In a former pastorate there was a man in my congregation who
could talk like Demosthenes or Cicero. He used excellent
grammar, and seemed to know the Bible pretty well from Genesis
to Revelation. He could quote Longfellow, and Tennyson, and
Whittier, and a stranger would be charmed by his eloquent
utterances. And yet when he rose to talk in a prayer-meeting,
the crowd began to wither, and when his talk was over the
prayer-meeting was like a sweet-potato patch on a frosty
morning, flat and blue. The people knew that in his life there
was something unsavory, that he would drink before the bar with
worldly friends, and that he was not as honest as he might be.
His good grammar and fluent utterances did not make amends for
the unsavoriness of his character. There was another man in that
congregation who would sometimes come to prayer-meeting with a
circle of coal-dust around his hair. He was a coal-cart driver,
and he was now and then so hurried to get to the prayer-meeting
that he did not make his toilet with as much care as he ought.
But the people leaned over to listen when he talked. And why?
Because they knew that he lived every day for God. He would pick
up a tramp on the road, and give him a mile ride on his cart,
that he might talk with him about Jesus. His religion tasted
good. Bad religion in good grammar does not taste good. I would
rather have good religion in bad grammar, than good grammar in
bad religion. (Text.)--C. A. DIXON.
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