On the west front lay a 17-year-old boy a few days before Christmas,
1915. He had voluntarily enlisted under the flag of Great Britain, and
was yearning to storm forward in the ranks of his comrades--forward to
victory. And he _had_ been in the front rank. Now he lay wounded and
bleeding on the battlefield.
The battle was over; the stars shone, and he was thinking: Wonder, if I
shall lie here and die!
Memories stormed upon him. His mother had said: "God be always with
you, my lad!" and the old minister had said: "Remember there is always
a window open upward!"
Upward--upward to God! Was it not as though the twinkling stars were
smiling at him--calling him, as it were?
Yes, they summoned him upward.
O, how that wound pained him! Wonder if the ambulance isn't coming
soon? He could hear the cries of the other wounded; perhaps that was
when they were lifted up from the ground. Would no one find him? He
could not stir, could not call--could only gaze at the distant stars.
Was there room for him up there? Yes, for he was sure death was
approaching. "Mother," he whispered, "mother--O God--take my soul--now,
just before Christmas--for the sake of Jesus Christ!"
The angels came, and they carried him to heaven. His prayer had been
heard up there. His child's soul was carried upward to God.
* * * * *
When the famous French preacher, Adolphe Monod, was asked what had been
the cause of his greatest gratitude, he said: "_I thank God that He
hath given me the faith of a little child._"
The main thing for him was not that God had given him a great task as
a preacher and a theologian, but that He had given him the faith of
a little child. That means: The faith that accepts the grace of God
_without making objections_!--
O, thou great and rich and powerful people: Lay aside all thy bustle,
all thy doubts, and all thy suspicion toward God--lay it aside, all
of it, and accept the joyful tidings of Christmas with the faith of a
little child--without making objections. Then thou wilt be glad.
The well known French writer, Larradan, whose pen formerly had written
nothing but scorn against faith, during the war implored his people to
return to the Christian faith as the only firm and saving foothold. He
writes:
"I laughed at faith and thought myself cocksure. Now I no longer
rejoice at my scornful laughter, for I see France bleeding and weeping.
I stood at the wayside and saw the soldiers. They went out to meet
death--rejoicing. I asked: What makes you so calm? And they began
praying to God saying: 'We believe in God!' I counted the sacrifices
of our people, and noticed that they bore them praying. Then it became
clear to me that there was something comforting and sustaining in
recognizing an eternal home-country, when that of the earth is glowing
in the fire of hatred. This feeling is science--the science of the
child.... A nation must despair if it does not believe that the torment
of the earth can be exchanged for the joy of Heaven.... France was
great in the days of yore. But that was a France which had faith.
How about France in our own age? It is torn to pieces with want and
suffering. It is a France that believes no longer. Will her future
brighten? At the hand of God--only at the hand of God.--France, O,
France, revert to the faith, to thy most beauteous days! To go away
from God is to perish!..."
_I thank God that He hath given me the faith of a little child!