01.34. The Quiet Power of Goodness
Chapter 34 THE QUIET POWER OF GOODNESS.
We were once in the city of Cologne on the banks of the River Rhine. At sunset we visited a great Cathedral that is famous for its architectural beauty and historic associations.
We entered the building as the service of vespers commenced. Hundreds were present and all standing on the stone floor, as there seemed to be no pews. In the great throng we saw many peasants, while there were also throngs of others and of both sexes, who were citizens of the city, and doubtless members of the church we were visiting. A misty sunset reflection came through the large stained windows, while a few lights sparkled like stars here and there in the ceiling of the vast structure. A deep toned organ was playing softly in some remote hidden gallery, and a woman’s voice was singing and leading the service from the same secret place high up in the groined arches of the pillared temple. A priest stood before the altar with a censer in his hand. As the organ played and the woman sang, he silently swung the censer. From where we stood we could just hear a slight tinkle of the chains as the incense bearing vessel was oscillated gently backward and forward. With each movement of the priest’s hand we observed a little puff of white smoke or vapor leave the censer and dissipate in the air. But after a while we recognized the sweet delicate odor of the incense. It had silently, noiselessly but steadily pushed its way through two or three hundred feet of atmosphere and had reached not only those who stood near, but had brought its fragrance like a delightful presence to those who were afar off.
We said at once this is the way that a truly good and beautiful life is recognized. If we are willing to be a small vessel like the censer, and let God put the spirit of Christ and Holiness in us and then give ourselves over into the hands of our High Priest, the son of God, to be swung steadily as He will, those in the temple and in the community are certain to detect and appreciate the excellency and loveliness of the heavenly gift within us. Of course the melody of the organ must proceed, and the singing from unseen heights be realized, and so while the song goes on the life steadily reaches out touching this person and yonder individual, until a great congregation at last have to admit the sweetness and power of the life lived unobtrusively in their midst.
One’s talents may be few and ordinary, the work circumscribed and the field limited, but if we will let the Saviour put the blessing of holiness in us, will permit Him to swing us in that narrow place where we dwell, and humble position we fill, it is but a question of time when the incense will travel a long way from the place where we first obtained it, and where we live, and the fragrance of the pure heart and the loving life will reach not only those near, but many afar off whom we never expected to touch, and will die ignorant of a multitude whom we have blessed.
It is well known that the best man in a church is not thus acknowledged because he springs up and announces in a loud voice that he is, but the incense stole out humbly and devoutly from the human censer, as Christ swung him and they of the congregation had to admit that a beautiful life was in their midst. In like manner we get to know the best old woman in the country neighborhood. She lives in a lonely home that is off the main road; she rarely visits or gets to town; she has no trumpet sounding before her what she is and what she has done. And yet everybody in that part of the county, and numbers in other counties know that the best woman in all that region lives in a certain humble dwelling back of the cotton wood grove, just the other side of the creek.
Somehow people who are in trouble go to her first. The preacher himself visits her for counsel and sympathy. While the young mother who has just buried her first born soon finds her way to this gray-haired, shining-faced saint, who has laid husband and six children, her all, in the old graveyard overshadowed with a grove of sighing pine trees.
Christ swung the censer and the incense that stole across the sedge field was wafted over the brow of the hill, and along the diverging roads to different homes, so the bereaved young wife and the broken-hearted young mother were drawn to her, and buried their faces in her lap while she spoke of the Resurrection of the dead, of Heaven, of the reunion of parted ones in the skies, and "comforted them with the comfort wherewith she had been comforted of God" in the many hard trials and sorrows she had met on the way.
Once we were in Arizona and our next appointment was in Boston. To make a certain fast train and reach our meeting in time we had to take a long drive of fifty miles across a desert or prairie. A gentleman who was well acquainted with the western wilds drove us in a buggy to the town where the Cannon Ball stopped. The memory of that long lonely trip will never be forgotten. Starting in the afternoon the night soon overtook us on the plain and then for hours there was nothing but a silence that could be felt and a loneliness that was like a stifling atmosphere, it was so oppressive. Hours followed hours and the only sound was the dull beat of the horses’ hoofs on the sod, the melancholy swish of the prairie grass in the night wind and the howl of a distant coyote. We finally were so affected by the stillness of the desert and the world of darkness all around us that we ceased all conversation.
Suddenly near the hour of eleven we saw a flash and sparkle of light away in front of us, and as we afterwards discovered, fully fifteen or twenty miles away. We caught the first view from a swell of ground in the prairie and we thought we had never beheld anything so beautiful, so attractive and heart-cheering. It seemed to inspire hope, and waved its far off white hand to us to come on, and spoke of shelter, rest, companionship, welcome and safety. If we never knew before, we understood then why Christ said: "I am the light of the world," and likened His people to the same blessed figure of illumination, consolation and guidance. By and by as we descended the gentle slope we lost sight of our electric light shining over the plain from the distant town toward which we were traveling. Then with another swell of the prairie we saw it again, still shining, still gladdening us with its beautiful radiance as we were far away in the night, and still beckoning us to come on where entertainment and comfort were awaiting us. And so we traveled on, still cheered by this single light, when at last about two hours after midnight we rolled into town where a score or more of great arc burners were making the streets like day, swept up to a hotel, got a room, some rest and food and caught the daylight fast train going eastward.
We said that night, and have thought the same many times since, that the life of a good man or woman shines out on this dark, sad world like the light did on the Arizona desert. The quiet power of Godliness cannot be denied by the thoughtful and observant. Its striking influence in times of trouble upon others, its cheering effect in the night of sin and sorrow, its guiding, directing force to the wanderer and those who have gone far away from duty and God, has been felt and admitted by many millions of souls.
Like a light Madam Guyon shone in the darkness of France. Like a light Wesley gleamed in the profound gloom of what Hume calls the darkest hour of England’s history. But some would say that these were very gifted and remarkable persons, and that the comparison fails because of the relative weakness and insignificance of what is called the ordinary Christian. That the first individuals are arc burners, while the commonplace followers of the Lord are only candles. To this we reply that the Bible does not call us arc burners, but by the very term which some so modestly assume. The word says, "The spirit of man is the candle of the Lord." The main thing is to light it, and then the good work at once begins.
It is wonderful how far a candle can be seen in the night and over a wide intervening country. We have read the most affecting things about its quiet, gentle ray shining through a dark, stormy night, cheering and guiding belated travelers to the house where it shone. Repeatedly ships have been saved by them. What cares the lost traveler whether the beacon was in a gold, silver, brass or wooden candle stick, and whether it was made of wax, sperm, paraffine or tallow. It was the light itself that cheered, guided and saved. The thing is, will we be the Lord’s candle? Will we let Him ignite us and place us where He will, so we may shine for Him, give light to those in the household, and help the wandering belated travelers who are out in the night and storm outside. The rest will follow in due time. Men will knock at the door of our lives and say we were lost and saw your light shining and have come to you for guidance and help. And thousands will arise in Heaven and call such people blessed, saying we would have perished in the desert of sin, in the awful night of iniquity, but we beheld your life, took heart and came to God for pardon and Holiness, and He took us in and saved us.
We remember a hymn we used to sing much as a young preacher.
"O the lights along the shore, That never grow dim; never, never grow dim; Are the souls that are aflame With the love of Jesus’ name, And they guide us, yes, they guide us unto Him."
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