In His Steps, by Charles Sheldon
For hereunto were ye called; because Christ also suffered for you, leaving you an example, that ye should follow in his steps.”
It was Friday morning and the Rev. Henry Maxwell was trying to finish his Sunday morning sermon. He had been interrupted several times and was growing nervous as the morning wore away, and the sermon grew very slowly toward a satisfactory finish.
“Mary,” he called to his wife, as he went upstairs after the last interruption, “if any one comes after this, I wish you would say I am very busy and cannot come down unless it is something very important.”
“Yes, Henry.” But I am going over to visit the kindergarten and you will have the house all to yourself.”
The minister went up into his study and shut the door. In a few minutes he heard his wife go out, and then everything was quiet. He settled himself at his desk with a sigh of relief and began to write. His text was from 1 Peter 2:21: “For hereunto were ye called; because Christ also suffered for you, leaving you an example that ye should follow his steps.”
He had emphasized in the first part of the sermon the Atonement as a personal sacrifice, calling attention to the fact of Jesus’ suffering in various ways, in His life as well as in His death. He had then gone on to emphasize the Atonement from the side of example, giving illustrations from the life and teachings of Jesus to show how faith in the Christ helped to save men because of the pattern or character He displayed for their imitation. He was now on the third and last point, the necessity of following Jesus in His sacrifice and example.
He had put down “Three Steps. What are they?” and was about to enumerate them in logical order when the bell rang sharply. It was one of those clock-work bells, and always went off as a clock might go if it tried to strike twelve all at once.
Henry Maxwell sat at his desk and frowned a little. He made no movement to answer the bell. Very soon it rang again; then he rose and walked over to one of his windows which commanded the view of the front door. A man was standing on the steps. He was a young man, very shabbily dressed.
“Looks like a tramp,” said the minister. “I suppose I’ll have to go down and –”
He did not finish his sentence but he went downstairs and opened the front door. There was a moment’s pause as the two men stood facing each other, then the shabby-looking young man said:
“I’m out of a job, sir, and thought maybe you might put me in the way of getting something.”
“I don’t know of anything. Jobs are scarce–” replied the minister, beginning to shut the door slowly.
“I didn’t know but you might perhaps be able to give me a line to the city railway or the superintendent of the shops, or something,” continued the young man, shifting his faded hat from one hand to the other nervously.
“It would be of no use. You will have to excuse me. I am very busy this morning. I hope you will find something. Sorry I can’t give you something to do here. But I keep only a horse and a cow and do the work myself.”
The Rev. Henry Maxwell closed the door and heard the man walk down the steps. As he went up into his study he saw from his hall window that the man was going slowly down the street, still holding his hat between his hands. There was something in the figure so dejected, homeless and forsaken that the minister hesitated a moment as he stood looking at it. Then he turned to his desk and with a sigh began the writing where he had left off. He had no more interruptions, and when his wife came in two hours later the sermon was finished, the loose leaves gathered up and neatly tied together, and laid on his Bible all ready for the Sunday morning service.
“A queer thing happened at the kindergarten this morning, Henry,” said his wife while they were eating dinner. “You know I went over with Mrs, Brown to visit the school, and just after the games, while the children were at the tables, the door opened and a young man came in holding a dirty hat in both hands. He sat down near the door and never said a word; only looked at the children. He was evidently a tramp, and Miss Wren and her assistant Miss Kyle were a little frightened at first, but he sat there very quietly and after a few minutes he went out.”
“Perhaps he was tired and wanted to rest somewhere. The same man called here, I think. Did you say he looked like a tramp?”
“Yes, very dusty, shabby and generally tramp-like. Not more than thirty or thirty-three years old, I should say.”
“The same man,” said the Rev. Henry Maxwell thoughtfully.