FROM DIFFERENT STANDPOINTS.
ALTHOUGH the First Church prayer meeting had gone several steps onward,
gotten beyond the region of distressing pauses, wherein the embarrassed
people looked at each other and wished something would happen, it was
by no means the free, social, enjoyable gathering that a prayer-meeting
ought to be. A life-long education of too rigid propriety—in other
words, false propriety—is not to be overcome in an hour. Therefore,
after those who were more accustomed to occupying the time had filled
their space there came a lull, not long, not distressing. Those
Chautauqua girls were all present, and any one of them would have led
in a hymn rather than let the pause stretch out. But it was long enough
for people to wonder whether the hour was not almost gone, and whether
there were any others who would get their lips open that evening; and
then they heard a strange voice: clear, steady, well-managed, as one
accustomed to the sound of her own voice, even in public places, and it
belonged to the stranger sitting beside Judge Erskine—none other than
his daughter Susan. The words she uttered were these: “Therefore being
justified by faith, we have peace with God, through our Lord Jesus
Christ.”
Now, if it is your fortune to be a regular attendant at a
prayer-meeting where a woman’s voice is never heard, you can appreciate
the fact that the mere recitation of a Bible verse, by a “sister” in
the church, was a startling, almost a bewildering innovation. Only a
few months before, I am not sure but some of the good people would have
been utterly overwhelmed by such a proceeding. But they had received
many shocks of late. The Spirit of God coming into their midst had
swept away many of their former ideas, and therefore they bore this
better.
But the voice went on, clear, steady, as well sustained as though
it belonged to a deacon in the church. “I have been all day,” it
said, “dwelling under the shadow of that verse, ‘Peace with God!’ It
expresses _so_ much! Peace is greater than joy, or comfort, or rest.
I think the words come to perplexed lives with such power. When we do
not see the way clearly; when we are beset with difficulties; when
disappointments thicken around us, we can still look up to God and
say, ‘Up there, where Father is, it is peace.’ He sees the way plainly
and He will lead us right through the thickets to the sunlight of
His eternal presence. I felt this verse specially one day. Something
occurred in which I had to bear a prominent part. For a time I was
perplexed—was not sure what was right—and, afterward, my friends
thought that I did not make the right decision, and I felt afraid that
perhaps I had not, and it troubled me. Then I rested my heart on this
word: ‘_justified_.’ Not because I have done right; not because my
judgment is correct; not because of any act of mine in any direction
save that one of trusting in my Lord, justified by _faith_! I am so
glad that however much we may disappoint and try our friends, and our
own hearts, in the sight of the great and wise and pure God, we are
justified through Jesus Christ.”
Simple words were these, simply and quietly spoken. The speaker
had spent all her life in one place and all her Christian life in
one church. In that church it had been her custom to give her word
of testimony. Sometimes it was a verse of a hymn that she recited,
sometimes it was a text of Scripture, sometimes it was a touch of her
own experience. She had grown up with the custom. She did not realize
that there were any who had not. It did not occur to her that to the
ears of the First Church people this might be a strange sound. So
there had been no flutter or embarrassment, no self-consciousness of
any sort; simply out of the fullness of her heart she had spoken. The
effect on those about her was obvious and various. Judge Erskine’s
hand, that rested on the knob of his gold-headed cane, trembled
visibly; Mrs. Senator Seymour, who sat behind him, looked indignant,
and felt that Judge Erskine had had enough to endure before this, but
this was really too much! Marion Wilbur, who was present, and who _did_
wear her old brown dress, “sticking to it to the very last,” sat erect,
with glowing cheeks and eyes that were bright with excitement. To fully
understand her excitement I shall have to tell you about a little
conversation she had just before starting for church.
“Marion,” Dr. Dennis had said, as he waited in the stuffy parlor
for her to draw on her gloves, “I wish you were a very brave young
woman, and liked innovations, and were willing to make a startling one
to-night.”
“Which you believe I am not, and will not, I conclude,” she had
replied, laughing; and stopping before him with a mock bow, added:
“Thank you; I believe you are correct about part of it, at least. I
certainly feel very meek and quiet to-night, whatever I may have been
in the past. What do you want done?”
“I want to get rid of a horrible stiffness that is creeping over our
meeting. We have been thawed, but not sufficiently; that is—well,
Marion, the prayer-meeting doesn’t and _never did_, meet my ideal. It
is not social enough—friendly and familiar enough. I would like to
have it a place where we meet together to talk over religious subjects,
in exactly the same way that we talk of other matters of interest. I
would like, for instance, to ask you as to your opinion of a passage of
Scripture, or a hymn; and I should like you to answer as freely as you
would if we were sitting with other friends in—say _your_ parlor, for
instance.”
The emphasis in this latter sentence brought a vivid blush to Marion’s
face, and a little exclamation, not exactly of dismay:
“I think _you_ are in a very startling mood. What would your good
pillars in the church say to such innovations, do you suppose? It takes
my breath away even to think of such a thing! I would almost as soon
arise in the desk, and undertake to preach a sermon.”
“Which is a very different thing,” Dr. Dennis said, stoutly. “But, now,
just look at it, Marion. Isn’t that the reasonable way to do? Imagine
a party of us meeting to discuss a prospective journey to Europe, or
to the Holy Land; and, supposing me to be the leader, imagine all the
ladies sitting perfectly mum, and the gentlemen only speaking when I
called them by name, as if, instead of a social meeting, where all the
people were on the same level, it was a catechetical class, met for
examination, with myself for examiner! I don’t believe we have the true
idea of prayer-meetings.”
“Perhaps not. But, if I should suddenly say to you, when we are fairly
seated in the chapel, ‘Dr. Dennis, what do you think is the meaning of
the sentence—Called to be _saints_?’ what would you think?”
“I should be delighted—positively delighted; and I should proceed to
answer you as well as I could; and should like to say, ‘Judge Erskine,
isn’t that your idea?’ or, ‘Mrs. Chester, what do you think about it?’
and thus from one to another, freely, familiarly as we would if we
were gathered to converse about anything else that was worthy of our
attention. That is my idea of a social prayer-meeting.”
“Well,” said Marion, “I don’t believe you will ever realize your
idea. For myself, I should just as soon think of attempting to fly.
The minute you get seated behind that great walnut box, with those
solemn-looking cushions towering before you, I feel as far removed
from you as though miles of space divided us.”
“That is just it,” Dr. Dennis said, growing eager. “I tell you, this
sense of distance and dignity, and unwise solemnity, are all wrong. The
barriers ought to be broken down. How I wish, Marion, that you felt
it in your heart to help me. I wish you would open your mouth in that
meeting to-night. It would do you and me, and everybody good. We should
have made a beginning toward getting nearer to the people. I don’t mean
anything formidable, you know. Suppose you should just recite a verse
of Scripture—something appropriate to the subject before us? I don’t
believe you have an idea of the effect it would have.”
“Oh, yes I have,” Marion said, with an emphatic nod of her head. “_I_
can realize that the effect would be tremendous. I don’t believe _you_
have the slightest idea of it! What effect will it have, if you and I
reach the meeting ten minutes past the time?”
Whereupon they went to church. Of course Marion was interested in Susan
Erskine’s verse, and Susan Erskine’s comments; not so interested
that she felt moved to join her, and contribute of her experience to
that meeting—such things need thinking about and praying over—but so
interested that her face flushed at the thought that this girl, who was
from the country, had more moral courage than she, and was in sympathy
with Dr. Dennis’ advanced ideas in regard to prayer-meetings.
As for Ruth Erskine, her head went down on the seat before her, and she
kept it bowed during the remainder of the service.
Judge Burnham’s nerves were in turmoil. He could not remember that
he had ever in his life before felt such sympathy for the trials of
others. This particular form of the trial seemed dreadful to him.
The idea that a girl of Ruth Erskine’s refinement, and a man of her
father’s position, should be brought thus rudely and offensively before
the public, jarred upon him, as he had not supposed that anything
outside of himself and his own trials could. He blamed himself for
being the unwitting cause of part of the trouble. If he had not
suggested to Ruth the possibility of coming to this obnoxious place,
she would have been spared this embarrassment. Filling his mind with
these thoughts—to the exclusion of anything else that was said—and
trying to determine how he should best express his sympathy to this
tried girl by his side, he was presently relieved to discover that the
people were rising for the benediction, and this—to him—long drawn out
trial was over. He had not, however, sufficiently composed his thoughts
to venture on any form of address, when Ruth suddenly broke the silence
in which they were walking:
“Judge Burnham, I owe you thanks. Your suggestion about the
prayer-meeting to-night, and your kind attendance upon me, have helped.
That meeting came to my heart like balm. I cannot venture to attempt
telling you what it has done for me. Perhaps it would be difficult
to make you understand how heavy my heart was; but one sentence
spoken there has been repeated to me as a revelation! I am so glad
to feel that, for _me_, there can be peace with God! I have felt so
storm-tossed, so bewildered, so anxious to do right, and so sure that I
was doing wrong, it has been, at times, difficult for me to determine
right _from_ wrong, and, in some things, I have felt so condemned that
I was miserable. Now I know what I need—God’s peace—such as only he can
give—such as is not interfered with by any outward circumstances. To
be justified _before him_ is surely enough. I need not ask for further
justification.”
Now, indeed, was Judge Burnham silent from very amazement. Here was
this girl, to whom he thought had come an added and excessively
embarrassing trial, thanking him for bringing her into it, and actually
calling it a help and a joy! He had not the least conception of what
she could mean. A strong desire to make her explain herself, if she
could, prompted his words:
“Then you were not disturbed with your—with the lady’s prominence this
evening?”
“With my sister’s, Judge Burnham. You were right in the first place.”
Whether Ruth was willing to accept the situation for herself or not,
she could dignifiedly insist upon others doing it. Whoever her father
introduced as his daughter should be received by _outsiders_ as _her_
sister, whether _she_ so received her or not.
“I beg pardon,” said Judge Burnham. “You were not disturbed, then, by
the position which your sister took?”
“I didn’t think anything about _position_. She recited that Bible verse
most exquisitely, I thought, and the words which she spoke afterward
were strong and helpful; they helped me, and I am glad in my very soul
that I heard them. That is the most that I can tell you about it.”
Silence seemed to be the wisest course for Judge Burnham. He was thrown
out of his bearings. Since she did not need comfort, and refused to
receive, why should he attempt to give it? But he didn’t in the least
understand her. He wondered curiously whether his sympathy had been
equally thrown away on his friend, Judge Erskine, or whether he, with
his refined and sensitive tastes, had really received a blow from
which it would be hard to rally. The more he thought about it the more
probable this seemed. As he thought he waxed indignant.
“If I were he I would forbid her appearance in public, until she learns
what is due to her position. It isn’t likely that he can rise to the
fanatical heights where his daughter has managed to climb. Probably she
will have made a descent by to-morrow morning. I mean to go in and see
the Judge.”
Acting upon this mental conclusion, he ascended the Erskine steps, and
followed Ruth without waiting for a formal invitation. Her father had
just entered, and was still in the hall. He turned toward his friend.
“Come in, Burnham. I was very glad to see you where I did to-night.
I hope it will not be the last time. I am sure you must have enjoyed
the meeting. Come to the library and let us talk it over.” And Judge
Erskine threw open the library door, while the others of his family
turned toward the parlor.
“Well,” he said, as the door closed after them, “what did you think of
the meeting?”
“I confess to being considerably surprised,” Judge Burnham answered.
Truth to tell, he hadn’t the least idea what it would be wise to say.
“Weren’t you!” said Judge Erskine, with energy. “I never was more so. I
didn’t know she was of that stamp; and yet I might have known it. She
has given me several glimpses of her spirit during the little time in
which I have known anything about her.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Do? How? I am not sure that I understand the question.”
“Why, I mean as to the position which she assumed to-night.”
“Oh, as to that, there is nothing to do. I dare say I may express the
gratitude which I feel for the help that she gave me, but I don’t even
know whether I can bring myself to do _that_. I can’t get over the
sense of strangeness and embarrassment. But weren’t those grand words
that she quoted to-night? I declare such a truth as that ought to take
us through anything! It lifts me out of myself for the time-being and I
feel as though I could live my life patiently and earnestly. I’ll tell
you, Judge, what I thought as I sat in that seat to-night and looked
over at you. I wished with all my soul that you might be induced to
look into this matter for yourself, and see the reasonableness of it
all. Did you ever give it special attention, my friend? In fact, I
know you didn’t, because a man of your discernment could have come to
but one conclusion, had you thought closely about it.”
“That is a compliment to my discernment, and I appreciate it,” Judge
Burnham said, with a faint attempt at a smile. “I am not sure that I
ever gave the subject what you call ‘special attention.’ And yet I
think I have a reasonable degree of respect for religion and the Bible.
You have often heard me express my opinion of the literary merits of
that book, I think.”
“Oh, yes,” said Judge Erskine, with a little sigh. “‘Literary merits!’
Yes, I know you respect the Bible and admire it, and all that sort of
thing; but that is very different from living by it. I respected it
myself for forty years. The thing is to stand ‘justified’ in God’s
sight. Think of that! People like you and me, who have made mistakes
all our lives—mistakes that seem past all rectifying—and yet, in God’s
sight, they are as if they had not been, through the atoning blood!
Isn’t that a glorious thought?”
“Mistakes are not _sins_, Judge,” his friend added, and he spoke the
words somewhat haughtily. In his heart he added: “They are a couple
of fanatics, he and his daughter. I don’t understand either of them.”
In truth, he was staggered. It might do to attribute fanaticism, or
undue exaltation of mood, to Miss Erskine, possibly; but he had known
the cool-headed Judge long and well. Was it likely that anything which
would not bear close and logical looking into could get possession of
him to a degree that it had—even to a degree that was transforming his
life?