“For hereunto were ye called;
because Christ also suffered for you, leaving you
an example, that ye should follow in his steps.”
It was Friday morning and the Rev.
Henry Maxwell was trying to finish his Sunday morning
sermon. He had been interrupted several times
and was growing nervous as the morning wore away, and
the sermon grew very slowly toward a satisfactory
finish.
“Mary,” he called to his
wife, as he went upstairs after the last interruption,
“if any one comes after this, I wish you would
say I am very busy and cannot come down unless it
is something very important.”
“Yes, Henry. But I am going
over to visit the kindergarten and you will have the
house all to yourself.”
The minister went up into his study
and shut the door. In a few minutes he heard
his wife go out, and then everything was quiet.
He settled himself at his desk with a sigh of relief
and began to write. His text was from 1 Peter
2:21: “For hereunto were ye called; because
Christ also suffered for you, leaving you an example
that ye should follow his steps.”
He had emphasized in the first part
of the sermon the Atonement as a personal sacrifice,
calling attention to the fact of Jesus’ suffering
in various ways, in His life as well as in His death.
He had then gone on to emphasize the Atonement from
the side of example, giving illustrations from the
life and teachings of Jesus to show how faith in the
Christ helped to save men because of the pattern or
character He displayed for their imitation. He
was now on the third and last point, the necessity
of following Jesus in His sacrifice and example.
He had put down “Three Steps.
What are they?” and was about to enumerate them
in logical order when the bell rang sharply. It
was one of those clock-work bells, and always went
off as a clock might go if it tried to strike twelve
all at once.
Henry Maxwell sat at his desk and
frowned a little. He made no movement to answer
the bell. Very soon it rang again; then he rose
and walked over to one of his windows which commanded
the view of the front door. A man was standing
on the steps. He was a young man, very shabbily
dressed.
“Looks like a tramp,”
said the minister. “I suppose I’ll
have to go down and
He did not finish his sentence but
he went downstairs and opened the front door.
There was a moment’s pause as the two men stood
facing each other, then the shabby-looking young man
said:
“I’m out of a job, sir,
and thought maybe you might put me in the way of getting
something.”
“I don’t know of anything.
Jobs are scarce ” replied the minister,
beginning to shut the door slowly.
“I didn’t know but you
might perhaps be able to give me a line to the city
railway or the superintendent of the shops, or something,”
continued the young man, shifting his faded hat from
one hand to the other nervously.
“It would be of no use.
You will have to excuse me. I am very busy this
morning. I hope you will find something.
Sorry I can’t give you something to do here.
But I keep only a horse and a cow and do the work
myself.”
The Rev. Henry Maxwell closed the
door and heard the man walk down the steps. As
he went up into his study he saw from his hall window
that the man was going slowly down the street, still
holding his hat between his hands. There was
something in the figure so dejected, homeless and
forsaken that the minister hesitated a moment as he
stood looking at it. Then he turned to his desk
and with a sigh began the writing where he had left
off.
He had no more interruptions, and
when his wife came in two hours later the sermon was
finished, the loose leaves gathered up and neatly
tied together, and laid on his Bible all ready for
the Sunday morning service.
“A queer thing happened at the
kindergarten this morning, Henry,” said his
wife while they were eating dinner. “You
know I went over with Mrs. Brown to visit the school,
and just after the games, while the children were
at the tables, the door opened and a young man came
in holding a dirty hat in both hands. He sat down
near the door and never said a word; only looked at
the children. He was evidently a tramp, and Miss
Wren and her assistant Miss Kyle were a little frightened
at first, but he sat there very quietly and after a
few minutes he went out.”
“Perhaps he was tired and wanted
to rest somewhere. The same man called here,
I think. Did you say he looked like a tramp?”
“Yes, very dusty, shabby and
generally tramp-like. Not more than thirty or
thirty-three years old, I should say.”
“The same man,” said the
Rev. Henry Maxwell thoughtfully.
“Did you finish your sermon,
Henry?” his wife asked after a pause.
“Yes, all done. It has
been a very busy week with me. The two sermons
have cost me a good deal of labor.”
“They will be appreciated by
a large audience, Sunday, I hope,” replied his
wife smiling. “What are you going to preach
about in the morning?”
“Following Christ. I take
up the Atonement under the head of sacrifice and example,
and then show the steps needed to follow His sacrifice
and example.”
“I am sure it is a good sermon.
I hope it won’t rain Sunday. We have had
so many stormy Sundays lately.”
“Yes, the audiences have been
quite small for some time. People will not come
out to church in a storm.” The Rev. Henry
Maxwell sighed as he said it. He was thinking
of the careful, laborious effort he had made in preparing
sermons for large audiences that failed to appear.
But Sunday morning dawned on the town
of Raymond one of the perfect days that sometimes
come after long periods of wind and mud and rain.
The air was clear and bracing, the sky was free from
all threatening signs, and every one in Mr. Maxwell’s
parish prepared to go to church. When the service
opened at eleven o’clock the large building
was filled with an audience of the best-dressed, most
comfortable looking people of Raymond.
The First Church of Raymond believed
in having the best music that money could buy, and
its quartet choir this morning was a source of great
pleasure to the congregation. The anthem was inspiring.
All the music was in keeping with the subject of the
sermon. And the anthem was an elaborate adaptation
to the most modern music of the hymn,
“Jesus, I my cross have
taken,
All to leave and follow
Thee.”
Just before the sermon, the soprano
sang a solo, the well-known hymn,
“Where He leads me I
will follow,
I’ll go with Him,
with Him, all the way.”
Rachel Winslow looked very beautiful
that morning as she stood up behind the screen of
carved oak which was significantly marked with the
emblems of the cross and the crown. Her voice
was even more beautiful than her face, and that meant
a great deal. There was a general rustle of expectation
over the audience as she rose. Mr. Maxwell settled
himself contentedly behind the pulpit. Rachel
Winslow’s singing always helped him. He
generally arranged for a song before the sermon.
It made possible a certain inspiration of feeling
that made his delivery more impressive.
People said to themselves they had
never heard such singing even in the First Church.
It is certain that if it had not been a church service,
her solo would have been vigorously applauded.
It even seemed to the minister when she sat down that
something like an attempted clapping of hands or a
striking of feet on the floor swept through the church.
He was startled by it. As he rose, however, and
laid his sermon on the Bible, he said to himself he
had been deceived. Of course it could not occur.
In a few moments he was absorbed in his sermon and
everything else was forgotten in the pleasure of his
delivery.
No one had ever accused Henry Maxwell
of being a dull preacher. On the contrary, he
had often been charged with being sensational; not
in what he had said so much as in his way of saying
it. But the First Church people liked that.
It gave their preacher and their parish a pleasant
distinction that was agreeable.
It was also true that the pastor of the First Church loved to
preach. He seldom exchanged. He was eager to be in his own pulpit
when Sunday came. There was an exhilarating half hour for him as he faced
a church full of people and know that he had a hearing. He was peculiarly
sensitive to variations in the attendance. He never preached well before a
small audience. The weather also affected him decidedly. He was at
his best before just such an audience as faced him now, on just such a morning.
He felt a glow of satisfaction as he went on. The church was the first in
the city. It had the best choir. It had a membership composed of the
leading people, representatives of the wealth, society and intelligence of
Raymond. He was going abroad on a three months vacation in the summer, and
the circumstances of his pastorate, his influence and his position as pastor of
the First Church in the city
It is not certain that the Rev. Henry
Maxwell knew just how he could carry on that thought
in connection with his sermon, but as he drew near
the end of it he knew that he had at some point in
his delivery had all those feelings. They had
entered into the very substance of his thought; it
might have been all in a few seconds of time, but he
had been conscious of defining his position and his
emotions as well as if he had held a soliloquy, and
his delivery partook of the thrill of deep personal
satisfaction.
The sermon was interesting. It
was full of striking sentences. They would have
commanded attention printed. Spoken with the passion
of a dramatic utterance that had the good taste never
to offend with a suspicion of ranting or declamation,
they were very effective. If the Rev. Henry Maxwell
that morning felt satisfied with the conditions of
his pastorate, the First Church also had a similar
feeling as it congratulated itself on the presence
in the pulpit of this scholarly, refined, somewhat
striking face and figure, preaching with such animation
and freedom from all vulgar, noisy or disagreeable
mannerism.
Suddenly, into the midst of this perfect
accord and concord between preacher and audience,
there came a very remarkable interruption. It
would be difficult to indicate the extent of the shock
which this interruption measured. It was so unexpected,
so entirely contrary to any thought of any person
present that it offered no room for argument or, for
the time being, of resistance.
The sermon had come to a close.
Mr. Maxwell had just turned the half of the big Bible
over upon his manuscript and was about to sit down
as the quartet prepared to arise to sing the closing
selection,
“All for Jesus, all
for Jesus,
All my being’s
ransomed powers...”
when the entire congregation was startled
by the sound of a man’s voice. It came
from the rear of the church, from one of the seats
under the gallery. The next moment the figure
of a man came out of the shadow there and walked down
the middle aisle.
Before the startled congregation fairly
realized what was going on the man had reached the
open space in front of the pulpit and had turned about
facing the people.
“I’ve been wondering since
I came in here” they were the words
he used under the gallery, and he repeated them “if
it would be just the thing to say a word at the close
of the service. I’m not drunk and I’m
not crazy, and I am perfectly harmless, but if I die,
as there is every likelihood I shall in a few days,
I want the satisfaction of thinking that I said my
say in a place like this, and before this sort of
a crowd.”
Henry Maxwell had not taken his seat,
and he now remained standing, leaning on his pulpit,
looking down at the stranger. It was the man
who had come to his house the Friday before, the same
dusty, worn, shabby-looking young man. He held
his faded hat in his two hands. It seemed to
be a favorite gesture. He had not been shaved
and his hair was rough and tangled. It is doubtful
if any one like this had ever confronted the First
Church within the sanctuary. It was tolerably
familiar with this sort of humanity out on the street,
around the railroad shops, wandering up and down the
avenue, but it had never dreamed of such an incident
as this so near.
There was nothing offensive in the
man’s manner or tone. He was not excited
and he spoke in a low but distinct voice. Mr.
Maxwell was conscious, even as he stood there smitten
into dumb astonishment at the event, that somehow
the man’s action reminded him of a person he
had once seen walking and talking in his sleep.
No one in the house made any motion
to stop the stranger or in any way interrupt him.
Perhaps the first shock of his sudden appearance deepened
into a genuine perplexity concerning what was best
to do. However that may be, he went on as if
he had no thought of interruption and no thought of
the unusual element which he had introduced into the
decorum of the First Church service. And all the
while he was speaking, the minister leaded over the
pulpit, his face growing more white and sad every
moment. But he made no movement to stop him,
and the people sat smitten into breathless silence.
One other face, that of Rachel Winslow from the choir,
stared white and intent down at the shabby figure
with the faded hat. Her face was striking at
any time. Under the pressure of the present unheard-of
incident it was as personally distinct as if it had
been framed in fire.
“I’m not an ordinary tramp,
though I don’t know of any teaching of Jesus
that makes one kind of a tramp less worth saving than
another. Do you?” He put the question as
naturally as if the whole congregation had been a
small Bible class. He paused just a moment and
coughed painfully. Then he went on.
“I lost my job ten months ago.
I am a printer by trade. The new linotype
machines are beautiful specimens of invention, but
I know six men who have killed themselves inside of
the year just on account of those machines. Of
course I don’t blame the newspapers for getting
the machines. Meanwhile, what can a man do?
I know I never learned but the one trade, and that’s
all I can do. I’ve tramped all over the
country trying to find something. There are a
good many others like me. I’m not complaining,
am I? Just stating facts. But I was wondering
as I sat there under the gallery, if what you call
following Jesus is the same thing as what He taught.
What did He mean when He said: ‘Follow
Me!’? The minister said,” here
he turned about and looked up at the pulpit “that
it is necessary for the disciple of Jesus to follow
His steps, and he said the steps are ‘obedience,
faith, love and imitation.’ But I did not
hear him tell you just what he meant that to mean,
especially the last step. What do you Christians
mean by following the steps of Jesus?
“I’ve tramped through
this city for three days trying to find a job; and
in all that time I’ve not had a word of sympathy
or comfort except from your minister here, who said
he was sorry for me and hoped I would find a job somewhere.
I suppose it is because you get so imposed on by the
professional tramp that you have lost your interest
in any other sort. I’m not blaming anybody,
am I? Just stating facts. Of course, I understand
you can’t all go out of your way to hunt up
jobs for other people like me. I’m not asking
you to; but what I feel puzzled about is, what is
meant by following Jesus. What do you mean when
you sing ’I’ll go with Him, with Him, all
the way?’ Do you mean that you are suffering
and denying yourselves and trying to save lost, suffering
humanity just as I understand Jesus did? What
do you mean by it? I see the ragged edge of things
a good deal. I understand there are more than
five hundred men in this city in my case. Most
of them have families. My wife died four months
ago. I’m glad she is out of trouble.
My little girl is staying with a printer’s family
until I find a job. Somehow I get puzzled when
I see so many Christians living in luxury and singing
’Jesus, I my cross have taken, all to leave
and follow Thee,’ and remember how my wife died
in a tenement in New York City, gasping for air and
asking God to take the little girl too. Of course
I don’t expect you people can prevent every
one from dying of starvation, lack of proper nourishment
and tenement air, but what does following Jesus mean?
I understand that Christian people own a good many
of the tenements. A member of a church was the
owner of the one where my wife died, and I have wondered
if following Jesus all the way was true in his case.
I heard some people singing at a church prayer meeting
the other night,
’All for Jesus, all
for Jesus,
All my being’s
ransomed powers,
All my thoughts, and
all my doings,
All my days, and all
my hours.’
and I kept wondering as I sat on the
steps outside just what they meant by it. It
seems to me there’s an awful lot of trouble in
the world that somehow wouldn’t exist if all
the people who sing such songs went and lived them
out. I suppose I don’t understand.
But what would Jesus do? Is that what you mean
by following His steps? It seems to me sometimes
as if the people in the big churches had good clothes
and nice houses to live in, and money to spend for
luxuries, and could go away on summer vacations and
all that, while the people outside the churches, thousands
of them, I mean, die in tenements, and walk the streets
for jobs, and never have a piano or a picture in the
house, and grow up in misery and drunkenness and sin.”
The man suddenly gave a queer lurch
over in the direction of the communion table and laid
one grimy hand on it. His hat fell upon the carpet
at his feet. A stir went through the congregation.
Dr. West half rose from his pew, but as yet the silence
was unbroken by any voice or movement worth mentioning
in the audience. The man passed his other hand
across his eyes, and then, without any warning, fell
heavily forward on his face, full length up the aisle.
Henry Maxwell spoke:
“We will consider the service closed.”