"I've tramped all over the country trying to find something. There are a good many others like me. I'm not complaining. Just stating facts. But I was, wondering as I sat there under the gallery, if what you call following Jesus is the same thing as what He taught. What did Jesus mean when He said: 'Follow Me'? The minister said that it is necessary for the disciple of Jesus to follow His steps, and he said the steps are 'obedience, faith, love and imitation.' But I did not hear him tell you just what he meant that to mean. What do you Christians mean by following the steps of Jesus?
"I've tramped through this city for three days trying to find a job, and in all that time I've not had a word of sympathy or comfort except from your minister here, who said he was sorry for me and hoped I would find a job somewhere. I suppose it is because you get so imposed on by the professional tramp that you have lost your interest in any other sort. I'm not blaming anybody. Just stating facts. Of course, I understand you can't all go out of your way to hunt up jobs for people like me. I'm not asking you to; but what I feel puzzled about is, what is meant by following Jesus?
"What do you mean when you sing, 'I'll go with Him, with Him, all the way'? Do you mean that you are suffering and denying yourselves and trying to save lost, suffering humanity just as Jesus did? I understand there are more than five hundred men in this city in my case. Most of them have families. My wife died four months ago. I'm glad she is out of trouble. My little girl is staying with a printer's family until I find a job. I get puzzled when I see so many Christians living in luxury, and singing, 'Jesus, I my cross have taken, all to leave and follow Thee,' and remember how my wife died in a tenement in New York City, gasping for air and asking God to take the little girl too.
"Of course, I don't expect you people can prevent everyone from dying of starvation, lack of proper nourishment and tenement air. But what does following Jesus mean? I understand that Christian people own a good many of the tenements. A member of a church was the owner of the one where my wife died, and I have wondered if following Jesus all the way was true in his case. I heard some people singing at a church prayer meeting the other night, 'All for Jesus, all for Jesus, All my being's ransomed powers, All my thoughts, and all my doings, All my days, and all my hours.'
"I kept wondering as I sat on the steps outside just what they meant by it. It seems to me there's an awful lot of trouble in the world that somehow wouldn't exist if all the people who sing such songs went and lived them out. What would Jesus do? Is that what you mean by following His steps? It seems to me sometimes as if the people in the big churches have good clothes and nice houses to live in, and money to spend for luxuries, and can go away on summer vacations and all that, while the people outside the churches, thousands of them die in tenements, and walk the streets for jobs, and grow up in misery and drunkenness and sin."
The man suddenly gave a lurch in the direction of the communion table and laid one grimy hand on it. His hat fell upon the carpet at his feet. A stir went through the congregation. Dr. West half rose from his pew, but as yet the silence was unbroken by any voice or movement in the audience. The man passed his other hand across his eyes, and then, without any warning, fell heavily forward on his face, full length up the aisle.
Henry Maxwell spoke. "We will consider the service closed."
He was down the pulpit stairs and kneeling by the prostrate form, before anyone else. The audience instantly rose and the aisles were crowded.
Dr. West pronounced the man alive. "Some heart trouble," the doctor muttered, as he helped carry him out into the minister's study.
Maxwell and a group of his church members remained some time in the study. The man lay on the couch there and breathed heavily. When the question of what to do with him came up, the minister insisted on taking the man to his own house. He lived nearby and had an extra room.
Rachel Winslow said, "Mother has no company at present. I am sure we would be glad to give him a place with us."
But Maxwell insisted on taking charge of the man, and when a carriage came the unconscious form was carried to the minister's house, and a new chapter in Henry Maxwell's life began.
People talked of nothing else for a week. It was the general impression that the man had wandered into the church in a condition of mental disturbance caused by his troubles, and that all the time he was talking he was in a strange delirium of fever and really ignorant of his surroundings. That was the most charitable construction to put upon his action.
It was the general agreement also that there was a singular absence of anything bitter or complaining in what the man had said. He had, throughout, spoken in a mild, apologetic tone, almost as if he were one of the congregation seeking for light on a very difficult subject.
The third day after his removal to the minister's house there was a marked change in his condition. The doctor spoke of it and offered no hope. Saturday morning he still lingered, although he had rapidly failed as the week drew near its close. That night, just before the clock struck one, he rallied and asked if his child had come. The minister had sent for her at once as soon as he had been able to secure her address from some letters found in the man's pocket.
"The child is coming. She will be here," Henry Maxwell said as he sat there, his face showing marks of the strain of the week's vigil; for he had insisted on sitting up nearly every night.
"I shall never see her in this world," the man whispered. Then he uttered with great difficulty the words, "You have been good to me. Somehow I feel as if it was what Jesus would do."
After a few minutes he turned his head slightly, and before Henry Maxwell could realize the fact, the doctor said quietly, "He is gone."
Chapter Three
THE SUNDAY morning that dawned on the city of Raymond was exactly like the Sunday of a week before. Henry Maxwell entered his pulpit to face one of the largest congregations that had ever crowded the First Church. He was haggard, and looked as if he had just risen from a long illness. His wife was at home with the little girl, who had come on the morning train after her father died.
The service that morning contained a new element. No one could remember when Henry Maxwell had preached in the morning without notes. For a long time he had carefully written every word of his morning sermon, and nearly always his evening discourse as well. It cannot be said that his sermon this morning was striking or impressive. He talked with considerable hesitation. It was near the close of his sermon that he began to gather a strength that had been painfully lacking at the beginning.
He closed the Bible, and stepping out at the side of the desk faced his people and began to talk to them about the remarkable scene of the week before.
"Our brother," somehow the words sounded a little strange coming from his lips, "passed away this morning. I have not yet had time to learn all his history. He had one sister living in Chicago. I have written her and have not yet received an answer. His little girl is with us and will remain for the time."
He paused and looked over the house. He had never seen so many earnest faces during his entire pastorate. "The appearance and words of this stranger in the church last Sunday made a very powerful impression on me. I am not able to conceal from you or myself the fact that what he said, followed as it has been by his death in my house, has compelled me to ask as I never asked before: 'What does following Jesus mean?'
"A good deal that was said here last Sunday was in the nature of a challenge to Christianity as it is seen and felt in our churches. I have felt this with increasing emphasis every day since. And I do not know that any time is more appropriate than the present for me to propose a plan which has been forming in my mind as a satisfactory reply to much that was said here last Sunday."
Again Henry Maxwell paused and looked into the faces of his people. There were some strong, earnest men and women in the First Church.
He could see Edward Norman, editor of the Raymond Daily News. He had been a member of the First Church for ten years. No man was more honored in the community.
There was Alexander Powers, superintendent of the great railroad workshops in Raymond, a typical railroad man, one who had been born into the business. There sat Donald Marsh, president of Lincoln College, situated in the suburbs of Raymond.
There was Milton Wright, one of the great merchants of Raymond, having in his employ at least one hundred men in various shops. There was Dr. West who, although still comparatively young, was quoted as authority in special surgical cases.
There was young Jasper Chase, the author who had written one successful book and was said to be at work on a new novel. There was Miss Virginia Page, the heiress, who through the recent death of her father had inherited a million at least.
(Publisher's note: A figure of one million dollars is worth around $25 million in the early twenty-first century using the Consumer Price Index. It is difficult to compare money exactly because not all prices and salaries have risen equally. To unskilled workers it would have seemed nearer $125 million in relation to their wages and outgoings. However you look at it, it was a lot of money for a young, single woman to inherit.)
Not least of all, Rachel Winslow, who from her seat in the choir glowed with her peculiar beauty of light because she was so intensely interested in the whole scene.
As he noted their faces, the pastor wondered how many of them would respond to the strange proposition he was about to make. He continued slowly, taking time to choose his words.
"I will put my proposition plainly, perhaps bluntly. I want volunteers from the First Church who will pledge themselves, earnestly and honestly for an entire year, not to do anything without first asking the question, 'What would Jesus do?' And after asking that question, each one will follow Jesus as exactly as he knows how, no matter what the result may be.
"I will of course include myself in this company of volunteers, and take for granted that my church here will not be surprised at my future conduct, as based upon this standard of action, and will not oppose whatever is done if they think Christ would do it. Have I made my meaning clear? At the close of the service I want all those members who are willing to join such a company to remain, and we will talk over the details of the plan. Our motto will be, 'What would Jesus do?'
"Our aim will be to act just as He would if He were in our places, regardless of immediate results. In other words, we propose to follow Jesus' steps as closely and as literally as we believe He taught His disciples to do. And those who volunteer to do this will pledge themselves for an entire year, beginning today, so to act."
Henry Maxwell paused again and looked out over his people. Men glanced at one another in astonishment. It was not like their pastor to define Christian discipleship in this way. There was evident confusion of thought over his proposition. It was understood well enough, but there was apparently a great difference of opinion as to the application of Jesus' teaching and example.
The minister calmly closed the service with a brief prayer. The organist began his postlude immediately after the benediction and the people began to go out. There was a great deal of conversation. Animated groups stood all over the church discussing the minister's proposition. After several minutes he asked all who expected to remain to pass into the lecture room which joined the large room on the side.
Chapter Four
HENRY MAXWELL was himself detained at the front of the church talking with several persons there, and when he finally turned around, the church was empty. He walked over to the lecture room entrance and went in, startled to see the people who were there. He had hardly expected that so many were ready to enter into such a literal testing of their Christian discipleship as now awaited him. There were perhaps fifty present, among them Rachel Winslow and Virginia Page, Edward Norman from the Daily News, President Marsh from Lincoln College, Alexander Powers the railroad superintendent, Milton Wright the city merchant, Dr. West, and Jasper Chase the novelist.
He closed the door of the lecture room and went and stood before the little group. His face was moved with a depth of feeling he could not measure as he looked into the faces of those men and women on this occasion.
It seemed to him that the most fitting word to be spoken first was that of prayer. He asked them all to pray with him. And almost with the first syllable he uttered there was a distinct presence of the Holy Spirit felt by them all. As the prayer went on, this presence grew in power. They all felt it. The room was filled with it as plainly as if it had been visible. When the prayer closed there was a silence that lasted several moments.
All the heads were bowed.
Henry Maxwell's face was wet with tears. And so the most serious movement ever started in the First Church of Raymond was begun.
"We all understand," said he, speaking very quietly, "what we have undertaken to do. We pledge ourselves to do everything in our daily lives after asking the question, 'What would Jesus do?' regardless of what may be the result to us. The experience I have been through since last Sunday has left me so dissatisfied with my previous definition of Christian discipleship that I have been compelled to take this action. I did not dare begin it alone. Do we understand fully what we have undertaken?"
"I want to ask a question," said Rachel Winslow. Everyone turned towards her. "I am a little in doubt as to the source of our knowledge concerning what Jesus would do. Who is to decide for me just what He would do in my case? It is a different age. There are many perplexing questions in our civilization that are not mentioned in the teachings of Jesus. How am I going to tell what He would do?"
"There is no way that I know of," replied the pastor, "except as we study Jesus through the medium of the Holy Spirit. You remember what Christ said speaking to His disciples about the Holy Spirit: 'When He, the Spirit of truth, is come, He will guide you into all truth: for He shall not speak of Himself; but whatsoever He shall hear, that shall He speak: and He will show you things to come. He shall glorify Me: for He shall receive of Mine, and shall show it unto you.' We shall all have to decide what Jesus would do, after going to that source of knowledge."
"What if others say, when we do certain things, that Jesus would not do so?" asked Powers, the superintendent of railroad workshops.
"We cannot prevent that. But we must be absolutely honest with ourselves. The standard of Christian action cannot vary in most of our acts."
"What is to render our conduct uniformly Christ-like?" asked President Marsh of Lincoln College. "Will it be possible to reach the same conclusions always in all cases?"
Henry Maxwell was silent some time. Then he answered, "No, I don't know that we can expect that. But when it comes to a genuine, honest, enlightened following of Jesus' steps, I cannot believe there will be any confusion either in our own minds or in the judgment of others. We must be free from fanaticism on one hand, and too much caution on the other. If Jesus' example is the example for the world to follow, it certainly must be feasible to follow it. But we need to remember this great fact: after we have asked the Holy Spirit to tell us what Jesus would do and have received an answer to it, we are to act regardless of the results to ourselves. Is that understood?"
All the faces in the room were raised towards the minister in solemn assent.
Chapter Five
EDWARD NORMAN, editor of the Raymond Daily News, sat in his office Monday morning and faced a new world of action. He had made his pledge in good faith to do everything after asking "What would Jesus do?" and, as he supposed, with his eyes open to all the possible results. But as the regular life of the paper started on another week's rush and whirl of activity, he confronted it with a degree of hesitation and a feeling nearly akin to fear.
He had come down to the office very early, and for a few minutes was by himself. The Spirit of Life was moving in power through his own life as never before. He rose and shut his door, and then did what he had not done for years. He kneeled down by his desk and prayed for the Divine Presence and wisdom to direct him.
He rose with the day before him, and his promise distinct and clear in his m
ind. "Now for action," he seemed to say. But he would be led by events as fast as they came on.
He opened his door and began the routine of the office work. Clark, the managing editor, had just come in and was at his desk in the adjoining room. One of the reporters there was pounding out something on a typewriter. Edward Norman began to write an editorial. The Daily News was an evening paper, and Norman usually completed his leading editorial before nine o'clock.
He had been writing for fifteen minutes when the managing editor called out: "Here's this press report of yesterday's prize fight at the Resort. It will make up three columns and a half. I suppose it all goes in?"
Edward Norman was one of those newspaper men who keep an eye on every detail of the paper. The managing editor always consulted his chief in matters of both small and large importance. Sometimes, as in this case, it was merely a nominal inquiry.
"Yes -- no. Let me see it."
He took the typewritten matter just as it came from the telegraph editor and ran over it carefully. Then he laid the sheets down on his desk and did some very hard thinking.
"We won't run this today," he said finally.
The managing editor was standing in the doorway between the two rooms. He was astounded at his chief's remark, and thought he had perhaps misunderstood him.
"What did you say?"
"Leave it out. We won't use it."
"But-- The managing editor was simply dumbfounded. He stared at Norman as if the man was out of his mind.
"I don't think, Clark, that it ought to be printed, and that's the end of it," said Norman, looking up from his desk.
"Do you mean that the paper is to go to press without a word of the prize fight in it?"
"Yes, that's what I mean."
"But it's unheard of. All the other papers will print it. What will our subscribers say? Why, it is simply..." Clark paused, unable to find words to say what he thought.
(Publisher's note: Boxers at this time fought for money in illegal bare knuckled bouts that fell foul of local authorities' laws. Prize fights were usually organized by criminal gangs and attracted professional gamblers.)