In His Steps: What Would Jesus Do? – By Charles Sheldon

Chapter 28

It was the afternoon of that morning when Burns was installed in his new position as assistant janitor, that he was cleaning off the front steps of the Settlement, when he paused a moment and stood up to look about him.

The first thing he noticed was a beer sign just across the alley. He could almost touch it with his broom from where he stood. Over the street, immediately opposite, were two large saloons, and a little farther down were three more.

Suddenly the door of the nearest saloon opened and a man came out. At the same time two more went in. A strong odor of beer floated up to Burns as he stood on the steps.

He clutched his broom handle tight and began to sweep again. He had one foot on the porch and another on the steps just below. He took another step down, still sweeping. The sweat stood on his forehead, although the day was frosty and the air chill. The saloon door opened again and three or four men came out. A child went in with a pail, and came out a moment later with a quart of beer. The child went by on the sidewalk just below him and the odor of the beer came up to him. He took another step down, still sweeping desperately. His fingers were purple as he clutched the handle of the broom.

Then suddenly he pulled himself up one step and swept over the spot he had just cleaned. He then dragged himself by a tremendous effort back to the floor of the porch and went over into the corner of it farthest from the saloon and began to sweep there. “”O God!” he cried, “if the Bishop would only come back!” The Bishop had gone out with Dr. Bruce somewhere, and there was no one about that he knew.

He swept in the corner for two or three minutes. His face was drawn with the agony of his conflict. Gradually he edged out again towards the steps and began to go down them. He looked towards the sidewalk and saw that he had left one step unswept. The sight seemed to give him a reasonable excuse for going down there to finish his sweeping. He was on the sidewalk now, sweeping the last step, with his face towards the Settlement and his back turned partly on the saloon across the alley. He swept the step a dozen times. The sweat rolled over his face and dropped down at his feet. By degrees he felt that he was drawn over towards that end of the step nearest the saloon. He could smell the beer and rum now, as the fumes rose around him. It was like the infernal sulphur of the lowest hell and yet it dragged him, as by a giant’s hand, nearer its source.

He was down in the middle of the sidewalk now, still sweeping. He cleared the space in front of the Settlement and even went out into the gutter and swept that. He took off his hat and rubbed his sleeve over his face. His lips were pallid and his teeth chattered. He trembled all over like a palsied man and staggered back and forth as if he was already drunk. His soul shook within him.

He had crossed over the little piece of stone flagging that measured the width of the alley, and now he stood in front of the saloon, looking at the sign and staring into the window at the pile of whiskey and beer bottles arranged in a great pyramid inside. He moistened his lips with his tongue and took a step forward, looking around him stealthily. The door suddenly opened again and some one came out. Again the hot, penetrating smell of liquor swept out into the cold air, and he took another step towards the saloon door, which had shut behind the customer. As he laid his fingers on the door handle, a tall figure came around the corner. It was the Bishop.

He seized Burns by the arm and dragged him back upon the sidewalk. The frenzied man, now mad for a drink, shrieked out a curse and struck at his friend savagely. It is doubtful if he really knew at first who was snatching him away from his ruin. The blow fell upon the Bishop’s face and cut a gash in his cheek.

He never uttered a word. But over his face a look of majestic sorrow swept. He picked Burns up, as if he had been a child, and actually carried him up the steps and into the house. He put him down in the hall and then shut the door and put his back against it.

Burns fell on his knees, sobbing and praying. The Bishop stood there, panting with his exertion, although Burns was a slightly-built man and had not been a great weight for a man of his strength to carry. He was moved with unspeakable pity.

“Pray, Burns — pray as you never prayed before! Nothing else will save you!”

“O God! Pray with me! Save me! Oh, save me from my hell!” cried Burns. And the Bishop knelt by him in the hall and prayed as only he could pray.

After that they rose, and Burns went to his room. He came out of it that evening like a humble child. And the Bishop went his way, older from that experience, bearing in his body the marks of the Lord Jesus. Truly he was learning something of what it means to walk in His steps.

But the saloon! It stood there, and all the others lined the street like so many traps set for Burns. How long would the man be able to resist the smell of the damnable stuff? The Bishop went out on the porch. The air of the whole city seemed to be impregnated with the odor of beer. “How long, O Lord, how long?” he prayed.

Dr. Bruce came out, and the two friends talked about Burns and his temptation.

“Did you ever make any inquiries about the ownership of this property adjoining us?” the Bishop asked.

“No. I haven’t taken time for it. I will now if you think it would be worth while. But what can we do, Edward, against the saloon in this great city? It is as firmly established as the churches or politics. What power can ever remove it?”

“God will do it in time, as He has removed slavery,” replied the Bishop gravely. “Meanwhile, I think we have a right to know who controls this saloon so near the Settlement.”

“I’ll find out,” said Dr. Bruce.

Two days later he walked into the business office of one of the members of Nazareth Avenue Church and asked to see him a few moments. He was cordially received by his old parishioner, who welcomed him into his room and urged him to take all the time he wanted.

“I called to see you about that property next the Settlement, where the Bishop and myself now are, you know. I am going to speak plainly, because life is too short and too serious for us both to have any foolish hesitation about this matter. Clayton, do you think it is right to rent that property for a saloon?”

Dr. Bruce’s question was as direct and uncompromising as he had meant it to be. The effect of it on his old parishioner was instantaneous.

The hot blood mounted to the face of the man who sat there, beneath a picture of business activity in a great city. Then he grew pale, dropped his head on his hands, and when he raised it again, Dr. Bruce was amazed to see a tear roll over his face.

“Doctor, did you know that I took the pledge that morning with the others?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“But you never knew how I have been tormented over my failure to keep it in this instance. That saloon property has been the temptation of the devil to me. It is the best-paying investment at present that I have. And yet it was only a minute before you came in here that I was in an agony of remorse to think how I was letting a little earthly gain tempt me into a denial of the very Christ I had promised to follow. I know well enough that He would never rent property for such purpose. There is no need, doctor, for you to say a word more.” Clayton held out his hand and Dr. Bruce grasped it an shook it hard. After a little he went away. But it was a long time afterwards that he learned all the truth about the struggle that Clayton had known. It was only a part of the history the belonged to Nazareth Avenue Church, since that memorable morning when the Holy Spirit sanctioned the Christlike pledge. Not even the Bishop and Dr. Bruce, moving as they now did in the very presence itself of divine impulses, knew yet that over the whole sinful city the Spirit was brooding with mighty eagerness, waiting for the disciples to arise to the call of sacrifice and suffering, touching hearts long dull and cold, making business men and money-makers uneasy in their absorption by the one great struggle for more wealth, and stirring through the church as never, in all the city’s history, the church had been moved. The Bishop and Dr. Bruce had already seen some wonderful things in their brief life at the Settlement. They were to see far greater soon, more astonishing revelations of the divine power than they had supposed possible, in this age of the world.

Within a month the saloon next the Settlement was closed. The saloon-keeper’s lease had expired, and Clayton not only closed the property to the whiskey men, but offered the building to the Bishop and Dr. Bruce to use for the Settlement work, which had now grown so large that the building they had first rented was not sufficient for the different industries that were planned.

One of the most important of these was the pure-food department suggested by Felicia. It was not a month after Clayton turned the saloon property over to the Settlement that Felicia found herself installed in the very room where souls had been lost, as head of the department not only of cooking but of a course of housekeeping for girls who wished to go out to service. She was now a resident of the Settlement, and found a home with Mrs. Bruce and the other young women from the city who were residents. Martha, the violinist, remained at the place where the Bishop had first discovered the two girls, and came over to the Settlement certain evenings to give lessons in music.

“Felicia, tell us your plan in full now,” said the Bishop, one evening when, in a rare interval of rest from the great pressure of work, he, with Dr. Bruce, and Felicia, had come in from the other building.

“Well, I have long thought of the hired-girl problem,” said Felicia, with an air of wisdom that made Mrs. Bruce smile, as she looked at the enthusiastic vital beauty of this young girl, transformed into a new creature by the promise she had made to live the Christlike life. “And I have reached certain conclusions in regard to it that you men are not yet able to fathom, but Mrs. Bruce will understand me.”

“We acknowledge our infancy, Felicia. Go on,” said the Bishop humbly.

“Then this is what I propose to do. The old saloon building is large enough to arrange into a suite of rooms that will represent an ordinary house. My plan is to have it so arranged, and then teach housekeeping and cooking to girls who will afterwards go out to service. The course will be six months’ long. In that time I will teach plain cooking, neatness, quickness, and a love of good work.”

“Hold on, Felicia!” the Bishop interrupted. “this is not an age of miracles!”

“Then we will make it one,” replied Felicia. “I know this seems like an impossibility, but I want to try it. I know a score of girls, already, who will take the course, and if we can once establish something like an esprit de corps among the girls themselves I am sure it will be of great value to them. I know already that the pure food is working a revolution in many families.”

“Felicia, if you can accomplish half what you propose it will bless this community,” said Mrs. Bruce. “I don’t see how you can do it, but I say, ‘God bless you,’ as you try.”

“So say we all!” cried Dr. Bruce and the Bishop; and Felicia plunged into the working out of her plan with the enthusiasm of her discipleship, which every day grew more and more practical and serviceable.

It must be said here that Felicia’s plan succeeded beyond all expectations. She developed wonderful powers of persuasion and taught her girls with astonishing rapidity to do all sorts of housework. In time the graduates of Felicia’s cooking school came to be prized by housekeepers all over the city. But that is anticipating our story. The history of the Settlement has never yet been written. When it is, Felicia’s part will be found of very great importance.

The depth of winter found Chicago presenting, as every great city of the world presents to the eyes of Christendom, the marked contrast between riches and poverty, between culture, refinement, luxury, ease, and ignorance, depravity, destitution, and the bitter struggle for bread. It was a hard winter, but a gay winter. Never had there been such a succession of parties, receptions, balls, dinners, banquets, fetes, gaieties. Never had the opera and the theatre been so crowded with fashionable audiences. Never had there been such a lavish display of jewels and fine dresses and equipages. And on the other hand, never had the deep want and suffering been so cruel, so sharp, so murderous. Never had the winds blown so chilling over the lake and through the thin shells of tenements In the neighborhood of the Settlement. Never had the pressure for food and fuel and clothes been so urgently thrust up against the people of the city in their most importunate and ghastly form. Night after night, the Bishop and Dr. Bruce, with their helpers, went out and helped save men and women and children from the torture of physical privation. Vast quantities of food and clothing and large sums of money were donated by the churches, the charitable societies, the civic authorities, and the benevolent associations. But the personal touch of the Christian disciple was very hard to secure for personal work. Where was the discipleship that was obeying the Master’s command to go itself to the suffering and give itself with its gift, in order to make the gift of value in time to come? The Bishop found his heart sing within him as he faced this fact more than any other. Men would give money, who would not think of giving themselves. And the money they gave did not represent any real sacrifice, because they did not miss it. They gave what was the easiest to give, what hurt them the least. Where did the sacrifice come in? Was this following Jesus? Was this going with Him all the way? He had been to members of his own aristocratic, splendidly wealthy congregations, and was appalled to find how few men and women of that luxurious class in the churches would really suffer any genuine inconvenience for the sake of suffering humanity. Is charity the giving of worn-out garments? Is it a ten-dollar bill given to a paid visitor or secretary of some benevolent organization in the church? Shall the man never go and give his gift, himself? Shall the woman never deny herself her reception or her party or her musicale and go and actually touch, herself, the foul, sinful sore of diseased humanity as it festers in the great metropolis? Shall charity be conveniently and easily done through some organization? Is it possible to organize the affections so that love shall work disagreeable things by proxy?

All this the Bishop asked, as he plunged deeper into the sin and sorrow of that bitter winter. He was bearing his cross with joy. But he burned and fought within, over the shifting of personal love, by the many, upon the hearts of the few. And still, silently, powerfully, resistlessly, the Holy Spirit was moving through the churches, even the aristocratic, wealthy, ease-loving members, who shunned the terrors of the social problem as they would shun a contagious disease.

This fact was impressed upon the Settlement workers in a startling way one morning. Perhaps no incident of that winter shows more plainly how much of a momentum had already grown out of the movement of Nazareth Avenue Church and the action of Dr. Bruce and the Bishop, that followed the pledge to do as Jesus would do.