Some years ago, a dear old friend of mine went into a bookseller’s shop in Germany. It was his habit to take every opportunity that came in his way of speaking of the Lord Jesus. He found the bookseller alone in his shop, and, after a little talk with him, he found that he was not a believer in the gospel. He was willing, however, to listen, and the two were soon in such earnest conversation that neither of them remarked a customer who came into the shop and stood there waiting in silence. As soon as my old friend remarked him, he drew back, and gave place to him. The customer then said to the bookseller, “I hope that you believe what this gentleman has been saying to you, for it is the truth of God and is taken from His blessed Word.” The customer then went on to explain in his own words, to the bookseller, what it is that Christ has done to save us, and how, by believing in Him, we are at once forgiven and receive everlasting life.
He spoke so clearly and so earnestly that my old friend listened with wonder and delight, for it is not common to meet with any who so simply believe the good tidings and who are so ready to speak of Christ to others. He therefore followed the customer when he left the shop and asked him how and where he had learned the gospel so fully and so plainly.
“I learned it,” answered the customer, “just in the very last place in the world where you would have expected me to hear it;” and then, as he saw that his new acquaintance was interested and wished to know more, he told him his story, which I will now tell you.
He was a native, he said, of North Germany, and was brought up as a Roman Catholic. Though he would always have called himself a Catholic, he had in reality no religion at all, nor had he any regard at all for right and wrong. Accordingly, he spent his time in pleasing himself, as far as he could, and became so notoriously wicked that none amongst his wicked companions would have dared to sin so boldly as he did. And, strange to say, it was this extraordinary wickedness which was used by God to awaken his conscience. It struck him one day, “It may be true, after all, that there is an eternal punishment for sinners.” He had heard of the judgment-seat of Christ, and of the lake of fire, and he thought, “If anyone is ever to be there, it must be myself, for I have never seen or heard of anyone who has sinned as I have done.” He was still quite young, and till now he had delighted in his sinful life, but this thought so terrified him that he suddenly left his wicked companions and gave himself up to despair. Sometimes he thought of all the means by which he had heard that sinners could be saved. He knew that some went into convents, and did penances, and a faint hope arose within him that by that means it might be just possible to escape eternal punishment and have in exchange, perhaps, some thousands or millions of years of purgatory. But to gain such a favor from God it would be necessary to do more penances than anyone had ever done before. He knew of no convent where the rule would be strict enough. In most of them the monks appeared to live comfortable lives and have plenty of the good things of this world.
What could he do? He heard at last of a convent, which was said to have a rule more severe than any other in the world. It was in Sicily and belonged to monks of the order of La Trappe.
In case you should not have heard of these monks, I must explain to you what sort of life they lead. They get up at a quarter to two. On grand festivals they get up at midnight. They have services in the chapel, or in their cells, till seven. They then go out to work in the fields. Their work is very hard and wearisome, but neither heat nor cold, rain nor storm make any difference. Nor may they alter their dress according to the weather; their thick woolen clothes must be worn all day and all night, never taken off or washed. At half-past ten they have a very little bread, with a little water and vegetables. Only twelve ounces of food, and twelve of water, are allowed for each one during the whole day. Afterward, till five in the evening, they have services, they read, they work in the garden. Then they have two ounces of bread and a little water, in the dining hall, which is hung with pictures of corpses, skeletons, and souls in purgatory. Then reading and services till eight, when they go to bed, or rather, they go to lie down on some hard, knotted straw ropes, which are called a bed. If anyone is very ill and likely to die, this hard bed is exchanged for a layer of dust and ashes on the brick floor. The rest of their furniture consists of a rug and a skull. They may never speak except for an hour on Sundays. They may then say a few words on religious matters. None may work near to one another. None may give any hint as to their names or age, or past history. One poor young monk died of the hardships he underwent. About a year after, the old monk who nursed him in silence when he was dying was seen standing with his arms folded, looking at his gravestone. But no one spoke a word, and no one knew why he looked so earnestly at the gravestone till ten years after; then he too died, and his name was put on his gravestone. The monks knew from that time that the young monk was his son. So far is the rule for each day and for all alike. But besides this, each one may add to his hardships and sufferings, as his conscience directs. One will wear a knotted rope, tightly fastened round his waist, till it wears away his skin. Another will beat himself with a scourge to which pointed bits of iron are fastened. Another will mix mud or dust with his water or lick the dust from the floor. It is not difficult to invent tortures, but it is impossible ever to invent any that will silence the guilty conscience. So, the long years pass by, and peace and rest seem as far off as at first.
When the young German heard of this convent he was filled with joy, as far as any feeling of which he was capable could be called by that name. He determined to go at once and offer himself to the monks. He was poor, and the long journey would be expensive; he, therefore, determined to walk, begging his way as he went. This would be the beginning of his penance. It was a walk of many hundred miles, and many months were needed for it.
He found himself at last crossing the Straits of Messina, and then there was but little more walking to do before he reached the old convent, with its gray walls and gloomy towers. He was very tired and worn out by the time he stood at the little postern gate and rang the bell. The gate was slowly opened by a very old monk, who seemed scarcely able to move. The old man asked him what he wanted.
“I want to be saved,” replied the German. The old monk looked kindly at him and led him into a little room near the gate, where they were alone together.
“Now, tell me what you mean,” said the old man. “I should like to hear your history.”
The young German told his sad story.
“I have been a far greater sinner,” he then said, “than anyone I ever heard of. I do not think it possible that I can be saved. But anything that can be done I am willing to do, if only I may have a faint hope at last that I may, perhaps, escape the eternal punishment; but it must be by spending all the rest of my life in penance, and the harder it is the more I shall be thankful if I may do it. Only tell me what I am to do, and I will do it gladly.”
“If you will do what I tell you,” replied the old monk, “you will go back to Germany, for there has been One down here who has done the whole work in your place before you came, and He has finished it; He did it instead of you, so that there is nothing left for you to do. It is all done.”
The young German knew not what to make of these wonderful words.
“Who has done it?” he asked.
“Did you never hear of the Lord Jesus Christ?” asked the old man.
“Yes, of course I have heard of Him.”
“Do you know where He is?” said the old man.
“Yes, of course I know. He is in heaven,” replied the German.
“But tell me,” said the old monk, looking earnestly into his face, “do you know why He is in heaven?”
“No, except that He is always in heaven.”
“He was not always in heaven,” said the old man. “He came down here to do the work that you want to do yourself: He came down here to bear the punishment of your sin. He is in heaven now, because the work is done. If it were not so, He would still be here, for He came down to put away sin by the sacrifice of Himself; and, if anything remained to be done, He would still be here, for He undertook to do the whole work Himself, and He is gone back to heaven because He has done it. Do you not know that He said upon the cross ‘It is finished’? What was finished? It was the work you want to begin. And now,” added the old monk, “if you want to add the crowning sin to your wicked life, and to do something worse than all that you have done before, you may stay here and cast contempt upon the blessed, perfect work of the Son of God, and take upon yourself to do what He only could do, and what He has done and finished. It will be as much as saying Christ has not done enough, and I must add to the work that He has declared ‘is finished.’ It may seem strange to you that I stay here where Christ is thus insulted, but I am very old, and I can only walk to the gate. I cannot get away, so I must stay here till the Lord calls me hence. But you can go, and I entreat you to go back at once to your friends, and to tell them all that the Lord has done for you. You may stay here three days, and I will tell you all I can during that time about the Lord Jesus, and then you must go.”
“And so,” said the German, when he had finished his strange story, “I did remain there three days, and the old man told me much more of the work of the Lord Jesus. He told me not only what His death had done for me, but how He had risen again to give me eternal life, and how He had won for me a place in heaven above the angels, where He is waiting for me and for all who believe in Him. And so, I came back to Germany, and, from that day to this, I have told any who will listen the blessed news of the perfect work of Christ.”
No more could be known of the old monk.
No doubt the Lord has taken him by this time from the convent to paradise, but his blessed words may yet bring peace to many souls, as they did to the young German who was the chief of sinners.