An unjust, unmerciful, and oppressive priesthood must perish, for false prophets in the present as in the past stumble onward to their doom; while their tabernacles crumble with dry rot. "God is not mocked," and "the word of our God abideth forever."
I have ordained the Bible and the Christian Science text-book, SCIENCE AND HEALTH WITH KEY TO THE SCRIPTURES, as pastor of The First Church of Christ, Scientist, in Boston,—so long as this church is satisfied with this pastor. This is my first ordination. "They shall be abundantly satisfied with the fatness of thy house; and thou shalt make them drink of the river of thy pleasures."
All praise to the press of America's Athens,—and throughout our land, the press has spoken out historically, impartially. Like the winds telling tales through the leaves of an ancient oak, unfallen, may our church chimes repeat my thanks to the press.
Notwithstanding the perplexed condition of our nation's finances, the want and woe, with millions of dollars unemployed in our money centres, the Christian Scientists, within fourteen months, responded to the call for this church with $191,012. Not a mortgage was given nor a loan solicited, and the donors all touchingly told their privileged joy at helping to build the Mother Church. There was no urging, begging, or borrowing, only the need made known and forth came the money, or diamonds, which served to erect this "miracle in stone."
Even the children vied with their parents to meet the demand. Little hands never before devoted to menial services, shoveled snow, and babes gave kisses to earn a few pence toward this consummation. Some of these lambs my prayers had christened, but Christ will rechristen them with his own new name. "Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings hast Thou perfected praise." The resident youthful workers were called BUSY BEES.
Sweet society, precious children, your loving hearts and deft fingers distilled the nectar, and painted the finest flowers in the fabric of this history—even its centre-piece—Mother's Room in The First Church of Christ, Scientist, in Boston. The children are destined to witness results which will eclipse oriental dreams. They belong to the twentieth century. By juvenile aid, into the building fund have come $4,460. Ah, children, you are the bulwarks of freedom, the cement of society, the hope of our race!
Brothers of the Christian Science Board of Directors, when your tireless tasks are done—well done—no Delphian lyre could break the full chords of such a rest. May the altar you have built never be shattered in our hearts, but justice, mercy, and love kindle perpetually its fires.
It was well that the brother whose appliances warm this house, warmed also our perishless hope, and nerved its grand fulfilment. Woman, true to her instinct, came to the rescue as sunshine from the clouds; so, when man quibbled over an architectural exigency, a woman climbed with feet and hands to the top of the tower, and helped settle the subject.
After the loss of our late lamented pastor, Rev. D.A. Easton, the church services were maintained by excellent sermons from the editor of the Christian Science Journal (who, with his better half, is a very whole man), together with the Sunday school giving this flock "drink from the river of His pleasures." Oh, glorious hope, and blessed assurance, "it is the Father's good pleasure to give you the Kingdom." Christians rejoice in secret, they have a bounty hidden from the world. Self-forgetfulness, purity, and love are treasures untold—constant prayers, prophecies, and anointings. Practice, not profession,—goodness, not doctrines,—spiritual understanding, not mere belief, gain the ear and right hand of Omnipotence, and call down blessings infinite. Faith without works is dead. The foundation of enlightened faith is Christ's teachings and practice. It was our Master's self-immolation, his life-giving love, healing both mind and body, that raised the deadened conscience, paralyzed by inactive faith, to a quickened sense of mortal's necessities,—and God's power and purpose to supply them. It was, in the words of the Psalmist, He "who forgiveth all thine iniquities; who healeth all thy diseases."
Rome's fallen fanes and silent Aventine is glory's tomb; her pomp and power lie low in dust. Our land, more favored, had its Pilgrim Fathers. On shores of solitude at Plymouth Rock, they planted a nation's heart,—the rights of conscience, imperishable glory. No dream of avarice or ambition broke their exalted purpose, theirs was the wish to reign in hope's reality—the realm of Love.