The First Soprano | Page 2

faithfully filling in
all the interstices of time between numbers of the program, so that the
congregation had been bored by no moments of silence nor thrust back

upon the necessity of meditation.
There were a few words of introduction, and it was found that the
stranger was to speak. He was just a trifle surprising in appearance, for
his coat had no ministerial cut, and was even a bit more suggestive of
business than of the profession of divinity. But he was soon forgiven
this; for his voice was even and pleasant, and he looked at his
congregation with a pair of frank blue eyes, while he spoke with the
simplicity of a man who has somewhat to say to his fellowmen and
says it honestly. His text excited no curiosity, for it was this: "_The
hour cometh, and now is, when the true worshipers shall worship the
Father in spirit and in truth_."
In the choir Miss Winifred Gray had composed herself to listen.
Fortunately she was at the rear of her admiring hearers and had not to
confront their faces as she sat down. She had enjoyed her part
exceedingly. She loved her music, and the greater its pathos the keener
her enjoyment in rendering it. There was a subtle sense of power, too,
which she did not analyze, in moving a whole congregation to
admiration and sympathy. With her whole heart she had entered into
her musical work, in which the church divided attention with the
drawing-room and an occasional concert. She sat now in pleased
triumph and had no ears for the opening words of the young man's
sermon. But it dawned upon her gradually that he was speaking from
the words, "in spirit and in truth." He spoke of the former worship
which dealt with externals of place and method--with "carnal
ordinances imposed until a time of reformation"; and then of a new era
of worship which Christ had brought in, wherein true worshipers draw
nigh to God, not with sensuous offerings, but "in spirit and in truth."
Winifred could not follow all that he said, for it seemed a new and
strange language for the most part, but she gathered this: that somehow
Christ had opened the way for all believers into the very spiritual
presence of God, into a holy place not made with hands (and the more
real because it was not, being God-made and eternal), and that there
worshipers stood before eyes of perfect discernment, unclothed by
outward semblance, and offered "spiritual sacrifices" unto Him. It was

a beautiful picture, but awful. Winifred shuddered as she thought of the
august Presence that inhabited the Holiest of All that the minister spoke
of, and wondered if she would dare approach it. To stand in naked spirit
before eyes of flame and to be read through and through, daring to
speak no unmeant word, but only that which the heart designed, in
absolute sincerity! Was worship in spirit such a real thing as that? Was
she a true worshiper? Why was she there that morning? She glanced
about the building, with its arches and columns, its stained windows,
and almost perfect arrangement of form and color. But the minister was
saying:
"This material structure is not the house of God. No longer is God
localized to our faith as in the days of symbol and shadow, when surely
Jerusalem was 'the place where men ought to worship.' For the symbol
has given place to the 'truth,' and in that, 'in spirit,' men worship. But
while in every place, or, better still, without reference to place--'neither
in this mountain nor in Jerusalem'--true worshipers shall find Him, still
His spiritual people form a temple for His manifestation, wherever they
are gathered, and there is He. 'In the midst' He takes His rightful place,
and that place we must accord Him--the center of our heart's attention
and worship."
Winifred resumed her question. Why had she come? Was it to meet that
One, to gaze in spirit upon His pierced hands and side, as the minister
was saying, and to rejoice in Him as the risen Lord? She did not quite
know what he meant. She went back over the morning's experience,
beginning with her dressing-room, when before her mirror she donned
her new and very pretty silk dress and arranged all her faultless toilet,
adjusting the modish hat that became so well her own type of beauty,
fitted on the fresh, dainty gloves that should clasp her beloved music
when she should open her throat and sing like a glad bird, delighting in
its song, however plaintive. And then she had gone. Had she thought of
Him in all this? Winifred's honest soul said, No. But church? She had
thought of "church," with all that it stood