It was Sunday afternoon and the fishing boats were lying at anchor in the little harbor. The fishermen were scattered on the wharf or along the beach enjoying the Sunday rest. But not all, for at the point where the only street of the fishing village extended to the beach, a number of men and women had gathered around a young man, almost a boy, who was standing on the top of a herring barrel. He was reading aloud the words of a hymn which the little company began to sing.
“It sounds real nice, doesn’t it, Dieter?” asked one of the two men who sat on the edge of the pier.
Dieter Lange, a strongly built old man with snow-white beard, was a person of influence among the villagers and he had refused to listen to the preaching, and because of this Henry Lehman had spoken somewhat shyly.
Dieter nodded carelessly, and Henry continued: “It is really strange—the son of Whiskey John wants to preach to us. They say he speaks very nicely. My wife was here last Sunday, and she wanted me to go with her this time.”
“I have nothing against the boy,” said Dieter, thoughtfully. “As far as I am concerned, he can preach as often as he wishes, but I don’t see that I need his preaching. How can this young fellow tell me anything that I have not known long before him? I have done well without these religious notions until now, and do you think I would let a boy like him teach me?”
Henry rose slowly and in embarrassment muttered, “Well, I have promised my wife, so I had better go.”
After a little while, words were heard plainly by Dieter. “He gave His life for you! While we were yet sinners, Christ died for us. He died, the just for the unjust!” He pointed them to Christ, who gave His life for the unjust—for sinners. The listeners could feel that the young man had experienced what he was speaking about—the saving love of Christ. They all listened quietly and with good attention. When the circle broke up, Henry came back to sit again with his friend.
“It is the sheerest nonsense,” growled the older man as they rose and loitered along the beach. “It goes altogether against reason that one should die for those who hate him and try to injure him at every chance.”
“Well, it sounds nice; it’s too bad if it isn’t true,” answered his friend sadly.
Monday morning the boats were still at anchor, for a storm had risen during the night and the waves were tossing furiously. At noon Henry went to the wharf to look at the weather, but old Dieter was there already. Looking through his glass, he called Henry to him, saying, “Whose boat do you think that is out there?”
Henry looked through the glass. “It is making straight for the rocks,” he cried.
“That fellow seems to be beside himself. It has to be Whiskey John’s boat; I saw him drunk this morning.”
The two men were watching the boat intently. “Now it is all right; it is out of the current. No, no! He is much too intoxicated—he doesn’t know what he is doing. No boat could get to him in such a storm.”
“There goes a boat out! Who can be so crazy as to risk his life in this storm for that man?”
“It is the boy!”
Yes, it was the young preacher of yesterday that ventured out to save his stepfather—Whiskey John—if it were possible. A crowd of men and women gathered together and with anxious eyes watched the two boats, asking each other if there was a chance to save them. The little boat disappeared every little while among the high waves, and several times it seemed as though it must have gone down, but again it could be seen carried on the crest of a mighty wave. At last it reached the large boat. Too late! That boat was on the rocks!
“Pray for the boy! Pray!” cried one of the women, and one and another went to their knees.
Another moment of suspense. Dieter Lange cried, “They are in the water! Now the boy stands on the rock and he is pulling his father out of the water. A rope! A rope! Run—run—and throw out a rope!”
“They have gone down,” cried a woman.
“No, no! They are there yet! Now the rope!”
They ran down the shore to the edge of the rocks and threw out a rope.
“Now, pull as if it meant your own life,” Dieter cries out, taking hold with his own strong hands.
With difficulty they pulled in the rope on which was tied an old man . . . a sin-stained man who had been given a little longer time for repentance. But they will not see his son again until the Lord shall come and the sea shall give up the dead.
There is still preaching in the village on the beach on Sunday afternoons. It is not now a young man but an old one, a man whose gray head looks above the little circle; it is Dieter Lange.
“It is all true what the lad told you,” he said that Sunday. “You know how I mocked, and said it was nonsense, that one could give his life for his enemies. But the boy did it himself for the one who treated him so cruelly. And now I know who gave him the strength to do it. I know his Lord as my Redeemer and my Saviour too.”
God commendeth His love toward us,
in that, while we were yet sinners,
Christ died for us.