Saved as by Fire! CHAPTER 7.
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I had been drawn, in this interview with Granger, a little away from my old mooring ground of thought, and I sat for a long time in deep reflection, trying to get many things clear that were veiled in obscurity, and to discover just where I was drifting. This question of prayer as an agency of strength and salvation to weak, repentant, sin-burdened souls, was one, I could see, of infinite importance. There was, with a large class of pious people, a loose way of talking about prayer, and a manner of praying that was, to my mind, not only irreverent, but foolish and utterly valueless. Of all the Sunday services, the prayers to God, especially those that were extempore, had been most distasteful to me, and oftenest the repelling influence that kept me away from church. There was a familiar way of addressing God, and of using His name in vain, that shocked me, for my reverence for the Divine Being, a reverence implanted in childhood, has always been very strong, and I have never been able to pronounce any of the names by which He is called, without a falling inflection of the voice which has become instinctive.
I did not, as a consequence, have much faith in the prayers that I usually heard in public, too many of which were mere bits of showy oratory, instead of a humble submission of the will to God. How often, as I listened wearily to one of these long prayers, full of vain repetitions, has the divine sentence, "God is a Spirit, and those who worship Him, must worship Him in spirit and in truth," come into my mind, causing me to wonder that the preacher had forgotten it.
And now there pressed in upon me the question, in what does the power of prayer consist? Does it change the Lord's attitude toward man, or only man's attitude toward God? Does it bring down the sunlight into a darkened chamber, or only open the windows that its beams may enter? How it might change man's attitude toward God, I could, in a measure see; but not how it could change the unchangeable, render the All-Loving more tender and compassionate, or make the Infinite Father more concerned for His sin-sick, lost and perishing children, for whom He had bowed the heavens and come down.
I saw that in the right understanding of this subject lay momentous things; and I was anxious to reach a true perception of all that was involved in prayer as a means of divine blessing and favor. My thinking did not get me far beyond a rejection of the idea that any change in God's purposes toward man could be wrought in Him by prayer. If He were infinitely wise and infinitely loving, He must not only know better what external condition was best for a man — than the man could know for himself; but in the orderings of His providence, must so arrange all things that he would be kept there until his changing state required, for his good, a new position in life.
But in what way did prayer change man's relation to God? I felt that the truth lay here, but was not able to see it clearly; and I thought and thought until I grew weary and perplexed, and for relief of mind, turned myself away from the subject.
Several months passed after this interview with Mr. Granger, and though we met occasionally, the subject about which we had talked so earnestly was not renewed. I learned through my wife, that he came to church with his family now and then; and the fact always gave me pleasure, for I had a growing impression that there was a sphere of safetyabout the church, and especially for one like Granger. There was in the very fact of his going to church, an acknowledgment of weakness on his part, and a certain looking to God for strength and protection. And I had an old and well-settled conviction which had come up with me from childhood — inwrought, I doubt not, through my mother's teachings — that in any and every turning of the soul to God, no matter how little the turning, it must receive a measure, large or small, of strength to resist the evils to which we are all so much inclined.
I had been going oftener to church myself of late, and though my reason did not give assent to all the preacher said, and I was shocked now and then by his irreverent way of addressing God, and his too frequent and needless use of Divine names in order to give force to a sentence, or to make an oratorical climax — I was still able to gather into my thoughts, many things that gave me light for clearer seeing, and strength for steadier walking in the path of life. I was growing less faultfinding and critical — less annoyed at what I did not like — and more earnest to obtain whatever good was to be had in the religious services that were held on Sunday.
I found myself taking a new interest in the lessons which were read from the Bible, many passages from which struck my mind with a singular power, and left an impression of deeper import than I had ever before seen in them. I often found myself pondering one and another of these passages, and giving to them an application which altered my thought of God and of His ways, with the children of men.
I noticed changes in my states of mind, when listening to the Word of Sacred Scripture — I had for some years neglected reading it for myself — that occurred to me as remarkable. There sometimes fell upon me a deep tranquility, as if I had passed from the unrest of this world — into the peace of Heaven. And there would come, at times, states of self-forgetfulness, and a desire to give my life for others. I often dwelt on these things, wondering what they meant. Was there not a power in the Word of God, which did not appear in the sense of its letter, but which flowed into the mind?
The Word of God! What does this mean? The question came to me one day with such force and distinctness, that it seemed as though spoken by a living voice. The Word of God! Could that be like a man's word; limited, feeble, finite? Was there any similarity between them? I thought of the many loose interpretations which I had heard; of the contentions and angry discussions about the meaning of this and that expression in the letter; of the divisions and uncharitableness, and persecutions even, which were so sadly rife in the Christian world, and all because men vainly imagined that human reason was equal to the comprehension of Divine wisdom; and set the bounds of their narrow doctrine about a Revelation from God, in which were divine and infinite things that must remain forever above the reach of man's unaided reason; and which only the Spirit of God can make known.
I marveled often at the low range and dull platitudes of the pulpit, at the stereotyped vagueness of exhortation, and at the small influence of preachers. There were exceptions, of course; but how few! With the Word of God as the basis of Christian teaching, and especially with the Word of the New Testament, in which our Lord himself, in the human nature which He assumed in the world, gives in no hidden forms of speech, the laws of spiritual life; with all this, how strange to hear from the men who have been chosen to stand as watchmen on the walls of the city, so little about keeping the commandments in their inmost spirit. "He who keeps my commandments — he it is that loves me.'
A dull, rambling sermon, or one in which the preacher showed how much more he knew about history, philosophy, poetry and art — than he did about divine things, would send me home disheartened, and with a disinclination to go again, which sometimes held me away from church service for weeks. But there was in me a growing hunger and thirst for things spiritual. I wanted to gain a clear and more rational idea of God's relations to and dealings with man, and a knowledge of the exact way in which He saved him.
The better influences of church-going on my own mind, gave me encouragement for Granger. I felt sure that he would come within a sphere of protection; that, somehow, he would be brought into new associations, and be less in danger when exposed to assault.
"I haven't seen Mr. Granger at church for three or four Sundays," said my wife, one day. "I hope there is nothing wrong with him again." I saw a shade of concern creep into her face. "He's been attending quite regularly in the past few months."
"I saw him on the street only a few days ago," I replied. "There was nothing wrong about him then; at least nothing that I observed."
And yet, as I said this, I remembered that I had noticed in him something that left a vague question in my mind. But it had passed away and been forgotten until my wife's remark brought it back again.
"I imagined — it may only have been imagination," Mrs. Lyon said, "that Mrs. Granger's face looked more serious than usual."
"Only imagination," I replied; but still I felt a weight of concern settling down upon my feelings. It remained with me all day and troubled me as I went to my office on the next morning. I had made up my mind to see Granger during the forenoon, but pressing business kept me at my office until two o'clock, when I returned home to dinner.
"Have you seen Mr. Granger?" asked my wife, as I came in. There was an air of suspense in her manner.
"No. I intended calling on him, but had an unusually busy day."
"If I'm not very much mistaken, I saw him," she said.
"Where?"
"Going into a saloon on Sansom Street."
"No, you must have been mistaken."
"I wish I could think so; but if the man I saw entering the saloon, as I passed down Twelfth Street, was not Mr. Granger, then there was a remarkable likeness in the general appearance of the two men."
"Did you see his face?"
"Only for an instant. He was at the door of the saloon just as I came in sight of him, and in the next moment had disappeared. His manner was that of one who wished to avoid observation. I am almost sure it was Mr. Granger."
I had but little appetite for my dinner. In the afternoon I called at the lawyer's office, but did not find him there. Next day I met him on the street. His manner was not quite as frank and cordial as usual; but beyond this, I saw no change in him. It was plain that my wife had been mistaken. My first impression was one of relief; but a feeling of complete confidence did not return, and there was a weight on my heart which I could not throw off.
Granger was not at church on the following Sunday. His wife and daughter were in attendance as usual, and there was now no mistaking the fact that a portion of light had gone out of their faces. In the afternoon I called to see him, but he was not at home. About ten o'clock on the next day, I dropped into his office, and found him with a cigar in his mouth reading a newspaper. He had, apparently, just arrived, for his green bag lay unopened on the office table. He startled up on seeing me, coloring a little, and extending his hand with what seemed to me an excess of cordiality. I looked for the color to recede from his face until the skin was restored to the old healthy clearness, but either my eyes deceived me, or the ruddy tinge did not fade out entirely.
Granger was not completely at his ease, though evidently trying to be so. I remained for only a short time, as my call was not a business one. Our conversation did not pass beyond the common-place topics of the day.
"Call in again. I'm always glad to see you," he said, with the same excess of cordiality which he had shown on meeting me.
I was far from feeling satisfied.
"How is our friend Granger?" I asked of a mutual acquaintance not many days afterwards.
"Not doing right, I'm afraid," he answered.
"Why do you think so?"
"I've seen him two or three times of late, when I imagined him the worse for drink."
"May you not have been mistaken?"
"Possibly."
"Why did you think he had been drinking?"
"There are signs which one rarely mistakes," he replied.
"If he should get off again," I said, "there will, I fear, be little hope for him."
"Very little. But he's been down and up a great many times, you know."
"Yes; but in the very nature of things — he must grow weaker with every fall."
"Of course."
"What is to be done about him? It's dreadful to see a man going headlong to destruction. Is there no way to save him?"
"None that I know of. When this appetite is once established with a man, his case becomes almost hopeless. Every step he takes is downward. He may stop now and then, and hold himself back against the downward drag — but when he moves again, the course is still down, down, until the gulf of ruin is reached at last. Is it not frightful?"
I felt a chill creep through my veins. There seemed in his words — a prophecy of utter ruin for Granger.
"He has stood firm, with only a single brief fall, for nearly two years," I said.
"And he might stand to the end, but not if he dallies with the fatal cup," was answered. "No man in whom the appetite for drink has once been formed, can ever taste and be secure. Only in perfect abstinence is there perfect safety. The old appetite lies sleeping, but not dead. Rouse it with a glass of wine, or beer, or alcohol — and it will spring upon the man with the old intense life, and he will be as a feeble child in its grasp. If Granger is indulging again, he will fall again. He may, through a resolute will, hold himself for a little while above excess; but every glass he takes, is food to the old desire, which will grow stronger and stronger until its mastery is again complete."
"It doesn't seem right to hold ourselves away from him in so momentous a crisis — to leave him in the sweep of the current and not make an effort to save him," I said.
"I doubt if anything can be done. At your first approach, he will either take offense, or utterly reject your intimation that he has been indulging again. I know these men. Lyingseems to be one of the fruits of drinking. Liquor is almost sure, earlier or later, to take the truth out of a man — especially in anything that relates to his cups, so long as he yields to indulgence. Men will assure you, even asking God to witness the truth of what they say — that they have not taken a drop of liquor for weeks, when its odor from their lips is rank in your nostrils! I know of nothing that so takes truth, and honor, and all that is good and true and noble out of a man — as this alcohol. It is a very Hell-broth!"
I could not rest. To stand away from Granger in this new peril, would, I felt, be little less than criminal. How to approach him without giving offense, was the question I had to consider. The opportunity soon came.
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