SPEAKING CARELESSLY OF RELIGION.
By Mrs. O. J. Squires
CHRISTIANS, I beseech you to be careful how you speak of religion. Don't speak carelessly about it. You may never know how much harm one careless word may do. If religion is anything, it is everything. I have noticed that Christians often speak in a careless and indifferent manner of the service of God's house, and religion, unthinkingly, of course. But the harm to others may be just as great. I feel very deeply on this subject, because my life was once almost wrecked, and my soul almost lost, just by a few careless words spoken by an old professor. When a child about twelve years of age, there was an appointment left at the church that I was in the habit of attending, by a stranger, that he would preach there the next Sabbath at 2 o'clock, after the usual service. At the appointed time a good number, I with the rest, repaired to the house of God. Soon the minister came, a slender, youthful man, with an air of such serious earnestness about him that it at once attracted my attention. He seemed to feel the responsibility that was resting upon him, and child though I was, I felt he was a Christian. As he entered the pulpit he bowed his head a few moments in silent prayer, then he gave out the hymn. After the singing he read in a reverent manner a portion of Scripture, then in a simple and touching prayer he asked God to "help him so to speak the truth that some one might hear as for eternity, that it might be a savor of life to some soul." After the next hymn he arose and said, "Perhaps some, if not all, of this congregation are wondering why I, a stranger, should come here to preach one sermon, and then go on to other fields of labor, never, perhaps, to see one soul I now address till we meet across the river. All that I have to say as reason or excuse is, Christ has said, 'Go ye into all the world and preach the gospel to every creature,'" then with his whole soul he entered into his discourse. The text I do not remember, but the sermon I can never forget. It was the old, sweet story of Christ and the cross. He told it in such a simple, earnest, loving manner, with tears often choking his utterance, that my heart was strangely stirred; and, although I had heard the story many times, I never before realized and understood that Christ died to save sinners, especially me, and that through his death and sufferings was the only way that we could have eternal life. It was there made so plain to me that it seemed ungrateful and extremely wicked that every one did not love and serve him; and with child-like simplicity I then and there accepted him as my Saviour, and worshiped him in silent adoration. I felt that peace that is like a river, the world and everything in it seemed changed; life had now a new importance. As I passed out of the church I felt as though I could not keep this great happiness in my own bosom, and was just on the point of telling it, when some one spoke of the meeting, the preacher, and the sermon. I listened expecting to hear those old professors tell what a feast they had enjoyed, and how good it all was. I had enjoyed it all so much, that it seemed so important to me, that I was sure it must be doubly so to those who had been loving and serving him so long, but to my great surprise they spoke carelessly of it as though it was of but little consequence. One to whom I had always looked up as almost perfect—so good a Christian I had always thought her—said, "It didn't amount to much; 'twas nothing very smart." When I heard her say that, how glad I was that I had not told how I felt; for I thought if she, an old servant of God of thirty years standing thought it of no consequence, I surely was carried away and deceived, for I supposed of course that she knew best, and right on the spot I gave up all, although I had felt it so sweet to believe. O the dreary desolation that swept over my soul as this "bright dream faded." The one who spoke those words would not have uttered them had she known the harm they would do. She did not think or intend any harm; they were only a few careless words. And that is why I have felt impelled to tell of this. I have heard so much of this light, careless way of speaking of God and religion, and the efforts of ministers of the gospel, among Christians, that it makes me tremble for the result. It was not till twelve years after the incident related that I gave my heart to God. Many times during those twelve terrible years I was on the point of doing so, when the remembrance of that time would cross my mind, and I would stop right there. I had been deceived once and I would not be again. But I thank God to-day that that sermon was not entirely lost, but twelve years afterward, indirectly though it may have been, that very sermon was instrumental in leading me to God. But the memory of those scoffing words by a Christian kept me many weary weeks in the dark after I had begun to seek God. I tried to be a skeptic, an infidel, or anything but a Christian. I tried, and almost succeeded, too, to think religion all a mockery; but God's Spirit did not forsake me. And now to-day all through my soul I feel and know it is no mockery, but a living blessed reality. Yet I mourn over those years that were worse than wasted by those few careless words. It has served me as a warning. God helping me, I will give more earnest heed to this, and I beseech you, reader, to be careful how you handle things that take hold on eternal life.—Mrs. O. J. Squires.