What Would Jesus Do?
Charles
M. Sheldon
About this Book
What would Jesus Do? Was first publihsed in 1897 as
In His Steps by Charles Monroe
Sheldon. The book has sold more than 30,000,000 copies, and ranks as one of the
best-selling books of all time. The full title of the book is In His Steps: What Would Jesus Do?
Sheldon (February 26, 1857 in Wellsville, New York – February 24, 1946)
was an American minister in the Congregational churches and leader of the
Social Gospel movement.
The Social Gospel movement is a Christian intellectual movement that was
most prominent in the early 20th century United States and Canada.
Theologically, the Social Gospellers sought to operationalize the Lord's Prayer
(Matthew 6:10): "Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth as it is in
heaven."
The movement applied Christian ethics to social problems, especially
issues of social justice such as economic inequality, poverty, alcoholism,
crime, racial tensions, slums, bad hygiene, child labor, inadequate labor
unions, poor schools, and the danger of war.
Sheldon’s novel, In His Steps,
introduced the principle of "What Would Jesus Do?" which articulated
an approach to Christian theology that became popular at the turn of the 20th
Century and had a revival almost one hundred years later.
Sheldon became an advocate of the late nineteenth century school of
thought known as Christian Socialism, form
of religious socialism based on the teachings of Jesus. Sheldon, like many
Christian socialists believed capitalism to be idolatrous and rooted in greed
and identified the cause of inequality to be associated with the greed that he
and others in movement associated with capitalism.
Sheldon’s theological outlook focused on the practicalities of the moral
life, with much less emphasis on the doctrinal traditions of personal
redemption from sin in Christ.
In the winter of 1896 Sheldon developed a sermon story that he read as a
weekly series from the pulpit of Central Congregational Church in Topeka,
Kansas. The unifying theme of these sermons was based on posing the question,
"what would Jesus do?" when facing moral decisions. He viewed this
question as traditional within Christianity and likely drew some inspiration
from William T. Stead's If Christ came to
Chicago! (1893) and other earlier sources.
The theme of the sermons was later fictionalized into the novel In His Steps. The central ethos of the
novel was not about personal redemption but about moral choices related to
encountering circumstances of poverty and deprivation. Sheldon's theological
motif reflected his socialist outlook. Sheldon's own parish work became
identified with the Social Gospel.
Walter Rauschenbusch, widely viewed as the chief architect of the Social
Gospel, acknowledged the importance Sheldon placed on imitating Jesus. He saw
the significance of Sheldon's work in bringing home the realization that it is
hard to live a Christ-like life, given the temptations of modern society. While
Rauschenbusch found this awareness valuable, he saw that it did not demand what
he believed was a necessary transformation of social institutions.
Sheldon was in touch with the concerns of middle-class America at the end
of the century. He saw his role as one of communication—to introduce his
congregation and the wider public to the ideas of Lyman Abbott, Richard Ely,
George Herron, and Rauschenbusch. That was his intention in writing In His Steps.
In His Steps takes place in the railroad
town of Raymond, probably located in the eastern U.S.A. (Chicago, IL and the
coast of Maine are mentioned as being accessible by train).
The main character is the Rev. Henry
Maxwell, pastor of the First Church of Raymond, who challenges his congregation
to not do anything for a whole year without first asking: “What Would Jesus
Do?”
Other characters include Ed Norman, senior editor of the Raymond Daily
Newspaper, Rachel Winslow, a talented singer, and Virginia Page, an heiress, to
name a few.
The novel begins on a Friday morning when a man out of work appears at
the front door of Henry Maxwell while the latter is preparing for that Sunday’s
upcoming sermon. Maxwell listens to the man’s helpless plea briefly before
brushing him away and closing the door.
The same man appears in church at the end of the Sunday sermon, walks up
to “the open space in front of the pulpit,” and faces the people. No one stops
him. He quietly but frankly confronts the congregation—“I’m not complaining;
just stating facts.”—about their compassion, or apathetic lack thereof, for the
jobless like him in Raymond. Upon finishing his address to the congregation, he
collapses, and dies a few days later.
That next Sunday, Henry Maxwell, deeply moved by the events of the past
week, presents a challenge to his congregation: “Do not do anything without
first asking, ‘What would Jesus do?’”
This challenge is the theme of the
novel and is the driving force of the plot. From this point on, the rest of the
novel consists of certain episodes that focus on individual characters as their
lives are transformed by the challenge.
Chapter One
"For hereunto were ye
called; because Christ also suffered for you, leaving you an example, that ye
should follow in his steps."
It was
Friday morning and the Rev. Henry Maxwell was trying to finish his Sunday
morning sermon. He had been interrupted several times and was growing nervous
as the morning wore away, and the sermon grew very slowly toward a satisfactory
finish.
"Mary,"
he called to his wife, as he went upstairs after the last interruption,
"if any one comes after this, I wish you would say I am very busy and
cannot come down unless it is something very important."
"Yes,
Henry. But I am going over to visit the kindergarten and you will have the
house all to yourself."
The
minister went up into his study and shut the door. In a few minutes he heard
his wife go out, and then everything was quiet. He settled himself at his desk
with a sigh of relief and began to write. His text was from 1 Peter 2:21:
"For hereunto were ye called; because Christ also suffered for you,
leaving you an example that ye should follow his steps."
He had
emphasized in the first part of the sermon the Atonement as a personal
sacrifice, calling attention to the fact of Jesus' suffering in various ways,
in His life as well as in His death. He had then gone on to emphasize the
Atonement from the side of example, giving illustrations from the life and
teachings of Jesus to show how faith in the Christ helped to save men because
of the pattern or character He displayed for their imitation. He was now on the
third and last point, the necessity of following Jesus in His sacrifice and
example.
He had
put down "Three Steps. What are they?" and was about to enumerate
them in logical order when the bell rang sharply. It was one of those
clock-work bells, and always went off as a clock might go if it tried to strike
twelve all at once.
Henry
Maxwell sat at his desk and frowned a little. He made no movement to answer the
bell. Very soon it rang again; then he rose and walked over to one of his
windows which commanded the view of the front door. A man was standing on the
steps. He was a young man, very shabbily dressed.
"Looks
like a tramp," said the minister. "I suppose I'll have to go down
and—"
He did
not finish his sentence but he went downstairs and opened the front door. There
was a moment's pause as the two men stood facing each other, then the
shabby-looking young man said:
"I'm
out of a job, sir, and thought maybe you might put me in the way of getting
something."
"I
don't know of anything. Jobs are scarce—" replied the minister, beginning
to shut the door slowly.
"I
didn't know but you might perhaps be able to give me a line to the city railway
or the superintendent of the shops, or something," continued the young
man, shifting his faded hat from one hand to the other nervously.
"It
would be of no use. You will have to excuse me. I am very busy this morning. I
hope you will find something. Sorry I can't give you something to do here. But
I keep only a horse and a cow and do the work myself."
The Rev.
Henry Maxwell closed the door and heard the man walk down the steps. As he went
up into his study he saw from his hall window that the man was going slowly
down the street, still holding his hat between his hands. There was something
in the figure so dejected, homeless and forsaken that the minister hesitated a
moment as he stood looking at it. Then he turned to his desk and with a sigh
began the writing where he had left off.
He had no
more interruptions, and when his wife came in two hours later the sermon was
finished, the loose leaves gathered up and neatly tied together, and laid on
his Bible all ready for the Sunday morning service.
"A
queer thing happened at the kindergarten this morning, Henry," said his
wife while they were eating dinner. "You know I went over with Mrs. Brown
to visit the school, and just after the games, while the children were at the
tables, the door opened and a young man came in holding a dirty hat in both
hands. He sat down near the door and never said a word; only looked at the
children. He was evidently a tramp, and Miss Wren and her assistant Miss Kyle
were a little frightened at first, but he sat there very quietly and after a
few minutes he went out."
"Perhaps
he was tired and wanted to rest somewhere. The same man called here, I think.
Did you say he looked like a tramp?"
"Yes,
very dusty, shabby and generally tramp-like. Not more than thirty or
thirty-three years old, I should say."
"The
same man," said the Rev. Henry Maxwell thoughtfully.
"Did
you finish your sermon, Henry?" his wife asked after a pause.
"Yes,
all done. It has been a very busy week with me. The two sermons have cost me a
good deal of labor."
"They
will be appreciated by a large audience, Sunday, I hope," replied his wife
smiling. "What are you going to preach about in the morning?"
"Following
Christ. I take up the Atonement under the head of sacrifice and example, and
then show the steps needed to follow His sacrifice and example."
"I
am sure it is a good sermon. I hope it won't rain Sunday. We have had so many
stormy Sundays lately."
"Yes,
the audiences have been quite small for some time. People will not come out to
church in a storm." The Rev. Henry Maxwell sighed as he said it. He was
thinking of the careful, laborious effort he had made in preparing sermons for
large audiences that failed to appear.
But
Sunday morning dawned on the town of Raymond one of the perfect days that
sometimes come after long periods of wind and mud and rain. The air was clear
and bracing, the sky was free from all threatening signs, and every one in Mr.
Maxwell's parish prepared to go to church. When the service opened at eleven
o'clock the large building was filled with an audience of the best-dressed,
most comfortable looking people of Raymond.
The First
Church of Raymond believed in having the best music that money could buy, and
its quartet choir this morning was a source of great pleasure to the
congregation. The anthem was inspiring. All the music was in keeping with the
subject of the sermon. And the anthem was an elaborate adaptation to the most
modern music of the hymn,
"Jesus,
I my cross have taken,
All to leave and follow Thee."
All to leave and follow Thee."
Just
before the sermon, the soprano sang a solo, the well-known hymn,
"Where
He leads me I will follow,
I'll go with Him, with Him, all the way."
I'll go with Him, with Him, all the way."
Rachel
Winslow looked very beautiful that morning as she stood up behind the screen of
carved oak which was significantly marked with the emblems of the cross and the
crown. Her voice was even more beautiful than her face, and that meant a great
deal. There was a general rustle of expectation over the audience as she rose.
Mr. Maxwell settled himself contentedly behind the pulpit. Rachel Winslow's
singing always helped him. He generally arranged for a song before the sermon.
It made possible a certain inspiration of feeling that made his delivery more
impressive.
People
said to themselves they had never heard such singing even in the First Church.
It is certain that if it had not been a church service, her solo would have
been vigorously applauded. It even seemed to the minister when she sat down
that something like an attempted clapping of hands or a striking of feet on the
floor swept through the church. He was startled by it. As he rose, however, and
laid his sermon on the Bible, he said to himself he had been deceived. Of
course it could not occur. In a few moments he was absorbed in his sermon and
everything else was forgotten in the pleasure of his delivery.
No one
had ever accused Henry Maxwell of being a dull preacher. On the contrary, he
had often been charged with being sensational; not in what he had said so much
as in his way of saying it. But the First Church people liked that. It gave
their preacher and their parish a pleasant distinction that was agreeable.
It was
also true that the pastor of the First Church loved to preach. He seldom
exchanged. He was eager to be in his own pulpit when Sunday came. There was an
exhilarating half hour for him as he faced a church full of people and know
that he had a hearing. He was peculiarly sensitive to variations in the
attendance. He never preached well before a small audience. The weather also
affected him decidedly. He was at his best before just such an audience as
faced him now, on just such a morning. He felt a glow of satisfaction as he
went on. The church was the first in the city. It had the best choir. It had a
membership composed of the leading people, representatives of the wealth,
society and intelligence of Raymond. He was going abroad on a three months
vacation in the summer, and the circumstances of his pastorate, his influence
and his position as pastor of the First Church in the city—
It is not
certain that the Rev. Henry Maxwell knew just how he could carry on that
thought in connection with his sermon, but as he drew near the end of it he
knew that he had at some point in his delivery had all those feelings. They had
entered into the very substance of his thought; it might have been all in a few
seconds of time, but he had been conscious of defining his position and his
emotions as well as if he had held a soliloquy, and his delivery partook of the
thrill of deep personal satisfaction.
The
sermon was interesting. It was full of striking sentences. They would have
commanded attention printed. Spoken with the passion of a dramatic utterance that
had the good taste never to offend with a suspicion of ranting or declamation,
they were very effective. If the Rev. Henry Maxwell that morning felt satisfied
with the conditions of his pastorate, the First Church also had a similar
feeling as it congratulated itself on the presence in the pulpit of this
scholarly, refined, somewhat striking face and figure, preaching with such
animation and freedom from all vulgar, noisy or disagreeable mannerism.
Suddenly,
into the midst of this perfect accord and concord between preacher and
audience, there came a very remarkable interruption. It would be difficult to
indicate the extent of the shock which this interruption measured. It was so
unexpected, so entirely contrary to any thought of any person present that it
offered no room for argument or, for the time being, of resistance.
The
sermon had come to a close. Mr. Maxwell had just turned the half of the big
Bible over upon his manuscript and was about to sit down as the quartet
prepared to arise to sing the closing selection,
"All
for Jesus, all for Jesus,
All my being's ransomed powers..."
All my being's ransomed powers..."
when the entire
congregation was startled by the sound of a man's voice. It came from the rear
of the church, from one of the seats under the gallery. The next moment the
figure of a man came out of the shadow there and walked down the middle aisle.
Before
the startled congregation fairly realized what was going on the man had reached
the open space in front of the pulpit and had turned about facing the people.
"I've
been wondering since I came in here"—they were the words he used under the
gallery, and he repeated them—"if it would be just the thing to say a word
at the close of the service. I'm not drunk and I'm not crazy, and I am
perfectly harmless, but if I die, as there is every likelihood I shall in a few
days, I want the satisfaction of thinking that I said my say in a place like
this, and before this sort of a crowd."
Henry
Maxwell had not taken his seat, and he now remained standing, leaning on his
pulpit, looking down at the stranger. It was the man who had come to his house
the Friday before, the same dusty, worn, shabby-looking young man. He held his
faded hat in his two hands. It seemed to be a favorite gesture. He had not been
shaved and his hair was rough and tangled. It is doubtful if any one like this
had ever confronted the First Church within the sanctuary. It was tolerably
familiar with this sort of humanity out on the street, around the railroad
shops, wandering up and down the avenue, but it had never dreamed of such an
incident as this so near.
There was
nothing offensive in the man's manner or tone. He was not excited and he spoke
in a low but distinct voice. Mr. Maxwell was conscious, even as he stood there
smitten into dumb astonishment at the event, that somehow the man's action
reminded him of a person he had once seen walking and talking in his sleep.
No one in
the house made any motion to stop the stranger or in any way interrupt him.
Perhaps the first shock of his sudden appearance deepened into a genuine
perplexity concerning what was best to do. However that may be, he went on as
if he had no thought of interruption and no thought of the unusual element
which he had introduced into the decorum of the First Church service. And all
the while he was speaking, the minister leaded over the pulpit, his face
growing more white and sad every moment. But he made no movement to stop him,
and the people sat smitten into breathless silence. One other face, that of
Rachel Winslow from the choir, stared white and intent down at the shabby
figure with the faded hat. Her face was striking at any time. Under the
pressure of the present unheard-of incident it was as personally distinct as if
it had been framed in fire.
"I'm
not an ordinary tramp, though I don't know of any teaching of Jesus that makes
one kind of a tramp less worth saving than another. Do you?" He put the
question as naturally as if the whole congregation had been a small Bible
class. He paused just a moment and coughed painfully. Then he went on.
"I
lost my job ten months ago. I am a printer by trade. The new linotype machines
are beautiful specimens of invention, but I know six men who have killed
themselves inside of the year just on account of those machines. Of course I
don't blame the newspapers for getting the machines. Meanwhile, what can a man
do? I know I never learned but the one trade, and that's all I can do. I've
tramped all over the country trying to find something. There are a good many
others like me. I'm not complaining, am I? Just stating facts. But I was
wondering as I sat there under the gallery, if what you call following Jesus is
the same thing as what He taught. What did He mean when He said: 'Follow Me!'?
The minister said,"—here he turned about and looked up at the pulpit—"that
it is necessary for the disciple of Jesus to follow His steps, and he said the
steps are 'obedience, faith, love and imitation.' But I did not hear him tell
you just what he meant that to mean, especially the last step. What do you
Christians mean by following the steps of Jesus?
"I've
tramped through this city for three days trying to find a job; and in all that
time I've not had a word of sympathy or comfort except from your minister here,
who said he was sorry for me and hoped I would find a job somewhere. I suppose
it is because you get so imposed on by the professional tramp that you have
lost your interest in any other sort. I'm not blaming anybody, am I? Just
stating facts. Of course, I understand you can't all go out of your way to hunt
up jobs for other people like me. I'm not asking you to; but what I feel
puzzled about is, what is meant by following Jesus. What do you mean when you
sing 'I'll go with Him, with Him, all the way?' Do you mean that you are
suffering and denying yourselves and trying to save lost, suffering humanity
just as I understand Jesus did? What do you mean by it? I see the ragged edge
of things a good deal. I understand there are more than five hundred men in
this city in my case. Most of them have families. My wife died four months ago.
I'm glad she is out of trouble. My little girl is staying with a printer's
family until I find a job. Somehow I get puzzled when I see so many Christians
living in luxury and singing 'Jesus, I my cross have taken, all to leave and
follow Thee,' and remember how my wife died in a tenement in New York City,
gasping for air and asking God to take the little girl too. Of course I don't
expect you people can prevent every one from dying of starvation, lack of
proper nourishment and tenement air, but what does following Jesus mean? I
understand that Christian people own a good many of the tenements. A member of
a church was the owner of the one where my wife died, and I have wondered if
following Jesus all the way was true in his case. I heard some people singing
at a church prayer meeting the other night,
'All for
Jesus, all for Jesus,
All my being's ransomed powers,
All my thoughts, and all my doings,
All my days, and all my hours.'
All my being's ransomed powers,
All my thoughts, and all my doings,
All my days, and all my hours.'
and I kept wondering as I
sat on the steps outside just what they meant by it. It seems to me there's an
awful lot of trouble in the world that somehow wouldn't exist if all the people
who sing such songs went and lived them out. I suppose I don't understand. But
what would Jesus do? Is that what you mean by following His steps? It seems to
me sometimes as if the people in the big churches had good clothes and nice
houses to live in, and money to spend for luxuries, and could go away on summer
vacations and all that, while the people outside the churches, thousands of
them, I mean, die in tenements, and walk the streets for jobs, and never have a
piano or a picture in the house, and grow up in misery and drunkenness and
sin."
The man
suddenly gave a queer lurch over in the direction of the communion table and
laid one grimy hand on it. His hat fell upon the carpet at his feet. A stir
went through the congregation. Dr. West half rose from his pew, but as yet the
silence was unbroken by any voice or movement worth mentioning in the audience.
The man passed his other hand across his eyes, and then, without any warning,
fell heavily forward on his face, full length up the aisle. Henry Maxwell
spoke:
"We
will consider the service closed."
Chapter Two
Henry
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 near by 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."
She
looked strongly agitated. No one noticed it particularly. They were all excited
over the strange event, the strangest that First Church people could remember.
But the minister insisted on taking charge of the man, and when a carriage came
the unconscious but living form was carried to his house; and with the entrance
of that humanity into the minister's spare room a new chapter in Henry
Maxwell's life began, and yet no one, himself least of all, dreamed of the
remarkable change it was destined to make in all his after definition of the
Christian discipleship.
The event
created a great sensation in the First Church parish. 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 but offered no hope. Saturday morning he
still lingered, although he had rapidly failed as the week drew near its close.
Sunday morning, 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. He had
been conscious and able to talk coherently only a few moments since his attack.
"The
child is coming. She will be here," Mr. 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 Mr. Maxwell could realize
the fact, the doctor said quietly, "He is gone."
The
Sunday morning that dawned on the city of Raymond was exactly like the Sunday
of a week before. Mr. 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 an hour after her father had
died. He lay in that spare room, his troubles over, and the minister could see the
face as he opened the Bible and arranged his different notices on the side of
the desk as he had been in the habit of doing for ten years.
The
service that morning contained a new element. No one could remember when Henry
Maxwell had preached in the morning without notes. As a matter of fact he had
done so occasionally when he first entered the ministry, but for a long time he
had carefully written every word of his morning sermon, and nearly always his
evening discourses as well. It cannot be said that his sermon this morning was
striking or impressive. He talked with considerable hesitation. It was evident
that some great idea struggled in his thought for utterance, but it was not
expressed in the theme he had chosen for his preaching. It was near the close
of his sermon that he began to gather a certain 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 thought he had never seen so many earnest faces
during his entire pastorate. He was not able yet to tell his people his
experiences, the crisis through which he was even now moving. But something of
his feeling passed from him to them, and it did not seem to him that he was
acting under a careless impulse at all to go on and break to them this morning
something of the message he bore in his heart.
So he
went on: "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?' I am not in a position yet to utter any condemnation of this
people or, to a certain extent, of myself, either in our Christ-like relations
to this man or the numbers that he represents in the world. But all that does
not prevent me from feeling that much that the man said was so vitally true
that we must face it in an attempt to answer it or else stand condemned as
Christian disciples. 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, or a purpose, 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 shops 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, and was gifted with
unusual attractions of person and intellect. And not least of all, Rachel
Winslow, from her seat in the choir, glowed with her peculiar beauty of light
this morning because she was so intensely interested in the whole scene.
There was
some reason, perhaps, in view of such material in the First Church, for Henry
Maxwell's feeling of satisfaction whenever he considered his parish as he had
the previous Sunday. There was an unusually large number of strong, individual
characters who claimed membership there. But as he noted their faces this
morning he was simply wondering how many of them would respond to the strange
proposition he was about to make. He continued slowly, taking time to choose
his words carefully, and giving the people an impression they had never felt
before, even when he was at his best with his most dramatic delivery.
"What
I am going to propose now is something which ought not to appear unusual or at
all impossible of execution. Yet I am aware that it will be so regarded by a
large number, perhaps, of the members of this church. But in order that we may
have a thorough understanding of what we are considering, I will put my
proposition very 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 shall 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 was 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 with today, so to
act."
Henry
Maxwell paused again and looked out over his people. It is not easy to describe
the sensation that such a simple proposition apparently made. Men glanced at
one another in astonishment. It was not like Henry Maxwell 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.
He 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. It was evidently provoking great
discussion. After several minutes he asked all who expected to remain to pass
into the lecture-room which joined the large room on the side. He 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. He was almost startled to see the people who
were there. He had not made up his mind about any of his members, but 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, Mr. Norman, President
Marsh, Alexander Powers the railroad superintendent, Milton Wright, Dr. West
and Jasper Chase.
He closed
the door of the lecture-room and went and stood before the little group. His
face was pale and his lips trembled with genuine emotion. It was to him a
genuine crisis in his own life and that of his parish. No man can tell until he
is moved by the Divine Spirit what he may do, or how he may change the current
of a lifetime of fixed habits of thought and speech and action. Henry Maxwell
did not, as we have said, yet know himself all that he was passing through, but
he was conscious of a great upheaval in his definition of Christian
discipleship, and he 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 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. If an audible voice from heaven had
sanctioned their pledge to follow the Master's steps, not one person present
could have felt more certain of the divine blessing. 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. Some time I shall be able to tell you what a marvelous change has
come over my life within a week's time. I cannot now. But 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. I know that I am being led by the hand
of divine love in all this. The same divine impulse must have led you also.
"Do
we understand fully what we have undertaken?"
"I
want to ask a question," said Rachel Winslow. Every one turned towards
her. Her face glowed with a beauty that no physical loveliness could ever
create.
"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: 'Howbeit when he, the Spirit
of truth, is come, he shall guide you into all the truth: for he shall not
speak from himself; but what things soever he shall hear, these shall he speak:
and he shall declare unto you the things that are to come. He shall glorify me;
for he shall take of mine, and shall declare it unto you. All things whatsoever
the Father hath are mine: therefore said I, that he taketh of mine, and shall
declare it unto you.' There is no other test that I know of. We shall all have
to decide what Jesus would do after going to that source of knowledge."
"What
if others say of us, when we do certain things, that Jesus would not do
so?" asked the superintendent of railroads.
"We
cannot prevent that. But we must be absolutely honest with ourselves. The
standard of Christian action cannot vary in most of our acts."
"And
yet what one church member thinks Jesus would do, another refuses to accept as
His probable course of action. What is to render our conduct uniformly
Christ-like? Will it be possible to reach the same conclusions always in all
cases?" asked President Marsh.
Mr.
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 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. There was
no misunderstanding that proposition. Henry Maxwell's face quivered again as he
noted the president of the Endeavor Society with several members seated back of
the older men and women.
Chapter Three
"He that saith he
abideth in Him ought himself also to walk even as He walked."
EDWARD
NORMAN, editor of the Raymond DAILY NEWS, sat in his office room 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. He
sat at his desk in a growing thoughtfulness that finally became a desire which
he knew was as great as it was unusual. He had yet to learn, with all the
others in that little company pledged to do the Christlike thing, that 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 mind.
"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. 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?"
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 type-written 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.
Clark
seldom had any words with the chief. His word had always been law in the office
and he had seldom been known to change his mind. The circumstances now,
however, seemed to be so extraordinary that Clark could not help expressing
himself.
"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.
Norman
looked at Clark thoughtfully. The managing editor was a member of a church of a
different denomination from that of Norman's. The two men had never talked
together on religious matters although they had been associated on the paper
for several years.
"Come
in here a minute, Clark, and shut the door," said Norman.
Clark
came in and the two men faced each other alone. Norman did not speak for a
minute. Then he said abruptly: "Clark, if Christ was editor of a daily
paper, do you honestly think He would print three columns and a half of prize
fight in it?"
"No,
I don't suppose He would."
"Well,
that's my only reason for shutting this account out of the NEWS. I have decided
not to do a thing in connection with the paper for a whole year that I honestly
believe Jesus would not do."
Clark
could not have looked more amazed if the chief had suddenly gone crazy. In
fact, he did think something was wrong, though Mr. Norman was one of the last
men in the world, in his judgment, to lose his mind.
"What
effect will that have on the paper?" he finally managed to ask in a faint
voice.
"What
do you think?" asked Norman with a keen glance.
"I
think it will simply ruin the paper," replied Clark promptly. He was
gathering up his bewildered senses, and began to remonstrate, "Why, it
isn't feasible to run a paper nowadays on any such basis. It's too ideal. The
world isn't ready for it. You can't make it pay. Just as sure as you live, if
you shut out this prize fight report you will lose hundreds of subscribers. It
doesn't take a prophet to see that. The very best people in town are eager to
read it. They know it has taken place, and when they get the paper this evening
they will expect half a page at least. Surely, you can't afford to disregard
the wishes of the public to such an extent. It will be a great mistake if you
do, in my opinion."
Norman
sat silent a minute. Then he spoke gently but firmly.
"Clark,
what in your honest opinion is the right standard for determining conduct? Is
the only right standard for every one, the probable action of Jesus Christ?
Would you say that the highest, best law for a man to live by was contained in
asking the question, What would Jesus do?' And then doing it regardless of
results? In other words, do you think men everywhere ought to follow Jesus'
example as closely as they can in their daily lives?" Clark turned red,
and moved uneasily in his chair before he answered the editor's question.
"Why—yes—I
suppose if you put it on the ground of what men ought to do there is no other
standard of conduct. But the question is, What is feasible? Is it possible to
make it pay? To succeed in the newspaper business we have got to conform to
custom and the recognized methods of society. We can't do as we would in an
ideal world."
"Do
you mean that we can't run the paper strictly on Christian principles and make
it succeed?"
"Yes,
that's just what I mean. It can't be done. We'll go bankrupt in thirty
days."
Norman
did not reply at once. He was very thoughtful.
"We
shall have occasion to talk this over again, Clark. Meanwhile I think we ought
to understand each other frankly. I have pledged myself for a year to do
everything connected with the paper after answering the question, What would
Jesus do?' as honestly as possible. I shall continue to do this in the belief
that not only can we succeed but that we can succeed better than we ever
did."
Clark
rose. "The report does not go in?"
"It
does not. There is plenty of good material to take its place, and you know what
it is."
Clark
hesitated. "Are you going to say anything about the absence of the
report?"
"No,
let the paper go to press as if there had been no such thing as a prize fight
yesterday."
Clark
walked out of the room to his own desk feeling as if the bottom had dropped out
of everything. He was astonished, bewildered, excited and considerably angered.
His great respect for Norman checked his rising indignation and disgust, but
with it all was a feeling of growing wonder at the sudden change of motive
which had entered the office of the DAILY NEWS and threatened, as he firmly
believed, to destroy it.
Before
noon every reporter, pressman and employee on the DAILY NEWS was informed of
the remarkable fact that the paper was going to press without a word in it
about the famous prize fight of Sunday. The reporters were simply astonished
beyond measure at the announcement of the fact. Every one in the stereotyping
and composing rooms had something to say about the unheard of omission. Two or
three times during the day when Mr. Norman had occasion to visit the composing
rooms the men stopped their work or glanced around their cases looking at him
curiously. He knew that he was being observed, but said nothing and did not
appear to note it.
There had
been several minor changes in the paper, suggested by the editor, but nothing
marked. He was waiting and thinking deeply.
He felt
as if he needed time and considerable opportunity for the exercise of his best
judgment in several matters before he answered his ever present question in the
right way. It was not because there were not a great many things in the life of
the paper that were contrary to the spirit of Christ that he did not act at
once, but because he was yet honestly in doubt concerning what action Jesus
would take.
When the
DAILY NEWS came out that evening it carried to its subscribers a distinct
sensation.
The
presence of the report of the prize fight could not have produced anything
equal to the effect of its omission. Hundreds of men in the hotels and stores
down town, as well as regular subscribers, eagerly opened the paper and
searched it through for the account of the great fight; not finding it, they
rushed to the NEWS stands and bought other papers. Even the newsboys had not a
understood the fact of omission. One of them was calling out "DAILY NEWS!
Full 'count great prize fight 't Resort. NEWS, sir?"
A man on
the corner of the avenue close by the NEWS office bought the paper, looked over
its front page hurriedly and then angrily called the boy back.
"Here,
boy! What's the matter with your paper? There's no prize fight here! What do
you mean by selling old papers?"
"Old
papers nuthin'!" replied the boy indignantly. "Dat's today's paper.
What's de matter wid you?"
"But
there is no account of the prize fight here! Look!"
The man
handed back the paper and the boy glanced at k hurriedly. Then he whistled,
while a bewildered look crept over his face. Seeing another boy running by with
papers he called out "Say, Sam, le'me see your pile." A hasty
examination revealed the remarkable fact that all the copies of the NEWS were
silent on the subject of the prize fight.
"Here,
give me another paper!" shouted the customer; "one with the prize fight
account."
He
received it and walked off, while the two boys remained comparing notes and
lost in wonder at the result. "Sump'n slipped a cog in the Newsy,
sure," said the first boy. But he couldn't tell why, and ran over to the
NEWS office to find out.
There
were several other boys at the delivery room and they were all excited and
disgusted. The amount of slangy remonstrance hurled at the clerk back of the
long counter would have driven any one else to despair.
He was
used to more or less of it all the time, and consequently hardened to it. Mr.
Norman was just coming downstairs on his way home, and he paused as he went by
the door of the delivery room and looked in.
"What's
the matter here, George?" he asked the clerk as he noted the unusual
confusion.
"The
boys say they can't sell any copies of the NEWS tonight because the prize fight
isn't in it," replied George, looking curiously at the editor as so many
of the employees had done during the day. Mr. Norman hesitated a moment, then
walked into the room and confronted the boys.
"How
many papers are there here? Boys, count them out, and I'll buy them
tonight."
There was
a combined stare and a wild counting of papers on the part of the boys.
"Give
them their money, George, and if any of the other boys come in with the same
complaint buy their unsold copies. Is that fair?" he asked the boys who
were smitten into unusual silence by the unheard of action on the part of the
editor.
"Fair!
Well, I should—But will you keep this up? Will dis be a continual performance
for the benefit of de fraternity?"
Mr.
Norman smiled slightly but he did not think it was necessary to answer the
question.
He walked
out of the office and went home. On the way he could not avoid that constant
query, "Would Jesus have done it?" It was not so much with reference
to this last transaction as to the entire motive that had urged him on since he
had made the promise.
The
newsboys were necessarily sufferers through the action he had taken. Why should
they lose money by it? They were not to blame. He was a rich man and could
afford to put a little brightness into their lives if he chose to do it. He
believed, as he went on his way home, that Jesus would have done either what he
did or something similar in order to be free from any possible feeling of
injustice.
Chapter Four
DURING
the week he was in receipt of numerous letters commenting on the absence from
the News of the account of the prize fight. Two or three of these letters may
be of interest.
Editor of the News:
Dear Sir—I have been thinking for some time of changing my paper.
I want a journal that is up to the times, progressive and enterprising,
supplying the public demand at all points. The recent freak of your paper in
refusing to print the account of the famous contest at the Resort has decided
me finally to change my paper.
Please discontinue it.
Very truly yours,———-
Here
followed the name of a business man who had been a subscriber for many years.
Edward Norman,
Editor of the Daily News, Raymond:
Dear Ed.—What is this sensation you have given the people of your
burg? What new policy have you taken up? Hope you don't intend to try the
"Reform Business" through the avenue of the press. It's dangerous to
experiment much along that line. Take my advice and stick to the enterprising
modern methods you have made so successful for the News. The public wants prize
fights and such. Give it what it wants, and let some one else do the reforming
business.
Yours,———-
Here
followed the name of one of Norman's old friends, the editor of a daily in an
adjoining town.
My Dear Mr. Norman:
I hasten to write you a note of appreciation for the evident
carrying out of your promise. It is a splendid beginning and no one feels the
value of it more than I do. I know something of what it will cost you, but not
all. Your pastor,
HENRY MAXWELL.
One other
letter which he opened immediately after reading this from Maxwell revealed to
him something of the loss to his business that possibly awaited him.
Mr. Edward Norman,
Editor of the Daily News:
Dear Sir—At the expiration of my advertising limit, you will do me
the favor not to continue it as you have done heretofore. I enclose check for
payment in full and shall consider my account with your paper closed after
date.
Very truly yours,———-
Here
followed the name of one of the largest dealers in tobacco in the city. He had
been in the habit of inserting a column of conspicuous advertising and paying
for it a very large price.
Norman
laid this letter down thoughtfully, and then after a moment he took up a copy
of his paper and looked through the advertising columns. There was no
connection implied in the tobacco merchant's letter between the omission of the
prize fight and the withdrawal of the advertisement, but he could not avoid
putting the two together. In point of fact, he afterward learned that the
tobacco dealer withdrew his advertisement because he had heard that the editor
of the NEWS was about to enter upon some queer reform policy that would be
certain to reduce its subscription list.
But the
letter directed Norman's attention to the advertising phase of his paper. He
had not considered this before.
As he
glanced over the columns he could not escape the conviction that his Master
could not permit some of them in his paper.
What
would He do with that other long advertisement of choice liquors and cigars? As
a member of a church and a respected citizen, he had incurred no special
censure because the saloon men advertised in his columns. No one thought
anything about it. It was all legitimate business. Why not? Raymond enjoyed a
system of high license, and the saloon and the billiard hall and the beer
garden were a part of the city's Christian civilization. He was simply doing
what every other business man in Raymond did. And it was one of the best paying
sources of revenue. What would the paper do if it cut these out? Could it live?
That was the question. But was that the question after all? "What would
Jesus do?" That was the question he was answering, or trying to answer,
this week. Would Jesus advertise whiskey and tobacco in his paper?
Edward
Norman asked it honestly, and after a prayer for help and wisdom he asked Clark
to come into the office.
Clark
came in, feeling that the paper was at a crisis, and prepared for almost
anything after his Monday morning experience. This was Thursday.
"Clark,"
said Norman, speaking slowly and carefully, "I have been looking at our
advertising columns and have decided to dispense with some of the matter as
soon as the contracts run out. I wish you would notify the advertising agent
not to solicit or renew the ads that I have marked here."
He handed
the paper with the marked places over to Clark, who took it and looked over the
columns with a very serious air.
"This
will mean a great loss to the NEWS. How long do you think you can keep this
sort of thing up?" Clark was astounded at the editor's action and could
not understand it.
"Clark,
do you think if Jesus was the editor and proprietor of a daily paper in Raymond
He would permit advertisements of whiskey and tobacco in it?"
"Well
no—I—don't suppose He would. But what has that to do with us? We can't do as He
would. Newspapers can't be run on any such basis."
"Why
not?" asked Norman quietly.
"Why
not? Because they will lose more money than they make, that's all!" Clark
spoke out with an irritation that he really felt. "We shall certainly
bankrupt the paper with this sort of business policy."
"Do
you think so?" Norman asked the question not as if he expected an answer,
but simply as if he were talking with himself. After a pause he said:
"You
may direct Marks to do as I have said. I believe it is what Christ would do,
and as I told you, Clark, that is what I have promised to try to do for a year,
regardless of what the results may be to me. I cannot believe that by any kind
of reasoning we could reach a conclusion justifying our Lord in the
advertisement, in this age, of whiskey and tobacco in a newspaper. There are
some other advertisements of a doubtful character I shall study into.
Meanwhile, I feel a conviction in regard to these that cannot be
silenced."
Clark
went back to his desk feeling as if he had been in the presence of a very
peculiar person. He could not grasp the meaning of it all. He felt enraged and
alarmed. He was sure any such policy would ruin the paper as soon as it became
generally known that the editor was trying to do everything by such an absurd
moral standard. What would become of business if this standard was adopted? It
would upset every custom and introduce endless confusion. It was simply
foolishness. It was downright idiocy. So Clark said to himself, and when Marks
was informed of the action he seconded the managing editor with some very
forcible ejaculations. What was the matter with the chief? Was he insane? Was
he going to bankrupt the whole business?
But
Edward Norman had not yet faced his most serious problem. When he came down to
the office Friday morning he was confronted with the usual program for the
Sunday morning edition. The NEWS was one one of the few evening papers in
Raymond to issue a Sunday edition, and it had always been remarkably successful
financially. There was an average of one page of literary and religious items
to thirty or forty pages of sport, theatre, gossip, fashion, society and
political material. This made a very interesting magazine of all sorts of reading
matter, and had always been welcomed by all the subscribers, church members and
all, as a Sunday morning necessity. Edward Norman now faced this fact and put
to himself the question: "What would Jesus do?" If He was editor of a
paper, would he deliberately plan to put into the homes of all the church
people and Christians of Raymond such a collection of reading matter on the one
day in the week which ought to be given up to something better holier? He was
of course familiar with the regular arguments of the Sunday paper, that the
public needed something of the sort; and the working man especially, who would
not go to church any way, ought to have something entertaining and instructive
on Sunday, his only day of rest. But suppose the Sunday morning paper did not
pay? Suppose there was no money in it? How eager would the editor or publisher
be then to supply this crying need of the poor workman? Edward Norman communed
honestly with himself over the subject.
Taking
everything into account, would Jesus probably edit a Sunday morning paper? No
matter whether it paid. That was not the question. As a matter of fact, the
Sunday NEWS paid so well that it would be a direct loss of thousands of dollars
to discontinue it. Besides, the regular subscribers had paid for a seven-day
paper. Had he any right now to give them less than they supposed they had paid
for?
He was
honestly perplexed by the question. So much was involved in the discontinuance
of the Sunday edition that for the first time he almost decided to refuse to be
guided by the standard of Jesus' probable action. He was sole proprietor of the
paper; it was his to shape as he chose. He had no board of directors to consult
as to policy. But as he sat there surrounded by the usual quantity of material
for the Sunday edition he reached some definite conclusions. And among them was
a determination to call in the force of the paper and frankly state his motive
and purpose. He sent word for Clark and the other men it the office, including
the few reporters who were in the building and the foreman, with what men were
in the composing room (it was early in the morning and they were not all in) to
come into the mailing room. This was a large room, and the men came in
curiously and perched around on the tables and counters. It was a very unusual
proceeding, but they all agreed that the paper was being run on new principles
anyhow, and they all watched Mr. Norman carefully as he spoke.
"I
called you in here to let you know my further plans for the NEWS. I propose
certain changes which I believe are necessary. I understand very well that some
things I have already done are regarded by the men as very strange. I wish to
state my motive in doing what I have done."
Here he
told the men what he had already told Clark, and they stared as Clark had done,
and looked as painfully conscious.
"Now,
in acting on this standard of conduct I have reached a conclusion which will,
no doubt, cause some surprise.
"I
have decided that the Sunday morning edition of the NEWS shall be discontinued
after next Sunday's issue. I shall state in that issue my reasons for
discontinuing. In order to make up to the subscribers the amount of reading
matter they may suppose themselves entitled to, we can issue a double number on
Saturday, as is done by many evening papers that make no attempt at a Sunday
edition. I am convinced that from a Christian point of view more harm than good
has been done by our Sunday morning paper. I do not believe that Jesus would be
responsible for it if He were in my place today. It will occasion some trouble
to arrange the details caused by this change with the advertisers and
subscribers. That is for me to look after. The change itself is one that will
take place. So far as I can see, the loss will fall on myself. Neither the
reporters nor the pressmen need make any particular changes in their
plans."
He looked
around the room and no one spoke. He was struck for the first time in his life
with the fact that in all the years of his newspaper life he had never had the
force of the paper together in this way. Would Jesus do that? That is, would He
probably run a newspaper on some loving family plan, where editors, reporters,
pressmen and all meet to discuss and devise and plan for the making of a paper
that should have in view—
He caught
himself drawing almost away from the facts of typographical unions and office
rules and reporters' enterprise and all the cold, businesslike methods that
make a great daily successful. But still the vague picture that came up in the
mailing room would not fade away when he had gone into his office and the men
had gone back to their places with wonder in their looks and questions of all
sorts on their tongues as they talked over the editor's remarkable actions.
Clark
came in and had a long, serious talk with his chief. He was thoroughly roused,
and his protest almost reached the point of resigning his place. Norman guarded
himself carefully. Every minute of the interview was painful to him, but he
felt more than ever the necessity of doing the Christ-like thing. Clark was a
very valuable man. It would be difficult to fill his place. But he was not able
to give any reasons for continuing the Sunday paper that answered the question,
"What would Jesus do?" by letting Jesus print that edition.
"It
comes to this, then," said Clark frankly, "you will bankrupt the
paper in thirty days. We might as well face that future fact."
"I
don't think we shall. Will you stay by the NEWS until it is bankrupt?"
asked Norman with a strange smile.
"Mr.
Norman, I don't understand you. You are not the same man this week that I
always knew before."
"I
don't know myself either, Clark. Something remarkable has caught me up and
borne me on. But I was never more convinced of final success and power for the
paper. You have not answered my question. Will you stay with me?"
Chapter Five
SUNDAY
morning dawned again on Raymond, and Henry Maxwell's church was again crowded.
Before the service began Edward Norman attracted great attention. He sat
quietly in his usual place about three seats from the pulpit. The Sunday
morning issue of the NEWS containing the statement of its discontinuance had
been expressed in such remarkable language that every reader was struck by it.
No such series of distinct sensations had ever disturbed the usual business
custom of Raymond. The events connected with the NEWS were not all. People were
eagerly talking about strange things done during the week by Alexander Powers
at the railroad shops, and Milton Wright in his stores on the avenue. The
service progressed upon a distinct wave of excitement in the pews. Henry
Maxwell faced it all with a calmness which indicated a strength and purpose
more than usual. His prayers were very helpful. His sermon was not so easy to
describe. How would a minister be apt to preach to his people if he came before
them after an entire week of eager asking, "How would Jesus preach? What
would He probably say?" It is very certain that he did not preach as he
had done two Sundays before. Tuesday of the past week he had stood by the grave
of the dead stranger and said the words, "Earth to earth, ashes to ashes,
dust to dust," and still he was moved by the spirit of a deeper impulse
than he could measure as he thought of his people and yearned for the Christ
message when he should be in his pulpit again.
Now that
Sunday had come and the people were there to hear, what would the Master tell
them? He agonized over his preparation for them, and yet he knew he had not
been able to fit his message into his ideal of the Christ. Nevertheless no one
in the First Church could remember ever hearing such a sermon before. There was
in it rebuke for sin, especially hypocrisy, there was definite rebuke of the
greed of wealth and the selfishness of fashion, two things that First Church
never heard rebuked this way before, and there was a love of his people that
gathered new force as the sermon went on. When it was finished there were those
who were saying in their hearts, "The Spirit moved that sermon." And
they were right.
Then
Rachel Winslow rose to sing, this time after the sermon, by Mr. Maxwell's
request. Rachel's singing did not provoke applause this time. What deeper
feeling carried the people's hearts into a reverent silence and tenderness of
thought? Rachel was beautiful. But her consciousness of her remarkable
loveliness had always marred her singing with those who had the deepest
spiritual feeling. It had also marred her rendering of certain kinds of music
with herself. Today this was all gone. There was no lack of power in her grand
voice. But there was an actual added element of humility and purity which the
audience distinctly felt and bowed to.
Before
service closed Mr. Maxwell asked those who had remained the week before to stay
again for a few moments of consultation, and any others who were willing to
make the pledge taken at that time. When he was at liberty he went into the
lecture-room. To his astonishment it was almost filled. This time a large
proportion of young people had come, but among them were a few business men and
officers of the church.
As
before, he, Maxwell, asked them to pray with him. And, as before, a distinct
answer came from the presence of the divine Spirit. There was no doubt in the
minds of any present that what they purposed to do was so clearly in line with
the divine will, that a blessing rested upon it in a very special manner.
They
remained some time to ask questions and consult together. There was a feeling
of fellowship such as they had never known in their church membership. Mr.
Norman's action was well understood by them all, and he answered several
questions.
"What
will be the probable result of your discontinuance of the Sunday paper?"
asked Alexander Powers, who sat next to him.
"I
don't know yet. I presume it will result in the falling off of subscriptions
and advertisements. I anticipate that."
"Do
you have any doubts about your action. I mean, do you regret it, or fear it is
not what Jesus would do?" asked Mr. Maxwell.
"Not
in the least. But I would like to ask, for my own satisfaction, if any of you
here think Jesus would issue a Sunday morning paper?"
No one
spoke for a minute. Then Jasper Chase said, "We seem to think alike on
that, but I have been puzzled several times during the week to know just what
He would do. It is not always an easy question to answer."
"I
find that trouble," said Virginia Page. She sat by Rachel Winslow. Every
one who knew Virginia Page was wondering how she would succeed in keeping her
promise. "I think perhaps I find it specially difficult to answer that
question on account of my money. Our Lord never owned any property, and there
is nothing in His example to guide me in the use of mine. I am studying and
praying. I think I see clearly a part of what He would do, but not all. What
would He do with a million dollars? is my question really. I confess I am not
yet able to answer it to my satisfaction.
"I
could tell you what you could do with a part of it," said Rachel, turning
her face toward Virginia. "That does not trouble me," replied
Virginia with a slight smile. "What I am trying to discover is a principle
that will enable me to come to the nearest possible to His action as it ought
to influence the entire course of my life so far as my wealth and its use are
concerned."
"That
will take time," said the minister slowly. All the rest of the room were
thinking hard of the same thing. Milton Wright told something of his
experience. He was gradually working out a plan for his business relations with
his employees, and it was opening up a new world to him and to them. A few of
the young men told of special attempts to answer the question. There was almost
general consent over the fact that the application of the Christ spirit and
practice to the everyday life was the serious thing. It required a knowledge of
Him and an insight into His motives that most of them did not yet possess.
When they
finally adjourned after a silent prayer that marked with growing power the
Divine Presence, they went away discussing earnestly their difficulties and
seeking light from one another.
Rachel
Winslow and Virginia Page went out together. Edward Norman and Milton Wright
became so interested in their mutual conference that they walked on past
Norman's house and came back together. Jasper Chase and the president of the
Endeavor Society stood talking earnestly in one corner of the room. Alexander Powers
and Henry Maxwell remained, even after the others had gone.
"I
want you to come down to the shops tomorrow and see my plan and talk to the
men. Somehow I feel as if you could get nearer to them than any one else just
now."
"I
don't know about that, but I will come," replied Mr. Maxwell a little
sadly. How was he fitted to stand before two or three hundred working men and
give them a message? Yet in the moment of his weakness, as he asked the
question, he rebuked himself for it. What would Jesus do? That was an end to
the discussion.
He went
down the next day and found Mr. Powers in his office. It lacked a few minutes
of twelve and the superintendent said, "Come upstairs, and I'll show you
what I've been trying to do."
They went
through the machine shop, climbed a long flight of stairs and entered a very
large, empty room. It had once been used by the company for a store room.
"Since
making that promise a week ago I have had a good many things to think of,"
said the superintendent, "and among them is this: The company gives me the
use of this room, and I am going to fit it up with tables and a coffee plant in
the corner there where those steam pipes are. My plan is to provide a good
place where the men can come up and eat their noon lunch, and give them, two or
three times a week, the privilege of a fifteen minutes' talk on some subject
that will be a real help to them in their lives."
Maxwell
looked surprised and asked if the men would come for any such purpose.
"Yes,
they'll come. After all, I know the men pretty well. They are among the most
intelligent working men in the country today. But they are, as a whole,
entirely removed from church influence. I asked, 'What would Jesus do?' and
among other things it seemed to me He would begin to act in some way to add to
the lives of these men more physical and spiritual comfort. It is a very little
thing, this room and what it represents, but I acted on the first impulse, to
do the first thing that appealed to my good sense, and I want to work out this
idea. I want you to speak to the men when they come up at noon. I have asked
them to come up and see the place and I'll tell them something about it."
Maxwell
was ashamed to say how uneasy he felt at being asked to speak a few words to a
company of working men. How could he speak without notes, or to such a crowd?
He was honestly in a condition of genuine fright over the prospect. He actually
felt afraid of facing those men. He shrank from the ordeal of confronting such
a crowd, so different from the Sunday audiences he was familiar with.
There
were a dozen rude benches and tables in the room, and when the noon whistle
sounded the men poured upstairs from the machine shops below and, seating
themselves at the tables, began to cat their lunch. There were present about
three hundred of them. They had read the superintendent's notice which he had
posted up in various places, and came largely out of curiosity.
They were
favorably impressed. The room was large and airy, free from smoke and dust, and
well warmed from the steam pipes. At about twenty minutes to one Mr. Powers
told the men what he had in mind. He spoke very simply, like one who
understands thoroughly the character of his audience, and then introduced the
Rev. Henry Maxwell of the First Church, his pastor, who had consented to speak
a few minutes.
Maxwell
will never forget the feeling with which for the first time he stood before the
grimy-faced audience of working men. Like hundreds of other ministers, he had
never spoken to any gatherings except those made up of people of his own class
in the sense that they were familiar in their dress and education and habits.
This was a new world to him, and nothing but his new rule of conduct could have
made possible his message and its effect. He spoke on the subject of
satisfaction with life; what caused it, what its real sources were. He had the
great good sense on this his first appearance not to recognize the men as a
class distinct from himself. He did not use the term working man, and did not
say a word to suggest any difference between their lives and his own.
The men
were pleased. A good many of them shook hands with him before going down to
their work, and the minister telling it all to his wife when he reached home,
said that never in all his life had he known the delight he then felt in having
the handshake from a man of physical labor. The day marked an important one in
his Christian experience, more important than he knew. It was the beginning of
a fellowship between him and the working world. It was the first plank laid
down to help bridge the chasm between the church and labor in Raymond.
Alexander
Powers went back to his desk that afternoon much pleased with his plan and
seeing much help in it for the men. He knew where he could get some good tables
from an abandoned eating house at one of the stations down the road, and he saw
how the coffee arrangement could be made a very attractive feature. The men had
responded even better than he anticipated, and the whole thing could not help
being a great benefit to them.
He took
up the routine of his work with a glow of satisfaction. After all, he wanted to
do as Jesus would, he said to himself.
It was
nearly four o'clock when he opened one of the company's long envelopes which he
supposed contained orders for the purchasing of stores. He ran over the first
page of typewritten matter in his usual quick, business-like manner, before he
saw that what he was reading was not intended for his office but for the
superintendent of the freight department.
He turned
over a page mechanically, not meaning to read what was not addressed to him,
but before he knew it, he was in possession of evidence which conclusively
proved that the company was engaged in a systematic violation of the Interstate
Commerce Laws of the United States. It was as distinct and unequivocal a
breaking of law as if a private citizen should enter a house and rob the
inmates. The discrimination shown in rebates was in total contempt of all the
statutes. Under the laws of the state it was also a distinct violation of
certain provisions recently passed by the legislature to prevent railroad
trusts. There was no question that he had in his hands evidence sufficient to
convict the company of willful, intelligent violation of the law of the
commission and the law of the state also.
He
dropped the papers on his desk as if they were poison, and instantly the
question flashed across his mind, "What would Jesus do?" He tried to
shut the question out. He tried to reason with himself by saying it was none of
his business. He had known in a more or less definite way, as did nearly all
the officers of the company, that this had been going on right along on nearly
all the roads. He was not in a position, owing to his place in the shops, to
prove anything direct, and he had regarded it as a matter which did not concern
him at all. The papers now before him revealed the entire affair. They had
through some carelessness been addressed to him. What business of his was it?
If he saw a man entering his neighbor's house to steal, would it not be his
duty to inform the officers of the law? Was a railroad company such a different
thing? Was it under a different rule of conduct, so that it could rob the
public and defy law and be undisturbed because it was such a great
organization? What would Jesus do? Then there was his family. Of course, if he
took any steps to inform the commission it would mean the loss of his position.
His wife and daughter had always enjoyed luxury and a good place in society. If
he came out against this lawlessness as a witness it would drag him into
courts, his motives would be misunderstood, and the whole thing would end in
his disgrace and the loss of his position. Surely it was none of his business.
He could easily get the papers back to the freight department and no one be the
wiser. Let the iniquity go on. Let the law be defied. What was it to him? He
would work out his plans for bettering the condition just before him. What more
could a man do in this railroad business when there was so much going on anyway
that made it impossible to live by the Christian standard? But what would Jesus
do if He knew the facts? That was the question that confronted Alexander Powers
as the day wore into evening.
The
lights in the office had been turned on. The whirr of the great engine and the
clash of the planers in the big shop continued until six o'clock. Then the
whistle blew, the engine slowed up, the men dropped their tools and ran for the
block house.
Powers
heard the familiar click, click, of the clocks as the men filed past the window
of the block house just outside. He said to his clerks, "I'm not going
just yet. I have something extra tonight." He waited until he heard the
last man deposit his block. The men behind the block case went out. The
engineer and his assistants had work for half an hour but they went out by
another door.