"I am crucified with Christ, nevertheless I live. Yet not I, but
Christ liveth in me." Again he says, "For to me to live is Christ."
That is, "For to me to live is to reproduce Christ. For to me to live
is for Christ to live over again in me." In a most profound and vital
sense he has come to share in the divine nature.
Having come to share in the divine nature he is privileged also to
share in His sufferings. His ministry is a daily dying. He is a man
of great heaviness and continual sorrow. The secret of his pain is
this: "I fill up that which is behind of the sufferings of Christ in my
body." In sharing thus his Master's sufferings he shared with him in
His work of bringing salvation to men. To-day we could better spare
many a nation than we could spare this one single man.
And now we are going to gather about this altar where we shall remember
together the suffering love of Jesus Christ. As we take the bread and
wine we are going to be reminded of the broken body and shed blood of
our Lord. And I trust that as we think upon His love and upon His
sacrifice for ourselves we shall come to be possessed with the holy
longing of this great apostle. May we too be able to say, "I long to
share in His suffering." This high longing is possible for every one
of us through the riches of His grace. And it is possible in no other
way. Therefore, let us gather round this table with this song within
our hearts:
"Thy nature, gracious Lord, impart;
Come quickly from above,
Write thy new name upon my heart,
Thy new, best name of Love."
V
GOING VISITING--JONATHAN
_I Samuel 23:16_
"And Jonathan, Saul's son, arose and went to David into the wood and
strengthened his hand in God." "Going visiting" is a very commonplace
occurrence. Oftentimes the visits we make are thoroughly trivial and
unimportant. But there are other times when our visits take on a
profound significance. There are times when they mark a crisis. There
are times when they set in motion influences that tell on the entire
future of those whom we visit. There are times when they mean the
making or the marring of a human soul.
Now, this visit about which we are to study to-day is no ordinary
visit. I think it is one of the most beautiful stories to be found in
literature. This visit was made many centuries ago. It was made in an
obscure corner of the earth, and yet it has never been forgotten. It
never will be. The Inspirer of the Word saw in it too much of worth
and winsomeness to allow it to slip out of the memories of men. It is
remembered to-day, not because Jonathan left his calling card on
David's center table. It is remembered because the visit was so
blessedly beautiful.
It is a great privilege that God has given us in allowing us to visit
each other. We can help so much by it if we will. Wasn't that a
lovely visit that the old school master made to Marget that time in
"Beside the Bonny Briar Bush" when he came to tell her that she had a
"laddie of parts"? And wasn't it still more beautiful when he came
later, rugged old Scotchman that he was, to burst into tears of wild
joy over the good news he brought her that her son had won first prize
in the great university?
Wasn't that a lovely series of visits that a kindly old man made to the
room of the little laddie who had swept the street crossing before he
had been crippled in the discharge of his duty? A city missionary went
in to see him and asked him if he had had anybody to visit him. "Oh,
yes," was the answer. "A good man comes every day and talks to me, and
sometimes he reads the Bible to me and prays." "What is his name?"
asked the missionary. And the little fellow studied a moment and said,
"I think he said his name was Gladstone." England's grand old man
appears to us in many a charming role, but in none is he more manly and
commanding than in this of visiting a little crippled waif in a London
attic.
Florence Nightingale was a lovely visitor. Do you recall that
exquisite bit of poetry in conduct on the field of Crimea? A soldier
was to go through a painful operation. An anaesthetic could not be
administered and the doctor said the patient could not endure the
operation. "Yes, I can," said the patient, "under one condition: if
you will get the 'Angel of the Crimea' to hold my hand." And she came
out to the little hospital at the front and held his hand. Glorious
visit. No wonder the man went through the operation without a tremor.
But the visit of our text,--to me it is more wonderful still. The
truth of the matter is, I know of but one other visit that ever took
place that is finer and more beautiful. You know what visit that was.
It was the visit that One made to a manger in Bethlehem nineteen
centuries ago. That was a visit that remade the world. It was so
wonderful that a star pointed it out with finger of silver, and our
discordant old earth was serenaded with the music of that land of
eternal melody. But aside from that one visit, I think this the most
beautiful one ever recorded.
What is the secret of its beauty? First, it was beautiful in its
courageous loyalty. You know who Jonathan was. He was the King's son.
He was popular, handsome and courageous. So lithe, athletic and
graceful he was that they called him "the gazelle." He was a prince.
He was heir-apparent to the throne of Israel.
And you know, also, who David was. He was at that time in disgrace.
He was under the frown of the King. He was being hunted from one
refuge to another like a wild beast. To be his friend was to be the
enemy of the King. To smile upon him was to meet the frown of the King.
But notwithstanding the fact that these men were so far apart, one a
favorite prince and the other an outcast peasant, yet we find the
prince visiting the peasant. You say they were friends. Yes, that is
true, deeply true. But their friendship had started in other days.
When David and Jonathan first met they met under altogether different
circumstances. You know when Jonathan first saw David. It was when
David returned from his fight with Goliath, with the bloody head of the
giant in his hand. He met him amidst the hurrahs and the wild
enthusiasm of the people. He met him on one of the great red letter
days of David's life, when he sprang suddenly from obscurity to be a
national hero.
It does not seem so surprising, therefore, when we read that on this
day "the soul of Jonathan was knit to the soul of David." David was
courageous. David had shown himself a hero. David was a favorite with
the King and a favorite with the people. It took no great effort to
love him then. It took no great courage to be his friend. But all is
changed now. The King no longer loves him, but hates him and seeks his
life. The sun of his popularity has gone into eclipse. We wonder if
Jonathan's friendship will stand the test.
And again we turn and read the text: "And Jonathan, Saul's son, arose
and went to David into the wood and strengthened his hand in God."
What beautiful loyalty. What fine fidelity. How blessed is David in
the friendship of a man who can love him in the sunshine and who can
love him no less in the midst of the shadows. How blessed he is in the
friendship of one who can stand by him when many lips praise him and
who can also stand by him when many abuse him, and many criticise him
and many lift their hands against him. Truly this man loves David for
himself alone.
Second, this visit is beautiful because of its fine and costly
sympathy. Jonathan really sympathized with David in his trials and his
difficulties. He did not express that sympathy in any cheap and
distant way. He might have sent David word that if he needed anything
just to let him know. He might have dispatched a servant to comfort
David in his sore trials. But he did not try to express his sympathy
at long distance. He went to David. He came to handclasp with the man
that he wished to help.
Now, I am perfectly aware of the fact that much of our sympathy must be
expressed at a distance. For instance, we cannot all go to the foreign
field. We must express our interest in those who have not had our
opportunities by our gifts. Much of the service we render in our own
land must be rendered in the same way. But when that is said, the fact
still remains that there is nothing that will take the place of our
hand-to-hand dealing with those who need us. We cannot perform all our
charities by proxy. We must come in personal contact with those whom
we would help.
There is one poem I think that we have a bit overworked:
"Let me live in my house by the side of the road,
Where the race of men go by.
They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong,
Wise, foolish--and so am I.
So why should I sit in the scorner's seat,
Or hurl the cynic's ban?
Let me live in my house by the side of the road,
And be a friend to man.
"I see from my house by the side of the road,
By the side of the highway of life,
The men that press on with the ardor of hope,
And the men who are faint in the strife.
But I turn not away from their smiles nor their tears,
Both parts of an infinite plan.
Let me live in my house by the side of the road,
And be a friend to man.
"I know there are brook gladdened meadows ahead,
And mountains of wearisome height.
And the road passes on through the long afternoon,
And stretches away to the night.
But still I rejoice when the travelers rejoice,
And weep with the strangers that moan,
Nor live in my house by the side of the road,
Like one who dwells alone."
Now that is good, but after all,--
"It's only a half truth the poet has sung
Of the house by the side of the way.
Our Master had neither a house nor a home,
But He walked with the crowd day by day.
I think when I read of the poet's desire
That a house by the road would be good,
But service is found in its tenderest form
As we walk with the crowd in the road.
"So I say let me walk with the men in the road,
Let me seek out the burdens that crush;
Let me speak a kind word of good cheer to the weak
Who are falling behind in the rush.
There are wounds to be healed, there are breaks we must mend,
There are cups of cold water to give,
And the man in the road by the side of his friend,
Is the man who has learned how to give.
"Then tell me no more of the house by the road,
There is only one place I can live.
It is there where the men are toiling along,
Who are needing the help I can give.
'Tis pleasant to dwell in the house by the road,
And be a friend, as the poet has said,
But the Master is bidding us, Bear ye their load,
Your rest waiteth yonder ahead.
"So I can not remain in the house by the road,
And watch as the toilers pass on,
Their faces beclouded with pain and with shame,
So burdened, their strength nearly gone.
I will go to their side, I will speak in good cheer,
I will help them to carry their load.
And I'll smile at the man in the house by the way,
While I walk with the crowd in the road.
"Out there in the road that runs by the house
Where the poet is singing his song,
I'll walk and I'll work midst the heat of the day,
And I'll help falling brothers along.
Too busy to dwell in the house by the way,
Too happy for such an abode,
And my glad heart will sing to the Master of all,
Who is helping me serve in the road."
And the beauty and glory of this lovely visit that Prince Jonathan made
to David, the outcast, was that he walked with him in the road. He did
not dwell in his princely palace and send him some money. He did not
allow him, as Dives allowed Lazarus, to gather up the crumbs. He went
to him. And because he went to him he helped him. Oh, heart, that is
the secret of the salvation wrought by our Lord. He came to us. Had
He merely come for the day and gone back to Heaven at night, He would
never have saved us. He came into personal contact with us. That is
how He lifts us.
This visit was beautiful, in the third place, because of its high and
holy purpose. I see Jonathan as he is turning his face toward the
forest where David is hiding. I say to him, "Prince Jonathan, you are
going down to see David, I understand. Why are you going?" This is
his answer: "I am going down to strengthen his hand in God. You know
David has had a hard time recently. He has been sorely tried. He has
been bitterly disappointed. He has passed through one great sorrow
after another. I am afraid his faith is going to be destroyed. I am
afraid he will lose his grip of God unless I go to see him and help him
and strengthen his hand in the Lord. And that is why I am going."
And so Jonathan hurries on. And the angels must have crowded the
windows of heaven to behold him as he walked upon this glorious errand.
I would go a bit out of my way any time to get to see a man who is
going to see his friend, not to ask for help, but going for the one big
purpose of making the man whom he is to visit a little stronger, a
little better, a little more loyal to his Lord.
And not only did Jonathan go for that purpose, but he succeeded in it.
When he left David, he left him a stronger man. I do not know what he
said to him. That is not recorded. I do not know that he quoted
scripture to him or even prayed with him. He may have. He may not
have. It is not absolutely necessary to have prayer always in order to
strengthen our friend in the Lord. Sometimes all we need to do is just
to talk to him and let him talk, and convince him that we sympathize
with him, that we are interested in him. And having done that, somehow
he comes more and more to believe in God's interest.
But whatever Jonathan said, David was stronger and better and braver
after he had gone. I think I can hear him as he looks after the
retreating figure going through the forest. And what he is saying to
himself is this, "Bless the Lord, O my soul, and all that is within me,
bless His holy name." And I think when the books are balanced in
Heaven that Jonathan will get quite a bit of credit for David's
exquisite music. There are terrible clashes in his songs. "He that
did eat of my bread hath lifted up his heel against me." Jonathan did
not inspire that. But there is many a blessed passage that might never
have been written but for the loyal and loving and constant friendship
of Prince Jonathan.
And last of all, this visit was beautiful in its self-forgetfulness.
Its beauty reached its climax here. Just think of the circumstances.
Samuel, the prophet, has declared that David is to be king. But in
everybody's mind, the throne by right belongs to Jonathan. David is in
perplexity. He is on the point of losing his faith. If he loses it he
never will be king. This will give Jonathan his chance.
Now, why, I wonder, didn't Jonathan feel about this matter as many of
us would? Why did he not hold aloof and say, "If David fails and loses
his chance it is no fault of mine. If he fails it will only mean that
he will not take away the throne that by right belongs to me." No
attitude would have been more human than this. I do not know how many
nights Jonathan spent in prayer to be delivered from the bondage of his
selfishness. But I do know this, that he was delivered.
And I want you to watch him as he goes down into this forest to see
David to-day to strengthen his hand in God. I said we do not know his
conversation with David. We do know a bit of it, and that is this,
that he encouraged David to believe God, to believe this one particular
promise at least, that God was going to see to it that David was king.
And when you see Jonathan going thus into the woods he is going for the
deliberate purpose of taking the crown off his own brow and putting it
upon the brow of another. He is abdicating the throne in behalf of
this outcast friend of his who is hiding here in the forest.
You will doubtless agree, therefore, that this old world has not been
blessed with many visits so beautiful as this. Watch this Prince as he
goes into the wood. His stride is like that of another:
"Into the woods my Master went,
Clean forspent, forspent;
Into the woods my Master came,
Forspent with love and shame.
But the olive trees were not blind to Him,
And the little gray leaves were kind to Him,
And the thorn tree had a mind to Him,
When into the woods He came.
"Out of the woods my Master went,
And He was well content;
Out of the woods my Master came,
Content with death and shame.
When death and shame would woo Him last,
From under the trees they drew Him last,
'Twas on a tree they slew him--last
When out of the woods He came."
Yes, Jonathan went into the woods to uncrown himself! to empty himself
for his friend! Truly "the spirit and mind was in him that was also in
Christ Jesus, who being in the form of God thought it not a thing to be
clung to to be equal with God, but emptied Himself and became obedient
unto death, even the death of the cross."
But the "practical" man stands aside and looks on and says, "Jonathan,
you have made a great mistake. You never wore a crown and you never
wielded a scepter. You took your opportunity for earthly greatness and
threw it away. It was a great mistake." And we take the words of
Judas and say, "Why this waste?"
But after all, was it a mistake? He lost his crown, but he won his
friend. He helped banish the discord and increased the melody of the
world. He threw aside his scepter of temporal power to lay hold on an
eternal scepter. He threw aside the crown that he might have worn for
a day to lay hold on a crown that will last forever more.
If ever I get to Heaven I expect to give particular attention to the
Visitors' Gallery. I think there is going to be an especial place, a
very choice place in Heaven for the visitors. Not, you will
understand, for those who are visiting Heaven, but those who were good
at visiting here. For mark you, the Lord has spoken of a special
reward that He is going to give to those of whom He could say, "Ye
visited me." And about the handsomest, the loveliest face I expect to
find among the immortal and blood-washed visitors is the face of this
man Jonathan.
And now, will you hear this closing word? Jonathan uncrowned himself
for his friend. And he won his friend and he won an immortal crown.
But there was another who gave up infinitely more than Jonathan. And
He came to you and me when we were in an infinitely worse plight than
that in which David was. He came to us when we were dead in trespasses
and in sin. And what He says to us this morning is this, "I have
called you friends. Ye are my friends."
The Prince who did that for us was not the son of Saul, but the Son of
God. Through His renunciation He was crowned. By His stooping He was
forever elevated. "Wherefore God has highly exalted Him and given Him
a name that is above every name." But what I ask is this: Have you
responded to His friendship as David responded to that of Jonathan? He
has been a friend to you. Have you, will you be a friend to Him? That
is what He is seeking. That is what He is longing for to-day as for
nothing else in earth or Heaven.
You know why He came. You know why He is here now. Why did Jonathan
visit David in the gloomy wood that day and uncrown himself for him?
It was just this reason: It was because he loved him. Again and again
the story had said that Jonathan loved David as his own soul. I
thought it was a mere hyperbole at first. I thought it might be a kind
of poetic way of putting it, but it was only sober truth. And David
spoke sober truth in that noble and manly lamentation when he said,
"Thy love was wonderful to me, passing the love of women."
And it is love that seeks you and me to-day. It is a love that longs
to gain our friendship. It is a love that had been told to us, but at
last was shown to us in the death of the cross. And we know it is
true. David responded to the love that was shown him. He did not
disappoint his friend. May the Lord save you and me from disappointing
our Friend. "For He is a Friend that sticketh closer than a brother."
VI
THE WOMAN OF THE SHATTERED ROMANCES--THE WOMAN OF SYCHAR
_John 4:4-26_
Look, will you, at this picture. There sits a man in the strength and
buoyancy of young manhood. He is only thirty or thereabouts. About
him is the atmosphere of vigor and vitality that belong to the
spring-time of life. But to-day he is a bit tired. There is a droop
in his shoulders. His feet and sandals are dusty. His garment is
travel stained. He has been journeying all the morning on foot. And
now at the noon hour he is resting.
The place of his resting is an old well curb. The well is one that was
digged by hands that have been dust long centuries. This traveller is
very thirsty. But he has no means of drawing the water, so he sits
upon the well curb and waits. His friends who are journeying with him
have gone into the city to buy food. Soon they will return and then
they will eat and drink together.
As he looks along the road that leads into the city he sees somebody
coming. That somebody is not one of his disciples. It is a woman. As
she comes closer he sees that she is clad in the cheap and soiled
finery of her class. At once he knows her for what she is. He reads
the dark story of her sinful life. He understands the whole fetid and
filthy past through which she has journeyed as through the stenchful
mud of a swamp.
As she approaches the well she glares at the Stranger seated upon the
curb with bold and unsympathetic gaze. She knows his nationality at
once. And all her racial resentment is alive and active.
A bit to her surprise the Stranger greets her with a request for a
favor. "Give me a drink," he says. Christ was thirsty. He wanted a
draught from Jacob's well. But far more He wanted a draught from this
woman's heart. She was a slattern, an outcast. She was lower, in the
estimation of the average Jew, than a street dog. Yet this weary
Christ desired the gift of her burnt out and impoverished affections.
So He says, "Give me to drink."
There is no scorn in the tone, and yet the woman is not in the least
softened by it. She rather glories in the fact that she has Him at a
disadvantage. "Oh, yes," she doubtless says to herself, "you Jews with
your high-handed pride, you Jews with your bitter contempt for us
Samaritans--you never have any use for us except when you need us."
"How is it," she says, "that you being a Jew ask drink of me who am a
woman of Samaria? You don't mean that you would take a drink at the
hand of an unclean thing like me, do you?"
But this charming Stranger does not answer her as she had expected. He
makes no apology for His request. Nor does He show the least bit of
resentment or contempt. He does not answer scorn with scorn, but
rather answers with a surprising tenderness: "If thou knewest the gift
of God and who it is that saith unto thee, Give me to drink, thou
wouldest have asked of Him and He would have given thee living water."
Mark what the Master says. It is one of those abidingly tragic
"ifs"--"If thou knewest." "The trouble with you," He says, "is that
you do not know the marvelous opportunity with which you now stand face
to face. Your trouble is that you are unaware of how near you are to
the Fountain of Eternal Life. You do not realize how near your soiled
fingers are to clasping wealth that is wealth forever more."
"If thou knewest"--if you only knew how He could still the fitful fever
of your heart. If you only knew the message of courage and hope and
salvation that He could speak through your lips, you would not be so
listless and so careless and so indifferent as the preacher is trying
to preach. If you knew the burdens that are ahead of you--if you knew
the dark and lonely places where you will sorely need a friend, you
would not lightly ignore the friendship and abiding companionship that
is offered you in Christ Jesus, our Lord.
"If thou knewest." Do you not hear the cadences of tenderness in the
voice of our Lord? Do you not get a glimpse of some bit of the
infinite compassion that looks out from those eternal eyes? "If you
only knew the gift of God, if you only knew who I am, instead of my
having to beg you, instead of my having to stand at the door and
knock--you would be knocking. You would be asking of me."
Now, isn't that a rather amazing thing for Christ to say about this
fallen woman? There she stands in her shame. Once, no doubt, she was
beautiful. There is a charm about her still in spite of the fact that
she is a woman of many a shattered romance. Five times she has been
married, but the marriage relationship has had little sacredness for
her. Her orange blossoms have been dipped in pitch and to-day she is
living in open sin.