Katie Robertson

by Margaret E. Winslow

CHAPTER VIII.

TEMPLES.

It was a lovely June Sunday. The seats of Squantown Sunday-school were even more crowded than usual; the girls' side looking like a flower-bed in its variety and brilliancy of color. Bertie Sanderson was there in her new silk,—a brilliant cardinal,—looking strangely unsuitable to the season; Gretchen, the German, in her woolen petticoat and jacket, which she had not been long enough in the country to discard for summer attire; the other girls in spring suits, and Katie Robertson in a lovely pale-blue lawn and a white straw hat trimmed with the same color. It was the prettiest costume the little girl had ever possessed, and as it was all bought with her own earnings she may be pardoned for being very much pleased with it. And yet it was as simple and inexpensive a summer outfit as any one could have, and certainly was not fitted to excite the hateful thoughts to which it was giving rise in Bertie's mind—Bertie, clad in her unsuitable finery! This finery had not been the success that Bertie expected. To be sure, it was a silk dress, and the brightest color she could procure, but it had been made by the Squantown dressmaker, and entirely lacked the fit and finish of Etta Mountjoy's dresses, besides being in direct contrast to the delicate, harmonious colors which the latter wore—a contrast which her admirer and would-be imitator was quick to perceive when her own brilliant coloring had been selected and it was too late to change. The disappointment made her cross, and inclined her still more to look for flaws in Katie, whom she began to hate as natures not sanctified by the grace of God are apt to hate those who are trying to do his will, and are thus a constant rebuke to them.

"Just look at her finery," said Bertie to her nearest neighbor, as Katie entered, looking as fresh and sweet as a June rose, "and her mother so poor. I could tell a story about how she got it that would make Miss Etta open her eyes, and Miss Eunice, too, for all she makes such a pet of the saint."

"What in the world do you mean?" said the other; but Bertie shook her head and looked mysterious, of course thus exciting the curiosity of the other tenfold.

"Do tell me," she said.

"We know what we do know, don't we?" said Bertie, provokingly, appealing to Gretchen, who nodded, but did not speak.

"Now, you're real mean," said the other, one Amelia Porter by name. "I know something I won't tell you, that's all."

Just then the bell tapped for silence, and the rest of the conversation was carried on in whispers, the only part which was heard being Amelia's astonished "Stole it? You don't say so! I never would have thought of such a thing."

But Katie did not hear. She was not thinking about her dress at all. The lesson was to her a very interesting one—the oft-repeated story of the tongues of fire that came down upon the early church, symbolizing the mighty power of the Holy Spirit to enkindle divine emotions, enthusiasm, and praise, and to make human tongues as flames of fire.

Miss Etta explained (for she had taken pains to study it up) how, in the early, times one Sunday in June was observed in commemoration of this descent of the Holy Ghost, and how, on that day, the new Christians, who of course were originally heathen, having been at first subjected to a long course of training, were baptized. They were called catechumens, because they were catechised or questioned, and candidates because they wore long white robes, candidus being the Latin word for white, and by degrees the day came to be called Whitsunday. Furthermore, Miss Etta told all about the Whitsuntide festivals of old English times in the days of the corrupt church, when festivities of the most riotous kind took place on the two days following Sunday; and the girls left the school, if not impressed by the holy teachings of the lessons, very full of a certain knowledge of that kind which St. Paul says "puffeth up," and prepared to pass a brilliant examination on the history and customs of Whitsuntide.

Very different was the pastor's sermon of that morning, which several of our girls remembered all their lives. Its text was:—

"Ye are the temples of the Holy Ghost."

And the speaker showed first what the temples of old times were; not places of meeting, as our churches to a great extent are, but dwelling-places, homes where God, or rather "the gods," were supposed to live. This idea was the one used as an illustration by St. Paul in the text, which means that God has made all human hearts to be his home and dwelling-place, and that if we will let him, not barring the doors with sin and filling up the inside with other things, he will live there always; or, as our Lord Jesus says: "If any man will open unto me, I will come in unto him and will sup with him;" and in another place, "will abide with him." Then he explained so that the youngest of his audience could understand what are the sins that bar the door against our blessed Saviour, and how we set up idols upon the altars of God's temple, by worshiping dress, vanity, pride, revenge, worldliness, and our own way, and showed how nobody can really worship God and have him abiding in his holy temple who yields obedience to anything or cares for anything more than his will. He said it was an awful thing to defile the temple of God by such things as drinking, smoking, and swearing, or even by evil thoughts and dishonest intentions, by selfish motives and unkindness in word or deed.

He closed his sermon in these words:—

"My hearers, every one of you is a temple of the Holy Ghost, built and fashioned with exquisite skill, for his own chosen dwelling-place. See to it that ye defile not this temple, and if it be in any wise already defiled, from without or within, at once seek the double cleansing, which flows from the Cross on Calvary, that thus your sacred temple may be washed whiter than snow. Dethrone the idol Self which has so long usurped the place of God upon its altar, and let him rule alone. And remember that every other human soul is likewise a sacred temple, no matter how defiled and degraded it has become by yielding itself willingly to the dominion of sin. Strive to do all that in you lies, by kind, persuasive words, by example and effort, to cleanse the degraded and polluted temples, and so do all in your power to exalt the dominion and worship of God in all the human souls which he has made."

The impression made by this sermon upon its hearers was in accord with the character and religious development of each.

James Mountjoy resolved to be more active and energetic in all efforts to improve the condition of his work-people, to raise the fallen, to reclaim the sinful, to set a better example and raise a higher standard of moral excellence, that the human temples over whom he had influence might be better fitted for the abiding presence of their heavenly Guest. Some of the more thoughtful of his boys resolved that smoking, drinking, and swearing should no longer, even in a slight degree, defile the "temples" entrusted to their keeping.

Eunice Mountjoy made a more entire consecration of herself than ever before to God's service, praying that there might be no hidden idols in her temple; that self and self-seeking might be forever cast out, even as our Lord cast out the money-changers and traffickers from the temple at Jerusalem; that God's will in all things might be hers, and that she might devote not a part only, but all her time, all her faculties, all her influence to his service in doing good to others, and thus "worship the Lord in the beauty of holiness."

Katie Robertson felt that she had understood some things to-day as never before. What but the presence of the Holy Spirit in her heart had enabled her to see the right and strengthened her to do it, and thus come off victorious over temptation? She remembered how the Holy Ghost is symbolized by a pure white dove, and she longed that her temple should also be a soft, white nest full of pure desires and kindly thoughts, and that nothing she might do or say in her daily life, among her companions or at home, should grieve that blessed heavenly inhabitant.

Even Bertie Sanderson had been struck with the sermon. If her heart was indeed a temple of the Holy Ghost, how was she defiling it? Envy, hatred, and malice were allowed to run riot there; love of dress and vanity were the idols enthroned on the altar; pride, disobedience, irreverence, contempt of rightful authority, idleness, and unfaithfulness were barring the door and keeping the loving Saviour, who stood knocking there, from coming into his own.

Bertie felt uncomfortable; the Holy Spirit was speaking to her, and she could not help but hear. But to hear and to obey are two very different things. The girl knew that she could unbar the closed door of her heart if she chose. One earnest, sincere prayer would bring the omnipotent aid of the Spirit to cast out the evil things and cleanse the defilement. But she did not want them cast out; she loved them too well. It would be all very well to have Christ's love, pity, forgiveness, and protection, and to be sure of heaven when she died; but to be a Christian—a saint she would have called it—now, to give up the things that most interested her, and live a life of self-denial and obedience,—she had no idea of doing any such thing. So, to drown the voice that she could not help hearing but did not mean to obey, she went off on a Sunday afternoon's excursion with some of the boys and girls, received a sharp reprimand from her father for so doing, and went back to her work on Monday morning more rebellious, more hardened, more idle, more malicious than before.

The blessed Holy Spirit is always longing to have us come to Christ and walk in his holy and happy ways. He watches for an opportunity to speak to us, and does speak, again and again, inclining us to give up sin and choose holiness, offering us, if we will do so, all the help we need. But he will not force us to obey his gentle call. If we will not listen and obey, he lets us go off on our self-chosen path, ceases to speak audibly to us, and patiently waits for another and more propitious season. Bertie Sanderson, that June Sunday, greatly "grieved the Spirit."

But not so did Etta Mountjoy. This young lady, ever since that first Wednesday when she attended her sister's tea-party, had thought more seriously than she had ever thought before. The duty of being a Christian had come home to her during Eunice's talk and prayer, and at the same time she had felt that she was not, and had never tried to be, one. She had seen this still more clearly during the subsequent meetings, from which her duty to her own class would not permit her to be absent. Dishonesty and hypocrisy were not Etta's vices; she could not pretend to be what she was not, and yet she could not shake off the impression that she ought to give herself to Christ and openly confess his name. She tried to put the subject out of her thoughts; but still, as she listened, day by day, she grew more and more dissatisfied with herself, her own character, her aims in life. The preparation of her Sunday-school lessons became a dreaded task, for it was impossible to minutely consider the shells of sacred things and not at the same time take cognizance of the spiritual kernels which they envelop, and these spiritual realities made her uncomfortable and more and more dissatisfied with herself.

This Sunday's sermon had gone to the very quick of Etta's conscience, painting as with a finger of light what she ought to be and what she was. God had made her for his own temple and dwelling-place; made her fair, outside and within; endowed her with intellectual and spiritual gifts, and with wealth, station, and influence, giving her opportunities for culture and usefulness far greater than most of those who surrounded her. It was not chance or accident, but God, who had given her all this, and he demanded, as he had a right to demand, in return, her love, her obedience, her service. Had she given him these? Never once in her whole life. She had set up upon his altar in the midst of his beautiful temple the idol of self-pleasing, and never in her whole seventeen years had she acted from any other motive than to please herself. It was sacrilege, it was idolatry, it was dishonesty; and so were all the actions which had come from such a corrupt source.

Etta was too clear-headed to suppose that any sudden change of practice, which it was in her power to commence now, would make any difference. She might obey mechanically, but she could not make herself love, and she did not love, God. His service was a weariness, prayer a formality, the Bible a dull, uninteresting book. She did love a light, gay, frivolous life; she saw no attractiveness in one of self-denial and holy living.

She went directly to her room on reaching home, refused to go down to dinner, sat behind the shaded blinds, and thought till thought became insupportable; and then, having come to one settled determination, put on her hat, covered her tear-stained face with a veil, and walked down the hill to the parsonage, and rang the bell with a nervous jerk. Whatever Etta did she did with a will; she made no halfway decisions.

The servant who admitted "Miss Etta" showed her into the pastor's study, where after a time he joined her, looking a little surprised at receiving such a visitor on Sunday afternoon. Etta's peculiarities, however, were well known, and he concluded she had some new project in her head, in which she desired his assistance and, as usual, could not wait a moment to put it into execution. He was rather surprised by the tear-swollen eyes and the resolute expression of face, and after courteously welcoming his visitor, waited somewhat impatiently to hear what she had to say.

"I came," said the girl, with her usual directness, "to ask you to give my Sunday-school class to some one else."

"Tired of holding your hand to the plow, and beginning to look back already, eh?" he said.

"No, sir, it isn't that; but I am not fit to teach any class; certainly not such a one as this. I don't myself know what those girls ought to learn; besides, I'm not a fit character for them to imitate."

"Not a fit character? What can you mean?"

So far Etta had spoken quite steadily, but now there came a tremor into her voice, a mist before her eyes, and a choking sensation in her throat, that would not let her speak.

He waited a few moments, then said gently: "Try to tell me about it, and
I will help you if I can."

Encouraged by something fatherly in the clergyman's voice, the girl at last found courage to commence her story; and having broken the ice, her words came fluently enough, as she tried to make him understand how utterly self-seeking and godless her life and character were; how the temple that should be God's was barred against him, and filled with idols and idolatry.

"This must be the Holy Spirit's teachings," said he, gravely; "for, so far as I know, you are no worse or more careless than most girls of your age."

But this thought was no comfort to her thoroughly aroused conscience, nor did the minister suppose it would be. He continued:

"Now that you see how bad things are, you are going to change them, are you not? You will open the barred doors that our blessed Lord wants to enter, and let him henceforth be your one object of worship and obedience, will you not?"

"How can I?" said the astonished girl. "I can't make myself like things."

"No; but it is the Holy Ghost who desires to come into his holy temple, and where he comes he brings healing, cleansing, and regenerating power. What we have to do is to let him do his work, not hindering him by our self-will and disobedience, not even trying to feel as we think we ought to feel."

"But I am not worthy to have him come to me. For seventeen years I have been sinning against him and grieving him. Even if I were made right all at once, I could not undo all that."

"But Jesus can," he said solemnly. "Have you forgotten the cross, and all that it means? Have you forgotten that he died to bear the penalty of sin, and that for his sake the worst sinners can be forgiven? We are none of us worthy to come to him, or, which is the same thing, to have him come to us; but he is the 'propitiation, sacrifice, and satisfaction for the sins of the whole world'; it is not what you can do or be, but what he has done and is. Believe that he loves you, and died for you, and is your Saviour, and you cannot help loving and trusting him and letting his Spirit do with you as he will."

Was that all? So simple, so easy, and yet an hour ago it had seemed so impossible to be a Christian. She did not speak for some minutes; then she said:—

"Have I nothing at all to do?"

"A great deal by-and-by; only one thing to-day."

"And that is?"

"To be sure that you are in earnest, that you are thoroughly ashamed of, and sorry for, the past, really anxious to be delivered from sin and made holy, and resolutely determined obediently to follow where God leads the way."

"I believe I am in earnest," said she, simply. "Won't you pray for me, sir?"

"Yes, indeed, my child," said the minister, laying his hand on her head. "God bless you, and make you very happy in his love, and useful in his service."

"You will provide a teacher for my class?" said Etta, as somewhat later she rose to take her leave.

"Why, no; unless you are really tired of it. I think you had better go on as you have commenced."

"I am not fit to be a Sunday-school teacher."

"I am not fit to be a minister; but God, in his providence, has seen fit to make me one, and so I trust him to give me the strength and wisdom I need. If you will do the same, you will become a very successful and efficient Sunday-school teacher; and this is a good way in which to consecrate your talents and opportunities to his service. Now, good-by; I must prepare for the evening service. Whenever you want help, advice, or sympathy, be sure you come to me."

Etta went home in a new world of thought and feeling. She seemed to herself scarcely to be the same girl; but in fact she was not thinking particularly about herself. God's love in desiring to save sinners, Christ's love in dying for them, the love of the Holy Spirit in being willing to come and abide with them, filled all her soul, and she was not trying to love this triune God, but loving him with all her might, because she could not help doing so. How strange it is that we go on from year to year, trying to be better, trying to feel right, trying to make ourselves holy, instead of just opening the door of the temple of our heart and believing that Jesus Christ loves us, and because he loves us will make us all that he wants us to be.