'Not as the world giveth, give I unto you.' Our Lord contrasts, as it
seems to me, primarily the manner of the world's bestowment, and then
passes insensibly into a contrast between the character of the world's
gifts and His own. That phrase 'the world' may have a double sense. It
may mean either mankind in general or the whole external and material
frame of things. I think we may use both significations in elucidating
the words before us.
Regarding it in the former of them, the thought is suggested—Christ
_gives_; men can only _wish_. 'Peace be unto you' comes from many a
lip, and is addressed to many an ear, unfulfilled. Christ says 'peace,'
and His word is a conveyance. How little we can do for one another's
tranquillity, how soon we come to the limits of human love and human
help! How awful and impassable is the isolation in which each human
soul lives! After all love and fellowship we dwell alone on our little
island in the deep, separated by 'the salt, unplumbed, estranging sea,'
and we can do little more than hoist signals of goodwill, and now and
then for a moment stretch our hands across the 'echoing straits
between.' But it is little after all that husband or wife can do for
one another's central peace, little that the dearest friend can give.
We have to depend upon ourselves and upon Christ for peace. That which
the world wishes Christ gives.
And then, if we take the other signification of the 'world,' and the
other application of the whole promise, we may say—Outward things can
give a man no real peace. The world is for excitement; Christ alone has
the secret of tranquillity. It is as if to a man in a fever a physician
should come and say: 'I cannot give you anything to soothe you; here is
a glass of brandy for you.' That would not help the fever, would it?
The world comes to us and says: 'I cannot give you rest: here is a
sharp excitement for you, more highly spiced and titillating for your
tongue than the last one, which has turned flat and stale.' That is
about the best that it can do.
Oh! what a confession of unrest are the rush and recklessness, the
fever and the fret of our modern life with its ever renewed and ever
disappointed quest after good! You go about our streets and look men in
the face, and you see how all manner of hungry desires and eager wishes
have imprinted themselves there. And now and then—how seldom!—you come
across a face out of which beams a deep and settled peace. How many of
you are there who dare not be quiet because then you are most troubled?
How many of you are there who dare not reflect because then you are
wretched? How many of you are uncomfortable when alone, either because
you are utterly vacuous, or because then you are surrounded by the
ghosts of ugly thoughts that murder sleep and stuff every pillow with
thorns? The world will bring you excitement; Christ, and Christ alone
will bring you rest.
The peace that earth gives is a poor affair at best. It is shallow; a
very thin plating over a depth of restlessness, like some skin of turf
on a volcano, where a foot below the surface sulphurous fumes roll, and
hellish turbulence seethes. That is the kind of rest that the world
brings.
Oh! dear friends, there is nothing in this world that will fill and
satisfy your hearts except only Jesus Christ. The world is for
excitement; and Christ is the only real Giver of real peace.
III. Lastly, note the duty of the recipients of that peace of Christ's:
'Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.'
The words that introduced this great discourse return again at its
close, somewhat enlarged and with a deepened soothing and tenderness.
There are two things referred to as the source of restlessness,
troubled agitation or disturbance of heart; and that mainly, I suppose,
because of terror in the outlook towards a dim and unknown future. The
disciples are warned to fight against these if they would keep the gift
of peace.
That is to say, casting the exhortation into a more general expression,
Christ's gift of peace does not dispense with the necessity for our own
effort after tranquillity. There is much in the outer world that will
disturb us to the very end, and there is much within ourselves that
will surge up and seek to shake our repose and break our peace; and we
have to coerce and keep down the temptations to anxiety, the
temptations to undue agitation of desire, the temptations to tumults of
sorrow, the temptations to cowardly fears of the unknown future. All
these will continue, even though we have Christ's peace in our hearts,
and it is for us to see to it that we treasure the peace, 'and in
everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let our
requests be made known unto God,' that nothing may break the calm which
we possess.
So, then, another thought arises from this final exhortation, and that
is, that it is useless to tell a man, 'Do not be troubled, and do not
be afraid,' unless he first has Christ's peace as his. Is that peace
yours, my brother, because Jesus Christ is yours? If so, then there is
no reason for your being troubled or dreading any future. If it is not,
you are mad not to be troubled, and you are insane if you are not
afraid. The word for you is, 'Be troubled, ye careless ones,' for there
is reason for it, and be afraid of that which is certainly coming. The
one thing that gives security and makes it possible to possess a calm
heart is the possession of Jesus Christ by faith. Without Him it is a
waste of breath to say to people, 'Do not be frightened,' and it is
wicked counsel to say to men, 'Be at ease.' They ought to be terrified,
and they ought to be troubled, and they will be some day, whether they
think so or not.
But then the last thought from this exhortation is—and now I speak to
Christian people—your imperfect possession of this peace is all your
own fault. Why, there are hundreds of professing Christian people who
have some kind of faint, rudimentary faith, and there are many of them,
I dare say, listening to me now, who have no assured possession of any
of those elements, of which I have been speaking, as the constituent
parts of Christ's peace. You are _not_ sure that you are right with
God. You do _not_ know what it is to possess satisfied desires. You
_do_ know what it is to have conflicting inclinations and impulses; you
have envy and malice and hostility against men; and the world's storms
and disasters do strike and disturb you. Why? Because you have not a
firm grasp of Jesus Christ. 'I have set the Lord always at my right
hand, therefore I shall not be moved'; there is the secret. Keep near
Him, my brother; and then all things are fair, and your heart is at
peace.
I remember once standing by the side of a little Highland loch on a
calm autumn day, when all the winds were still, and every birch-tree
stood unmoved, and every twig was reflected on the steadfast mirror,
into the depths of which Heaven's own blue seemed to have found its
way. That is what our hearts may be, if we let Christ put His guarding
hand round them to keep the storms off, and have Him within us for our
rest. But the man who does not trust Jesus 'is like the troubled sea
which cannot rest,' but goes moaning round half the world, homeless and
hungry, rolling and heaving, monotonous and yet changeful, salt and
barren—the true emblem of every soul that has not listened to the
merciful call, 'Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden,
and I will give you rest.'