Men need to be saved now. Men want to be saved now. Things done by men in generations past and gone show humanity's continuous struggle for a present salvation. Yesterday and to-day, to seek and to find peace, joy, safety now, has been the master motive of human effort.

Jesus' works saved in the now. It was inevitable that he should have been followed by a great multitude—a mighty cosmopolis "from Galilee, and from Decapolis, and from Jerusalem, and from Judea, and from beyond Jordan," Jew and Gentile, worshipers of one God, of many and of none, those trained in the dogmatic lore of the rabbi, in the pure philosophy of the Greek, in the degenerating materialism of the Roman, and those ignorant of all save their heart's desire,—a great multitude, united only by the universal human yearning for quick help and a present salvation. These were themselves a prayer, the answer to which was the Beatitudes. An impressive scene, without question. A vast assembly, and a stillness tense with earnestness and vivid with longing. Nature's setting was the serene blue of the sky and the full radiance of a cloudless sun, shining on the surrounding hills and perhaps reflected in the dancing waves of the Galilean Sea.

The people had gathered because of what Jesus had done. Whatever his words might be, he had already justified them with works. He had forced acknowledgment of his authority. Yet it is not unlikely that the first beatitude was a disappointment. "Blessed are the poor in spirit: for their's is the kingdom of heaven." It is hardly possible that it was understood. Those people wanted to be saved now. The kingdom of heaven meant to them a hereafter. It was too far away, according to their sense of things, and they had no one to tell them of the ever-present heaven of scientifically harmonious minds and bodies. The sweet benediction of the second beatitude, "Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted," doubtless found grateful lodgment in many a grief-stricken breast, the tender love of the Master turning at that moment sorrow into joy and despair into hope and courage.

But if the first beatitude fell on stopped ears and the second was heard only by those whom grief had chastened, surely the third beatitude startled into keenness every drowsy listener. "Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth." It was the answer direct to the question which needed not lips for its utterance: "What shall I do to be saved now?" The kingdom of heaven possibly promised a glorious future, but the inheritance of the earth was immediate gain. It meant something to inherit the earth. It meant power, dominion, authority, happiness, prosperity, peace—in short, the substance of good. There was more or less chance about the kingdom of heaven, but the inheritance of the earth was undeniably well worth while. Then and there was formed the question which has perplexed Christendom ever since: What is the meekness which inherits the earth?

The common concept of the meek man is the human door-mat. The only earth which the door-mat, be it flesh or bristles, inherits, is the mire wiped from the feet of those who are so anxious to be clean that they are willing to make the effort to rid themselves of dirt. The cast-off filth of others is not the earth which one is blessed in inheriting. The meekness which Jesus commended cannot be debasing nor debased. It cannot be self-condemnatory. It cannot be hypocritical nor dishonest, unmanly nor shameless. It is not beneath the dignity of the king who is worthy of a royal inheritance, nor above the merit of the peasant who assuredly needs one. Jesus, the ideal of manliness, of strength, of integrity, and of resoluteness, did not counsel others to be cringing, weak, cowardly, and unprincipled.

In fact, Jesus, showing his dominion over the earth in manifold particluars, must himself have been the perfect embodiment of his own idea of meekness. He was kind-hearted,—yes, but he was not submissive to wrong, nor disposed to yield to it. He was humble,—yes, for he said that of himself he could do nothing,—but he had no mock modesty. He boldly declared his oneness with God. He knew that he had the power to lay down his life and to take it up again, and he said so. He recognized to the full the merit of his mission and of his work, and he did not hesitate to point to himself as "the way, the truth, and the life" for all men.

Jesus' meekness was something besides a sweet character, a gentle and long-suffering disposition, something more than a peaceable temper, different from the generally accepted sense of such words as tenderness, modesty, and humility. His meekness found characteristic expression at the beginning of his career, when he said, "Wist ye not that I must be about my Father's business;" and again at the end, when he prayed, "Not my will, but thine, be done." Jesus was consistently meek because he consistently governed himself—his thoughts and his deeds—by divine Principle. The pleas of personal sense, real as they evidently were to him at moments of which the temptation in the wilderness was typical, were never given precedence in his consciousness over the plain rule of right thinking and right doing.

The meek man is the man whose point of view is consistently impersonal. The meek man is conscientiously judicial. He is never a special pleader. He does not accept his own desires, his own prejudices, his own opinions as final arbitrators in any matter whatsoever. He judges "righteous judgment"—according to his highest understanding of absolute right. A conviction based on an intelligent comprehension of Principle is the meek man's most sacred possession,—something which cannot be superseded except by a stronger conviction based on a still more intelligent comprehension of Principle. Yet the meek man is never obstinate, never perverse, never unwilling to hear and to weigh another's reason why, for the meek man's convictions are without taint of personality. The meek man has no axe to grind. He has no personal ambition to gratify, no personal theory to promulgate. His labor is not for position nor for power, but that the divine will may "be done in earth, as it is in heaven." He finds no justification except in demonstration, no joy except in serving God, no peace except in loving his neighbor as himself. He is neither jealous nor envious. He neither lies nor hates, deceives nor condemns, for he acknowledges one Mind only and man's universal brotherhood.

Without self-love, without self-will, without self-justification, and without self-righteousness, the meek man is indeed the ideal Christian and the ideal Christian Scientist. He realizes fully that his individual salvation depends exclusively and entirely on his individual success in proving, as did Paul, that no claim of error, no illusion of material sense, no subtility of mesmerism pointing to effect as cause, can move him. Is he tempted to be vexed by something that somebody else has said or done? The meek man obeys Jesus' command: "First cast out the beam out of thine own eye; and then shalt thou see clearly to cast out the mote out of thy brother's eye." The meek man addresses himself in effect thus: I don't care what the other person has done. For my anger, for my vexation, I alone am responsible. When I have overcome these in myself, then will be time enough for me to meddle with the faults of others.

The Christian Science text-book, "Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures" by Mrs. Eddy, teaches clearly that the plan of salvation demonstrated by Jesus calls upon every one to work out his own problem. The meek man knows this. His purpose is single; his ideal is fixed. They are one and the same; viz., the "Be ye therefore perfect, even as your Father which is in heaven is perfect" of Christ Jesus. Because he wishes nothing for himself, and has the patience to "wait on God," the meek man is fortified against evil suggestion. Because he has dominion over himself, he has dominion also over "the world, the flesh, and the devil."