We may lay it down as a fundamental axiom, that there can be no religion
without holiness. Whatever be our doctrinal opinions, if we be not holy
we cannot see the Lord. And, accordingly, holiness is the great gift of
a risen Saviour to his Church. He has shed forth the Holy Ghost to
purify our hearts by faith. Now, in this Christian holiness there are
two or three leading features to be carefully observed. (1.) It is not a
plant which grows naturally in the human heart, but is the especial work
of the Holy Ghost himself. (2.) It consists in a sacred principle which
controls the whole man, and not in any one class either of actions or
omissions. (3.) This ruling principle is the constraining power of the
love of Christ. “The love of Christ constraineth us.” From which
remarks it appears at once that true holiness is from its very nature
impossible to the unconverted man. He is not under the influence of the
Spirit; he does not know the love of Christ, and he is, therefore,
incapable of that hallowed principle which shall bend his whole mind in
one direction, and wean him from sin by the consecration of his whole man
to God. Hence, the unconverted man, if thoughtful and conscientious, is
sure to feel distressed. A holy standard is presented to his view, while
his conscience convicts him of lamentable defect. He sees there must be
necessity, but has not felt its power. He sees there must be holiness,
but he knows he is not holy. He is aware that without righteousness
there can be no true religion, but he sees so much sin within his heart
that he cannot believe himself righteous.
What, then, is to be done? What is the refuge of the human heart under
such circumstances? Either he must stifle conscience, which is
impossible, or he must embrace the Gospel, in which case he would find
joy in the Holy Ghost, or he must so accommodate that Gospel as to soothe
his heart without changing it, which accommodation is Popery. And how is
this effected?
One mode is by _ritualism_.
There are two great classes of Christian duties combined in the formation
of Christian holiness—moral and positive; moral being the general effect
of Christian principle, positive consisting in certain Christian acts.
Now it is plainly in respect to these moral duties or duties of Christian
principle that the natural heart finds the chief difficulty, and the
outward acts of a ceremonial religion are incomparably easier than the
holy dedication of a devoted heart. Hence it follows that the human
heart is naturally prone to slide insensibly from the principle to the
ritual, and to endeavour to compensate the defects of the one by a rigid
attention to the requirements of the other. By such an accommodation no
part of Divine truth is professedly set aside, but yet, by altering the
proportions of the several parts, by throwing a strong light on one side
of the picture, and a deep shade on the other, its whole character is
completely changed, and religion is given to the natural man though his
heart is left unsanctified by the Spirit.
This tendency to substitute ritual for principle may be daily seen in
every society. One thinks himself holy because he has kept his church;
another, because he is a regular communicant; a third, because he attends
daily service; a fourth, because he never neglects to say his prayers;
while a fifth is quite sure that he is born again, because in his infancy
he was baptized; although, possibly, neither one nor the other has
learned anything of true holiness of heart. Out of this tendency has
sprung up the whole system of Romish righteousness. The weed that grew
out of the human heart it has adroitly cultivated, till it has become the
strongest flower in its garden. What under the Gospel sprang up by
nature against the Gospel it has embodied and arranged so as to become a
substitute for the Gospel. Hence, under Popery, ritual has in many cases
overpowered principle, and attention to ritual religion is made the
substitute for spiritual holiness before God.
It is extremely difficult to produce documentary evidence of any such
substitution, for, of course, it is in no case acknowledged. The truth
of our charge, however, may be easily seen in the practice of
indulgences. It is sometimes thought that this monstrous practice has
been abandoned by modern Popery. But such is not the case; for I find in
the “Catholic Directory” for 1848, that there are eight plenary
indulgences granted to the faithful in the eight districts of England,
and four more for the peculiar benefit of the London district. Now the
essence of these indulgences is the substitution of ritual for principle,
for the remission of moral sin is promised as a reward to the observance
of an ecclesiastical rite. Take, _e.g._, one of the indulgences granted
by Pope Sixtus IV.:—“Our holy Father, Sixtus IV., Pope, hath granted to
all them that devoutly say this prayer before the image of our Lady the
sum of 11,000 years of pardon. Ave Sanctissima Maria, &c.” So the late
Pope issued an apostolic brief to Ambrose Lisle Phillips, Esq., in which,
amongst other things, he promises “indulgences of 100 days as often as
the members shall recite their appointed decade of the rosary on working
days.” He promises at the same time indulgences of seven years and seven
lents as often as they shall recite the aforesaid decades on Sundays and
holidays, &c. It is impossible to imagine a more glaring preference of
ritual above principle. The guilt of moral sin is remitted as a reward
for the performance of an ecclesiastical rite.
Another clear illustration of the same principle is seen in the
substitution for repentance of what they term the sacrament of penance.
Where you find repentance in the Scriptures you find penance taught by
Rome, as, _e.g._, in Ezek. xviii. 30:—“Repent and turn yourselves from
all your transgressions.” Luke xiii. 3. “Except ye repent ye shall all
likewise perish.” And Acts ii. 38:—“Repent and be baptized every one of
you, for the remission of sins, and ye shall receive the gift of the Holy
Ghost.” In all these passages the Council of Trent, Sess. xiv. 2, has
changed “repent,” into “do penance,” and has so made the rite a
substitute for the principle. Of course the pious Romanist would say,
“We have the principle too, for we truly repent in penance.” But that
does not affect the question. The Bible has promised remission of sin,
and connected it with the principle; the Church of Rome has adopted the
promise, but transferred it to the rite.
The effects of this on different minds are, of course, very various. In
some of a devout and conscientious character, it produces the most
earnest attention to the positive duties of religion, and gives them a
dim gleam of doubtful hope in the unceasing observance of all prescribed
services. But when there is not this spirit of devotion, it enables a
wicked man to make a compromise with God, and to follow the natural bent
of his natural heart, by attending to the Church’s services, while he
utterly neglects the weightier matters of the law.
In the late trials for murder in Ireland, it was remarked that many of
the guilty culprits were persons remarkable for their attention to the
ritual of their Church; and there was a case at the close of the last
Irish rebellion in which the hour of a murder was thus proved. One of
the witnesses swore that it took place after the hour of twelve o’clock
on Saturday night, and he was sure of the fact because the murderers were
determined to have a supper before they went on their guilty errand, and
that Saturday being a fast-day, they could not touch meat until after the
clock had struck. The ritual of fasting was rigidly observed, while the
regard for life was altogether gone. In one of the jails at Rome there
is a celebrated bandit, by name Gasparoni. This man, by his deeds of
bloodshed, had desolated an extensive district in the neighbourhood of
Rome, though all the while he avowed himself a very religious man. Sir
Fowell Buxton inquired of him whether he had fasted when he was a bandit.
He said, “Yes.” “Why did you fast?” was the next question. “Because I
am of the religion of the Virgin.” “Which did you think was worse,
eating meat on a Friday, or killing a man?” He answered without
hesitation, “In my case it was a crime not to fast; it was no crime to
kill those who came to betray me.” The man had no true holiness, but had
taken the ritual of fasting as its substitute, so that in the midst of
his murders he believed himself a very religious man.
The same principle appears in the Romish treatment of the Lord’s-day.
The moral commandment of the Most High God is abandoned, and for it you
find in many Romish catechisms the substitute of human ritual, “Thou
shalt keep the festivals.” And this appears in the universal practice of
Romish countries. They appear to regard it as a duty to attend mass, but
that once done, the whole day is devoted to amusement. The rite is
observed, and the conscience satisfied, so that the unregenerate heart is
left at full liberty to pursue its own course, and take its pleasure on
the Lord’s holy day. Thus the same persons who are engaged in the utmost
apparent devotion at mass in the morning are found in throngs in the
dissolute French theatre at night. “Attend to the Church’s rites and
live as you please,” appears to be the maxim of their morality.
You perceive the same thing in Romish literature. It has been one of the
characteristics of the late movement toward Rome that amongst its most
devoted followers it has let loose the spirit of the world. You will
observe, for example, in Burns’s Catalogue the strangest possible mixture
of ritualism and worldliness, and will see the book of Romish devotion
placed side by ride with the wild German love story.
Thus has Popery taken hold of the great grand gift of Christianity, and
presented it to its votaries in a form accommodated to human nature. It
does not deny the necessity of holiness, but it so transforms its
character that the unholy man may think he has attained it, and the
Italian murderer conscientiously believe himself religious.
A second substitution for true holiness is _asceticism_: according to
which system the unholy heart finds its refuge in a separation from
ordinary men. Christianity carries holiness into life, asceticism takes
the hermit out of it. But yet it is perfectly natural that men should
seek such a refuge. When they feel the burden of sin, and experience the
temptations of a surrounding world, it is no wonder that they should seek
a remedy in a complete retirement from its influence. To give themselves
up to fasting, penance, and solitary communion with God, must lead, they
very naturally argue, to the enjoyment of more holy peace than they can
hope to find in the midst of the duties and varied engagements of
society. Hence every false faith has produced its devotees. Under
different systems they have assumed a different character, but in all the
principle is the same. The Hindoo separates himself from the world, and
stands with his arm erect till it becomes stiffened into a fixed
position; while the Buddhist and the Romanist retire to the convent that
they may there withdraw from the world, and devote themselves wholly to
spiritual exercises and to God. But though this is natural, it is a mere
accommodation. The real evil of the human heart is not corrected by the
change, nor have the hair shirt and the leathern girdle the slightest
influence in controlling the corrupt passions of the nature. There may
be as much pride, self-righteousness, and ill-governed temper in the
lonely hermit’s cheerless cell, as in the deep current of the world’s
society. At the same time it is an accommodation, for it employs the
name of Christ, and gives the semblance of a very elevated piety. It
adopts the language of devotion, and prescribes a course of action and
self-denial. It gives the inquirer something to do, and something to
bear; it separates him also from other men, and so, though his heart be
not purified, it gives him the hope that he is holy. This was remarkably
seen in the case of Ignatius Loyola. Like Luther, he was awakened to a
deep sense of sin, and it is a remarkable fact that the two greatest
phenomena of the sixteenth century, the Reformation, and Jesuitism,
should have sprung out of the same uneasiness for sin. Luther found
peace through the blood of the Lamb, and holiness in the work of the
Spirit; Loyola was as much distressed as he, and failing in his discovery
of Christ, he took refuge in the substitute of an ascetic life. He tore
himself away from his kindred and father’s house, determining to undergo
penances of the severest character, and to serve God in Jerusalem. He
hung up his shield before an image of the Virgin, and, having clothed
himself in coarse raiment, he stood before it for whole nights with his
pilgrim’s staff in his hand. At Manresa he passed seven hours daily on
his knees, and scourged himself regularly thrice a-day. He devoted three
whole days to making a general confession for sin, but the more he
explored the depths of his heart, the more painful were the doubts which
assailed him. Having read in some of the fathers that God had been moved
to compassion by a total abstinence from food, he remained from Sunday to
Sunday without tasting anything, and at last only broke his fast in
obedience to the positive injunctions of his confessor.
Such were the efforts of a master mind, to create for itself an
artificial holiness, and such are the principles more or less involved in
the whole system of the monasticism of Rome. It substitutes devotion of
act, which withdraws men from their appointed sphere, for devotion of
heart which glorifies God in its varied duties: and thus presents a
spurious holiness within reach of unconverted minds.
IV. But the great root of the matter yet remains in the craving of the
soul for _Reconciliation_.
That there is this craving none can deny. It is seen in all classes, in
all nations. Buddhists, Hindoos, Mussulmen, Jews, Protestants,
Romanists, and even Infidels, all bear testimony to a certain undefined
longing after peace. Now this peace is given by the Gospel, in the free,
full justification of the believer through the perfect atonement and
imputed righteousness of the Lord. But in the practical application of
it to the heart there arises this difficulty. Our safety depends on an
invisible union with an invisible Redeemer. Faith is not a thing which
can be seen and felt. It looks away from self to Christ, and disappears
as soon as you look back on self to find it. Now if a man be enabled by
the Holy Ghost to look simply to Christ, this difficulty vanishes through
the all-sufficiency of the one object there presented to his view. But
if, on the other hand, this faith be wanting, and the freedom of Divine
grace remain unknown, the human heart at once makes an effort for some
visible, tangible mode of laying hold of acceptance in Christ Jesus. The
system, therefore, best accommodated to the natural man would be one
which embraced all the rich promises of the Gospel, but connected them
with something which could be said or done, so leaving men in no doubt as
to their position.
Now this desire is exactly met by the Church of Rome. It presents its
pardon in a tangible, visible form, and it leads the soul to rest for its
assurance upon something safely done. The sin is confessed, the penance
performed, the absolution pronounced, and there the matter ends. The
guilty man has no further occasion to distress his mind upon the subject.
The language of the catechism of the Council of Trent is very curious as
illustrating the endeavour to connect pardon with a visible act. It
first draws the distinction between the inward disposition of repentance
and the outward act of penance, and adds, § 13, “That it is the outward
penance in which the sacrament consists, and which contains certain
external actions, which _are subjects of sense_ through which the inner
feelings of the mind are manifest.” The next section explains the reason
why the sacrament of penance is said to have been instituted, viz., to
assure us of our pardon, for without it, “there must have been most
anxious suspense of mind respecting _inward repentance_, since every man
would have had good reason to doubt his own judgment in those things
which he was doing.” To avoid this anxiety, therefore, the pardon is
connected with a visible act. It is found, accordingly, in practical
life, that the priest’s absolution is regarded by the Romanist in the
same light as God’s forgiveness, and that, whatever be the state of
heart, that visible act is deemed sufficient. Pat Burns, now a devoted
Scripture Reader under the Irish Society, was for ten years the leader of
a desperate gang of Ribbandmen, and he told a friend of mine that during
that time he frequently went to the priest, paid him all dues regularly,
and obtained absolution from time to time, as his conscience felt uneasy
after the commission of crime; that the priest generally put a penance
upon him, and that when it was performed, he considered himself as good a
man as any other, and as fit for heaven. This same person added that the
priest had never once directed him to the Word of God, or to the Lord
Jesus for salvation.
The same connexion between confession and reconciliation was curiously
illustrated by the following fact. The priest in my friend’s parish gave
nothing during the late contribution towards Irish distress, but the poor
creatures excused his penuriousness on the plea that it was unlucky to
take a priest’s money—that a priest’s money being paid at confession and
absolution, is the price of sin, and often comes from murderers and other
bad characters, as the price of absolution and pardon; and if, therefore,
you buy a horse with it, he will get lame; and if you buy seed corn it
will be blighted.
I am perfectly aware that it may be justly argued that these facts among
the people do not prove that the principle has been adopted by the
Church; but I think it must also be admitted that they do show how
exactly suited to the natural man is the connexion which Rome does assert
between the pardon of sin and certain visible actions amongst men. God
connects his pardon with a deep seated spiritual faith. The human heart
says, “Let me do something. Let me work it out. Let me have some
assurance that I am forgiven.” Popery steps in, and adapts its
principles to both, asserting on the one hand the necessity of faith, but
prescribing on the other a certain penance, and then sealing the whole
with the priest’s absolution, so as to leave no doubt on the sinner’s
mind. According to the language of a late pervert, the priest “shewed
her how she must unite her sacrifice with the holy atoning blood of
Christ, and then in his name pardoned and blessed her. Thus sin had not
been suffered to remain upon her soul.” See how the Gospel was retained,
and at the same time accommodated to the natural cravings of the anxious
heart. The atoning blood was preached, but the act of penance received
with it, so as to give it a tangible application.
But this accommodation fails in giving lasting peace. Nothing, in short,
can really satisfy but the atoning blood of Christ _alone_, and to this
failure may be traced the whole tissue of Romish rites. Penances,
absolutions, masses, holy waters, holy pilgrimages, holy retreats, and,
last of all, extreme unction, are nothing more than fresh efforts to
satisfy the heart; and, though all be combined, they are all found
insufficient. There are, we know, true believers, who, though trammelled
by the system, yet rise above it to Christ; and there are others, again,
whose conscience is so deadened that they live at ease in Zion; but for
conscientious anxious souls the means are insufficient, and anxious fears
keep rising up within the heart. From these remaining doubts has arisen
the last crowning accommodation in the system, namely, purgatory.
In former days I used to wonder what could be the attraction of the
doctrine of purgatory, more especially when I found that there was
scarcely any portion of the system which persons embraced with equal
readiness. It is said of it in the catechism of the Council of Trent,
“Besides hell there is a fire of purgatory, in which the souls of the
pious being tormented for a definite time, expiate their sin; that so an
entrance may be opened to them into the eternal country, into which
nothing defiled can enter.” Now it may be fairly asked from what
principle in the human heart can such a decree have sprung? We can
understand men cheerfully performing penance, and craving the absolution
of the priest. But what can make a pious soul desire to be burnt up in
purgatory? It is not merely a heavenly purification of the ransomed
spirit to prepare it sweetly for the rich enjoyments of the kingdom, but
it is a burning in the fire, and that, strange to say, is the peculiar
privilege of pious souls. Can anything be more extraordinary? And yet,
when you consider it, can anything be more simple? Just take the case of
one of these anxious minds, of which we have been speaking. He has been
going about to establish his own righteousness, but his heart is not
holy. He has endeavoured to unite his sacrifice of penance with the
atoning blood of Christ, and he has received the priest’s pardon, but yet
sin remains. There it is, eating into his heart’s peace, and cleaving
like a leprosy to his soul. And now death approaches, the delusions of
the lower world begin to vanish, and then comes the question, Is sin
forgiven? He has received his last viaticum. Still, is he safe? He has
man’s absolution. Has he God’s pardon? He has performed his penance.
Is sin fully expiated? Oh, that we could point him at once to the simple
sufficiency of the Lamb’s most precious blood! But in default of that,
what must be done? There must be a further accommodation of
Christianity. The heart tells him that his own penance has been
insufficient, so the work of expiation must be carried out beyond the
grave. His conscience whispers that he is not yet prepared to die, so he
clings readily to the hope that something may still be done, that
complete preparation here on earth is not needful, for that an
intermediate state is to follow, in which, though unprepared at his dying
hour, he may yet be made meet for the kingdom of the saints.
Or take the case of another character, the man who has spent his life in
neglect of God. In the day of health he has been occupied with the
world’s interests, and been enabled to stave off the great question of
his soul’s salvation. But now the great enemy is upon him, the day of
account is near, and the Judge must be met in judgment. Under such
circumstances, a man will give anything for time. If possible, time
here; but if that is impossible, time hereafter: at all events, time. He
will do anything to stave off the great decision,—he will grasp anything
that postpones the necessity of preparation. From this mind arises the
hope amongst all classes, of doing something for the dead. I was once
charged myself with carelessness as to men’s salvation, because a certain
dead body was not carried into the church at burial. “If,” said the
woman, “you really believed that you saved souls by carrying the bodies
into church, you would have taken him in as well as others.” Now the
system of Popery has grown out of this anxious fear. It has met the
fears of dying men, by giving a system to their ill-founded hopes. It
has given the man who knows he is unprepared to die a resting-point
beyond the grave. It has shifted the work of preparation to a world
unseen and unknown, and so hushed the voice of conscience by assuring it
that there still remains the hope of expiation for its sin. Purgatory,
therefore, is the last stay for an unsatisfied heart. It gives the hope
of pardon after death, and serves as a sedative for death-bed fears.
Thus, then, we have traced some few particulars of the Romish system to
their hidden sources in the human heart, and have observed some of the
many perversions and modifications which it has provided for the sinner,
to assist him in the pursuit of peace.
“Oh, how unlike the complex works of man,
Heaven’s easy, artless, unencumbered plan!
No meretricious graces to beguile,
No clustering ornaments to clog the pile,
From ostentation, as from weakness, free,
It stands like the cerulean arch we see,
Majestic in its own simplicity.
Inscribed above the portal, from afar
Conspicuous as the brightness of a star,
Legible only by the light they give,
Stand the soul-quickening words, ‘BELIEVE AND LIVE!’”
Here, therefore, we may safely leave our argument; and we would make, in
conclusion, one or two very simple practical remarks.
In the first place, then, we must never feel surprised at seeing amiable,
excellent, and apparently religious men brought under the influence of
Popery; for it has surely appeared to-night, that the characters most
subject to its attraction are those who have felt the power of religious
impression, but who have not been led by the Spirit to know the hallowed
peace of saving grace. Those who are justified in Christ are at peace,
and do not need it; those who are insensible to Divine things are at
ease, and do not care for it; while the intermediate class, consisting of
those who feel the necessity of the Gospel, but do not enjoy its
grace,—they are the persons most open to an accommodated system, and most
prepared for the reception of a spurious Christianity. Until a man has
felt some perplexity, he has no desire to surrender his responsibility to
another; nor until he has felt sin’s burden, does he care for the
temporary relief which may be found from penance and absolution. And
this explains the at first sight remarkable phenomenon of the rapid
progress of Romish principles in latter years, notwithstanding the spread
of evangelical truth, and the increased circulation of the Word of God.
The preaching of the Cross disturbs more minds than it saves, and so
drives the unconverted to have recourse to some substitute for the
Gospel.
A second remark is, that we must never be astonished at the alliance
often witnessed between Popery and Infidelity, for they spring from the
same elements in the human heart. Unbelief and superstition appear, at
first sight, to be directly opposed; but in their secret springs they are
closely allied. They are two human remedies for the uneasiness of the
human heart,—the one rejecting, the other accommodating the Gospel. And
whenever the time shall arise, that the witnesses for Christ shall be
called on once more to bear their cross for the name of Jesus, they must
be prepared to encounter both in a confederate effort against the faith.
In two particulars they agree, in one only they diverge. In their
uneasiness under the influence of the Gospel, and in their rejection of
its simple plan of life, they are one: the difference is only at the
third stage, when the one rejects revelation, the other accommodates it
to its will.
Lastly, we are surely taught that the one and only remedy for Popery and
Popish tendencies is the free, sovereign, and unfettered grace of our
Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. We may discuss the many questions arising
out of the system, and overthrow the Romish advocate even on the
ecclesiastical argument; but in so doing we only protect the outposts.
If we would strike at the root of the evil, we must do it by setting
forth at once the fulness and freedom of the salvation that is in Jesus.
Let the doctrine of justification by faith be written on the heart by the
Holy Ghost, and there will then be little fear from Popery. Let that one
great fundamental truth be neglected and obscured, and the more earnest
that we are in an awakening ministry, the more effectually do we prepare
the way for Rome. In every point, then, let us meet Antichrist by
exalting Christ. If men are harassed by perplexity, let us assure their
faith by proclaiming Christ as revealed in Scripture. If men are craving
after communion with God, let us set Christ before them as the sinner’s
advocate. If they long for holiness, let us tell them of Christ as our
wisdom and righteousness and sanctification and redemption. If they seek
justification, let Christ be honoured as the Lord their righteousness;
and if they look for some further expiation of their in purgatory, let us
still tell them of Christ, who “by one offering hath perfected for ever
them that are sanctified.” This is the weapon which Peter wielded on the
day of Pentecost, and which burst the hold of the Popery of Judaism.
This was the message with which St. Paul set at nought the rising Popery
of Galatia. This was the mighty power which, in the days of the
Reformation, shook Rome to her foundations; and this is the only name
whereby the witnesses for Christ can ever look for victory, for they
overcome, according to the scriptural record, “by the blood of the Lamb,
and by the word of their testimony.”