Quiet Talks with World Winners Part 26

There's a something in unselfish sacrifice in their behalf that draws the crowd peculiarly and tremendously. Jesus said that if He were lifted up He would draw men. And He has. He was lifted up as none other, and He has been drawing men ever since as none other ever has or can. Quite apart from other truths involved, that sacrifice of His had in itself the tremendous drawing power of all unselfish action.

And sacrifice brews a subtle fragrance of its own that clings to the person as the soft sweet odor of wild roses. No one is ever conscious that there is any such fragrance going out to others. He knows the inner sweets that none know but they who give sacrifice brewing room within themselves.

Such folks don't stop to think about themselves, except to be thinking of helping and not hindering.

The very winsomeness of the sacrifice spirit has led men to the seeking of sacrifice. It seems strange to us that earnest men in other generations have sought by self-inflicted suffering to attain to the power that goes with sacrifice. And even yet some morbid people may be found following in their steps.

Don't they know that out in common daily life the knife of sacrifice is held across the path constantly, sharp edge out, barring the way? And no one can go faithfully his common round, with flag at masthead, and needs crowding in at front and rear and sides, without meeting its cutting edge.

That edge cutting in as you push on frees out the fine fragrance. Whenever you meet a man or woman with that fine winsomeness of spirit that can't be a.n.a.lyzed, but only felt, you may know that there's been some of this sort of sharp cutting within.

Blood is a rare fertilizer. They tell me that the bit of ground over in Belgium called Waterloo bears each spring a crop of rare blue forget-me-nots. That bit of ground had very unusual gardening. Ploughed up by cannon-and gun-shot, sown deep with men's lives, "worked" never so thoroughly by toiling, struggling feet, moistened with the gentle rain of dying tears, and soaked with red life, it now yields its yearly harvest of beauty. All life's a Waterloo and can be made to yield a rich growth of fragrant flowers.

The Fellows.h.i.+p of Scars.

And there's yet more of this winsomeness. There's a spirit power that goes out of sacrifice. It reaches far beyond the limited personal circle, out to the ends of the earth. It can't be a.n.a.lyzed, nor defined, nor described, but it can be felt. We don't know much about the law of spirit currents. But we know the spirit currents themselves, for every one is affected by them and every one is sending them out of himself.

You pick up a book, and suddenly find there's a something in it that takes hold of you irresistibly. A flame seems to burn in it, and then in you.

Invisible fingers seem to reach out of the page and play freely up and down the key-board of your heart. Why is it? I don't know much about it.

It's an elusive thing. But I can tell you my conviction, that grows stronger daily.

There's a life back of that book; there is sacrifice in that life of the keen, cutting sort; and Jesus is in that life, too, giving it His personal flavor. The life back of the book has come into the book. It's that life you are feeling as you read. Spirit power knows nothing about distance.

The man who yields to sacrifice has a world-field, and is touching his field in a sense far greater than he ever knows.

And there is still more. The Master knows our sacrifices. He keenly notes the spirit that would give all, even as He did. He can breathe most of His own spirit into such a life. For it is most open to Him. He can do most through that spirit, for it comes nearest to His own. His own winsomeness breathes out of that life constantly.

There's a simple little tale that comes dressed in very homely garb. The story has in it a bit of that that makes the heart burn. It has all the marks of real life. It runs thus:

"In one poor room, that was all their home, A mother lay on her bed, Her seven children around her; And, calling the eldest, she said:

'I'm going to leave you, Mary; You're nearly fourteen, you know; And now you must be a good girl, dear, And make me easy to go.

'You can't depend much on father; But just be patient, my child, And keep the children out of his way Whenever he comes home wild.

'And keep the house as well as you can; And, little daughter, think He didn't use to be so; Remember, it's all the drink.'

The weeping daughter promised Always to do her best; And, closing her eyes over weary life, The mother entered her rest.

And Mary kept her promise As faithfully as she might.

She cooked, and washed, and mended, And kept things tidy and bright.

And when the father came home drunk, The children were sent to bed, And Mary waited alone, and took The beatings in their stead.

And the little chubby fingers lost Their childish softness and grace, And toughened and chapped and calloused, And the rosy, childish face.

Grew thin and haggard and anxious, Careworn, tired, and old, As on those slender shoulders The burdens of life were rolled.

So, when the heated season Burned pitiless overhead, And up from the filth of the noisome street The fatal fever spread,

And work and want and drunken blows Had weakened the tender frame, Into the squalid room once more The restful shadow came.

And Mary sent for the playmate Who lived just over the way, And said, 'The charity Doctor, Has been here, Katie, to-day.

'He says I'll never be better-- The fever has been so bad; And if it wasn't for one thing, I'm sure I'd just be glad.

'It isn't about the children; I've kept my promise good, And mother will know I stayed with them As long as ever I could.

'But you know how it has been, Katie; I've had so much to do, I couldn't mind the children And go to the preaching, too.

'And I've been so tired-like at night, I couldn't think to pray, And now, when I see the Lord Jesus, What ever am I to say?'

And Katie, the little comforter, Her help to the problem brought; And into her heart, made wise by love, The Spirit sent this thought:

'I wouldn't say a word, dear, For sure He understands; I wouldn't say ever a word at all; But, Mary, just show Him your hands!'"

Jesus knows every scar of sacrifice you bear, and loves it. For it tells Him your love. He knows the meaning of scars, because of His own. The marks of sacrifice cement our fellows.h.i.+p with Him. The nearer we come to fellows.h.i.+p with Him in the daily touch and spirit the more freely can He reach out His own great winsomeness through us, out to His dear world.

"Won't You Save Me?"

To outsiders, who don't know about the thing, that word "sacrifice" has an ugly sound. It drives them away. But to the insiders, who have come in by the Jesus-door, there is a joyousness of the bubbling-out, singing sort, that makes the word "sacrifice," and the thing itself, clean forgot even while remembered. It is remembered as a distinct real thing, but it is pushed away from the centre of your consciousness by this song that insists on singing its music into the ears of your heart.

I said a while ago in these talks that it would be an easy thing for the whole Church, or even half of the Church, to take Jesus fully out to all the world. But may I tell you now plainly that it won't be an easy thing?

Somebody will have to sacrifice if the thing's to be done. And that somebody will be you, if you go along where the Master calls. If you count on the Church doing it, or on anybody else doing it, you may be sure of one thing: some part of what needs doing won't be done.

But if you and I will reckon that this thing belongs to us, as if there were n.o.body else to do it, and push on;--well, there'll be sacrifice of the real sort and, too, there'll be all of sacrifice's peculiar winsomeness going out to draw men. And there will be men changed where you live, and out where you will never go personally.

And there will be a great joy in your heart, but with the greater joy breaking out in the Morning, when the King comes to His own.

"I hear the sob of the parted, The wail of the broken-hearted, The sigh for the loved departed, In the surging roar of the town.

And it's, oh, for the joy of the Morning!

The light and song of the Morning!

There'll be joy in the Christmas Morning When the King comes to His own!

"Now let our hearts be true, brothers, To suffer and to do, brothers; There'll be a song for you, brothers, When the battle's fought and won.

It won't seem long in the Morning, In the light and song of the Morning There'll be joy in the Christmas Morning When the King comes to His own!

"Arise, and be of good cheer, brothers; The day will soon be here, brothers; The victory is near, brothers; And the sound of the glad 'Well done!'

There'll be no sad heart in the Morning No tear will start in the Morning; There'll be joy in the Christmas Morning When the King comes to His own!

"We're in for the winning side, brothers, Bound to the Lord who died, brothers, We shall see Him glorified, brothers, And the Lamb shall wear the crown.

What of the cold world's scorning?

There'll be joy enough in the Morning There'll be joy in the Christmas Morning, When the King comes to His own!"