A "WATCH-NIGHT" CONSECRATION.
THE office work for the old year was all done. Mr. Edmunds had locked
his desk and gone home. David would soon follow. He had only some
private correspondence to finish.
Bethany sat nervously assorting the letters in the different
pigeon-holes of her desk. Ninety-five was slipping out into the
eternities. It had brought her a prayed-for opportunity; it was carrying
away a far different record from the one she had planned. She felt that
she could not bear to have it go in that way, yet an unaccountable
reticence sealed her lips.
David had been in the office very little during the past week, only long
enough to get his mail. This afternoon he had a worried, preoccupied
look that made it all the harder for Bethany to say what was trembling
on her lips.
She heard him slipping the letter into the envelope. He would be gone
in just another moment. Now he was putting on his overcoat. O, she must
say something! Her heart beat violently, and her face grew hot. She shut
her eyes an instant, and sent up a swift, despairing appeal for help.
David strolled into the room with his hat in his hand, and stood beside
her table.
"Well, the old year is about over, Miss Hallam," he said, gravely. "It
has brought me a great many unexpected experiences, but the most
unexpected of all is the one that led to our acquaintance. In wishing
you a happy new year, I want to tell you what a pleasure your friendship
has been to me in the old."
Bethany found sudden speech as she took the proffered hand.
"And I want to tell you, Mr. Herschel, that I have not only been
wishing, but praying earnestly, that in this new year you may find the
greatest happiness earth holds--the peace that comes in accepting Christ
as a Savior."
He turned from her abruptly, and, with his hands thrust in his overcoat
pockets, began pacing up and down the room with quick, excited strides.
"You, too!" he cried desperately. "I seem to be pursued. Every way I
turn, the same thing is thrust at me. For weeks I have been fighting
against it--O, longer than that--since I first talked to Lessing. Then
there was Dr. Trent's death, and that nurse's prayer, and the League
meeting Frank Marion persuaded me into attending. Cragmore has talked to
me so often, too. I can answer arguments, but I can't answer such lives
and faith as theirs. Yesterday morning I had a letter from Lee--little
Lee Trent--thanking me for a book I had sent him, and even that child
had something to say. He told me about his conversion. Last night
curiosity led me down town to hear a Russian Jew preach to a lot of
rough people in an old warehouse by the river. His text was Pilate's
question, 'What shall I do then with Jesus, which is called Christ?' It
wasn't a sermon. There wasn't a single argument in it. It was just a
tragically-told story of the Nazarene's trial and death sentence--but he
made it such a personal matter. All last night, and all day to-day those
words have tormented me beyond endurance, 'What shall I do? What shall I
do with this Jesus called Christ!'"
He kept on restlessly pacing back and forth in silence. Then he broke
out again:
"I saw a man converted, as you call it, down there last night. He had
been a rough, blasphemous drunkard that I have seen in the police courts
many a time. I saw him fall on his knees at the altar, groaning for
mercy, and I saw him, when he stood up after a while, with a face like a
different creature's, all transformed by a great joy, crying out that he
had been pardoned for Christ's sake. I just stood and looked at him, and
wondered which of us is nearer the truth. If I am right, what a poor,
deluded fool he is! But if he is right, good God--"
He stopped abruptly.
"Mr. Herschel," said Bethany, slowly, "if you were convinced that, by
going on some certain pilgrimage, you could find Truth, but that the
finding would shatter your belief in the creed you cling to now, would
you undertake the journey? Which is stronger in you, the love for the
faith of your fathers, or an honest desire for Truth, regardless of
long-cherished opinion?"
For a moment there was no answer. Then he threw back his shoulders
resolutely.
"I would take the journey," he said, with decision. "If I am wrong I
want to know it." Bethany slipped a little Testament out of one of the
pigeon-holes, and handed it to him, opened at the place where the answer
to Thomas was heavily underscored:
"Jesus saith unto him, I am the way and the truth and the life; no man
cometh unto the Father but by me."
"Follow that path," she said, simply. "The door has never been opened to
you, because you have never knocked. You have no personal knowledge of
Christ, because you have never sought for it. He has never revealed
himself to you, because you have never asked him to do so."
He turned to her impatiently.
"Could you honestly pray to Confucius?" he asked; "or Isaiah, or Elijah,
or John the Baptist? This Jewish teacher is no more to me than any other
man who has taught and died. How can I pray to him, then?"
Bethany fingered the leaves of her little Testament, her heart
fluttering nervously.
"I wish you would take this and read it," she said. "It would answer you
far better than I can."
"I have read it," he replied, "a number of years ago. I could see
nothing in it."
"O, but you read it simply as a critic," she answered. "See!" she cried
eagerly, turning the leaves to find another place she had marked. "Paul
wrote this about the children of Israel: 'Their minds were blinded: for
until this day remaineth the same veil' (the one told about in Exodus,
you know) 'untaken away, in the reading of the Old Testament; which veil
is done away in Christ. But even unto this day, when Moses is read, the
veil is upon their heart. Nevertheless, when it shall turn to the Lord,
the veil shall be taken away.'"
"Where does it say that?" he asked, incredulously. He took the book, and
turning back to the first of the chapter, commenced to read.
The great bell in the court-house tower began clanging six.
"I must go," he said; "but I'll take this with me and look through it
another time."
"I wish you would come to the watch-meeting to-night," she said,
wistfully. "It is from ten until midnight. All the Leagues in the city
meet at Garrison Avenue."
He slipped the book in his pocket, and buttoned up his overcoat. A
sudden reserve of manner seemed to envelop him at the same time.
"No, thank you," he answered, drawing on his gloves. "I have an informal
invitation from some friends in Hillhollow to dance the old year out and
the new year in."
His tone seemed so flippant after the recent depth of feeling he had
betrayed, that it jarred on Bethany's earnest mood like a discord. He
moved toward the door.
"No matter where you may be," she said as he opened it, "I shall be
praying for you."
After he had gone, Bethany still sat at her desk, mechanically assorting
the letters. She was so absorbed in her thoughts that she had quite
forgotten it was time to go home.
The door opened, and Frank Marion came in. He was followed by Cragmore,
who was going home with him to dinner.
"All alone?" asked Mr. Marion in surprise. "Where's David? We dropped in
to invite him around to the watch-meeting to-night."
"He has just gone," answered Bethany. "I asked him, but he declined on
account of a previous engagement. O, Cousin Frank," she exclaimed, "I
do believe he is almost convinced of the truth of Christianity!"
She repeated the conversation that had just taken place.
"He has been fighting against that conviction for some time," answered
Mr. Marion. "I had a talk with him last week."
"What do you suppose Rabbi Barthold would say if Mr. Herschel should
become a Christian?" asked Bethany.
"Ah, I asked the old gentleman that very question yesterday," exclaimed
Mr. Cragmore. "It astounded him at first. I could see that the mere
thought of such apostasy in one he loves as dearly as his young David,
wounded him sorely. O, it grieved him to the heart! But he is a noble
soul, broad-minded and generous. He did not answer for a moment, and
when he finally spoke I could see what an effort the words cost him:
"'David is a child no longer,' he said, slowly. 'He has a right to
choose for himself. I would rather read the rites of burial over his
dead body than to see him cut loose from the faith in which I have so
carefully trained him; but no matter what course he pursues, I am sure
of one thing, his absolute honesty of purpose. Whatever he does, will be
from a deep conviction of right. I, who was denounced and misunderstood
in my youth because I cast aside the weight of orthodoxy that bound me
down spiritually, should be the last one to condemn the same
independence of thought in others.'"
"Herschel would have less opposition to contend with than any Jew I
know," remarked Mr. Marion.
"That little sister of his would be rather pleased than otherwise, and,
I think, would soon follow his example."
Bethany thought of Esther, but said nothing.
"We'll make it a subject of prayer to-night," said Cragmore, who had
been appointed to lead the meeting.
"Yes," answered Marion, clapping his friend on the shoulder. Then he
quoted emphatically: "'And this is the confidence that we have in Him,
that if we ask anything according to his will, he heareth us.'"
"Let's ask him right now!" cried Cragmore, in his impetuous way.
He slipped the bolt in the door, and kneeling beside David's desk,
began praying for his absent friend as he would have pleaded for his
life. Then Marion followed with the same unfaltering earnestness, and
after his voice ceased, Bethany took up the petition.
"Nobody need tell me that those prayers are not heard," exclaimed
Marion, triumphantly, as he arose from his knees. "I know better. Come,
Bethany; if you are ready to go, we will walk as far as the avenue with
you."
As they went down-stairs together, he kept singing softly under his
breath, "Blessed be the name, blessed be the name of the Lord!"
By ten o'clock the League-room of the Garrison Avenue Church was
crowded.
George Cragmore had prepared a carefully-studied address for the
occasion; but during the half hour of the song service preceding it,
while he studied the faces of his audience, his heart began to be
strangely burdened for David and his people. He covered his eyes with
his hand a moment, and sent up a swift prayer for guidance, before he
arose to speak.
"My friends," he said in his deep, musical voice, "I had thought to talk
to you to-night of 'spiritual growth,' but just now, as I have been
sitting here, God had put another message into my mouth. We are all
children of one Father who have met in this room, and for that reason
you will bear with me now for the strangeness of the questions I shall
ask, and the seeming harshness of my words. This is a time for honest
self-examination. I should like to know how many, during the year just
gone, have contributed in any way to the support of Home and Foreign
Missions?"
Every one in the room arose.
"How many have tried, by prayer, daily influence, and direct appeal, to
bring some one to Christ?"
Again every one arose.
"How many of you, during the past year, have spoken to a Jew about your
Savior, or in any way evinced to any one of them a personal interest in
the salvation of that race?"
Looks of surprise were exchanged among the Leaguers, and many smiled at
the question. Only two arose, Mr. Marion and Bethany Hallam.
When they had taken their seats again there was a moment of intense
silence. The earnest solemnity of the minister was felt by every one
present. They waited almost breathlessly for what was coming.
"There is a young Jew in this city to-night whose heart is turning
lovingly towards your Savior and mine. I have come to ask your prayers
in his behalf, that the stumbling-blocks in his way may be removed. But
it is not for him alone my soul is burdened. I seem to hear Isaiah's
voice crying out to me, 'Comfort ye, comfort ye my people, saith your
God. Speak ye comfortably to Jerusalem, and cry unto her that her
warfare is accomplished, that her iniquity is pardoned.' And then I seem
to hear another voice that through the thunderings of Sinai proclaims,
'Thou shalt not bear false witness.' Ah! the Christian Church has been
weighed in the balance and found wanting. It must read a terrible
handwriting on the wall in the fact that Israel's eyes have not been
opened to the fulfillment of prophecy. For had she seen Christ in the
daily life of every follower since he was first preached in that little
Church at Antioch, we would have had a race of Sauls turned Pauls! We
are Christ's witnesses to all men. Do all men see Christ in us, or only
a false, misleading image of him? He cherished no racial prejudices. He
turned away from no man with a look of scorn, or a cold shrug of
indifference. He drew no line across which his sympathies and love and
helping hands should not reach. When we do these things, are we not
bearing false witness to the character of him whose name we have
assumed, and the emblem of whose cross we wear? I can not believe that
any of us here have been willfully neglectful of this corner of the
Lord's vineyard. It must be because your hearts and hands were full of
other interests that you have been indifferent to this."
Then he told them of Lessing and Ragolsky and David, and called on them
to pray that his friend might find the light he was seeking. A dozen
earnest prayers were offered in quick succession, and every heart went
out in sympathy to this young Jew, whom they longed to see happy in the
consciousness of a personal Savior.
David had not gone out to Hillhollow. He dined at the restaurant, and
was just starting leisurely down to the depot when he found that his
watch told the same time as when he had looked at it an hour before. It
must have been stopped even some time before that. At any rate it had
made him too late for the train. The next one would not leave till nine
o'clock. He stood on a corner debating how to pass the time, and finally
concluded to go back to the office for a magazine he had borrowed from
Rabbi Barthold, and take it home to him.
His steps echoed strangely through the deserted hall as he climbed the
stairs to the office. He lighted the gas, and sat down to look through
the papers on his desk for the magazine. But when he had found it, he
still sat there idly, drumming with his fingers on the rounds of his
chair.
After awhile he took Bethany's Testament out of his pocket, and began to
read. It was marked heavily with many marginal notes and underscored
passages, that he examined with a great deal of curiosity. Beginning
with Matthew's account of the wise men's search, he read steadily on
through the four Gospels, past Acts, and through some of Paul's
epistles. It was after ten by the office clock when he finished the
letter to the Hebrews.
He put the book down with a groan, and, folding his arms on the desk,
wearily laid his head on them.
Just then Bethany's parting words echoed in his ears, "No matter where
you may be, I shall be praying for you."
It had irritated him at the moment. Now there was comfort in the thought
that she might be interceding in his behalf. He loved the faith of his
fathers. He was proud of every drop of Israelitish blood that coursed
through his veins. He felt that nothing could induce him to renounce
Judaism--nothing! Yet his heart went out lovingly toward the Christ that
had been so wonderfully revealed to him as he read.
The conviction was slowly forcing itself on his mind that in accepting
him he would not be giving up Judaism, that he would only be accepting
the Messiah long promised to his own people--only believing fulfilled
prophecy.
He wanted him so--this Christ who seemed able to satisfy every longing
of his heart, which just now was 'hungering and thirsting after
righteousness;' this Christ who had so loved the world that he had given
himself a willing sacrifice to make propitiation for its sins--for
his--David Herschel's sins.
The old questions of the Trinity and the Incarnation came back to
perplex him, and he put them resolutely away, remembering the words that
Bethany had quoted, that when Israel should turn to the Lord, the veil
should be taken from its heart.
Suddenly he started to his feet, and with his hands clasped above his
head, cried out: "O, Thou Eternal, take away the veil! Show me Christ! I
will give up anything--everything that stands in the way of my accepting
him, if thou wilt but make him manifest!"
He threw himself on his knees in an agony of supplication, and then
rising, walked the floor. Time and again he knelt to pray, and again
rose in despair to pace back and forth.
He hardly knew what to expect, but Paul's conversion had been attended
by such miraculous manifestations that he felt that some great
revelation must certainly be made to him.
Opening the little Testament at random, he saw the words, "If thou shalt
confess with thy mouth the Lord Jesus, and shalt believe in thine heart
that God hath raised him from the dead, thou shalt be saved."
"I do believe it," he said aloud. "And I will confess it the first
opportunity I have. Yes, I will go right now and tell Uncle Ezra--no
matter what it may cause him to say to me."
He looked at the clock again. The old year was almost gone. It was
nearly midnight. Rabbi Barthold would be asleep. Then he remembered the
watch-night service Bethany had asked him to attend. Cragmore and Marion
would be there. He would go and tell them.
He started rapidly down the street, saying to himself: "How queer this
seems! Here am I, a Jew, on my way to confess before men that I believe
a Galilean peasant is the Son of God. I don't understand the mystery of
it, but I do believe in some way the promised atonement has been made,
and that it avails for me."
He clung to that hope all the way down to the Church. It was growing
stronger every step.
Bethany had risen to take her place at the piano at the announcement of
another hymn, when the door opened and David Herschel stood in their
midst. Not even glancing at the startled members of the League, he
walked across the room and held out one hand to Cragmore and the other
to Marion. His voice thrilled his listeners with its intensity of
purpose.
"I have come to confess before you the belief that your Jesus is the
Christ, and that through him I shall be saved."
Then a look of happy wonderment shone in his face, as the dawning
consciousness of his acceptance became clearer to him.
"Why, I am saved! Now!" he cried in joyful surprise.
Glad tears sprang to many eyes, and only one exclamation could express
the depth of Frank Marion's gratitude--an old-fashioned shout of "Glory
to God!" Yes, an old, old fashion--for it came in when "the morning
stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy."
"O, I must tell the whole world!" cried David.
"Come!" exclaimed Cragmore, turning to those around him, and laying his
hand on David's shoulder; "here is another Saul turned Paul. Who such
missionaries of the cross as these redeemed sons of Abraham? Leagued
with such an Israel, we could soon tell all the world. Who will join the
alliance?"
In answer they came crowding around David, with warm hand-clasps and
sympathetic words, till the bells all over the city began tolling the
hour of midnight.
At a word from Cragmore they knelt in the final prayer of consecration.
There was a deep silence. Then the leader's voice began:
"The untried paths of the new year stretch out into unknown distances.
But trusting in an Allwise Father, in a grace-giving Christ, and the
sustaining presence of the Holy Spirit, how many will sing with me:
[Illustration: Music
"Where He leads me I will follow,
Where He leads me I will follow,
Where He leads me I will follow.
I'll go with Him, with Him all the way."]
The melody arose, sweet and subdued, as every voice covenanted with his.
"But some of us may have planned out certain paths for our own feet,
that lead alluringly to ease and approbation. Think! God may call us
into obscure bypaths, into ways that lead to no earthly recompense, to
lowly service and unrequited toil. Can we still sing it? Let us wait.
Let us consider and be very sure."
In the prayerful silence, David thought of his profession and the hopes
of the great success that it was his ambition to attain. Could he give
it up, and spend his life in an unappreciated ministry to his people? He
wavered. But just then he had a vision of the Christ. He seemed to see a
footsore, tired man, holding out his hands in blessing to the motley
crowds that thronged him; and again he saw the same patient form
stumbling wearily along under a heavy beam of wood, scourged, mocked,
spit upon, nailed to the cross, for--him!
David shuddered, and he took up the refrain: "I'll go with Him, with
Him, all the way."
"It may be that, so far as ambition and personal plans are concerned, we
are willing to put ourselves entirely in God's hands; but suppose he
should call for our hearts' best beloved, are we willing to make of this
hour a Mount Moriah, on which we sacrifice our Isaacs--our all? Do we
consecrate ourselves entirely? Will we go with him all the way, no
matter through what dark Gethsemane he may see best to lead us?"
Again David wavered as Esther's beautiful face came before him.
"O God! anything but that!" he cried out passionately.
Cragmore felt him trembling, and, reaching out, clasped his hand, and
prayed silently that strength might be given him to make the
consecration complete.
"I'll go with Him, with Him, all the way!"
David's voice sung it unfalteringly. When they arose the tears were
streaming down his cheeks, but a great light was in his face, and a
great peace in his heart. The Christ had been revealed to him. A new
life and a new year had been born together.
* * * * *
No, the story is not done, but the rest of it can not be written until
it has first been lived.
In God's good time the shuttles of his purposes shall weave these
life-webs to the finish. Some threads may cross and twine, some be
widely parted, and some be snapped asunder. Who can tell? The new year
has only begun.
But we know that all things work together for good to those who give
themselves into the eternal keeping, and--"God's in his heaven."
SILENT KEYS.
ONCE, in a shadowy old cathedral, a young girl sat at the great organ,
playing over and over a simple melody for a group of children to sing.
They were rehearsing the parts they were to take in the Christmas
choruses.
It was not long before every voice had caught the sweet old tune of "Joy
to the World," and as their little feet pattered down the solemn aisles,
the song was carried with them to the work and play of the streets
outside.
As the girl turned to follow, she found the old white-haired organist, a
master-musician, standing beside her.
"Why did you not strike all the keys, little sister?" he asked. "You
have left silent some of the sweetest and deepest. Listen! This is what
you should have put into your song."
As he spoke, his powerful hands touched the key-board, till the great
cathedral seemed to tremble with the mighty symphony that filled
it--"Joy to the world, the Lord is come!"
High, sweet notes, like the matin-songs of sky-larks, fluttered away
from his touch, and went winging their flight--up and up--beyond all
mortal hearing. Down the deep, full chords and majestic octaves rolled
the triumphal gladness. Every key seemed to find a voice, as the hands
of the old musician swept through the variations of "Antioch."
Tears filled the young girl's eyes, and when he had finished she said
sadly: "Ah, only a master-hand could do that--bring out the varied tones
of those silent keys, and yet through it all keep the thread of the song
clear and unbroken. All those divine harmonies were in my soul as I
played, yet had I tried to give expression to them, I might have
wandered away from the simple motif that I would have the children
remember always. In trying to span those fuller chords you strike so
easily, or in reaching always for the highest notes, I would have failed
to impress them with the part they are to take in the choruses, and they
would not have gone out as they did just now, singing their joy to the
world."
Maybe some such master may turn the pages of this story, and feel the
same impatience at its incompleteness. Here in this place he would have
added, with strong touches, many a convincing argument. There he would
have spoken with the voice of a sage or prophet, and he may turn away,
saying: "Why did you not strike all the keys, little sister? You have
left silent some of the sweetest and deepest."
The answer is the same. Only a master-hand can sweep the gamut of
history and human weaknesses and dogmas and creeds, touch the discordant
elements of controversy and criticism in all their variations, and at
the same time keep the simple theme constantly throbbing through them,
so strong and full and clear it can never be forgotten.
The purpose of this story is accomplished if it has only attracted the
attention of the League to a neglected duty, and struck a higher
key-note of endeavor. But the League must not stop with that.
There is only one song that will ever bring universal joy to this old,
tear-blinded world, and that is that the Lord is come, and that he is
risen indeed in the lives of his followers.
True, the veriest child may lisp it; but the League should not be
content simply to do that. It should be the master-musician, so familiar
with the great complexity of human doubts and longings, that it will
know just what chord to touch in every heart it is striving to help.
Go back to the days of the dispersion, and follow this Ishmael through
his almost limitless desert of persecution--his hand against every man
because every man's hand was against him.
Put yourself in his place until your vision grows broad and your
sympathy deep. Chafe against his limitations. Stumble over his
obstacles, and in so doing learn where best to place the
stepping-stones.
Dig down through the strata of tradition, below all the manifold
ceremonies of his formal worship, until you come to the bed-rock of
principle underlying them.
When you have thus studied Judaism, its prophets, its priesthood, its
patriots--when you have traced its sinuous path from Abraham's tent to
the Temple gates, and then followed its diverging lines on into almost
every hamlet of both hemispheres, you will have learned something more
than the history of Judaism. You will have read the story of the whole
race of Adam, and you will have fitted yourself far better to serve
humanity.
Christ reached his hearers through his intimate knowledge of them. He
never talked to shepherds of fishing-nets, nor to vine-dressers of
flocks. He gave the same water of life to the woman at Jacob's well that
he bestowed on the ruler who came to him by night. Yet how differently
he presented it to the ignorant Samaritan and the learned Nicodemus.
To this end, then, study these creeds and systems; for instance, the
unity of God, clung to alike by the Hebrew persistently reiterating his
Shemang, and the Moslem crying "God is God, and Mohammed is his
prophet!"
Follow this belief in the Unity, as it goes deeply channeling its way
through centuries of Semitic thought, until it enters the very
life-blood. You can trace its influence even down into the early
Christian Church, in the hot disputes of Arius and his followers, at the
Council of Nicea.
Not until you comprehend how idolatrous the worship of the Trinity
seems to a Jew, can you understand what a stumbling-block lies between
him and the acceptance of his Messiah.
You will find this study of Judaism reaching out like a banyan-tree,
striking root and branching again and again in so many different places
that it seems that it must certainly, by some one of its manifold
ramifications, shadow every great problem and people.
In the first conception of this story it was purposed to place
considerable emphasis on a number of things that have been left
untouched, especially the colonization schemes of the philanthropic
Barons Hirsch and De Rothschild, and the prophecies concerning the
return of the Jews to Palestine.
But prophecy, while always a most interesting and profitable subject for
research and study, leads into an unmapped country of speculation. Many
an enthusiast, not recognizing that on God's great calendar a thousand
years are but as a day, has attempted to solve the mysteries of
Revelations by the same numerical system with which he calculates his
assets and liabilities. As we examine this subject, we must not forget
the vast difference between our finite yardsticks, and the reed of the
angel who measured the city.
God grant that, as the tree thrown into the stream of Marah changed its
bitter waters into wholesome, life-giving sweetness, so this study of
Israel, earnestly and honestly pursued, may turn all bitterness of
prejudice into the broad, sweet spirit of true brotherhood!
* * * * *
Transcriber's note:
Obvious punctuation errors were corrected.
Page 6, "189" changed to "199" to show the actual location of the
chapter "Dr. Trent".
Page 23, "apearance" changed to "appearance" (greeted her appearance)
Page 50, "Southener" changed to "Southerner" (who was an ardent
Southerner)
Page 55, "Nothwithstanding" changed to "Notwithstanding" (sudden curves.
Notwithstanding)
Page 216, "Cartleton" changed to "Carleton" (Belle Carleton met them)