Maurice Mapleson.
IT is not six weeks since Maurice Mapleson preached his first sermon
here, at Wheathedge, and already events prove the wisdom of our
selection. I have been studying somewhat and pondering more the
secret of his success, and I have sat down this evening to try and
clear up my own shadowy thoughts by reducing them to form. I often
take my pen for such a purpose. Is it not Bacon who says the pen
makes an accurate thinker?
Maurice Mapleson certainly is not what I should call a great
preacher. He is not learned. He is not brilliant. He seldom tells us
much about ancient Greece or Rome. He preached a sermon on Woman's
function in the church, a few Sundays ago. I could not help
contrasting it with Dr. Argure's sermon on the same subject. Maurice
could not have made a learned editorial or magazine article out of
his sermon. He did not even discuss the true interpretation of
Paul's exhortations and prohibitions. He talked very simply and
plainly of what the women could do here at Wheathedge.
He thanked them with unmistakeable sincerity for what they had
already done, and made it an incentive to them to do more-more for
Christ, not for himself.
Jennie says that is the secret of Maurice's success. He is
appreciative. He never scolds. He commends his people for what they
have done and so incites them to do more. She thinks that praise is
a better spur than blame. She always manages her servants on that
principle. Perhaps that is the reason why they are not the greatest
plague of life to her.
But if Maurice's sermons are not great, neither are they long. He
lays it down as a cardinal rule in moral hygiene that a congregation
should not go away from the church hungry. Harry no longer begs to
stay at home Sunday mornings, and even Mr. Hardcap rarely gets
asleep.
If I compare Mr. Mapleson with Mr. Uncannon, I should say
unhesitatingly that the latter was the more brilliant preacher of
the two. No one ever comes out of church saying "What a powerful
discourse! What a brilliant figure! What a pretty illustration! How
eloquent!" But I find that we very often spend our dinner hour in
discussing not the sermon, but its subject.
There are however two or three peculiarities which I observe about
Maurice Mapleson's preaching. Dr. Argure tells me that he never
writes a sermon without a reference to its future use. I once asked
him whether he ever preached extemporaneously. "No," said he. "I
have meant to. But I have so many fine sermons waiting to be
preached that I could never bring myself to abandon them for a mere
talk."
I do not think Maurice has any fine sermons waiting to be preached.
Indeed I know he has not. For one evening when he excused himself
from accepting an invitation to tea, because he was behind-hand in
his work and had his sermon to prepare, I replied, "You must have a
good stock on hand. Give us an old one."
"I haven't a sermon to my name," he replied.
"What do you mean?" said I.
"I mean," said he, "that a sermon is not an essay; that every sermon
I ever preached was prepared to meet some special want in my parish,
and that when it was preached, there was an end of it. I could no
more preach an old sermon than I could fire a charge of gun powder a
second time."
"But experiences repeat themselves," said my wife. "What your people
at Koniwasset Corners knew of doubt, of trouble, of sorrow, of
imperfect Christian experience, we know too. As in water face
answereth to face, so the heart of man to man."
"That is true," said Maurice thoughtfully. "But there are no two
faces exactly alike. And my sermon is meaningless to me, if not to
my people, unless I can see the want and bring out the truth to meet
it."
"But the truth is always the same," said Jennie, "and the wants of
the human heart are not widely different."
"That is both true and false," said he. "The truth is always the
same; but not always the same to me. I fell into conversation with
Mr. Gear last night on the subject of the atonement. He thinks it
represents God as revengeful and unforgiving. Can I answer him with
an old sermon? God's love is immutable. But I hope I understand it
better and feel it more than I did three years ago. I cannot bring
an old experience to meet a new want. No! a sermon is like a flower,
it is of worth only when it is fresh."
His sermons at all events are always fresh. They are his personal
counsel to personal friends. I dimly recognize this element of power
in them. But this is not all. There is something more, something
that I missed in Dr. Argure's learned essays, and in Mr. Uncannon's
pulpit pyrotechnics. But it is something very difficult to define.
Did you ever consider the difference between a real flower and a wax
imitation? The latter may be quite as beautiful. It may deceive you
at first. And yet when you discover the deception you are
disappointed. "The lack of fragrance," Jennie suggests. No! the
flower may be odorless. It is the lack of life. I do not know what
there is in that mystic life that should make such a difference. But
I am sure that the charm of the flower is in its life.
The most beautiful statue that Powers ever chiseled does not compare
for grace and beauty with the Divine model. The same mystic element
of life is wanting.
There is life in Maurice Mapleson's sermons. What do I mean by life?
Earnestness? No! Mr. Work was earnest. But this mysterious life was
wanting. I can feel it better than I can define it. It is not in the
sermon. It is in the man. I get new information from Dr. Argure. I
do not get much new information from Maurice Mapleson. I used to get
new ideas occasionally from Mr. Work. I rarely get a new idea from
Maurice Mapleson. But I get new life, and that is what I most want.
This element of life enters into all his work. It is in the man
rather than in his productions.
Our prayer-meetings have improved wonderfully since he came. "How do
you prepare for the prayer-meeting?" I asked him the other day.
"By an hour of sleep and an hour of prayer," he replied. "I always
try to go into the meeting fresh."
And he succeeds. His coming into the meeting is like the coming of
Spring. He brings an atmosphere with him. It is indescribable, but
its effect is marvelous. Jennie says she never understood before as
she does now what was meant by the declaration in Acts concerning
the Apostles, that though they were unlearned men, the people took
knowledge of them that they had been with Jesus.
And it is this life which makes him so admirable as a pastor. "Is he
social?" a friend asked me the other day. Yes. He is social. But
that is not all. Mr. Work was social. But he was always a minister.
He went about the streets in a metaphysical white choker and black
gown. He was everywhere professional. When he opened the subject of
personal religion he did it with an introduction as formal and
stately as that with which he habitually began his sermons. He
formally inducted you into the witness box and commenced a
professional inquisition on the state of your soul. I confess I have
no fancy for that sort of Presbyterian confessional. I like the
Papal confessional better. It does not invade your house and attack
you with its questionings when you are in no mood for them. I told
Mr. Work so once, whereat he was greatly shocked and somewhat
indignant.
Mr. Uncannon too was very social. But he was never a minister.
Outside the pulpit he never introduced the subject of religion. I
think it is perfectly safe to say that no one would have taken
knowledge of him that he had been with Jesus. As to pastoral calls
he expressly disavowed any intention of making any. "I have no
time," said he, "for gadding about and spiritual gossiping. It's as
much as I can do to get up my two sermons a week."
But Maurice is social in a different way. I asked him once what
system he pursued as to pastoral calls.
"A very simple system," said he, "mix much with my people and be
much with Christ. If I do both, Mr. Laicus, I shall not fail to
bring them together. I don't trouble myself about ways and means."
The week after Mr. Mapleson came to Wheathedge, some ecclesiastical
body met at Albany. I had a case before the Court of Appeals, and
Maurice and I happened to take the same train. As we waited in the
station he addressed himself to a surly looking baggage-master with
this question, "What time will the train get to Albany?"
"Can't tell," said the surly baggage-master. "Nothing is certain to
railroad men."
"Except one thing," said Mr. Mapleson.
"What's that?" said the surly baggage-master.
"Death," said Mr. Mapleson.
"That's a fact," said the surly baggage-master. "Specially certain
to railroad men."
"And there is one other thing certain," added Maurice.
"What's that?" asked the baggage-master, no longer surly.
"That we ought to be ready for it."
The baggage-master nodded thoughtfully. "So we ought," said he; and
he added as he turned away, "I hope you're readier than I be."
I note this little incident here because it revealed so much of
Maurice Mapleson's character to me. I think it did more to disclose
to me the secret of his success than any sermon he has ever
preached. Mr. Work when he went away read us the statistics of his
ministerial industry. He told us how many sermons he had preached,
how many prayer meetings he had attended, how many sick he had
visited, and how many religious conversations he had held with the
impenitent. I should as soon think of Maurice Mapleson's keeping a
record of the number of times he kissed his wife or taught his
children-if he had any.
While I have been writing in a vain endeavor to put my vague and
shadowy ideas of Maurice Mapleson's magnetic power into words,
Jennie has come in and has seated herself beside me.
"Jennie, I cannot get into clear and tangible form my shadowy ideas.
What is the secret of ministerial success? What is the common
characteristic which gives pulpit power to such widely dissimilar
characters as Chalmers, Whitefields, the Westleys, Spurgeon and
Robertson in England, and Edwards, Nettleton, Finney, the Beechers,
father and son, Murray, John Hall, Dr. Tyng, and a score of others I
could mention in this country?"
"Hand me your New Testament, John."
It was lying on the table beside me. She took it from my hand and
opened it.
"I don't know as to all the names you have mentioned, John, but I
think the secret of true pulpit power, the secret of Paul's wondrous
power, the secret of Maurice Mapleson's power--the same in kind
though smaller in measure--is this. And she read from Galatians, the
second chapter and twentieth verse:
"'I am crucified with Christ, nevertheless I live; yet not I, but
Christ liveth in me, and the life which I now live in the flesh, I
live by the faith of the Son of God, who loved me, and gave himself
for me.'"