We have known and believed the love that God hath to us. God is
love; and he that dwelleth in love dwelleth in God, and God in him.
Herein is our love made perfect, that we may have boldness in the day
of judgment; because as he is, so are we in this world. There is no
fear in love but perfect love casteth out fear; because fear hath
torment. He that feareth is not made perfect in love.
HAVE we learnt this lesson? Our reading, and thinking, and praying, have
been in vain, unless they have helped us to believe and know the love
which God has to us. But, indeed, no reading, or thinking, or praying
will teach us that perfectly. God must teach it us himself. It is easy
to say that God is love; easy to say that Christ died for us; easy to say
that God’s Spirit is with us; easy to say all manner of true doctrines,
and run them off our tongues at second-hand; easy for me to stand up here
and preach them to you, just as I find them written in a book. But do I
believe what I say? Do you believe what you say? There is an awful
question. We believe it all now, or think we believe it, while we are
easy and comfortable: but should we have boldness in the day of
judgment?—Should we believe it all, if God visited us, to judge us, and
try us, and pierce asunder the very joints and marrow of our heart with
fearful sorrow and temptation? O Lord, who shall stand in that day?
Suppose, for instance, God were to take away the desire of our eyes, with
a stroke. Suppose we were to lose a wife, a darling child; suppose we
were struck blind, or paralytic; suppose some unspeakable, unbearable
shame fell on us to-morrow: could we say then, God is love, and this
horrible misery is a sign of it? He loves me, for he chastens me? Or
should we say, like Job’s wife, and one of the foolish women, ‘Curse God
and die?’ God knows.
Ah, when that dark day seems coming on us, and bringing some misery which
looks to us beforehand quite unbearable—then how our lip-belief and
book-faith is tried, and burnt up in the fire of God, and in the fire of
our own proud, angry hearts, too! How we struggle and rage at first at
the very thought of the coming misery; and are ready to say, God will not
do this! He cannot—cannot be so unjust, so cruel, as to bring this
misery on me. What have I done to deserve it? Or, if I have deserved
it, what have these innocents done? Why should they be punished for my
sins? After all my prayers, too, and my church-goings, and my tryings to
be good. Is this God’s reward for all my trouble to please him? Then
how vain all our old prayers seem; how empty and dry all ordinances. We
cry, I have cleansed my hands in vain, and in vain washed my heart in
innocency. We have no heart to pray to God. If he has not heard our
past prayers, why should we pray anymore? Let us lie down and die; let
us bear his heavy hand, if we must bear it, sullenly, desperately: but,
as for saying that God is love, or to say that we know the love which God
has for us, we say in our hearts, Let the clergyman talk of that; it is
his business to speak about it; or comfortable, easy people, who are not
watering their pillow with bitter tears all night long. But if they were
in my place (says the unhappy man), they would know a little more of what
poor souls have to go through: they would talk somewhat less freely about
its being a sin to doubt God’s love. He has sent this great misery on
me. How can I tell what more he may not send? How can I help being
afraid of God, and looking up to him with tormenting fear?
Yes, my friends. These are very terrible thoughts—very wrong thoughts
some of them, very foolish thoughts some of them, though pardonable
enough; for God pardons them, as we shall see. But they are real
thoughts. They are what really come into people’s minds every day; and I
am here to talk to you about what is really going on in your soul, and
mine; not to repeat to you doctrines at second-hand out of a book, and
say, There, that is what you have to believe and do; and, if you do not,
you will go to hell: but to speak to you as men of like passions with
myself; as sinning, sorrowing, doubting, struggling human beings; and to
talk to you of what is in my own heart, and will be in your hearts too,
some day, if it has not been already. This is the experience of all
_real_ men, all honest men, who ever struggled to know and to do what is
right. David felt it all. You find it all through those glorious Psalms
of his. He was no comfortable, book-read, second-hand Christian, who had
an answer ready for every trouble, because he had never had any real
trouble at all. David was not one of them. He had to go through a very
rough training—very terrible and fiery trials, year after year; and had
to say, again and again, ‘I am weary of crying; my heart is dry; my heart
faileth me for waiting so long upon my God. All thy billows and storms
are gone over me. Thou hast laid me in a place of darkness, and in the
lowest deep.’—
Not by sitting comfortably reading his book, but by such terrible trials
as that, was David taught to trust God to the uttermost; and to learn
that God’s love was so perfect that he need never dread him, or torment
himself with anxiety lest God should leave him to perish.
Hezekiah felt it, too, good man as he was, when he was sick, and like to
die. And it was not for many a day that he found out the truth about
these dark hours of misery, that by all these things men live, and in all
these things is the life of the Spirit.
And this was Jacob’s experience, too, on that most fearful night of all
his life, when he waited by the ford of Jabbok, expecting that with the
morning light the punishment of his past sins would come on him; and not
only on him, but on all his family, and his innocent children; when he
stood there alone by the dark river, not knowing whether Esau and his
wild Arabs would not sweep off the earth all he had and all he loved; and
knowing, too, that it was his own fault, that he had brought it all upon
them by his own deceit and treachery. Then, when his sins stared him in
the face, and God rose up to judgment against him, he learnt to pray as
he had never prayed before—a prayer too deep for words.
‘And Jacob was left alone: and there wrestled a man with him till the
breaking of the day. And when he saw that he prevailed not against him,
he touched the hollow of Jacob’s thigh; and the hollow of his thigh was
out of joint as he wrestled with him. And he said, Let me go, for the
day breaketh. And he said, I will not let thee go, till thou bless me.
And he blessed him there. And Jacob called the name of that place
Peniel: for I have seen God face to face, and my life is preserved.’
So it may be with us. So it must be with us, in the dark day when our
faith is really tried by terrible affliction.
We must begin as Jacob did. Plead God’s promises, confess the mercies we
have received already. ‘I am not worthy of the least of all the mercies
which thou hast showed to thy servant.’
Ask for God’s help, as Jacob did: ‘Deliver me, I pray thee, out of the
hand of Esau my brother.’ Plead his written promises, and the covenant
of our baptism, which tell us that we are God’s children, and God our
Father, as Jacob did according to his light—‘And thou saidst, I will
surely do thee good.’
So the proud angry heart will perhaps pass out of us, and we shall set
ourselves more calmly to face the worst, and to try if God’s promises be
indeed true, and God be indeed as he has said, ‘Love.’
But do not be astonished, do not be disheartened, if, when the trouble
comes, there comes with it, as to Jacob, a more terrible struggle far, a
struggle too deep for words; if you find out that fine words and set
prayers are nothing in the hour of need, and that you will not be heard
for your much speaking. Ah! the darkness of that time, which perhaps
goes on for days, for months, all alone between you and God himself.
Clergymen and good people may come in with kind words and true words: but
they give no comfort; your heart is still dark, still full of doubt; you
want God himself to speak to your heart, and tell you that he is love.
And you have no words to pray with at last; you have used them all up;
and you can only cling humbly to God, and hold fast. One moment you feel
like a poor slave clinging to his stern master’s arm, and entreating him
not to kill him outright. The next you feel like a child clinging to its
father, and entreating him to save him from some horrible monster which
is going to devour it: but you have no words to pray with, only sighs,
and tears, and groans; you feel that you know not what to pray for as you
ought, know not what is good for you; dare ask for nothing, lest it
should be the wrong thing. And the longer you struggle, the weaker you
become, as Jacob did, till your very bones seem out of joint, your very
heart broken within you, and life seems not worth having, or death
either.
Only hold fast by God. Only do not despair. Only be sure that God
cannot lie; be sure that he who cared for you from your birth hour cares
for you still; that he who loved you enough to give his own Son for you
hundreds of years before you were born, cannot but love you still; do not
despair, I say; and at last, when you are fallen so low that you can fall
no lower, and so weak that you are past struggling, you may hear through
the darkness of your heart the still small voice of God. Only hold fast,
and let him not go until he bless you, and you shall find with Jacob of
old, that as a prince you have power with God and with man, and have
prevailed. And so God will answer you, as he answered Elijah, at first
out of the whirlwind and the blinding storm: but at last, doubt it not,
with the still small voice which cannot be mistaken, which no earthly ear
can hear, but which is more precious to the broken heart than all which
this world gives, the peace which passes understanding, and yet is the
surest and the only lasting peace.
But what is the secret of this strange awful struggle? Can you or I
change God’s will by any prayers of ours? God forbid that we should, my
friends, even if we could; for his will is a good will to us, and his
name is Love.
Do not be afraid of him. If you do, you are not made perfect in love;
you have not yet learnt perfect the lesson of his great love to you. But
what is the secret of this struggle? Why has any poor soul to wrestle
thus with God who made him, before he can get peace and hope? Why is the
trouble sent him at all? It looks at first sight a strange sort of token
of God’s love, to bring the creatures whom he has made into utter misery.
My friends, these are deep questions. There are plenty of answers for
them ready written: but no answers like the Bible ones, which tell us
that ‘whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth; that these sorrows come on us,
and heaviness, and manifold temptations, in order that the trial of our
faith, being much more precious than that of gold, which perishes though
it be tried with fire, may be found to praise, and honour, and glory at
the appearance of Jesus Christ.’ This is the only answer but it does not
explain the reason. It only gives us hope under it. We do not know that
these dreadful troubles come from God. The Bible tells us ‘that God
tempts no man; that he does not afflict willingly, nor grieve the
children of men.’ The Bible speaks at times as if these dark troubles
came from the devil himself; and as if God turned them into good for us
by making them part of our training, part of our education; and so making
some devil’s attempt to ruin us only a great means of our improvement. I
do not know: but this I do know, the troubles are here, and God is love.
At least this is comfortable, that God will let no man be tempted beyond
what he is able: but will with the temptation make a way for us to
escape, that we may be able to bear it. At least this is comfortable,
that our prayers are not needed to change God’s will, because his will is
already that we should be saved; because we are on his side in the battle
against the devil, or the flesh, or the world, or whatever it is which
makes poor souls and bodies miserable, and he on ours: and all we have to
do in our prayers, is to ask advice and orders and strength and courage
from the great Captain of our salvation; that we may fight his battle and
ours aright and to the end. And, my friends, if you be in trouble, if
your heart be brought low within you, remember, only remember, who the
Captain of our salvation is. Who but Jesus who died on the cross—Jesus
who was made perfect by sufferings, Jesus who cried out, ‘My God! my God!
why hast thou forsaken me?’
If Christ had to be made perfect by sufferings, much more must we. If he
needed to learn obedience by sorrow, much more must we. If he needed in
the days of his flesh, to make supplication to God his Father with strong
crying and tears, so do we. And if he was heard in that he feared, so, I
trust, we shall be heard likewise. If he needed to taste even the most
horrible misery of all; to feel for a moment that God had forsaken him;
surely we must expect, if we are to be made like him, to have to drink at
least one drop out of his bitter cup. It is very wonderful: but yet it
is full of hope and comfort. Full of hope and comfort to be able, in our
darkest and bitterest sorrow, to look up to heaven, and say, At least
there is one who has been through all this. As Christ was, so are we in
this world; and the disciple cannot be above his master. Yes, we are in
this world as he was, and he was once in this world as we are, he has
been through all this, and more. He knows all this and more. ‘We have a
High Priest above us who can be touched with the feeling of our
infirmities, because he has been tempted in all things like as we are.
yet without sin.’
Yes, my friends. Nothing like one honest look, one honest thought, of
Christ upon his cross. That tells us how much he has been through, how
much he endured, how much he conquered, how much God loved us, who spared
not his only-begotten Son, but freely gave him for us. Dare we doubt
such a God? Dare we murmur against such a God? Dare we lay the blame of
our sorrows on such a God—our Father? No; let us believe the blessed
message of our confirmation, which tells us that it is his Fatherly hand
which is ever over us, and that even though that hand may seem heavy for
awhile, it is the hand of him whose very being and substance is love, who
made the world by love, by love redeemed man, by love sustains him still.
Though we went down into hell, says David, he is there; though we took
the wings of the morning, and fled into the uttermost part of the sea,
yet there his hand would hold us, and his right hand guide us still. It
is holding and guiding every one of us now, through storm as well as
through sunshine, through grief as well as through joy; let us humble
ourselves under that mighty hand, and it will exalt us in due time. He
knows, and must know, when that due time is, and, till then, he is still
love, and his mercy is over all his works.
SERMON XXIX.
GOD’S CREATION.
GENESIS i. 31.
And God saw everything that he had made, and behold it was very good.
THIS is good news, and a gospel. The Bible was written to bring good
news, and therefore with good news it begins, and with good news it ends.
But it is not so easy to believe. We want faith to believe; and that
faith will be sometimes sorely tried.
Yes; we want faith. As St. Paul says: ‘Through faith we understand that
the worlds were framed by the word of God; so that things which are seen
were not made of things which appear.’
No one can prove to us that God made the world; yet we must believe it;
and what is more, we _do_ believe it, and are certain of it. But all the
proving and arguments in the world will not make us _certain_ that God
made the world; they will only make us feel that it is probable, that it
is reasonable to think so. What, then, does make us _certain_ that God
made the world?—as certain as if we had seen him make it? _Faith_, which
is stronger than all arguments. Faith, which comes down from heaven to
our hearts, and is the gift of God. Faith, which is the light with which
Jesus Christ lights us. Faith, which comes by the inspiration of God’s
Holy Spirit.
So, again, when we have to believe not only that God made the world, but
that all things which he has made are very good.
So it is, and you must believe it. God is good, the absolute and perfect
good; and from good nothing can come but good: and therefore all which
God has made is good, as he is; and therefore if anything in the world
seems to be bad, one of two things must be true of it.
1. Either it is _not_ bad, though it seems so to us; and God will bring
good out of it in his good time, and justify himself to men, and show us
that he is holy in all his works, and righteous in all his ways.
Or else—If the thing be really bad, then God did not make it. It must be
a disease, a mistake, a failure, of man’s making, or some person’s
making, but not of God’s making. For all that he has made he sees
eternally; and behold, it is very good.
Now, I can say that; and I believe it; and God grant I may never say
anything else. And yet I cannot prove it to you by any argument. But I
believe it; and I dare say many of you believe it (you all must believe
it, before all is over), by something better than any argument. By
faith—faith, which speaks to the very core and root of a man’s heart and
reason, and teaches him things surer and deeper than all sermons and
books, all proofs and arguments.
May God, our Heavenly Father, fill our hearts with his Holy Spirit of
faith, that we may believe utterly in his goodness, and therefore believe
in the goodness of all that he has made.
For at times we shall need that faith very much indeed, not only about
our neighbours, but about ourselves. We shall find it hard to believe
that there is goodness in some of our neighbours; and the better we know
ourselves, we shall find it very difficult to believe that there is
goodness in us.
For surely this is a great puzzle.
‘God saw everything that he had made, and behold it was very good.’ And
God made you and me. Are we therefore very good? Or were we ever very
good? Here is a great mystery. It would seem as if we must have been
very good if God made us. For God can make nothing bad. Surely not.
For he who makes bad things is a bad maker; he who makes bad houses is a
bad builder; and he who makes bad men is a bad maker of men. But God
cannot be a bad maker; for he is perfect and without fault in all his
works. Yet men are bad.
Yet, on the other hand, if God made us, and the Bible be true, there must
be good in us. When God said, Let that man be; when God first thought of
us, if I may so speak, before the foundation of the world—he thought of
us as good. He created each of us good in his own mind, else he would
not have created us at all. But why were we not good when we came on
earth? Why do we come into this world sinful? Why does God’s thought of
us, God’s purpose about us, seem to have failed? We do not know, and we
need not know. St. Paul tells us that it came by Adam’s fall; that by
Adam’s fall sin entered into the world, and each man, as he came into it,
became sinful. How that was we cannot understand—we need not understand.
Let us believe, and be silent; but let us believe this also, that St.
Paul speaks truth not in this only but in that blessed and glorious news
with which he follows up his sad and bad news. ‘As by the offence of
one, judgment came upon all men to condemnation; even so by the
righteousness of one, the free gift came upon all men to justification of
life.’
Yes; we may say boldly now, Whatever has been; whatever sin I inherited
from Adam; however sinful I came into this world, God looks on me now,
not as I am in Adam, but as I am in Christ. I am in Christ now, baptized
into Christ, a new creature in Christ; to Christ I belong, and not to
Adam at all; and God looks now, not on the old corrupt nature which I
inherited from Adam, but on the new and good grace which God meant for me
from all eternity, which Christ has given me now. It is that good and
new grace in me which God cares for; it is that good and new grace which
God is working on, to strengthen and perfect it, that I may grow in
grace, and in the likeness of Christ, and become at last what God
intended me to be, when he thought of me first before the foundation of
all worlds, and said, ‘Let us make man [not one man, but all men, male
and female] in our image, after our likeness.’
This, again, is a great mystery. Yet our own hearts will tell us, if we
will look at them, that it is true. Are there not, as it were, two
different persons in us, fighting for the mastery? Are we not so
different at different times, that we seem to ourselves, and to our
neighbours, perhaps, to be two different people, according as we give way
to the better nature or to the worse? Even as David—one year living a
heroic and noble life by faith in God, writing Psalms which will live to
the world’s end, and the next committing adultery and murder. Were those
two Davids the same David? Yes; and yet No. The good and noble David
was David when he obeyed the grace of God. The base and foul David was
David when he gave way to his fallen and corrupt nature.
Even so might we be. Even so, in a less degree, are we sometimes so
unlike ourselves, so ashamed of ourselves, so torn asunder with passions
and lusts, delighting in God’s law and all that is good in our hearts,
and yet finding another law in us which makes us slaves at moments to our
basest passions—to anger, fear, spite, covetousness—that when we think of
it we are ready to cry with St. Paul, ‘Oh, wretched man that I am, who
shall deliver me from the body of this death?’
Who? Who but he of whom St. Paul tells us, gives the answer in the very
next verse, ‘I thank God, that God himself will, through Jesus Christ our
Lord.’
Oh, my friends, whosoever of you have ever felt angry with yourselves,
discontented with yourselves, ashamed of yourselves (and he that has not
felt so knows no more about himself than a dumb animal does)—you that
have felt so, listen to St. Paul’s glorious news and take comfort. Do
you wish to be right? Do you wish to be what God intended you to be
before all worlds? Do you wish that of you the glorious words may come
true, ‘And God saw all that he had made, and behold it was very good?’
Then believe this. That all which is good in you God has made; and that
he will take care of what he has made, for he loves it; that all which is
bad in you, God has _not_ made, and therefore he will destroy it; for he
hates all that he has not made, and will not suffer it in his world; and
that if you, your heart, your will, are enlisted on the good side, if you
are wishing and trying that the good nature in you should conquer the
bad, then you are on the side of God himself, and God himself is on your
side; and ‘if God be for you, who shall be against you?’ Before all
worlds, from eternity itself, God said, ‘Let us make man in our own
likeness;’ and nothing can hinder God’s word but the man himself. The
word of God comes down, says the prophet, as the rain and the dew from
heaven, and, like the rain and dew, returns not to him void, but prospers
in the thing whereto he sends it; only if the ground be hard and barren,
and determined to bring forth thorns and briars, rather than corn and
fruit, is it cursed, and near to burning; and only if a man loves his
fallen nature better than the noble, just, loving, generous grace of God,
and gives himself willingly up to the likeness of the beasts which
perish, can God’s purpose towards him become of none effect.
Take courage, then. If thou dislikest thy sins, so does God. If thou
art fighting against thy worse feelings, so is God. On thy side is God
who made all, and Christ who died for all, and the Holy Spirit who alone
gives wisdom, purity, nobleness. How canst thou fail when he is on thy
side? On thy side are all spirits of just men made perfect, all wise and
good souls and persons in earth and heaven, all good and wholesome
influences, whether of nature or of grace, of matter or of mind. How
canst thou fail if they are on thy side? God, I say, and all that God
has made, are working together to bring true of thee the word of God—‘And
God saw all that he had made, and behold it was very good.’ Believe, and
endure to the end, and thou shalt be found in Christ at the last day;
and, being in Christ, have thy share at last in the blessing which the
Father pronounces everlastingly on Christ, and on the members of Christ,
‘This is my beloved son, in whom I am well pleased.’ Amen.
SERMON XXX.
TRUE PRUDENCE.
MATTHEW vi. 34.
Take, therefore, no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take
thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the
evil thereof.
LET me say a few words to you on this text. Be not anxious, it tells
you. And why? Because you have to be prudent. In practice, fretting
and anxiety help no man towards prudence. We must all be as prudent and
industrious as we can; agreed. But does fretting make us the least more
prudent? Does anxiety make us the least more industrious? On the
contrary, I know nothing which cripples a man more, and hinders him
working manfully, than anxiety. Look at the worst case of all—at a man
who is melancholy, and fancies that all is going wrong with him, and that
he must be ruined, and has a mind full of all sorts of dark, hopeless,
fancies. Does he work any the more, or try to escape one of these
dangers which he fancies are hanging over him? So far from it, he gives
himself up to them without a struggle; he sits moping, helpless, and
useless, and says, ‘There is no use in struggling. If it will come, it
must come.’ He has lost spirit for work, and lost the mind for work,
too. His mind is so full of these dark fears that he cannot turn it to
laying any prudent plan to escape from the very things which he dreads.
And so, in a less degree, with people who fret and are anxious. They may
be in a great bustle, but they do not get their work done. They run
hither and thither, trying this and that, but leaving everything half
done, to fly off to something else. Or else they spend time unprofitably
in dreaming, and expecting, and complaining, which might be spent
profitably in working. And they are always apt to lose their heads, and
their tempers, just when they need them most; to do in their hurry the
very last things which they ought to have done; to try so many roads that
they choose the wrong road after all, from mere confusion, and run with
open eyes into the very pit which they have been afraid of falling into.
As we say here, they will go all through the wood to cut a straight
stick, and bring out a crooked one at last. My friends, even in a mere
worldly way, the men whom I have seen succeed best in life have always
been cheerful and hopeful men, who went about their business with a smile
on their faces, and took the changes and chances of this mortal life like
men, facing rough and smooth alike as it came, and so found the truth of
the old proverb, that ‘Good times, and bad times, and all times pass
over.’ Of all men, perhaps, who have lived in our days, the most truly
successful was the great Duke of Wellington; and one thing, I believe,
which helped him most to become great, was that he was so wonderfully
free from vain fretting and complaining, free from useless regrets about
the past, from useless anxieties for the future. Though he had for years
on his shoulders a responsibility which might have well broken down the
spirit of any man; though the lives of thousands of brave men, and the
welfare of great kingdoms—ay, humanly speaking, the fate of all
Europe—depended on his using his wisdom in the right place, and one
mistake might have brought ruin and shame on him and on tens of
thousands; yet no one ever saw him anxious, confused, terrified. Though
for many years he was much tried and hampered, and unjustly and foolishly
kept from doing his work as he knew it ought to be down, yet when the
time came for work, his head was always clear, his spirit was always
ready; and therefore he succeeded in the most marvellous way. Solomon
says, ‘Better is he that ruleth his spirit, than he that taketh a city.’
Now the Great Duke had learnt in most things to rule his spirit, and
therefore he was able not only to take cities, but to do better still, to
deliver cities,—ay, and whole countries—out of the hand of armies often
far stronger, humanly speaking, than his own.
And for an example of what I mean I will tell you a story of him which I
know to be true. Some one once asked him what his secret was for winning
battles. And he said that he had no secret; that he did not know how to
win battles, and that no man knew. For all, he said, that man could do,
was to look beforehand steadily at all the chances, and lay all possible
plans beforehand: but from the moment the battle began, he said, no
mortal prudence was of use, and no mortal man could know what the end
would be. A thousand new accidents might spring up every hour, and
scatter all his plaits to the winds; and all that man could do was to
comfort himself with the thought that he had done his best, and to trust
in God.
Now, my friends, learn a lesson from this, a lesson for the battle of
life, which every one of us has to fight from our cradle to our grave—the
battle against misery, poverty, misfortune, sickness; the battle against
worse enemies even than they—the battle against our own weak hearts, and
the sins which so easily beset us against laziness, dishonesty,
profligacy, bad tempers, hard-heartedness, deserved disgrace, the
contempt of our neighbours, and just punishment from Almighty God. Take
a lesson, I say, from the Great Duke for the battle of life. Be not
fretful and anxious about the morrow. Face things like men; count the
chances like men; lay your plans like men: but remember, like men, that a
fresh chance may any moment spoil all your plans; remember that there are
thousand dangers round you from which your prudence cannot save you. Do
your best; and then like the Great Duke, comfort yourselves with the
thought that you have done your best; and like him, trust in God.
Remember that God is really and in very truth your Father, and that
without him not a sparrow falls to the ground; and are ye not of more
value than many sparrows, O ye of little faith? Remember that he knows
what you have need of before you ask him; that he gives you all day long
of his own free generosity a thousand things for which you never dream of
asking him; and believe that in all the chances and changes of this life,
in bad luck as well as in good, in failure as well as success, in poverty
as well as wealth, in sickness as well as health, he is giving you and
me, and all mankind good gifts, which we in our ignorance, and our
natural dread of what is unpleasant, should never dream of asking him
for: but which are good for us nevertheless; like him from whom they
come, the Father of lights, from whom comes every good and perfect gift;
who is neither neglectful, capricious, or spiteful, for in him is neither
variableness, nor shadow of turning, but who is always loving unto every
man, and his mercy is over all his works.
Bear this in mind, my friends, in all the troubles of life—that you have
a Father in heaven who knows what you have need of before you ask him,
and your infirmity in asking, and who is wont—is regularly accustomed all
day long—to give you more than either you desire or deserve. And bear it
in mind even more carefully, if you ever become anxious and troubled
about your own soul, and the life to come.
Many people are troubled with such anxieties, and are continually asking,
‘Shall I be saved or not?’ In some this anxiety comes from bad teaching,
and the hearing of false, cruel, and superstitious doctrine. In others
it seems to be mere bodily disease, constitutional weakness and
fearfulness, which prevents their fighting against dark and sad thoughts
when they arise; but in both cases I think that it is the devil himself
who tempts them, the devil himself who takes advantage of their bodily
weakness, or of the false doctrines which they have heard, and begins
whispering in their ears, ‘You have no Father in heaven. God does not
love you. His promises are not meant for you. He does not will your
salvation, but your damnation, and there is no hope for you;’ till the
poor soul falls into what is called religious melancholy, and moping
madness, and despair, and dread of the devil; and often believes that the
devil has got complete power over him, and that he is the slave of Satan
for ever, till, in some cases, the man is even driven to kill himself in
the agony of his despair.
Now, my friends, the true answer to all such dark thoughts is, ‘Your
Heavenly Father knows what you have need of before you ask him; therefore
be not anxious about the morrow, for the morrow shall take care for the
things of itself; sufficient for the day is the evil thereof.’
For in the first place, my friends, the devil was a liar from the
beginning, and therefore the chances are a million to one against his
speaking the truth in any case; and if he tells you that you are going to
be damned, I should take that for a fair sign that you were _not_ going
to be damned, simply because the devil says it, and therefore it _cannot_
be true. No, my friends, the people who have real reason to be afraid
are just those who are not afraid—the self-conceited, self-satisfied
souls; for the devil attacks them too, as he does every one, by their
weakest point, and has his lie ready for them, and whispers, ‘You are all
right; you are safe; you cannot fall; your salvation is sure.’ Or else,
‘You hold the right doctrine; you are orthodox, and perfectly right, and
whoever differs from you must be wrong;’ and so tempts them to vain
confidence and unclean living, or else into pride, hardness of heart,
self-willed and self-conceited quarrelling and slandering and lying for
the sake of their own party in the Church. It is the self-confident ones
who have reason to fear and tremble; for after pride comes a fall. They
have reason to fear, lest while they are crying peace and safety, and
thanking God that they are not as other men are, sudden destruction come
on them; but you anxious, trembling souls, who are terrified at the sight
of your own sins you who feel how weak you are, and ignorant, and
confused, and unworthy to do aught but cry, ‘God be merciful to me a
sinner!’ you are the very ones who have least reason to be afraid, just
because you are most afraid: you are the true penitents over whom your
Father in heaven rejoices; you are those of whom he has said, ‘I am the
High and Holy One who inhabiteth eternity; yet I dwell with him that is
of an humble and contrite heart, to revive the spirit of the humble, and
to comfort the soul of the contrite ones;’ as he will revive and comfort
you, if you will only have faith in God, and take your stand on your
baptism, and from that safe ground defy the devil and all his dark
imaginations, saying, ‘I am God’s child, and God is my father, and
Christ’s blood was shed for me, and the Holy Spirit of God is with me;
and in the strength of my baptism, I will hope against hope; I trust in
the Lord my God, who has called me into this state of salvation, that he
will keep to the end the soul which I have committed to him through Jesus
Christ my Lord.’
Yes. Be not anxious for the morrow, and much more, be not anxious for
the life to come. Your Heavenly Father knew that you had need of
salvation long before you asked him. Eighteen hundred years before you
were born, he sent his Son into the world to die for you; when you were
but an infant he called you to be baptized into his Church, and receive
your share of his Spirit. Long before you thought of him, he thought of
you; long before you loved him, he loved you; and if he so loved you,
that he spared not his only begotten Son, but freely gave him for you,
will he not with that Son freely give you all things? Therefore, fear
not, little flock; it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the
kingdom.
And be not anxious about the morrow; for the morrow shall be anxious
about the things of itself. Be anxious about to-day, if you will; and
‘work out your salvation with fear and trembling;’ for it is God who
works in you to will and to do of his good pleasure; and therefore you
can do right; and therefore, again, it is your own fault if you do not do
right. And yet, for that very reason, be not over anxious; for ‘if God
be with you, who can be against you?’ If God, who is so mighty that he
made all heaven and earth, be on our side, surely stronger is he that is
with you than he that is against you. If God, who so loved you that he
gave his only begotten Son for you, be on your side, surely you have a
friend whom you can trust. ‘What can part you from his love?’ St. Paul
asks you; from God’s love, which is as boundless and eternal as God
himself; nothing can part you from it, but your own sin.
‘But I do sin,’ you say, ‘again and again, and that is what makes me
fearful. I try to do better, but I fall and I fail all day long. I try
not to be covetous and worldly, but poverty tempts me, and I fall; I try
to keep my temper, but people upset me, and I say things of which I am
bitterly ashamed the next minute. Can God love such a one as me?’ My
answer is, If God loved the whole world when it was dead in trespasses
and sins, and _not_ trying to be better, much more will he love you who
are not dead in trespasses and sins, and are trying to be better. If he
were not still helping you; if his Spirit were not with you, you would
care no more to become better than a dog or an ox cares. And if you
fall—why, arise again. Get up, and go on. You may be sorely bruised,
and soiled with your fall, but is that any reason for lying still, and
giving up the struggle cowardly? In the name of Jesus Christ, arise and
walk. He will wash you, and you shall be clean. He will heal you, and
you shall be strong again. What else can a traveller expect who is going
over rough ground in the dark, but to fall and bruise himself, and to
miss his way too many a time: but is that any reason for his sitting down
in the middle of the moor, and saying, ‘I shall never get to my journey’s
end?’ What else can a soldier expect, but wounds, and defeat, too,
often; but is that any reason for his running away, and crying, ‘We shall
never take the place?’ If our brave men at Sebastopol had done so, and
lost heart each time they were beaten back, not only would they have
never taken the place, but the Russians would have driven them long ago
into the sea, and perhaps not a man of them would have escaped. And, be
sure of it, your battle is like theirs. Every one of us has to fight for
the everlasting life of his soul against all the devils of hell, and
there is no use in running away from them; they will come after us
stronger than ever, unless we go to face them. As with our men at
Sebastopol, unless we beat the enemy, the enemy will destroy us; and our
only hope is to fight to-day’s battle like men, in the strength which God
gives us, and trust him to give us strength to fight to-morrow’s battle
too, when it comes. For here again, as it was at Sebastopol, so it is
with our souls. Let our men be as prudent as they might, they never knew
what to-morrow’s battle would be like, or where the enemy might come upon
them; and no more do we. They in general could not see the very enemy
who was close on them; and no more can we see our enemy, near to us
though he is. To-morrow’s temptations may be quite different from
to-day’s. To-day we may be tempted to be dishonest, to-morrow to lose
our tempers, the day afterwards to be vain and conceited, and a hundred
other things. Let the morrow be anxious about the things of itself,
then; and face to-day’s enemy, and do the duty which lies nearest you.
Our brave men did so. They kept themselves watchful, and took all the
precautions they could in a general way, just as we ought to do each in
his own habits and temper; but the great business was, to go steadily on
at their work, and do each day what they could do, instead of giving way
to vain fears and fancies about what they might have to do some day,
which would have only put them out of heart, and confused and distracted
them. And so it came to pass, that as their day so their strength was;
that each day they got forward somewhat, and had strength and courage
left besides to drive back each new assault as it came; and so at last,
after many mistakes and many failures, through sickness and weakness,
thirst and hunger, and every misery except fear which can fall on man,
they conquered suddenly, and beyond their highest hopes:—as every one
will conquer suddenly, and beyond his highest hope, who fights on
manfully under Christ’s banner against sin; against the sin in himself,
and in his neighbours, and in his parish, and faces the devil and his
works wheresoever he may meet them, sure that the devil and his works
must be conquered at the last, because God’s wrath is gone out against
them, and Christ, who executes God’s wrath, will never sheath his sword
till he has put all enemies under his feet, and death be swallowed up in
victory.
Therefore be not anxious about the morrow. Do to-day’s duty, fight
to-day’s temptation; and do not weaken and distract yourself by looking
forward to things which you cannot see, and could not understand if you
saw them. Enough for you that your Saviour for whom you fight is just
and merciful; for he rewardeth every man according to his work. Enough
for you that he has said, ‘He that is faithful unto death, I will give
him a crown of life.’ Enough for you that if you be faithful over a few
things, he will make you ruler over many things, and bring you into his
joy for evermore.
But as for vain fears, leave them to those who will not believe God’s
message concerning himself—that he is love, and his mercy over all his
works. Leave them for those who deny God’s righteousness, by denying
that he has had pity on this poor fallen world, but has left it to itself
and its sins, without sending any one to save it. And for real fears,
leave them for those who have no fears; for those who think they see, and
yet are blind; who think themselves orthodox and infallible, and beyond
making a mistake, every man his own Pope; who say that they see, and
therefore their sin remaineth; for those who thank God that they are not
as other men are, and who will find the publicans and harlots entering
into the kingdom of heaven before them; and for those who continue in sin
that grace may abound, and call themselves Christians, while they bring
shame on the name of Christ by their own evil lives, by their worldliness
and profligacy, or by their bitterness and quarrelsomeness; who make
religious profession a by-word and a mockery in the mouths of the
ungodly, and cause Christ’s little ones to stumble. Let them be afraid,
if they will; for it were better for them that a millstone were hanged
about their neck, and they were drowned in the midst of the sea. But
those who hate their sins, and long to leave their sins behind; those who
distrust themselves—let them not be anxious about the morrow; for
to-morrow, and to-day, and for ever, the Almighty Father is watching over
them, the Lord Jesus guiding them wisely and tenderly, and the Holy
Spirit inspiring them more and more to do all those good works which God
has prepared for them to walk in, and to conquer in the life-long battle
against sin, the world, and the devil.
SERMON XXXI.
THE PENITENT THIEF.
LUKE xxiii. 42, 43.
And he said unto Jesus, Lord, remember me when thou comest into thy
kingdom. And Jesus said unto him, Verily I say unto thee, To-day
shalt thou be with me in paradise.
THE story of the penitent thief is a most beautiful and affecting one.
Christians’ hearts, in all times, have clung to it for comfort, not only
for themselves, but for those whom they loved. Indeed, some people think
that we are likely to be too fond of the story. They have been afraid
lest people should build too much on it; lest they should fancy that it
gives them licence to sin, and lead bad lives, all their days, provided
only they repent at last; lest it should countenance too much what is
called a death-bed repentance.
Now, God forbid that I should try to narrow Christ’s Gospel. Who am I,
to settle who shall be saved, and who shall not? When the disciples
asked the Lord Jesus, ‘Are there few that be saved?’ he would not tell
them. And what Christ did not choose to tell, I am not likely to know.
But I must say openly, that I cannot see what the story of the penitent
thief has to do with a death-bed repentance; and for this plain reason,
that the penitent thief did not die in his bed.
On the contrary, he received the due reward of his deeds. He was
crucified; publicly executed, by the most shameful, painful, and
lingering torture; and confessed that it was no more than he deserved.
Therefore, if any man say to himself—and I am afraid that some do say to
themselves—‘I know I am leading a bad life; and I have no mind to mend it
yet; the penitent thief repented at the last, and was forgiven; so I dare
say that I shall be;’ one has a right to answer him—‘Very well; but you
must first put yourself in the penitent thief’s place. Are you willing
to be hanged, or worse than hanged, as a punishment for your sins in this
world? For, till then, the penitent thief would certainly not be on the
same footing as you.’
If a man says to himself, I will go on sinning now, on the chance of
repenting at last, and ‘making my peace with God,’ he is not like the
penitent thief, he is much more like a famous Emperor of Rome, who,
though a Christian in name, put off his baptism till his death-bed,
fancying that by it his sins would be washed away, once and for all, and
made use of the meantime in murdering his eldest son and his nephew, and
committing a thousand follies and cruelties. Whether his death-bed
repentance, purposely put off in order to give him time to sin, was of
any use to him, let your own consciences judge.
Has, then, this story of the penitent thief no comfort for us? God
forbid! Why else was it put into Christ’s Gospel of good news? Surely,
there is comfort in it.
Only let us take the story honestly, and word for word as it stands. So
we may hope to be taught by it what it was meant to teach us.
He was a robber. The word means, not a petty thief, but a robber; and
his being put to such a terrible death shows the same thing. Most
probably he had belonged to one of the bands of robbers which haunted the
mountains of Judea in those days, as they used in old times to haunt the
forests in England, and as they do now in Italy and Spain, and other
waste and wild countries. Some of these robbers would, of course, be
shameless and hardened ruffians; as that robber seems to have been who
insulted our Lord upon the very cross. Others among them would not be
lost to all sense of good. Young men who got into trouble ran away from
home, and joined these robber-bands, and found pleasure in the wild and
dangerous life.
There is a beautiful story told of such a young robber in the life of the
blessed Apostle St. John. A young man at Ephesus who had become a
Christian, and of whom St. John was very fond, got into trouble while St.
John was away, and had to flee for his life into the mountains. There he
joined a band of robbers, and was so daring and desperate that they soon
chose him as their captain. St. John came back, and found the poor lad
gone. St. John had stood at the foot of the cross years before, and
heard his Lord pardon the penitent thief; and he knew how to deal with
such wild souls. And what did he do? Give him up for lost? No! He set
off, old as he was, by himself, straight for the mountains, in spite of
the warnings of his friends that he would be murdered, and that this
young man was the most desperate and bloodthirsty of all the robbers. At
last he found the young robber. And what did the robber do? As soon as
he saw St. John coming—before St. John could speak a word to him, he
turned, and ran away for shame; and old St. John followed him, never
saying a harsh word to him, but only crying after him, ‘My son, my son,
come back to your father!’ and at last he found him, where he was hidden,
and held him by his clothes, and embraced him, and pleaded with him so,
that the poor fellow burst into tears, and let St. John lead him away;
and so that blessed St. John went down again to Ephesus in joy and
triumph, bringing his lost lamb with him.
Now, such a man one can well believe this penitent thief to have been. A
man who, however bad he had been, had never lost the feeling that he was
meant for better things; whose conscience had never died out in him. He
may have been such a man. He _must_ have been such a man. For such
faith as he showed on the cross does not grow up in an hour or a day. I
do not mean the feeling that he deserved his punishment (that might come
to a man very suddenly) but the feeling that Christ was the Lord, and the
King of the Jews. He must have bought that by terrible struggles of
mind, by bitter shame and self-reproach. He had heard, I suppose, of
Christ’s miracles and mercy, of his teaching, of his being the friend of
publicans and sinners, had admired the Lord Jesus, and thought him
excellent and noble. But he could not have done that without the Holy
Spirit of God. It was the Holy Spirit striving with his sinful heart,
which convinced him of Christ’s righteousness. But the Holy Spirit would
have convinced him, too, of his own sin. The more he admired our Lord,
the more he must have despised himself for being unlike our Lord; and,
doubt it not, he had passed many bitter hours, perhaps bitter years,
seeing what was right, and yet doing what was wrong from bad habits or
bad company, before he came to his end upon the gallows-tree. And there
while he hung in torture on the cross, the whole truth came to him at
last. God’s Spirit shone truly on him at last, and divided the light
from the darkness in his poor wretched heart. All the good which had
been in him came out once and for all. Christ’s light had been shining
in the darkness of his heart, and the darkness had been trying to take it
in, and close over it, but it could not; and now the light had conquered
the darkness, and all was clear to him at last. He never despised
himself so much, he never admired Christ so much, as when they hung side
by side in the same condemnation. Side by side they hung, scorned alike,
crucified alike, seemingly come alike to open shame and ruin. And yet he
could see that though he deserved all his misery, that the man who hung
by him not only did not deserve it, but was his Lord, the Lord, the King
of the Jews, and that—of course he knew not how—the cross would not
destroy him; that he would come in his kingdom. How he found out that,
no man can tell; the Spirit of God taught him, the Spirit of God alone,
to see in that crucified man the Lord of glory, and to cast himself
humbly before his love and power, in hope that there might be mercy even
for him—‘Lord, remember me when thou comest to thy kingdom.’ There was
faith indeed, and humility indeed; royal faith and royal humility coming
out in that dying robber. And so, if you ask—How was that robber
justified by his works? How could his going into Paradise be the
receiving of the due reward of the deeds done in his body whether they be
good or evil. I say he _was_ justified by his works. He _did_ receive
the due reward of his deeds. One great and noble deed, even that saying
of his in his dying agony,—that showed that whatever his heart had been,
it was now right with God. He could not only confess God’s justice
against sin in his own punishment, but he could see God’s beauty, God’s
glory, yea, God himself in that man who hung by him, helpless like
himself, scourged like himself, crucified like himself, like himself a
scorn to men. He could know that Christ was Christ, even on the cross,
and know that Christ would conquer yet, and come to his kingdom. That
was indeed a faith in the merits of Christ enough to justify him or any
man alive.
Now what has all this to do with you or me living an easy, comfortable
life in sin here, and hoping to die an easy, comfortable death after all,
and get to heaven by having in a clergyman to read and pray a little with
us; and saying a few words of formal repentance, when perhaps our body
and our mind are so worn out and dulled by illness that we hardly know
what we say? No, my friends, if our hearts be right, we shall not think
of the penitent thief to give us comfort about our own souls; but we
shall think of it and love it, to give us comfort about the souls of many
a man or woman for whom we care.
How many men there are who are going wrong, very wrong; and yet whom we
cannot help liking, even loving! In the midst of all their sins, there
is something in them which will not let us give them up. Perhaps,
kind-heartedness. Perhaps, an honest respect for good men, and for good
and right conduct; loving the better, while they choose the worse.
Perhaps, a real shame and sorrow when they have broken out and done
wrong; and even though we know that they will go and do wrong again, we
cannot help liking them, cannot give them up. Then let us believe that
God will not give them up, any more than he gave up the penitent thief.
If there be something in them that we love, let us believe that God loves
it also; and what is more, that God put it into them, as he did into the
penitent thief; and let us hope (we cannot of course be certain, but we
may hope) that God will take care of it, and make it conquer, as he did
in the penitent thief. Let us hope that God’s light will conquer their
darkness; God’s strength conquer their weakness; God’s peace, their
violence; God’s heavenly grace their earthly passions. Let us hope for
them, I say.
When we hear, as we often hear, people say, ‘What a noble-hearted man
that is after all, and yet he is going to the devil!’ let us remember the
penitent thief and have hope. Who would have seemed to have gone to the
devil more hopelessly than that poor thief when he hung upon the cross?
And yet the devil did not have him. There was in him a seed of good, and
of eternal life, which the devil had not trampled out; and that seed
flowered and bore fruit upon the very cross in noble thoughts and words
and deeds. Why may it not be so with others? True, they may receive the
due reward of their deeds. They may end in shame and misery, like the
penitent thief. Perhaps it may be good for them to do so. If a man will
sow the wind, it may be good for him to reap the whirlwind, and so find
out that sowing the wind will not prosper. The penitent thief did so.
As the proverb is, he sowed the gallows-acorn, poor wretch, and he reaped
the gallows-tree; but that gallows-tree taught him to confess God’s
justice, and his own sin, and so it may teach others.
Yes, let us hope; and when we see some one whom we love, and cannot help
loving, bringing misery on himself by his own folly, let us hope and pray
that the day may come to him when, in the midst of his misery, all that
better nature in him shall come out once and for all, and he shall cry
out of the deep to Christ, ‘I only receive the due reward of my deeds; I
have earned my shame; I have earned my sorrow. Lord, I have deserved it
all. I look back on wasted time and wasted powers. I look round on
ruined health, ruined fortune, ruined hopes, and confess that I deserve
it all. But thou hast endured more than this for me, though thou hast
deserved nothing, and hast done nothing amiss. Thou hast done nothing
amiss by me. Thou hast been fair to me, and given me a fair chance; and
more than that, thou hast endured all for me. For me thou didst suffer;
for me thou hast been crucified; and me thou hast been trying to seek and
to save all through the years of my vanity. Perhaps I have not wearied
out thy love; perhaps I have not conquered thy patience. I will take the
blessed chance. I will still cast myself upon thy love. Lord, I have
deserved all my misery; yet, Lord, remember me when thou comest into thy
kingdom.
Oh, my friends, let us hope that that prayer will go up, even out of the
wildest heart, in God’s good time; and that it will not go up in vain.
SERMON XXXII.
THE TEMPER OF CHRIST.
PHILIPPIANS ii. 4.
Let this mind be in you, which was also in Christ Jesus.
WHAT mind? What sort of mind and temper ought to be in us? St. Paul
tells us in this chapter, very plainly and at length, what sort of temper
he means; and how it showed itself in Christ; and how it ought to show
itself in us.
‘All of you,’ he tells us, ‘be like-minded, having the same love; being
of one accord, of one mind. Let nothing be done through strife or
vain-glory: but in lowliness of mind let each esteem others better than
himself. Look not every man on his own things, but every man also on the
things of others.’
First, be like-minded, having the same love. Men cannot all be of
exactly the same opinion on every point, simply because their characters
are different; and the old proverb, ‘Many men, many minds,’ will stand
true in one sense to the end of the world. But in another sense it need
not. People may differ in little matters of opinion, without hating and
despising, and speaking ill of each other on these points; they may agree
to differ, and yet keep the same love toward God and toward each other;
they may keep up a kindly feeling toward each other; and they will do so,
if they have in their hearts the same love of God. If we really love
God, and long to do good, and to work for God; if we really love our
neighbours, and wish to help them, then we shall have no heart to
quarrel—indeed, we shall have no time to quarrel—about _how_ the good is
to be done, provided _it is_ done; and we shall remember our Lord’s own
words to St. John, when St. John said, ‘Master, we saw one casting out
devils in thy name, and he followeth not us: wilt thou therefore that we
forbid him?’
And Jesus said, ‘Forbid him _not_.’
‘Forbid him not,’ said Jesus himself. He that hath ears to hear his
Saviour’s words, let him hear.
‘Therefore,’ St. Paul says, ‘let nothing be done through strife or
vain-glory.’ It is a very sad thing to think that the human heart is so
corrupt, that we should be tempted to do good, and to show our piety,
through strife or vain-glory. But so it is. Party spirit, pride, the
wish to show the world how pious we are, the wish to make ourselves out
better and more reverent than our neighbours, too often creep into our
prayers and our worship, and turn our feasts of charity into feasts of
uncharitableness, vanity, ambition.
So it was in St. Paul’s time. Some, he says, preached Christ out of
contention, hoping to add affliction to his bonds. Not that he hated
them for it, or tried to stop them. Any way, he said, Christ was
preached, whether out of party-spirit against him, or out of love to
Christ; any way Christ was preached: and he would and did rejoice in that
thought. Again I say, ‘He that hath ears to hear, let him hear.’
‘Esteem others better than ourselves?’ God forgive us! which of us does
that? Is not one’s first feeling not ‘Others are better than me,’ but ‘I
am as good as my neighbour, and perhaps better too?’ People say it, and
act up to it also, every day. If we would but take St. Paul’s advice,
and be humble; if we would take more for granted that our neighbours have
common sense as well as we, experience as well as we, the wish to do
right as well as we—and perhaps more than we have; and therefore listen
_humbly_ (that is St. Paul’s word, bitter though it may be to our carnal
pride), listen humbly to every one who is in earnest, or speaks of what
he knows and feels! People are better than we fancy, and have more in
them than we fancy; and if they do not show that they have, it is three
times out of four our own fault. Instead of esteeming them better than
ourselves, and asking their advice, and calling out their experience, we
are too in such a hurry to show them that we are better than they, and to
thrust our advice upon them, that we give them no encouragement to speak,
often no time to speak; and so they are silent and think the more, and
remain shut up in themselves, and often pass for stupider people and
worse people than they really are. Because we will not begin by doing
justice to our neighbours, we prevent them doing justice to themselves.
Look not every man on his own things, but every man also on the things of
others. Ah, my friends, if we could but do that heartily and always,
what a different world it would be, and what different people we should
be! If, instead of saying to ourselves, as one is so apt to do, ‘Will
this suit my interest? will this help me?’ we would recollect to say too,
‘Will this suit my neighbours’ interest? Will this harm my neighbours,
though it may help me? For if it hurts them, I will have nothing to do
with it.’
If, again, instead of saying to ourselves, as we are too apt to do, ‘This
is what I like, and done it shall be,’ we would generously and
courteously think more of what other people like; what will please them,
instruct them, comfort them, soften for them the cares of life, and
lighten the burden of mortality—how much happier would not only they be,
but we also!
For this, my friends, is the very likeness of Christ, who pleased not
himself; the very likeness of Christ, who sacrificed himself.
And for this very reason St. Paul puts it the last of all his advices,
because it is the greatest; the summing up of all; the fulfilment of the
whole law, which says, ‘Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself;’ and
therefore after it he can give no more advice, for there is none better
left to give: but he goes on at once to speak of Christ, who fulfilled
that whole law of love, and more than fulfilled it; for instead of merely
loving his neighbours _as_ he loved himself (which is all God asks of
us), Christ loved his enemies better than himself, and died for them.
So says St. Paul.—‘Look not every man on his own things, but on other
people’s interest and comfort also. Let this mind be in you, which was
also in Christ Jesus.’ What mind? The mind which looks not merely on
its own things, its own interest, its own reputation, its own opinions,
likes, and dislikes, but on those of others, and has learnt to live and
let live.
Yes, this, he says, is the mind of Christ. And this mind, and spirit,
and temper, he showed before all heaven and earth, when, though he was in
the form of God, and therefore, (as some interpret the text) would have
done no robbery, no injustice, by remaining for ever equal with God (that
is, in the co-equal and co-eternal glory which he had with the Father),
yet made himself of no reputation, and took on him the form of a slave,
and was obedient to death, even the death of the cross.
My friends, I beseech you, young and old, rich and poor, remember the
full meaning of these glorious words, and of those which follow them.
‘Wherefore God hath highly exalted him.’ Why? What was it in Christ
which was so precious, so glorious, in the eyes of the Almighty Father,
that no reward seemed too great for him? What but this very spirit of
fellow-feeling and tenderness, charity, self-sacrifice—even the Holy
Spirit of God himself, with which Christ was filled without measure?
Because Christ utterly and perfectly looked not on his own things, but on
the things of others: because he was pity itself, patience itself, love
itself, in the soul and body of a human being; therefore his Father
declared of him, ‘This, this is my well-beloved Son, in whom I am well
pleased.’ Therefore it was that he highly exalted him; therefore it was
that he proclaimed him to be worthy of all honour and worship, the most
perfect, lovely, admirable, and adorable of all beings in heaven and
earth; not merely because he showed himself to be light of light, or
wisdom of wisdom, or power of power; but because he showed himself to be
love of love, and therefore very God of very God begotten, whom men and
angels could not reverence, admire, adore, imitate too much, but were to
see in him the perfection of all beauty, all virtue, all greatness, the
likeness of his Father’s glory, and the express image of his person.
And therefore it is a very good and beautiful old custom to bow when the
name of Jesus is mentioned; at least, when it is mentioned for the first
time, or under any very solemn circumstances. It helps to remind us that
he is really our King and Lord. It helps, too, to remind us that he is
actually and really near us, standing by us, looking at us face to face,
though we see him not; and I am willing to say for myself that whenever I
recollect that he is looking at me (alas! that is not a hundredth part
often enough), I cannot help bowing almost without any will of my own.
But, remember, there is no commandment for it. It is just one of those
things on which a Christian is free to do what he likes, and for which
every Christian is forbidden to judge or blame another, according to St.
Paul’s rule, He that observeth the day, to the Lord he observeth it; and
he that observeth it not, to the Lord he observeth it not. Who art thou
that judgest another? To his own master he standeth or falleth. Yea,
and he shall stand, for God is able to make him stand. Beside, the text
says, if we are to take it literally, as we always ought with Scripture,
not that every _head_ shall bow at the name of Jesus, but every knee.
And to kneel down every time we repeat that holy name would be
impossible. While, on the other hand, we _do_ bow our knees, literally
and in earnest, at the name of Jesus every time we kneel down in church,
every time we kneel down to say our prayers. And if any man is content
with that, no one has the least right to blame him.
Besides, my friends, there is, I know too well, a great danger in making
too much of these little outward ceremonies, especially with children and
young people. For the heart of man is just as fond as it ever was of
idolatry, and superstition, and will-worship, and voluntary humility, and
paying tithe of mint, anise, and cummin, while it neglects the weightier
matters of the law, justice, mercy, and judgment: and, therefore, there
is very great danger, if we make too much of these ceremonies, harmless
and even good as many of them may be, of getting to rest in them, and
thinking that God is pleased with them themselves. Whereas, what God
looks at is the heart, the spirit, the soul; and whether it is right or
wrong, proud or humble, hard or loving: and if we think so much of the
outward and visible form, that we forget the inward and spiritual grace,
for which it ought to stand, then we lay a snare for our own souls to
turn them away from the worship of the living God, and break the second
commandment. Much more, if we pride ourselves on being more reverent
than our neighbours in these outward forms, and look down on, and grudge
at, those who do not practise them; for then we turn our humility into
pride, and our reverence to Christ into an insult to him; for the true
way to honour Christ is to copy Christ. No one really honours and
admires Christ’s character who does not copy him; and to esteem ourselves
better than others, to say in our hearts, ‘Stand by, for I am holier than
thou,’ to offend and drive away Christ’s little ones, and wound the
consciences of weak brethren by insisting on things against which they
have a prejudice, is to run exactly counter to Christ and the mind of
Christ, and to be more like the Pharisees than the Lord Jesus. That is
not surely esteeming others better than ourselves: that is not surely
looking not merely on our own things, but also on the things of others;
that is not fulfilling the law of love; that is not following St. Paul’s
example, who gave up, he says, doing many things which he thought right,
because they offended weaker spirits than his own. ‘All things,’ he
says, ‘are lawful to me, but all things are not expedient.’ ‘Ay,’ says
he, ‘I would eat no meat while the world standeth, if it cause my brother
to offend.’
No, my dear friends, let us rather, in this coming Passion week, take the
lesson which the services of the Church give us in this Epistle. Let us
keep Passion week really and in spirit, by remembering that it means the
week of suffering, in which Christ, instead of pleasing himself,
conquered himself, and gave up himself, and let wicked men do with him
whatsoever they would. Let us honour the holy name of Jesus in spirit
and in truth, and bend not merely our necks or our knees, when we hear
his name, but bend those stiff necks of our souls, and those stubborn
knees of our hearts; let us conquer our self-will, self-opinion,
self-conceit, self-interest, and take his yoke upon us, for he is meek
and lowly of heart. This is the Passion week which he has chosen;—to
distrust ourselves, and our own opinions, likings and fancies. This is
the repentance, and this is the humiliation which he has chosen;—to
entreat him (now and at once, lest by pride we give place to the devil,
and fall while we think we stand) to forgive us every hard, and proud,
and conceited, and self-willed thought, and word, and deed, to which we
have given way since we were born; to pray to him for really new hearts,
really tender hearts, really humble hearts, really broken and contrite
hearts; to look at his beautiful tenderness, patience, sympathy,
understanding, generosity, self-sacrifice; and then to look at ourselves,
and be shocked, and ashamed, and confounded, at the difference between
ourselves and him; and so really to honour the name of Jesus, who humbled
himself, even to the death upon the cross.
I am not judging you, my friends; I am judging myself lest God judge me;
and telling you how to judge yourselves, lest God judge you. Believe me,
if you will but take his yoke on you, you will find it an easy yoke and a
light burden; you will find yourselves happier, your duty simpler, your
prospects clearer, your path through life smoother, your character higher
and more amiable in the eyes of all, and you yourselves holy and fit to
share on Easter day in the precious body and blood of him who gave
himself up to death that he might draw all men to himself; and so draw
them all to each other, as children of one common Father, and brothers of
Jesus Christ your Lord.
SERMON XXXIII.
THE FRIEND OF SINNERS.
(_Preached in London_.)
MARK ii. 15, 16.
And it came to pass, that, as Jesus sat at meat in his house, many
publicans and sinners sat also together with Jesus and his disciples:
for there were many, and they followed him. And when the scribes and
Pharisees saw him eat with publicans and sinners they said onto his
disciples, How is it that he eateth and drinketh with publicans and
sinners?
WE cannot wonder at the scribes and Pharisees asking this question. I
think that we should most of us ask the same question now, if we saw the
Lord Jesus, or even if we saw any very good or venerable man, going out
of his way to eat and drink with publicans and sinners. We should be
inclined to say, as the scribes and Pharisees no doubt said, Why go out
of his way to make fellowship with them? to eat and drink with them? He
might have taught them, preached to them, warned them of God’s wrath
against their sins when he could find them out in the street. Or, even
if he could not do that, if he could not find them all together without
going into their house, why sit down and eat and drink? Why not say,
No—I am not going to join with you in that? I am come on a much more
solemn and important errand than eating. I have no time to eat. I must
preach to you, ere it be too late. And you would have no appetite to
eat, if you knew the terrible danger in which your souls are. Besides,
however anxious for your souls I am, you cannot expect me to treat you as
friends, to make companions of you, and accept your hospitality, while
you are living these bad lives. I shall always feel pity and sorrow for
you: but I cannot be a table companion with you, till you begin to lead
very different lives.
Now if the scribes and Pharisees had said that, should we have thought
them very unreasonable? For whatsoever kinds of sinners the sinners
were, these publicans were the very worst and lowest of company. They
were not innkeepers, as the word means now; they were a kind of
tax-gatherers: but not like ours in England. For first, these taxes were
not taken by the Jewish government, but by the Romans—heathen foreigners
who had conquered them, and kept them down by soldiery quartered in their
country. So that these publicans, who gathered taxes and tribute for the
heathen Cæsar of Rome from their own countrymen, were traitors to their
country, in league with their foreign tyrants, as it were devouring their
own flesh and blood; and all the Jews looked on them (and really no
wonder) with hatred and contempt. Beside, these publicans did not merely
gather the taxes, as they do in free England; they farmed them,
compounded for them with the Roman emperor; that is, they had each to
bring in to the Romans a stated sum of money, each out of his own
district, and to make their own profit out of the bargain by grinding out
of the poor Jews all they could over and above; and most probably calling
in the soldiery to help them if people would not pay. So this was a
trade, as you may easily see, which could only prosper by all kinds of
petty extortion, cruelty, and meanness; and, no doubt, these publicans
were devourers of the poor, and as unjust and hard-hearted men as one
could be. As for those ‘sinners’ who are so often mentioned with them, I
suppose this is what the word means. These publicans making their money
ill, spent it ill also, in a low profligate way, with the worst of women
and of men. Moreover, all the other Jews shunned them, and would not eat
or keep company with them; so they hung all together, and made company
for themselves with bad people, who were fallen too low to be ashamed of
them. The publicans and harlots are often mentioned together; and, I
doubt not, they were often eating and drinking together, God help them!
And God did help them. The Son of God came and ate and drank with them.
No doubt, he heard many words among them which pained his ears, saw many
faces which shocked his eyes; faces of women who had lost all shame;
faces of men hardened by cruelty, and greediness, and cunning, till God’s
image had been changed into the likeness of the fox and the serpent; and,
worst of all, the greatest pain to him of all, he could see into their
hearts, their immortal souls, and see all the foulness within them, all
the meanness, all the hardness, all the unbelief in anything good or
true. And yet he ate and drank with them. Make merry with them he could
not: who could be merry in such company? but he certainly so behaved to
them that they were glad to have him among them, though he was so unlike
them in thought, and word, and look, and action.
And why? Because, though he was so unlike them in many things, he was
like them at least in one thing. If he could do nothing else in common
with them, he could at least eat and drink as they did, and eat and drink
with them too. Yes. He was the Son of man, the man of all men, and what
he wanted to make them understand was, that, fallen as low as they were,
they were men and women still, who were made at first in God’s likeness,
and who could be redeemed back into God’s likeness again.
The only way to do that was to begin with them in the very simplest way;
to meet them on common human ground; to make them feel that, simply
because they were men and women, he felt for them; that, simply because
they were men and women, he loved them; that, simply because they were
men and women, he could not turn his back upon them, for the sake of his
Father and their Father in heaven. If he had left those poor wretches to
themselves; if he had even merely kept apart from their common every-day
life, and preached to them, they would never have felt that there was
still hope for them, simply because they were men and women. They would
have said in their hearts, ‘See; he will talk to us: but he looks down on
us all the time. We are fallen so low, we cannot rise; we cannot mend.
What is there in us that can mend? We are nothing but brutes, perhaps;
then brutes we must remain. Heaven is for people like him, perhaps; but
not for such as us. We are cut off from men. We have no brothers upon
earth, no Father in heaven.’ ‘Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we
die.’
Yes; they would have said this; for people like them will say it too
often now, here in Christian England.