Where Coal Belongs.
It was in State Street, Boston, in the heart of the city's financial district. A teamster came along with a load of soft coal, four tons of it. It was to be delivered at No. 60, and the teamster looked around for the coal-hole. The chute leading to the coal bunkers is on an alley, but the teamster was ignorant of the fact and did not choose to make inquiries. In the sidewalk in front of No. 60 he saw a round iron cover, and steam was coming from it. "From the engine room!" said the driver, patting himself for his astuteness. Up came the iron cover, and down rattled the four tons of coal—into the city sewer! The "steam" was sewer vapor condensed in the frosty air. The engineer of the building chanced to see the teamster as he was sweeping the loose coal from the sidewalk. Then came quick questions, and quicker telephoning to City Hall, and speedily a force of employees of the Public Works Department arrived on the scene. There was need of haste, for the sewage was backing up into the basement of the building, where a large safe-deposit company has its vaults. Nevertheless it was slow work, hauling the coal up from the sewer bucket by bucket, thirty feet up from the foul, black depths.
So much for one stupid mistake.
The incident should be of value to us by way of spiritual suggestion. Where are we pouring our coal, the energies that make up our lives? Does it go to the bunkers, to be turned to wise and useful purposes, or does it go to the sewer, to be expended in the waste and woe of sinful abominations? The manholes are close together, often only a few feet, a few instants, apart. They often look alike. Are we using the right chute? Are we asking the Engineer?
Muscle Better Than Bone.
A man had the misfortune to break his right arm. The arm was so badly crushed that when the pieces of shattered bone were removed, the lower part of the arm had to be hung from the upper part by strong wires. The muscle was there, but the bone was not.
The victim of this accident is an iceman, and still, with his lower arm thus swinging loose, he is able to carry on his business, lifting as heavy loads of ice as ever. When he shakes hands, he gives a grip as of steel.
Let us remember this man when we are tempted to complain of our surroundings and circumstances, the accidentals of our earthly lot. They are only the bones of life, useful as fulcrums, as starting points, but the essential thing is our spiritual and mental muscle, our vim, our consecrated energy. If that is strong, we can do our work in spite of all else we may lack.
Shooting at the "Movie."
It was in a moving-picture theater in Buffalo. The film was unusually sensational, and the spectators were tense with eager interest. One vivid scene followed another. There was crime in abundance. There were hairbreadth escapes. All the resources of the final marvel of the photographer's art had been exhausted to make a powerful emotional appeal.
And then suddenly a pistol shot rang out. A young man in the crowd, excited beyond restraint, his imagination so aroused that he was quite lost to his surroundings, had pulled a revolver out of his pocket and fired at the screen with its moving representation of life.
Of course there was an immediate panic, and in the confusion the young man left the building, no one attempting to detain him. Later, however, the police arrested him, and now he has to face the charge of carrying a revolver.
The incident occupied only two inches in the Buffalo paper, but it deserved larger space because it illustrates so pointedly the dangers of the theater, and especially of the "movies," with their condensed and powerful action, their play upon crude feelings and instincts, and their crowded audiences of the young and inexperienced, and particularly the darkness in which the room is shrouded during the performances. The plays are censored, but much gets through that is sensational and harmful. It is no place for children without adult relatives, or for anyone without previous knowledge of the character of the entertainment.
Many of these "movie" films ought to be "shot up"—not exactly in the way chosen by the young man in Buffalo, but "shot up" by public opinion and newspaper criticism and official warnings and strict laws strictly enforced. The penal bullets should be fired straight through them, from beginning to end.
And yet, on the other hand, there is much in that Buffalo scene which might well be applied, in a figure, to the work of any preacher and Sunday-school teacher and of any church.
We admire instinctively the earnestness and vigor of that young man, even though it was exercised in so foolish a way. He saw fighting going on and he wanted to be in it. He saw villains that deserved death, crimes that should be punished on the scaffold, and he fired his pistol in the role of an extempore sheriff.
We cannot help feeling that that young man, in a better place than a theater, and with a better weapon in his hand, might be counted upon to do glorious work—such a weapon as a ballot, or an editor's pen, or an orator's speech, or a legislator's bill. He did not parley. He did not postpone and meditate and make excuses. He fired.
If I were a preacher, I should like to have such a young man in my congregation. I think I could get results through him. I think he would do more than talk. I believe he would get out into the town and hustle for the kingdom of God. I hope some preacher will get hold of him and set him to work.
And also we cannot help admiring that "movie," in certain points. We admire the way it told its story. It was straightforward. It had vim and go. It was full of life. It was so full of life that it appealed to the warm blood of the spectators. It throbbed with interest, human interest.
Now, that is what every sermon should be and do. Yes, and every Sunday-school lesson, every prayer-meeting talk, and every number of a religious newspaper or volume of religious books. The devil can teach us a few good lessons, in spite of himself, and so can the devil's "movies." We ought to learn force, and energy, and skill, and persistence. We ought to learn human nature, and how to appeal to it.
The churches are using moving pictures, of the right kind. Good. But more than that, let us put the fervor and snap of the "movies" into whatever we do for the Master.
Renewing Resiliency.
In a type of self-filling fountain-pen very commonly used, the ink is held in a rubber sack. When it is desired to refill the pen, it is held over an ink bottle, and the rubber sack is compressed and then released. It sucks in the ink from the bottle, and the pen is once more ready for work.
But rubber is a sadly perishable substance, and before long the sack becomes flabby, and fails after compression to spring back to its former shape. Then it does not suck in the ink, but remains empty. The only thing to do is to replace the old sack with a new sack.
Something much like that happens often to our minds and spirits. They fail to rebound. They will not take in new ideas. They do not respond to fresh stimuli, work in novel methods, fill up their reservoirs of power. They are flabby and empty.
Then must occur what Paul calls "the renewing of your mind." Its resiliency must be restored by rest, by recreation, by Christian fellowship, by the reading of good books, by the Bible, by the hearing of sermons, and especially by prayer. Soon we can put our pen into the ink again, press the sack, charge it with the influential fluid, and go back once more to our work!