God said, "Let there be Light."
FROM Mr. Gear's Jennie and I drove directly to Maurice Mapleson's.
Fortunately we found him at home. Briefly I told him of my visit.
"What can we do," I said at the close, "to save this man from the
despair of utter skepticism?"
"He is in good hands," said Mr. Mapleson, with calm assurance.
"No! Mr. Mapleson," said I, "I can do nothing more with him. So long
as I had only the intellect to deal with, I thought I knew what to
say and when to keep silence. But I dare neither speak nor keep
silence now."
"I did not mean your hands," said Mr. Mapleson.
"What then?" said I.
"He is in God's hands," replied the pastor. "God has taken him out
of your hands into His own. Leave him there."
"Is there then nothing more to be done?" I said.
"Yes," said he, "but chiefly prayer."
Then after a moment's pause he added: "I believe, Mr. Laicus, in the
oft quoted and generally perverted promise: If two of you shall
agree on earth as touching anything that they shall ask, it shall be
done for them of my Father which is in heaven. I believe it was
intended for just such exigencies as this. It is not a general
charter, but a special promise. Now is the time to plead it. Who
beside yourself in our church is Mr. Gear's most intimate
acquaintance and warmest friend?"
I thought a moment before I answered. Then I replied, "To be honest,
Mr. Mapleson, I do not believe there is one in the church who
understands him. But Deacon Goodsole has had more to do with him
than any other, and perhaps understands him better."
"Very well," said Mr. Mapleson. "Will you meet Deacon Goodsole at my
house to-morrow evening, half an hour before the prayer-meeting, to
unite in special prayer for Mr. Gear? I will see the Deacon. I am
sure he will come."
"I am sure he will," I added warmly; "as sure as that I will be
there myself."
With that I bade Mr. Mapleson good-night and hurried away. For tea
had long been waiting, the children's bed hour was near, and Jennie
was growing impatient to be at home.
Wednesday evening Mr. Mapleson, the Deacon and I went into our
church prayer-meeting from half an hour spent in Mr. Mapleson's
study in prayer for Mr. Gear. Mr. Mapleson had seen Mr. Gear that
morning. But the stricken father was very silent; he offered no
communication; and Mr. Mapleson had pressed for none. I confess I
had hoped much from Mr. Mapleson's interview, and I went into the
prayer-meeting burdened and sorrowful.
I think I have already remarked that Mr. Mapleson's conduct of a
prayer-meeting is exceedingly simple. He seldom says much. He sets
us all an example of brevity. A few words of Scripture, a few
earnest words of his own or a simple prayer, usually constitute his
sole contribution to the meeting, which is more truly a meeting for
prayer than any other prayer-meeting I ever attended.
That evening he seemed loath to open the meeting. We were little
late in beginning. When we did begin we were late in getting into
the heart of it. He called on one after another to lead in prayer. I
did not know but that he was going to omit the reading of Scripture
and his own remarks altogether. Our prayer-meeting commences at
half-past seven. The pastor never allows it to overrun an hour. And
it was after eight when he arose to read. He read from the twelth
chapter of Acts, the account of Peter's deliverance from prison. He
read it from beginning to end without a comment, and then he spoke
substantially as follows. His words were very simple. But that
meeting has left an impression upon me that time will never
obliterate. I believe I could repeat his words to my dying day.
"A great deal is said and written," said he, "about the apostolic
faith. But the apostles were men of like passions as we ourselves.
They fought the same doubts. They prayed in the same hesitating,
uncertain, unbelieving way. Peter was in prison. His friends could
do nothing to effect his deliverance-nothing but pray. So they
assembled for that purpose. They had the promise of the Lord, 'If
two of you shall agree on earth as touching anything that they shall
ask, it shall be done for them of my Father which is in Heaven.' But
they did not believe it. They took some comfort in praying-as we do.
But they did not expect any answer to their prayers. The thought
that God might really afford deliverance never seems to have
occurred to them. And when Peter, delivered by the angel of the
Lord, came knocking at the gate of the house, and the startled
disciples wondered what this midnight summons might mean, and the
servant returned to report that Peter stood without, they laughed at
her. You are mad, said they. And when he persisted in his knocking,
and she in her assertion, they added with trembling and under-breath
to one another, in mortal fear, "It is his ghost." Anything was more
credible to their minds than that God should have answered their
united prayers.
"The promise of God is to the prayer of faith. But God is constantly
better than his promise. He does not limit Himself by our
expectations. He does exceedingly abundantly more than we can ask or
even think. We are not therefore to be driven from our knees by our
want of faith. I hear men talk as though prayer were of no avail
unless we believe beforehand with assurance that we were going to
receive all for which we asked. It is not true. We are not heard for
our much asking, nor for much our believing, but for God's great
mercy's sake.
"When the mission was first started at the Mill village, if I have
understood aright, it was started on the application of the children
themselves. They gathered around the school-house when the
Bible-class assembled. They had no expectation of instruction. When
the first person came to the door to invite them in, probably half
of them scampered away in fright. Did they expect all that has come?
Or would any Christian worker have said, 'They shall not have a
Sabbath-school till they ask it, and believe that it will be
provided for them?' And our Father does not wait for the prayer of
faith. Like the father in the parable he comes while we are yet afar
off. If we have faith enough to look wistfully and yearningly for a
blessing, He has superabundant love to grant it."
And then he read, and we sang that most beautiful hymn:
"Oh! see how Jesus trusts himself
Unto our childish love!
As though by His free ways with us
Our earnestness to prove.
His sacred name a common word
On earth He loves to hear;
There is no majesty in Him
Which love may not come near.
The light of love is round His feet,
His paths are never dim;
And He comes nigh to us when we
Dare not come nigh to Him.
Let us be simple with Him, then,
Not backward, stiff, nor cold,
As though our Bethlehem could be
What Sinai was of old."
Mr. Mapleson is very fond of music. Singing is a feature of all our
prayer-meetings. I have heard him say that he thought more people
had been sung into the kingdom of heaven than were ever preached
into it. Usually his rich voice carries the bass almost alone. But
during the singing of this hymn he sat silent, leaning his head upon
his hand. This silence was so unusual that it almost oppressed the
meeting. When the hymn closed there was a solemn hush, a strange
expectancy; it seemed as though no one dared to break the sacred
silence.
Our lecture-room occupies half the basement of the church. I sat in
a front seat, close by the little desk-a low platform furnished only
with a light stand on which rests the minister hymn-book and a
small Bible. The room was full, but it had filled up after I came
in.
The prolonged silence grew painful. Then I heard a rustle as of one
rising to his feet. Then a voice; I startled, half turned round,
restrained myself, thank God, and only cast on Jennie, at my side, a
look of wonder and of thanksgiving. The voice was that of Mr. Gear.
"Fellow-townsmen," said he,--he spoke hesitatingly at first as one
unused to the place and the assemblage,--"I have come here to make a
request. You are surprised to see me here. You will be more
surprised to hear my request. I want to ask you to pray for me."
He had recovered from his hesitancy now. But he spoke with an
unnatural rapidity as though he were afraid of breaking down
altogether if he stopped a moment to reflect upon himself and his
position.
"You know me only as an infidel. I am an infidel. At least I was.
Yes! I suppose I still am. My mother died when I was but a babe. My
father brought me up. He was orthodox of the orthodox. But oh! he
was a hard man. And he had a hard creed. I used to think the creed
made the man. Lately I have thought perhaps the man made the creed.
At all events both were hard. And I repudiated both. At fourteen I
abhorred my father's creed. At eighteen I had left my father's roof.
I have never returned except on occasional visits."
He had gained more self-possession now, and spoke more slowly and
distinctly. The room was as still as that room of death in which the
evening before I had prayed with him, kneeling by the corpse of his
little boy.
"What I have been at Wheathedge you know. I cannot come here
to-night on a false pretence. I cannot call myself a desperate
sinner. I have wronged no man. I have lived honestly and uprightly
before you all. I owe no man anything. I have depended on my daily
labor for my daily bread. Out of it I have provided as I had
opportunity for the poor around me. No one ever went hungry from my
door away. My creed has been a short and simple one, 'Do unto others
as you would have others do unto you.' I have tried to live
according to my creed.
"But I begin to think that my creed is not all the truth. Mr. Laicus
first led me to think so. No! my boy first led me to think so. I was
satisfied with my creed for myself. But I was not satisfied with it
for my boy.
"Then I met Mr. Laicus. We commenced to study the Bible together. If
he had attempted to prove my opinions wrong I would have defended
them. But he did not. We studied the undoubted truth. The doubtful
points he left alone. I learned there was more in the Bible, more in
human life and the human heart than I had thought. I grew little by
little sure that I had not all the truth. But I was unwilling to
confess it. I was-yes, I was too proud.
"Yesterday"--his voice trembled and he spoke with difficulty for a
moment, but quickly recovered himself--"yesterday we lost the light
and life out of our house. No! I am wrong. My light was
extinguished, and my life was quenched in death. But my wife's was
not. The dear boy was as dear to her as he was to me. But she lives
and hopes; I am in darkness and almost in despair. My father's hard
creed drove me into infidelity. My wife's, my friend's tenderer and
happier faith calls me back again. But I do not know the way.
"Last night, kneeling by the side of my dear boy, I vowed that I
would cast away my pride and seek that light in which my wife and my
friends are walking. An hour ago the thought occurred to me-where
seek it better than where they are gathered who are walking in this
light? It seemed to me I could not come. But I had made the vow. I
would not go back from it. I have cast away my pride. Oh! friends,
help me to find that light in which you walk.
"Do not misunderstand me. I will not have your prayers on false
pretences. I am, if not still an infidel, at least an unbeliever. I
have no creed. I only believe that there is light somewhere, for
others live in it. And I long to come into that light myself. Help
me to find the way. And yet-I hardly know why I came here to-night.
It was not for counsel. I do not want words now. The kindliest only
pain me. Discussion and debate would arouse all the old devil of
contradiction in me. Leave me alone. No! Do not leave me alone. Give
me your prayers. Give me your Christian sympathies. But for the
rest, for a little while, I want to be alone."
He sat down. There was a moment of perfect stillness. Then the
pastor arose.
"Christ's sympathies are broader and His love is larger than we
think," said he. "We hedge him round with our poor creeds, and shut
Him up in our little churches, and think He works only in our
appointed ways. He breaks over the barriers we put about him, and
carries on His work of love in hearts that we think are beyond all
reach of Him or us. We cannot tell our brother how to find the
light. The light will find him. 'Jesus Christ is the light which
lighteth every man that cometh into the world.' And when the heart
casts its pride away the light enters. For thus saith the High and
Lofty One that inhabiteth eternity, whose name is Holy; I dwell in
the high and holy place; with him also that is of a contrite and
humble spirit, to revive the heart of the contrite ones. Into His
hands let us commit our brother's spirit."
And he poured forth his soul in a prayer which carried heavenward
many an unbreathed cry for help, and received in the beating of many
hearts a warmer, truer response than any spoken words could have
given to it.
After service I walked along with Maurice Mapleson.
"I was never more astonished in my life," said I, "than when I heard
Mr. Gear's voice in the prayer-meeting to-night."
"I was not astonished," said Mr. Mapleson. "I went to that
prayer-meeting sure that God had in store for us a better answer to
our prayers than we had thought. I do not believe in presentiments;
but I had a strange presentiment that Mr. Gear would come to our
meeting to-night, that God would rebuke our little faith by His
unexpected answer. I even waited for Mr. Gear's coming. I saw him
enter. I took that chapter of Acts-which God seemed to give me at
the moment-partly that I might lead him on to fulfil the purpose
which I fully believed had brought him there. While you were
singing, I was praying. And when the hymn and the prayer were ended
together, I knew God would not let him go away unblest."
"I shall never again doubt," said I, "the truth of God's
promise-'that if two of us shall agree on earth as touching anything
they shall ask, it shall be done for them.'"
"Shall you not?" said he, with a smile. "I wish I could be as sure
for myself."