If it were really so that a hard word or two from the thundering sermons about hell and the judgment had fastened themselves here or there behind the stone flowers, then were they thoroughly swept away to-day. All the pictures from the religion of pain and self-sacrifice were gently pushed aside, and He who hung and was torn to death with nails through his hands and feet—He became the most charming little babe, and Him—Him had they laid in a manger!
Tears came to kind Pastor Martens’ eyes and his voice was mournful; there was something so ineffably touching in that. And thus it was that what in the world was lowly and despised—that, just that, was the true nobility, the true majesty; in that, too, there was something so edifying and consoling. So, then, no one had a right to complain of his station in life—indeed who would do so when the lowest was the highest—when the lowly and despised were the elect? How blessed, oh how blessed, to know that! We have all only to turn with childlike minds to the babe yonder in the manger at Bethlehem.
Pastor Martens spoke with true inspiration. In his handsome voice quivered all the strained expectancy of collection day, and when he came to the benediction and prayer for the church, which he knew by heart, he scrutinized more closely the individuals among the congregation below.
He at once lit upon the rich old sailor, Randulf, Consul With’s father-in-law, who was in the habit of walking at the head of the line of contributors. For here yet ruled “that gentle and Christ-pleasing custom”—as Martens called it—that the parish should personally present their offerings to the spiritual shepherd.
And Pastor Martens thought of the big, flat envelopes in which there could be nothing but bank-notes, but also of the modest packages of silver money; for he did not despise even the widow’s mite, and even that vile copper had a blessed ring when it was deposited with humility on the table of the Lord.
It was one of the best sermons they had ever had from him; and Parson Martens occupied a recognized place among the most prominent spiritual orators in the country.
The congregation felt so ineffably happy, so full of childlike joy, of Christmas joy. The police-chief’s wife leaned forward and said to Mrs. Bentzen that far down in the church she could see a hat with Scotch trimmings which she had made herself and given away at Christmas—and it made her feel so good to see it.
Mrs. Bentzen nodded back with a smile:
“I feel as if we were all one great family.”
Meanwhile the yellow winter sun kept up his sport with the colored rays. From St. Luke’s ax he took a brown fleck and glued it on the bellman’s face as he sat in gala dress back of the modest little table on which his offering was to be laid.