What the Church Means to Me

I sat in a small, mean little cabin on our coast some time ago while a trained nurse from New York washed a sick baby and taught the mother how to save the poor little mite's life. It was that gentlewoman's ministry for Jesus Christ. For the privilege she was paying her own expenses and receiving no salary. If ever I realized the Master standing by in my life it was then and there in the semi-darkness of that hut. "That" kind of ministry never fails to grip the laboring man. An hour later, as I spoke to a preacher about this angel of mercy, he said, "Yes, but it is a pity she is a Roman Catholic." Yes, it is hard, this faith in Jesus Christ. It will bring her no praise of men. Yet it was such sermons as this nurse's that Jesus thought it worth while wasting his time on, when the world lacked theology far more than it does today. Those sermons of his in their modest settings have been the most brilliant of the world's possessions ever since. I think the Church grades her preachers wrongly.

There is no failure of Christ's aims. His message is bearing fruit in the hearts of many men whom the-necessary-to-define-your-mental-attitude school would rule out of the kingdom. Even Elijah made a mistake in the matter of how many servants God had.