in a homely and simple way (for our Lord’s words are always simple and
homely, grand and deep and wonderful as they are), then do you not see
how _self-respect_ would begin to rise in those poor sinners’ hearts?
Not that they would say, ‘We are better men than we thought we were.’
No; perhaps his kindness would make them all the more ashamed of
themselves, and convince them of sin all the more deeply; for nothing,
nothing melts the sinner’s hard, proud heart, like a few unexpected words
of kindness—ay, even a cordial shake of the hand from any one who he
fancies looks down on him. To find a loving brother, where he expected
only a threatening schoolmaster—that breaks the sinner’s heart; and most
of all when he finds that brother in Jesus his Saviour. That—the sight
of God’s boundless love to sinners, as it is revealed in the loving face
of Jesus Christ our Lord—that, and that alone, breeds in the sinner the
broken and the contrite heart which is in the sight of God of great
price. And so, those publicans and sinners would not have begun to say,
We are better than we thought: but, We can become better than we thought.
He must see something in us which makes him care for us. Perhaps God may
see something in us to care for. He does not turn his back on us.
Perhaps God may not. He must have some hope of us. May we not have hope
of ourselves? Surely there is a chance for us yet. Oh! if there were!
We are miserable now in the midst of our drunkenness, and our
covetousness, and our riotous pleasures. We are ashamed of ourselves:
and our countrymen are ashamed of us: and though we try to brazen it off
by impudence, we carry heavy hearts under bold foreheads. Oh, that we
could be different! Oh, that we could be even like what we were when we
were little children! Perhaps we may be yet. For he treats us as if we
were men and women still, his brothers and sisters still. He thinks that
we are not quite brute animals yet, it seems. Perhaps we are not;
perhaps there is life in us yet, which may grow up to a new and better
way of living. What shall we do to be saved?
O blessed charity, bond of peace and of all virtues; of brotherhood and
fellow-feeling between man and man, as children of one common Father.
Ay, bond of all virtues—of generosity and of justice, of counsel and of
understanding. Charity, unknown on earth before the coming of the Son of
man, who was content to be called gluttonous and a wine-bibber, because
he was the friend of publicans and sinners!
My friends, let us try to follow his steps; let us remember all day long
what it is to be _men_; that it is to have every one whom we meet for our
brother in the sight of God; that it is this, never to meet any one,
however bad he may be, for whom we cannot say, ‘Christ died for that man,
and Christ cares for him still. He is precious in God’s eyes; he shall
be precious in mine also.’ Let us take the counsel of the Gospel for
this day, and love one another, not in word merely—in doctrine, but in
deed and in truth, really and actually; in our every-day lives and
behaviour, words, looks—in all of them let us be cordial, feeling,
pitiful, patient, courteous. Masters with your workmen, teachers with
your pupils, parents with your children, be cordial, and kind, and
patient; respect every one, whether below you or not in the world’s eyes.
Never do a thing to any human being which may lessen his self-respect;
which may make him think that you look down upon him, and so make him
look down upon himself in awkwardness and shyness; or else may make him
start off from you, angry and proud, saying, ‘I am as good as you; and if
you keep apart from me, I will from you; if you can do without me, I can
do without you. I want none of your condescension.’ It is _not_ so.
You cannot do without each other. We can none of us do without the
other; do not let us make any one fancy that he can, and tempt him to
wrap himself up in pride and surliness, cutting himself off from the
communion of saints, and the blessing of being a man among men.
And if any of you have a neighbour, or a relation fallen into sin, even
into utter shame;—oh, for the sake of Him who ate and drank with
publicans and sinners, never cast them off, never trample on them, never
turn your back upon them. They are miserable enough already, doubt it
not. Do not add one drop to their cup of bitterness. They are ashamed
of themselves already, doubt it not. Do not you destroy in them what
small grain of self-respect still remains. You fancy they are not so.
They seem to you brazen-faced, proud, impenitent. So did the publicans
and harlots seem to those proud, blind Pharisees. Those pompous,
self-righteous fools did not know what terrible struggles were going on
in those poor sin-tormented hearts. Their pride had blinded them, while
they were saying all along, ‘It is we alone who see. This people, which
knoweth not the law, is accursed.’ Then came the Lord Jesus, the Son of
man, who knew what was in man; and he spoke to them gently, cordially,
humanly; and they heard him, and justified God, and were baptized,
confessing their sins; and so, as he said himself, the publicans and
harlots went into the kingdom of God before those proud, self-conceited
Pharisees.
Therefore, I say, never hurt any one’s self-respect. Never trample on
any soul, though it may be lying in the veriest mire; for that last spark
of self-respect is as its only hope, its only chance; the last seed of a
new and better life; the voice of God which still whispers to it, ‘You
are not what you ought to be, and you are not what you can be. You are
still God’s child, still an immortal soul: you may rise yet, and fight a
good fight yet, and conquer yet, and be a man once more, after the
likeness of God who made you, and Christ who died for you!’ Oh, why
crush that voice in any heart? If you do, the poor creature is lost, and
lies where he or she falls, and never tries to rise again. Rather bear
and forbear; hope all things, believe all things, endure all things; so
you will, as St. John tells you in the Epistle, know that you are of the
truth, in the true and right road, and will assure your hearts before
God. For this is his commandment, that we should believe in the name of
his Son Jesus Christ, and believe really that he is now what he always
was, the friend of publicans and sinners, and love one another as he gave
us commandment. That was Christ’s spirit; the fairest, the noblest
spirit upon earth; the spirit of God whose mercy is over all his works;
and hereby shall we know that Christ abideth in us, by his having given
us the same spirit of pity, charity, fellow-feeling and love for every
human being round us.
And now, I will also give you one lesson to carry home with you—a lesson
which if we all could really believe and obey, the world would begin to
mend from to-morrow, and every other good work on earth would prosper and
multiply tenfold, a hundredfold—ay, beyond all our fairest dreams. And
my lesson is this. When you go out from this church into those crowded
streets, remember that there is not a soul in them who is not as precious
in God’s eyes as you are; not a little dirty ragged child whom Jesus,
were he again on earth, would not take up in his arms and bless; not a
publican or a harlot with whom, if they but asked him, he would not eat
and drink—now, here, in London on this Sunday, the 8th of June, 1856, as
certainly as he did in Jewry beyond the seas, eighteen hundred years ago.
Therefore do to all who are in want of your help as Jesus would do to
them if he were here; as Jesus is doing to them already: for he is here
among us now, and for ever seeking and saving that which was lost; and
all we have to do is to believe that, and work on, sure that he is
working at our head, and that though we cannot see him, he sees us; and
then all will prosper at last, for this brave old earth whereon we are
living now, and for that far braver new heaven and new earth whereon we
shall live hereafter.
SERMON XXXIV.
THE SEA OF GLASS.
(_Trinity Sunday_.)
REVELATION iv. 9, 10, 11.
And when those beasts give glory, and honour, and thanks to him that
sat on the throne, who liveth for ever and ever, the four and twenty
elders fall down before him that sat on the throne, and worship him
that liveth for ever and ever, and cast their crowns before the
throne, saying, Thou art worthy, O Lord, to receive glory, and
honour, and power: for thou hast created all things, and for thy
pleasure they are and were created.
THE Church bids us read this morning the first chapter of Genesis, which
tells us of the creation of the world. Not merely on account of that
most important text, which, according to some divines, seems to speak of
the ever-blessed Trinity, and brings in God as saying, ‘Let _us_ make man
in _our_ image;’ not, Let me make man in my image; but, Let _us_, in
_our_ image.—Not merely for this reason is Gen. i. a fit lesson for
Trinity Sunday: but because it tells us of the whole world, and all that
is therein, and who made it, and how. It does not tell us why God made
the world; but the Revelations do, and the text does. And therefore
perhaps it is a good thing for us that Trinity Sunday comes always in the
sweet spring time, when all nature is breaking out into new life, when
leaves are budding, flowers blossoming, birds building, and countless
insects springing up to their short and happy life. This wonderful world
in which we live has awakened again from its winter’s sleep. How are we
to think of it, and of all the strange and beautiful things in it?
Trinity Sunday tells us; for Trinity Sunday bids us think of and believe
a matter which we cannot understand—a glorious and unspeakable God, who
is at the same time One and Three. We cannot understand that. No more
can we understand anything else. We cannot understand how the grass
grows beneath our feet. We cannot understand how the egg becomes a bird.
We cannot understand how the butterfly is the very same creature which
last autumn was a crawling caterpillar. We cannot understand how an atom
of our food is changed within our bodies into a drop of living blood. We
cannot understand how this mortal life of ours depends on that same
blood. We do not know even what life is. We do not know what our own
souls are. We do not know what our own bodies are. We know nothing. We
know no more about ourselves and this wonderful world than we do of the
mystery of the ever-blessed Trinity. That, of course, is the greatest
wonder of all. For, as I shall try to show you presently, God himself
must be more wonderful than all things which he has made. But all that
he has made is wonderful; and all that we can say of it is, to take up
the heavenly hymn which this chapter in the Revelations puts into our
mouths, and join with the elders of heaven, and all the powers of nature,
in saying, ‘Thou art worthy, O Lord, to receive glory, and honour, and
power; for thou hast created all things, and for thy pleasure they are
and were created.’
Let us do this. Let us open our eyes, and see honestly what a wonderful
world we live in; and go about all our days in wonder and humbleness of
heart, confessing that we know nothing, and that we cannot know;
confessing that we are fearfully and wonderfully made, and that our soul
knows right well; but that beyond we know nothing; though God knows all;
for in his book were all our members written, which day by day were
fashioned, while as yet there were none of them. ‘How great are thy
counsels, O God! they are more than I am able to express,’ said David of
old, who knew not a tenth part of the natural wonders which we know;
‘more in number than the hairs of my head, if I were to speak of them.’
This will keep us from that proud and yet shallow temper of mind which
people are apt to fall into, especially young men who are clever and
self-educated, and those who live in great towns, and so lose the sight
of the wonderful works of God in the fields and woods, and see hardly
anything but what man has made; and therefore forget how weak and
ignorant even the wisest man is, and how little he understands of this
great and glorious world.
Such people are apt to fancy men are clever enough to understand
anything. Then they say, ‘Why am I to believe anything I cannot
understand?’ And then they laugh at the mysteries of faith, and say,
‘Three Persons in one God! I cannot understand that! Why am I expected
to believe it?’
Now, here is the plain answer to such unwise speech (for unwise it is,
let it be dressed up in all fine long words, and show of wisdom), whether
the doctrine be true or not, your not understanding the matter is no
reason against it. Here is the answer: ‘You _do_ believe all day long a
hundred things which you do not understand; which quite surpass your
reason. You believe that you are alive: but you do not understand how
you live. You believe that, though you are made up of so many different
faculties and powers, you are one person: but you cannot understand how.
You believe that though your body and your mind too have gone through so
many changes since you were born, yet you are still one and the same
person, and nobody else but yourself; but you cannot understand that
either. You know it is so; but how and why it is so, you cannot explain;
and the greatest philosopher would not be foolish enough to try to
explain; because, if he is a really great scholar, he knows that it
cannot be explained. You lift your hand to your head: but how you do it,
neither you nor any mortal man knows; and true philosophers tell you that
we shall probably never know. True philosophers tell you that in the
simplest movement of your body, in the growth of the meanest blade of
grass, let them examine it with the microscope, let them think over it
till their brains are weary, there is always some mystery, some wonder
over and above, which neither their glasses nor their brains can explain,
or even find and see, much less give a name to. They know that there is
more in the matter, in the simplest matter, than man can find out; and
they are content to leave the wonder in the hands of God who made it; and
when they have found out all they can, confess, that the more they know,
the less they find they know.
I tell you frankly, my friends, if you were to see through the microscope
a few of the wonderful things which are going on round you now in every
leaf, and every gnat which dances in the sunbeam; if you were to learn
even the very little which is known about them, you would see wonders
which would surpass your powers of reasoning, just as much as that far
greater wonder of the ever-blessed Trinity; things which you would not
believe, if your own eyes did not show them you.
And what if it be strange? What is there to surprise us in that? If the
world be so wonderful, how much more wonderful must that great God be who
made the world, and keeps it always living? If the smallest blade of
grass be past our understanding, how much more past our understanding
must be the Absolute, Eternal, Almighty God? Do you not see that common
sense and reason lead us to expect that God should be the most wonderful
of all beings and things; that there must be some mystery and wonder in
him which is greater than all mysteries and wonders upon earth, just as
much as _he_ is greater than all heaven and earth? Which must be most
wonderful, the maker or the thing made? Thou art man, made in the
likeness of God. Thou canst not understand thyself. How much less canst
thou understand God, in whose likeness thou art made!
For my part, instead of keeping people from learning, lest they should
grow proud, and despise the mysteries of faith, I would make them learn,
and entreat them to learn, and look seriously and patiently at all the
wonderful things which are going on round them all day long; for I am
sure that they would be so much astonished with what they saw on earth,
that they would not be astonished, much less staggered, at anything they
heard of in heaven; and least of all astonished at being told that the
name of Almighty God was too deep for the little brain of mortal man; and
that they would learn more and more to take humbly, like little children,
every hint which the experience of wise and good men of old time gives us
of the everlasting mystery of mysteries, the glory of the Triune God,
which St. John saw in the spirit.
And what did St. John see? Something beyond even an apostle’s
understanding. Something which he could only see himself dimly, and
describe to us in figures and pictures, as it were, to help us to imagine
that great wonder.
He was in the spirit, he says, when he saw it. That is, he did not see
it with his bodily eyes, but with his soul, his heart and mind. Not with
his bodily eyes (for no man hath seen God at any time), but with his
mind’s eye, which God had enlightened by his Holy Spirit.
He sees a throne in heaven, and one sitting on it, bright and pure as
richest precious stone; and round his throne a rainbow like an emerald,
the sign to us of hope, and faithfulness, mercy and truth, which he
himself appointed after the flood, to comfort the fearful hearts of men.
Around him are elders crowned; men like ourselves, but men who have
fought the good fight, and conquered, and are now at rest; pure, as their
white garments tell us; and victorious, as their golden crowns tell us.
And from the throne come thunderings, and lightnings, and voices, as they
did when he spoke to the Jews of old—signs of his terrible power, as
judge, and lawgiver, and avenger of all the wrong which is done on earth.
And there are there, too, seven burning lamps, the seven spirits of God,
which give light and life to all created things, and most of all to
righteous hearts. And before the throne is a sea of glass; the same sea
which St. John saw in another vision, with us human beings standing on
it, and behold it was mingled with fire;—the sea of time, and space, and
mortal life, on which we all have our little day; the brittle and
dangerous sea of earthly life; for it may crack any moment beneath our
feet, and drop us into eternity, and the nether fire, unless we have his
hand holding us, who conquered time, and life, and death, and hell
itself.
It seems to us to be a great thing now, time, and space, and the world;
and yet it looked small enough to St. John, as it lies in heaven, before
the throne of Christ; and he passes it by in a few words. For what are
all suns and stars, and what are all ages and generations, and millions
and millions of years, compared with eternity; with God’s eternal heaven,
and God whom not even heaven can contain?—One drop of water in comparison
with all the rain clouds of the western sea.
But there is one comfort for us in St. John’s vision; that brittle, and
uncertain, and dangerous as life may be, yet it is before the throne of
God, and before the feet of Christ. St. John saw it lying there in
heaven, for a sign that in God we live, and move, and have our being.
Let us be content, and hope on, and trust on; for God is with us, and we
with God.
But St. John saw another wonder. Four beasts—one like a man, one like a
calf, one like an eagle, one like a lion, with six wings each.
What those living creatures mean, I can hardly tell you. Some wise and
learned men say they mean the four Evangelists: but, though there is much
to be said for it, I hardly think that; for St. John, who saw them, was
one of the four Evangelists himself. Others think they mean great and
glorious archangels; and that may be so. But certainly the Bible always
speaks of angels as shaped like men, like human beings, only more
beautiful and glorious. The two angels, for instance, who appeared to
the three men at our Lord’s tomb, are plainly called in one place, young
men. I think, rather, that these four living creatures mean the powers
and talents which God has given to men, that they may replenish the
earth, and subdue it. For we read of these same living creatures in the
book of the prophet Ezekiel; and we see them also on those ancient
Assyrian sculptures which are now in the British Museum; and we have good
reason to think that is what they mean there. The creature with the
man’s head means reason; the beast with the lion’s head, kingly power and
government; with the eagle’s head, and his piercing eye, prudence and
foresight; with the ox’s head, labour, and cultivation of the earth, and
successful industry. But whatsoever those living creatures mean, it is
more important to see what they do. They give glory, and honour, and
thanks to him who sits upon the throne. They confess that all power, all
wisdom, all prudence, all success in men or angels, in earth or heaven,
comes from God, and is God’s gift, of which he will require a strict
account; for he is Holy, Holy, Holy, Lord God Almighty; and all things
are of him, and by him, and for him, for ever and ever.
But who is he who sits upon the throne? Who but the Lord Jesus Christ?
Who but the Babe of Bethlehem? Who but the Friend of publicans and
sinners? Who but he who went about doing good to suffering mortal man?
Who but he who died on the cross? Who but he on whose bosom St. John
leaned at supper, and now saw him highly exalted, having a name above
every name?
Oh, blest St. John, to see that sight! To see his dear Master in his
glory, after having seen him in his humiliation! God grant us so to
follow in St. John’s steps, that we may see the same sight, unworthy
though we are, in God’s good time.
And where is God the Father? Yes, where? The heaven, and the heaven of
heavens, cannot contain him, whom no man hath seen, or can see; who
dwells in the light, whom no man can approach unto. Only the only
begotten Son, who dwells in the bosom of the Father, he hath declared
him, and shown to men in his own perfect loveliness and goodness, what
their heavenly Father is. That was enough for St. John; let it be enough
for us. He who has seen Christ has seen the Father, as far as any
created being can see him. The Son Christ is merciful: therefore the
Father is merciful. The Son is just: therefore the Father is just. The
Son is faithful and true: therefore the Father is faithful and true. The
Son is almighty to save: therefore the Father is almighty to save. Let
that be enough for you and me.
But where is the Holy Spirit? There is no _where_ for spirits. All that
we can say is, that the Holy Spirit is proceeding for ever from the
Father and the Son; going forth for ever, to bring light and life,
righteousness and love, to all worlds, and to all hearts who will receive
him. The lamps of fire which St. John saw, the dove which came down at
Christ’s baptism, the cloven tongues of fire which sat on the
Apostles—these were signs and tokens of the Spirit; but they were not the
Spirit itself. Of him it is written, ‘He bloweth where he listeth, and
thou hearest the sound thereof, but canst not tell whence he cometh or
whither he goeth.’
It is enough for us that he is the Holy Spirit, the Spirit of the Holy
Father, and of the Holy Son; like them eternal, like them
incomprehensible, like them almighty, like them all-wise, all-just,
all-loving, merciful, faithful, and true for ever.
This is what St. John saw—Christ the crucified, Christ the Babe of
Bethlehem, in the glory which he had before all worlds, and shall have
for ever; with all the powers of this wondrous world crying to him for
ever, ‘Holy, Holy, Holy, Lord God Almighty, which was, and is, and is to
come; and the souls of just men made perfect answering those mystic
animals, and joining their hymns of praise to the hymn which goes up for
ever from sun and stars, from earth and sea,—when they find out the
deepest of all wisdom—the lesson which all the wonders of this earth, and
all which ever has happened, or will happen, in space and time, is meant
to teach us:—
‘Thou art worthy, O Lord, to receive glory, and honour, and power; for
Thou hast created all things, and for Thy pleasure they are and were
created.’
This is all that I can tell you. It may be a very little: but is it not
enough? What says Solomon the wise? ‘Knowest thou how the bones grow in
the womb?’ Not thou. How, then, wilt thou know God, who made all
things? Thou art fearfully and wonderfully made, though thou art but a
poor mortal man. And is not God more fearfully and wonderfully made than
thou art? It is a strange thing, and a mystery, how we ever got into
this world: a stranger thing still to me, how we shall ever get out of
this world again. Yet they are common things enough—birth and death.
‘Every moment dies a man, every moment one is born:’ and yet you do not
know what is the meaning of birth or death either: and I do not know; and
no man knows. How, then, can we know the mystery of God, in whose hand
are the issues of life and death?—God to whom all live for ever, living
and dead, born and unborn, in heaven and in hell?
So it is in small things as well as great, in great as well as small; and
so it ever will be. ‘All things begin in some wonder, and in some wonder
all things end,’ said Saint Augustine, wisest in his day of all mortal
men; and all that great scholars have discovered since prove more and
more that Saint Augustine’s words were true, and that the wisest are
only, as a great philosopher once said, and one, too, who discovered more
of God’s works than any man for many a hundred years, even Sir Isaac
Newton himself: ‘The wisest of us is but like a child picking up a few
shells and pebbles on the shore of a boundless sea.’
The shells and pebbles are the little scraps of knowledge which God
vouchsafes to us, his sinful children; knowledge, of which at best St.
Paul says, that we know only in part, and prophesy in part, and think as
children; and that knowledge shall vanish away, and tongues shall cease,
and prophecies shall fail.
And the boundless sea is the great ocean of time—of God’s created
universe, above which his Spirit broods over, perfect in love, and
wisdom, and almighty power, as at the beginning, moving above the face of
the waters of time, giving life to all things, for ever blessing, and for
ever blest.
God grant us all to see the day when we shall have passed safely across
that sea of time, up to the sure land of eternity; and shall no more
think as children, or know in part; but shall see God face to face, and
know him even as we are known; and find him, the nearer we draw to him,
more wonderful, and more glorious, and more good than ever;—‘Holy, Holy,
Holy, Lord God Almighty, which was, and is, and is to come.’ And
meanwhile, take comfort, and recollect however little you and I may know,
God knows: he knows himself, and you, and me, and all things; and his
mercy is over all his works.
SERMON XXXV.
A GOD IN PAIN.
(_Good Friday_.)
HEBREWS ii. 9, 50.
But we see Jesus, who was made a little lower than the angels for the
suffering of death, crowned with glory and honour; that he by the
grace of God should taste death for every man. For it became him,
for whom are all things, and by whom are all things, in bringing many
sons unto glory, to make the Captain of their salvation perfect
through sufferings.
WHAT are we met together to think of this day? God in pain: God
sorrowing; God dying for man, as far as God could die. Now it is
this;—the blessed news that God suffered pain, God sorrowed, God died, as
far as God could die—which makes the Gospel different from all other
religions in the world; and it is this, too, which makes the Gospel so
strong to conquer men’s hearts, and soften them, and bring them back to
God and righteousness in a way no other religion ever has done. It is
the good news of this good day, well called Good Friday, which wins souls
to Christ, and will win them as long as men are men.
The heathen, you will find, always thought of their gods as happy. The
gods, they thought, always abide in bliss, far above all the chances and
changes of mortal life; always young, strong, beautiful, needing no help,
needing no pity; and therefore, my friends, never calling out our love.
The heathens never _loved_ their gods: they admired them, thanked them
when they thought they helped them; or they were afraid of them when they
thought they were offended.
But as far as I can find, they never really loved their gods. Love to
God was a new feeling, which first came into the world with the good news
that God had suffered and that God had died upon the cross. That was a
God to be loved, indeed; and all good hearts loved him, and will love him
still.
For you cannot really love any one who is quite different from you; who
has never been through what you have. You do not think that he can
understand you; you expect him to despise you, laugh at you. You say, as
I have heard a poor woman say of a rich one, ‘How can she feel for me?
She does not know what poor people go through.’
Now it is just that feeling which mankind had about God till Christ died.
God, or the gods, were beautiful, strong, happy, self-sufficient, up in
the skies; and men on earth were full of sorrow and trouble, disease,
accidents, death; and sin, too; quarrelling and killing, hateful and
hating each other. How could the gods love men? And then men had a
sense of sin; they felt they were doing wrong. Surely the gods hated
them for doing wrong. Surely all the sorrows and troubles which came on
them were punishments for doing wrong. How miserable they were! But the
gods sat happy up in heaven, and cared not for them. Or, if the gods did
care, they cared only for special favourites. If any man was very good,
or strong, or handsome, or clever, or rich, or prosperous, the gods cared
for him—he was a favourite. But what did they care for poor, ugly,
deformed, unfortunate, foolish wretches? Surely the gods despised them,
and had sent them into the world to be miserable. There was no sympathy,
no fellow-feeling between gods and men. The gods did not love men as
men. Why should men love them? And so men did not love them.
And as there was no love to God before Good Friday, so there was no love
to men.
If God despised the poor, the deformed, the helpless, the ignorant, the
crazy, why should not man? If God was hard on them, why should not man
oppress and ill-use them? And so you will find that there was no charity
in the world.
Among some of the Eastern nations—the Hindoos, for instance—when they
were much better men than now, charity did spring up for a while here and
there, in a very beautiful shape; but among Greeks and Romans there was
simply no charity; and you will find little or none among the Jews
themselves.
The Pharisees gave alms to save their own souls, and feed their own pride
of being good; but had no charity—‘This people, who knoweth not the law,
is accursed.’ As for poor, diseased people, they were born in sin:
either they or their parents had sinned. We may see that the poor of
Judea, as well as Galilee, were in a miserable, neglected, despised
state; and the worst thing that the Pharisees could say of our Lord Jesus
was, that he ate and drank with publicans and sinners. Because there was
no love to God, there was no love to man. There was a great gulf fixed
between every man and his neighbour.
But Christ came; God came; and became man. And with the blood of his
cross was bridged over for ever the gulf between God and man, and the
gulf between man and man.
Good Friday showed that there was sympathy, there was fellow-feeling
between God and man; that God would do all for man, endure all for man;
that God so desired to make man like God, that he would stoop to be made
like man. There was nothing God would not do to justify himself to man,
to show men that he did care for them, that he did love the creatures
whom he had made. Yes; God had not forgotten man; God had not made man
in vain. God had not sent man into the world to be wicked and miserable
here, and to perish for ever hereafter. Wickedness and misery were here;
but God had not put them here, and he would not leave them here. He
would conquer them by enduring them. Sin and misery tormented men; then
they should torment the Son of God too. Sin and misery killed men; then
they should kill the Son of God, too: he would taste death for every man,
that men might live by him. He would be made perfect by sufferings: not
made perfectly good (for that he was already), but perfectly able to feel
for men, to understand them, to help them; because he had been tempted in
all things like as they.
And so on Good Friday did God bridge over the gulf between God and men.
No man can say now, Why has God sent man into the world to be miserable,
while he is happy? For God in Christ was miserable once. No man can
say, God makes me go through pain, and torture, and death, while he goes
through none of such things: for God in Christ endured pain, torture,
death, to the uttermost. And so God is a being which man can love,
admire, have fellow-feeling for; cling to God with all the noble feelings
of his heart, with admiration, gratitude, and tenderness, even on this
day with pity.—As Christ himself said, ‘When I am lifted up, I will draw
all men to me.’
And no man can say now, What has God to do with sufferers—sick, weak,
deformed wretches? If he had cared for them, would he have made them
thus? For we can answer, However sick, or weak they may be, God in
Christ has been as weak as they. God has shared their sufferings, and
has been made perfect by sufferings, that they might be made perfect
also. God has sanctified suffering, pain, and sorrow upon his cross, and
made them holy; as holy as health, and strength, and happiness are. And
so on Good Friday God bridged over the gulf between man and man. He has
shown that God is charity and love; and that the way to live for ever in
God is to live for ever in that charity and love to all mankind which God
showed this day upon the cross.
And, therefore, all _charity_ is rightly called _Christian_ charity; for
it is Christ, and the news of Good Friday, which first taught men to have
charity; to look on the poor, the afflicted, the weak, the orphan, with
love, pity, respect. By the sight of a suffering and dying God, God has
touched the hearts of men, that they might learn to love and respect
suffering and dying men; and in the face of every mourner, see the face
of Christ, who died for them. Because Christ the sufferer is their elder
brother, all sufferers are their brothers likewise. Because Christ
tasted pain, shame, misery, death for all men, therefore we are bound
this day to pray for all men, that they may have their share in the
blessings of Christ’s death; not to look on them any longer as aliens,
strangers, enemies, parted from us and each other and God; but whether
wise or foolish, sick or well, happy or unhappy, alive or dead, as
brothers. We are bound to pray for his Holy Church as one family of
brothers; for all ranks of men in it, that each of them may learn to give
up their own will and pleasure for the sake of doing their duty in their
calling, as Christ did; to pray for Jews, Turks, Heathens, and Infidels;
as for God’s lost children, and our lost brothers, that God would bring
them home to his flock, and touch their hearts by the news of his
sufferings for them; that they may taste the inestimable comfort of
knowing that God so loved them as to suffer, to groan, to die for them
and all mankind.
SERMON XXXVI.
ON THE FALL.
(_Sexagesima Sunday_.)
GENESIS iii. 12.
And the man said, The woman, whom thou gavest to be with me, she gave
me of the tree, and I did eat.
THIS morning we read the history of Adam’s fall in the first Lesson. Now
does this story seem strange to you, my friends? Do you say to
yourselves, If I had been in Adam’s place, I should never have been so
foolish as Adam was? If you do say so, you cannot have looked at the
story carefully enough. For if you do look at it carefully, I believe
you will find enough in it to show you that it is a very _natural_ story,
that we have the same nature in us that Adam had; that we are indeed
Adam’s children; and that the Bible speaks truth when it says, ‘Adam
begat a son after his own likeness.’
Now, let us see how Adam fell, and what he did when he fell.
Adam, we find, was not content to be in the image of God. He wanted, he
and his wife, to be as gods, knowing good and evil. Now do, I beseech
you, think a moment carefully, and see what that means.
Adam was not content to be in the likeness of God; to copy God by obeying
God. He wanted to be a little god himself; to know what was good for
him, and what was evil for him; whereas God had told him, as it were, You
do _not_ know what is good for you, and what is evil for you. I know;
and I tell you to obey me; not to eat of a certain tree in the garden.
But pride and self-will rose up in Adam’s heart. He wanted to show that
he _did_ know what was good for him. He wanted to be independent, and
show that he could do what he liked, and take care of himself; and so he
ate the fruit which he was forbidden to eat, partly because it was fair
and well-tasted, but still more to show his own independence.
Now, surely this is natural enough. Have we not all done the very same
thing in our time, nay, over and over again? When we were children, were
we never forbidden to do something which we wished to do? Were we never
forbidden, just as Adam was, to take an apple—something pleasant to the
eye, and good for food? And did we not long for it, and determine to
have it all the more, because it was forbidden, just as Adam and Eve did;
so that we wished for it much more than we should if our parents had
given it to us? Did we not in our hearts accuse our parents of grudging
it to us, and listen to the voice of the tempter, as Eve did, when the
serpent tried to make out that God was niggardly to her, and envious of
her, and did not want her to be wise, lest she should be too like God?
Have we not said in our heart, Why should my father grudge me that nice
thing when he takes it himself?
He wants to keep it all to himself. Why should not I have a share of it?
He says it will hurt me. How does he know that? It does not hurt him.
I must be the best judge of whether it will hurt me. I do not believe
that it will: but at least it is but fair that I should try. I will try
for myself. I will run the chance. Why should I be kept like a baby, as
if I had no sense or will of my own? I will know the right and the wrong
of it for myself. I will know the good and evil of it myself.
Have we not said that, every one of us, in our hearts, when we were
young?—And is not that just what the Bible says Adam and Eve said?
And then, because we were Adam’s children, with his fallen nature in us,
and original sin, which we inherited from him, we could not help longing
more and more after what our parents had forbidden; we could think,
perhaps, of nothing else; cared for no pleasure, no pay, because we could
not get that one thing which our parents had told us not to touch. And
at last we fell, and sinned, and took the thing on the sly.
And then?
Did it not happen to us, as it did to Adam, that a feeling of shame and
guiltiness came over us at once? Yes; of shame. We intended to feed our
own pride: but instead of pride came shame and fear too; so instead of
rising, we had fallen and felt that we had fallen. Just so it was with
Adam. Instead of feeling all the prouder and grander when he had sinned,
he became ashamed of himself at once, he hardly knew why. We had
intended to set ourselves up against our parents; but instead, we became
afraid of them. We were always fancying that they would find us out. We
were afraid of looking them in the face. Just so it was with Adam. He
heard the word of the Lord God, Jesus Christ, walking in the garden. Did
he go to meet him; thank him for that pleasant life, pleasant earth, for
the mere blessing of existence? No. He hid himself among the trees of
the garden. But why hide himself? Even if he had given up being
thankful to God; even if he had learned from the devil to believe that
God grudged him, envied him, had deceived him, about that fruit, why run
away and hide? He wanted to be as God, wise, knowing good and evil for
himself. Why did he not stand out boldly when he heard the voice of the
Lord God and say, I am wise now; I am as a God now, knowing good and
evil; I am no longer to be led like a child, and kept strictly by rules
which I do not understand; I have a right to judge for myself, and choose
for myself; and I have done it, and you have no right to complain of me?
Perhaps Adam had intended, when he ate the fruit, to stand up for
himself, with some such fine words; as children intend when they disobey.
But when it came to the point, away went all Adam’s self-confidence, all
Adam’s pride, all Adam’s fine notions of what he had a right to do; and
he hides himself miserably, like a naughty and disobedient child. And
then, like a mean and cowardly one, when he is called out and forced to
answer for himself, he begins to make pitiful excuses. He has not a word
to say for himself. He throws the blame on his wife; it was all the
woman’s fault now—indeed, God’s fault. ‘The woman whom thou gavest to be
with me, she gave me of the tree, and I did eat.’
My dear friends, if we want a proof that the Bible is a true, divine,
inspired book, we need go no further than this one story. For, my
friends, have we never said the same? When we felt that we had done
wrong; when the voice of God and of Christ in our hearts was rebuking us
and convincing us of sin, have we never tried to shift the blame off our
own shoulders, and lay it on God himself, and the blessings which he has
given us? on one’s wife—on one’s family—on money—on one’s youth, and
health, and high spirits?—in a word, on the good things which God has
given us?
Ah, my friends, we are indeed Adam’s children; and have learned his
lesson, and inherited his nature only too fearfully well. For what Adam
did but once, we have done a hundred times; and the mean excuse which
Adam made but once, we make again and again.
But the loving Lord has patience with us, as he had with Adam, and does
not take us at our word. He did not say to Adam, You lay the blame upon
your wife; then I will take her from you, and you shall see then where
the blame lies. Ungrateful to me! you shall live henceforth alone. And
he does not say to us, You make all the blessings which I have given you
an excuse for sinning! Then I will take them from you, and leave you
miserable, and pour out my wrath upon you to the uttermost!
Not so. Our God is not such a God as that. He is full of compassion and
long-suffering, and of tender mercy. He knows our frame, and remembers
that we are but dust. He sends us out into the world, as he sent Adam,
to learn experience by hard lessons; to eat our bread in the sweat of our
brow, till we have found out our own weakness and ignorance, and have
learned that we cannot stand alone, that pride and self-dependence will
only lead us to guilt, and misery, and shame, and meanness; and that
there is no other name under heaven by which we can be saved from them,
but only the name of our Lord Jesus Christ.
He is the woman’s seed, who, so God promised, was to bruise the head of
the serpent. And he has bruised it. He is the woman’s seed—a man, as we
are men, with a human nature, but one without spot of sin, to make us
free from sin.
Let us look up to him as often as we find our nature dragging us down,
making us proud and self-willed, greedy and discontented, longing after
this and that. Let us trust in him, ask him, for his grace day by day;
ask him to shape and change us into his likeness, that we may become
daily more and more free; free from sin; free from this miserable longing
after one thing and another; free from our bad habits, and the sin which
does so easily beset us; free from guilty fear, and coward dread of God.
Let us ask him, I say, to change, and purify, and renew us day by day,
till we come to his likeness; to the stature of perfect men, free men,
men who are not slaves to their own nature, slaves to their own pride,
slaves to their own vanity, slaves of their own bad tempers, slaves to
their own greediness and foul lusts: but free, as the Lord Christ was
free; able to keep their bodies in subjection, and rise above nature by
the eternal grace of God; able to use this world without abusing it; able
to thank God for all the _blessings_ of this life, and learn from them
precious lessons; able to thank God for all the _sorrows_ of this life,
and learn from them wholesome discipline: but yet able to rise above them
all, and say, ‘As long as I hold fast to Christ the King of men, this
world cannot harm me. My life, my real human life, does not depend on my
being comfortable or uncomfortable here below for a few short years. My
real life is hid in God with Jesus Christ, who, after he had redeemed
human nature by his perfect obedience, and washed it pure again in the
blood of his cross, for ever sat down on the right hand of the Majesty on
high; that so, being lifted up, he might draw all men unto himself—even
as many as will come to him, that they may have eternal life.
SERMON XXXVII.
THE WORTHY COMMUNICANT.
LUKE xviii. 14.
I tell you, this man went down to his house justified rather than the
other.
WHICH of these two men was the more fit to come to the Communion? Most
of you will answer, The publican: for he was more justified, our Lord
himself says, than the Pharisee. True: but would you have said so of
your own accord, if the Lord had not said so? Which of the two men do
you really think was the better man, the Pharisee or the publican? Which
of the two do you think had his soul in the safer state? Which of the
two would you rather be, if you were going to die? Which of the two
would you rather be, if you were going to the Communion? For mind, one
could not have _refused_ the Pharisee, if he had come to the Communion.
He was in no open sin: I may say, no outward sin at all. You must not
fancy that he was a hypocrite, in the sense in which we usually employ
that word. I mean, he was not a man who was leading a wicked life
secretly, while he kept up a show of religion. He was really a religious
man in his own way, scrupulous, and over-scrupulous to perform every duty
to the letter. He went to his church to worship; and he was no
lip-worshipper, repeating a form of words by rote, but prayed there
honestly, concerning the things which were in his heart. He did not say,
either, that he had made himself good. If he was wrong on some points,
he was not on that. He knew where his goodness, such as it was, came
from. ‘God, I thank thee,’ he says, ‘that I am what I am.’ What have we
in this man? one would ask at first sight. What reason for him to stay
away from the Sacrament? He would not have thought himself that there
was any reason. He would, probably, have thought—‘If I am not fit, who
is? Repent me truly of my former sins? Certainly. If I have done the
least harm to any one, I shall be happy to restore it fourfold. If I
have neglected one, the least of God’s services, I shall be only too glad
to keep it all the more strictly for the future.
‘Intend to lead a new life? I am leading one, and trying to lead one
more and more every day. I shall be thankful to any one who will show me
any new service which I can offer to God, any new act of reverence, any
new duty.
‘I must go in love and charity with all men? I do so. I have not a
grudge against any human being. Of course, I know the world too well to
be satisfied with it. I cannot shut my eyes to the fact that millions
are living very sinful, shocking lives—extortioners, unjust, adulterers;
and that three people out of four are going straight to hell. I pity
them, and forgive them any wrong which they have done to me. What more
can I do?’
This is what the Pharisee would have said. Is this man fit to come to
the Communion? At least he himself thinks so.
On the other hand, was the publican fit? That is a serious question; one
which we cannot answer, without knowing more about him than our Lord has
chosen to tell us. Many a person is ready enough, in these days, to cry
‘God be merciful to me a sinner!’ who is fit, I fear, neither to come to
the Communion, nor to stay away either.
It was not so, I suppose, with the old Jews in our Lord’s time. The
Pharisees then were hard legalists, who stood all on works; and,
therefore, if a man broke off from them, and threw himself on God’s grace
and mercy, he did it in a simple, honest, effectual way, like this
publican.
But now, I am sorry to say, our Pharisees have contrived to make
themselves as proud and self-righteous about their own faith and
repentance, as the Jewish Pharisees did about their own works and
observances; and there has risen up in England and elsewhere a very ugly
new hypocrisy. People now-a-days are too apt to pride themselves on
their own convictions of sin, and their own repentance, till they trust
in their repentance to save them, and not in Christ, just as the Pharisee
trusted in his works to save him, and not in Christ; and when they pray,
I cannot help fearing (for I am sure many of their religious books teach
them it) that they pray very much like that Pharisee, ‘God, I thank thee
that I am not as other men are, carnal, unconverted, unconvinced of sin,
nor even as that plain, moral, respectable man. I am convinced of sin; I
am converted; I have the right frames, and the right feelings, and the
right experiences.’ Oh, of all the cunning snares of the devil, that I
think is the cunningest. Well says the old proverb—‘The devil is old,
and therefore he knows many things.’
In old times he made men trust in their own righteousness: and that was
snare enough; now he has learnt how to make men actually trust in their
own sinfulness, and so turn the grace of God into a cloak of pride, and
contempt of their fellow-creatures.
My friends, do you think that if the publican, after he had said, ‘God be
merciful to me a sinner!’ had said to himself, ‘There—how beautifully I
have repented—how honest I have been to God—I am all right now’—he would
have gone down to his house justified at all? Not he. No more will you
and I, my friends. If we have sinned, what should we be but ashamed of
it? Ay, utterly ashamed. And if we really know what sin is—if we really
see the sinfulness of sin—if we really see ourselves as God sees us—we
shall be too much shocked at the sight of our own hearts to have time to
boast of our being able to see our own hearts. We shall be too full of
loathing and hatred for our sins, too full of longing to get rid of our
sins, and to become righteous and holy, even as God is righteous and
holy, to give way to any pride in our own frames and feelings; and,
instead of thinking ourselves better men than our neighbours because we
see our sins, and fancy they do not see theirs, we shall be almost ready
to think ourselves worse than our neighbours, to think that they cannot
have so much to repent of as we; and as we grow in grace, we shall see
more and more sin in ourselves, till we actually fancy at times that no
one can be as bad as we are, and in lowliness of mind esteem others
better than ourselves. We may carry that too far, too. Certainly there
is no use in accusing ourselves of sins which we have not committed; we
have all quite enough real sins to answer for without inventing more.
But still that is a better frame of mind than the other; for no man can
be too humble, while any man can be too proud.
But let us all ask God to open our eyes, that we may see ourselves just
as we are, let our sins be many or few. Let us ask God to convince us
really of sin by his Holy Spirit, and show us what sin is, and its
exceeding sinfulness; how ugly and foul sin is, how foolish and absurd,
how mean and ungrateful toward that good God who wishes us nothing but
good, and wishes us, therefore, to be good, because goodness is the only
path to life and happiness; and then we shall be so ashamed of ourselves,
so afraid of our own weakness, so shocked at the difference between
ourselves and the spotless Lord Jesus, that we shall have no time to
despise others, no time to admire our own frames, and feelings, and
repentances. All we shall think of is our own sinfulness, and God’s
mercy; and we shall come eagerly, if not boldly, to the throne of grace,
to find grace and mercy to help us in the time of need; crying, ‘Purge
thou me, O Lord, or I shall never be pure; wash thou me, and then alone
shall I be clean. For thou requirest, not frames or feelings, not pride
and self-conceit, but truth in the inward parts; and wilt make me to
understand wisdom secretly.’
Then, indeed, we shall be fit to come to the Holy Communion; for then we
shall be so ashamed of ourselves that we shall truly repent of our
sins—so ashamed of ourselves that we shall long and determine to lead a
new life—so ashamed of ourselves that we shall have no heart to look down
on any of our neighbours, or pass hard judgments on them, but be in love
and charity with all men; and so, in spite of all our past sins, come to
partake worthily of the body and blood of Him who died for our sins,
whose blood will wash them out of our hearts, whose body will strengthen
and refresh us, body and soul, to a new and everlasting life of
humbleness and thankfulness, honesty and justice, usefulness and love.
SERMON XXXVIII.
OUR DESERTS.
LUKE vi. 36–38.
Be ye therefore merciful, as your Father also is merciful. Judge
not, and ye shall not be judged: condemn not, and ye shall not be
condemned: forgive, and ye shall be forgiven. Give, and it shall be
given unto you; good measure, pressed down, and shaken together, and
running over, shall men give into your bosom. For with the same
measure that ye mete withal, it shall be measured to you again.
ONE often hears complaints against this world, and against mankind; one
hears it said that people are unjust, unfair, cruel; that in this world
no man can expect to get what he deserves. And, of course, there are
great excuses for saying so. There are bad men in the world in plenty,
who do villanous and cruel things enough; and besides, there is a great
deal of dreadful misery in the world, which does not seem to come through
any fault of the poor creatures who suffer it; misery of which we can
only say, ‘Neither did this man sin, nor his parents: but that the glory
of God may be made manifest in him.’
But still our Lord tells us in the text, that, on the whole, there is
order lying under all the disorder, justice under all the injustice,
right under all the wrong; and that on the whole we get what we deserve.
‘Be ye therefore merciful, as your Father also is merciful. Judge not,
and ye shall not be judged: condemn not, and ye shall not be condemned:
forgive, and ye shall be forgiven. Give, and it shall be given unto you;
good measure, pressed down, and shaken together, and running over, shall
men give into your bosom. For with the same measure that ye mete withal,
it shall be measured to you again.’
Of course, as I said just now, it is not always so. None knew that
better than the blessed Lord: else why did he come to seek and save that
which was lost? But still the more we look into our own lives, the more
we shall find our Lord’s words true; the more we shall find that on the
whole, in the long run, men will be just and fair to us, and give us,
sooner or later, what we deserve.
Now, to deserve a thing, properly means to serve for it, to work for it
and earn it, as a natural consequence. If a man puts his hand into the
fire, he _deserves_ to burn it, because it is the nature of fire to burn,
and therefore it burns him, and so he gets his deserts; and if a man does
wrong, he deserves to be unhappy, because it is the nature of sin to make
the sinner unhappy, and so he gets his deserts. God has not to go out of
his way to punish sin; sin punishes itself; and so if a man does right,
he becomes in the long run happy. God has not to go out of his way to
reward him and make him happy; his own good deeds make him happy; he
earns happiness in the comfort of a good conscience, and the love and
respect of those about him; and so he gets his deserts. For our Lord
says, ‘People in the long run will treat you as you treat them. If they
feel and see by experience that you are loving and kind to them, they
will be loving and kind to you; as you do to them, they will, in the long
run, do to you.’ They may mistake you at first, even dislike you at
first. Did they not mistake, hate, crucify the Lord himself? and yet his
own rule came true of him. A few crucified him; but now all civilized
nations worship him as God. Be sure, then, that his rule will come true
of you, though not at first, yet in God’s good time. Therefore hold
still in the Lord, and abide patiently; and he shall make thy
righteousness as clear as the light, and thy just dealing as the
noon-day.
Now this is a very blessed and comfortable thought. Would to God that
all of us, young people especially, would lay it to heart. How are we to
get comfortably through this life? Or, if we are to have sorrows (as we
all must), how can we make those sorrows as light as possible? How can
we make friends who will comfort us in those sorrows, instead of leaving
us to bear our burden alone, and turning their backs on us just when our
poor hearts are longing for a kind look and a kind word from our
neighbours? Our Lord tells us now. The same measure that you mete
withal, it shall be measured to you again.
There is his plan. It is a very simple one. It goes on the same
principle as ‘He that saveth his life shall lose it, and he that loseth
his life shall save it.’ If we are selfish, and take care only of
ourselves, the day will come when our neighbours will leave us alone in
our selfishness to shift for ourselves. If we set out determining
through life to care about other people rather than ourselves, then they
will care for themselves more than for us, and measure their love to us
by our measure of love to them. But if we care for others, they will
learn to care for us; if we befriend others, they will befriend us. If
we show forth the Spirit of God to them, in kindliness, generosity,
patience, self-sacrifice, the day will surely come when we shall find
that the Spirit of God is in our neighbours as well as in ourselves; that
on the whole they will be just to us, and pay us what we have deserved
and earned. Blessed and comfortable thought, that no kind word, kind
action, not even the cup of cold water given in Christ’s name, can lose
its reward. Blessed thought, that after all our neighbours are our
brothers, and that if we remember that steadily, and treat them as
brothers now, they will recollect it too some day, and treat us as
brothers in return. Blessed thought, that there is in the heart of every
man a spark of God’s light, a grain of God’s justice, which may grow up
in him hereafter, and bear good fruit to eternal life.
Yes; it is a pleasant thing to find men better than we fancied them. A
pleasant thing; for first, it makes us love them the more, and there is
nothing so pleasant as loving. And more; it does this—it makes us more
inclined to trust God’s justice. We say to ourselves, Men are, we find,
really more just and fair than they seem to us at times; surely God must
be more just and fair than he seems to us at times. For there are times
when it does seem a hard thing to believe that God is just; times when
the devil tempts poor suffering creatures sorely, and tries to make them
doubt their heavenly Father, and say with David, What am I the better for
having done right? Surely in vain have I cleansed my heart; in vain have
I washed my hands in innocency. All the day long have I been punished,
and chastened every morning. Yes; when some poor woman, working in the
field, with all the cares of a family on her, looks up at great people in
their carriages, she is tempted, she must be tempted to say at times,
‘Why am I to be so much worse off than they? Is God just in making me so
poor and them so rich?’ It is a foolish thought. I do believe it is a
temptation of the devil, a deceit of the devil; for rich people are not
really one whit happier or lighter-hearted than poor ones, and all the
devil wishes is to make poor people envy their neighbours, and mistrust
God. But still one cannot wonder at their faith failing them at times.
I do not judge them, still less condemn them; for the text forbids me.
Or again, when some poor creature, crippled from his youth, looks upon
others strong and active, cheerful and happy. Think of a deformed child
watching healthy children at play; and then think, must it not be hard at
times for that child not to repine, and cry to God, ‘Why hast thou made
me thus?’
Yes. I will not go on giving fresh instances. The world is but too full
of them.
But when such thoughts trouble us, here is one comfort—ay, here is our
only comfort—God must be more just than man. Whatsoever appearances may
seem to make against it, he must be. For where did all the justice in
the world come from, but from God? Who put the feeling of justice into
every man’s heart, but God himself? He is the glorious sun, perfectly
bright, perfectly pure; and all the other goodness in the world is but
rays and beams of light sent forth from his great light. So we may be
certain that God is not only as just as man, but millions of times _more_
just; more just, and righteous, and good than all the just men on earth
put together. We can believe that. We must believe it. Thousands have
believed it already. Thousands of holy sufferers, in prisons and on
scaffolds, in poverty and destitution, on sick-beds of lingering torture,
have believed still that God was just and righteous in all his dealings
with them; and have cried in the hour of their bitterest agony, ‘Though
thou slay me, O Lord, yet will I trust in thee!’
Yes. God is just. He has revealed that in the person of his Son Jesus
Christ. There is God’s likeness. There is proof enough that God is not
one who afflicts willingly, or grieves the children of men out of any
neglect or spite, or respecteth one person more than another. It may
seem hard to be sure of that: unless we believe that Jesus is the Christ,
the co-equal and co-eternal Son of the Father, we never shall be sure of
it. Believing in the message of the ever-blessed Trinity, we shall be
sure; for we shall be sure that, ‘Such as the Father is, such is the Son,
and such is the Holy Ghost’—perfect love, perfect justice, perfect mercy;
and therefore we can be sure that in the world beyond the grave the
balance will be made even, again, and for ever; and every mourner be
comforted, and every sufferer be refreshed, and every one receive his due
reward—if they will only now in this life take the lesson of the text,
‘Judge not, and you shall not be judged: condemn not, and you shall not
be condemned: forgive, and you shall be forgiven; for if you forgive
every one his brother their trespasses, in like wise will your heavenly
Father forgive you.’ Do that; and then you will get your _deserts_ in
the life to come, and by forgiving, and helping, and blessing others,
_deserve_ to be forgiven, and comforted, and blessed yourselves, for the
sake of that Saviour who is day and night presenting all your good works
to his Father and your Father, as a precious and fragrant offering—a
sacrifice with which the God of love is well pleased, because it is, like
himself, made up of love.
SERMON XXXIX.
THE LOFTINESS OF GOD.
ISAIAH lvii. 15.
For thus saith the high and lofty One that inhabiteth eternity, whose
name is Holy, I dwell in the high and holy place; with him also that
is of a contrite and humble spirit, to revive the spirit of the
humble, and to revive the heart of the contrite ones.
THIS is a grand text; one of the grandest in the whole Old Testament; one
of those the nearest to the spirit of the New. It is full of Gospel—of
good news: but it is not the whole Gospel. It does not tell us the whole
character of God. We can only get that in the New. We can get it there;
we can get it in that most awful and glorious chapter which we read for
the second lesson—the twenty-seventh chapter of St. Matthew. Seen in the
light of that—seen in the light of Christ’s cross and what it tells us,
all is clear, and all is bright, and all is full of good news—at least to
those who are humble and contrite, crushed down by sorrow, and by the
feeling of their own infirmities.
But what does the text tell us?
Of a high and lofty One, who inhabits eternity.
Of a lofty God, Almighty, incomprehensible; so far above us, so different
from us, that we cannot picture him to ourselves; of a glory and majesty
utterly beyond all human fancy or imagination.
Of a holy God, in whom is no sin, nor taint of sin; who is of purer eyes
than to behold iniquity; who is so perfect, that he cannot be content
with anything which is not as perfect as himself; who looks with horror
and disgust on evil of every shape; who cannot endure it, will at last
destroy it.
Of a God who abides in eternity—who cannot change—cannot alter his own
decrees and laws, because his decrees and laws are right and necessary,
and proceed out of his own character. If he has said a thing, that thing
must be; because it is the thing which ought to be.
How, then, shall we think of this lofty, holy, unchangeable God—we who
are low, unholy, changing with every wind that blows?
Shall we say, ‘He is so far above us, that he cannot feel for us? He is
so holy that he must hate us, and will our punishment, and our damnation
for all our sins?’
‘He is eternal, and cannot change his will; and, therefore, if he wills
us to perish, perish we must.’
We may think so of God, and dread God, and cry ‘Whither shall I flee from
thy Spirit, and whither shall I go from thy presence?’ We may call to
the mountains to fall on us, and to the hills to cover us, till we try to
forget at all risks the thought of God: and if we do not, there are
plenty who will do it for us. The devil, who slanders and curses God to
men, and men to God, and to each other—he will talk to us of God in this
way.
And men who preach the devil’s doctrine, will talk to us likewise, and
say, ‘Yes, God is very dreadful, and very angry with you. God certainly
intends to damn you. But _I_ have a plan for delivering you out of God’s
hands; _I_ know what you must do to be saved from God—join _my_ sect or
party, and believe and work with me, and then you will escape God.’
But, after all, would it not be wiser, my friends, to hold your own
tongues, and let God himself speak?
If he had not spoken in the first place, what should we have known of
him? Can man by searching find out God? We should not have known that
there was a high and lofty One, who inhabits eternity, if he had not told
us. Had we not better hear the rest of his message, and let God finish
his own character of himself?
And what does he say?
‘I dwell—I, the high and lofty One, who inhabit eternity—with him also,
who is of a contrite and humble spirit, to revive the spirit of the
humble, and to revive the heart of the contrite ones.’
Oh, my friends, is not this news? good news and unexpected news, perhaps,
but still as true as what went before it? God hath said the one, and we
believe it: and now he says the other; and shall we not believe it too?
Come, then, thou humble soul; thou crushed and contrite soul; thou who
fearest that thou art not worthy of God’s care; thou from whom God has
taken so much, that thou fearest that he will take all—come and hear the
Lord’s message to thee—God’s own message; no devil’s message, or man’s
message, but God’s own.
‘I will not contend for ever, neither will I be always wroth; for then
the spirit would fail before me, and the souls which I have made. I have
seen thy ways, and will heal thee. I will lead thee, also, and restore
comforts to thee and to thy mourners. I create the fruit of the lips. I
give men cause to thank me, and delight in giving. Peace, peace to him
that is near, and to him that is far off, saith the Lord. If thou art
near me, thou art safe; for if I were to take all else from thee, I
should not take myself from thee. Though thou walkest through the valley
of the shadow of death, I will be with thee. And if thou art far off
from me, wandering in folly and sin, I cry peace to thee still. Why
should I wish to be at war with any of my creatures? saith the Lord. My
will is, that thou shouldst be at peace. I am at peace myself, and I
wish to make all my creatures at peace also, and thee among the rest. I
am whole and perfect myself, and I wish to heal all my creatures, and
make them whole and perfect also, and thee among the rest.
‘But the wicked? Ay, this is their very misery, that there is no peace
to them. I want them to enter into my peace, and they will not. I am at
peace with them, saith the Lord. I owe them no grudge, poor wretches.
But they will not be at peace with themselves. They are like the
troubled sea, which casts up mire and dirt, and fouls itself. I cast up
no mire nor dirt. I foul nothing. I tempt no man. I, the good God,
create no evil. If the troubled sea fouls itself, so do the wicked make
themselves miserable, and punish themselves by their own lusts, which war
in their members. But they cannot alter _me_, saith the Lord; they
cannot change my temper, my character, my everlasting name. I am that I
am, who inhabit eternity; and no creature, and no creature’s sin, can
make me other than I am.
And what is that? What is the name, what is the character, what is the
temper of him who inhabits eternity? Look on the cross, and see.
The cross, at least, will tell you what kind of a God your God is. A
good God; a God of love; a God of boundless forbearance and
long-suffering. Good God! The folly and madness of men’s hearts, who
look on God dying on the cross for them, and begin forthwith puzzling
their brains as to _how_ he died for them; how Christ’s blood washes away
their sins; how it is applied, and to whom; puzzling their brains with
theories of the atonement, and with predestination, and satisfaction, and
forensic justification, and particular redemption, and long words which
(four out of five of them) are not in the Bible, but are spun out of
men’s own minds, as spiders’ webs are from spiders—and, like them, mostly
fit to hamper poor harmless flies.
How Christ’s death takes away thy sins, thou wilt never know on
earth—perhaps not in heaven. It is a mystery which thou must believe and
adore. But why he died, thou canst see at the first glance—if thou hast
a human heart, and wilt look at what God means thee to look at—Christ
upon his cross. He died because he was _love_—love itself—love
boundless, unconquerable, unchangeable—love which inhabits eternity, and
therefore could not be hardened or foiled by any sin or rebellion of man,
but must love men still; must go out to seek and save them; must dare,
suffer any misery, shame, death itself, for their sake; just because it
is absolute and perfect love, which inhabits eternity.
Look at that—look at the sight of God’s character, which the cross gives
thee; and then, instead of being terrified at God’s will and decree being
unchangeable and eternal, it will be the greatest possible comfort to
thee that God’s will is unchangeable and eternal, because thou wilt see
from the cross that it is a _good_ will—a will of mercy, forbearance,
long-suffering towards thee and all mankind, eternal in the heavens as
God himself.
Then let those be afraid who are not afraid; and let those who are
afraid, take heart. Let those who think they stand, take heed lest they
fall. Let those who think they see, take care that they be not blind.
Let those be afraid who fancy themselves right and above all mistakes,
lest they should be full of ugly sins when they fancy themselves most
religious and devout. Let those be afraid who are fond of advising
others, lest they should be in more need of their own medicine than their
patients are. Let those fear who pride themselves on their cunning, lest
with all their cunning they only lead themselves into their own trap.
But those who are afraid, let them take heart. For what says the high
and holy One, who inhabits eternity? ‘I dwell with him that is of a
humble and contrite heart, to revive the spirit of the humble, and to
revive the heart of the contrite ones.’
Let them take heart. Do you feel that you have lost your way in life?
Then God himself will show you your way. Are you utterly helpless, worn
out, body and soul? Then God’s eternal love is ready and willing to help
you up, and revive you. Are you wearied with doubts and terrors? Then
God’s eternal light is ready to show you your way; God’s eternal peace
ready to give you peace. Do you feel yourself full of sins and faults?
Then take heart; for God’s unchangeable will is, to take away those sins
and purge you from those faults.
Are you tormented as Job was, over and above all your sorrows, by
mistaken kindness, and comforters in whom is no comfort; who break the
bruised reed and quench the smoking flax; who tell you that you must be
wicked, and God must be angry with you, or all this would not have come
upon you? Job’s comforters did so, and spoke very righteous-sounding
words, and took great pains to justify God and to break poor Job’s heart,
and made him say many wild and foolish words in answer, for which he was
sorry afterwards; but after all, the Lord’s answer was, ‘My wrath is
kindled against you three, for you have not spoken of me the thing which
was right, as my servant Job hath. Therefore my servant Job shall pray
for you, for him will I accept;’ as he will accept every humble and
contrite soul who clings, amid all its doubts, and fears, and sorrows, to
the faith that God is just and not unjust, merciful and not cruel,
condescending and not proud—that his will is a good will, and not a bad
will—that he hateth nothing that he hath made, and willeth the death of
no man; and in that faith casts itself down like Job, in dust and ashes
before the majesty of God, content not to understand his ways and its own
sorrows; but simply submitting itself and resigning itself to the good
will of that God who so loved the world that he spared not his only
begotten Son, but freely gave him for us.