{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_67624/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_67624","id":"gutenberg_67624","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/67624","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Christianity"],"text":"UNFINISHED RAINBOWS\n                           And Other Essays\n\n                                  by\n                         GEORGE WOOD ANDERSON\n\n\n                  [Illustration: Abingdon Press logo]\n\n                          THE ABINGDON PRESS\n                  NEW YORK                 CINCINNATI\n\n\n\n\n                          Copyright, 1922, by\n                         GEORGE WOOD ANDERSON\n\n                Printed in the United States of America\n\n\n\n\n                               CONTENTS\n\n\n                                                     PAGE\n                I. Unfinished Rainbows                  5\n               II. Gathering Sunsets                   12\n              III. Beyond the Curtained Clouds         19\n               IV. Tilling the Sky                     26\n                V. Unquarried Statues                  33\n               VI. The Ages to Come                    40\n              VII. The Unlocked Door of Truth          47\n             VIII. Weaving Sunbeams                    54\n               IX. The Pathway of a Noble Purpose      61\n                X. Swords for Moral Battles            68\n               XI. Spiced Wine                         75\n              XII. The Fever of Health                 82\n             XIII. The Wisdom of the Unlearned         89\n              XIV. The Strength of Weakness            96\n               XV. Crumbling Palaces                  103\n              XVI. The Echo of Life\u2019s Unsung Songs    110\n             XVII. Modern Judases                     117\n            XVIII. The Adjustable Universe            125\n              XIX. Seeing Love                        132\n               XX. The Dignity of Labor               139\n              XXI. Above the Commonplace of Sin       146\n             XXII. The Investment of a Life           154\n            XXIII. Thought Planting                   161\n             XXIV. The Rosary of Tears                168\n              XXV. The Hearthstone of the Heart       175\n             XXVI. The Unoared Sea                    182\n\n\n\n\n                                   I\n\n                          UNFINISHED RAINBOWS\n\n\nThe rainbow was only a fragment of an arch because the needed sunshine\nwas withheld. Had the sunlight been permitted to permeate all the\natmosphere with its golden glow, the arch would have spanned the entire\nheavens.\n\nThis is the reason why, in hours of sorrow, we do not grasp the\nfullness of God\u2019s promise; we permit the denser clouds of doubt and\nfaithlessness to keep the light of God from shining through our griefs;\nor, with a little faith, we get a gleam of light that gives us but a\ntiny fragment of the bow.\n\nWhile all the operations of this natural world are tokens of God\u2019s\nunfailing thoughtfulness in keeping his covenant with man, a great\nevent has made the rainbow peculiarly the embodiment of that thought.\nLooking from the narrow window of the wave-tossed ark, upon the\nsilent grandeur of a world slowly arising from the waters of an\nuniversal flood, Noah beheld the rainbow and rejoiced in the blest\nassurance, that, while the things of man are subject to the ravages\nof time and destruction of contending elements, the things of God\nare always stable and secure. The most permanent products of man\u2019s\nhand and mind are soon swept away, but the things of God endure, and\ncontinue faithful, in working out their appointed courses. Through\nstorm or calm, events march with steady, unceasing tread, knowing\nthat God\u2019s roads are never worn, and God\u2019s bridges never tremble and\nfall. Above the placid, mysterious world, calmly emerging from the\nmuddy, wreck-strewn waters, was the peaceful, radiant bow, smiling\nin confidence upon him and his companions. The world had changed,\nbut the rainbow was just as it had always been, stately, serene,\nand unaffrighted. The crumbling, flood-torn earth had not weakened\nits foundations, the drenching rains had not faded its colors, the\nhurrying, wind-swept clouds could not disturb it. Though it were made\nout of hurrying light and drifting mist it would not be swayed or moved\neven a little. Under its archway walked the guarding angels of God.\nOver the waters came the clear voice once heard in Eden, uttering the\npromise, \u201cAnd it shall come to pass, when I bring a cloud over the\nearth, that the bow shall be seen in the cloud: and I will remember my\ncovenant.\u201d\n\nThat is a sweeping promise that is literally fulfilled in nature. All\nclouds carry rainbows. Most of them are never seen by us because we\nlack the necessary keenness of vision, or the proper point of view\nto behold their woven colors; many are only partially seen because\nsomething intervenes and prevents a perfect intersection of heavenly\nsunlight with our earth-born mists; many are within the vision of\nall observing men; but, whether we see it or not, for every cloud\nthere is a scarf of red and orange and yellow and green and blue and\nscarlet and purple. So, in spiritual matters, we find that for every\nsorrow there are beautiful assurances of God\u2019s presence and unwavering\ncovenant-keeping power. If we do not see them it is not God\u2019s fault,\nfor the light of his faithfulness transfixes every cloud that arises\nabove his earth-born children.\n\nThere are the clouds of bereavement. The Death Angel defied your\nlove-locked doors and bolted windows. Heeding neither your cry nor\nyour pleadings, he entered your home and pushed aside the doctor and\nattending nurses and friends, and touching the heart of your loved\none, stilled it to sleep. Your grief was such that you did not see how\nyou could live. The home seemed empty and strangely silent. The entire\npathway seemed shrouded in the somber shadows of your grief. Life was\na desolation. But you did not give up in despair. There was a bow in\nthe cloud. An arch of seven brilliant hues reached from one horizon\nto another horizon, and you knew that the One in whom you had placed\nyour trust had proven true. He had not forgotten you. Looking at the\nrainbow, the token of his covenant, you read in its mingled colors the\nwords of the Lord Jesus, \u201cI am the resurrection, and the life: he that\nbelieveth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever\nliveth and believeth in me shall never die.\u201d In your sorrow you found\nthat the bow of God\u2019s promises never trembles.\n\nYou were facing financial disaster. All your investments had proven\nbad. You had been misled by false counsel. The savings of years had\nbeen swept away by one fell swoop of disaster, and with them had gone\nall the fond plans for the future of your family and loved ones. Your\nhead reeled as you felt the earth giving way beneath you; you were\nabout to close your eyes in despair, when suddenly, in the darkest\npart of the overshadowing cloud, you saw the rainbow. God had not\nforgotten you. Amid the whirl and destruction of things his promises\nnever trembled. Its gleaming colors told you that you were not alone,\nand spelled such a message of hope and inspiration to your soul, that\nyou smiled in the face of adversity. Here was the promise, \u201cThere is no\nwant to them that fear Him.\u201d You had never seen the beauty of those\nwords before. You felt the thrill of a new life and the confidence that\nyou once placed in riches, you now centered upon God.\n\nThere were the dark clouds of misplaced friendship. You were confident\nthat the one in whom you were placing your trust was worthy, but\nthrough that friendship you were betrayed, and misrepresented, and\nmade the object of scorn and criticism. No cloud is darker than that,\nno sorrow is harder to bear, and yet you did not lose confidence in\nman. Above the feathered edges of the cloud was the rainbow of God\u2019s\npromise, and you knew that if even father and mother forsook you, the\nLord would take you up. The rainbow, as the symbol of God\u2019s promise,\nsaid: \u201cLo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world.\u201d\n\nBut some one says, \u201cI have never been able to grasp the _fullness_ of\nthese promises. Amid life\u2019s clouds I cannot see the presence of the\nAlmighty.\u201d That is not God\u2019s fault, but because one hinders the coming\nof the light. If you do not permit the Spirit of God to shine upon\nyour sorrow with its golden light, the ministration of the rainbow\nto your sorrow-smitten soul will never be complete. The comforts\nof God are known only by those who are willing to receive his holy\nministrations. The rainbow is never finished for the one who refuses\nto receive Christ fully and completely into his life. He is the Light\nof the world, and his presence always brings the promises of the\nFather to their fullest possible earthly revelation and application.\nHis revelations are always complete and as comforting as they are\nbeautiful. His clear light of goodness has always been making battle\nagainst the darkness of sin\u2019s mists and fogs. He is never satisfied\nuntil his love has intercepted every overshadowing cloud so that when\nyou behold the streaming banners of the bow, that always follows and\nnever precedes a storm, you may know that you, through him, have\nalready gotten the victory. Light triumphs. The overshadowing cloud is\npierced. Instead of somberness there is beauty.\n\nThe earthly rainbows will never be complete. Here we behold at best\nonly a segment of a perfect circle. We have but a one-world view and\ntherefore can behold but half the rainbow. In heaven we shall see the\ncompleted circle, as John beheld it in his vision and exclaimed, with\nrapturous delight, \u201cThere was a rainbow round about the throne.\u201d So\nglorious is the light of the great, white throne, and the face, and the\nraiment of Him that sat upon it, that to angelic vision it is nestled\nin the center of a perfectly rounded bow of brilliant hue.\n\nThe rainbow can never be destroyed, for the light of Christ can never\nfade. Ever about the throne of God, in perfect circle, shall gleam the\nsteady, colored token of God\u2019s faithfulness through all time and all\neternity. The multitude of white-robed ones that worship before the\nthrone are those who have come out \u201cof great tribulation,\u201d they are\nthose who have \u201covercome through the blood of the Lamb,\u201d therefore it\nis fitting that the one choicest treasure saved from the natural world\nin which they fought their battles, and won their victories, should be\nthe rainbow, the richly colored symbol of God\u2019s faithfulness and mercy.\nWhat emotions thrill our souls in this world when we look upon the\nrainbow! What memories shall sweep through our souls when we behold the\nrainbow that is ever round about the great white throne of God!\n\n\n\n\n                                  II\n\n                           GATHERING SUNSETS\n\n\nThe sunset is the sheaf of the day\u2019s activities, wherein are bound all\nthe roses and poppies and fruits and grains of the passing hours, for\nthe experiences of life are constantly coming to full harvest. Weary\nwith toil and worn with watching, we do not see the riches of to-day;\nor, stirred by some new ambition, our eyes become so fixed upon the\nfuture, that to-day\u2019s golden grain is trampled under foot and lost.\nInstead of facing the morrow\u2019s morn, rich with garnered treasures,\nwe greet it with empty hands. We are not householders seeking\nstrong-walled dwellings and broad, extending acres, but are careless,\nnomadic folk, wandering aimlessly from day to day, as gypsies wander\nfrom town to town. Having all things within our grasp, we possess\nnothing. When touched by the hand of Death, and taken out of life, the\nworld is no more disturbed than by the bursting of a bubble on the\nocean wave.\n\nSunsets are sheaves, and the brilliancy of their coloring is God\u2019s\nway of calling our attention to their value. The waving of so many\ngolden and scarlet banners, by a myriad of unseen hands, should awaken\nthe most careless soul to the consciousness that something mighty is\ntranspiring. Such banners and pageantry passing through our streets\nwould awaken the entire city to wonderment and concern. For what king\nare the banners waving? For what worthy cause are all these ensigns\nthrown upon the wind? What victory is celebrated here? Yet the sunsets\npass unheeded, and the golden sheaf of another day is trampled under\ncareless feet, and left to mildew and decay.\n\nThe art of gathering sunsets, the grasping of each day\u2019s experiences\nwith firm and constant hold, is one to covet. Days are not something to\n\u201cpass through.\u201d Each day is like unto an acre of land, through which\none may hurry, as in a train, without thought of right or ownership; or\nunto an acre of land which he holds in perpetual ownership, adding that\nmuch to his estate, and increasing his income through all the days that\nfollow. Rather, it is a sheaf of grain, supplying food and affording\nstrength for an ever-increasing work which he may throw away, or keep\nfor future use. Sunset time is harvest time, and the evening hour is\nthe one in which to fill full the granaries and treasure chests for\ndays unborn. Sunsets should be bound with the golden cords of memory\nand kept forever.\n\nThe pathway of life grows brightest for those who have wasted fewest\nof their yesterdays. Hours well spent and safely garnered never lose\nthe brightness of their sunshine. It always glows in the sparkle of\nthe eye, in the brightness of a winning smile, in the warm atmosphere\nof helpfulness with which they are surrounded. Hours spent in sin and\ndissipation have no luster to cast upon the afterdays, but goodness\nis always luminous. Hours of right-living may be likened to blazing\nsuns that never cease to glow. The ability to retain their brightness\nmeans an ever-increasing splendor of life. It is this that the inspired\nwriter must have had in mind when he wrote that the pathway of the just\nis as a shining light, that shineth more and more unto the perfect day.\n\nThe secret of perfection along any line of endeavor is the gathering\nin and retaining the good, at the same time sorting out and\npermanently eliminating that which is bad. It is a work of patience\nand progression. It requires the fruitage of many days, the garnered\nglories of many sunsets, to endow one with the riches of genius; and\nnot one single day should be lost. The lapidist, whose magic touch\nchanges pebbles into glittering jewels to adorn the neck of beauty; the\nsculptor, whose mallet-stroke is so accurate that rough, ill-shapen\nstones become forms of grace to inspire the generations; the\nartist, whose brush quickens the common dust and clay into marvelous\npaintings of unfading color and undying sentiment; the botanist, whose\ncarefulness transforms barren waysides into gardens, and the desert\nplaces into banqueting halls; the metallurgist, whose powerful hand\ntakes the knotted lumps of ore and fashions them into the bronze doors\nof a great cathedral--all these represent that priceless frugality that\nwill not permit a sunset to escape. Their first crude efforts were\nsheaves of rich experiences, which they garnered and stored away in the\ntreasure chests of memory. They had the bright light of their first\nsunsets to add to the morning light of their second endeavors. They\ncontinued to store the brightness of the passing experiences. Day by\nday the light grew brighter, until at last there came the perfect day,\nwhen the whole world stood amazed at the perfection of their handiwork.\nThe loss of one sunset would have faded the light and dimmed the glory\nof their final achievement. All perfect art is but gathered sunsets.\n\nThis law holds in the matter of spiritual perfection. God does much for\nus at conversion, when, through faith in him, we are changed by his\ngrace into new men and new women. It is like a lost planet finding its\ncentral sun, and resuming its accustomed place, and finding light, and\nwarmth, and life, and joy again. Wonderful indeed is the power of God\nas manifested in the conversion of any individual, but conversion is\nnot perfection. Perfection is something that the inspired writer urges\nus \u201cto go unto.\u201d \u201cAnd beside this, giving all diligence, add to your\nfaith virtue; and to virtue knowledge; and to knowledge temperance; and\nto temperance patience; and to patience godliness; and to godliness\nbrotherly kindness; and to brotherly kindness charity.\u201d\n\nDo not permit the colors of triumph to fade from your first day\u2019s sky.\nHold on to that sunset. Each day will furnish its added beam of light.\nFaith, hope, and love, and all the Christian graces will become more\nbeautiful for you, to you, and in you. The pathway will become brighter\nand brighter. Life will have fewer shadows because the light falls upon\nyou from so many angles and becomes more perfectly diffused. To-morrow\ncan have no hindering uncertainties, for the light of the past\nexperiences illumines the future. There is light for every darkened\ncorner, and one may rejoice that all things are working together for\ngood, because we do love God. Gathered sunsets make life\u2019s trail ablaze\nwith light.\n\nLet no to-day become yesterday, except in the calendar, as we reckon\ntime. Each day must become part of us as we live in an ever-present\nnow. The same alphabet we learned in childhood is ours to-day. Because\nwe did not forget it with the setting of the sun, it served us to-day\nas we spell out, in polysyllables, a newly discovered truth. The\nalphabet did not fade with the death of the day we learned it, so that\nit is now part of our lives. As we cannot think apart from the words\nwe learned long ago; and as we cannot calculate, save as we use the\nfirst-learned characters from one to ten; so, in the developing of the\nsoul, we must not lose one single hour of prayer or inspiration of a\nnoble purpose.\n\nBoth building and growing are alike in this--they are processes of\n\u201cadding to.\u201d Brick added to brick and timber added to timber means a\nstately building. Cell added to cell means growth of body and increase\nin stature. But handling brick is not enough, they must be placed with\na purpose and kept firmly fixed in the place desired. The brick of\nyesterday must be where it can have added to it the brick of to-day.\nPhysical growth depends upon the keeping the cells of yesterday for a\nfoundation upon which to build the cells of to-day. Christian living is\nsimilar. We build a character and grow a soul but the process is the\nsame, with both character and soul. We gain by adding to. Therefore\nwe must not permit any of our sunsets to fade away. All that we have\ngained through prayer and Christian service must be held to brighten\neach new morn. The spiritual victory over temptation, the answer to\nour intercessory prayers, the moment of spiritual illumination as we\nread the Bible, all these are priceless experiences upon which to add\nthe newer conquests of to-day. We must not permit the disease of sin\nto sap our vitality and destroy the growth of yesterday. We must guard\nour spiritual health that we may grow. This is what Christ meant when\nhe said: \u201cMen ought always to pray.\u201d The culture of the soul is an\neternal process. Days must not pass; they must remain as part of our\nown selves.\n\n\n\n\n                                  III\n\n                      BEYOND THE CURTAINED CLOUDS\n\n\nOne of the rarest treasures of the May time is the richness and purity\nof the sky. The winter wraps the heavens in robes of somber hue as\nthough in mourning for the summer dead; but at the coming of the first\nwhite cloud, and sound of first lark\u2019s song, the sky seems to melt in\ntenderness, and assume the softest, richest hue of blue. As far as the\neye can reach there is nothing but blue--soft, rich, warm, tender,\nmelting, soul-entrancing blue. Blue, as clear as an unshadowed midland\nlake. Blue as a translucent sapphire without a flaw to disturb its\ngleaming surface. A great arch of caressing tenderness through which\nthe white-flecked clouds ride in state, as they sail majestically from\none port of mystery to another port of mystery. Among the richest\ntreasures of the spring must be mentioned the deepening of the blue and\nthe hanging of the snow-white curtains of the clouds.\n\nBut life\u2019s horizon is ever draped with rich folds of white and blue,\nthat hang like silken curtains, to hide, with tantalizing secrecy,\nthe mysteries that lie beyond. Day by day the curtains hide their\ntreasure-chests of mystery, tempting us to strike tents and journey\ntoward them. With the eagerness with which little children watch the\nunwrapping of a Christmas package we watch the moving of these clouds,\ntrusting that each new shifting of the curtains will make the coveted\nrevelation, but as we journey on they still evade us.\n\nConservative people, ones who never startle themselves or their friends\nby doing anything new, not that they are averse to doing anything new\nbut simply because they are not mentally capable of entertaining new\nideas, say that the mysteries that lie behind the curtained clouds are\nchildish fancies and youth\u2019s illusions; and that energy expended in\nreaching the buried treasure at the rainbow\u2019s end were as fruitful an\nenterprise. Those of us who have endeavored to solve these mysteries\nknow better, for we have found that the curtained clouds that hide, are\nthe ones that, like banners, guide us to the things we really need.\n\nMan must not be unmindful of the ministry of mystery. Over against\neverything enigmatic God has given man an insatiable desire to find\nout the hidden meaning. Yielding to that divinely implanted impulse\ndevelops powers that otherwise would atrophy. Behold the benefits\nof these endeavors as they lifted the human race out of stagnation\nand taught it the way of progress. Tented in the low swamplands,\neating roots and bark, man saw these curtains that suggested to his\nhunger-pinched body the thought of a banqueting-hall where he might\nfeed. His quest never brought him to the ladened tables of his desire,\nbut as he journeyed he found grain and fruits and nuts and berries,\nsubstantial food for a full twelvemonth. Dwelling amid the sick and\ndying, man saw the moving of the curtains that God hangs along our\nsky-line, and felt that, somewhere, beyond their folds, must exist\na spring, whose living waters would not only heal the sick but give\nthe drinker perpetual youth. The spring was never found, but as man\njourneyed westward in the quest he found a land whose liberties and\ninstitutions crowd a century of blessings into every decade. Toiling\nwith small recompense, like some dull beast of burden, man saw the\nclouds that suggested a palace of ease and luxury. He failed to find\nthe palace of his dreams, but on the way he discovered labor-saving\nmachinery that has made his labor a delight, and given to every laborer\na home surpassing in comforts the baron\u2019s stately castle.\n\nBecause of the ministry of mystery he has been able to discover\nthe depth and values of his own soul. In his effort to reach the\ncurtained clouds man has had to rally his forces, and, to meet\narising exigencies, he has been compelled to draw upon the resources\nof his nature, until he startled himself with his newly discovered\npossibilities and powers. He trained his body to wrestle against\nphysical odds; he trained his mind to master the handicaps of\nignorance; he found the glittering sword of courage with which to\ndestroy defeating fear; he learned the value of faith and hope with\nwhich to enrich the soul when disaster would impoverish. Without the\neffort aroused by the cloudy curtains of mystery, he could not have\nfound himself, and perfected his work of invention, art and letters.\n\nThe cloud curtains are also the temple curtains beyond which men are\never seeking God. As the pillared cloud led Israel victoriously through\ntroubled waters and desert sands, so the mysteries of life and death,\nand the natural world in which we live, have led the human mind to\nreligious contemplation. Man found himself entangled in the maze of\nsin, helplessly confused amid the ways that wound about, and crossed,\nand led to still more hopeless entanglements. Despair pointed to the\nnarrow, tangled ways and said, \u201cThere is nothing better.\u201d Looking\nupward, the distant clouds spoke of a larger world and greater freedom,\nand beckoned man to try again. By faith he was saved. To a thoughtful,\nreverent man, all nature reveals and conceals the One who brought it\ninto existence. An awakened soul will never be satisfied until he finds\nGod. He longs to see the Hand that parts the curtains and hurls the\nlightnings. He yearns to see the Face whose smile fills the sky with\nsunlight, and transfigures the cloudy curtains, until they become the\nportals of the heavenly temple. While mystery is not the mother of\nreligion, it is, and ever has been, an important part of the Christian\nfaith. \u201cIt is the glory of God to conceal a thing,\u201d says King Solomon.\nHe might have added, \u201cIt is the glory of man to search until he find\nit.\u201d\n\nIt was from behind the curtained clouds that God spoke, introducing\nJesus as the world\u2019s Redeemer, saying, \u201cThis is my beloved Son, hear\nye him.\u201d It was an overhanging canopy of cloud that curtained the\ndisciples on the Mount of Transfiguration, and it was in this curtained\ntabernacle that they beheld the glory of their Lord. To hide the shame\nof those who crucified His Son, God hung a curtain of cloud about the\nsun, enveloping Calvary in the shades of night. It was a curtain of\ncloud that hid the ascending Lord from the sight of the wondering,\nastonished, fear-filled disciples. It was from amid their soft drapery\nthat the angels spoke of his coming again, and it is upon the clouds\nthat the Son of man shall come in his glory to judge the nations. From\nthe glory of the Patmos vision, John exclaimed, \u201cBehold he cometh\nwith clouds; and every eye shall see him!\u201d To the very end Christ is\nsurrounded with the curtained clouds of mystery. \u201cAnd I looked, and\nbehold a white cloud, and upon the cloud One sat like unto the Son of\nman, having on his head a golden crown, and in his hand a sharp sickle.\nAnd he that sat on the cloud thrust in his sickle on the earth, and the\nearth was reaped.\u201d\n\nMystery has a large part in the Christian faith, not to discourage, but\nto encourage the prayerful, aspiring souls of men. The drapery of cloud\nhangs all about, not to defeat, but to challenge. It is no illusion\nlike a great desert distance filled with the blue of emptiness, that\nstrews the sands with the bones of those whom it deceives, but is as\nreal as the curtains of the ancient tabernacle that held the symbol of\nJehovah\u2019s presence. Life\u2019s mysteries are often most tantalizing; its\nproblems artfully made difficult of solution; but always within their\ndepths is God.\n\nTo-day, for our development, it is the glory of God to conceal a\nmatter, but it is the promise that some day we shall see, not through\nthe mists darkly, but face to face with God. Some day we shall\npass beyond the cloudy portals, and the vision of God and our own\nimmortality shall lie before our enraptured vision. The puzzle of life\nshall there find perfect solution. The equation in which life is now\nthe unknown quantity shall find its answer. In that cloudless land we\nshall know even as we are known. The shadows of death are the last\nshadow the soul of the righteous shall ever see. Until that glad day\ncomes, let us fit ourselves, through prayer and goodness, to receive\nsuch revelations of the mystery of godliness as God may care to reveal\nas he parts the curtains of our life\u2019s horizon, knowing that we journey\nto a perfect, unclouded day.\n\n\n\n\n                                  IV\n\n                            TILLING THE SKY\n\n\nMan, that must till the soil for the building of his body, must also\ntill the sky for the growing of his soul. This was the thought of a\nlittle woman among the Ozarks, who had given a long and beautiful life\nin training her people of the hills. It was Commencement Day in the\ncollege she had founded. Gathered about her were the young men and\nyoung women from the humble homes of those rugged hills. They were now\nleaving her sheltering care to \u201ccommence\u201d life. She was such a tiny\nbit of woman, but through the lens of tears in those students\u2019 eyes,\nshe was greater and more stately than any queen. Her eyes gleamed with\na love-lighted moisture, her lips trembled with great emotions as she\nrose to offer her last words of counsel. She knew that very soon they\nwould be beyond the reach of her voice, and her desire was to write\njust one more message upon the pages of their memories, a message that\nshould never be erased. Breathlessly we awaited her words, which were\nthese: \u201cMy children, whatever you do, or wherever you go, this one task\nI place before you. Continue your study of astronomy, for there is\nnothing that so uplifts and widens one\u2019s life as a study of the sky.\u201d\n\nThese were not the words of a mere dreamer, but of a very practical\nwoman, and were words of wisdom uttered to young men and young women\nwho were practical students, yearning to make their lives count. These\nstudents were trained observers who would travel that they might see\nthings as they are; they were scholars who would study in order to make\ndiscoveries. They were to enter the strain and struggle of competition.\nThey were to match their brawn and brain against honest rivalry and\nunscrupulous dishonesty. They were not entering paradise, yet, amid\nit all, the one who yearned most for their unmeasured success and\nhonor, urged them to cast their plowshare deep into the wide expanse of\noverarching blue, whose owner is God, but whose harvests belong to the\nreaper.\n\nThe little woman was very practical, for a man must not permit the\nnarrowing influences of earthly endeavor to cramp and destroy the soul.\nThis is the tendency of most of our daily duties, even those of the\nmost fascinating and absorbing scientific character. A man may follow\nthe footsteps of Luther Burbank and devote his life to the study of\nplants, and through his magic touch, may bring beauty of form and\nrichness of flavor to bud and blossom, vegetable and fruit, and yet\nthe very fascination of the work may bind him into a narrow world of\njust buds and blossoms, vegetables and fruits. He may, like Edison or\nSteinmetz, choose the fairyland of electricity; or, like Madame Cur\u00e9,\nenter the enchanted realm of radio-activity; or, like Morse and Bell\nand Davenport, become wizards in the world of invention, and find a\njoy that is as perilous as it is unutterable. Any realm of nature or\ninvention, absorbs and fascinates as clover blossoms claim the bee.\nHe who studies will find that a lifetime is too short to fathom the\nunmeasured depths of an atom or explore the mysteries of one drop of\ndew.\n\nBut the very fascination of these things is their peril, for the\ntendency of any line of endeavor is to narrow and to restrict one\u2019s\nlife. One need not yield to this tendency, but the chances are that\nhe will. Darwin reports spending several delightful years studying\nfish-worms, but while engaged in this absorbing task he lost all\ntaste for music. Ericsson had a similar experience. Planning, with\nsteel armor, to remake the navies of the world, he refused his soul\nall sound of blended tones, endeavoring to feed his whole nature on\narmor plate. It was not until Ole Bull, against Ericsson\u2019s desire,\nentered his factory, and began playing his violin, that the great\ninventor became a weeping, willing captive, kneeling at the shrine of\nmusic, tearfully confessing that he had then found that which he had\nlost, and for which his soul had been craving. When a man, through the\nmicroscope, begins a life study of the infinitesimal, he is apt to get\nhis own ego into the field of vision and magnify himself. On the other\nhand, considering only his own achievements in art or architecture,\none is apt to exaggerate his own importance saying, \u201cIs not this great\nBabylon, which I have builded?\u201d However, when he begins to study the\nstars and comprehend something of the vastness of the plan upon which\nGod has made the heaven and the earth, he will see his own littleness\nand exclaim with the psalmist, \u201cWhen I consider thy heavens, the work\nof thy fingers, the moon and the stars, which thou hast ordained; what\nis man?\u201d\n\nNo earth-made ceiling is high enough for a growing brain. Each\nindividual must have a God-made sky in which to lift his head and think\nthe thoughts of the Almighty. The earthly thing upon which we set our\naffection and which we think so essential may mean the wreck and ruin\nof the soul. It is easy to neglect the brain, and direct all one\u2019s\nenergies toward gaining earthly possessions, not for the opportunities\nafforded for benevolence, but that one may dress in style and enjoy a\nsocial life, not knowing that it is far better to be a great thinker\nthan to be the best dressed man in Paris. Poverty may be infinitely\nbetter than wealth when the individual has a familiar sky above his\nhead and a good book in his hand. How insignificant are earth\u2019s\ngreatest obstacles compared with the immensities of stellar space!\nNothing can hinder the man who is accustomed to measure the distances\nbetween stars. With his eyes on the distant suns, poverty becomes a\nmole-hill; poor health, but a breath of mist; and success is within\neasy reach. It is good for one to till the sky until he learns the\nvastness of his Creator\u2019s thoughts.\n\nOne of the richest harvests garnered from the sky is a revelation of\nthe accuracy with which God works. The stars do not dwell in a land of\n\u201cHit and Miss,\u201d and eclipses are not accidental happenings. No ship\ncuts the waves of the sea with half the accuracy as star and planet\nmove in their appointed courses. There are no swervings nor deviations\nfrom the plan of God, so that an astronomer can calculate the exact\nsecond when a comet will return from its long journey through unseen\nrealms; as well as foretell the conjunction of planets a thousand years\nfrom now. God has appointed an exact second for the rising of the sun,\nand another exact second for its setting, and man knows what both of\nthem are a thousand years before the day arrives. Then let us till\nthe sky until we learn that He who planned the high-arched blue, and\nmarked orbits for stars and planets, is also the Designer of our own\nlives, and has set for us a divine purpose somewhat like the vastness\nof the sky. Yielding ourselves to God as the heavenly constellations\nyield themselves to their controlling powers, each one has a greater\nlife to live, and a more sublime destiny to attain, than his fondest\ndreams. How foolish it is to till the soil for money, and miss the very\nessence of life, by failing to utilize the sky that yields such tender\nministries with so little effort!\n\nIt is well to look upward and learn a lesson of patience, for the open\nsky teaches that the plans of God are not worked out in a day. The\njourney from star-dust to harvest-ladened planet peopled by a happy\nfamily of contented men, requires many millions of years, yet, from the\nbeginning it was in the mind of God. He has never altered his plan,\nbut with divine accuracy the work has passed from stage to stage of\ndevelopment with perfect progression. With such an example, we must\nlearn patience and not become discouraged when we cannot see the end\nfrom the beginning. A child can make a shelf full of mud pies in one\nsummer\u2019s afternoon, and they will last no longer than the first rain.\nHasty work means wasted effort. Life that endures must be planned of\nGod, fulfilled with astronomical accuracy, and most patiently developed.\n\nHow wonderful the brain that is molded after something of the vastness\nof the open sky, and how thrilling to walk and till the fields of\nheavenly blue! We were meant for those heights. It does not require\na very great elevation in the pure atmosphere of a Western State to\npush back the horizon forty and fifty miles. This planet is not the\nobjective of life. It is only the hilltop where God has placed us for a\nlittle while that we may catch a vision as wide as the universe and as\nhigh as his own White Throne.\n\n\n\n\n                                   V\n\n                          UNQUARRIED STATUES\n\n\nMichael Angelo, with his statues of David and Moses, proved that\nPhidias and Praxiteles had not exhausted the marvelous possibilities\nof the art of sculpture. Rodin, with his \u201cThinker,\u201d has shown,\nwhile Phidias and Praxiteles demonstrated the possibility of giving\nimmortality to the unsurpassed beauty of Grecian form, and while\nMichael Angelo revealed the power of expressing grace, as in David,\nand commanding leadership, as in Moses, that the achievements of these\ntwo schools of art were the Pillars of Hercules, not marking the limit\nof art, but the open gateway to uncharted seas and undiscovered realms\nin the art of reshaping marble. There is not a lofty sentiment of the\nsoul, a struggling aspiration toward goodness, or form of idealism\nthat cannot be made to live in marble, and exert undying influence.\nThere is more than \u201can angel in the block of marble.\u201d There are all the\nhopes and fears, joys and sorrows, laughter and tears, longings and\naspirations, desires and despairs; there is all that is manly, noble,\nand heroic, lying in any block of marble awaiting the coming of the\nliberating chisel. What inspiration to the young artist of to-day, and\nwhat joy to all lovers of the beautiful! The depths of earth are stored\nwith a wealth of unquarried statues.\n\nThe progress of civilization is ofttimes hindered because youth, in\nthinking of statues, consider the pedestals upon which they rest rather\nthan the depth from which they were quarried. They very often do not\ncare to begin life at the right place. Because they covet praise, and\nenjoy the warm, congenial atmosphere of appreciation, they shun the\ndepths, hours of loneliness, the unrequited toil of preparation, and\nthe laborious efforts of beginning. Modeling clay is an important part\nof the achievement; but getting the proper marble is one of the first\nessentials.\n\nThe experience of Michael Angelo is common to all men of real\nachievement: he found that the market place does not offer marble\nblocks of sufficient size for him to work out his divine conception.\nHucksters and makers of money in the market place seldom understand\nambitious youth that asks for larger blocks than they are capable\nof handling. Their idea of a great thought is an ornament for the\nmantelpiece. But men of achievement will not be daunted. Locking\nhis studio, Angelo went to superintend the breaking of blocks in\nthe mountain of Carrara, and when the sluggish-minded people of the\nmountains refused to do his bidding, he opened new quarries in Seravez.\nBefore he could carve his statue he knew that he must quarry a block of\nmarble sufficiently large. He knew also that the block of marble could\nbe had for the digging. He found what he needed but did not exhaust the\ntreasury. The world still has the material, richer than that which made\nAngelo and Rodin famous, awaiting the youth of ambition to undertake\ngreat things, and the willingness, at any cost, to superintend the\nbreaking of the marble blocks from the buried storehouses.\n\nThe pleasure of nature is to store her raw material in seemingly\ninaccessible strongholds. She does not willingly yield them to men\nlacking vision and great conceptions. If they were of easy access,\ncommon men would crush them to make roads for donkeys to tramp over.\nNature\u2019s treasures are too valuable for ignorance to destroy, so she\nlocks them in secret depths or inaccessible heights, awaiting the\ncoming of the man of genius. If only a man yields himself to the divine\nleadings, and catches a vision of a statue like Moses, or a fa\u00e7ade\nfor the Church of San Lorenzo, or for a mausoleum for the Medici,\nno mountainside is too steep to chisel a roadway through the jagged\nrocks, no morass so yielding but that a solid highway may be erected,\nno water so troubled but that boats may safely transport the precious\nmarble. He will not depend upon hirelings nor lean upon borrowed\nstrength. The dream of beauty must be wrought in marble, the unquarried\nstatue must be lifted from obscurity and made to live in some public\nplace, therefore he will personally attend to the breaking of the\nblocks.\n\nIt is not an easy matter to live out a divine idea and make it a thing\ntangible and real for a critical world to examine and criticize and\nafterwards love and venerate. Sluggards and lovers of ease cannot do\nit. To them an unquarried statue is only a stone. For centuries no one\nhas given it any attention; why should they? They would rather have\nsomething to eat and drink. A cushioned chair is far more comfortable\nto sit on, and a potato is much more substantial food. What they want\nis something to eat, and a place in which to lounge, and because they\ndo not see the value of great ideas they can never be forgotten when\ndead, for they were never known while living.\n\nHe lives who forgets to live and concentrates all his powers in\nbringing to light the vision of his beauty-loving soul. It may be\nthe beauty of art or the beauty of worthy living; it may be the\nbeauty of perfect workmanship in shop or factory, or the beauty of a\nwholesome influence flowing from noble character; it may be loveliness\nof sympathetic serving, or the beauty of aggressive battle for\nrighteousness; it may take any one of many forms of exalted thinking\nand endeavor, yet its realization comes only when one eats, and drinks,\nand bends every energy, not for the sake of living, but for the\nrealization of that which is more than living.\n\nHow lamentable for a human life to end and find at the final judgment\nthat all its days were of less value to the world than that of a coral\npolyp! How wonderful for one to be made out of dust, and after a while\nto crumble back into dust, and yet, refusing to grovel in the dust,\nleave the world richer, and better, and more beautiful, so that people\nof another age will breathe his name in reverence as they behold that\nwhich he hath wrought. Professor Finsen, the inventor of the \u201clight\ncure,\u201d was an invalid for many years, yet he labored like a slave, in\nthe severest self-denial, to bring his invention, without compensation,\nto the service of the world\u2019s sick and suffering. He had but one dread\nand that was the regret of dying, and leaving his little five-year-old\nboy without any memory of his father. He desired to live long enough\nto impress his face and life upon the memory of his son, that, in the\nafter years, the growing man would never forget the one who toiled so\nearnestly for him. He did not want to be forgotten. How little did he\ndream of the immortality that was his! He found an unquarried statue\nin the sunbeam where others had overlooked it. Through ceaseless toil\nhe brought it within the vision of the world and gained a name that\ncountless ages will not forget.\n\nHow wonderful to be the son of such a man! And though the image of the\nfather\u2019s face be blotted from the memory, the statue that he carved\nwill help and heal the generations. How wonderful to be the son of such\na man, but how much more wonderful it is to be the man himself! To\nfight with optimistic heart against the ravages of disease, to overcome\nthe natural yearnings of a father\u2019s heart, to endure the most slavish\ntoil without thought or hope of compensation, to be a sick man fighting\nfor others who were sick; a dying man making battle against disease\nthat others may not taste of death!\n\nThis is the joy unspeakable, to know that life is not in vain, but\neverlastingly worth while. The visions shall not fade as summer clouds\nat twilight time, but shall live in that which is as imperishable as\nmarble. Each one can say with deep resolve: \u201cMen shall behold the\nbeauty of my soul by beholding the beauty of my daily life. Since\nwords are blossoms, I shall, with gracious speech, show my friends how\nchoice a garden I have planted in my heart. Since every blossom bears\na seed I shall take pleasure in planting them within the hearts of\nothers, that the beauty of my life may live in them. Out of the marble\nblock that it has been mine to break from its hiding place, I shall\ncarve the image I have treasured so long within my heart.\u201d To do this\nis to find a joy unspeakable. Life is not useless, but gloriously worth\nwhile. Eating, and drinking, and toiling for that which is far more\nthan life, one can never die.\n\n\n\n\n                                  VI\n\n                           THE AGES TO COME\n\n\nNo matter how earnestly we may love our life-calling, and rejoice in\nour chosen field of activity, there are hours when the easiest task\nbecomes irksome and its daily repetition seems unbearable. However\nhealthy the soul and robust the moral nature, a constant onslaught of\nsorrow may wound like a poisoned dart, filling the soul with painful\nforebodings. Beholding the transitoriness of life, and the apparent\nfrailty and uncertainty of those things upon which we place our\nheaviest dependence, we become depressed, and feel that nothing is\npermanent and that life\u2019s products are but empty shadows. These are\ncommon experiences, and their frequent repetition does not lessen their\ndepressive power. Coming upon us to-day they are just as hurtful as\nwhen they challenged us for the first time.\n\nThat we may overcome these disagreeable tendencies, and live a life\nvictorious, Paul revealed the secret of his own achievements. To him\nwork never became drudgery, sorrow never festered or left a feverish\nwound, while even the most commonplace incident was of the deepest\nsignificance because he had learned to acquire and maintain a deep\nperspective that placed each moment of time in the white light of\neternity. He believed that we are not created for the hour but for the\ncenturies, and that we must work not so much for the present hour as\nfor the years that are yet to be. The one purpose of every word and\ndeed, to Paul, was to \u201cshow the ages to come the exceeding riches of\nGod\u2019s grace.\u201d\n\nAs the prolific and luxuriant vegetation of the carboniferous age\nbordered the lakes with ferns, the rivers with reeds, and the hillsides\nand valleys with gigantic trees of grotesque form, that, in the ages to\ncome, man might have the exhaustless coalbeds to protect him from the\ncold; as the coral polyps, buried beneath the waves, love and labor and\ndie, generation after generation, until a coral island lifts its head\nto receive the kisses of the passing waves and extend the arms of a\nprotecting harbor, that, in the ages to come, the storm-tossed mariners\nmay find safe shelter against the stormy wind and wave; so you and I\nare to love, and labor, and die, not for ourselves, but that the ages\nto come, through our goodness and fidelity, may behold the riches of\nGod\u2019s grace.\n\nThis does not mean that we are to so bury the present in the future\nthat our lives shall consist of nothing save vague dreams and\nidle contemplations. It means the opposite. We are to magnify the\npresent and give it increasing value by crowding it with an eternal\nsignificance. We are not to drop to-day into the silent ocean of the\nfuture and see it fade from sight, but into to-day we are to crowd\nto-morrow and all the other to-morrows that shall follow. Instead of\nlosing the drop of water in Niagara we are to crowd all the dash and\nsplendor and power of Niagara into the single drop of water; instead\nof losing the dew in the ocean, we crowd the ocean into the dewdrop;\ninstead of burying the present into the future, we gather all eternity\nand crowd it into a single lifetime, so that every second of time\nbecomes as precious as a thousand years of eternity, and the smallest\ntask we have to perform becomes as sacred as the songs of the angels.\n\nWhen one possesses this conception of life that crowds a vast eternity\nwithin the compass of a single individual life, no toil can ever become\ndrudgery. Every deed has divine significance. The most ordinary task\nwill be performed carefully, knowing that it must stand the scrutiny\nand criticisms of the passing centuries. We labor then with the various\nelements of life, as the artists of Venice toil with their priceless\nmosaics, willing to spend a lifetime of painstaking endeavor in\nforming a single feature of a saint, knowing that long after they\nthemselves have ceased to toil the wisdom of untold centuries shall\nreview their efforts to either praise or blame. Hitherto we have\ndespised the commonplace things that fell to our hands, while we\nbusied ourselves searching for some great thing worthy of our effort,\nwith the result that nothing has been accomplished; now we find, that\nthat only is truly great which is commonplace. Divine opportunities\nare everywhere. In the low-browed man upon the street we see the\npossibility of an ennobled and redeemed humanity. In the waif, crying\nfrom hunger, we see the center of world-wide and eternal destinies.\nWords are winged messengers, so we learn to study them with care, and\nspeak them with the precision with which a musician strikes his chords.\nDivine destinies are depending upon the perfection with which we toil,\nadding a charm to every endeavor that never fades with weariness. There\ncan be no drudgery to him who has a perspective eternity long.\n\nThis conception of life which Paul gives us will carry us unharmed\nthrough all the misfortunes of life. It is impossible for us to escape\nsorrow. By rigid economy we may save our money only to have it stolen\nby a deceitful friend; we may build a home, only to find it purchased\nand occupied by another; loved ones, more precious than our own lives,\nhave been lured from our side by the hand of death. These hours are\nnaturally dark and of tortuous length, and if it were not for the fact\nthat we have learned to think in terms of eternity, we would die of a\nbroken heart. But we do not die; we pass through them with triumphant\ntread. The soul sobs but does not bleed; the heart hurts but does\nnot break. We are not living for this world alone; our horizon has\nbeen widened because we have been lifted to a higher level; we can\nnow see two worlds; our faith sweeps onward as far as God can think.\nThe earthly home for which we planned and toiled has passed into the\nhands of another, but we rejoice in the knowledge that we have a home,\nnot made with toiling, blistered hands of earth, but one eternal in\nthe heavens. Our loved ones no longer greet us at the table or occupy\ntheir accustomed places in the family circle, but we have not lost them\nforever. They have simply passed from time into eternity, and because\nwe also are the children of eternity, they are still our own, and we\nshall see them once again. Thank God for the transforming power that\ncomes into every human life when, by divine aid, one crowds eternal\nsignificance into his days, and works, not for himself, but for \u201cthe\nages to come.\u201d\n\nPaul\u2019s view of life enables us to find perfect satisfaction in working\nwith the frailties of time in building that which is immortal in\ncharacter and service. Possessed with such a purpose, the spider\u2019s\nweb becomes a cable, dust becomes slabs of marble, and seconds\nbecomes decades. There is nothing more fragile than a word, spoken in\nstammering weakness, but with a trembling desire to be of service,\nyet out of one word fitly spoken may be created an influence that\nsweeps heaven and earth. A faltering word of Christian testimony was\nspoken by a godly man made weak by an unconquerable embarrassment,\nbut his utterance proved mighty. Lodging in the heart of Charles\nSpurgeon, it started him on his wonderful career that is yet shaking\nall Christendom. The smile of the face is far more delicate than\nthe frailest blossom that opens its soft petals in obedience to the\ncaressing influence of the sun, for its existence is but for the\nfraction of a second; yet one kindly, love-illumined look has been the\nforce that has lifted multitudes of mortals out of despondency and\nuselessness, and made them the creators of mighty moral and religious\nforces. It was a smile that saved John G. Wooley for the cause of\ntemperance. A smile, and a word, and the gift of a handkerchief were\nall that Frances E. Willard used to redeem one of the most notorious\ncharacters of Chicago, and make her one of God\u2019s ministers of light\namong the fallen.\n\nWhen one learns to live with the light of eternity flooding his pathway\nthere is not an event in life so small and insignificant that he\ncannot employ it to create, and afterward use it, to sustain eternal\ninfluences. There is joy now in living for Christ, but let us live,\nnot for that joy alone, but that, in the ages to come, we may show the\nexceeding riches of God\u2019s grace. Let them, through us, behold what the\ngrace of God can do to save, to keep, to empower, and to make immortal\nsuch sin-smitten ones as we have been. This is the secret for making\ntoil pleasant, sorrows helpless, and the humblest effort an enterprise\nof such character as crowds earth with richer meaning, and fills the\nheavens with new-found joys. Show them that the greatest of all known\nforces is a Christ-filled life.\n\n\n\n\n                                  VII\n\n                      THE UNLOCKED DOOR OF TRUTH\n\n\nHistory has proven that the power of the \u201cAll Highest\u201d War Lord is\nas weak as a baby\u2019s arm compared with the power of the humblest\nindividual who has entered into and taken possession of some great\ntruth. A thousand lords and ladies were gathered within the Babylonian\npalace which was ablaze with light and filled with music. All hail to\nKing Belshazzar! His praises were upon every lip. All honor to the\nroyal family that had lifted the hanging gardens above the low-lying\nplains, who had swung gates of bronze and planned the mightiest city\nin the world. Every lip praised and every heart feared the power of\nthe daring king. But when the finger of God wrote a message of fire\nupon the palace walls it was no longer Belshazzar who was ruler. The\nfate of king and lord and ladies was in the hand of Daniel. He alone\nof that great throng had seen and entered into the truth of temperance\nand self-control. Such was the sustaining power of that possessed\ntruth that when the man-made king trembled, and a nation crumbled into\noblivion, he alone stood unmoved and triumphant amid the wreck and\nchaos.\n\nBefore the throne of ecclesiastical autocracy the rulers of the nations\nbowed in weakness and everlasting shame. The autocracy of superstition\nis the most merciless and deadly known, but when the power of Rome was\nat the zenith of her unscrupulous reign, Martin Luther, a common man\nwith uncommon sense, discovered and entered into the great truth that\n\u201cthe just shall live by faith.\u201d Entering into that truth, he found a\npower before which the claims of the Pope became insignificant, and by\nhis boldness, brought religious liberty to the people, thus gaining\nuniversal love and immortality.\n\nMary was Queen of England, and with that overzeal of religious bigotry,\nwas ruling with unquestioned power and severity. Hugh Latimer was only\na humble preacher, one of the least of the queen\u2019s subjects, living\namong the poor, but beside him, Queen Mary sinks into everlasting\ncontempt. The robes of fire wrapped his body in their golden folds,\nhiding him forever from the sight of man, but the world has not\nforgotten him. His dust knows no burial place, but because he lived in\nthe sheltering tabernacle of a great truth he will live forever in the\nhearts of those who love religious tolerance, while the dust of Mary\ncrumbles in the gruesome vault at Westminster Abbey, with no lip to\nsing her praises to the passing generations. Royal or ecclesiastical\npower is nothing compared with the enduring authority of a common man\nwho has found, and entered into, and wholly and completely lives a\ngreat eternal truth of God.\n\nTruth incarnate in human life is almighty, but truth in the abstract is\nas helpless as is the dust of the Egyptian highways, which witnessed\nthe world\u2019s mightiest pageants, but which are unable to tell the\nstory of mighty armies, royal cavalcades, and kingly processions that\nonce tramped upon them. Truth has always existed. However conceited\na religious leader may be, no one ever dared to presume himself\nthe creator of a truth. Long before the world had settled upon its\nfoundations, and the constellations of stars, like chandeliers, swayed\nand swung their pendants of light, all truth beat and throbbed within\nthe heart of the Almighty. Throughout the beauty of verdant slope,\ncrested wave, and starlit sky, these words of encouragement have ever\nrung: \u201cYe shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.\u201d The\ntruths of civilization have been in existence since creation, yet in\nevery century heathenism has flourished. The truth about human freedom\nhas always been, yet Rameses sat upon a throne and drove the Hebrews\nto their task, beating their backs with knotted thongs and murdering\ntheir children; the barons lived in palatial palaces fed in luxury,\nwhile serfs toiled for harvests which they could never gather, and\nstarving, dared not plead for a morsel of the food their toil provided;\nthe Sultan of Turkey reveled in orgies, flagrant and disgusting, while\nhumble Armenians were torn asunder, their bleeding bodies fed to swine,\ntheir wives and children tortured beyond belief, while no civilized\nnation dared lift its hand in protest. Truth, in itself, is not\nomnipotent. To be of value, truth must be entered into and possessed.\n\nEvery truth has a door. To ignorance the door is barred and bolted.\nTo thoughtlessness, the door remains unseen. Only to the eye trained\nwith prayer, faith in God, and love for man, is given the vision of\nthese bright portals, and the possession of the key by which he can\nunlock the door and enter into and enjoy the truth, which the world\nhas long known by heart, but which had never enveloped, sheltered,\nand controlled their lives. If he has the courage to use the key and\nopen the door and enter in, he shall not only feel the saving power of\nGod, but he shall leave an open way through which all men may pass to\ngreater power. If he refuses to unlock the door, and, like the learned\nones of whom Christ spoke, carries away the key, entering not in\nthemselves and hindering those who would enter, he becomes an exile,\nwithout home through time and eternity.\n\nThat we may more clearly comprehend this truth let us consider a\nchapter of American history. Hayne had finished his classic and\nconvincing speech. With gracious charm he had proclaimed the doctrine\nof union without liberty, a nation of free people, half slave. The rapt\nattention and tribute of silent applause from the audience told how\ncritical the situation had become. Opposed to him was Daniel Webster,\nAmerica\u2019s favorite child of genius, whose face was as classic as a\nGreek god\u2019s, and whose commanding bearing won battles like a general.\nHe was a scholar of the strong New England type, searching for the\nkey to unlock the truth that the nation needed, and make it of easy\naccess to the people. He saw that there could be no union without\nuniversal freedom. Hour after hour he proclaimed the truth, making the\nmightiest speech the nation had ever heard, swaying his audience back\nto the realm of clear thinking. Finally, with one sentence, \u201cUnion\nand liberty, now and forever, one and inseparable,\u201d he revealed to an\nawakened nation that he had found the key that would unlock the door of\ntruth that the hour needed. But in his hour of triumph, dazzled by the\npossibility of becoming President, he refused to use the key. To gain\nthe solid South he uttered his fateful speech for compromise. The North\nheld its breath in expectancy while New England sobbed like one bereft\nof his favorite child. He who had the key refused to enter in himself\nand hindered those who would have entered.\n\nBut New England had another son of genius who, on the eventful night\nthat Webster, with trembling fingers, tried, and failed, to pick up the\nkey that he had thrown away, left Faneuil Hall with blazing, burning\nthoughts. He too had found the way, but was unknown and untried. Again\nhe was in Faneuil Hall sitting beside James Russell Lowell, listening\nto the mad mouthings of men, who, for the money involved, were\nendeavoring to rechristen Wrong and call it Right. He had waited weary\nweeks, but now he was unable to keep back his flaming indignation.\nRising, he began to speak. On the very platform where Webster had\nfallen he began to plead the right of human liberty. New England was\nthrilled with hope. Here at last was a man who not only saw the truth\nbut was determined to enter into it. With the confidence of a prophet\nhe used the key, unlocked the door and showed a nation the way it ought\nto go.\n\nTruth must become incarnate in man and man must be incarnate in truth.\nEvery Christian man will testify to this. In childhood you committed\nscripture which had little meaning to your childish mind. It was not\nuntil in the after years when sorrow came, and grief blinded the eye,\nand pain wounded the heart, that the clear, sweet voice of memory began\nto repeat these verses, and what had been meaningless in childhood\nbecame great, wholesome, sheltering, protecting truths, in which you\nfound all the consolations of God.\n\nIt is a wonderful hour when the soul enters into and takes possession\nof God\u2019s great truth, becomes the master of all its stored up power,\nand begins to use it in the service of love. It is a wonderful\nexperience and need never be delayed, for the door is easy to find.\nYears ago earth was blessed by the coming of One who worked hard at\nthe carpenter trade, and in the school of toil and prayer, found the\nway that scholars had overlooked. Standing before kings and earthly\npotentates he said: \u201cI am the way, the truth, and the life.\u201d His spirit\nis the way for men to live, the door through which they pass into all\ntruth, the life of fullest spiritual development. Christ is the open\nway to every truth. Through him men attain the proper point of view,\nand, learning to obey the Father as did he, begin to live the life\ntriumphant.\n\n\n\n\n                                 VIII\n\n                           WEAVING SUNBEAMS\n\n\nNature is always busy weaving sunbeams, and not one of them, like a\nknotted thread, is cast from her loom. The waves cast their crystal\nspray upon the sands to waste away, but not so with the sun as he\nlavishly casts his beams broadcast o\u2019er the earth. Not one of them\ngoes upon a fruitless errand, and not one of them fails to reach its\nintended goal. It is not that the sun is wise in directing its energy,\nbut because the earth is ready to utilize, with untiring fidelity, the\ngift of sunlight.\n\nHow abundantly the sunbeams come! The arched sky is an upturned basket,\nout of which God is pouring his wealth of sunlight upon a thirsty,\nneedy planet. These rays of light fall everywhere, because they are\nneeded everywhere. Upon arctic snow and desert sand and undiscovered\nocean waves they fall as readily as upon the forests of Brittany or\nthe vineyards of France. They place their gleaming coronets upon the\ncrystal brows of the Alps. They dance and flash their jewels, as they\nhold carnival in the Northern Lights. Even after the sun is set they\npeer at us through the parted clouds and leap at us from their hiding\nplaces in the moon. They fall in the most inaccessible places, yet\nnone of them are ever wasted. As the parched earth drinks raindrops,\nso the old world absorbs sunbeams. Swifter and more powerful than\nthe leaping waters of a cataract are they poured upon the earth--a\nNiagara, world-wide and sun-high, with never-ceasing floods of light\nthat bathe each portion of the globe. They are not piled in heaps; they\ndo not swish and whirl, cutting a gorge through solid rock, or form a\nwhirlpool to menace humanity, but the earth absorbs them all, however\nrapidly they come, and places them in her mysterious loom. Here, in\nthe depths, beyond our sight, the sunbeams are woven into invisible\ncords that hold the needles of all the compasses to the north that\nno traveler need be lost in the forest, and no ship perish in the\nsea. Here, in the depths, the sunbeams are woven into mighty cables\nof electric power that man picks up with the fingers of the dynamo\nand compels to lift his burdens, pull his trains, propel his ships,\nand serve him in a thousand ways. Here, in the depths, is woven that\nmysterious power that carries the wireless message through the rocks of\nthe mountains and the channels of the sea, and wraps the earth in a\ndiaphanous garb that makes the wireless telephone a possibility.\n\nThe world we see is but woven sunbeams. The forests of oak are the\nsunbeams of yesterday, wrought into gnarled and knotted fingers to\ngrasp the sunbeams of to-day and wind them on a myriad unseen shuttles.\nSoon they shall appear woven in the texture of notched leaf and carved\nchalice of the acorn\u2019s cup. The sunbeams falling upon the tangled\nbranches of the hillside vineyard, are woven into buds, and leaves,\nand clinging tendrils, and afterward into the rich cluster of luscious\ngrapes. The sunbeams fall upon the buried seed and are woven into an\nemerald lever with which the clod is lifted, into sturdy leaves that\nare chemical laboratories where crude sap is changed into milk, into\nheads of golden wheat with which to feed a thoughtless, hungry world.\nSunbeams are woven into corn and oats, into apples and peaches, into\nnuts and berries. Falling along the railroad grade, they are woven into\nviolets; falling in the swamps, they are woven into buttercups; falling\nin the thicket, they are woven into the silken folds of the wild-rose\npetal.\n\nAs nature weaves the sunbeam and not the shadow so man ought to develop\nhis power of utilizing happiness and joy. The sunshine of life ought\nnot to be thrown away like confetti and ribbon papers on a gala day.\nThoughtlessly our youths and maidens dance and sing in giddy, senseless\nmanner, throwing away sunbeams as though their lives were only bits of\ncolored glass through which the light of joy and happiness should pass.\nHaving no looms with which to weave their sunbeams into that which\nwould adorn their souls with garments of ever-growing life, they soon\nbecome old and haggard, lifeless and dead, a burned-out planet like\nthe moon, unable to appreciate the sunlight that never fails to fall.\nMuch of the difference between men is due to the ability of one and\nthe inability of the other to make the passing joys of life become a\npermanent, abiding element of his life.\n\nThere is no life without sufficient sunlight to weave a gracious\npersonality. Wholesomeness of character is not the result of partiality\non God\u2019s part, neither is hideous irritability of disposition\noccasioned by God\u2019s neglect of one of his children. The difference\nbetween wholesomeness and unwholesomeness of character is that of the\nright and wrong use of the blessings which God bestows upon all alike.\nHe who casts his sunbeams away will find old age desert and lifeless,\nwhile he who weaves them all into a pleasing personality, will always\nexperience the joy of a more abundant life. A smile is softer than a\nsilken fiber and wears far longer. Its colors never fade, nor pass out\nof style. Woven into a robe of genuine cheerfulness the soul possesses\nrich adornment. These are the individuals whom children love, men seek\nto honor, and all the world respects. A king\u2019s robe is commonplace\ncompared with the attractive vesture of a healthy, cheerful disposition\nwhich anyone may weave out of sunbeams, with which God crowds even the\nmost secluded, humble lives.\n\nThis occupation is also the secret of sound and vigorous influence.\nAll men possess the power of influence, but even when one has the best\nintentions he may wield a harmful, baleful influence because of an\nirritable and complaining disposition. A petulant temper and irascible\ndisposition are the thunder that curds much of the milk of human\nkindness, and an application of alum will not tend to sweeten the curd.\nWith a sharp tongue one may be driven to hard labor, but the wounds\nhe carries in his heart will prevent him from performing a perfect\ntask. Scolding and fault-finding have driven multitudes into iniquity.\nIt is difficult to drive bees, but one can lure them any distance\nwith a field of blooming clover. By forgetting to weave sunbeams into\nwholesome character one not only loses the joy of being cheerful but\nfails in one of the supreme objectives of life--that of wielding\nintelligently a helpful, healthy, and enduring influence.\n\nThe secret of achievement may also be described as weaving sunbeams.\nIn a victorious life the blessings of God take permanent place in the\nwork of hand and brain. Such a life is a loom which receives only\nthat he may produce, the quality of the production depending upon\nthe care and patience with which he works, indifference producing\nmediocrity, carefulness leading to perfection. What the world calls\ngenius is simply the mastery of the gracious art of weaving sunbeams\ninto polished sentences, enduring thoughts, embroidered tapestry,\nliving poem, inspiring painting, and graceful statue. The way out\nof mediocrity is to weave one\u2019s personal blessings into world-wide\nbenefits.\n\nHere also is found the way to overcome life\u2019s obstacles. A frown\nnever wins a battle. It was a singing army that crossed the sea and\nhelped win the World War. Amid the dangers, hardships, and privations\nour soldiers gathered sunbeams, and with a cheerfulness never before\nwitnessed upon a field of battle did their full part. Trenches,\nbarbed-wire entanglement, and treacherous pitfall are nothing to one\nwho weaves his sunbeams into song. Thus all difficulties fade away and\nvanish.\n\nThese statements are only another way of saying that one should weave\nGod into every fiber of life. The sun is always emblematic of the\nFather, and he who weaves sunbeams will know and love God. This is no\nidle saying, nor a bit of rhetoric, but a soul-saving truth. It is the\nsun that banishes the shadows; it is God who enables us to overcome\nour temptations, pain and sorrow. The more we utilize his revelations\nthe brighter the pathway, until at last we shall stand in his presence\nand have no more need of the sun, for we have him. \u201cThey shall hunger\nno more, neither thirst any more; neither shall the sun light on them,\nnor any heat. For the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall\nfeed them, and shall lead them into living fountains of waters: and God\nshall wipe all tears from their eyes.\u201d Weaving sunbeams in a world of\nshadows, we prepare ourselves for the unshadowed land where God is the\neverlasting Light. There, without sin or suffering, we shall know God.\n\n\n\n\n                                  IX\n\n                    THE PATHWAY OF A NOBLE PURPOSE\n\n\nAs the sleepless eye thirsts for the dawn, and the troubled child\nhungers for the sound of its mother\u2019s voice, so each growing soul\nseeks a coveted goal the attaining of which, to him, means success.\nAs boys, to be boys, must dream their dreams of strife and conflict\nupon a battle\u2019s front, and girls, to be girls, must dream their milder\ndreams of love, so coming maturity demands of each aspiring soul that\nhe linger long upon the visions of strife that lead to success. It is\nwell to seek for great things, for each success that enters the golden\nportals of our lives brings many chariots filled with golden gifts.\nReturning to his home, the Roman victor was honored with a triumph in\nwhich, on golden plate and velvet spread, the trophies and spoils of\nconquest were displayed. In this way the ambitious Roman youth learned\nthat success is always attended by a great procession of rich rewards.\nThe one who conquers feels more than the soul-thrill of victory. Like\nSamson, he finds the unexpected reward of a carcass filled with honey\nawaiting his hungry lips.\n\nWhile success is worthy of one\u2019s best efforts, and all men hunger for\nit, very few, indeed, have ever reached that happy goal. They failed\nbecause they refused to follow the pathway of a noble purpose. They\nbelieved that success was altogether a matter of outward form. Seeing\nthe conqueror riding in triumphant procession, they thought that the\napplause arose, not because he had conquered, but because he wore\na helmet and a shield. Hurrying to an emporium, they too purchased\nhelmets and shields and strutted forth to win a world\u2019s applause.\nFoolish souls! The public eye is keen and penetrating and always\napprehends the truth. If the people greet a king with shouts, it is not\nbecause they see a gleaming crown, but because they recognize a royal\nsoul beneath the crown. If the multitude cheer a warrior, it is not\nbecause he bears a standard, but because, in courageous conflict, he\nwon a battle for the people. Spain greeted the discoverer of America,\nnot because of the grain and fruit he brought, but because he had\nbraved the dangers of a dark unknown, and blazed a pathway through\nuntracked wastes.\n\nHistory repeats the story of a weird Scythian custom. When the head\nof a house died his family would adorn his corpse in finest raiment,\nplace it in a chariot, and, amid shouts and hosannas, draw it to the\nhomes of former friends. Coming to each dwelling place, the corpse\nwould be greeted with pomp and splendor. For the final home-coming the\nsteps would be carpeted with silken shawl and choice embroidery, while\nlighted chandeliers flashed welcome to the dead and sunken eyes. Within\nthe doorway the crowned corpse was placed at the head of a banqueting\ntable at which his gay companions sat and made merry, eating and\ndrinking in his honor. Thus many days were spent in honoring the dead\nbefore the body was laid away in the tomb. To us it was a most gruesome\ncustom, but each Scythian youth struggled to possess a home of his own,\nthat some day he might be carried as a crowned corpse through the city\nstreets, and finally, be seated in honor at his own banqueting board.\n\nThis ancient custom was the outgrowth of a mistaken view of life still\nprevailing in many quarters, for the crowned corpse is seen to-day in\nmany public gatherings. What else is the man who seeks office for the\nselfish purpose and pleasure of holding office? In youth he saw the\ngovernor\u2019s chair or Senate seat, and found that every chord of his\nnature was awakened and longed to reach that goal. He determined that\nthis vision of his soul should be transcribed from the pages of his\nimagination to the pages of his nation\u2019s history. Two pathways opened.\nThe one of a noble purpose, saying, \u201cSeek office, that you may render\nneeded service to your fellow countrymen.\u201d The pathway of selfishness\nopened its portals saying, \u201cSeek office for the sake of gain.\u201d Seeing\nthat trickery and deceit promised the easier way to gain his end,\nhe started with leaps and bounds. He cast lots with dishonesty and\ndissipation. He became a perjurer, a liar, and a thief. He sold himself\nto an unworthy cause, at last the coveted crown was his. To-day he sits\nat the head of the table, not a great ruler, but a crowned corpse. In\nhis struggle for power he lost all that constitutes real living.\n\nWhat else is the man who seeks wealth for the sole sake of having\nmoney? For years he has lived the life of a slave, denying himself\nbeauty, music, books, devotions, and benevolence, until, at last,\nhis name appears in Bradstreet marked \u201cAA,\u201d and the world greets him\nas a king. Who is he? A crowned corpse. When he began his career two\npathways opened. The one of a noble purpose saying, \u201cMake money for the\nsake of doing good.\u201d The other way, the way of selfishness, saying,\n\u201cMake money to satisfy your own desires.\u201d He chose the latter way. He\nhas his robe and crown, and is seated amid light and applause, but he\nis not capable of appreciating its meaning. Long ago he died to honor,\nand truth, and love, and generous impulse. He knows not the meaning of\nlife.\n\nAmong the crowned corpses should also be mentioned those who follow\nsociety for society\u2019s sake. Through imitation they have destroyed\npersonality. They have smothered their souls under the weight of their\nself-adornment. In their wild search for physical pleasure all the\nradiant, sparkling glory of a cultured spirituality has faded into the\npallor of death. They are richly robed, they ride in state, receive the\nplaudits of their followers, sit at table spread with gold and silver\nplate, but they are now dead to all the higher things of life and are\nunable to appreciate the empty honors they receive.\n\nThe secret of successful living is to follow the pathway of a noble\npurpose. At first the path may seem a long and arduous one, but it\nis the only way that has booths in which to rest the weary feet and\ncrowns for living souls to wear. It is in this pathway that one\nlearns the secret of the Christ life, for as he journeys on the way\nto nobility a voice is ever whispering in his ears: \u201cLife consists in\nliving unselfishly. Seek power only that you may have strength to serve\nthose who are weak. Gain wealth only that you may be able to multiply\nyour usefulness.\u201d The road of a noble purpose leads to a throne, not\none for the dead body, but a throne for the living soul. Here too\nis applause, not such as the Scythian dead received but such as was\naccorded the Roman conqueror. What a thrill follows noble endeavor!\nWhat a joy to come to old age having fought battles for those who were\ntoo weak to fight for themselves, and brought victory where otherwise\nhis people would have suffered defeat and death!\n\nThe world honors those who honor it. The ruler who has followed the\npathway of a noble purpose is always honored by his people. Before him\nis spread the banquet of a nation\u2019s reverence and homage. The man who,\nin getting money, has kept his hands clean from dishonesty, made just\nreturns for all labor he required, and has kept his heart tender toward\nhis fellow man, is honored by everyone. Men delight to fill his days\nwith happiness, as honeysuckle loves to fill the air with sweetness.\nWhen the world discovers a woman whose desire for society is not to\nsatisfy her vanity, or fill a shallow soul with selfish pleasures, but\nher desire is to scatter jewels of love and gems of inspiration to make\nrich and beautiful the lives of the common folk, it crowns her in the\ntemple of its heart and calls her an angel sent of God.\n\nThe days of autocratic power are ended, but the hands of the people\nare busy building thrones and weaving crowns of gold. So long as there\nis a love for nobility in the human heart men and women of nobility\nwill be placed in power. Life consisteth not in the abundance of the\n_things_ which a man possesseth but in following the pathway of a noble\npurpose.\n\n\n\n\n                                   X\n\n                       SWORDS FOR MORAL BATTLES\n\n\nThe best weapons with which to fight moral battles have already been\nforged, sharpened, and polished, waiting to be unsheathed for conflict.\nThere are some things that the ingenuity of man cannot improve. Man\u2019s\ngenius may perfect the locomotive to give swiftness to his feet; it may\nmagnify his voice until his whispers are heard a thousand miles away;\nit may perfect machinery giving speed and accuracy to his busy fingers;\nit may print his speech and multiply his audience a millionfold; it\nmay open new fields of endeavor, thus increasing the circle of his\ninfluence; it may do many things to break down barriers, and increase\nusefulness; but all the genius and skill of man can never devise nor\ncontribute to any life a better or keener weapon with which to fight\nmoral battles than belonged to us the eventful morning we left the old\nhomeplace and mother\u2019s presence, to begin, among strangers, our first\nconquest with the world.\n\nAs a royal exile David was facing a grave crisis. The relentless enemy\nwas pressing hard, and he possessed no means of defense. Leaving his\nhiding place, he hurried into the presence of Ahimelech and asked for\na spear or a sword. As Ahimelech was a priest, and not a warrior, he\nwas about to dismiss the young man empty-handed when, suddenly, he\nremembered. Wrapped in cloth, hanging behind the high priest\u2019s robe,\nwas an old sword, the very one that this young man had one time taken\nfrom the stiffening fingers of a dying giant, whom he had slain on the\neventful morning of his first great conflict. Slowly and carefully the\nold man took the gleaming blade from its resting place, unwrapped it\nwith reverent touch, explaining that it was all that he had to offer.\nDavid was instantly filled with delight. His eyes gleamed with fire,\nhis heart and soul were thrilled with memories of that bright morning,\nwhen, filled with the ardor of youth, he had run down the mountainside\nto make conquest with the giant. This was that giant\u2019s sword! The very\none that he had wrenched from the stiffening fingers of the vanquished\nfoe. Reaching forward he grasped it in his strong right hand saying:\n\u201cThere is none like that; give it me.\u201d There may have been and probably\nwere better and more beautiful swords in the world; keener steel may\nhave been forged into swords for the generals and kings of other lands,\nbut for David there was none other quite so efficient as the one with\nwhich he had gained his first victory.\n\nThere are no newly discovered weapons with which to fight the moral\nbattles of to-day. As David was aroused from the shrinking spirit of a\nfugitive to become a conquering king, by being given the weapon of his\nformer battle, so each man must make requisition upon the past. Behold\nthe weapons which hang in the sacred temple of our souls awaiting the\ngrasp of a courageous hand.\n\nThere is the sword of our childhood dreams. Let memory make you a\nlittle child again with brother and sister about the hearthstone on\na winter\u2019s evening, and let your heart glow with good cheer. Or let\nthe sunshine of summer fall across your way until you are a child\nonce more, running with bare feet through the winding ways of the\nmeadow, chasing moths and butterflies, or wading the stream back of\nthe old schoolhouse, your heart as carefree as the rippling waters.\nLet the dull monotonous hum and soothing influences of those happy\ndays of wonderment come back to your heart until your eyes half close\nand you begin redreaming your youthful dreams. Blessed dreams, that\ncause the muscles of your face to relax, while laughter comes to the\nlips, and compels you to forget the blistering ways you have trodden\nsince those sun-bright days. Dream your dreams of tenderness and\nconfidence, for the tendency of the city is to harden the heart and\ndull the sympathies. Then will you have a worthy weapon with which to\nmake battle. You need your old-time faith in God and confidence in\nman, your former optimistic view of life that gave brightness to every\nfuture fancy; your trustfulness in mother\u2019s love and father\u2019s counsel;\nthe belief that divine power was working for your success because your\nheart was pure; let these memories and fond dreams come to you once\nagain. You need them. Without the dreams of life the arm has little\nstrength and the will but little power. Let them come back, bringing\nsmiles for your face, and wreaths for your brow, and heaps of gold\nfor your coffers. Youthful dreams must never fade from the gallery of\nmemory if men would achieve. Lay hold upon them with all your power,\nknowing that while manhood\u2019s wisdom is valuable, it is not half so\neffectual in fighting life\u2019s battles as are the warm dreams of youth.\nWith the sword of a worthy dream a man can defeat any adversary, scale\nany rampart, take any stronghold. Youth\u2019s dreams were never intended to\nbe lost. They are stored away in the most sacred part of your nature.\nPlead for their return, and finding them, exclaim with David, \u201cThere is\nnone like that; give it me.\u201d\n\nThere is the sword of your old-time enthusiasm and resolution. There\nwas a time when you believed yourself the possessor of a divine quality\nthat would compel your brightest dream to come true. With age you are\nbecoming more prosaic. You are not so confident and self-assertive.\nYou excuse your shortcomings by asserting that you are becoming\n\u201cmore conservative,\u201d forgetful that conservatism is very often only\na refined name for dry rot or petrification. No man can win a fight\nwith merely the weapons of conservatism. What you need is the old-time\nenthusiasm with which you announced your determination to leave home,\nthe enthusiasm with which you packed the old trunk, and that fired your\nsoul as you drove away from the old homestead, and made you determined\nto win fame and fortune at any cost. Time instead of deadening should\nkindle the fires of enthusiasm. You are living in the greatest hour\nof history. You are better equipped and environed and protected than\nthe people of any generation. The quest was never so valuable; the\nrewards for noble endeavor never more abounding. There is no reason for\nany man giving up to indifference or despair. Take up your old-time\nenthusiasm until your heart burns with power that quickens the step and\nstrengthens the arm. Lay hold of this conquering sword with which you\nhave slain many a giant and cry with the spirit of a true conqueror,\n\u201cThere is none like that; give it me.\u201d\n\nThere is the sword of your childhood faith in God. As you have grown\nolder you have acquainted yourself with many theories and tried many\ndogmas strange and fanciful, but none of them have had sufficient\nstrength and keenness to win your battle. You have been compelled to\nthrow them aside, and now, in the crisis, you are compelled to face the\nenemy of your soul without means of defense. Then take up the sword of\nyour childhood faith in God that filled your younger years with beauty,\nthat warmed your enthusiasm, and made you fight single-handed while an\narmy trembled. Kneel once more as you knelt at your mother\u2019s knee; look\nup with an open face toward your Father in heaven; cherish his words\nand keep his commandments; and from this hour no man can defeat you.\nIn the outstretched hand of your Christian mother is the sword of your\nold-time faith in God. May you have the wisdom of David when he saw the\nsword in the hands of the priest and exclaim with all the earnestness\nof your repentant soul, \u201cThere is none like that; give it me.\u201d\n\nThere is no modern improvement in making swords for moral battles.\nMan\u2019s progress in the sciences is not because he has improved but\nbecause he has employed the laws of nature, laws that have coexisted\nwith the world. The telephone, telegraph, and incandescent are not the\nresult of man inventing electricity. Science wins all her conquests by\nusing old swords but perfect ones, because they come from the hand of\nGod. We need no new religions, cults, or creeds. Being man-made they\nhave no excellence of steel or temper. The emphasis must be placed, not\nupon the theory, but upon the moral laws which are just as vital to\nthe spiritual life as natural laws are to the development of science.\nThese laws are perfect. The Ten Commandments are incomparable. Not one\nof them is unnecessary but each one vital to triumphant living. Add to\nthese the new commandment of Christ that we are to love the Lord our\nGod with all our mind and heart and soul and strength and our neighbors\nas ourselves, and we have an arsenal with which to conquer all the\npowers of earth and hell.\n\nThe world is weary following the ways of men. Righteousness alone\nexalteth a nation. \u201cBack to God!\u201d is the war-cry. \u201cThere is none like\nthat; give it me.\u201d\n\n\n\n\n                                  XI\n\n                              SPICED WINE\n\n\nIn his Songs Solomon referred to a beautiful Oriental custom. The\nbride and bridegroom drank from the same cup, that they might show the\nassembled guests their willingness to henceforth share all the cups of\nlife, whether sweet or bitter. To add to the joy of the wedding banquet\nthe cup from which the wedded ones were to drink would be passed first\nto the others who were seated with them. As it passed from hand to hand\neach guest would drop into the ruby wine a gift of fragrant spice,\nexpressing thus the earnest wish that every bitter cup of life might\nbe brightened and sweetened with the spices of good friendship. From\nthe first moment of wedded life their loved ones wished that they taste\nof nothing save joy and happiness. In his great poem Solomon somewhat\nalters the ancient custom and represents the bride performing this\nservice of spicing the wine for the husband, as much as to say, \u201cI\nwould render unto thee only the sweetest, the purest, and the best that\nearth can hold.\u201d\n\nOne of the greatest needs of to-day is a spirit of willingness to\nspice the sour wines which others are daily compelled to drink. There\nare few greater services to render both God and man than to proffer the\ncup of spiced wine.\n\nThe church as the Bride of Christ should offer to him no service that\nis not sweet and aromatic with the spices of sincerity and love. This\nis the only way the world will ever be taken for Jesus Christ. The\nchurch must offer something better, more pleasing, and more wholesome\nthan the wines that this world has to offer. It is the tendency to give\nto God the drainings from life\u2019s vintage. We often spend the week in\npursuit of selfish pleasures, drinking the sweetest wines and giving\nthem freely to our chosen companions, and then, in hours of worship,\ngive to God the cheaper, sourer wines, making religious worship\nunwholesome, acrid, bitter, and nauseous.\n\nUnless we do away with our acrimonious methods and make our services to\nGod more aromatic and pleasant, the church is going to lose all hold\nupon her boys and girls. As a child\u2019s growing body requires sugar, so\nhis awakened spiritual powers need that which is sweetened with the\nspices of gladness and whole-heartedness.\n\nThis is the only way by which the church shall get and retain its grip\non men of affairs. All week long these individuals have been tasting\nthe acid and the bitterness of earthly struggle and competitive\nambition. Sunday morning comes and they are tired, and nervous, and\nall worn out. What they need is a cup of spices, each bit of spice\na gift of love. They need to have their minds taken away from the\nbitterness and acidity of life and given something that is fragrant\nand stimulating, something that will revive and strengthen them for\nfuture activity. This is the purpose of the church. It is to gather\nfrom all quarters of the earth all things that are good, wholesome, and\nattractive, and press them, as a gift of love, to the lips of every\nworshiper. It is to crowd each service with inspiring song, short\nhelpful prayers, warm-worded greetings, and enthusiastic handshaking,\nuntil the silver chalice brims with gladness. Bring all your spices\ninto the house of God and offer to Christ a pleasing gift. There is no\ntelling how much good you can do. Look into the face of your Creator\nwhenever you enter his temple and pray with an earnest heart: \u201cO Lord,\nI would this day cause thee to drink spiced wine.\u201d\n\nThis should not only be the attitude of the church toward its Lord, but\nit should certainly be the spirit with which it daily faces the world.\nAs we confront each individual we should be able to say: \u201cI would\ncause thee, my brother, my sister, to drink spiced wine.\u201d We should\ngo through life so prepared with the spices of good cheer that the\nmoment we found one with a cup of bitterness we could remove all its\ndisagreeableness before it is pressed to their parched lips. We should\ncarry spices for their cups, and not pepper for the eyes, or salt with\nwhich to rub the sores of our enemies. Spices so sweeten the cup that\nmen forget their hatred and find themselves glad that we are here.\n\nGive them the spices of a good disposition. Our dispositions are not\nunalterable gifts thrust upon us at birth, but are largely a matter of\ncultivation. If we associate with that which is sour and crabbed, our\ndispositions will, of necessity, assume the same nature. If we live\na life of goodness, we will most naturally have a sweet disposition.\nThe difference between peaches and pickles is far more than a matter\nof spelling. Peaches are not pickles, because they absorb the sunlight\nand the sweetness of the soil, until even their tartness is delicious\nto the taste. Pickles are not peaches because they absorb only those\nthings which suggest and harmonize with salt and vinegar. We never\nthink of pickles without thinking about vinegar. Their difference is\nin the choice of elements used in building tissues. The same thing is\ntrue with us. We make our dispositions, and because we do, we should be\nlovers of the aromatic spices with which God has crowded the world.\nO that those who profess to love God would cease shaking pepper into\nothers\u2019 lives, and begin to put sweet spices of a good disposition into\ncups already too bitter with the gall of sorrow and disappointment.\n\nGive them the spices of a cheerful conversation. No good comes\nfrom burning the mind of the world with the acid of criticism, or\ndistressing their lacerated hearts with the story of our personal\ndiscomforts. Give spices. Instead of telling how the rheumatism made\nthe joints creak on their hinges, tell the story of how once you\nwere able to leap over the fences and how you swung from the topmost\nbranch of the old apple tree. Instead of telling about the horrors of\ninsomnia, and how little you slept that past week, and how miserably\nthe morning hours wore away, tell about the red bird that sang under\nyour window and awakened a thousand memories of your childhood, tell\nhow you noticed the fresh air of the morning awakened symphonies among\nthe dew-laden leaves. It is so much nicer to be a candle that gives\nlight than a smoky chimney that belches soot and cinders. The world\nalways appreciates its bearers of good news. Happy conversation is\nwithin the reach of every one. No matter how blind we may be to the\nblessings of to-day, memory holds a box of spices within easy reach,\nand we can fill our words with a sweetness that will cast an undying\nfragrance.\n\nIt is not difficult to be cheerful when we remember that we meet only\ntwo classes of people, no matter how far we travel, or how long we\nlive. The one class consists of those who are making failure of life.\nEach word we speak brings to them either the bitterness of wormwood or\nthe good cheer of wild honey. The opportunity to give encouragement\nto the downcast comes every day. Tired, worn, and jaded, they meet us\nupon every street corner and press against us at every assembly. O that\nthey might rejoice as they taste the spices we are placing in their\nwine! The other class of people whom we are meeting are those who are\nmaking success of life, and who are very often the most neglected.\nBecause they receive worldly honor we think them extremely happy, not\nrecognizing their loneliness. The world never hesitates to press its\nsponge of vinegar and gall to the lips of those who are serving it.\n\nSeveral years ago there was a large gathering in Calvary Church,\nNew York City, to pay tribute to Dr. Edward Washburn. Phillips\nBrooks, Bishop Potter, and many other men of distinction met in that\nmagnificent service and offered words of praise to the goodness,\ncourage, clear thinking, untainted love and unselfish devotion of that\nmighty man. After all had ended their words of praise a little woman,\ndressed in black, who had been the companion of Dr. Washburn for so\nmany years of married life, slowly arose to address the audience. Amid\nan intense silence she repeated over and over again these words: \u201cO, if\nyou men loved Edward so, why did you never tell him?\u201d What a revelation\nof heart-hunger! Long years of bitterness when all might have been\nrelieved with just a little spice, that is readily found and easily\nbestowed.\n\nBring on the spices! Let us be more affectionate one toward another.\nThe eldest son of a large family was kneeling at his mother\u2019s deathbed\nsaying, \u201cYou have been such a good mother.\u201d The dying woman opened her\neyes and faintly whispered, \u201cYou never said so before, John, you never\nsaid that before.\u201d Let this be our motto as we meet all men: \u201cI would\ncause you to drink spiced wine.\u201d\n\n\n\n\n                                  XII\n\n                          THE FEVER OF HEALTH\n\n\nOne of man\u2019s richest possessions is the feeling of restlessness and\ndiscontent that ever pushes onward seeking something new. It is the\nsecret of discovery. Beholding the sunset, like a thousand camp fires\nflashing their beams upon the crimson and purple curtained tents of\never-encamping angels, man determined to enter into and share their\nquiet place of rest and luxury. Hastening forward, he easily found the\nhills that yester-night formed the mystic camping ground, but nowhere\nwould a torn leaf or trampled grass-blade betray a single footprint;\nwhile, looking farther westward than he had traveled, he saw the\nsame crimson-and-purple tents stretched upon other hilltops bathed\nwith sunset\u2019s golden light. Month followed month while man continued\njourneying westward in fruitless quest for peace, but in his effort to\nreach the cherished goal he discovered new lakes and rivers, hills and\nvalleys, plains and forests, until a mighty continent lay ready for his\nchildren\u2019s children to build cities rivaling in power and splendor the\nmystic camps of sunset\u2019s unseen hosts.\n\nRestlessness and dissatisfaction are the secret of invention. Satisfied\nwith their condition, China, India, and Africa yield no inventions.\nTheir people carry water in flasks of skin, travel upon weary-footed\nbeasts of burden, and bequeath their children nothing but tradition.\nSuch once was all the world until some individuals of courage and\ndetermination caught the fever of health. Dissatisfied and restless,\nman became weary of carrying water and would not rest until he had\nperfected the Holly Engine that presses a cup of cool water to every\nthirsty lip within the city. Tired of slow travel, he compelled the\nlocomotive to give fleetness to his feet, and the telephone to give\nrapid transit to his voice. Restless because the singer\u2019s voice must\nfade in silence, man built the phonograph to give the human voice, the\nfrailest of all man\u2019s possessions, everlasting life. Dissatisfaction\nwith things as they are gives invention her rich achievements.\n\nArt follows only in the footsteps of restlessness. Every painting\nand tapestry hanging on palace wall, every anthem that thrills the\ntempled throngs, and every melody that wafts its sweet cadence upon the\ntrembling, vibrant air, exists because some sensitive soul refused to\nknow contentment until he had given perfect expression to the beauty\nthat dwelt within his soul.\n\nOnly through the contagion of the divine fever can there be any reform.\nIt was only when the restless soul of John Howard began to express its\ncontempt for the foul floors and vitiated air of England\u2019s jails and\naroused the slumbering conscience of an indifferent people that the\ncruel prison systems of the world were changed. Reform in England\u2019s\ncolonial policy that made possible the unity of Canada and the founding\nof our own government came only when men began to chafe and grow\nrestless under unjust treatment, and finally found expression in the\nburning, blazing, nervous eloquence of Patrick Henry, \u201cGive me liberty,\nor give me death!\u201d\n\nBecause men were satisfied with things as they were, the city slums\nbecame deeper, fouler depths of misery entombing thousands of human\nbeings in inexcusable death-traps, robbing parents of hope and\nchildhood of its lawful inheritance of health and goodness. These\nthings continued until one poor lad grew divinely restless. A little\nimmigrant boy of poetic temperament and lofty aspirations, by the name\nof Jacob Riis, cried out in protest against the injustice of foul\nair and darkened homes. Restless himself, he made the city restless,\nuntil New York transformed her tenements, purified her slums, and\nreformed her government until she became one of the cleanest cities\nof the world--in many ways a worthy example for the cities of the Old\nWorld to follow. The restlessness of Livingstone redeemed Africa.\nThe restlessness of Morris saved China. The restlessness of Thoburn\nis working miracles in India. When men found it impossible to sit at\nease while their brothers were in chains slavery disappeared. Because\nmen became weary with drunkenness and tired listening to the pathetic\npleading of drunkards\u2019 wives and children, an aroused nation closed the\nopen saloons and placed a ban upon the sale of alcoholic drink. Men are\nnow becoming tired of war. They believe that the world has drunk its\nfill of human blood. The hour for world-wide disarmament has come, and\nrulers must be made to think before sacrificing their people\u2019s lives.\n\nHere also we find the secret of mental development. So long as the\nhuman mind is satisfied with tradition it cannot grow; but let it\nonce become uneasy under the deadening power of superstition, its\nvery restlessness will make the mountains unlock their secrets, the\nplants yield tribute of health-creating medicines, the clouds unbosom\ntheir mystery, and even the starlight becomes a pencil of gold to\nwrite upon the tablet of the sky the marvelous story of man\u2019s growing\nintellectual power.\n\nNo one of God\u2019s gifts is to be valued more than this feeling of\nunrest that he inspires within the heart, making us dissatisfied with\nourselves and our surroundings, and forcing us forward to become\nskillful in discovery, art, invention, reform, and intellectuality.\n\nBut the beneficent influence of health\u2019s fever does not end here, for\nit is also the secret of spiritual development. We have all experienced\nthese seasons of holy manifestation. Our friends said that we had the\nfidgets; the physician diagnosed our case as one of nervousness; we\ninsisted that we had the blues; but all were wrong. The restlessness\nwas a sign of health. We were not satisfied with ourselves but longed\nfor nobility. The dust-made body was refusing to grovel in the dust.\nThe spiritual life was beginning to assert itself through these tissues\nof flesh. The chrysalis had lost its desire to crawl along the ground,\nfor new life within claimed its right to rise upon joyous wing and\ncleave the sunlit air. It was not a thing to be despised, to mar and\ngnaw the budding leaf, but something to be admired and loved of man,\nsomething sylphlike to sip from chalices of gold and silver, porphyry\nand lapis-lazuli. The old man of sin was dying, and through the power\nof Christ a new man was coming into life; from now on he can never be\nsatisfied with things as they were.\n\nOne of the hopes of the world\u2019s salvation is the fact that sin never\nsatisfies the soul. Its promises are never fulfilled. Its obligations\nare never met at maturity. Men become restless in their sin, and\nthrough their restlessness are being led to God. Here alone can\nsatisfaction be found, for only Christ supplies the soul with what\nit needs for the journey set before it. He offers guidance, saying,\n\u201cI am the way.\u201d Following him no soul has ever been lost amid the\nbewildering maze of sin. He offers sustaining power saying, \u201cI am the\nbread of life\u201d and \u201cI am the water of life.\u201d The dusty ashes of sin no\nlonger choke, but for the hunger there is life-giving bread, and for\nthe parched lip there is water. He gives illumination, saying, \u201cI am\nthe light,\u201d and the terrors of darkness and the dangers of the night\nflee away. He offers an open way, saying, \u201cI am the door,\u201d and through\nhim one passes out of the cramped prison house of past sins into\nuntrammeled, unmeasured freedom. He offers immortality, saying, \u201cI am\nthe resurrection and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were\ndead, yet shall he live.\u201d The deadening power of sin loses its hold,\nand one tastes the unspeakable joy of living a life that is life indeed.\n\nThen be not confounded by the feeling of restlessness that ever creeps\nupon the healthy soul. What a tragedy our lives would be had we been\nsatisfied with our first achievements! How terribly pathetic it is to\nbecome satisfied with ourselves now, while we are so far short of what\nwe might be, and so lamentably short of what God meant our lives to be!\nCurb not the spirit of restlessness as though it were a fever of death.\nIt is health\u2019s fever. It is the call of the soul for its Creator who\nlongs to lead us into better things.\n\nTo-morrow will be a beautiful day because to-day is so restless.\n\n\n\n\n                                 XIII\n\n                      THE WISDOM OF THE UNLEARNED\n\n\nThe pathway of true brotherly love is bordered with deformed social\nconditions which must be faced and remedied. Entering the temple at the\nhour of prayer, Peter and John had their pious meditations interrupted\nby the appealing cry of a crippled beggar, who was crouching helplessly\nat the temple door. His haggard face, his wistful eye, his bony,\noutstretched hand, pleaded so passionately that the singing of the\nLevites was drowned and the temple call to prayer unheeded. The eyes\nof Peter and the beggar met, and Christlike spirituality stood face\nto face with the practical aspect of the world\u2019s need. Instantly\nthe great-hearted, impetuous Peter took notice of the helpless man,\nwhose wan face began to brighten with hope. Taking him by the right\nhand, Peter said: \u201cSilver and gold have I none. I cannot meet the\nrequirements that you ask, knowing that it is not money that you need,\nso much as health and strength, with which to earn a livelihood for\nyourself and for your loved ones. Silver and gold have I none; but\nsuch as I have, give I thee. In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth\nrise up and walk.\u201d The cripple did not have time to waver, nor to\ndebate, for the warm handclasp and the strong arm of the enthusiastic\nservant of Christ was lifting him to his feet and teaching him how to\nleap, and run, and sing the praises of God. Peter and John felt that\nthey could not enter the temple to pray until they had proven their\nright to worship by practically meeting whatever part of the world-wide\nsocial needs chanced, at that moment, to confront them.\n\nBut their benevolence was misinterpreted by those who should have been\nthe most appreciative. Overzealous religionists, who usually mistake\nthe form for the spirit of worship, had the two benefactors arrested,\naccused of violating their law concerning the observance of the Sabbath\nday. After a night spent upon the cold, damp stones of the inner\nprison, the two disciples were brought before the learned magistrate to\nexplain their conduct.\n\nThere is nothing more interesting than these unfriendly scholarly\ninvestigations of religious phenomena, conducted for the purpose of\nsecuring a rational psychological explanation. The high priests, the\nscribes, the rulers of city and province were seated in state, when\nthe two humble followers of the Social Christ, with common garb, and\nnet-calloused hands, stood at the judgment bar and heard the question:\n\u201cBy what power have ye done this?\u201d A more modern phraseology of the\nquestion would be, \u201cState to the Court what is the psychological\nexplanation of this purported miracle?\u201d\n\nIt was a critical moment to these judges, for scholarship, with much\nado, was studying and analyzing ignorance. But the Peter of Pentecost\nwas not to be dismayed. He knew that the service of Christ is not\nformal but practical, and that his conduct in curing a lame beggar was\nmore important to God than the observing of a thousand man-made forms\nand ceremonies. He knew from his former experience that ignorance need\nhave no fear of the scoffer\u2019s sneer, or the scholar\u2019s questioning, when\nonce the heart has been fully consecrated to the service of God. With\nconfidence they faced the inquirers saying, frankly: \u201cThe power is not\nours. This miracle was performed through the power of Christ, which\nyou, in your learning, threw aside, and which we, in the simplicity of\nour untutored hearts, have accepted as the gift of God.\u201d The power of\nPentecost was with the preacher again, and the judges were filled with\nfear and wonderment. Against their most earnest desires they liberated\nthe men, wondering why they, as learned men, should be influenced by\nmen of such untrained intellects.\n\nWhile Christianity has always waged warfare against ignorance in all\nforms, and has been the leader in founding schools and colleges, the\nfact remains that many of our greatest achievements have been wrought\nby untrained men. God often takes the weak things of this world to\nconfound the mighty.\n\nWhen an unorganized and badly scattered people needed a wise ruler, God\npassed by the palace doors and over the seats of learning that, in the\nopen fields, he might crown David, a shepherd lad. When Jerusalem was\na ruined city, overgrown with weed and briar, God ignored commanding\ngenerals and ruling monarchs, to honor Nehemiah, whose conquering\ncourage rebuilt the city. When mad with power and wild excesses of sin,\na mighty nation needed restraint, God stepped over the royal houses as\nthough they were playthings upon the nursery floor, and lifted Daniel,\nan exile, to become the condemning conscience for them who had slain\ntheir consciences, and to become a radiant hope for those who were\nenslaved and had lost all courage. When the time had fully come for\nthe kingdom of Christ to be preached to the cultured and aristocratic,\nhe chose these two men of the fisher-craft, who, though ignorant\nand unlearned, made the scholars and statesmen dumb with wonderment,\nwhile the crowned power of the age was humiliated, unable to cope\nsuccessfully against the growing faith.\n\nChristianity, while not encouraging ignorance, recognizes what\nthe world often overlooks, that learning, in itself, has woeful\nlimitations. When rightly employed, mental training multiplies one\u2019s\npowers and talents, as the circling moon gives strength and swiftness\nto the rising tides; but misapplied book-learning has little value.\nIn the crises of life the general information gleaned from books\ncounts for but very little. The knowledge that water, when reduced in\ntemperature to thirty degrees or less, freezes, so that a dangerous\nriver is changed into a solid highway over which one can walk in\nsafety, is of small value to a man who is drowning in the summer time,\nand very few drowning men would call for a thermometer to take the\ntemperature of the water in which they were sinking. Standing beneath\na falling wall, no man is going to begin to calculate the specific\ngravity of the falling elements or estimate the force of impact upon\nhis head. All learning is good, and nothing in the line of information\nshould be ignored, for, along the more or less narrow line of its own\napplication, each truth is of inestimable value. Each added truth that\none learns pulls up the tent stakes of the horizon and widens the\nworld just so much, but no man can save himself with learning alone.\nSuccess depends, not upon scholarship, but upon a spotless love for God\nand a boundless love for man. Herein is the wisdom of life, and the\nweakest man or woman may possess it. All men may not become learned,\nbut all men may become great and enthusiastic lovers of their fellow\nman. The little child that bends its arms in fervent hugs to show the\nmeasure of its affection; the struggling youth that stops to help a\nwounded companion; the widow, fighting against poverty in the tenement;\nthe old man, patiently looking for the coming day--all these may\npossess the secret of royal living.\n\nThe world will be saved, not by the scholar, as a scholar, but by the\nloving heart; not by platitude, but by kindly deeds. Goodness is such\nan easy thing to acquire, that it is within the reach of all. A little\nLondon newsboy was seen to daily follow an unknown man for many blocks.\nWhen asked by an observer why he did so he responded, \u201cWhen he buys a\npaper from me, he always smiles, and calls me his boy. He is the only\none who ever called me that, and I just love to see him.\u201d Here was\na life brightened and perhaps redeemed because a busy man of wealth\ntook time to say what any one of us is able to say each day. When\nKing Humbert would have lost his nation he saved it, not by scholarly\nexhortations or startling state papers, but by visiting the hospitals\nof Naples and ministering with genuine affection a plague-smitten\npeople. It was a task of love that the weakest person might be able to\nperform, but it saved a nation for a king.\n\nThe world will be saved. Righteousness shall ultimately prevail. The\nkingdoms of this world shall become the kingdom of our Christ. There\nare no failures in God\u2019s mighty plans. We may vary in our beliefs,\nand differ greatly as to the process by which he shall accomplish his\nwise designs, but this is true: when this world is brought ultimately\nto the feet of Christ, it will have been accomplished not by prayer\nalone but by work and prayer, not by the scholar as a scholar but by\nthe men, learned or unlearned, who have discovered the compelling and\ntransforming power of a boundless, undying love.\n\n\n\n\n                                  XIV\n\n                       THE STRENGTH OF WEAKNESS\n\n\nAn old man was once opening the treasury of his experience to enrich\nthe young people of Corinth. Youth ever needs such a benefactor, for\nlife\u2019s most difficult problem is to definitely determine upon which\nelement or elements of life the emphasis should be placed. Like a\nriver, life has so many contributing streams of large volume that it is\ndifficult to decide unto which one we are most indebted for our power.\nThere is only one way to ascertain this fact, and that is to trace the\ncurrent of life-power to its source and stand, with reverent feet, at\nits utmost gurgling spring. But this task is hard and is fraught with\ndanger. What youth, standing at the joining of the currents, can tell\nto a certainty which is the real current and which the contributing\nstream of influence? Among the most pathetic incidents of history are\nthose portraying some of our richest and most favored sons of genius\nmistaking a contributing element of life for life itself and spending\ntheir days within the narrow winding ways of mediocrity. Youth needs\nthe open treasury of the past, therefore it is a rare privilege to\nhave Paul thus open the treasure chest of his varied and triumphant\nexperiences and tell us what is the secret source of life\u2019s richest\nendowment. Looking over a life of many years, covering an intense and\ndiversified experience, enriched with mental and spiritual training,\nhe declared to the young people of Corinth that the source of personal\npower is weakness.\n\nThat is the last place in the world that we would naturally look for\nstrength, for we have always been taught that weakness is the absence\nof strength. To be enduring we believed that we should possess the\nrigidity and firmness of the rocks, forgetful that long after the\nred stone walls of Kenilworth have tottered into complete ruin the\nfragile ivy, planted by unknown hands, will still live to cover the\nrough, broken heap of weather-beaten stones with the graceful folds of\nits swaying branches. We have believed that stability depended upon\nrigid strength, not realizing that, in nature, the strong are the most\nfragile, while the weak are the most enduring.\n\nThe source of triumphant living is not the adamantine will that refuses\nto bend or budge, but is the will that yields itself to higher power.\nOnly when one finds that a feeling of weakness is creeping over him,\nand realizes that, in his own strength alone, he is inadequate for the\ntask, does he possess true conquering power. One of the best hours\nof a man\u2019s life is when, through sickness, toil, or persecution, he\nfeels his physical powers giving way, and his soul rises to claim\nthe occasion for God and his humanity. Knowing that while he himself\nis weak, the needed power is within easy reach, a man is strong. In\nsuch a crisis, to become self-confident is to be like the hunted\npartridge which, seeking escape, confidently enters the trap set for\nhis destruction. Strength comes when, overwhelmed with a sense of\nunutterable weakness, one flings himself at the feet of Christ, and\nprays as did the sinking disciple, \u201cLord, save me.\u201d\n\nHow very true this is in the hours of our severe temptation! No man\never sought refuge from temptation in self-confidence who, in the\nstrain of battle, did not find his fortress crumbling into dust, while\nhe himself suffered humiliating defeat. Simon Peter learned this truth.\nStrong and boastful in his self-assertiveness, he stood amid the\ngathering shadows of the world\u2019s darkest and most tragic night, and\nsmiled as one who gladly greets the dawning of his wedding day. He was\nconfident, beyond question, that he was equal to any emergency that\nmight arise. It was easy for him to boast and proclaim loudly what he\nwould do. Beholding the same fast-deepening shadows, Christ fell to\nhis knees in prayer, and with broken voice and heavy, blood-stained\nsweat, pleaded for his Father to remove this cup of suffering. Christ,\nthe everlasting Conqueror, prays for escape from trial, while Peter,\nfilled with self-assurance, bids the coming of the worst with defiant\nspirit, saying, \u201cThough all men should forsake the Master, yet will not\nI.\u201d He boasted bravely that he was ready to die for Christ. There was a\nmarked contrast between the ways these two met the same struggle, but\nthe whole world knows the outcome. In the presence of trial Peter\u2019s\nstrength was scattered like heaps of withered autumn leaves. When he\nwas strong then was he weak. Without the passing of the cup Christ\nwalked forth strong enough to win a world from sin, while Peter sank\nin shame. But when, a few hours later, we find the defeated disciple,\nall alone, in midnight darkness, weeping like a little child over his\nweakness, we rejoice, for we know now that Pentecost has found its\npreacher, and the world has found a mighty champion for God.\n\nTemptation is a terrible thing. It is a band of armed brigands,\nstorming the citadel of the soul to carry away everything that is of\nvalue. To yield is to have the soul ransacked and burned as though by\nfire. To face it confidently in one\u2019s own strength is gravest folly.\nThere is only one possibility of victory. In that hour of peril, when\neternal destinies are at stake, let one feel his own weakness, and fall\nhelplessly at the feet of Christ, and call with all the earnestness and\npathos of his frightened soul, \u201cLord, save, or I perish!\u201d and victory\nshall fill his heart with joy and crown his brow with the light of\nheaven.\n\nThis truth is applicable to all our sorrows. There have been hours when\nwe thought best to meet our sorrows and disappointments with the spirit\nof a stoic. With clinched fists, tight-pressed lips, and dry eyes, we\nstood, proud of our strength, defying sorrow by bidding it to do its\nworst. We insisted that we were not weak like others, and that we would\nboldly bear our own burdens. But the end was defeat and uncontrollable\ngrief. The burden was so much heavier and the grief was so much more\nbitter than we had ever expected, that we were crushed and overcome.\nMeanwhile at our side stood one frail and weak, whose bloodshot eyes\nspoke of countless nights of grief and anxiety, but whose calm face and\nsteady voice assured us that she had gained a wonderful victory, and,\nin spite of tempest, had inner calm and rest. How came the victory to\nthe frail? Because she was frail and knew that she was frail. As headed\nwheat saves its life by bowing passively to the stroking of the violent\nwinds, so she bowed low at the touch of sorrow. She yielded herself\nto the will of God. As Mary and Martha, in their hour of sorrow and\npuzzling questions, forgot everything and fell weeping at the feet of\ntheir Lord, so this woman poured out her prayer of utter helplessness\nto God, saying, \u201cSave, Lord, or I perish,\u201d and in her weakness she\nbecame strong. The strength that is needed to meet sorrow comes, not\nfrom self-control, but abandonment to God; not from dry eyes, but from\ntears.\n\nHow true this is of our ministries to our brother man! It is not an\neasy matter for one to enter the Holy of holies of another\u2019s grief\nand sorrow, and minister unto them as a true high priest. Before\nthe growing work of the church, as it is beginning to live up to\nits conceptions of Christian social service, many of our strongest\nChristians are becoming faint of heart; in its growing work of\nevangelism they become paralyzed with fright; because they cannot see\nhow they can approach and minister to those whom they do not know.\nThey tremble, not knowing that their very weakness is their source of\nstrength. Rash boldness and overconfidence are not part of the true\nChristian\u2019s equipment. With such a spirit no one should dare to enter\nthe sacred inclosure of another\u2019s grief. It is only when one refuses\nto trust in human strength or wisdom, and, possessed of a spirit\nof humility, goes forward in the name of Christ, that he can work\nsuccessfully for God. You may feel called upon to do works of charity.\nIf so, go forth in weakness. Instead of polished speech upon the lip,\nlet there be a teardrop in the eye. The hungry soul will understand and\nrejoice that you have come. In the hour of some one\u2019s sorrow, you may\nbe able to give only a tender, silent handclasp; but be not dismayed.\nThe mourning one will fully understand and thank God that he sent\nyou unto him. You may be sent to lead some sinful soul to Christ. In\nweakness your words may fail, leaving you nothing to offer save a look\nof love. That is enough. Each sinful one will understand, and through\nthe light of your loving look will find a pathway back to God. Only\nwhen we are weak are we strong in the service of Christ.\n\n\n\n\n                                  XV\n\n                           CRUMBLING PALACES\n\n\nThe crumbling of our palaces does not necessarily mean loss, especially\nif they be the grotesque ones built in untutored childhood, or\nthose planned in moments of unguarded enthusiasm, or given form by\nimpractical impulse, or intended for selfish or sinful pleasure. We\nhave never tried to live in the blockhouses built upon the nursery\nfloor, neither do we mold our lives according to childhood fancies.\nThere can be no progress without the compelling power of a well-guided\nenthusiasm, but overwrought enthusiasm is an uncontrollable power\nbringing moral, physical, and financial disaster. The ability to yield\npromptly to righteous impulse is akin to genius, but the impulses of\nan untrained soul are the frenzied switchmen who ditch and wreck the\ntrain that should have the right of way. When self-interest means the\ndeveloping of brain and talents to establish a worthy character and\nbeneficent influence, making one a constructive force in the community,\nit is not to be despised; but when self-interest becomes selfishness,\nthe building of a fortified castle in which one lives at the expense\nof others, then is the soul smitten with leprosy, and the home becomes\na pest-house, not a palace. A place of sin is never a shelter, but a\ndeath-trap, its elegance of architecture and furnishings making it all\nthe more dangerous. There are many palaces unfit for habitation. To\npermit them to decay and crumble into nothingness is greatest gain, for\nto live unworthily is not to live at all.\n\nOn the other hand there is a neglect that means a helpless, hopeless\npoverty from which no influence or friendship can bring deliverance.\nWhen once these palaces are permitted to crumble we become homeless\noutcasts, begging from a world that begrudges us its crumbs. Therefore\none must consider, not only the beginning, but the upkeep of life.\n\nThere is the palace of Character that needs guarding. The beginning\nof the Christian life is only \u201cthe beginning.\u201d Here is the peril of\nour present and very popular conception of church membership. A man\noften feels that all that is necessary for his soul\u2019s salvation is\nto go through the soulless process of uniting with some religious\norganization, and it matters not which one he may chance to choose.\n\u201cJoining the church\u201d is looked upon as taking out a spiritual life\ninsurance, without any thought of paying premiums through the passing\nyears. Having his name duly inscribed upon the records of some\nchurch gives a man confidence with which to face death, and the\ncoming judgment, not realizing that the Church Record will perish\nin the flames of the last day; and that men are judged by comparing\nthe records which God has kept with the record that each man writes\nupon the pages of his own body, mind, and soul. Preachers have bigger\nbusiness at the Judgment than carrying their Church Records and\nappearing as counsel for the members of their flocks. They must appear\nat the Judgment and answer for themselves.\n\nChristian living is righteous living, being right with God and\nright with man, in all the dealings of daily life. It is not, like\nvaccination, completed in one short operation, but, like breathing, an\nactivity that includes every second of one\u2019s earthly existence. It is\nnot moving into a furnished apartment which you can secure by making\ncertain payments, but the building of the palace of Character. Stone\nby stone, the great structure is erected, its foundation resting upon\nthe solid rock, its walls built with God\u2019s plumb line, its turrets and\nbattlements lifted high to receive the blessings of the sky. It is not\nbuilt in a day, but requires the unceasing toil of all our days, else\nit will crumble into hopeless ruin.\n\nCharacter is not firmly established this side the grave. There are\nno character insurance societies. Right living on the part of youth\nmay soon give one a reputation of worth, but after many years of\nfaithful living have resulted in a palace, admired of men, one misdeed\nmay become a conflagration that will reduce it to ashes; one single\nmisspent day may cause the strongest palace to crumble and decay. The\nruins of Kenilworth are beautiful because covered with English ivy; for\nthe ruined walls of Character there is no ivy of sympathy to beautify,\nbut the bleak and barren wreckage stands in ghastly hideousness to\nproclaim to all the world the story of the misspent day. Both youth and\nage alike must guard the palace of Character against decay.\n\nThere is the palace of Benevolence that needs guarding. In childhood\nwe learned the difference between the cold hovel of Selfishness and\nthe great palace of Benevolence, with its windows ablaze with light\nto guide our footsteps, and its hearthstone aglow with welcoming\nwarmth. How we feared and shunned the selfish soul, not for the lack\nof gifts, but because, with the clear vision of childhood, we beheld\nthe deformity of his crabbed soul! How we loved the dweller of the\npalace, not for his gifts, but for the beauty of his smile, the soft\nlight of friendship in his eyes, the joy-creating atmosphere in which\nhe moved. Then and there we decided to mold our lives after the plans\nof that good man, and be benevolent individuals; not spendthrifts,\nbut possessed of rich, red blood, and sympathetic hearts ever open to\nthe beauties and needs of life. But we soon learn that the palace of\nBenevolence cannot be built with one deed of benevolence, no matter\nhow large and generous it may be. The gift of some great public\ninstitution, however worthy and serviceable to the people, is not\nenough to mark a man as one who dwells in the palace of Benevolence.\nThat coveted abode is built, not by gift or gifts, but by the generous\nspirit with which we daily and hourly meet the world. Benevolence\nis not a gift, nor series of gifts, but the wholesome, generous\nspirit which we manifest toward men. With such a spirit one builds a\nbeautiful palace in which to dwell, but one that is very easily marred\nand destroyed. One selfish desire, once hardening the heart against\nanother\u2019s need, one greedy, grasping longing or desire, and the palace\nbeautiful crumbles into dust; and they who once rejoiced at our coming\nwill turn away with the contempt with which all men greet unworthiness.\n\nThere also is the palace of Prayer. No earthly dwelling is so beautiful\nas that which one builds for his soul through communion with God.\nAlways situated upon the lofty heights, above the lowlands of sin and\ndusty ways of worldliness, it lifts its towers and pinnacles into a\ncloudless sky. The view is clear and unobstructed, so that one sees the\naffairs of life in their true relations to the great world of which\nthey are a part. The struggles of their fellow men are in clear sight\nand therefore observed with sympathetic, understanding heart. The sky\nis close, and when the sun is set the stars peer through the shadowy\ncanopy, and smile. The atmosphere is fresh and pure, made fragrant with\nthe breath of heaven, and he who breathes it feels a power divine.\nNothing is more beautiful than the palace of Prayer.\n\nNevertheless, the palace may crumble and become a hopeless heap of\ndust. Where once stood a vision of spirituality one can see nothing but\nthat which is of the earth earthy. A hidden sin within the heart, that\nslyly steals away one\u2019s love for God; a subtle spirit of worldliness,\nthat deadens the soul until it ceases to respond to things divine; a\ngnawing doubt that, like the white ants of India, honeycomb the timbers\nof the bravest, strongest souls--all these cause the crumbling of the\npalace.\n\nThe palaces of the soul, however well established, require a watchful\neye and careful guarding. The powers of evil are destroying elements\nthat beat and pound upon the shelters of the soul with destructive\nfury. But even then, a well-built palace need not crumble. He who\nhas the Carpenter of Nazareth as his daily Companion may build for\neternity. Keeping the sayings of the Master means that the house is\nfirmly fixed upon a strong foundation and that all its timbers are\nstrongly knit together; so that when the floods come and the winds blow\nand beat upon it; when a legion of devils encamp about and lay siege\nupon the soul; when fires sweep, and earthquakes work their devastation\nto this planet, these palaces, not made with hands, and not constructed\nfrom earthly material, the palaces of Character, Benevolence, and\nCommunion with God, shall not be moved. They shall shelter us here and\nbe eternal in the heavens.\n\n\n\n\n                                  XVI\n\n                    THE ECHO OF LIFE\u2019S UNSUNG SONGS\n\n\nWe are familiar with the echo of life\u2019s unfinished songs. The\nunfinished songs of confidence, sung by the martyrs as they stood upon\nthe yellow sands of the Coliseum, looking upward beyond the soft blue\nof the Italian sky to heights hitherto unseen, have never ceased to\nvibrate through the centuries. The unfinished songs of sacrifice and\npatriotism which were sung by our soldiers and sailors who perished in\nthe world-wide war are still echoing in the music of every wave that\nlaves the shores of every sea. We are all familiar with the lingering\nmusic of life\u2019s unfinished songs, but it is well for us to consider\nalso the echo of the songs that have never found expression in word or\ntune.\n\nEach soul is a minstrel whether he wills it or no, for God has\nfashioned a harp for every heart. There is a tradition that above the\nhead of David\u2019s couch there hung his favorite harp. The mountain winds\ncoming through the midnight silence would stir its strings, awaken the\nsleeping lover of song, and bid him weave words of love to fit the\nwind-wrought music. Thus were the Psalms created. To each individual\nGod has intrusted a priceless harp, tight drawn with silver chords of\nlove, and sensitive to every touch of passing wind and falling sunbeam.\nSo delicate are these heart-strings that every event of life awakens\nthe dormant music and fills the soul with harmonies divine. Behold how\nsensitive they are.\n\nThe day has been dull and gloomy and you have not cared to go abroad.\nAfter a while you become reminiscent. As though led by an unseen\nhand you enter a quiet, unused room and lift the lid of a quaint,\nold-fashioned chest. You know not why your followed impulses led you\nthere, but you are glad that you obeyed the leading, for there, resting\nquietly amid fragrant lavender, is a treasured gift that came from a\nmother\u2019s hand. It has been lying there for many years, untouched and\nunseen, but how beautiful its faded colors, how lovely its wrinkled\nfolds placed there by the hands so long since turned to dust! and how,\nout of the dim mists of the past, it brings the soft colors and clear\noutlines of a dear, sweet face! There are tears in your eyes, but more\nand better than that, there is music in your soul. Every string of your\nheart is vibrant with melody.\n\nOne morning you were ill and did not care to go to the office. You were\nindisposed just enough to enjoy the rich luxury of being waited upon,\nwhen, suddenly and unexpectedly, your eyes rested upon an old-fashioned\npicture that strangely and wondrously stirred your heart. For years it\nhad been hanging there with its treasured memories, but you had been\ntoo busy to notice it. How charming its exquisite beauty as it greeted\nyou from out its odd, old-styled frame. Its colors, mellowed with the\npassing years, carried you back triumphantly to the sun-bright days of\nthe long ago, and the soul was stirred with music that charmed, and\nsoothed, and inspired.\n\nThe harp-strings of the heart are very sensitive. A finger-print or\ntear-stain upon the leaves of the old family Bible, the frail petals\nof a faded blossom, the sight of a tiny yellow garment or baby shoe, a\npackage of letters tied with ribbon, or a scrap of paper scrawled by\nunskilled childish fingers, just little things that no one else admires\nor notices, is all that is required to start the music ringing in our\nhearts.\n\nTo this music the soul always responds with a song. This is true even\nwhen one\u2019s musical education has been neglected. The ear may not be\nable to distinguish one note from another, or discern the difference\nbetween \u201cOld Hundred\u201d and \u201cThe Star-Spangled Banner\u201d; the individual\nmay know nothing about harmony, time, or measure, when listening to\nthe music that others have given to the world, but his own soul can\nalways sing its own melodies. There is no note so high in the scale\nthat the soul cannot reach it. I have heard the English lark lift\nits silver notes until they melted into sunshine and fell in great\nbillows of joy upon the listening earth. Every soul can sing like that.\nAs above the couch of David hung the harp awaiting the touch of the\npassing winds, so each heart is a stringed harp awaiting the touch\nof some common event to awaken music and set the soul to singing its\nminstrelsies.\n\nHowever beautiful these songs, they never pass the threshold of the\nlips. Their sweetness surpasses the power of expression. That must\nhave been the reason why Mendelssohn wept so bitterly at times. With\nall his marvelous power in weaving tones he could not give expression\nto the rapturous melodies which were surging through his soul. This\nalso explains why Michael Angelo so often gave way to the dreariest\ndespondency. Though he try never so hard, he could not express upon\ncanvas or in marble form the heavenly symphonies that were thrilling\nhis soul. The reason that Lord Tennyson stood for such long periods\nupon the cliffs, overlooking the sea, not hearing the call of an\napproaching friend, was that his soul was searching through earth and\nsea and sky, for words with which to express the songs his soul was\never singing.\n\nThe deepest and most valuable emotions of life are always\ninexpressible. How useless is human speech in the presence of the\ndeep feelings of awe and reverence! I stood with a friend upon one of\nthe great heights of the Catskills. He was a genial man, and the day\nhad been filled with merriment. Rounding a curve, we came suddenly to\nthe edge of a great cliff overlooking the Hudson valley. At our feet\nwere many miles of forest trees mantling the hills and valleys with\nthe brilliant coloring of Autumn foliage. We could count a score of\nvillages nestled peacefully among the meadows and fields of ripened\ngrain. The Hudson River rolled its silver length in the distance,\nwhile, far, far beyond us, draped in blue, we saw the hills and\nmountains of another State. Beholding what, in many respects, was the\nmost soul-entrancing revelation of nature\u2019s glory I had ever witnessed,\nneither of us spoke. The moments slipped by with slippered feet and the\nmid-afternoon became evening, before either of us broke the silence.\nIt is sacrilegious for one to undertake to express the holy sentiments\nof awe and reverence in the clumsy garb of human speech. This is true\nof all deep feeling. Standing in the presence of a bereaved friend,\nshallow souls can chatter idle phrases, but deep, healing, tender\nsympathy is expressed in the silence of a handclasp and unspoken word.\nLooking into the deep, expressive eyes of one whom we love, our lips\nare silent and only the tear-filled eye tells of the song the soul is\nsinging. Have you ever been able to tell your mother how much you loved\nher? The real songs of the soul are of necessity the unsung songs.\n\nThese songs are the real songs, for the soul life is the real life.\nThey may never be heard by others, but you hear them, and their words\nnever die. They echo through the years. There is never a moment of\nthoughtful meditation, never a season of seclusion; never a period of\nsickness when the things of the world are shut out and one is left\nalone with the things of the soul; never a season of disappointment, or\nsorrow, or bereavement, or heartache, but that the hour is made blessed\nand hallowed with the memory of these songs, and lo, while one listens,\nall earth and heaven become vibrant with music and one is charmed and\nsoothed with the echo of life\u2019s unsung songs. While exiled upon the\nlonely heights of Patmos John heard a song that thrilled the heaven of\nheavens, but none save the multitude before the throne could learn the\nsong. That is easily understood. It was not a song blending the varied\nexperiences of earth together into one mighty outburst of love; it was\nthe soul weaving all the unsung songs which no one on earth had ever\nheard or could ever understand into one great symphony with which to\npraise the God of its salvation. Life\u2019s unsung songs shall never cease\nto live in earth and heaven. Their echoes are our comfort here, our joy\nforever.\n\n\n\n\n                                 XVII\n\n                            MODERN JUDASES\n\n\nThe story of Judas casts a dark shadow through the sunlight of twenty\ncenturies. His deed was more than a betrayal of friendship. Lady\nMacbeth, coming from the chamber of death into the candlelight and\nbeholding her lily-white hands stained ruby red with the blood of\nmurdered friendship, and fearing to wash them, lest the ocean\u2019s flood\nshould tell to every rock-bound coast the blushing secret of her guilt,\nwas not half so bad as Judas. This deed was more than the betrayal of\nfriendship; it was the dark hand of villainy, reaching from behind\nthe dark curtains of selfishness, that with the keen blade of greed\nhe might pierce the unprotected breast of innocence. It was a tragedy\nthat, with each decade\u2019s growth in love, becomes more atrocious in the\neyes of men.\n\nNamed after Judas Maccab\u00e6us, one of the most illustrious characters\nof Jewish history, good enough and gifted enough to be chosen as a\ndisciple, and possessing such integrity of character that he was chosen\ntreasurer of the group, Judas began his public career auspiciously.\nFor three years he had been associated with Christ in the most\nintimate manner. He had entered cities and passed through country\nplaces, preaching and performing miracles, until returning with radiant\nface he said with the other disciples, \u201cEven the devils are subject\nunto us.\u201d Having been lifted out of his old self, he rejoiced in the\ndelights of noble living. Within a few weeks he would have been able\nto stand with Peter at Pentecost and take his place among the world\u2019s\nbeloved immortals. Then came the awakening. He had followed Christ\nthrough the fragrant fields of the Beatitudes and under the clear\nsky of the Sermon on the Mount; he had seen Christ, at the sacrifice\nof rest and comfort, change barren lives into beauty, as the sun\nadorns barren branches with clustered fruit; and now, as his life was\napproaching the crisis, Judas could see where the road was leading,\nand he became frightened. He saw that the end of the Christ-journey\nwas not toward worldly triumph, but toward sorrow, not to a palace,\nbut a bleak mountainside, not toward a throne, but a cross; and he\nbegan to think of himself. \u201cWhat shall I do?\u201d Like one facing a panic\nhe stood petrified with terror. Seeing the investment of three long\nyears trembling in the balance, he did not think it businesslike to\nfollow Christ any further. His love for money so blinded his eyes\nthat he could not see the moral grandeur of Christ\u2019s program. Angered\nand disappointed, he deserted his post, sought the seclusion of the\nnight-time shadows to complete his plans. Well does the inspired writer\nadd, \u201cAnd it was night.\u201d Of course it was night; dark, starless,\nmoonless night, for he had allowed his love for money to eclipse the\nLight of Life.\n\nFrom then on there was only one light attractive to Judas, and that\nwas the luring light of avarice and greed. Seeking for it, he found\nit. Like the red fires of hell it burst into flaming stream from\nthe high priest\u2019s windows, where Arrogance and Lust for Power were\nplotting against the innocent. Rushing toward it, out of breath, his\nhands clutching his garments, his brow wet with perspiration, his eyes\nstaring madly with greed for gold, he demanded: \u201cWhat will you give\nme?\u201d Shrewd and crafty, these unscrupulous leaders of men knew that the\nlanguage of love and friendship could not be understood by this grasper\nof gain; so they used the only language he could now understand and\nwanted to hear--the language of the market place; and \u201cthey promised\nhim money.\u201d\n\nThis is one of the darkest pictures in history, its black shadow\nreaching through the centuries, but it does not hang alone in the\ngalleries of death. There are others still making the awful bargain of\nJudas, and gladly sacrificing the innocent for the sake of financial\ngain.\n\nBehold the unscrupulous real-estate dealers who force houses of immoral\ncharacter into clean, residential sections of cities, betraying the\ncause of righteousness, injuring homes, and damning the souls of\nhundreds. Because immorality promises a more handsome and immediate\nreturn for the investment they become partners in the exploiting of\nsin and crime. As Judas went into the quietude of the Mount of Olives\nand brought wreck and ruin, so these men insidiously lead marauding\nbands of immoral workers into the best communities, well knowing that\ntheir deed means the betrayal of youth and maiden, but refusing to give\nit a thought, their attention fixed only on the increasing volume of\nbusiness. The good name of a city or community, the value of innocence,\nand the sanctity of the home are nothing to these modern Judases.\n\nBehold the employers of child labor, who, under the disguise of\ncharitably giving employment to the poor, are reaping revenues that\nprovide them with luxuries at the cost of blasted lives. Many of our\nshops, stores, and factories are but presses where the life, hope,\nvigor, and vision of childhood are crushed out in order to fill to the\nbrim the intoxicating cup of extravagance for people whose own lives\nare too foul and unfit to be used as grapes in their own presses. Daily\nthe bright-faced boys and girls, the hope of the nation, are crowded\nout of the public school into the vats. Hour by hour their lives are\npressed out until, broken in body, dwarfed in intellect, incapacitated\nfor works of social service, falling far short of the requirements made\nupon their later years, they are thrown aside as useless pomace. The\nuncontrollable spirit of greed that places money above the value of\nlife and happiness and goodness is the spirit of Judas.\n\nBehold the owners of tenement houses, those breeding places of filth\nand sin, where little children are compelled to live and die, or live\nand curse the world. Their only memories of childhood will be those of\nthe crowded alley, foul hallways, and darkened corners in which they\nhide in fear. The memory of a mother\u2019s face will be vague, ever hidden\nin the darkness and gloom in which she spent her days. Why do they\nnot have fresh air? Greed. Why do they not have fresh water to drink?\nGreed. Why do their buildings not have good sanitation? Greed. Modern\nJudases are they all.\n\nBehold the men who are commercializing amusements. Men and women need\nrecreation, and children must have places to play. The human body\nis not made of harder material than the locomotive, that requires\nrest between its trips, or, growing tired, refuses to carry its load.\nTherefore it is necessary to have places of recreation and exercise.\nBut where shall the children go? The best bathing beaches of ocean,\nlake, and river bank are owned by money-making syndicates, and the\npeople are compelled to pay for privileges which are their own by the\nright of birth and citizenship. More than this, since money is the\nobjective, and the people must patronize their places, having no other\nplaces to go, they offend decency by catering to the coarse and vulgar\nelement of the community, thus becoming places of moral contamination\ninstead of places of recreation. This is also true of our theaters,\nmoving picture houses, and amusement parks. That which is presented is\nvery often so uncouth that modesty must hide her face.\n\nThe deadening influence of the modern movies, their teachings of sex\nand treatment of marriage, is clearly shown in their effect upon the\nactors and actresses themselves. They have enacted these parts so\noften, and lived in the atmosphere where these things are discussed as\nthe predominating tastes of the people, that the unnatural teachings\nhave become their conceptions of real life until the story of their\ndivorces and remarriages has scandalized all decent society. Beside\nthe colonies of moving picture celebrities, Salt Lake City and other\nMormon strongholds seem quite tame. If the moving picture has such a\ndemoralizing influence over the actors and actresses, who are matured\nmen and women, what will be the effect upon the growing generations?\nAlready the atmosphere of school and playground is vitiated. The evil\neffects are already manifest to every conscientious Christian social\nworker. To silence the protests of a righteous guarding of the morals\nof the young, the moving picture corporations have set aside large\namounts to prevent the needed legislation regulating censorship.\n\nThe work of these modern Judases does not end here, but they insist\nupon the prostitution of the Sabbath day for their ungodly enterprises.\nFor the sake of making money they are endeavoring to lead America in\nthe same direction Europe has been traveling, and to the same tragic\nfate. Childhood and the Christian Sabbath are being desecrated every\nhour by these Judases whose one question in life is, \u201cWhat will you\ngive me?\u201d\n\nIt is time for an aroused citizenship to enter protest against these\nevils. We cannot prevent Judas from having base desires, nor giving\nhis traitorous kiss, but we can compel Pilate, the officer, to render\nrighteous judgment. Jesus was crucified, not because Judas kissed\nhim, but because Pilate was a moral coward. Pilate washed his hands,\ndeclaring himself \u201cinnocent,\u201d but every man in the mob knew that he was\nguilty. We cannot prevent Judas betraying, but we can create public\nsentiment which will compel officers to reach protecting hand against\nthe greed of our modern Judases.\n\n\n\n\n                                 XVIII\n\n                        THE ADJUSTABLE UNIVERSE\n\n\nThat God should adjust a universe so that all of its forces and\nenergies should be at the instant disposal of those who, through\nobedience to his laws, lay claim to them, should not seem strange\nwhen we realize how perfectly we are now adjusting our mechanical and\nsocial conditions to meet the hourly needs of the body. The water\nsupply of many of our large cities is pumped and propelled by what\nis known as the Holly Engine. Its regulation is perfectly automatic.\nWithout any apparent cause, there is a constant change in the amount\nof steam produced. The engineer busies himself by oiling the bearings\nand polishing the shafts, but seems utterly indifferent to the pressure\nof the steam as it relates itself to the varying demands of the great\ncity. The fact is that the engineer does not need to concern himself\nwith the regulating of the engine, for the people of the city regulate\nit for themselves.\n\nWhenever a faucet is opened the draft in the engine is correspondingly\nopened, the fires burn brighter, the steam is increased, and the action\nof the pumps instantly accelerated. The larger the quantity of water\nneeded, the wider the drafts, the stronger the fires, the greater the\npressure of steam, the more active the huge pumps that labor to meet\nthe increased demand. Quickly close the faucets, stop the outlet of\nwater entirely, and the pumps will become inactive. So perfect is this\nadjustment that the smallest child, many miles away, may change the\nspeed of the engine at will. It is designed to meet the needs of every\nperson in the city, whether it be but a cup of water to moisten the\nfevered lips of a little child or great streams with which to fight the\nmighty conflagrations that threaten the life of the city.\n\nIf man, out of common ore which he digs from the hills, can build\nmachinery to meet the varying need of his fellow man, should it seem\nsuch an incredible thing that God, who made the human soul, could, out\nof his unlimited, unmeasured spiritual forces, arrange to instantly\nmeet the need of every human soul? God can and God does. The fact is\nthat the whole universe is so arranged. There is not a need of the soul\nof man that cannot be immediately satisfied, if one puts himself in\nobedient touch with the fixed spiritual laws that control the required\nforces, as, for the thirsty lips, we intelligently reach out, turn the\nfaucet, and draw the cup of water.\n\nIt is at this point that the learned individual who loudly praises\nhimself upon being a practical observer of life, takes most positive\nexceptions and insists that the weakness of the Church is this very\ninsistence upon what, to him, seems the miraculous. He has not been\nable to observe that the strength of the Church is her belief in the\nlaws governing prayer, compliance with which instantly brings all the\nInfinite resources of the sky to meet and fully satisfy the needs of\nthe soul. The fault is not in God\u2019s method of procedure, but in the\nnarrow prejudices which the critic mistakes for the laws of logic.\nLet us consider the laws governing prayer as revealed in an old-time\nincident.\n\nHer eyes red with weeping, and her face deeply drawn with sorrow, a\nlonely woman was pleading with Elisha for help. Out from dark shadows,\nshe was journeying toward deeper gloom. She had just buried her\nhusband, on the morrow she must journey to the auction block where her\ntwo sons, her only means of support, were to be sold into slavery, to\nmeet the debts of her dead husband. She was helpless and heart-broken\nin her poverty. \u201cWhat shall I do for thee? What hast thou in the\nhouse?\u201d asked the solicitous prophet. \u201cThy handmaiden hath not anything\nin the house save\u201d--and she faltered--\u201csave a pot of ointment.\u201d All\nher furniture and cooking utensils had been sold to help meet her\nfinancial obligations. There was only one thing left, and that was the\njar of ointment which every Jewish person kept for the anointing of the\ndead. This was never disposed of. Then came the command, \u201cBorrow empty\nvessels, and borrow not a few.\u201d\n\nThe two boys were set to work. The novelty of the situation whetted\ntheir curiosity and ambition and it was not long until the mother\nannounced that there were enough vessels and that the doors and windows\nshould be tightly closed. Then, with trembling fingers, she opened the\nlittle jar and began to empty its contents into the larger vessels.\nThree smiling faces bent over the open mouths of the jars, when, to\ntheir wonderment, the little jar had filled every one of the larger\nones. Now there was no need of worry. The prayer had been answered. The\nsale of the oil would more than meet all the demands of the creditors.\nIt was wonderful, but natural.\n\nPrayer is answered only according to the law of continuity. There were\nmore than a thousand ways in which God could have come to the relief of\nthe widow. The prophet\u2019s touch could have filled the empty vessels to\noverflowing, as once a prophet\u2019s touch melted granite rock into crystal\nstreams of water; his touch could have filled the hut with abounding\nwealth; common dust might have gleamed as jewels; unexpected gifts\nmight have been poured forth as rain; but they did not. God meets the\nemergencies of life through the law of continuity. The way of increase\nis always yielding what we have to the workings of higher laws. The\nsmall cruse held the secret of the overflowing jars. Hunger comes and\nGod asks, \u201cWhat hast thou?\u201d and the husbandman answers, \u201cThy servant\nhath not anything save a handful of grain.\u201d Then comes the command,\n\u201cTake it to the well-plowed field, and pour it out.\u201d He does so, and\nthe field overflows with harvest. For the vine that man plants God\ngives the purple clusters; for the seed he sows God gives a loaf of\nbread. Like always produces like, and in prayer is followed the law\nof increase. What you have saved from what you have already owned,\ndetermines the nature of God\u2019s answer to your petitions. If your heart\nhungers for sympathy, take the cruse of sympathy and pour it into the\nempty vessel of another\u2019s life. The world yields no sympathy to the\nunsympathetic, but never fails to return with increase each expression\nof tender solicitude. If you pray for comforting power to heal an\nold wound, take whatever power of comfort you possess, and begin to\nminister to hearts that break. You will find increase that will fill\nevery empty vessel of your heart, and gladness shall take the place\nof sorrow. If you are praying for financial aid, consecrate whatever\nstrength of brain and muscle you possess to hard, clean work, and the\nreturn will richly recompense you. If you are asking God to make you\nof service to the world, pour out your life into the empty ones about\nyou, and your petition will be granted. This is the law of spiritual\nadjustment. Along the lines of your own individuality will God prepare\nyou for the larger task to-morrow.\n\nWe must also remember that the increase is determined, not by divine\nlimitations, but by our own capacity. The command to the widow\nwas, \u201cBorrow empty vessels, and borrow _not a few_.\u201d God placed no\nlimitations, but, rather, gave urgent command to plan for large things.\nShe could have borrowed a thousand empty vessels and a thousand vessels\nwould have been filled. Her blessing was determined the moment she said\nto the boys who were securing the jars from the excited neighbors,\n\u201cThat is enough, you need not borrow more.\u201d That moment she determined\nthe amount of answer her prayers would receive. The oil ceased to flow\nwhen she had reached the limit of her preparation. What a tremendous\ntruth! Our growth and spiritual attainments are unlimited so far as\nGod is concerned. The possibility of development is unlimited so far\nas this world is concerned, for empty vessels and empty hearts are\neverywhere. Our growth is limited only by the breadth of our sympathies\nand the scope of our interests.\n\nBorrow empty vessels, and _borrow not a few_. What a challenge to the\nchurch of the living God! Begin to think and plan in big terms. \u201c_Not\na few._\u201d These are the words of One who thinks in numbers large enough\nto include all the grains of sand in all the oceans and all the stars\nof the universe. Count the forest leaves and the grass-blades and\nraindrops, and then ask yourself what God means when he says \u201c_not a\nfew_.\u201d May the Christ of social service show the church of to-day that\nher power is limited only by her vision of her opportunity.\n\n\n\n\n                                  XIX\n\n                              SEEING LOVE\n\n\nThe value of life is measured by the power of vision. The savage,\ntramping the diamond beneath his feet, and clinging to tooth and claw\nof the wild animals he has slain, represents a very narrow, restricted\nlife, for he possessed a narrow vision. Beholding fruit-bearing trees,\nhe saw only the crab and wild cherry of bitter taste. Looking across\nthe open fields, he saw only the wind-tossed, tangled grass whose\nmatted meshes made slow his travel. Along the wayside he saw only the\ndaisy, and the thorn-mass of the wild rose bush forming a convenient\nplace in which to hide while making observations. Because in the crab\nhe could not see the possibilities of the Northern Spy, and because\nin the wild cherry he could not see the luscious Oxheart, his travel\nlacked refreshing fruit. Because in the tangled grass he could not see\nthe gleaming gold of ripened grain, he had no food in time of famine.\nBecause the weedlike daisy did not suggest the chrysanthemum, and the\nwild rose foretell the American Beauty, his pathway was commonplace.\n\nFollowing the savage came those of wider vision, and soon the fields\nassumed the golden vesture of the ripened harvests, the hillsides\nbecame rich with luscious fruit, and life\u2019s pathway was fringed with\nbeauty.\n\nEach individual makes his own universe, using only, out of the vastness\nof God\u2019s provision, such things as he has eyes to see. In the broad,\nopen, western plains, with far-extending horizon and translucent sky\nbedecked with bits of light to lure the seeing soul to heights heroic,\nlives one whose universe is no wider than his daily task, and whose\nzenith has never ascended above his hat-crown. Careless in observation,\nhis universe is scarcely larger than the dug-out in which he crawls\nat night to sleep. Dwelling in a dark room of the crowded tenement,\nbound by the cords of sickness to a sufferer\u2019s bed of pain, lies one\nwho knows nothing of the majesty of wind-swept fields, or vastness of\nthe star-lit sky, but whose careful observations have made a zenith\nhigh enough to overarch the throne of God, and a horizon wide enough to\ninclude every need of the human soul.\n\nThe richness of life depends largely upon how many of the things of\nlife which ordinary people call commonplace can be crowded into the\nrange of vision. The man possessing most of earth is not necessarily\na landowner, but he who, whether rich or poor, learns to observe and\nappreciate the things about him. Christ never owned a foot of land.\nStanding in the dusty highway, worn and weary by countless deeds of\nsacrificial love, he exclaimed: \u201cThe foxes have holes, and the birds\nof the air have nests; but the Son of man has not where to lay his\nhead.\u201d He was poverty-stricken, yet, in all the history of the world,\nnever was one so rich as he. For him every lily held a golden casket\nfilled with an unmeasured wealth of inspiration. For him the birds\nwinged their way from heights celestial to sing their songs of divine\nforethought. Each color of the sky was a prophet proclaiming the things\nof God. Speaking to his disciples, men who would necessarily remain\npoor and homeless, he said: \u201cBlessed are the meek [those who are not\nlooking for thrones of authority and power, but who, in humble state,\nlearn to see the divine vision], for they own the earth.\u201d\n\nI know such an one. A laborer in the field, he spends his life toiling\nfor the one he loves, living in a rented cottage, faring on common\nfood, dressing in coarse-woven garments, and yet possessing untold\nwealth. With blistered feet and sweat-washed brow, I have seen him\ncoming home, smiling with beaming tenderness, as he carefully held in\nhis calloused hand the frail, pink petals of the first spring beauty he\nhad found blooming by his way. He never owned anything in particular,\nyet there was nothing in the universe that he did not possess and enjoy\nwith rapturous heart. He knows that the voice of God is heard, not\nonly in the roar of turbulent cataract, or reverberating peal of the\nmajestic thunder, but also in the bog and quagmire.\n\n    \u201cFor in the mud and scum of things,\n    There\u2019s always something, something sings.\u201d\n\nHe possesses a wealth that is indestructible. When one gazes so\nintently upon a flower that he beholds it as it really is, he has\nblessed the flower with immortality and his soul with an unfading\nbeauty. The moment he truly beholds it, God transplants it to his soul,\nwhere it can never die, but live and bloom forever and forever.\n\nChrist came to enrich man\u2019s experience by the process of extending his\nrange of vision, teaching him that what meekness does for magnifying\nhis conception of the natural world, piety does for the soul\u2019s\nconception of the spiritual world. \u201cBlessed are the pure in heart: for\nthey shall see God,\u201d and afterwards adding, \u201cGod is love.\u201d As humility\ngives one possession of the earth, purity gives one vision to behold\nthe divine mystery of love.\n\nOne of the secrets of Christ\u2019s triumphant place in history was this\nvision of purity that enabled him to see the redeeming goodness in\nthe hearts of the world\u2019s outcasts. Christ could see love, therefore,\nwhen the pious priests were sitting with folded hands waiting for\nsomething to transpire that was worthy of their attention, he was busy\nin city street and country lane seeking to save that which was lost. He\ncould see love, therefore when the self-righteous churchman, through\nprejudice, was blind to his neighbor\u2019s need, he was toiling in the\nservice of the loving heart. Busy men and women could see nothing in\nchildhood, while Christ, with purity of heart, could look down upon\nthese little ones, and, seeing the love that bubbles up in baby hearts\nto overflow in kisses, smiles, and laughter, lifted them to that high\nthrone where value is measured only in terms of love. The pious ones\nsaw the raving demoniac standing amid the desolations of the tombs, and\nfelt that he was too far gone to help. Looking deep within this poor\nman\u2019s heart, Christ saw his innate love for home, and never stopped\nuntil he had brought him into subjection to his words of power, and\nsent him, well and happy, to his home and family.\n\nThe zealous religionists saw only evil in the poor woman who, escaping\nthe rough grasp of her captors, was crouching at the feet of Christ,\nfearful and ashamed to look upward. Looking into her heart he saw less\nsin than love--love that was deep, and pure, and changeless, as only a\nwoman\u2019s love can be; therefore, instead of killing her because of sin,\nhe forgave her because she loved, and then bade her go and live the\nlife triumphant.\n\nMen accustomed to the scenes of crucifixion were not stirred when\none of the crucified uttered a prayer for pardon. It was a common\noccurrence and put down as one of the strange expressions of\nloneliness; but to Jesus it was all important. Looking into the heart\nof the dying thief, Christ saw a worth-while love for that which was\ngood and of finer quality, therefore he astonished even those who knew\nhim best by lifting him out of sin and taking him with him to paradise.\n\nLiving triumphantly necessitates one possessing the vision of purity,\nwithout which one cannot see God. Mother holds the preeminent place in\nevery life, because her true living has kept her vision clear, and she\nsees the good that lies deep within the hearts of her children. Her son\nmay become an outcast in the sight of others. Filled with iniquity,\nand helpless in the terrible grasp of passion, he may have lost faith\nin himself and says: \u201cThere is no hope for me.\u201d The world hears, and\nreadily agrees, and says that the young man is hopeless. But not the\nmother. To mother there is always hope. Her boy must not be thrown\naway, for he is of infinite value. She never notices his sin; she sees\nonly the soul that lies hidden like a jewel beneath the rubbish of his\ntransgressions. Seeing the love within his soul which others could not\nsee, because they lacked the necessary love to see, her vision became\nthe power that not only defies but completely changes public opinion.\nBecause she loves much, she redeems and saves him, and compels the\ncommunity to accept him as one who has wandered away, but has come back\nto the Father\u2019s house. Blessed are the pure in heart, for unto them\nis given vision to see good in every one, and to behold their Lord in\nevery event of life.\n\n\n\n\n                                  XX\n\n                         THE DIGNITY OF LABOR\n\n\nThere is no liberty without toil. To enjoy the freedom of the sunshine,\nthe germinating seed must lift and throw aside the clod which outweighs\nit a thousandfold. Before the blossom can unwrap its tinted petals in\nthe sunlight it must, with the warmth of its own healthy growth, melt\nthe wax that seals it in its winter sepulcher, and with its increasing\nstrength tear away the rough bud-scales and hurl them to the ground.\nThe oriole wings its way and fills the afternoon with song, only, after\nearnest effort, it has liberated itself from the imprisoning shell.\n\nToil is the golden key which God gave the human race, that it might\nfind escape from the self-inflicted slavery of sin. \u201cIn the sweat\nof thy face shalt thou eat bread\u201d was not a curse pronounced by an\noffended Deity, but Love\u2019s whispered secret of escape from harm.\nStanding amid the wreck of a sin-torn paradise, man looked through the\nopen archway of these six words--\u201cIn the sweat of thy face\u201d--and saw\nthe possibilities of a world-wide Eden. Beholding the fruit begin to\nfail, and the greensward become tangled with brush and bramble, Fear\nsaid: \u201cYou shall die of hunger.\u201d \u201cIn the sweat of thy face\u201d revealed\nbroad acres filled with health-giving ripening grain and orchards laden\nwith luscious fruit. Beholding the lakes become stagnant, and the river\nbeds becoming dry and parched, Fear said: \u201cYou shall perish of thirst.\u201d\n\u201cIn the sweat of thy face\u201d revealed vineyards adrip with purple wine,\nand desert lands abloom with beauty because man would learn to train\nthe mountain streams to follow where he led. Yea, more, \u201cIn the sweat\nof thy face\u201d opened a pathway through which Hope ran to find salvation\nfrom the deadly power of sin. Coming back, with face aglow, that bright\nclad Angel bade man first to give his strength in building an altar on\nwhich to offer heartfelt thanks to God, who had made the human hand\nwith which to toil and rebuild paradise.\n\nHappy and fortunate is the man who learns to do his daily stint of work\nwith a cheerful heart. To him shall be the joy of understanding that\nthe ordinary duties of life are not burdens sent to crush him to earth,\nbut blessings through which he is to work out his own salvation.\n\nBehold how man\u2019s labors have redeemed the world from barrenness. Soft,\nyielding swamps have become hard-paved streets of famous cities,\nover which the unappreciative multitudes walk or ride in perfect\ncomfort. Where once the heated winds blew the drifting sands to-day the\ngentle zephyrs fan the rich, green meadows. Where once the untrained,\ntangled vines broke down the struggling tree upon which they clung,\nthe vineyards yield their purple clusters, and the orchards give\nforth their wealth of sweet and luscious fruit. Where once the wild\nweeds threw their choking pollen to the wind, the aster, rose, and\nproud chrysanthemum wave upon graceful stems and toss their pretty\npetals to and fro. Where once the savage stretched his tents of skins,\nbrown-stone mansions lift their open portals in invitation to the\nweary sons of toil. By the sweat of man\u2019s brow, by the toiling of the\nmultitudes, we are saved from desolation and made to dwell securely\namong the gardens.\n\nToil saves from sickness. Without the putting forth of physical effort\nall men are weaklings. To be a producer, to change the strength of\nbrain and muscle into that which is of value to his fellow man, is\nnot only necessary if he would play his part in the great social\ninstitution of which he finds himself a part, but it is necessary\nfor his own mental, physical, and spiritual salvation. Grinding out\nhis days in unceasing industry, many a man curses his lot and wishes\nearnestly for idleness, not knowing that toil is the making of a\nman with strong muscles, firm flesh, large lung capacity, and good\ndigestion, for toil forces the blood in rapid circulation. Honest toil\nis the best tonic. When asked what was the secret of his good health,\na great statesman responded, \u201cHard work.\u201d Overfed, full of gout, and\nill humored, a certain man of ease requested a celebrated physician to\nprescribe for him. \u201cLive upon sixpence a day, and earn it,\u201d was the\nadvice. Over one half of the invalids of the world could be almost\ninstantly cured, if they would concentrate their attention, and direct\nall their strength, in carrying forward some worthy enterprise.\nCaring for a garden is a good preventive for consumption. Labor means\nexercise, exercise means health. Common toil is God\u2019s prescription by\nwhich we are to work out our salvation from many days of sickness and\ndepression.\n\nLabor preserves us from needless sorrow. Imagine the condition of Adam\nleaving Eden with all his faculties save that which would enable him to\nconcentrate his energies upon some worth-while task--with the power to\nthink and ponder over the hardships of his fallen situation; with the\nmarvelous power of memory to recall his faded days of gladness; with\nthe power of a good imagination, to paint fairer, brighter pictures\nfor the future, and yet without the power to organize these faculties\nfor action, thus having no force of character with which to achieve.\nSuch life would be worse than death, no matter what evils death might\nbring. But through the gracious promise of the sweat-washed brow man\nfound surcease for sorrow in attempting to build a better garden for\nhimself and little ones. There is no happiness save that which results\nin using one\u2019s strength and talents in honest endeavor. Idleness breeds\ndiscontent, worry, and fear. It adds a thousand pangs to every grief\nand sorrow. The most unhappy and therefore the most unfortunate people\nin the world are those who have the financial resources to sit in\nidleness and nurse their grief. Better by far be the poor woman who\nleaves her dead, and goes to scrub the floors of a public building, for\nin her honest toil she finds a healing, comforting touch. Toil makes\none forget his grief, soothes him with a gentle hand, and permits the\ngrace of God to heal the wounded soul and broken heart.\n\nLabor is a strong tower that shields one from the onslaughts of\ntemptation. It is the idle hand that Satan seeks. One half of our\nincarcerated criminals owe their position to the fact that they\nrefused to accept the protecting power of toil to keep them in the\nway of righteousness. Having nothing to do, they fell in with evil\ncompanions. Having nothing to do, they partook of questionable\namusements. Having nothing to do, they followed the evil leading of\ntheir passions. Having nothing to do, sin and disgrace made them easy\ncaptives. One way of salvation is to escape from temptation, and one\nof the best ways to escape temptation is to be so busily occupied with\nclean, honest, manly endeavor, that the devil has no access to the mind\nwith either spoken word or secret thought. Work out your salvation from\ntemptation.\n\nLabor may also contribute largely to the developing of Christian\ncharacter. There would be no backsliding in our churches if those who\nprofess the name of Christ would engage in his great enterprise of\nsaving and redeeming the world. The growing spirit of indifference,\nthat is paralyzing so many of our religious activities, could not be,\nhad men not become idlers in the Kingdom. Business men look upon the\nchurch and say that it is weak because it has no program. This is\ntrue. We lacked a program, not because we had no program, but because\nwe refused to follow the one that God gave us. The church is far from\nbeing dead. Those who have kept true to their Divine Lord, and have\nhumbly, but earnestly worked his works, have been saved from all these\ntemptations to sin and worldliness, and their ardor to-day is brighter\nthan on the day they first gave their hearts to Christ.\n\nThen let us get to work. Labor cannot save us from the penalty of sin.\nNothing save the grace of God can do that for us, but it can save us\nfrom barren surroundings, from much of our sickness, from the deadening\ninfluences of sorrow, from the power of many of our most dangerous\ntemptations, and aid us in spiritual development. Work with a good\nwill. Let no man laugh you out of its benefits. Say to the world,\n\u201cYes, I am a laboring man.\u201d Let no blush come to your cheek, unless it\nbe because you are not a better and more earnest workman. Labor with\nthe knowledge that while you are at your task you are ranked with the\nmightiest and most illustrious characters of the world. Labor adds to\ndignity. Hard, honest work gives self-respect. Toil saves one from the\nlife of a parasite, enabling him to pay his own way, at the same time\nleaving the world brighter and richer because of his toil. The richest\njewel that ever adorned the brow of man is not in the King\u2019s crown. It\nis the beaded sweat that stands upon the tanned forehead of an honest\nlaborer. Wear it with the dignity with which a king wears his crown\nof gold. In the light of God\u2019s approving smile it will pale and make\ninsignificant the crown jewels of all the nations.\n\n\n\n\n                                  XXI\n\n                     ABOVE THE COMMONPLACE OF SIN\n\n\nIndividuality is one of God\u2019s ways of expressing his greatness. His\nvoice penetrates the centuries like the sound of silver bells, but\nthere is never an echo. No duplicates are ever found among the works of\nGod\u2019s creative power. He gives his gifts unto the world with boundless\ngenerosity, but through the centuries no single gift has ever found\nits counterpart. Everything coming from the hand of God is original,\nunique, entirely dissimilar to anything else in the realm of nature.\nNo two oak leaves are alike. They may be cut from the same pattern,\nso that, no matter where you find them drifting in the winds, you\ninstantly recognize them, saying, \u201cThese are oak leaves\u201d; yet, of all\nthe millions of leaves that have unfolded upon branches of the oaks of\ncountless ages, no two have been identical in size or form or in the\ndelicate tracery of the tiny veins which are as delicate as hoarfrost,\nyet strong as leaden pipes.\n\nGod never duplicates. The wild rose is a simple flower, possessing\nbut five petals, held securely in the golden chalice of pollen-laden\nstamens. Nothing could possibly be more liable of duplication than this\nquaint flower of simple garb, yet of all the wild-rose blooms gathered\nby lovers\u2019 hands and pressed to maidens\u2019 lips, of all the wild-rose\nblooms that grace the old-fashioned gardens and trellis the fences\nof the country roads with their picturesque, sublime simplicity, no\ntwo are alike. God so respects the pretty things about which human\nsentiment revolves that no two are cast from the same mold. Consider\nthe blossom that you once kissed, and pressing, stored away. It is\nhidden in a secret place, intended for no eyes save your own, and\nviewed only through the clear tears that memory revives. Guard it with\nthe tenderest care, for God will never make another blossom just like\nit. He respects the tender affections of your heart that chose this\nblossom from a lover\u2019s hand to be the sweetest, fairest blossom of your\nlife.\n\nWhen a mother stoops and plucks a blossom from her baby\u2019s grave, covers\nit with mingled tears and kisses, and puts it away between the leaves\nof the family Bible, thus binding in one cover the sweetest sentiments\nof this world and the best hopes and aspirations of a better world, she\ndoes a beautiful thing, and our heavenly Father so honors her love and\nreverence for her precious dead that, though a thousand centuries come\nand go, he will never make another blossom just like that.\n\nWe love all mountains because of their rugged strength and majesty,\nyet no two mountains are alike, for to the mountains God has given\npersonality. The Rockies stand like naked giants with knotted muscles\never ready to grapple with storms that smite their rugged sides,\nrejoicing, like strong men, at the ease with which they break the\nstrength of their adversary, and hurl the whirlwind, like a helpless\nzephyr, into the mighty chasms at their feet. The Alps are like a\nprocession of kings, bejeweled and berobed for coronation day. To\nsee the Alps is to have a holiday and have one\u2019s soul thrilled with\nboyhood\u2019s wonderment and praise. The Catskills are a languid group of\ncharming country folk with whom you can sit and chat, and feel the\nmagic wonderment of childhood creeping through the soul, as you listen\nto quaint voices repeat their myths and legends. No two mountains are\nalike, for God likes versatility in heaped-up piles of rock as much as\nin fluttering leaves and blooming flowers.\n\nNo two sunsets are alike. The hanging tapestries of the west may be\nwoven in the same looms of mist, and dyed in the same vats of scarlet,\npurple, red, and orange; they may be laced with the same golden\nstrands of unraveled sunbeams; and their drapery may reveal the\nself-same angel touch, yet no two sunsets are alike, each having its\nown individuality, and living forever as a master painting to beautify\nthe walls of memory. Well do youth and maiden stand with clasped hands\nas they face the sunset. Let them feast upon its gorgeous beauty until\ntheir hearts are filled with light and love, for they shall never see\nanother sunset just like that. Returning to the valley\u2019s old familiar\npaths, where they shall walk together amid their mingled lights and\nshades, they shall rejoice through many years because of the brilliancy\nof that one sunset which God made for them, and for them alone.\n\nThis love for originality is seen in the play of the wild waves\u2019 crest\nwhose molten silver falls into beads and necklaces and pendants of\nunequaled workmanship to fill the unseen jewel caskets of the deep.\n\nWhat is true of the natural world is also true of man. Consider the\nvariations of the human face. Reflecting upon the limited number of\nfeatures, one is amazed to think that such an infinite combination\nof facial forms and expressions can be created. There are only two\neyes, two ears, one nose and one mouth, and yet out of that small\ncombination, behold what God hath wrought! From the soft, pink rosebud\nof a baby\u2019s smiling face, looking with wistful wonderment at a newly\nfound world; through all the charming sweetness of maiden\u2019s cheek\nand love-laden eyes; through all the grandeur of the hero\u2019s chiseled\nfeatures; through the glory of motherhood smiling affectionately\nupon her little brood; through manhood making battle for home and\nrighteousness--through all these until, at last, you behold the\nunequaled beauty, majesty, grandeur, and dignity of old age, no two\ncountenances are alike.\n\nThe glory of God is revealed through individuality. No two persons\nare alike in form or feature, gift or grace. No two minds have\nexactly the same characteristics. No two souls look upon life from\nidentical viewpoint, so that each one varies in his conception of\nevents and expression of art and letters. A king wears the crown of\nhis predecessor, but for each brow God has fashioned the fairer crown\nof individuality. Men, as God made them, are not pegs to be placed\nin holes, but kings, to sit upon thrones and rule kingdoms all their\nown. \u201cBefore I formed thee in the belly I knew thee,\u201d are the words of\nJehovah when he wished to impress Jeremiah with the infinite care with\nwhich he had been prepared for a noble work.\n\nTo endeavor to reshape this divinely appointed life and mold it after\nan earthly, man-made pattern is the height of folly, yet this is\nthe demand of very much of our modern social life. Society employs\na system of repression, the subduing and crushing of deep emotions,\nand substituting a shallow artificiality. It curbs all naturalness\nin development and demands a conformity to certain rigid molds in\nwhich every word, gesture, thought, and impulse must be cast. Instead\nof employing the art of expression, permitting the deep feelings to\nfind normal outlet, and allowing the salutary unfolding of individual\nstrength and grace, they check and curb and repress until the beauty\nand normalcy of life is gone. Our present system of society custom and\nusages cannot produce great character.\n\nFailing to recognize individuality as the universal plan, many\neducators mistake their function, endeavoring to mold men according\nto their conceptions rather than instructing men. Instead of leading\nthe mind away from the narrow cloister of tradition, form, and\nceremonialism, into the open air where it can function normally,\nand unfold its strength and beauty in perfect individualism, many\nintellectual leaders continue the practice of pitilessly dwarfing minds\nand stunting souls.\n\nSin also leads to the commonplace. Realizing that man\u2019s strength lies\nin developing those characteristics that mark personality, the arch\nenemy of the soul is ever endeavoring to destroy them. He tempts\nto sin, knowing well that there is no other agency so powerful in\ndestroying individuality. Sin never lifts men upward toward lofty\nheights but always levels downward. It knows no royalty of character,\nso it tears down thrones, casts man\u2019s crown aside, blurs the eye,\npalsies the nerve, blotches the countenance, deadens the brain, hardens\nthe heart, and makes its victim a member of the common herd. Sin is not\nerror; it is poison that stunts the growing aspirations, dwarfs the\nspiritual nature, lowers spiritual vitality, and completely destroys\nall the royal gifts of God that would distinguish one in character and\nachievement.\n\nTherefore righteousness must be preached as never before. Only through\nvirtue can one lift himself above the commonplace and his individuality\nreach its maximum power. Wrongdoing destroys while right living makes\npossible the complete development of all the noble faculties of the\nsoul, permitting one to experience the fullest possible realization\nof life. Men must not be repressed by the foolish processes of a\nmisguided social, educational, or evil custom. Righteousness must be\npreached that youth may know the freedom of goodness and the joy of\nrighteousness. As birds greet the dawn, by rising on rapturous wing\nand filling the blue with exultant song, let youth and maiden greet the\ncoming day with gladness as they rise above the commonplace of sin. The\nDivine plan for their lives must not be marred by sin or foolishness.\nThe uniqueness and originality of God\u2019s plan are the secrets of\nsuccess. The joys of righteousness are too valuable to exchange for the\nmisery and heartache of a wasted life.\n\n\n\n\n                                 XXII\n\n                       THE INVESTMENT OF A LIFE\n\n\nThe problem of investment provides much of the romance as well as\nthe tragedy of life. The fascination of expending one\u2019s energies or\npossessions in legitimate undertakings holds all men spellbound,\nwhether it be the peasant investing in seed for the coming harvest,\nthe newsboy buying his bundle of papers for the evening trade, or\nthe merchant purchasing wares against the changing styles and fitful\ncustoms. The investment proving good furnishes the joy and romance\nof existence. The investment proving bad causes the tragedy that\nshatters the brain, breaks the heart, smolders the homefires, and sends\nmultitudes reeling and cursing into the darkness.\n\nAll men are investors. Some of them invest their brain. Finding that\nGod has honored them with an intellect capable of development, they\nhave closely applied themselves to study and research, until the\nmeanest flower enlarges itself into an Eden where each petal vein\nbecomes a winding pathway leading to fountains of nectar that ever\nsport and play amid the golden pillars and tapestry of stamen and\npollen. They study until oak trees become mighty ships, iron fashions\nitself into sky-scrapers, forked lightning becomes a servant of the\nhumblest child, sunbeams become physicians, stars become pilots, and\nthe sky a playground in which the mind leaps from world to world and\nwheeling constellation to wheeling constellation. Very rich indeed are\nthe dividends coming to him who invests his brain against the world\u2019s\nignorance and mysteries.\n\nAll men are investors. Some men invest their bodies. They bend their\nback to the burden until the blood vessels stand out upon their temples\nlike silken nets. They give the strength of their arms to the hammer\nand drill until the flinty cliff becomes broad highways beneath their\nfeet. They toil until mountains become winding corridors leading to\nchests of silver; valleys bloom with harvests, and frail cocoons become\nsilken robes. They toil, earning dividends of daily bread, a happy\nhome, and the consciousness that the world is better for their toil.\n\nAll men are investors. \u00c6sthetic in temperament, some invest a love for\nthe beautiful. They find rhythm in swaying tree branch, harmony in the\nmoving of winds, music in chirp of crickets, symphonies in the carol of\nbirds, poetry in gleaming lights upon the water, visions of glory in\nthe morning and evening sky. They adorn our cities with temples, fill\nour homes with immortal songs, transform white marble into immortal\nshapes, and fill our galleries with visions of sunsets that never fade,\ntrees whose leaves are never driven by the November winds, children\nwho never grow up, and family circles unbroken by death. Dividends\nsurpassing belief belong to these true and faithful lovers of the\nbeautiful.\n\nAll men are investors. Some men invest their gift for business. They\nconcentrate their energies on the art of trade until gigantic ships cut\nthe ocean waves, steel rails join nations and continents, wire threads\nbind home to home, keeping each ear within instant reach of loved one\u2019s\nvoice, refrigerator cars that bring the fruit of the tropics to the\nChristmas table, and means of transportation that finds a world-wide\nsale for the handiwork of the humblest toiler. All honor to such men!\nNations do not coin currency for business. Business is the mint whose\nproducts fill the coffers of the nations.\n\nAll men are investors. Some invest their heart\u2019s affections upon things\ndivine. Their ears are closed to evil and they know not concerning\nthings that blight and blast, scorch and consume the soul. Their eyes\nare closed to the suggestive, therefore evil finds no lighted pathway\nto their imagination. Their hands are held firmly and will not touch\nthat which contaminates. Their lives are like unto that of the Lord\nJesus, and therefore they are the children of freedom. Their words drop\nlike the dew, each crystal drop reflecting the heavens toward which\nthey journey. Their smiles are like unto sunbeams upon harvest fields,\nmaking the grain sweeter of kernel and more golden of husk. Their\nvoices melt with tenderness as ripe grapes drip wine. Their opinions\nare permeated with charity as ripe fruit is filled with fragrance.\nTheir coming is like that of a messenger from a friendly king.\n\nEach man is an investor, whether he invests his intellect for\neducation, his body for physical betterment, his \u00e6sthetic nature for\nart, his business sagacity for prosperity, his heart for the fellowship\nof God, receiving benefits and meeting his honest obligations to the\nworld. Honesty demands that each individual should be such an investor,\ninvesting himself and all that he possesses, for he who refuses to do\nso robs his fellow man. For such hell is a moral necessity. He who\nrefuses to yield himself to the plan of God must not be disappointed\nwhen he finds himself outside of God\u2019s plan for his happiness and\nwelfare.\n\nThere are no safety deposit vaults for God\u2019s gifts to man. When times\nof financial panic come, frightened and panic-smitten men withdraw\ntheir currency from circulation, store it away in a vault, thus\nhastening the national disaster. Panics come when men refuse to invest.\nIn an hour like the present, when moral forces are facing a panic, when\norganized forces for evil are using every possible unprincipled means\nand method to press righteousness to the wall, no man has any right\nwhatever to withdraw and hide his talent. Every lover of truth, every\nbeliever in immortality, should give the best he has, every faculty and\ntalent, the widest possible circulation. Invest, and invest heavily, is\nthe order from on high. Invest in order to restore confidence to the\npeople of God. Let them feel encouragement by seeing that the very best\nyou have is at the disposal of all mankind. Refusing to do so makes one\na miser deserving of nothing save the curse of man. Upon the wholeness\nof the investment depends one\u2019s destiny on the Day of Judgment. To the\none who, by investment, has increased his talent, God says: \u201cWell done,\ngood and faithful servant, enter into joy.\u201d To the one who refuses to\nmake investment of his life, he says: \u201cTake away that which he hath.\u201d\nThe Judgment hinges on the problem of investment.\n\nThat we make not fatal mistake let us remember that no talent is\nproperly invested unless done so with a reverent purpose. Talents may\nbe invested aimlessly and without results. To bring paying dividends\nthe investment must be backed by a life having a noble purpose. To\nillustrate, if you were compelled to sum up your entire life in\none sentence, what would you be able to say of yourself? What one\npredominant characteristic do you recognize as being the index of your\nlife? You reply, \u201cI am a student.\u201d Is that all you can say? You have\ninvested brains, are an educated man, but is that all?\n\nUnless you have applied your intellect to successfully solving some\nproblem for those who, denied your blessings, are ignorant and\nsuperstitious, your knowledge is valueless and will be buried with\nyou. You may be a toiler, but unless you have tugged away and lifted,\nwith all your might, at the world\u2019s burdens, your strength will go\nwith you to the grave. If your investment of the \u00e6sthetic does not\nmake the world more beautiful, it is valueless. Are you successful in\nbusiness? Is that all that can be said? You may be worth many millions\nof dollars, but if your gold has never gleamed in true philanthropy it\nwill crumble into dust with your body. You may be good, but unless your\ngoodness expresses itself in sacrificial service, it is worthless.\n\nThat which is enduring demands, not the investment of talents\nalone, but the investment of the whole life. To give your talents\nindifferently marks you, not as an investor, but as a spender, and\nanyone can spend money, especially inherited money. To make an\ninvestment demands a whole life centered upon one holy and noble\npurpose, for which one spares neither toil nor sacrifice, energy nor\ntime, until the united efforts become permanent in the world and\nforever identify your name with that noble purpose. To invest wisely\nis to endow one\u2019s name until it stands out the rich embodiment of\nsome worthy purpose, as the name \u201cDante\u201d stands for poetry, the name\n\u201cAbraham Lincoln\u201d stands for the emancipation of the slaves, the name\n\u201cGaribaldi\u201d stands for liberty, the names of Peabody and Shaftesbury\nstand for benevolence, and the names of Wesley and Moody stand for the\nredemption of a world.\n\n\n\n\n                                 XXIII\n\n                           THOUGHT PLANTING\n\n\nThere is nothing more common, and seemingly insignificant, than the\nplanting of a garden. There are the simple upturning of the sod, the\nmellowing of the soil, and the burial of a hard-shelled seed. Let a\nchemist analyze the soil, and a scientist examine the seed, and they\nwill be unable to find anything signifying relationship between the\ntwo. There is nothing, so far as the human eye can see, to suggest that\nthe combination of seed and soil would be other than the combination of\nstone and stubble. But when once planted all the universe knows about\nthe little brown seed. The earth and the seed were made for each other,\nand no sooner do they come in proper contact than the whole universe\nis set in motion about and for the development of that buried germ.\nThere is not a cloud floating afar nor a star gleaming mildly in the\ndistant blue that does not exist for that tiny seed until, through the\nministration of sunbeam and moonlight, shower and baptismal dew, the\nseed arises, clothed in the glory of a resurrection, to lift itself in\nright royal grandeur above the clod.\n\nNo one can explain how the inanimate can thus become living tissue, but\nthe sun keeps warming its leaves with caresses, and the kindly winds\nbring tribute from distant lands; and the guarding stars keep sending\ntheir benign forces, and the cool hand of the darkness offers its\nchalice of dew, so that the seed becomes a tree, whose nectar attracts\nthe bees and butterflies, and whose wide-extending branches become the\nhome and playground of the birds.\n\nThere is nothing seemingly more insignificant than the planting of\na garden unless it be the beginning of a good and useful life. It\nis simply planting a thought in an ordinary human brain. The wise\nphilosopher may examine the thought and pronounce it quite commonplace;\nthe grammarian may test it and say that it could be constructed in a\nmore exact and polished manner; the physiologist may examine the brain\nand pronounce the texture of its convolutions as being most ordinary.\nThere is nothing anywhere to indicate that the combination of that\nparticular thought and that particular brain could result in anything\nparticularly extraordinary. The possessor of the brain may feel no\ndifferent after the planting of the thought and have no presentiment\nof what it shall mean to him in the years that follow. But the whole\nuniverse knows about the thought planting. As the stars remember the\nburied seed, so all the divine forces of earth and heaven are set to\nwork about the planted thought. Days and weeks may pass without the\nworld observing any appreciable results, and it may even forget the\nplanting. But God has not forgotten. He is remembering it, guarding it\nwith divine care, and the results will appear sooner than we think.\n\nThat is the reason, I believe, that Christ took the mustard seed for\nthe foundation of a parable. The seed is not only one of the smallest,\nbeing so little that it can slip unnoticed from your grasp, and hide\nwithin the crevice of a clod, mocking your solicitous search, but it\nis of most rapid growth. Within a fortnight it will overshadow the\ngarden, and before the season is ended will tower twelve to fifteen\nfeet in height, its sturdy branches affording shelter, and protected\nnests, for many birds. Divine thoughts within the brain are capable of\nthis marvelous development. The planting may be an unattractive thing\nto do; the mind itself may be as unresponsive as the soil at the first\nplanting of the seed, but God has not forgotten his truth, and all the\nuniverse is working for its fullest development. Soon, very soon, will\nit manifest its marvelous nature by rapid growth and bloom.\n\nHere is a little lass, living among the forests of Domremy. Day by day\nshe watches the soldiers of hostile powers tramping along the dusty\nhighways to devastate the land she loves so dearly. Her heart aches\nas she sees her people languishing helplessly under the heavy yoke of\noppression. Standing with tear-filled eyes one day she hears an old man\nsay: \u201cGod will one day raise a deliverer for the French.\u201d Amid the dust\narising from the tramping of an invading army a thought was planted in\nthe mind of a child.\n\nHere is a little girl at Ledbury, near the Malvern Hills, sitting in\nher father\u2019s dooryard, looking at the mysterious letters of a Greek\nbook, whose secrets refuse to yield themselves to her inquisitive\nbrain. Disappointed, she buries her face in her book and weeps, only\nto be found by a kind friend who picks her up and whispers in her ear:\n\u201cThere, do not cry. A little girl can learn Greek if she tries.\u201d The\nworld goes along as usual, not knowing that a new thought has been\nplanted, and that girls may learn Greek as readily as do the boys.\n\nHere is a little boy, standing by a harpsichord, watching his father\u2019s\nfingers find the notes upon the ivory keyboard. His soul is filled with\ndelight as he listens to the melodies that arise. Beholding the nervous\ntwitch of the tiny fingers longing to earnestly and reverently touch\nthe music-making keys, the father bends low, and says: \u201cBe patient,\nson, and keep loving your music, for some day you will be a great\nmusician.\u201d\n\nHere is a little boy drawing with charcoal upon the white walls of his\nmother\u2019s kitchen, while a precious old grandmother sits watching the\nyoung artist. Taking him in her arms, she said, \u201cDo not paint to rub\nout, paint for eternity.\u201d Commonplace words uttered in a commonplace\nhome by a very commonplace old lady.\n\nHere is a bright-eyed little boy kneeling at his mother\u2019s side to say\nhis prayers. Having finished his petitions, the Christian mother says,\nencouragingly, as she strokes his head, \u201cOnly be good, my precious boy,\nand God will use you to help the thousands.\u201d\n\nWe have seen these five persons putting ordinary thoughts in what\nseem to be ordinary brains. These five children felt no enraptured\nthrill, the ones who sowed the thoughts did not remember the day.\nBut all the universe of spiritual power knew about the planting, and\nconsequently the seeds grew. Watch the little girl among the forests of\nDomremy, leaning against the trees, buried in thought, and listening\nto the voices that ever speak of redeeming France. Watch the little\ngirl bending over her Greek book, day after day, finding the key\nthat unlocks the beauty of Homer and Thucydides. Watch the little\nlad sitting past the midnight hour, his long curls falling in rich\nfolds about his face as he bends over the harpsichord awakening the\nslumbering strings. Watch the little lad gathering clays of various\ncolors and grinding them into paint, which shall, at the touch of his\nbrush, awaken angels upon the canvas. Watch the little lad who learned\nto pray at his mother\u2019s knee, gathering the students of Oxford about\nhim to spend the evening hour in prayer. God has not forgotten the\ngood thoughts sown in the days gone by, and all the spiritual forces\nof the heavens are working for their most complete development. Soon\nthe little lass of Domremy, obedient to the call of the voices, mounts\nher charger and compels King Charles, the invader, to flee and give\nback the government of France to her people. Soon the little girl\nwho studied so diligently to learn Greek will become Mrs. Elizabeth\nBrowning, to make the centuries happy with the music of her poems. Soon\nthe little lad at the harpsichord will become the mighty Mozart, whose\nmusic lingers like the sweet fragrance of dew-wet flowers. Soon will\nthe little boy, drawing with charcoal, begin to paint for eternity, and\nthe \u201cAngelus\u201d and \u201cThe Man with a Hoe\u201d begin their deathless career,\nas a tribute to toil, and an eternal protest against oppression. Soon\nthe boy of Epworth and the youth of Oxford will become John Wesley, the\nleader of the great revival which swept England at a critical period\nand directed her on the right track.\n\nNo one can understand the mystery of the growing seed, or the greater\nmystery of the growing thought, but each individual can have such a\nlove for childhood and its future that he will guard with jealous care\neach word that leaves his lip, determined that in the sowing nothing\nbut good seed shall find lodgment in any heart. An evil thought planted\nin a child\u2019s mind grows into a ruined life and blasted character. Let\nnot even the idle word be an evil one for fear of the harvest. What an\nincentive to become good husbandmen planting righteous thoughts in the\nminds of childhood, looking forward to harvests that shall never end!\n\n\n\n\n                                 XXIV\n\n                          THE ROSARY OF TEARS\n\n\nGod meant man to be happy. The sweetest music of this world is clear,\nringing laughter. Beside its resonance the majestic voice of the\ncataract, the rolling melody of dashing billows, the gurgling ripple of\nthe sun-kissed streams, the thrilling throb of the wild bird\u2019s song,\nthe merry chirp of the cheerful cricket, the lyric of the wind-tossed\nleaves are as nothing. Better one sudden, spontaneous outburst of\nchildish laughter than all the symphonies and oratorios of the long\ncenturies. Nothing can equal it. It comes with the spontaneity of a\ngeyser, rolls out upon the atmosphere like a volley of salutes, thrills\nlike martial music, its quick vibrations making the sunbeams tinkle\nlike silver bells. It is contagious, causing the facial muscles of our\nfriends to relax and begin to run and leap into the radiant smiles,\ntheir vocal cords to burst into song, and the whole world becomes a\nbetter and happier place for all mankind.\n\nAs the sunshine makes battle with shadows, so men and women should\nwage warfare with everything that depresses. Children have a right\nto laugh, and youth has a right to rejoice in the morning light of\nlife that floods the pathway with the bright and brilliant colorings\nof hope. We must not be too exacting with others, neither must we\nendeavor to abnormally repress our own feelings. There is a restraint\nthat is not culture and a self-control that is not temperance. Some\npeople would be far more honest in their dealings, and have better\nrating in their own community, if they did not exercise such an\nexacting self-control over their deep feelings of honesty, justice, and\nbrotherly love. There is a boundless strength in emotion, therefore\nlaughter and happiness are absolutely essential. Let happy hours be\ngolden beads, which, strung upon the silken cord of memory, will become\na rosary with which to count our prayers.\n\nLaughter is essential, because of its relationship to tears. In the\ntruest sense pure tears and pure laughter are one. It requires a\nraindrop to reveal the hidden beauties of the sunbeam. Beholding the\nrainbow spreading its many-colored folds over the dark shoulders of\nthe storm cloud, we utter exclamations of gladsome surprise. How\nmarvelously beautiful it is! But every sunbeam would be a rainbow if\nonly it had its raindrop through which to pass. It requires vapor\nto reveal the hidden depths and treasures of the sunbeam. Tears are\nto laughter what raindrops are to sunshine. They reveal the deeper\nmeaning of our joys. Without them we should never appreciate or\nunderstand the brighter moments. When we count each hour of happiness\nas a golden bead, we must consider each teardrop as a crystal or\npolished diamond, to gleam upon the rosary of the heart.\n\nSincerely pity the man who has lost the art of shedding tears, for he\nhas, through self-control, restricted his emotions, so as to exclude\nlife\u2019s best experiences. Without a tear-moistened eye one cannot\nclearly comprehend the brightness of the sky, the majesty of the\nsea, the commanding splendor of the mountains, or the wealth of gold\nthat lies buried in every human heart. Without tears one can never\nexperience the rapturous joy of truest love or holiest patriotism. The\ngreatness of the soul is measured by the depth of its emotions, and\nthe extent of influence is determined by the readiness with which one\npermits the deep emotions to shed their glory.\n\nHerein is hidden a secret of triumphant power. The greatest victories\nare won, not by gun and cannon, but by deep emotions expressed in\ntear-dimmed eyes. Great achievements are wrought by men who can feel\nkeenly and deeply. Behold Garibaldi conquering a great Italian city.\nA thousand soldiers, armed with rifles, and supported with heavy\nartillery, stood ready to oppose him. Commanding generals, with drawn\nswords, stood ready to give command to fire the moment he made his\nappearance. This was the day that he had announced that he would take\nthe city. Hours passed and neither he nor his army came in sight.\nFinally, in the afternoon, amid a cloud of dust, a carriage is seen\nrapidly nearing the city. Every eye is strained to see its passenger,\nwhen lo, above the dust, rises the stalwart form of the great Italian.\nWithout gun, sword, or protecting soldier, the great general who has\ncome to take the city, is standing erect in an open carriage, his arms\nfolded in peace. Each defending soldier is ready to obey command, but\nno command is given. In the presence of such remarkable courage each\nofficer is motionless and speechless. No moment of Italian history was\nmore tense. Suddenly some sympathizer shouted, \u201cViva la Garibaldi!\u201d and\nin an instant every weapon is dropped and Garibaldi takes the city and\nholds it as his own. The power to advance in the face of great odds,\nwith no weapon save a burning heart and tear-filled eyes, has wrought\nmore victories than we know.\n\nTo cry is not weakness, for tears are evidences of strong character.\nWe have always loved Mark Twain, enjoying his travels as much as he,\nand laughing away dreary hours with his bubbling humor. But humor never\nrevealed the true man he really was. It was not until his daughter\ndied, and he sat all alone at home on Christmas day, amid the unopened\ngifts, and broken hopes of life, and wrote the matchless story of her\ndeath, that the world caught glimpse of the real Mark Twain. Beholding\nher lying there so quietly, he said: \u201cWould I call her back to life\nif I could do it? I would not. If a word would do, I would beg for\nstrength to withhold the word. And I would have the strength; I am sure\nof it. In her loss I am almost bankrupt, and my life is a bitterness,\nbut I am content; for she has been enriched with the most precious of\nall gifts--that gift which makes all other gifts mean and poor--death.\u201d\nIt required the teardrop to reveal the real character of Mark Twain.\n\nWhile for our friends we would have nothing but golden hours, for\nourselves the rosary of tears is the most precious treasure we possess.\nNone other creates such a spirit of devotion, none other so thoroughly\nprepares us for conquest; none other opens the heart to those diviner\nemotions which should thrill the inner life of all. The golden beads\nwill become tiresome, but the crystal rosary of tears will always be\nattractive. Count over its beads. There are the large, fast-falling\ntears of childhood. Tell them one by one, and behold how they bring\nback the holy memories and yearnings for childhood purity and childhood\nfaith. Hold fast those blessed beads that were once kissed away by a\nmother\u2019s lips, but still sparkle in the light of her precious love.\nThere too are the glittering tears of youthful ambitions, when the\nheart burned with passion, the brain whirled with plans for conquest,\nand the eyes were moist with tears of hope. How precious those tears\nthat have long since ceased to flow! But they are not lost. We still\nhave them on our rosary when we offer prayer, and the touching of them\nrevives our old-time hopes. There also are the tears of love. The\nbusy, all-consuming fires of worldly ambition cannot dry them away.\nThey gleam in the eye every time memory presents the portrait of that\nprecious face. How wonderful to love until the eyes blind with tears of\necstasy!\n\nThere too are the priceless tears of sympathy. The sight of another\u2019s\nwrong or sorrow unloosed the fountains of the deep, and your heart\nresponded. In order to right the wrong you gave yourself to work of\nreform, and made your influence a powerful factor in the remaking of\nthe world. There, gleaming more beautiful than all, are the tears of\nsorrow. They were shed at the side of the grave; they came into the eye\nat the sight of an empty chair. How unbearable the world until relief\ncame in a flood of tears! Only through tears do we find the sweetest\ncomfort.\n\nThus, our devotions become more helpful when we hold this rosary of\npriceless treasure. These beads can be purchased of no merchant; they\ncannot be blessed by any priest. They were wrought in the fires of our\nsuffering, and, because we trusted him, they were blessed of God. They\ncannot heal the soul--only God can do that; but they help heal the soul\nby quickening our memories and reviving our past experiences. Let no\none rob you of the beneficent influences of deep feelings, whether of\njoy or sorrow, for we are never so much in the spirit of prayer as when\nwe hold in our hands the rosary of tears.\n\n\n\n\n                                  XXV\n\n                     THE HEARTHSTONE OF THE HEART\n\n\nSpeaking to a young man who was about to assume the more weighty\nresponsibilities of religious work and living, Paul bade him stir up\nthe coals of genius, and build a fire of enthusiasm that would warm and\nset aglow with holy zeal his every endeavor. \u201cI put thee in remembrance\nthat thou stir up the gift of God, which is in thee.\u201d As the housewife\nstirs the living coals out of the dead ashes of the old fireplace,\nand fans them until they glow with sparkling fervor, setting aflame\nthe newly placed faggots, making the room radiant with good cheer as\nshadows dance along the walls and ice melts from the frost-screened\nwindowpanes, so out of the dead ashes of past enthusiasm he was to stir\nup the living coals of his best gifts until they snapped, and sparkled,\nand burst aflame, filling the heart with brightness, and creating an\natmosphere that would melt the ices of indifference from the windows of\nhis soul, and give him a clear vision of a great wide world. Yea, as\nin the days of Paul, one would take a dying torch, and placing it to\nhis lips, pour out his breath upon it until it burst in flame, that he\nmight have a torch of burning fire to guide his footsteps through the\ndarkness of the starless midnight or to flash a message to the people\nliving upon the distant hilltop, or to kindle the fireplace wood until\nthe cold corners of the house breathed a hearty welcome to the tired\nand frozen travelers, so the young man was to take the divine elements\nof the soul, breathe upon them the breath of prayer and devotion, until\nthey blazed and burned and cast abroad their helpful influence.\n\nWithin each human heart, however covered with the smothering ashes of\nsin, are God-made sparks of celestial fire that long to rise on wings\nof flame and make heroic battle with oppressive darkness. There are too\nmany lives which, through carelessness, never burn bright, but, like\nsmoldering flax, slowly eat themselves away, darkening and corrupting\nthe very air they should illumine. When they began the Christian life\nthey were radiant with hope, beaming with enthusiasm, and flashing\nwith chivalric courage; but the spirit of worldliness choked and\nsmothered them, until now, like the dead hearthstone of some shell-torn\nhouse upon the battle line, they offer to a worn-out world no hope of\nhospitality. To guard against this choking of the soul, this smoldering\nof genius, this reckless burning out of the priceless gifts of God,\nPaul urges all young men to stir up these coals and fan them into\nradiant and glowing character.\n\nIt is not the will of God that any life be formal and indifferent.\nHow much all forms of life, plant, and animal owe to the hidden fires\nwithin the bosom of the planet, no scientist has been bold enough to\nstate; but this we know about mankind, without the inner fires of\nburning thought and all-consuming zeal there is no productivity. And\nno life need be cold-hearted. For the hearthstone of every heart there\nare three divine qualities that should burn with all the intensity and\nfervor as in the hearts of ancient seer and prophet.\n\nThere is the quality of Faith that makes God real. To many people God\nseems so far away that it is an impossibility for him to be a very\nimportant factor in their daily lives. He is a sort of good-natured\nGenerality, to whom they may address petitions of greater or less\ndegree of piety, without fear of being embarrassed by an answer. Should\nit be announced with certainty that at a given time the accumulated\nprayers of a twelvemonth would be answered, fifty per cent of the\npeople would be afraid to face the hour. Some have prayed for purity\nof heart, but if there is anything in the world that they do not\nwant, it is purity of heart. Nothing would be more embarrassing to\ncarry into their haunts of enjoyment and more difficult to explain to\ntheir companions. Others have prayed for God to accept them as living\nsacrifices, yet sainthood, to them, is as shocking as yellow fever. I\nonce knew a man who prayed \u201cLet justice rule supreme.\u201d It is a pleasing\nphrase and a consummation to be devoutly wished for, but had it been\nanswered in this particular case, the man who uttered the prayer would\nhave gone to the penitentiary. Few people deny the existence of a God,\nbut many live as though there were no God. But these are not the real\nlives. The men who really live and give a homelike feeling to the world\nare those who have stirred up the embers of their faith until they\nburn with an all-consuming warmth that makes God a guest of honor. To\nsuch souls God is marvelously real, and they rejoice to have him dwell\nwithin. When faith once lays hold on the Almighty no other experience\nis half so real. One needs read about it in no book, consult no priest\nor preacher, nor plead with friend to lend the information, for he\nknows it for himself. Sitting beside the hearthstone of a living,\nflaming faith, our hands feeling the pressure of that mighty Hand that\nnever harms but always serves, our souls rejoice with unmeasured joy to\nrealize that we are in the presence of God who knows and understands,\nand who not only walks the weary ways with us, but gladly dwells within.\n\nThere is the quality of hope that makes heaven real. So long as hope\nburns within the heart there is no fear of winter winds, but when hope\ndies the soul dies. How gladly may old age look over the world in which\nit spent the four-seasoned life of toil! Here is the spring of life\nwhere the daisies grew and the cowslips scattered gold about the feet.\nYonder the harvest fields of manhood\u2019s power in which a bared arm of\nstrength gathered the treasures of the soil while right merry thoughts\ncentered upon a nearby cottage toward which he knelt each time he tied\na band of gold about the garnered sheaf. Yonder the carefully planted\nviolets grow upon a tiny mound, bright children of the sun making\nbattle with the cold shadows of a marble slab. Now the autumn time of\nlife fades into wintry quiet. The song of the brook is hushed beneath\never-thickening ice, the trees are robbed of color, the fields are\ntrackless wastes of snow. The four seasons of life are growing to a\nclose, the last afternoon is coming to its twilight, and yet one is not\nsad. The fires of hope still burn upon the hearthstone of the heart,\nand fill the soul with the light of its immortal home. Heaven is not a\nfar-away land, vague with mystery, and dim with distance, but a place\nthat is real and very close. We breathe its scented air, and bathe\nin its golden light while hope is burning divinely bright within our\nhearts.\n\nThe hope of heaven does more than offer us compensation for the\nwrongs of life; it gives man an intelligent interpretation of the\nthings of time. Until one believes his citizenship is in heaven he\ncannot intelligently perform his daily task. The painting that lacks\nperspective is a daub; the hopeless life is dismal failure. Therefore,\nas one prizes the best, he should stir up the gift of hope until heaven\nis as real as home.\n\nThere is the quality of love that makes the world seem real. At the\nfireside of a loving heart, one readily learns the true secrets of the\nworld in which he dwells. There is nothing so potent as love to give\nvision to the soul, clearness to the eye, effective service to the\nhand. Then stir up the gifts of love. Build in your heart the fires of\na quenchless affection that refuses to believe the worst, that will\nnever give consent that anyone has gone too far in sin for reclamation,\nbut ever believes that one more touch of kindness will bring the person\nback to God; a love that gladly sacrifices everything of value in his\neffort to redeem that which has no value; a love that knows no selfish\ninterest and daily seeks the welfare of another. Then will the world\ncease to be hazy and fantastic, but will be as real as the ones of your\nown household, who gather each evening hour about your fireside.\n\nLet not your love for one single individual die; it robs you of too\ngreat a joy. Warm up your hearts by allowing the fires of faith in\nGod, hope of heaven, and love for all men to blaze and burn in high,\nexultant flames that know not how to die. Without it your life will be\nas barren as the deserted house through which the winter winds pass\nundisturbed. Make your life homelike by keeping bright the hearthstone\nof the heart.\n\n\n\n\n                                 XXVI\n\n                            THE UNOARED SEA\n\n\nEach one spends his childhood playing upon the golden sands of an\nunoared sea, over which in the after years he must find his way to\nshipwreck or safe harbor.\n\nHow little does childhood in its helplessness know of life! Pleased\nwith simple things, it greets the world with gladness, and shouts for\nvery joy when finding a tinted shell or bit of seaweed. With spades of\ntin it undertakes to dig a hole \u201cclear through the earth,\u201d and smiles\nin contemplation of a vision of the Chinese sky. With chains of sand it\nundertakes to bind the rushing waters of the tide which granite cliff\nand flinty rock cannot subdue. The child undertakes great things while\nhe himself is not strong enough to withstand the smallest wave, but,\nleaving his unfinished task, runs homeward at the coming of the tide.\nThe waves roar with laughter and the spray sparkles with merriment as\nthey destroy the feeble efforts of his puny hands. Childhood knows\nlittle of the unoared sea of life whose marvelous power of wave and\ntide threatens to destroy all the childish and manly efforts of his\nlife.\n\nThe desires of the sea may be fulfilled. With youthful enthusiasm and\nunguarded courage he may make fatal venture and be lost. There are\nmany such of wholesome soul and worthy purpose whose most cherished\nhopes and plans came to shipwreck and disaster. The seas of life are\nstrewn with wreckage. Yet one must not be pessimistic and forget that\nthe raging sea is not omnipotent. With all its wild dashing waves and\nboisterous winds it is not as strong as that little lad may become. The\nweakest child may yet be able to dig a pit large and deep enough to\nbury all the swollen waves; and build a cable of sand strong enough to\nbind securely the rising and the falling tides. Some day, over the calm\nand quiet waters of a perfectly conquered sea, this tiny lad may pass\ninto the harbor of safety and success.\n\nMan was not made for the sea, but the sea was made for man. Man was\ncreated with the gift of complete dominion over all the world in which\nhe finds himself. Standing like a discoverer upon the shores of his\nown unoared sea of life, it is his to conquer, for each individual\nfaces a sea newly created, whose waves have never been cut by the prow\nof any boat. No two people sail the same sea. Each person faces a\nlife as original as it is unknown, but one that is singularly suited\nto himself. Age may be enriched with much dearly bought and valuable\nexperiences, and be most helpful in counseling youth, but age can never\nfully understand the child, or youth, who stands upon the sun-kissed\nsands of the unoared sea of his own individual life. The beauty and\npathos of life is that each one must solve the problem for himself.\n\nThis does not mean that the training and counseling of youth\nshould be neglected. The ennobling influences of a godly home with\nChristian parents; the steady, guiding hand of school and college;\nthe inspiration of good books and imperial thinking, as well as\nthe soul-strengthening forces of the church, are all of most vital\nimportance. They should never be omitted from any life. These are\nthings to which each child has an unquestioned right. All the forces\nfor good, of earth and sea and sky, must be centered upon the ambitious\nbut ofttimes thoughtless youth, that he may recognize and faithfully\nemploy the agencies created for his service and success.\n\nThe best that education can do is to help the individual to help\nhimself. Education is not a compass by which to steer his craft; it is\nnot the rudder that determines the course; neither is it the propelling\npower that drives it through the waves against an adverse wind. God\nhas made especial provision for these equipments. The chart is the\ninspired Word; the compass, a divinely guided conscience; the rudder, a\nwill surrendered fully to the will of God; while the power that propels\nlies in the skillful using of two plain oars that God has placed within\nhis easy reach. Education is the intellectual training that enables him\nto use these agencies in the most efficient manner.\n\nMany centuries of experience and experiment have produced no\nlabor-saving machinery for reaching the harbor of success. If one would\nmake successful voyage, he must be willing to grasp the oars with his\nown hands, bend his back to heavy strain, employing all his mental,\nphysical, and spiritual power to the task of making good. It is not a\njoy ride or a pleasure trip. There is a joy unspeakable in the task,\nbut it comes not from without but from the consciousness within that\none is winning in a moral strife. This consciousness will be found\nto be the chiefest of life\u2019s joys. None shall excel it this side the\nwelcome we shall receive when safely anchored in the presence of our\nGod, and even then this consciousness will be the inspiration of the\nheavenly song. Life must be considered not so much a pleasure as a\nstruggle, but a worthy struggle, that sends the blood tingling through\nthe veins, and builds the tissues of a noble character.\n\nAfter the training in life\u2019s fundamentals the choosing of the oars is\nthe most important thing. The craft in which one sails is character,\nbuilt to weather any storm on any wind-swept sea. The haven is God\u2019s\nhomeland of the soul. The oars are varied, and the success or failure\nof the voyage, the safety or shipwreck of character, a victorious\nlanding or sinking beneath the waves of obscurity, depend entirely upon\nthe choosing of these oars by means of which his life energies are to\nbe directed.\n\nTo this end all the educational influences of home and school and\ncollege must be directed. Youth must be taught the value of an\nintelligent choice of the instruments through which his powers shall\nflow. He must not be led by fancy or prejudice or by the words of\ndishonest men who have oars to sell. He must not choose by the color\nof the paint or beauty of their decorations. He must not listen to the\nhoneyed words of an evil one whose sole purpose is his destruction.\nLeaving the sands of childhood and starting voyage upon the unoared sea\nof life is a moment in which all earth and heaven are concerned, and\ntherefore the choice of oar must not be left to chance or fortune. He\nmust know that all the proffered oars are not alike, and that false\nteachers profit from the wreckage of the boats they set adrift. He must\nknow that a broken oar means a drifting boat, and that no drifting boat\ncan ride a storm-tossed sea. All the difference between heaven and hell\nis in that moment of decision when he picks up his chosen oars and\nbegins to use them as his own.\n\nThere are two oars that never fail when once grasped by a hand that\nis firm and true. The first oar is called Virtue. With this oar of\nmoral excellency, of pure heart and clean hands, with this oar of real\nintegrity of character and purity of soul, man\u2019s energies are never\nwasted as he makes battle against opposing powers. The real sinfulness\nof impurity is its resultant waste of strength. Behold the wan faces,\nsunken eyes, wasted energies, emaciated forms, staggering steps of\nweakness, and the uncertainty and indecision of character, and one sees\nthe consequences of abusing the laws of purity. But virtue means more\nthan purity of body, it means absolute cleanliness of heart and mind\nand purpose.\n\nThe second oar is Righteousness. Unrighteousness is the abuse and waste\nof power. The New Testament word for sin is \u201cmissing the mark,\u201d energy\nthat is wasted by not being carefully and accurately directed. To be\nupright in life, free from wrong and injustice, to yield to everyone\nhis just dues, is to have a means for directing strength and vital\nenergy that never fails to bring the desired result.\n\nTwo oars--\u201cVirtue,\u201d rightness with God; \u201cRighteousness,\u201d rightness with\nman--two oars that have never been known to break no matter how much a\ngreat soul bends them in his battle with the waves. Two oars that have\nnever yet failed to bring the ship to harbor.\n\nThis, then, is the opportunity of the church, not to manufacture oars,\nbut to aid youth and maiden to choose the ones that God hath made. They\nare not new inventions, but as old as God and rugged as the Hand that\nmade them. Firmly grasped and resolutely employed, the harbor is made\nin safety, although the voyage be upon a hitherto unoared sea.\n\n\n\n\n                          Transcriber\u2019s Notes\n\n\n_Underscores_ added around text that was italicized in the original.\n\nPage 157, \u201crobs his fellowman\u201d changed to \u201crobs his _fellow man_.\u201d\n\nPage 173, \u201ccannot dry them alway\u201d changed to \u201ccannot dry them _away_.\u201d\n\nPage 180, \u201cdoes more tnan offer\u201d changed to \u201cdoes more _than_ offer.\u201d\n\nOther oddities have been retained from the original printing, as it\nisn\u2019t obvious what the author intended.","title":"Unfinished Rainbows, and Other Essays","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":39146}