p. 794 | MILLICENT'S MISTAKE by Mrs. M. E. Sangster

International Tract and Missionary Society · Oakland, California · Dec 30, 1889

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 15, No. 50.

MILLICENT'S MISTAKE.

By Mrs. M. E. Sangster

"I CAN be as good a Christian outside the church as in it," said Millicent decidedly. "I don't see why I am in need of making a profession. As the hymn says, I can let my life show forth his praise."

"But, dear, the question is not whether you can be what you say, an humble, hearty Christian outside the pale of the visible church, but whether you have any right to choose for yourself in a matter where the Lord has left you his orders. His words are very plain: 'Whosoever confesseth me before men, him will I confess before my Father;' 'whosoever is ashamed of me before men, of him will I be ashamed before my Father.' I do not see that you have a choice, dear."

"I don't think I am ashamed, Miss Mary." Millicent was talking with her Sunday-school teacher, and the two had lingered after the others had gone away from the little room in which their Bible-class gathered every week. "It is just that I don't like to be bound."

"Ah, dear child, then you haven't yet made a full surrender! The Lord bids you to-day to sell all that you have, and come and follow him; but you are holding fast to your personal liberty; you do not love him so deeply and entirely that your being is lost in him; that you are willing to give him whatever he demands, to the uttermost farthing. I am afraid, dear, that you are clinging to some worldly love, some ambition, some pursuit that keeps you away from the Saviour. No man can serve two masters, Millicent. The trial has been made over and over, but it always fails and it always must."

Millicent went home intent on being a Christian after her own pattern. A Sabbath or two later a large number of young people in the church she attended stood up in presence of the congregation to confess Christ. They took upon them the obligations of discipleship in the face of their world,—the people they knew, their school-mates and friends, the men and women of their town. Millicent Davis was not of the number. She went home from the church before the girls who were her dearest companions had been able to say a word to her. Seated in one of the side pews while the sacrament was going on, Millicent had recognized, as she had never before done, the significance of the vows her friends had made.

"Come out from among them, and be ye separate." A voice from heaven had said this to the others, and, she owned it to her accusing conscience, had made its appeal to her—an appeal she had disregarded.

While the bread and the wine were passing from hand to hand, Millicent, looking on, suddenly realized the rite in its character of plighted faith, the military vow renewed to be true to the great Leader, through all changes, so long as the campaign on earth should last. "Be thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee a crown of life," came to her ears, as if someone had spoken audibly.

Everything which the teacher had said to her came to her in a flash of insight, unsought, almost unwelcome. She acknowledged that to be a Christian one must obey Christ, obey him literally, fully, gladly; that consecration could not be partial, but must be complete; that one, in a world of Christ's enemies, must needs take sides, because "he that is not with me, is against me;" that there is immense strength in an army corps, because it multiplies the unit by thousands, the thousand-fold stroke being only the unit reinforced by the impulse of every loyal life, so that the army is only the word of command in action. You would hardly believe how much came, and how forcibly it came, to Millicent, watching the friends, girls and boys, who had been truer and braver than herself, as they sat at the table and feasted with the Master. But the full force of her mistake did not appear to her till later.

She was sitting in the wide, pleasant parlor of her home, partially concealed by a curtain, when her brother Tom and one of his friends came in and took seats by the fire. They did not see Millicent, and, boy-like, took no pains to ascertain whether anyone else was in the room.

"Tom Davis," said the other lad, whose name was Con Lee, "I was surprised that you did not join the church to-day. I think if you had done it I would have done so too, for I've about come to the conclusion that it's the straight thing for a fellow to show his colors, and I'm bound to be on the right side. But you and I have been chums so long that I thought I'd wait and follow your lead."

Tom did not answer very promptly. Millicent, retiring more deeply into the shadow of the heavy curtain, not to embarrass the boys, could see that his face was very grave. When he spoke at last, it was with a touch of hesitation very unlike headlong Tom Davis.

"The fact is, Con," he said, "I meant to have gone forward, but I watched my sister, and I made up my mind to be guided by her. If Milly can be a Christian without joining the church I can, for girls don't have half the temptations that boys do. And it seems that Milly is quite contented in her present position. I felt disappointed when she chose to remain away, but I'm not going to set myself up to be better than Milly."

The room was growing dark, and nobody but her guardian angel and the Master she had wounded saw the quick blushes which dyed Millicent's cheek, and the hot tears which overflowed her eyes. She stole softly away, leaving the boys to their talk. Another reason why one who is a Christian should join the church, had come strongly to her consciousness. The power of example is a distinct force in the world, and one cannot escape responsibility in the pattern one sets in the sight of others. A verse often repeated came to Milly's mind with a new emphasis: "For none of us liveth to himself, and no man dieth to himself."

"I have kept two disciples from the Master, Tom and Con," she said to herself, sorrowfully—"two of whom I know. There may be others of whom I do not know."

Millicent sought pardon from the Lord before she slept. And when another opportunity came, she, with Tom and friends, did what they ought to have done before, acknowledged Christ's right to their service by joining the church.

They found, what all discover who do their duty, that under every husk of duty done there abides a heart of sweetness. The privilege of belonging to Christ, openly and fully, is too precious to be dispensed with by any who love him. And he reveals himself never so blessedly to his own as when they "do this"—break the bread and taste the wine, "in remembrance of him," for then indeed he brings them into his banqueting house, and his banner over them is love.—Mrs. M. E. Sangster.