280 Sermon Illustrations on Consequences of Sin

“Many a good story is told of the old bonanza days,” said a San Franciscan. “I liked especially a whisky story.

“A tenderfoot, the story ran, entered a saloon and ordered whisky. Whisky in those days and in those parts was a very weird drink. Queer effects were sure to follow it. The tenderfoot knew he must expect something out of the common, but, for all that, he was taken aback when the bartender handed him a small whisk-broom along with the bottle and glass.

“Tenderfoot-like, he didn’t care to expose his ignorance by asking what the whisk-broom was for, so he just stood there and fidgeted. He didn’t drink. He waited in the hope that somebody would come in and show him what was what.

“Well, in a few minutes a big chap in a red shirt entered. He, too, ordered whisky, and he, too, got a broom.

“The tenderfoot watched him closely. He poured himself a generous drink, tossed it off, and, taking up his whisk-broom, went over into a corner and carefully cleaned, on the floor, a space about 7 feet by 3. There he laid down and had a fit.”--Detroit _Free Press_.

I was standing on the sidewalk in a Southern city where at the time I was engaged in evangelistic work. A physician who was an active helper came along in his buggy, and, stopping his horse, requested me to take a seat at his side.

“I want to take you,” he said as we drove off, “to see a most deplorable and helpless case--a widow and her son. She is totally blind; in fact, she has cried her eyes out. You have heard of people who cried their eyes out, but now you will see one of whom it is literally true. The son is only twenty-four years of age, and a splendid machinist; but he got to fooling with drink and wild young men, until now the habit is so fixt upon him he is almost an imbecile. I have a commitment for him in my pocket to send him to the asylum. It is the only hope for him now.”

We arrived at the house, a poor little desolate-looking place, in painful accord with the pitiful lives within. The woman rose to greet us at the sound of the doctor’s voice. She was of medium size, neatly drest, but plainly. Her white face, without the slightest suggestion of color, was partly framed with grayish-brown hair. Her eyes did not seem sightless to me, but only a dull dark blue.

There sat the young man, his face buried in his hands, the picture of misery, a life surrendered to the evil of drink, and in ruins. “I have brought the minister,” said the doctor, “because I knew you’d like to have him pray with you and talk with your son.” She assented readily, and even with an effort to smile; but the smile died upon her lips. The young man was perfectly sane, and talked willingly of his condition. “I just can’t help it,” he said. “I love mother, and I can easily take care of her; but, when I get where whisky is, I can’t help getting drunk. Then it looks as if I’d never get sober any more. Yes, sir,” he said in reply to the doctor, “I’ll be glad to go. I hate to leave mother,” nodding his head toward the frail creature who sat silent while the tears literally rolled down her face; “but I’m willing to do anything to get right.”

Months passed. I was there again. Meeting the doctor one day in the street, I stopt him.

“Tell me about the poor woman, doctor, and her boy,” I asked. “Get into my buggy, and we will take a drive, and you shall see for yourself.” We drove along, talking as we went; but he did not explain. He continued his drive out of the city, and finally turned his horse’s head into what I saw was the cemetery. Passing monuments and vaults and richly carved marble, we went on to the very outer edge. “Now we will get out and walk a few steps,” he said. I followed him, knowing now, of course, what it meant; but I knew only in part. Stopping at two unmarked graves, not a stone or board or flower, desolate in death as in life, he pointed to one, and said: “That’s the son. He came back from the asylum, and we thought he was cured; but he fell in with his old companions, and a few days later his body was found in a pond near the city, and a bottle half filled with whisky in his pocket. And that’s the mother. She survived him only a few days. When they brought his body into her little home, she sank under her weight of grief, and never rallied. She had cried herself to sleep.”--H. M. WHARTON, _Christian Endeavor World_.

A recent orator gives this incident:

I think the subject has been kept back very much by the merriment people make over those slain by strong drink. I used to be very merry over these things, having a keen sense of the ludicrous. There was something very grotesque in the gait of a drunkard. It is not so now; for I saw in one of the streets of Philadelphia a sight that changed the whole subject to me. There was a young man being led home. He was very much intoxicated--he was raving with intoxication. Two young men were leading him along. The boys hooted in the street, men laughed, women sneered; but I happened to be very near the door where he went in--it was the door of his father’s house. I saw him go up-stairs. I heard him shouting, hooting and blaspheming. He had lost his hat, and the merriment increased with the mob until he came up to the door, and as the door was opened his mother came out. When I heard her cry, that took all the comedy away from the scene. Since that time, when I see a man walking through the street, reeling, the comedy is all gone, and it is a tragedy of tears and groans and heartbreaks. Never make any fun around me about the grotesqueness of a drunkard. Alas for his home!

Richard I, third Duke of Normandy, became involved in long and arduous wars with the King of France, which compelled him to call in the aid of more Northmen from the Baltic. His new allies, in the end, gave him as much trouble as the old enemy, with whom they came to help William I, his predecessor, contend; and he found it very hard to get them away. He wanted at length to make peace with the French king, and to have them leave his dominions; but they said: “That was not what we came for.”

There are helps that become hindrances, and aids that are embarrassing in the end.

It was recently my good fortune to be invited to talk to a club of Jewish boys. Among other matters I talked to them about law and lawlessness, and tried to show that the spirit of lawlessness, now so rife in this country, manifests itself at first in little ways. I reminded them of the wanton lawlessness of automobile drivers in exceeding speed limits, and then I sought to bring the illustration close home to them by asking if they ever saw a fellow at a ball-game, where scores of men were standing in line waiting for their turn to get a ticket, pass up to the head of the line and surreptitiously induce some friend there, or even a stranger, to buy a ticket for him, and thus take advantage of all those who had come before him. They all recognized the illustration. It is a very common incident in American life. Then I pointed out that such a proceeding is a rank violation of the law of courtesy and fair play, and that any one who would do that thing ruthlessly is sowing the seeds of lawlessness, and may some day expect to reap the consequences.--GEORGE W. COLEMAN, “Searchlights.”

See CHILD’S GIFT.

LITTLE SINS

And I am afraid of little sins because they grow so great. No one can tell whereunto sin will lead. The beginnings of sin are like the leakings of water from a mighty reservoir; first an innocent ooze, then a drip, then a tiny stream, then a larger vein, then a flood, and the rampart gives way and the town is swept to ruin. The habits of sin are like the habits of burglars, who sometimes take a little fellow and put him through a window too small for a man to enter, and the child must open the door for the burglar gang to pass. So with little sins; they creep in and open the door for larger to enter. A little sin is the thin edge of the wedge, and when once inserted it can be driven home till it splits and ruins the life.

— A. H. C. MORSE

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I am afraid of little sins because they involve a great principle. You go into a bank with a check for $1,000, and in his hurry the clerk passes out $1,100, and you walk out of the bank with that sum. You agree with me, I suppose, that you do a dishonest thing--that you have stolen $100. Would it not be the same if your check called for $5, and he gave you $6 by mistake? You ride on a train to Boston, and by some oversight your ticket is not collected, and you ride back on that very same ticket. You agree with me that the thing is wrong. Is it not the same when you ride on a trolley car and elude the conductor, or slip past the gateman and enter the train? In either case the man is a thief.

— A. H. C. MORSE

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The writer, some years ago, heard an educational worker at a teachers’ institute tell the story of the mother who, on going away from home for a while, called her children for a few final precautionary prohibitions. Her conference with the children ran as follows:

“Children, you are not to go up-stairs while I am away. But if you do go up-stairs, you are not to go into the back room. But if you do go into the back room, you are not to play with the beans piled there. But if you should play with the beans, do not put any into your noses.”

There is no need to finish the narrative for any persons who know child-life. The physician eventually succeeded in preventing the nasal cavities from becoming vegetable gardens.

The story seemed to have been made to order. But it is not at all improbable. The writer knows of kittens having been put “into the Baltimore heater,” and of little pigs having been run through a windmill after thoughtful parents had enjoined upon their children not to do these things. Thus does the law operate, as any fireside will abundantly verify.--A. B. BUNN VAN ORMER, “Studies in Religious Nurture.”

An officer from Japan, visiting America, one day, while looking about a big city, saw a man stop a milk-wagon.

“Is he going to arrest the man?” he asked.

“No,” was the answer; “he must see that the milk sold by this man is pure, with no water or chalk mixed with it.”

“Would chalk or water poison the milk?”

“No; but people want pure milk if they pay for it.”

Passing a whisky saloon, a man staggered out, struck his head against a lamp-post, and fell to the sidewalk.

“What is the matter with that man?”

“He is full of bad whisky.”

“Is it poison?”

“Yes; a deadly poison,” was the answer.

“Do you watch the selling of whisky as you do the milk?” asked the Japanese.

“No.”

At the markets they found a man looking at the meat to see if it was healthy.

“I can’t understand your country,” said the Japanese. “You watch the meat and the milk, and let men sell whisky as much as they please.”

Against slander there is no defense. It starts with a word, with a nod, with a shrug, with a look, with a smile. It is pestilence walking in darkness, spreading contagion far and wide, which the most wary traveler can not avoid; it is the heart-searching dagger of the dark assassin; it is the poisoned arrow whose wounds are incurable; it is the mortal sting of the deadly adder, murder its employment, innocence its prey, and ruin its sport.--_Catholic Telegraph._

The three ghosts on the lonesome road Spake each to one another, “Whence came that stain about your mouth No lifted hand may cover?” “From eating of forbidden fruit, Brother, my brother.”

The three ghosts on the sunless road Spake each to one another, “Whence came that red burn on your foot No dust nor ash may cover?” “I stamped a neighbor’s hearth-flame out, Brother, my brother.”

The three ghosts on the windless road Spake each to one another, “Whence came that blood upon your hand No other hand may cover?” “From breaking of a woman’s heart, Brother, my brother.”

“Yet on the earth clean men we walked, Glutton and Thief and Lover; White flesh and fair it hid our stains That no man might discover.” “Naked the soul goes up to God, Brother, my brother.”

--THEODOSIA GARRISON, _Zion’s Herald_.

The Civil War lasted four years. The number of those enlisted in the Union army was 2,113,000. The number killed in action was 67,000; died of wounds received in action, 43,000; while the total number of deaths from all causes was 359,000. I have no statistics of the Confederate army, but certainly they would largely increase the total casualties of the war. On the other hand, the Spanish War lasted but a few months. The total number of men mustered in was 223,000. The number killed in action was only 218--not as many as have been killed in many a single mining catastrophe; the number of those that died from wounds received in action was 81; the number dying from disease, 3,848. The total casualties during that war were less than the number killed in railroad accidents in this country during a single year. According to the report of the Interstate Commerce Commission, the number killed on our railways during the year ending June 30, 1908, was 3,764; the number injured, 68,989. Other years show a greater fatality. In the Civil War were some of the greatest battles of history and a terrible loss of life on either side. In the Spanish War, outside of two brilliant naval engagements, there were only a few skirmishes. The two wars taken as a whole compare about like a twelve-inch rifled gun with a small pistol; and yet, as we have seen, after the Civil War there was no cry for an increase in armament, no call for a navy to challenge the fleets of the world, a steady payment of the national indebtedness, a devotion to the pursuits of peace, and a magnificent enlargement of our industries and business, while after the Spanish War we increased our army, and we have been steadily building ironclad after ironclad, until now our navy stands second among the navies of the world.

— DAVID J. BREWER

That we may better appreciate the present problem in its relation to the United States, attention is called to the appropriations made by the United States Government. For the year ending June 30, 1910, the appropriations for the army, fortifications and military academy amount to $111,897,515.67; for the navy, $136,935,199.05; and for pensions, $160,908,000. The total amount to be expended during the current fiscal year on account of wars and preparations for war aggregates $409,740,714.72. Compare these figures with the relatively insignificant sum of $32,007,049, which is the total amount appropriated for the use of the executive, legislative and judicial departments of the Government during the same period.

The total expenditures of the Government of the United States from its beginning in 1789 to 1909 has been as follows: For war, $6,699,583,209; for navy, $2,441,572,934; for pensions, $4,155,267,356. This aggregates the vast sum of $13,296,423,549 expended for war purposes, as against $4,466,068,760 expended for civil and miscellaneous purposes.

The average annual cost of the army and navy of the United States for the eight years preceding the Spanish War was $51,500,000. The average annual cost of the army and navy for the eight years since the Spanish War has been $185,400,000. The average yearly increase in the latter period as compared with the former has been $134,000,000, making a total increase in eight years of $1,072,000,000, or 360 per cent. This increase for eight years exceeds the national debt by $158,000,000. The amount of all gifts to charities, libraries, educational institutions and other public causes in 1909 in this country was $185,000,000, or $400,000 less than the average annual cost for the army and navy for the past eight years. What benefit has the nation derived from all this expenditure?

See ARMIES OF THE WORLD; MILITARISM; NAVIES OF THE WORLD.

WAR, THE HORRORS OF

After his splendid victory of Austerlitz was won and the iron crown of empire securely fixt on his brow, Napoleon, standing on the high ground, saw a portion of the defeated Russian army making a slow, painful retreat over a frozen lake. They were at his mercy. He rode up to a battery and said, “Men, you are losing time! fire on those masses; they must be swallowed up! fire on that ice!” Shells were thrown, the bridge of ice was broken, and amid awful shrieks hundreds upon hundreds of miserable wretches were buried in the frozen waters.

The crime of war is its wanton waste of human life. And so are the social wrongs that decimate our world. And so is evil in every form. (Text.)

A man, who had destroyed three happy homes through his drinking habits, was converted, and set to work to lead his friends to Christ. Some time after his conversion one of his mates, seeing how clean and happy he was looking, asked him jocularly if he had any houses to let. He knew the questioner was a heavy drinker, so he decided to give him a practical lesson. “Here, mate,” he said, “just take a look down my throat, will you?” “There’s nothing there,” said the other, after a careful inspection of his throat. “Well, that’s queer, for I’ve put three good homes and a grocer’s shop down that throat, drowning them in drink.” (Text.)