In our great cities are there not hundreds and thousands who are in some need of human sympathy? That will speak to their hearts a good deal louder than eloquent sermons. Many will not be moved by eloquent sermons, who would yield to tenderness and gentleness and sympathy.
Said the great Dr. Chalmers: "The little that I have seen in the world, and know of the history of mankind, teaches me to look upon their errors in sorrow, not in anger. When I take the one poor heart that has sinned and suffered, and represent to myself the struggles and temptations it has passed through; the brief pulsation of joy; the tears of regret; the feebleness of purpose; the scorn of the world that has little charity; the desolation of the soul's sanctuary and threatening voices within; health gone--happiness gone--I would fain leave the erring soul of my fellowman with Him from whose hands it came."
Some of you may say: "How am I to get into sympathy with those who are in sorrow?" That is a very important question. Many people go to work for God, but they seem to do it in such a professional way. I will tell you how you can be brought into sympathy. I have found this rule to be of great help to me. Put yourself in the place of the sorrowing and afflicted ones, with whom you want to sympathize. If you do that you will soon gain their affections and be able to help them.
God taught me a lesson a few years ago that I shall never forget. I was Superintendent of a Sunday-school in Chicago with over 1,500 scholars. In the months of July and August many deaths took place among the children, and as most of the ministers were out of the city I had to attend a great many funerals. Sometimes I had to be at four or five in one day. I was so accustomed to it that I got to do it almost mechanically. I could see the mother take her last look at the child, and see the coffin lid closed without being moved by it.
One day when I came home my wife told me that one of the Sunday-school children had been drowned, and the mother wanted to see me. I took my little daughter with me and we went to the house. I found the father in one corner of the room drunk. The mother told me that she took in washing in order to get a living for herself and her children, as her husband drank up all his wages. Little Adelaide used to go to the river and gather the floating wood for the fire. That day she had gone as usual; she saw a piece of wood out a little way from the bank; in stretching out to reach it she slipped, and fell into the water and was drowned. The mother told me her sad story; how she had no money to buy the shroud and the coffin, and she wanted me to help her. I took out my note-book and put down her name and address, and took the measure of the coffin, in order to send it to the undertakers.
The poor mother was much distressed, but it did not seem to move me. I told her I would be at the funeral, and then I left. As my little girl walked by my side she said to me: "Papa, suppose we were very poor, and mamma had to wash for a living, and I had to go to the river to get sticks to make a fire; if I were to fall into the water and get drowned would you feel bad?" "Feel bad! Why, my child, I do not know what I should do. You are my only daughter, and if you were taken from me I think it would break my heart." And I took her to my bosom and kissed her. "Then did you feel bad for that mother?" How that question cut me to the heart.
I went back to the house, and took out my Bible and read to the mother the fourteenth chapter of John. Then I prayed with her and endeavored to comfort her. When the day for the funeral arrived I attended it. I had not been to the cemetery for a good many years; I had thought my time was too precious, as it was some miles away. I found the father was still drunk. I had got a lot in the strangers' field for little Adelaide. As we were laying the coffin in the grave another funeral procession came up, and the corpse was going to be laid near by. Adelaide's mother said, as we were covering up the coffin: "Mr. Moody, it is very hard to lay her away among strangers. I have been moving about a good deal, and have lived among strangers, and I have never had a burying-lot. It is very hard to place my firstborn among strangers." I said to myself that it would be pretty hard to have to bury my child in the strangers' field. I had got into full sympathy with the poor mother by this time.