Books: In His Steps

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Edited by Charles Aldarondo Aldarondo@yahoo.com

In His Steps

by

Charles M. Sheldon

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."

Just before the sermon, the soprano sang a solo, the well-known
hymn,

"Where He leads me I will follow,
I'll go with Him, with Him, all the way."

Rachel Winslow looked very beautiful that morning as she stood up
behind the screen of carved oak which was significantly marked with
the emblems of the cross and the crown. Her voice was even more
beautiful than her face, and that meant a great deal. There was a
general rustle of expectation over the audience as she rose. Mr.
Maxwell settled himself contentedly behind the pulpit. Rachel
Winslow's singing always helped him. He generally arranged for a
song before the sermon. It made possible a certain inspiration of
feeling that made his delivery more impressive.

People said to themselves they had never heard such singing even in
the First Church. It is certain that if it had not been a church
service, her solo would have been vigorously applauded. It even
seemed to the minister when she sat down that something like an
attempted clapping of hands or a striking of feet on the floor swept
through the church. He was startled by it. As he rose, however, and
laid his sermon on the Bible, he said to himself he had been
deceived. Of course it could not occur. In a few moments he was
absorbed in his sermon and everything else was forgotten in the
pleasure of his delivery.

No one had ever accused Henry Maxwell of being a dull preacher. On
the contrary, he had often been charged with being sensational; not
in what he had said so much as in his way of saying it. But the
First Church people liked that. It gave their preacher and their
parish a pleasant distinction that was agreeable.

It was also true that the pastor of the First Church loved to
preach. He seldom exchanged. He was eager to be in his own pulpit
when Sunday came. There was an exhilarating half hour for him as he
faced a church full of people and know that he had a hearing. He was
peculiarly sensitive to variations in the attendance. He never
preached well before a small audience. The weather also affected him
decidedly. He was at his best before just such an audience as faced
him now, on just such a morning. He felt a glow of satisfaction as
he went on. The church was the first in the city. It had the best
choir. It had a membership composed of the leading people,
representatives of the wealth, society and intelligence of Raymond.
He was going abroad on a three months vacation in the summer, and
the circumstances of his pastorate, his influence and his position
as pastor of the First Church in the city--

It is not certain that the Rev. Henry Maxwell knew just how he could
carry on that thought in connection with his sermon, but as he drew
near the end of it he knew that he had at some point in his delivery
had all those feelings. They had entered into the very substance of
his thought; it might have been all in a few seconds of time, but he
had been conscious of defining his position and his emotions as well
as if he had held a soliloquy, and his delivery partook of the
thrill of deep personal satisfaction.

The sermon was interesting. It was full of striking sentences. They
would have commanded attention printed. Spoken with the passion of a
dramatic utterance that had the good taste never to offend with a
suspicion of ranting or declamation, they were very effective. If
the Rev. Henry Maxwell that morning felt satisfied with the
conditions of his pastorate, the First Church also had a similar
feeling as it congratulated itself on the presence in the pulpit of
this scholarly, refined, somewhat striking face and figure,
preaching with such animation and freedom from all vulgar, noisy or
disagreeable mannerism.

Suddenly, into the midst of this perfect accord and concord between
preacher and audience, there came a very remarkable interruption. It
would be difficult to indicate the extent of the shock which this
interruption measured. It was so unexpected, so entirely contrary to
any thought of any person present that it offered no room for
argument or, for the time being, of resistance.

The sermon had come to a close. Mr. Maxwell had just turned the half
of the big Bible over upon his manuscript and was about to sit down
as the quartet prepared to arise to sing the closing selection,

"All for Jesus, all for Jesus,
All my being's ransomed powers..."

when the entire congregation was startled by the sound of a man's
voice. It came from the rear of the church, from one of the seats
under the gallery. The next moment the figure of a man came out of
the shadow there and walked down the middle aisle.

Before the startled congregation fairly realized what was going on
the man had reached the open space in front of the pulpit and had
turned about facing the people.

"I've been wondering since I came in here"--they were the words he
used under the gallery, and he repeated them--"if it would be just
the thing to say a word at the close of the service. I'm not drunk
and I'm not crazy, and I am perfectly harmless, but if I die, as
there is every likelihood I shall in a few days, I want the
satisfaction of thinking that I said my say in a place like this,
and before this sort of a crowd."

Henry Maxwell had not taken his seat, and he now remained standing,
leaning on his pulpit, looking down at the stranger. It was the man
who had come to his house the Friday before, the same dusty, worn,
shabby-looking young man. He held his faded hat in his two hands. It
seemed to be a favorite gesture. He had not been shaved and his hair
was rough and tangled. It is doubtful if any one like this had ever
confronted the First Church within the sanctuary. It was tolerably
familiar with this sort of humanity out on the street, around the
railroad shops, wandering up and down the avenue, but it had never
dreamed of such an incident as this so near.

There was nothing offensive in the man's manner or tone. He was not
excited and he spoke in a low but distinct voice. Mr. Maxwell was
conscious, even as he stood there smitten into dumb astonishment at
the event, that somehow the man's action reminded him of a person he
had once seen walking and talking in his sleep.

No one in the house made any motion to stop the stranger or in any
way interrupt him. Perhaps the first shock of his sudden appearance
deepened into a genuine perplexity concerning what was best to do.
However that may be, he went on as if he had no thought of
interruption and no thought of the unusual element which he had
introduced into the decorum of the First Church service. And all the
while he was speaking, the minister leaded over the pulpit, his face
growing more white and sad every moment. But he made no movement to
stop him, and the people sat smitten into breathless silence. One
other face, that of Rachel Winslow from the choir, stared white and
intent down at the shabby figure with the faded hat. Her face was
striking at any time. Under the pressure of the present unheard-of
incident it was as personally distinct as if it had been framed in
fire.

"I'm not an ordinary tramp, though I don't know of any teaching of
Jesus that makes one kind of a tramp less worth saving than another.
Do you?" He put the question as naturally as if the whole
congregation had been a small Bible class. He paused just a moment
and coughed painfully. Then he went on.

"I lost my job ten months ago. I am a printer by trade. The new
linotype machines are beautiful specimens of invention, but I know
six men who have killed themselves inside of the year just on
account of those machines. Of course I don't blame the newspapers
for getting the machines. Meanwhile, what can a man do? I know I
never learned but the one trade, and that's all I can do. I've
tramped all over the country trying to find something. There are a
good many others like me. I'm not complaining, am I? Just stating
facts. But I was wondering as I sat there under the gallery, if what
you call following Jesus is the same thing as what He taught. What
did He mean when He said: 'Follow Me!'? The minister said,"--here he
turned about and looked up at the pulpit--"that it is necessary for
the disciple of Jesus to follow His steps, and he said the steps are
'obedience, faith, love and imitation.' But I did not hear him tell
you just what he meant that to mean, especially the last step. What
do you Christians mean by following the steps of Jesus?

"I've tramped through this city for three days trying to find a job;
and in all that time I've not had a word of sympathy or comfort
except from your minister here, who said he was sorry for me and
hoped I would find a job somewhere. I suppose it is because you get
so imposed on by the professional tramp that you have lost your
interest in any other sort. I'm not blaming anybody, am I? Just
stating facts. Of course, I understand you can't all go out of your
way to hunt up jobs for other people like me. I'm not asking you to;
but what I feel puzzled about is, what is meant by following Jesus.
What do you mean when you sing 'I'll go with Him, with Him, all the
way?' Do you mean that you are suffering and denying yourselves and
trying to save lost, suffering humanity just as I understand Jesus
did? What do you mean by it? I see the ragged edge of things a good
deal. I understand there are more than five hundred men in this city
in my case. Most of them have families. My wife died four months
ago. I'm glad she is out of trouble. My little girl is staying with
a printer's family until I find a job. Somehow I get puzzled when I
see so many Christians living in luxury and singing 'Jesus, I my
cross have taken, all to leave and follow Thee,' and remember how my
wife died in a tenement in New York City, gasping for air and asking
God to take the little girl too. Of course I don't expect you people
can prevent every one from dying of starvation, lack of proper
nourishment and tenement air, but what does following Jesus mean? I
understand that Christian people own a good many of the tenements. A
member of a church was the owner of the one where my wife died, and
I have wondered if following Jesus all the way was true in his case.
I heard some people singing at a church prayer meeting the other
night,

'All for Jesus, all for Jesus,
All my being's ransomed powers,
All my thoughts, and all my doings,
All my days, and all my hours.'

and I kept wondering as I sat on the steps outside just what they
meant by it. It seems to me there's an awful lot of trouble in the
world that somehow wouldn't exist if all the people who sing such
songs went and lived them out. I suppose I don't understand. But
what would Jesus do? Is that what you mean by following His steps?
It seems to me sometimes as if the people in the big churches had
good clothes and nice houses to live in, and money to spend for
luxuries, and could go away on summer vacations and all that, while
the people outside the churches, thousands of them, I mean, die in
tenements, and walk the streets for jobs, and never have a piano or
a picture in the house, and grow up in misery and drunkenness and
sin."

The man suddenly gave a queer lurch over in the direction of the
communion table and laid one grimy hand on it. His hat fell upon the
carpet at his feet. A stir went through the congregation. Dr. West
half rose from his pew, but as yet the silence was unbroken by any
voice or movement worth mentioning in the audience. The man passed
his other hand across his eyes, and then, without any warning, fell
heavily forward on his face, full length up the aisle. Henry Maxwell
spoke:

"We will consider the service closed."

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.

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