AN English bishop was traveling in India to inspect the mission work,
and when his journey was completed, a farewell gathering was held
in his honor. On this occasion the bishop spoke on the words: "Love
me--and tell me so!"
He had often asked himself whether his congregation at home really
loved him. He thought it did; but sometimes he couldn't help wishing:
If they only would say so! Now he wished to say, by way of a parting
greeting, to the Christians: Love your ministers, and let them know
that you do! They need your love, and they need to be told that you
actually do love them.
This little speech reached England before the bishop arrived there.
When, upon reaching home, his congregation received him with a banquet.
On the wall of the hall, just opposite the main entrance door, was an
inscription in large letters ornamented by leaves and flowers: "We love
you, and we are saying so." That was the first thing the bishop saw,
and he rejoiced.
Love me, and tell me so! That's the cry from thousands of souls
yearning for love, and where the cry finds an answer the heart
rejoices. Where no answer comes, life will be utterly miserable.
Once upon a time a wealthy woman met a poor orphan who looked
imploringly at her. "What do you want me to give you?" she asked. "O,
just like me a little bit!" the orphan answered.
O, just love me just a little bit!
I have seen that prayer where one should least expect it--I have read
it in the eyes of a mother when they rested upon her grown-up daughter.
She had indeed grown, was taller even than her mother. And then she
had received an _education_--mother surely could be proud of such a
big and fine girl who had learned so much! But a mother's heart finds
no sustenance in mere pride. It required delight in the daughter--and
there is delight only in love. But the girl went about so _fine_ and
_big_ and _cold_ while the mother, even as the poor orphan, implored,
O, love me just a little bit!
All you nice and big children: Remember that mother and father need
your love! Love them--and tell them that you do! You can tell them in a
number of ways, and it will be rewarded, for in love there is a world
of joy.
Love me--and tell me so! O, love me just a little bit!
I have read that prayer in the eyes of a wife: Her husband was a man
in whom she surely could take delight. He was efficient; everybody
admired him, women especially, and he seemed to like everybody. Indeed,
she could be proud of such a husband! There were plenty of women who
envied her and wished themselves in her place. And--how beautifully he
could speak of domestic love--women were deeply touched, and their eyes
moistened when he did so. O, if they only had such a husband--but such
a one had not fallen to their lot!
He had plenty of smiles and kind words and love for everybody
else--only not for his wife who sat at home. Hard-hearted, frigid and
haughty he passed her by when she sat with the baby on her knee, with
despair penetrating all her features, and the one prayer was flaming in
her eye: O, love me just a little bit--just a little bit, O, please do!
Love me--and tell me so! O, love me just a little bit! That has
been written in the eye of ever so many poor and forlorn human
beings--especially among those who seemed to have become sadly
superfluous in the busy life of the world. Now and then I have heard
just such people say, with a strange mingling of wistfulness and joy
vibrating in their voice: To think that the minister would call upon
me! Nobody else ever comes here. Nobody cares about me any more!
Thus many a man or woman has been placed in that miserable kind of
solitude in the midst of throbbing life. Nobody cares about me. Love
me--and tell me so! O, love me just a little bit, please! That's the
cry from the depth of their hearts, but it is uttered as though in some
limitless desert: No answering sound is heard--there is no sign that
anyone cares for them. This is heartrending.
Yes, that is true. But if these lines of mine might reach some such
poor soul, then I would say: It isn't quite as bad as this. Let your
yearning for love soar upward to that God who listens to the sighs of
the heart of dust, and then you will hear the response: I love you--and
I tell you that I do. I have told you so through my only begotten Son:
"For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that
whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting
life."
_This has been said to mankind plainly enough._ And these plain words
are not merely written in the leaves of the Book of Books. They are
inscribed in the very life of mankind with the blood of the only
begotten Son.
Such words are not merely for the happy world surrounding you. It means
_you_--just exactly you who are yearning for love: For your sake these
words have been spoken.
But we who are more fortunately situated--we who enjoy the love of
God and of our fellow-beings, and who, in return, love those in our
homes, in our circle of acquaintances and in the church--let us tell
one another about it in a good and nice way. So much joy of love is
lost--just because it finds no expression. For this reason so many
gradually come to doubt that they really are being loved.
The congregation wrote it on the wall of the festival hall, ornamented
with leaves and flowers. It went out of its way to say it in just such
a way as to make its old bishop feel deeply delighted.
It pays to exert yourself in this way.
Let it be written with large letters between minister and congregation,
between man and wife, between parents and children--yes, let it be
written with large letters--and wind about them the leaves of the
forest, the flowers of the field--everywhere: We love you, and we tell
you so! Then our lives will become rich with the joy of love.