Asiatic
continent was overflowed."
"But the Noah story is in the Bible."
"So is the story of Adam and Eve, and many other
absurdities which really intelligent people would purge it of.
O will men be mental children ever!"
He ate sparingly, but scanned the visitors closely. At the
next table a quartette of Texas colonels were absorbing
mint juleps through rye straws. The Nazarene nudged the
editor and inquired what the beverage consisted of. The
latter explained the mystery, and would have placed one
before his guest, but the latter insisted that a little wine for
the stomach's sake would suffice. Several entered into
conversation with him and would have given him money,
but he gently declined to accept it, saying that the good
Father would provide that he was seeking to do good, not
to lay up treasures.
"Are these people sinners?"
He was informed that, according to the theology of the
Prohibs, they would occupy the hottest corner of Perdition.
"But they give to the poor, speak kindly to the stranger,
even though he be clothed in rags. I am sure they would
not lie or steal or kill."
"But they will blaspheme a little sometimes. Just listen to
those colonels. Didn't you hear them say 'damn' and
'Hell's fire' and 'Devil'? O, according to our theology
there's no hope for 'em. A man may defraud a widow or
swindle an orphan and make a landing; but when he talks
about the Devil and Hell he's sure to be damned."
"Is Satan a sacred person, or Hell a place to be mentioned
reverently? Blasphemy is speaking evil of God. The
priesthood of every religious cult has manifested a
propensity to magnify venial faults into cardinal sins and
thereby bring worship into contempt by trifling. To Hell with
those who make religion a trade and thrive thereby!"
We were on the street and it chanced that a well-fed,
silk-hatted dominie, sporting a diamond stud, was
dawdling by as the man of Galilee uttered this emphatic
protest against gain-grabbing preachers. His face flushed
with anger, and turning upon the ill-clad stranger, he said:
"Do you mean to insult me, fellow?"
The Nazarene faced his heated interlocutor and replied with
quiet dignity: "Assuredly not. I did not suspect you of
being a minister. You are not clad like one of the Apostles.
Surely you are not one of those disputatious sectaries who
wear purple and fine linen and fare sumptuously every day
while countless thousands cry to their Father in Heaven,
'Give us to eat and to drink lest we die'?"
"I want no lectures from you, sir. I know my business,"
exclaimed the man of God, with rising color.
"Ah, I fear that 'business' is to coin the blood of Jesus of
Nazareth into golden guineas."
The infinite pity in the speaker's voice cowed the
pugnacious preacher, and he was about to pass on; but a
brown, toil-stained hand--the hand of a carpenter--was laid
upon his shoulder. "Wait, my brother. Let not the sun go
down upon thy wrath. Him ye serve was even as I am--
poor and friendless. He spake as I speak, the truth that
welled up in his heart. Cruel things were said of him, but
he resented it not. He was beaten with many stripes, and
mocked, and crucified; but he freely forgave. Be thou
humble as he was humble; be thou forgiving even as he
forgave. Love God and thy fellow-men. That is the whole
law given by him ye serve. Words are but as sounding
brass and a tinkling cymbal, but a good example endureth
forever."
"Lord! Lord!" exclaimed the editor. "Why didn't you reveal
yourself to him?"
"He would not have believed me. No; though I
performed before him miracles more wonderful than
those accredited to me in Palestine. I have resumed my
earthly raiment and adopted my old mode of life as the best
possible disguise. Believing me a vagabond, those
pretending to worship with all their heart and all their soul,
show unto me what they really are. Now as ever do men
polish the outside of the cup while within is all
uncleanliness."
"Have you interviewed many of the big preachers?"
"Many, almost all. I attended Sam Jones' recent services
at Austin. He is simply a product of the evil times upon
which the church has fallen. In religion, as in art and
letters, decadence is marked by sensationalism. The
trouble with Sam is that he mistakes himself for me--thinks
he has been called to judge the world. I was pained to
hear him consign about fifteen different classes of people to
Perdition without sifting them to see if, perchance, there
might not be one in the lot worthy of salvation. I presented
him with a copy of my Sermon on the Mount. He took a
fresh chew of tobacco and remarked that he was inclined to
think he had read it before somewhere. Then he took up a
collection. Sam represents the rebound from the old
religious belly-ache. For years preachers had an idea that
there was nothing of gladness in the worship of God--that it
consisted simply of a chronic case of the snuffles. Jones
has simply gone to the opposite extreme and transformed
the Temple of the Deity into a variety dive. Nero fiddled
while Rome burned; but Jones indulges in the levity of the
buffoon while consigning millions of human beings to Hell.
Alas, that so few preachers understand the pity which
permeates all true religions."
"All true religions?"
"Even so. All are true and of God that make people better,
nobler, more pitiful. The Father is all-wise. He
tempers the wind to the shorn lamb. He gives to each
people a religion commensurate with its mentality. I had
hoped that the church established nearly nineteen centuries
ago would suffice until the end of the world; that the simple
theology I taught would grow with the world's mental growth
and strengthen with its intellectual strength. It was a
religion of Love. I bound its devotees to no specific forms
and ceremonies--these were after-growths. I expected
them. The child must have something to lean upon until it
can walk; the barbaric worshiper must have symbols and
ceremonies to aid his comprehension. These should have
passed ere this in Europe and America. A religious rite
appropriate to semi-savages becomes, when injected into
an age of civilization, that good custom which doth corrupt
the world. The people, seeing these savage non-essentials
insisted upon by the priesthood as something sacred and
necessary unto Salvation, turn skeptic and reject religion
altogether because it is encumbered by ridiculous rubbish.
O, when will men understand that the whole world is a
temple and all right living is worship!"
The editor was becoming really alarmed. He was fearful
that his visitor was frightfully heterodox, hence he broke in
with, "If you're not careful, Doc Talmage will denounce you
as an infidel!"
"Brother Talmage is like unto the west wind--he bloweth
whithersoever he listeth, and no man knoweth whence his
blow cometh or whither it goeth. I tried to have a talk with
him while in Washington, but he was too busy writing a
syndicate sermon on the political situation, demonstrating
that Dives had already done too much for Lazarus, and
peddling hallelujahs at two dollars apiece. I had heard
much of him and expected to find him toiling early and late
among the poor and wretched, the suffering of the
Capital city. When I called at his residence the servant told
me that his master could not be disturbed--said there had
been a dozen tramps there that morning. I asked him what
salary his master received in a city filled with homeless
vagabonds for preaching Christ and Him crucified, but he
vouchsafed me no answer. I went to hear the great man
preach, but the usher told me there was a mission church
around the corner where my spiritual wants would be
attended to. If I failed to find a seat there I could stand on
the street-corner and hear the Salvation Army beat the
bass drum and sing, 'Come to Jesus.' I lingered in the
vestibule, however, and heard his sermon. I asked for
bread and he gave me wind-pudding. I was sorry that I
didn't attend the Salvation Army exercises. I prefer the
bass drum to the doctor. It may be equally noisy, but
hardly so empty. I saw men attired in fine cloth and women
ablaze with jewels kneel on velvet cushions and pray to me.
Then the choir sang,
" 'Oh, how I love Jesus, for Jesus died for me.'
"And Dr. Talmage exclaimed, 'Come, dear Lord, O come!' I
came. I walked down the center aisle, expecting that a
mighty shout of joy would shake the vaulted roof of Heaven
and be echoed back by the angels. I supposed that Dr.
Talmage would advance and embrace me. But no; the
men stared their disapproval; the women drew back their
perfumed skirts of glistening silk, and Dr. Talmage
thundered, 'Sirrah! who are you?' I raised my hand and
exclaimed in a loud voice:
" 'Jesus Christ!' "
The editor started up from his siesta and rubbed his eyes--
the foreman of the Baptist Standard had "pied a form."