When I remembered the well of water deep down in rock, dragged up by machinery it seemed to me like religion, the religion of service through duty, and I knew that it would keep right on serving as long as the machinery worked and would do its part dutifully.
Then I looked again at the spring. It seemed to me like religion, the religion of love that blessed because it is its nature to bless and poured itself out in service because it must.
It is the religion of love which holds one to the side of the road where need is great, work must be done, perhaps sacrifice made. That Samaritan who stopped, dismounted, tenderly cared for an injured brother of hated race, lifted him to his own beast, slowly walked beside him to a place where rest and shelter could be provided, knew the love-inspired religion. The Priest and the Levite were followers of the law, the letter of the law, but they looked upon the man in his need, crossed to the other side and passed by.
The Jericho road is still with us, and the needy who call for help and for justice are upon it, injured in body or soul. The religion of the letter of the law looks, crosses to the other side, passes by. On one side of the road Need, on the other side Greed, and Love always where Need is.
The religion of Love follows the road the Founder took, the road that leads to the place of service. That road may lead to China, it may lead to the islands of the sea. It took Livingstone to Africa, Dan Crawford to the Bantus for twenty-two years and now is taking him back for the rest of his days. It took Carey to India, it left Grenfell in Labrador, it led last year's college girls to every quarter of the globe. It leads this one down among the dirty, helpless, little children trying to play in wretched scorching city streets, it leads that one to the lonely countryside where girls starved for life are waiting. And, oh, so often it leads one to the door of her own church, to her own street, to her own class-room, to the girl beside her in the office. Sometimes it leads to one's own kitchen, or it stops beside the chair where one's own mother sits. One can never tell where the road of the religion of love may lead, but one cannot fail to see that those who follow it have shining faces and they love to live.
One day at sunset I waited at the little wharf to walk through the pines with Elizabeth. She was paddling in her canoe over the lake that had turned to crimson and gold, from the fresh air camp on the other side to which she went every afternoon in summer to play games and tell stories. "I had a great day," she called in her clear, cheering voice as she neared the wharf, and added as she stepped from the boat, "Little Billy loves me and Katie Kane whispered softly and blushed when she said it, that she told me a lie yesterday and was never going to tell a lie no more as long as she lived! Poor Katie," she laughed.
When we reached the knoll where the three pines were we stopped and looked back. Words could never describe what we saw. Elizabeth stood silently watching it, her sweet face, her dark hair and her middy blouse tinged with the glow of it. As the sun slowly slipped into the lake she waved her hand playfully at it. "Good night, old man," she said. "Give us a cooler day tomorrow. Fifty new children come to camp." After a moment while we waited for darkness to come stealing over the lake, forgetful of me, she said with her whole soul in her voice, "Oh, I love it, I love it all—the world, and those poor blessed children," then very softly "and God."
She had found the girls' religion, the religion Jesus Christ said, when they asked Him, meant two things—"Thou shalt love the Lord Thy God—and Thy Neighbor."
This is the girl's religion, for in loving she shall find Love—the glory of the climax.