BY REV. L. S. BOARDMAN This story is the second in a series of three. It is a story explaining what it means to be sanctified “holy” and “wholly”. It illustrates the scriptural way to obtain a pure heart and be rid of carnality. It is called in the Bible, the baptism of the Holy Ghost and fire.

A heavy snow had been falling for hours but now the blue sky had taken over and the sun was bright. The six-year-old twins, Augustus and Augusta, had rolled a huge snow ball as far as they possibly could, and yet it was much too small to make so large a snow man as they desired. What should they do? “Butch! Butch!” they called as their big eighteen-year-old brother was just coming from the wood lot on his big snowshoes. Soon the powerful arms of the youth had the first snowball to the desired size. A second ball was rolled for Mr. Snowman’s mid-section and laid in place, then a third for his head. Three dark stones for eyes and nose, a bent stick for his mouth, and an old felt hat, two pieces of a broken limb for his arms, and Mr.

Snowman was the talk of the little farm section for several days. The children laughed and romped about in the fresh snow as they tried to come up with a suitable name for Mr. Snowman. Several suggestions were made but it was finally agreed to name him “Butch” after big brother who had helped them so willingly. Then, “Snowbutch” was invented and in unison they heartily agreed. However, the annual mid-winter thaw was just around the corner and Mr. Snowman was destined to a very short stay in this world.

By late March the backbone of the long winter was broken and before one could scarcely imagine the July sun was bearing down. Snowbutch, like many of the deceased country folk in yonder cemetery, was virtually forgotten except for pictures in the family album; for mother had taken several snaps of the beautiful snowman.

Traditionally, each season held its peculiar romance for the children; toboggan-slides and ice-skating in mid-winter; kite-flying and maple “wax-on-snow” in the early springtime, and camp meeting in summer.

Now summer had come. The big brown tent with its crude benches and improvised pulpit appeared upon the scene in Sister Christian’s meadow and excitement was in the air. Farm wagons, surreys, and buckboards dotted the country roadway and the horses were hitched to every fence post and tree within reach, and the meeting was on. The evangelist preached Second Blessing Holiness mixed with good measures of judgment and hell fire, night after night; and poor Butch, who had been called to preach, but who was always up and down in his experience, hit the mourner’s bench several nights in succession, seeking the “Second Blessing,” but actually getting nowhere in his seeking. “Die out!” “Go to the bottom!” “Keep on digging!” and other similar expressions came from the evangelist, the pastor and the seasoned saints; but poor Butch could not seem to understand. He prayed on and struggled with the “Old Man” that St. Paul dubbed the carnal nature, but to no avail.

Butch had always tried to do right. He had his private devotions, reading his Bible and praying, every morning and night. He tithed his meager earnings and was faithful in church attendance. No one had tried harder to be an exemplary Christian than he. But this “Second Blessing” — he simply couldn’t grasp its reality at all. The last night of the tent meeting came and went and after a long struggle Butch left the altar, discouraged and crestfallen. It seemed he would never get the wonderful, “pure heart” experience, of which they had talked and preached so much. Butch had made all of his restitutions, and was clear in his regeneration, but this “Perfect Love” experience called Holiness and Sanctification, seemed always beyond his grasp.

Monday night had arrived; the long day’s work on the farm was over; the shadows were lengthening. Frogs were croaking in the pasture; millions of fireflies were turning their little phosphorus lamps on and off in the meadow and the Whip-poor-will added his lonely notes to the concert of the crickets and the frogs.

Butch lay aside the book he had been reading onTHE FULLNESS OF THE BLESSING. His heart was hungry, lonely and perplexed. He stumbled from the porch. Hot tears were streaming. Would he ever find this wonderful “Soul Rest?” As his custom was on such summer evenings, he headed for the pinehill-pasture up behind the barn, to pray, before retiring for the night. Suddenly he stumbled and fell. What was it there in the semi-darkness? A pile of debris! A pale moon was just breaking over the mountain. Butch looked closer. Sure enough, it was the pile of trash they had rolled up in the snowman last winter. Old bent nails, old tin cans, broken bottles, a couple of horse shoes, old dry bones, dirty rags, an old leather boot and various other items with sticks and stones were in the heap where old Mr. Snowman had melted. At once the light of heart-cleansing broke through to the lad’s troubled mind. The Spirit of God was working. “That is just like my heart,” thought Butch, “I’m just like old Snowbutch — white and clean and impressive on the outside but inwardly full of corruption.” “I see it,” he continued almost out loud and hurried up the hill to his favorite prayer spot in the pasture. There on a soft bed of pine needles Butch fell on his face before God. He was another “Snowbutch,” filled with a crooked nature like the rusty nails; as dry at times as the old chicken bones; as filthy in the sight of God with his carnal heart as the old rags; as hard and cold as the stones; as dead inside as the broken sticks and as worthless as the old leather boot. The faithful Holy Spirit hovered over the prostrate form of the lad. Heaven was all around him. He saw his heart as it really was, his carnal ambitions to be a great, famous preacher, and make a big mark in the world, and get a lot of applause, and perhaps some leading position in the conference. He struggled on — dying to carnal self. He saw his unwillingness to be crushed — broken — lied on — mistreated. His carnal feelings paraded before him in panoramic view — the silent rising of bitter resentment when father had made him hoe the corn during the heat of the day while his buddies from up the road went fishing in Lake Silver; the dislike he had had for Pauline ever since she had been voted in as president of the Young People’s Society. She had won out over him by only two votes and some had hinted that it was because she was sanctified and was much more settled in her experience than he. He saw the carnal feelings he had had toward her and toward certain ones in the church he knew had voted against him. He kept digging deeper and deeper into his selfish ambitions, carnal motives, and hateful reactions, and kept on dying out to everything that came to his attention; putting everything — past, present and future — on the altar of consecration, including himself — all he was or ever would be. He saw himself in a hard-scrabble pastorate with the members of his congregation all turned against him and condemning him for things for which he was not at fault. “Yes, Lord,” he cried, “anything — just anything; if only I can have the blessing of a sanctified heart.”

Now, that unholy temper — he saw it as he had never seen it before in all of its hideousness. He thought of the time he was milking old Betsy and she had kicked the half-full pail of milk against the side of the barn and him with it. Usually he was able to control his temper, but this was too much.

He had landed on poor, old, ignorant Betsy with the three-legged stool ‘till it was broken beyond use over her sorry ribs. His anger subsided and he was grief-stricken, and it was several weeks before he was able to pray clear through again and be sure of his justified state, and have a sky-blue testimony.

Yes, he was just like old Snowbutch — he seemed like a wonderful Christian young man, on the surface, but when the searching, hot sun of death-to-carnal-self preaching came, he would go “under” as the carnal traits would reappear and take over.

His face was now buried in his hands. His groans were the groans of one dying. For months he had had no hankering for sinful, worldly pleasures or sinful habits; but that old self — old carnal self — surely that is what the evangelist meant when he had cried out again and again, “Let him die, Lord, let him die.”

At last Butch was dying. The Son of Righteousness was bearing down on him with intense heat. The Holy Ghost was probing deeper and deeper.

Subtle hidden deceit, pride and ambitions — out they came in a deluge of confession before God. “Except a corn of wheat fall into the ground and die...”. The words had taken on new meaning. “Oh, God,” he cried out in anguish, “Let me die.” Again he saw those bent, rusty nails. One time they had been new and shiny and straight. His experience and testimony had been just like those nails many times — first like the new ones and then like the old ones. He was now close to the end. The great miracle was soon to take place. He had prayed to the end of old self. He felt utterly emptied of all inward pollution.

Suddenly “He” came! that Holy Person! that hallowed presence! Butch was wholly sanctified at last. He was filled with a fullness of God he had never known before. The “Comforter” had come. Billows of indescribable joy flowed over his spirit. He had never known such peace as he now possessed. He did not know when he arose, but presently he was on his feet, reeling like one intoxicated, as torrents of holy joy flowed from his purged lips and heart.

But wait! what was that yellow spark coming so slowly up the rise behind the barn and toward him? In a moment he knew. That was the unmistakable yellow glow from their old family lantern. His mother was troubled. The hour was getting late. She was searching for him. He cried out, stumbled toward the flickering light and fell into his mother’s arms.

Her intercessory prayers and groans before God had been answered. Butch would not now be what she had so long dreaded, and feared: — a carnal preacher with a liberal, compromising message and false holiness.