June 1930
T h e
K i n g ’ s
B u s i n e s s
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SA k v 'fl T 7 0 fO Does It Make Any Difference What You Believe if You Are Honest? A “Q u iet T a lk ” B y S. D. G ordon
gSI||PES it make any difference what you believe, if | | | ? r a you’re honest? Recently a New York man made an address at a Mid-West university. The man is prominent in financial circles. Commonly his words are widely quoted. The address was at the dedication of a build ing for religious purposes. In the address, according to the daily papers, he said that it does not make any differ ence what you believe if you’re honest. A little while after, the head of one of the leading historical churches of Christendom, living in Southern Europe, on the Tiber, referred to this statement. As reported in the press, he said that it does make a big difference what you believe regardless of your honesty. Which of the two was right? The American? Or the Italian ? In a small town of New England a middle-aged man one night couldn’t fall asleep. He tossed nervously until quite late. His wife suggested taking a little remedy he had for sleeplessness. So he went to the bath, reached into the closet over the bowl and picked up a bottle, without bothering to turn on the light. He knew just where things were. He put the bottle to his mouth, measuring with his lips. He went back to bed and to sleep. He honestly be lieved he had the right bottle. But he was wrong. The next morning he was dead. Some years ago, when transcontinental travel was in its earlier stages, a long train was ploughing its way through the great middle West of the country. It was a bitter winter’s night, snow, zero, wind, huge drifts. In a day coach was a mother with three children, one a baby in arms. She was rather nervous about being sure to get off at the right station. Stations were far apart. The conductor assured her he would come and help her off at her station. By and by the train stopped. A kind-hearted commer cial traveler across the aisle stepped over. He said, “This is your station. I ’ll help you off.” And he, did. And the train started. After a bit the conductor came in, looking, and said, “Where’s that woman with her babies for so-and-so?” The kind-hearted commercial traveler said, “I helped her off back there at her station.” And the conductor, abruptly, nervously, seizing the bell rope, said, seriously, “My God, man! That was a coal stop. There is no shelter there. And this is an awful night.” The train slowly stopped and backed several miles. Much time had elapsed. But the bitter cold had done its relentless work. That commercial traveler was quite hon est in believing that that was her station. But he was wrong! Did it make any difference what he believed ? Ask the husband and father waiting impatiently for wife-and babies, and getting only what could be handled. T h e W h it e -P ainted S teeple But, you say, you’re thinking about religion. Well, let’s talk about religion a little. Years ago, when cannibal
ism was common in the heathen islands of the South Pacific, a ship was wrecked. The crew drifted about on the wreckage, and at last was washed up on an unknown island. But they had heard much about the cannibalism so common. And they were afraid. They consulted, and stayed on the shore at the wreckage while one of their number cautiously climbed a hill near by to look things over. No sooner had he gotten to the top of the hill and looked when he began laughing, and ran back laughing and waving his hands. What had he seen? Not much. Only a little white-painted church steeple. But it seemed to make a big difference to the shipwrecked man. Two miners were making their way across the prairie with their gold findings carefully belted about their waists. Night overtook them before they got to their destination. By and by they saw a light in the distance. It came from a rude shack. The rough looking man answering their knock said they could sleep for the night in the crude attic overhead. But they felt uneasy. Things .seemed very rough. It was an unsettled country. So they planned in whispers to sleep and keep guard by turns, with their fire-arms handy. The one keeping guard first, noted a crack in the floor. He glued his eye to the crack. Then a broad smile over spread his face. And he lay down and went contentedly to sleep. What did he see ? Not much. The rough looking man had picked a well worn book from the shelf. He sat reading awhile. Then he knelt at the edge of the table, leaning over the book, in the attitude of prayer. It did seem to make a very practical difference to those sailors and miners what these people believed. That white-painted church steeple, and that crack in the floor, what did they stand for? Well, I think every body, scholars, critics, common people, would agree that they stood for what is commonly called The Old Gospel of Christ. You know there are some things that are old, old- fashioned, but not old fogy. Bread when you’re hungry, water when thirsty, a warm coat and fire when the mer cury is down, a roof overhead, sleep when tired out, sun shine and dew and rain—these are all very old-fashioned, but they are certainly not old fogy. Sweet modesty in woman, strict chastity in man, rug ged honesty and truthfulness in business dealings, gravi tation that holds things steady—these are so old, old- fashioned, and, and the underpinning of all life. T h e O ld G ospel What is the Old Gospel of Christ? Take the historical meaning, in which scholars and historians and rational ists all agree, as a mere matter of history just now. Whip the thing out and back to the starting point, and that phrase stands for five things, simple, radical. There’s the distinctive Book, the distinctive Man of the distinctive Book, the distinctive death of that Man, the distinctive badness of sin, and the distinctive necessity of personal choice for present character and future des-
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