A RIGHT KIND OF CONFESSION AND FORGIVENESS.
By Hugh S. Dougall
[By Hugh S. Dougall, M. A., B. D., in Toronto Christian Guardian.] It was the Sabbath evening, and the close of a glorious summer day. The service in the little Methodist church was almost completed before the gathering shades rendered the face of the minister indistinct to those farthest from him. A singular impressiveness had attended his words. Someone afterwards remarked that there was “a tear in his sermon.” It had affected the audience strangely. Before the final words of dismissal were spoken the minister said:— “The friends of this church are requested to remain a few minutes longer after the close of this service. Those who desire may retire.” There was not much seemingly in this simple announcement, but it produced a visible sensation in the little assembly. When the words of dismissal were pronounced, not a person but again took his seat. In the silence which followed, the sexton lighted a lamp near the pulpit. It had the effect of suddenly drowning the last rays passing through the windows, and draping the corners of the room in obscurity. When the minister arose to speak, he held in his hand something white. “Brothers and sisters, this letter explains itself, please listen while I read it:— “My Dear Pastor,—It is a little favor I desire at the hands of yourself or of the people among whom I once sat as a man and a Christian brother; but I request that at the close of the service on Sabbath evening I may be permitted to speak a few words to those who may care to remain. What I desire to say relates to my downfall and career during the last few weeks. In granting me this privilege, you will make me once again
‘Your most grateful servant,
‘Con Madas.’” “In my reply to Brother Madas I said the privilege he requested would be accorded to him. He is here. We will be glad to listen to him now. Brother Madas, will you speak?” Con Madas was seated in a center pew nearest the pulpit. By him sat his wife, deeply vailed. She shuddered as her husband arose to his feet. Partially turning to the congregation, the light fell upon his face. It was pale but resolute. Every eye was fixed upon it or upon the bowed figure in the seat by his side. The stillness was not pleasant. For a moment he stood silent, and then began abruptly:— “I thank you for this courtesy. It may be needless to inform you of my downfall at a point in my life when every sentiment and principle of manliness called upon me to shelter another whose honor and happiness were about to be committed to me. On the morning of my wedding I was induced to drink wine by a guest. He may not have known about my great frailty and my endeavor after reform, but I did. The fault lies at no door but my own. Any man, by the grace of the Christ whom he professes to serve, should be able to defend himself. But I fell, and on my wedding day and for days after I was intoxicated. “I would not make this public confession of my sin and my repentance, did not I think that I owe it to the Christ, upon whom, as my Lord, I have brought dishonor, and to this church, upon which I have brought disgrace. So, standing here in the pew made sacred and holy by its associations with my sainted mother and godly father, I as publicly confess as I have sinned, and ask you, as I have already asked my God, to forgive me.” He sat down. The women were sobbing. Something trembled in the eyes of many a man as he sturdily strove to suppress a certain undesirable fulness in the throat. Perhaps it was the light which caused the old, white-headed minister to shield his eyes with his hands. Then the unexpected happened. Probably the minister’s wife had daughters of her own, but arising, she proceeded swiftly to the pew in which sat Con Madas and his new bride. Stooping, she put an arm about the shoulders of the weeping girl. Then raising the vail she kissed her tenderly. Turning to the man, she reached out her hand. He rose to accept it. To him that clasp was the pledge of forgiveness, a token of his redemption. Bending over her hand, one hot drop splashed upon it. Following the minister’s wife came the aged minister, and then, one by one, the church officials. Each clasped the hand of the repentant man, and then the hand of his wife. Not a word was spoken. There are times when words are poor cheap things. We possess for such moments another language—a language not artificial. The minister raised his hands. All arose. A few simple words giving thanks to the heavenly Father for a wandering son reclaimed, and then the benediction. The congregation did not move, but stood in the pews while Con Madas, with his young bride upon his arm, passed down the aisle, as if once again proceeding from the marriage altar. And so was my friend forgiven.