Achan's Treasure | AdventAI

Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Battle Creek, Mich. · Feb 1, 1877

Achan's Treasure.

“I thought we should hear from you to-day,” said Mr. Spencer to Deacon Brownlow, as they walked home from the prayer-meeting together.

The church at Middle Corners had for some time been in an unsatisfactory state. There were very few new members taken in, a good many had moved away, and of those who remained very few seemed willing to take any active part in church work. The prayer-meeting rested on the shoulders of two or three, the Sunday-school on two or three more. The Missionary and other collections amounted to little or nothing, and it was hard to raise money even for the pastor’s salary and other necessary expenses.

But of late there had been a change. The week-day evening prayer-meetings began to be better attended by the members of the church, and some outsiders dropped in. People who had never been heard from before began to open their mouths, sometimes with a few words of exhortation or confession, sometimes with a verse of a hymn or text of Scripture or perhaps only a request for prayer. The female prayer-meeting was revived again. On Sunday the pastor was not obliged to strain every nerve to keep the attention of the people, and then be mortified by wandering or closed eyes. No great results had yet appeared, but there was a change like that we perceive when days grow long in March. The weather may seem as cold as ever, but as we say, “There is a spring feeling in the air.”

It was the Friday before communion Sunday, and Mr. Spencer had been strengthened and comforted by the course things had taken at the preparatory service which was always held on Friday afternoon. The lecture-room was uncomfortably crowded, but nobody complained. Hardly a church-member was absent. Mr. Spencer, according to his usual custom, delivered a short discourse, and then invited others to speak, and so many had availed themselves of the opportunity that it was nearly dark before the meeting broke up.

Deacon Brownlow alone, of all the officers and elders of the congregation, had not been heard from. He had sat out the meeting in silence, his eyes fixed on the walls or shaded with his hands. He had even seemed impatient as one rose after another, and looked at the door as if in a hurry to get away. Nevertheless he had lingered a little and joined Mr. Spencer in his walk homeward, but he seemed to have nothing to say till Mr. Spencer gently repeated his remark,—

“I hoped we should hear from you this afternoon. A better time seems to be coming for us, but we must all be ready to co-operate with the gracious influence, and we looked to you especially as being our oldest acting deacon.”

“I know, I know,” said Deacon Brownlow hurriedly; “I suppose I ought to have spoken, but the fact is, Mr. Spencer, I don’t know what ails me. I seem to have no spiritual life at all. My prayers are lifeless and my praises mere words. My heart will not rise, do what I will.”

“That is very sad,” said Mr. Spencer gravely. “What do you think is the reason?”

“The reason?” repeated Deacon Brownlow in a tone of some surprise.

“Yes, the reason. There must be a cause for such a state of things; and certainly it is very desirable to find and remove it. No Christian should sit down contented for a single day with such a spiritual condition as you describe, no, not for an hour.”

“Suppose he can’t help it?” said the deacon rather shortly.

“He has no right to conclude that he can’t help it till he has tried.”

“Well, I think one’s feelings depend a good deal on one’s state of health, don’t you?”

“Sometimes, no doubt, but I think that same state of health gets loaded with more than its fair burden. But that matter is easily settled. Tell me honestly, Bro. Brownlow, do you feel this same coldness and indifference regarding worldly affairs? The sale of your wheat now, don’t you care anything about that?”

“Of course I do, but—”

“But if your coldness and indifference were the result of ill-health, would it not apply to the wheat as much as the prayers?”

The deacon was silent.

“My brother,” said the pastor, stopping short and laying his hand on the deacon’s arm, “are you sure there is nothing worse in the way than a state of health? Is there not some Achan’s treasure, some goodly Babylonian garment hidden under the floor of the tent? Think it over and see if there is not some unrepented sin, some unjust gain perhaps—”

But here the conversation received a singular interruption. They had stopped in front of a little gambrel-roofed red house, separated from the road by a board fence and a row of tall lilacs. A voice spoke from behind the bushes in sharp, distinct, though rather tremulous accents:—

“Maybe it’s the twenty-five dollars you didn’t pay for them colts, deacon!”

“Heyday! what’s that?” said the pastor. “Come out and show yourself, friend, and don’t shout from behind the bushes in that way.”

“It’s old Ma’am Rodgers,” said the deacon confusedly. “You’d better not let her get hold of you. She’ll keep you all night.”

“Oh, no, I sha’n’t,” said the old lady, appearing at the gate. “It wont take long to tell the story, Parson Spencer. Just before Mr. Rodgers died he sold a pair of colts to the deacon. The price was to be a hundred and twenty-five dollars, and they both made a note of the bargain. Well, that was only a week before Rodgers was taken with the fit he died of. But when I came to talk to the deacon, he stuck to it that the price was only a hundred dollars, and showed a receipt for a hundred, he said the old man had signed.”

“So he did up at Stone’s store, and I paid him the money.”

“I know that just as well as you. He gave me the hundred when he came home; that is, he had sense enough left to do that. When I asked him about it next day he said the deacon had paid it to him on account. But when I spoke to the deacon he declared that was all he agreed to pay. I couldn’t find the note for some time, but I did at last, and it says a hundred and twenty-five; and I guess it’s the old twenty-five that sticks in the deacon’s throat and keeps him from talking in meeting.” And with a cackling laugh the old woman went into the house and shut the door.

“I declare!” said the deacon; “I do really think Mrs. Rodgers ought to be disciplined for her tongue.”

“Did you really agree to pay a hundred and twenty-five?”

“I don’t think I did,” answered the deacon. “I—I mislaid my note-book, and—”

“Bro. Brownlow,” said the pastor gravely and sadly, “I am afraid this is the Babylonian garment! Look into it and see. Good night.”

Deacon Brownlow was left to take his way home alone, which he did with very uncomfortable feelings. He was afraid Mr. Spencer was not the man for them. He was afraid he was a legalist, since he set such a value on good works. As for that old woman, he’d have her up before the church—yes, and before the court too!

The deacon found Mr. York the tavern-keeper waiting to pay him some money, a circumstance which usually put him in a good humor, but somehow it failed this time. It was the same with the survey of the premises. All was in apple-pie order, farming tools under cover, cattle housed, sheep provided for, pigs fed. There was not a better farmer in the country than Deacon Brownlow. Asa, the hired man, was just leading the colts to water.

“Beauties, ain’t they?” said Asa. “How they grow.”

“There wont be a better pair of three-year-olds at the fair next fall,” said the deacon. “York’s don’t compare with them.”

“You got the best of the bargain that time, didn’t you?” said Asa. “Gave a hundred and twenty-five to old Rodgers, didn’t you? The old man must have been half drunk to let ’em go at that.”

“I only paid a hundred,” said the deacon, but he turned away. His pleasure in the horses was gone.

“Didn’t we have a precious meeting, pa?” said Miss Dolly Brownlow at supper. “I was telling grandma I wished for her all the time. I do believe we are going to have a real awakening.”

“I don’t!” answered the deacon shortly. “Spencer isn’t the man. He thinks too much of good works. What we want is a spiritual preacher.”

“I thought Mr. Spencer was very spiritual.”

“Of course, all the women do,” answered the deacon with a sneer. “He’s so handsome!”

Miss Dolly was silenced, but presently began on a new subject.

“The ladies of the church stopped after meeting, to see what they would do for old Mrs. Rodgers. I’m afraid the old lady has pretty hard times. Mr. Brown is going to draw her a load of wood, and several others have promised things. I thought I might agree to let her have that little crock of butter.”

Miss Dolly spoke rather timidly, as if she feared a rebuff. She got it.

“Then you may disagree again, you wont do no such a thing. It’s all nonsense, and a regular imposition. Let her go to the poorhouse. It’s good enough for her.”

“You wouldn’t like to have anybody say that of grandma!” said Miss Dolly with unwonted boldness. “Mrs. Rodgers has been a consistent church-member for fifty years, and I think it’s a pity if the church can’t take care of her now.”

“Well, you ain’t going to give her any crocks of butter out of this house,” said the deacon tartly. “York will take every pound we make, at thirty cents straight through. I’ll be bound he don’t give it away.”

“He sent the old lady a ham and a pound of tea, only last week, and he isn’t a church-member either.”

“Jedidiah, my son,” said the old lady, who had not spoken hitherto, “Jedidiah, I’m afraid you’re sitting too close to the world.”

The deacon felt the rare reproof. He said no more till supper was over. Somehow, the family had lately dropped the custom of evening prayer. The deacon, muttering something about business, betook himself to his room taking his newspaper with him. He read it through from end to end, but found it very stupid. Then he counted over the money he had just received from York, and locked it up in his desk. Then he tried to calculate the interest on a note, but he could not make it come twice alike, and he wrote “twenty-five” when he meant “fifty,” three times over.

He pushed it away with an angry exclamation, and opened his Bible, for he had not dropped his old custom of reading a chapter every night. Latterly he had taken to searching for promises, but he had not found any which seemed to apply to his case. Now he opened the book at random and read: “Behold the Lord’s hand is not shortened that it cannot save, neither his ear heavy that it cannot hear. But your iniquities have separated between you and your God, and your sins have hid his face from you that he will not hear.”

He threw down the book with an angry—yes, with an oath.

The deacon stopped appalled at the sound of his own voice. When had such a word passed his lips? and against whom or what had he uttered it?

With a bound his mind went back to that evening forty long years before, when in the same church meeting, he and Dolly Wilson stood up and asked for the prayers of the faithful. They had walked home together, and then he had solemnly promised to God, to his betrothed and himself, that he would never use another oath. And he had kept his promise hitherto. He had never transgressed it till this evening, when he had cursed, WHAT?

It was as if a flash of lurid lightning had showed him how far he was wandering from the right way, and displayed the precipice over which he was suspending.

The deacon fell down on his knees, on his face, and with broken words and bitter tears, bewailed his own sinfulness, and begged for grace and forgiveness. He did not know how long he had been there when somebody knocked softly at the door. He rose and opened it. There stood Miss Dolly in her wrapper.

“Are you sick, pa? I thought I heard you groan.”

“No, dear,” answered the deacon gently, “I was out of sorts a good deal, but I’m better now: there, don’t stay up in the cold, my daughter. Go to bed and pray for your poor old father.”

Miss Dolly closed the door and retired, and the deacon went to his desk. He did not have to search for what he wanted, but put his hand on it the first thing. It was an old diary two or three years old. The

deacon opened to the right place directly, and found the note he wanted, though he had told himself a dozen times that he did not know where to lay his hands on it. Then he sat down and calculated the interest, compound interest, on twenty-five dollars for three years. He had no trouble in bringing it out right this time. Then he took out a clean fifty-dollar greenback from the roll Mr. York had given him, and laid it in his pocket-book, and after another season of prayer he went to bed.

The next morning he went out to the barn, before breakfast as usual.

“Asa, I want you to get out the little wagon, and load up a barrel of them Spitzenbergs and a side of the pork we killed yesterday, and if there are any beef-steaks left, you may put in a couple of them too.”

“Into the wagon?” asked Asa, staring.

“Of course. You wouldn’t put ’em into the horse, would you?”

Asa stared again. A joke was rare with the deacon now-a-days.

“What shall I do with the things?”

“Leave ’em in the wagon, I’ll see to ’em.”

“About that crock of butter, Dolly—it was the smallest I think you said,” remarked the deacon at breakfast.

“Yes, father,” answered Dolly; “there are three two-gallon crocks, and one three, and the little brown one, which holds about three pounds.”

“I guess we’ll take the two-gallon crock, Dolly, that’ll last the old lady all winter. I’m going up to pay her some money I owe her, and I’ll take it along—and, Dolly, perhaps you’d better look out a pair of blankets, or a comforter, or something. I don’t believe the old house is any too warm these cold nights.”

That night at meeting, the deacon’s mouth was opened and his tongue loosed, and he spake and praised God.

Are you suffering under a sense of spiritual desertion and dryness? Are your prayers lifeless and your works heartless, and your soul like the heath in the desert? Don’t be in a hurry to impute it to your “state of health.” Don’t lay it to any arbitrary hiding of God’s face. Search your heart and conscience. Look, as the deacon did, among your accounts and business papers, and see if there is not with you, even with you, buried very deep perhaps, some Achan’s treasure, some goodly Babylonish garment. Look honestly and prayerfully, and ten to one you will find it. The smallest cherished or indulged sin is enough to spoil your comfort in the best meeting that ever was held.—Illustrated Christian Weekly.