The undertone of a vast sorrow mingles with the shouts and hallelujahs of our victorious hosts on this great Centennial occasion. The moan of human want haunts all the melody of our music. The unmoving shadows of widowhood, of age, of orphanage, of pain, brood among our festal lights.

      When we consider our benevolences, we touch the heart of Christ. Here we are on Christian union ground. Here we emerge from battle-smoke into [288] sunshine. The clamor of debate is hushed, as we hearken to the world's bitter cry for help. Love is non-sectarian. Alexander Campbell, Archbishop Purcell, N. L. Rice, and even Robert Owen, the infidel, could all meet around the cradle of the little orphan child, visit the hovel of the poor, and bend over the couch of suffering. Miss Will Allen Dromgoole once said that when she was a child in the church at Murfreesboro there hung on the wall, printed and framed, a creed that they were told to memorize. It began with "I believe," and ended with "life everlasting." And from beginning to end it was all about "God the Father," "Christ the Son," "the Holy Ghost," "the communion of saints," "the resurrection of the body," and "the life everlasting;" and not one word in all of it about human kindness and truth and sympathy. And yet, for all the creeds may lack, the great wheels of the universe move to the cry of the human. It is the motif of the melody of the soul, the moral to the romance of the heart, and the grand climax to the great, grim drama of life. And we find the current of human kindness stealing stealthily along the quiet ways where fashion moves not, and fame sends not her trumpeters.

      Above our hosannas we hear voices from the surging throng of humanity that drown out the roar of traffic, and the tramp of human feet; voices of children sobbing in secret; voices of despairing wives praying in fireless garrets; the lower moan of proud, godless mothers, their bitter cries smothered in silken cushions; hoarse voices of demon-racked men, fleeing from temptation; voices of the lost, breaking from hell itself, to appeal to our sensitive souls. We see appealing hands stretched out from pagodas and palaces, from zenanas and mountain hutches, from thrones and from hovels.

      When we obey, as they did on Pentecost, sins are forgiven and forgotten, and the Holy Spirit comes into the waiting heart and the love of God is shed abroad by the Spirit that is given unto us. This love is the charter for the organization of all our benevolence.

      After Pentecost, the church thrilled under the power of a love such as the world had never seen. No form of selfishness could stand before it. All that were together had all things common, and sold their possessions and parted them as every man had need. "The love of Christ constrained them." They were executors of a Saviour who had bequeathed happiness to man, and they carried out his will with a love and devotion stronger than death.

      The world was taken by surprise; never before had it seen such men;

J. H. O. SMITH.

everything gave way before them--city after city, province after province, surrendered. Men of all languages and of every race were united in a love that was divine. Dangers were met and passed. Complaint was made of the apostolic administration of benevolence. The apostles called an election by the church; others were appointed, and the work went on. Christ was the object of faith, and Christ was the pattern. Did a brother stumble in the way, they who were spiritual restored him. Was he sick the church anointed him with oil and prayed for his recovery. Did his strong hand falter in death, the church saw that his widow's cruse of oil was never empty, and that his orphan children never begged for bread. Or did he and the woman who had loved him through evil and good repute live to grow old and feeble, the church provided for their wants, and gently closed their eyes in death. The old paths are beaten by the impatient feet of men going on missions of mercy--following hard after their Lord.

      The pioneers, restoring Christianity, were famous for their hospitality. The latchstring of the log cabin was always out. The orphan was provided for, the widow was visited. The words "brother" and "sister" were not formal terms. The stranger was welcomed and felt at home. The social features were prominent. Isaac Errett told of a funeral service he conducted where the father [289] and mother were buried in one grave. When the grave was filled and the final prayer was offered, the assembled neighbors stood silent as the little children looked at the mound of earth above the sacred dust of their dearest friends on earth. A Christian man stepped forward and said to one of the children, "Will you go home with me and be my little boy?" and one after another was provided for. It was the characteristic of that early day. Love in the heart found a way. Years went on, and the National Benevolent Association became a necessity. It was love organizing. It was love grappling with the problem of the world's sorrow and its needs.

      The lodges have taught the church some lessons in brotherhood which they learned from the gospel. Care for the sick and those in need; assisting the widow and orphan. When the church is constrained by the love forces which are her rightful possession, much of the benevolent works of fraternal organizations will be done by the church of Christ. The work should be taken up systematically. When a wife or mother is left to fight the hard battle alone, strong men should be there to advise about business, to take an interest in the boys. When a mother is taken from her family, women should be appointed to mother the children, and assist in guiding them in the perilous years which follow.

      Roman Catholicism received a crushing defeat in the arena of debate between Campbell and Purcell; but it triumphs in its hospitals and homes of the good Shepherd. A friend of mine, who is not a Christian, contributes large sums to the charities of the Roman Catholic Church. For three years he wandered with his consumptive wife in search of health. Time after time he was weary with his search for a resting-place; he was turned away front door after door; but the Sisters always had a room in the hospital. In Oklahoma City is St. Anthony's Hospital. If a stranger is ill, without money and friends, they always make room for him. You can show by the Scriptures that Catholicism is sin, but you can not prove that these gentle ministries are unscriptural. When we demonstrate that the non-sectarian church of Christ can save more and help more than sectarianism, we will win the world to Christ. We will never win the world to our way of thinking; but when we have the compassion of Christ, incarnated once more in individuals and institutions of mercy, the world will be won to our way of loving.

      Thank God for what has been accomplished.

      I have seen little orphan children, with quivering lips and lonely little hearts, mothered and nurtured by the church of Christ. I have seen all the wealth of woman's devotion hovering over the cradle where helpless and parentless babes lay sleeping. I have heard the laughter of happy children at play, and have seen their faces radiant with intelligence as they were trained by those whose compassion was like the Saviour's.

      I have seen tears steal from the tender eyes of strong men as they looked upon the inmates of our orphans' homes, and their rich gifts flowed into the treasury of the Lord. In St. Louis I heard the great confession from childish lips, and could almost hear the grateful praise of fathers and mothers looking down from their home above. "I have heard the children singing, and ever as they sang, I thought the voice of angels from heaven in answer rang," and I said we are restoring the Christianity of Christ, who said, "Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven;" and, "Whoso receiveth one such little child in my name, receiveth me."

      I have been in the hospital maintained by Christian generosity; I have seen the poor boy, feverish with pain, away from home, "wearying" for his mother's gentle touch and kiss of healing love, brought back to health by a Christian physician's skill, and nurses who hovered like angels of mercy over throbbing brow and homesick heart; and I have seen the boy yield to the Christ, who had moved consecrated men and women to minister to poor and rich alike. When I saw the words, "Valparaiso Christian Hospital," and saw the suffering who were welcomed and sheltered there, I said we are [290] restoring the church of Christ, whose Founder healed the sick, caused the lame man to leap as a hart, and the tongue of the dumb to sing.

      The church that does not extend willing, eager hands to the suffering, is not the church of Christ. Her stately walls may be decorated with art; her eloquence may plead, like angels trumpet-tongued, with men to come within her fold; if she have not a love that can turn sorrow into joy, sickness into health, and set the joy-bells ringing in moaning lives, He may say in that day which shall try men's hearts, "I never knew you; I was sick, and you passed me by."

      I saw the feeble saints of God, bowed beneath the weight of years; the steeds of life, panting toward the goal. I saw the wife of a pioneer preacher of the Word. She invited me to her room in the Old People's Home at Jacksonville, Ill., and pointed to a picture on the wall. It was the portrait of a man in vigorous prime, with eagle eyes and form erect. "Your husband?" said I. Memory was busy with the past. She doubtless heard his voice of music, pleading with men and women to return to God. She heard men and women making confession of their faith; she saw the concourse at the water's edge; she saw her husband bury repentant sinners in the watery grave, and heard them singing, "Oh, happy day, that fixed my choice on thee, my Saviour and my God;" she saw him coming home, weary and worn, rich in faith, but poor in purse. She was once more in a poor preacher's home, taxing brain and heart to make the little do for the household of little children, who were sharing the sacrifice of a father and mother of whom the world is not worthy.

      For a brief moment she struggled with herself for utterance, and then replied, "Yes. I wish you could have seen him then." I wished so, too. Stricken down when the sun was at its meridian, with not enough to bear the expenses of an humble burial, sleeping the years of his manhood away in an unmarked grave, leaving a widow who took up the double burden where he laid it down, keeping the wolf from the door, and the treasures all together, until, one by one, they joined the father on the other side. Then she stood alone, or walked in the narrow path of duty, with faltering footsteps, until the church of Christ gave her a home, where the weary heart might rest awhile before going to the rest that remains, and to the mansions not made with hands. I said, they are restoring the church of Christ, whose apostles said, "Honor widows who are widows indeed, and pure and undefiled religion before God and the Father is that a man visit the fatherless and widow in their affliction." A church that does not care for its helpless widows is not the church of the widow's God.

      Oh, glorious work, but just begun! Our restless fingers clasp the palm of the unfortunate; our eyes lustrous with the tender light of love begin to see our duty. Why did Mary Kingsbury gather the orphans in before we at home took up this gracious work? Because her heart, and others on that field of anguish, were truer to Christ than ours. Why did the missionary, in a far-away land, speak more gently to the erring than we at home? Because those lips of love had been touched with coals from off God's altar. We have been striving for a century to restore the church of Christ; and they, in a few short years, began the restoration of its doctrines and its fruits. Hearts in which the Holy Spirit dwells beat with holy desire and high hope against the world's need. Love hears the orphan's bitter cry, and builds a home. It sees the tears of sorrow on the weary widow's face, and provides for her simple wants. It feels the feverish heart-throb of those stricken with disease, and holds out a healing hand. Some glad, sweet day the church, the Saviour's bride, will go about, as he did, doing good, and the world will see her in all her beauty, adorned with a robe woven from the web of her own sacrifice and white with the light of heaven. Then the church will outrival the lodges in caring for those who need help. The church must pour out its gold, its thought, which is more than its gold; its life, which is more than its thought; its love, which is more than its life--that men may be brought into harmony with God. We can not [291] all, in person, visit our orphans' homes and hospitals and homes for our old and infirm and needy brothers and sisters, but we can give out of our abundance, much, or out of our poverty, little; and as it rings down into the treasury of the Lord, unseen eyes will look down with love upon us, and unheard voices among the angels will speak our names.

[CCR 282-292]