The service that morning contained a new element.  No one could remember when Henry Maxwell had preached in the morning without notes.  As a matter of fact he had done so occasionally when he first entered the ministry, but for a long time he had carefully written every word of his morning sermon, and nearly always his evening discourses as well.  It cannot be said that his sermon this morning was striking or impressive.  He talked with considerable hesitation.  It was evident that some great idea struggled in his thought for utterance, but it was not expressed in the theme he had chosen for his preaching.  It was near the close of his sermon that he began to gather a certain strength that had been painfully lacking at the beginning.

He closed the Bible and, stepping out at the side of the desk, faced his people and began to talk to them about the remarkable scene of the week before.

“Our brother,” somehow the words sounded a little strange coming from his lips, “passed away this morning.  I have not yet had time to learn all his history.  He had one sister living in Chicago.  I have written her and have not yet received an answer.  His little girl is with us and will remain for the time.”

He paused and looked over the house.  He thought he had never seen so many earnest faces during his entire pastorate.  He was not able yet to tell his people his experiences, the crisis through which he was even now moving.  But something of his feeling passed from him to them, and it did not seem to him that he was acting under a careless impulse at all to go on and break to them this morning something of the message he bore in his heart.

So he went on:  “The appearance and words of this stranger in the church last Sunday made a very powerful impression on me.  I am not able to conceal from you or myself the fact that what he said, followed as it has been by his death in my house, has compelled me to ask as I never asked before ‘What does following Jesus mean?’ I am not in a position yet to utter any condemnation of this people or, to a certain extent, of myself, either in our Christ-like relations to this man or the numbers that he represents in the world.  But all that does not prevent me from feeling that much that the man said was so vitally true that we must face it in an attempt to answer it or else stand condemned as Christian disciples.  A good deal that was said here last Sunday was in the nature of a challenge to Christianity as it is seen and felt in our churches.  I have felt this with increasing emphasis every day since.

“And I do not know that any time is more appropriate than the present for me to propose a plan, or a purpose, which has been forming in my mind as a satisfactory reply to much that was said here last Sunday.”

Again Henry Maxwell paused and looked into the faces of his people.  There were some strong, earnest men and women in the First Church.

He could see Edward Norman, editor of the Raymond daily news.  He had been a member of the First Church for ten years.