e viewpoint o£ the average Christian—nay, that of the

.^"ch herself is more in the center of the balance. "It is no

L/j^^ happiness," declares Shakespeare, "to be seated in the ^*an-' Our hest approaches to absolute truth are thus made. lwOcvvkTcYv, therefore, nowhere veils sin but points to a forgiv)fl%\_OTd-, nowhere ignores, evil, but would overcome that evil with good; sympathizes with earthly sorrow, yet sings to the sufferer anthems of eternal joy. Her standpoint is high and therefore hopeful. She is as "a city that is set upon a hill," Yfhose hght cannot be hid. Her gleams pierce every black ravine of pain or sorrow. Now, in all this, how can the ecclesiastical stand be faulted? Or that of the humble Christian in touch with her?

Nevertheless, in the complex tangle of modern times new questions arise, growing out of new conditions, and her attitude in regard to these is often blamed. Men say she is too conservative, not progressive enough, unsympathetic with the times, and so on. There is little actual precedent for her to follow, though always the old eternal principles, serene as the stars. In mediaeval times when the great feudal system obtained the mooted points were those of lord and vassal, nobles and throne. Now the rule of the people predominates; so our mooted points are those of capital and labor, anarchy, plutocracy and the like. Touching the first of these, by the way, perhaps nothing emphasizes more sharply the opposition between the Church's viewpoint and that of the world than the famous Encyclical of Leo XIII giving the spiritual principles on which our Lord would have the world's work splendidly advanced, not amid strife and stress, but in purest harmony—master and man united to that end, even as bass and treble together produce music. Love is still, always has been and always shall be, the one Divine resolution of human discords.

The attitudes of the Church and the world are diametrically opposed to each other because of their opposite ideals. "I am not come," said our Blessed Redeemer, "to send peace on the earth, but a sword." There is a sharp division line, keen as a blade of Damascus, between the world and its generally received ideals and those of the Christian. The world plans for to-day, the Christian for eternity. The fleeting things of time, with the latter, are gladly sacrificed to the higher interests of preparation for a higher sphere. He is in exile here, yearning for "a better country, that is, an heavenly." To the worldling earth is all; to the Christian it is a mere subordinate part of things.

Now, this difference of viewpoint makes an immense difference in dealing with affairs. Take the business of the world, for instance, which, in these days, is becoming pure money-getting, a mad race for money-power and accumulated wealth. Sometimes we see extravagant and wild modes of spending this overplus of gold, and again the miserly hoarding of it, but in either case it is surely true of the highly successful money-getter that "God is not in all his thoughts."

The Scripture rule "not slothful in business, fervent in spirit, serving the Lord," in its two latter clauses limits the first. The religious man, who is bent on serving the Lord, will find his heart set on that one thing more than any other; so that he cannot compass the concentration of mind^ the swift intensity of vision, like the focus of a burning-glass, which enables a man to win success in trade competitions or on the Stock Exchange. The moral requirements of honesty, benevolence and unselfishness also hamper him. How shall he join in the Food Trusts, which mean suffering and increased embarrassments for the lower classes? How shall he speculate in coal, which must be had by the poor to keep from freezing? How shall he join the ice monopoly, which is to bring greater distress still on the sick and needy? How can he add to the world's misery and still be serving the Lord? In short, his unscrupulous competitor has the advantage. Yet "what advantage is it if a man gain the whole world and lose his own soul?" That is his Lord's own question.

The argument so frequently heard that this or that millionaire is pious, despite his trusts or speculations, and that piety need not interfere with piling up millions any way, is really a lame one, a trick of Lucifer to quiet conscience. After a man has accumulated his millions, or is fairly on the road to this, he may have leisure to become pious, be "hopefully converted," as our friends the Baptists say, and endow their universities at the end; but he is not "strictly pious" during the process, except by miracle. This, however, does not apply to wealth which comes, ^ttwere, of itself, apart from the man's own efforts, as from 'estate through plienomenal growth in values,or from sudden scoveries, as of new mines or inventions. "Where the treasure M\ieve the heart be also." The human mind is so con

&Awtc& and so limited that its intensities must focus somewhere; if on religion, then nowhere else. It cannot look "two ways lor Sunday," as the phrase is. To keep one eye on the 1-ord and the other on the stock market is an acrobatic feat too lively ior the trained Bulls and Bears, however gifted.

One mark of the religious ideal—so constant as to be like a trade-mark, almost—is its lofty estimate of the human soul. "Nothing else carries weight as over against its salvation. Our Saviour's sacrifice on the Cross was not too great for Him to offer, with this end in view; surely, then, no effort, no sacrifice on the part of His followers could be fanatical or ultra-heroic, if made in His spirit for this one object. Therefore, in the little sketch, the Christian man trembles with awe before a soul in peril, pities its feebleness with something of his Master's compassion, is weighed down with the mighty sense of its preciousness! The worldly man smiles and cannot at all understand what this worry is about. But is he—the Christian—mistaken? Are the holy angels mistaken in guarding souls? Is the peril imaginary, the anxiety fanatical?

The critic may smile, and say souls are not so easily lost. But how does he know? One thing he does know, and that is that "lost women" are plentiful.

In this case, the stage career might not involve danger; the holy angels have power to guide and guard through it all! Yet what a risk to run, needlessly, wilfully, foolishly! Consider the careers of our dubious,much-married singers and stage beauties! Also the private characters of the "men of the world," who haunt their footsteps. Does it look like a school of piety and virtue? A safe home and refuge for the soul? Though some exceptional spirits avoid harm, could this be safely predicted of our little, bedazzled Constance in the sketch? Or of any other little, bedazzled Constances? The feeling would be strong with any highminded man—any honest man, even—that such pretty white butterflies need some protection. The ecclesiastical ideal meets this feeling fully. The broader world-ideal means a laugh at their ruin. Which is the better, my friends?

The world's sense of right and wrong is not of the keenest. The sense of sin—"the exceeding sinfulness of sin," as it has been termed—is a religious idea. The world smiles at it. From its point of view the brilliant manager in the sketch was doing well enough, acting for his own advantage and that of his troupe; only doing his duty, in short. The gay man of the world, as acting from a conscientious motive, in this single case but in few others, is a strange psychological nut to crack! Yet the worldly man often offers just such excuses. His standard is low, duty with him means duty to his own purse; his motives are really selfish, yet he will not own this. He steals a leaf from the pious man's book and pretends that he is not "looking on his own things, but also on the things of others." It may even be that his own standard is so low that he has really no sense, or no adequate sense, of the harm he is doing. His influence, his example may ruin others, yet he washes his hands, like Pilate, before the multitude.

The low standard is an easy one. How tempting it seems! Why should the impresario, or any one else, be hampered with restrictions? The man of the world is free, how charming! This is a free country. And free also to lure others into his gay paths. But consider a little: What will he do "in the end thereof?"

This same sense, peculiarly Christian, of the paramount value of the human soul influences every estimate of things, in the twin realms of art and letters, for those who believe in the narrow ecclesiastical ideal. Why should a book or a picture be used to the detriment of souls? The world cries, "Nonsense! No harm is done. Give us freedom and broad ideals!"

Yet though this demand be made in good faith and by good men—for good men are often in error—where does evil stop, its freedom once attained? Without limitation does it run on and on? The devil's train is equipped with Westinghouse brakes. Note the output of indecent printed matter, unfit for the mails, the need of Anthony Comstock's labors in his line, the development of the low Parisian romance with its American congeners, the drama with its novelties worse than risky! Look at the schools of modern art, whose painters find their best subjects to be reproductions of those ancient revels of the Roman decadence, the feasts of "Quo Vadis." These are popular; served i^nl are» witn every added spice the twentieth century

^S ^ere tvot need to-day—and sore need, a need never greater *~w t\\e narrow, religious ideal? Do not these imaginations tvee& a curb, tV\ese dissolute tongues a bridle, these hearts a purifying, as of fire? What else can give this, save what gave it at tne Court of Nero? The power of Christianity is the one force that never fails. The White Christ still beckons with His ca\vn, pure, stern decision, from which is no appeal. "Wide is t\ve gate," He declares, "and broad is the way that leadeth to destruction and many there be that go in thereat. Because strait is the gate and narrow the way that leadeth unto life and lew there be that find it."

The main point thus settled, it only remains to see to it that we never grow harsh or bigoted or unreasonable in reducing it to practice. Our Lord charged the Pharisees of His time with "binding heavy burdens grievous to be borne" on conscientious souls—for none other would let themselves be bound—and thus making religion cruel, heavy task-work. He actually interfered, moreover, lifting off for His followers some requirements of the ceremonial law—in regard to the Sabbath, for instance—in view of popular necessities. He never made religion unpalatable. It was to be welcome and joyfully received, the bread of souls, their wine of refreshing. His own administration bore every mark of gentleness. His sympathy with the lay people, their hunger and thirst, their ignorance and feebleness, was extreme. In this His Church can only imitate Him.

Our Lord gave the people sermons, to be sure, but He also fed them with loaves and fishes, "lest they faint by the way." A truly "Broad Church" is broad in its charities. There are churches, Christian in name, far more ready to bestow tracts, or scraps of dogma, than actual, needed aid. The former cost little, the latter means self-denial. Loaves and fishes call for outlay. Some men, it has been said, "like to play the Good Samaritan, but without the oil and two pence." With some religious bodies it seems to be the same.

The argument, honestly used, no doubt, that the poor should not be "bought over" to any form of religion by distribution of temporal benefits seems both right and wrong. Right in its