the coming of our Saviour, we shall find them to have been deplorably
corrupt, though they expected his coming, and were, in some measure,
acquainted with true religion. The little knowledge which they had
seems to have been perverted through the wickedness of their hearts;
and the Scriptures assure us, that "both Jews and Gentiles were all
under sin." Such was the state into which the world was sunk before
the time of our Saviour's appearance in it.
Let us describe, next, who Christ was, and what were the consequences
of his coming. He is called in Scripture, "the Son of God;" and in
some places, "God's only Son;" which shows that there is no other
being like unto him. We know that a son, by his very birth, derives
privileges from his father which belong to no other person; that he
partakes of the same rank and inheritance with his father; and that
he possesses also, in an especial manner, his father's favor, and
altogether differs from a stranger or a servant. Christ, then, is to
be considered, in all such senses as these, as the Son of God. It is
true, he is called also the Son of man, for he was born of a woman,
namely, of the virgin Mary, and he took upon him our nature, dwelling
on earth for thirty years. We should take great care, however, that
his appearance among us as a man, does not lead us to form any low and
unworthy notions of him.
Suppose, now, that the son of a king was to travel, in the dress
of a private subject, on some merciful and condescending errand to
a distant and obscure part of his territory. Surely it would be very
ungenerous and ungrateful, if the poor villagers, whom he came to
serve, were to deny to him the honors of a king's son merely because
they could not believe that so great a person could stoop so low as
to come among them, especially if he brought proofs of his power and
greatness along with him.
Just so, methinks, are all those persons ungenerous and ungrateful
who refuse to Christ that divine honor which belongs to him, merely
because he condescended to be made flesh and blood, and to dwell among
us. Let us, then, receive with simplicity and humility the scripture
testimony concerning him. It speaks of him in terms that are quite
astonishing. "His name," says the prophet, foretelling his birth,
"shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, the mighty God, the
everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace; and the government shall be
on his shoulders." The evangelist John tells us, that "the Word,"
meaning Christ, "was with God", and the "Word was God." "By him," it
is said in the Hebrews, "God made the world;" and again, "Let all the
angels of God worship him." "All power hath been given him, both in
heaven and earth," and God "hath committed all judgment to the Son."
"The hour also cometh when they that are in the graves shall hear the
voice of the Son of man, and shall come forth: they that have done
good, to the resurrection of life; and they that have done evil, to
the resurrection of damnation."
Such are a few of the expressions used in Scripture concerning Christ.
Let us learn from these to adore his divine Majesty, and trust his
power, as well as to fear his wrath, and to account him able to fulfil
all the purposes of his coming.
But let us next describe _what these purposes were_. It may be said in
general, that "it was for us men, and for our salvation, that he came
down from heaven;" or, as the Scripture expresses it, "The Son of man
came to seek and to save that which was lost, and to give his life a
ransom for many."
The world, as hath already been shown, was sunk in sin, and not in sin
only, but in condemnation also. Ever since the fall of our first
parent Adam, man had been a sinful creature. But as in Adam all died,
even so in Christ were all who would receive him, "to be made alive."
Christ, then, was the second Adam: as Adam was the destroyer, so
Christ was the restorer of our race. The devil, who is called the
Prince of darkness, had, as we are told in Scripture, become the god
and the prince of this world. Christ, therefore, came into the world,
as a conquerer comes, to recover an empire that was lost, and to bring
back the rebels to their obedience and to happiness. He came to
overthrow that kingdom of darkness which, through the power of the
devil and the corruption of man, had been set up. "For this purpose
the Son of God was manifested, that he might destroy the works of the
devil." He came "to redeem us from all iniquity, and to purify unto
himself a peculiar people, zealous of good works."
But how does Christ fulfil his purpose of delivering us? First, I
would observe, that he lived a most holy life, hereby setting us an
example that we should tread in his steps. He went about doing good:
never was any one so kind and gracious to all who came to him as
Jesus Christ. I would here observe also, that he preached the gospel
to mankind; he told us what we must believe and do, in order to enter
into the kingdom of heaven. Through him also the Holy Spirit of God is
granted to us. And, to crown all, he died for us. He was nailed to the
cross, and suffered a cruel death for our sakes, bearing the wrath of
God in our stead. "Herein is love, not that we loved God, but that he
loved us, and sent his Son to be the propitiation for our sins."
Christ is that Lamb of God "which has been offered up as a sacrifice,"
and "which taketh away the sins of the world." Now, then, let us
rejoice, and say triumphantly, with the prophet of old, "Unto us a
child is born, unto us a son is given." "Behold," said the angels,
"I bring you good tidings of great joy; for unto you is born this day,
a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord." "Glory to God in the highest,
on earth peace, good will towards men."
Oh, how many thousands have had reason to bless the season which we
are now commemorating--the season of the birth of Jesus Christ. The
world, it is true, is still wicked, for there are many who do not
believe in this Saviour; and there are not a few who think they
believe in him, and who do not. Nevertheless, even the world in
general has been the better for his coming, for the thick darkness
is past, and the true light now shineth. Through Christ's coming,
iniquity has been lessened even among unbelievers; for real
Christians, though few, have held up to view the nature of true
goodness, and even bad men have, in some measure, been constrained to
imitate them; they have also grown more ashamed than they otherwise
would have been of their vices.
But who can calculate the blessing which Christianity hath been to
thousands of true believers? How many lives have been made holy here
on earth; how many hearts have been cheered and comforted by it; how
many deaths, which would otherwise have been most gloomy, have been
rendered joyful and triumphant; and, above all, how many immortal
souls have been saved and made happy to all eternity, through faith in
this blessed Redeemer. "My sheep," says Christ, "hear my voice, and
they follow me, and I give unto them eternal life; and they shall
never perish, neither shall any pluck them out of my hand." "I go to
prepare a place for them, that where I am there they may be also."
And now, reader, what are your thoughts on the subject of our
Saviour's appearance on this earth of ours? If you are a true
Christian, your language will be such as the following: "It is through
the coming of Christ into the world that I have learned to know
myself, and to know the God who made me. I am by nature blind and
ignorant; I am also sinful and undone; I am utterly without hope,
except through the mercy of my Saviour; and even though I have been
born in a Christian land, I can trace back, in my recollection, many
proofs of this my natural ignorance and corruption and hardness of
heart. I was once like a sheep going astray, but I am now returned to
the Shepherd of my soul. I followed the bent of my own foolish will,
but the grace of God in Jesus Christ has changed my sinful heart; the
knowledge of my corruption has humbled me; the thought of my Saviour's
dying for me has stirred up gratitude within me, and that acquaintance
with his gospel which I have gained has changed my whole views of
life.
"Christ's character delights me: I read the history of his humble
birth, his painful death, and his glorious resurrection, as it is
recorded in Scripture, with hope and joy, and with holy confidence and
trust. How shall I sufficiently bless God for Jesus Christ? Whatever
change has been wrought in me, I trace to Christ's coming into the
world. If Christ had never come, how corrupt should I be at this
moment; how blind, how dark, how ignorant, how different from what,
through the grace of God, I now am. How miserable, in comparison of my
present happiness. I am engaged, indeed, in a sharp conflict with my
sins; but, through my Saviour's help, I hope to gain ground against
them. I have, occasionally, doubts and fears; but in general, I feel
confident that the promises of God are sure and certain in Christ
Jesus; for I know in whom I have believed, and I am persuaded that he
is able to keep that soul which I have committed to him till the great
day."
A NEW CHRISTMAS HYMN.
O how wondrous is the story
Of our blest Redeemer's birth!
See, the mighty Lord of glory
Leaves his heaven to visit earth.
Hear with transport, every creature,
Hear the gospel's joyful sound:
Christ appears in human nature,
In our sinful world is found!
Comes to pardon our transgression,
Like a cloud our sins to blot;
Comes to his own favored nation,
But his own receive him not.
If the angels who attended
To declare the Saviour's birth,
Who from heaven with songs descended,
To proclaim good will on earth;
If, in pity to our blindness,
_They_ had brought the pardon needed;
Still, Jehovah's wondrous kindness
Had our warmest hopes exceeded!
If some prophet had been sent
With salvation's joyful news,
Who that heard the blest event
Could their warmest love refuse?
But 'twas He to whom in heaven
Hallelujahs never cease;
He, the mighty God, was given--
Given to us a Prince of peace.
None but he who did create us,
Could redeem from sin and hell;
None but he could reinstate us
In the rank from which we fell.
Had he come, the glorious stranger,
Decked with all the world calls great--
Had he lived in pomp and grandeur,
Crowned with more than royal state--
Still, our tongues, with praise o'erflowing,
On such boundless love would dwell--
Still, our hearts, with rapture glowing,
Speak what words could never tell.
But what wonder should it raise,
Thus our lowest state to borrow!
O the high mysterious ways--
God's own Son a child of sorrow!
'Twas to bring us endless pleasure,
He our suffering nature bore;
'Twas to give us heavenly treasure,
He was willing to be poor.
Come, ye rich, survey the stable
Where your infant Saviour lies;
From your full, o'erflowing table,
Send the hungry good supplies.
Boast not your ennobled stations,
Boast not that you're highly fed;
Jesus, hear it all ye nations,
Had not where to lay his head.
Learn of me, thus cries the Saviour,
If my kingdom you'd inherit:
Sinner, quit your proud behavior;
Learn my meek and lowly spirit.
Come, ye servants, see your station
Free from all reproach and shame;
He who purchased your salvation,
Bore a servant's humble name.
Come, ye poor, some comfort gather,
Faint not in the race you run;
Hard the lot your gracious Father
Gave his dear, his only Son.
Think, that if your humble stations
Less of worldly food bestow,
You escape those strong temptations
Which from wealth and grandeur flow
See, your Saviour is ascended;
See, he looks with pity down:
Trust him, all will soon be mended;
Bear his cross, you'll share his crown.
BEAR YE ONE ANOTHER'S BURDENS;
or, THE VALLEY OF TEARS. A VISION.
BY HANNAH MORE.
Once upon a time methought I set out upon a long journey, and the
place through which I travelled appeared to be a dark valley, which
was called the Valley of Tears. It had obtained this name not only
on account of the many sorrowful adventures which poor passengers
commonly meet with in their journey through it, but also because most
of these travellers entered it weeping and crying, and left it in a
very great pain and anguish. This vast valley was full of people of
all colors, ages, sizes, and descriptions; but whether white, or
black, or tawney, all were travelling the same road, or rather, they
were taking different little paths which all led to the same common
end.
Now it was remarkable, that notwithstanding the different complexions,
ages, and tempers of this vast variety of people, yet all resembled
each other in this one respect, that each had a burden on his back,
which he was destined to carry through the toil and heat of the day,
until he should arrive, by a longer or shorter course, at his
journey's end. These burdens would in general have made the pilgrimage
quite intolerable, had not the Lord of the valley, out of his great
compassion for these poor pilgrims, provided, among other things, the
following means for their relief.
In their full view, over the entrance of the valley, there were
written in great letters the following words:
BEAR YE ONE ANOTHER'S BURDENS.
Now I saw in my vision, that many of the travellers hurried on without
stopping to read this inscription; and others, though they had once
read it, yet paid little or no attention to it. A third sort thought
it good advice for other people, but very seldom applied it to
themselves. In short, I saw that too many of these people were of the
opinion, that they had burdens enough of their own, and that there
was therefore no occasion to take upon them those of others; so each
tried to make his own load as light, and his own journey as pleasant
as he could, without so much as once casting a thought on a poor
overloaded neighbor.
Here, however, I have to make a rather singular remark, by which
I shall plainly show the folly of these selfish people. It was so
ordered and contrived by the Lord of this valley, that if any one
stretched out his hand to lighten a neighbor's burden, in fact he
never failed to find that he at that moment also lightened his own.
Besides, the obligation to help each other, and the benefit of doing
so, were mutual. If a man helped his neighbor, it commonly happened
that some other neighbor came, by and by, and helped him in his turn;
for there was no such thing as what we call _independence_ in the
whole valley. Not one of all these travellers, however stout and
strong, could move on comfortably without assistance; for so the Lord
of the valley, whose laws were all of them kind and good, had
expressly ordained.
I stood still to watch the progress of these poor wayfaring people,
who moved slowly on, like so many ticket-porters, with burdens of
various kinds on their backs, of which some were heavier, and some
were lighter; but from a burden of one kind or other, not one
traveller was entirely free.
THE WIDOW.
A sorrowful widow, oppressed with the burden of grief for the loss of
an affectionate husband, would have been bowed down by her heavy load,
had not the surviving children with great alacrity stepped forward and
supported her. Their kindness, after a while, so much lightened the
load, which threatened at first to be intolerable, that she even went
on her way with cheerfulness, and more than repaid their help, by
applying the strength she derived from it, to their future assistance.
THE HUSBAND.
I next saw a poor old man tottering under a burden so heavy, that I
expected him every moment to sink under it. I peeped into his pack,
and saw it was made up of many sad articles: there were poverty,
oppression, sickness, debt, and what made by far the heaviest part,
undutiful children. I was wondering how it was that he got on even so
well as he did, till I spied his wife, a kind, meek, Christian woman,
who was doing her utmost to assist him. She quietly got behind, gently
laid her shoulder to the burden, and carried a much larger proportion
of it than appeared to me when I was at a distance. She not only
sustained him by her strength, but cheered him by her counsels. She
told him that "through much tribulation we must enter into the
kingdom;" that "he that overcometh shall inherit all things." In
short, she so supported his fainting spirit, that he was enabled to
"run with patience the race that was set before him."
THE KIND NEIGHBOR.
An infirm blind woman was creeping forward with a very heavy burden,
in which were packed sickness and want, with numberless other of those
raw materials out of which human misery is worked up. She was so weak
that she could not have got on at all, had it not been for the kind
assistance of another woman almost as poor as herself; who, though she
had no light burden of her own, cheerfully lent a helping hand to a
fellow-traveller who was still more heavily laden. This friend had
indeed little or nothing to give; but the very voice of kindness is
soothing to the weary. And I remarked in many other cases, that it was
not so much the degree of help afforded as the manner of helping, that
lightened the burdens.
Some had a coarse, rough, clumsy way of assisting a neighbor, which,
though in fact it might be of real use, yet seemed, by galling the
travellers, to add to the load it was intended to lighten; while I
observed in others, that so cheap a kindness as a mild word, or even
an affectionate look, made a poor burdened wretch move on cheerily.
The bare feeling that some human being cared for him, seemed to
lighten the load.
But to return to this kind neighbor. She had a little old book in her
hand, the covers of which were worn out by much use. When she saw the
blind woman ready to faint, she would read her a few words out of this
book, such as the following: "Blessed are the poor in spirit; for
theirs is the kingdom of heaven." "Blessed are they that mourn; for
they shall be comforted." "I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee."
"For our light affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh out for
us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory;" and one of
these little promises operated like a cordial on the sufferer.
THE CLERGYMAN.
A pious minister sinking under the weight of a distressed parish,
whose worldly wants he was totally unable to bear, was suddenly
relieved by a good widow, who came up, and took all the sick and
hungry on her own shoulders. The burden of the parish thus divided
became tolerable. The minister being no longer bowed down by the
temporal distresses of his people, applied himself cheerfully to his
own part of the weight. And it was pleasant to see how those two
persons, neither of them very strong, or rich, or healthy, by thus
kindly uniting together, were enabled to bear the weight of a whole
parish; though singly, either of them must have sunk under the
attempt. And I remember one great grief I felt during my whole journey
was, that I did not see more of this union and concurring kindness, by
which all the burdens might have been easily divided. It troubled me
to observe, that of all the laws of the valley, there was not one
more frequently broken than the law of kindness.
THE NEGROES.
I now spied a swarm of poor black men, women, and children, a
multitude which no man could number; these groaned, and toiled, and
sweated, and bled under far heavier loads than I had yet seen. But
for a while no man helped them; at length a few white travellers
were touched with the sorrowful sighing of those millions, and very
heartily did they put their hands to the burdens; but their number was
not quite equal to the work they had undertaken: I perceived, however,
that they never lost sight of these poor, heavy-laden wretches; and as
the number of these generous helpers increased, and is continually
increasing, I felt a comfortable hope, that before all the blacks got
out of the valley, the whites would so apply themselves to the burden,
that the loads would be effectually lightened.
Among the travellers, I had occasion to remark, that those who most
kicked and struggled under their burdens, only made them so much the
heavier; for their shoulders became extremely galled by these vain
struggles. The load, if borne patiently, would in the end have turned
even to the advantage of the bearers--for so the Lord of the valley
had kindly decreed; but as to these grumblers, they had all the smart
and none of the benefit. But the thing that made all these burdens
seem so very heavy was, that in every one, without exception, there
was a certain inner packet, which most of the travellers took pains to
conceal, and carefully wrap up; and while they were forward enough to
complain of the other part of their burdens, few said a word about
this, though in truth it was the pressing weight of this secret packet
which served to render the general burden so intolerable.
In spite of all their caution, I contrived to get a peep at it. I
found, in each, that this packet had the same label: the word _sin_
was written on all as a general title, and in ink so black that they
could not wash it out. I observed that most of them took no small
pains to hide the writing; but I was surprised to see that they did
not try to get rid of their load, but the label. If any kind friend
who assisted these people in bearing their burdens, did but so much as
hint at the secret packet, or advise them to get rid of it, they took
fire at once, and commonly denied that they had any such article in
their portmanteau; and it was those whose secret packet swelled to the
most enormous size, who most stoutly denied they had any such packet
at all.
I saw with pleasure, however, that some who had long labored heartily
to get rid of this inward packet, at length, by prayers, and tears,
and efforts, not made in their own strength, found it much diminished,
and the more this packet shrunk in size, the lighter was the other
part of their burdens also.
Then, methought, all at once, I heard a voice as it had been the voice
of an angel, crying out, and saying, "Ye unhappy pilgrims, why are ye
troubled about the burden which ye are doomed to bear through this
Valley of Tears? Know ye not, that as soon as ye shall have escaped
out of this valley, the whole burden shall drop off, provided ye
neglect not to remove that inward weight of _sin_ which principally
oppresses you? Study, then, the whole will of the Lord of this valley.
Learn from him how the heavy part of your burdens may now be lessened,
and how at last it shall be removed for ever. Be comforted. Faith and
hope may cheer you even in this valley. The passage, though it seems
long to weary travellers, is comparatively short; for beyond it there
is a land of everlasting rest, 'where ye shall hunger no more, neither
thirst any more; where ye shall be led by living fountains of waters,
and all tears shall be wiped away from your eyes.'"
THE STRAIT GATE AND THE BROAD WAY:
BEING THE SECOND PART OF THE VALLEY OF TEARS.
BY HANNAH MORE.
Now I had a second vision of what was passing in the Valley of Tears.
Methought I saw again the same kind of travellers whom I had seen in
the former part, and they were wandering at large through the same
vast wilderness. At first setting out on his journey, each traveller
had a small lamp so fixed in his bosom, that it seemed to make a part
of himself; but as this _natural light_ did not prove to be sufficient
to direct them in the right way, the King of the country, in pity to
their wanderings and their blindness, out of his gracious
condescension, promised to give these poor wayfaring people an
additional supply of light from his own royal treasury.
But as he did not choose to lavish his favors where there seemed no
disposition to receive them, he would not bestow any of his oil on
such as did not think it worth asking for. "Ask, and ye shall
receive," was the universal rule he laid down for them. Many were
prevented from asking through pride and vanity, for they thought they
had light enough already; preferring the feeble glimmerings of their
own lamp, to all the offered light from the King's treasury.
Yet it was observed of those who rejected it as thinking they had
enough, that hardly any acted up to what even their own natural light
showed them. Others were deterred from asking, because they were told
that this light not only pointed out the dangers and difficulties of
the road, but by a certain reflecting power it turned inward on
themselves, and revealed to them ugly sights in their own hearts to
which they rather chose to be blind; for those travellers "chose
darkness rather than light, because their deeds were evil." Now it was
remarkable that these two properties were inseparable, and that the
lamp would be of little outward use, except to those who used it as
an internal reflector. A threat and a promise also never failed to
accompany the offer of this light from the King: a promise, that to
those who improved what they had, more should be given; and a threat,
that from those who did not use it wisely, should be taken away even
what they had.
I observed that when the road was very dangerous, when terrors and
difficulties and death beset the faithful traveller, then, on their
fervent importunity, the King voluntarily gave large and bountiful
supplies of light, such as in common seasons never could have been
expected; always proportioning the quantity given to the necessity of
the case: "As their day was," such was their light and strength.
Though many chose to depend entirely on their own lamp, yet it was
observed that this light was apt to go out, if left to itself. It was
easily blown out by those violent gusts which were perpetually howling
through the wilderness, and indeed it was the natural tendency of that
unwholesome atmosphere to extinguish it; just as you have seen a
candle go out when exposed to the vapors and foul air of a damp room.
It was a melancholy sight to see multitudes of travellers heedlessly
pacing on, boasting they had light enough, and despising the offer of
more.
But what astonished me most of all was, to see many, and some of them,
too, accounted men of firstrate wit, actually busy in blowing out
their own light, because, while any spark of it remained, it only
served to torment them, and point out things which they did not wish
to see. And having once blown out their own light, they were not easy
till they had blown out that of their neighbor's also; so that a good
part of the wilderness seemed to exhibit a sort of universal
_blind-man's-buff_, each endeavoring to catch his neighbor, while his
own voluntary blindness exposed him to be caught himself, so that each
was actually falling into the snare he was laying for another; till at
length, as selfishness is the natural consequence of blindness, "catch
he that catch can," became the general cry throughout the wilderness.
Now I saw in my vision, that there were some others who were busy in
strewing the most gaudy flowers over the numerous bogs, precipices,
and pitfalls, with which the wilderness abounded; and thus making
danger and death look so gay, that the poor thoughtless creatures
seemed to delight in their own destruction. Those pitfalls did not
appear deep or dangerous to the eye, because over them were raised gay
edifices with alluring names. These were filled with singing men and
singing women, and with dancing, and feasting, and gaming, and
drinking, and jollity, and madness. But though the scenery was gay,
the footing was unsound. The floors were full of holes, through which
the unthinking merrymakers were continually sinking. Some tumbled
through in the middle of a song, many at the end of a feast; and
though there was many a cup of intoxication wreathed with flowers,
yet there was always poison at the bottom.
But what most surprised me was, that though no day passed over their
heads in which some of these merry-makers did not drop through, yet
their loss made little impression on those who were left. Nay, instead
of being awakened to more circumspection and self-denial by the
continual dropping off of those about them, several of them seemed to
borrow from thence an argument of a directly contrary tendency, and
the very shortness of the time was only urged as a reason to use it
more sedulously for the indulgence of sensual delights. "Let us eat
and drink; for to-morrow we die." "Let us crown ourselves with
rose-buds before they are withered." With these, and a thousand other
such little mottoes, the gay garlands of the wilderness were
decorated.
Some admired poets were set to work to set the most corrupt sentiments
to the most harmonious tunes: these were sung without scruple,
chiefly, indeed, by the looser sons of riot, but not seldom also by
the more orderly daughters of sobriety, who were not ashamed to sing,
to the sound of instruments, sentiments so corrupt and immoral, that
they would have blushed to speak or read them; but the music seemed to
sanctify the corruption, especially such as was connected with love or
drinking.
Now I observed, that all the travellers who had so much as a spark of
life left, seemed every now and then, as they moved onwards, to cast
an eye, though with very different degrees of attention, towards the
Happy land, which they were told lay at the end of their journey; but
as they could not see very far forward, and as they knew there was a
dark and shadowy valley, which must needs be crossed before they
could attain to the Happy land, they tried to turn their attention
from it as much as they could. The truth is, they were not
sufficiently apt to consult a map which the King had given them, and
which pointed out the road to the Happy land so clearly, that the
"wayfaring man, though simple, could not err." This map also defined
very correctly the boundaries of the Happy land from the land of
Misery, both of which lay on the other side of the dark and shadowy
valley; but so many beacons and lighthouses were erected, so many
clear and explicit directions furnished for avoiding the one country
and attaining the other, that it was not the King's fault, if even one
single traveller got wrong. But I am inclined to think, that in spite
of the map, and the King's word, and his offers of assistance to get
them thither, the travellers in general did not heartily and truly
believe, after all, that there was any such country as the Happy land;
or at least, the paltry and transient pleasures of the wilderness so
besotted them, the thoughts of the dark and shadowy valley so
frightened them, that they thought they should be more comfortable by
banishing all thought and forecast.
Now I also saw in my dream, that there were two roads through the
wilderness, one of which every traveller must needs take. The first
was narrow, and difficult, and rough, but it was infallibly safe. It
did not admit the traveller to stray either to the right hand or to
the left, yet it was far from being destitute of real comforts or
sober pleasures. The other was a _broad and tempting way_, abounding
with luxurious fruits and gaudy flowers to tempt the eye and please
the appetite. To forget the dark valley, through which every traveller
was well assured he must one day pass, seemed, indeed, the object of
general desire. To this great end, all that human ingenuity could
invent was industriously set to work. The travellers read, and they
wrote, and they painted, and they sung, and they danced, and they
drank as they went along, not so much because they all cared for these
things, or had any real joy in them, as because this restless activity
served to divert their attention from ever being fixed on the _dark
and shadowy valley_.
The King, who knew the thoughtless temper of the travellers, and
how apt they were to forget their journey's end, had thought of a
thousand little kind attentions to warn them of their dangers. And as
we sometimes see in our gardens written on a board in great letters,
"Beware of spring-guns"--"Man-traps are set here;" so had this King
caused to be written and stuck up, before the eyes of the travellers,
several little notices and cautions, such as, "Broad is the way that
leadeth to destruction;" "Take heed, lest ye also perish;" "Woe to
them that rise up early to drink wine;" "The pleasures of sin are but
for a season."
Such were the notices directed to the _Broad-way_ travellers; but they
were so busily engaged in plucking the flowers, sometimes before they
were blown, and in devouring the fruits, often before they were ripe,
and in loading themselves with _yellow clay_, under the weight of
which millions perished, that they had no time so much as to look at
the King's directions.
Many went wrong because they preferred a merry journey to a safe one,
and because they were terrified by certain notices chiefly intended
for the _Narrow-way_ travellers, such as, "Ye shall weep and lament,
but the world shall rejoice;" but had these foolish people allowed
themselves time or patience to read to the end, which they seldom
would do, they would have seen these comfortable words added: "But
your sorrow shall be turned into joy;" also, "Your joy no man taketh
from you;" and, "They that sow in tears shall reap in joy."
Now I also saw in my dream, that many travellers who had a strong
dread of ending at the land of Misery, walked up to the Strait gate,
hoping, that though the entrance was narrow, yet if they could once
get in, the road would widen; but what was their grief, when on
looking more closely they saw written on the inside, "Narrow is the
way:" this made them take fright; they compared the inscriptions with
which the whole way was lined, such as, "Be ye not conformed to this
world"--"Deny yourselves, take up your cross," with all the tempting
pleasures of the wilderness.
Some indeed recollected the fine descriptions they had read of the
Happy land, the Golden city, and the river of Pleasures, and they
sighed; but then, those joys were distant, and from the faintness
of their light they soon got to think that what was remote might
be uncertain; and while the present good increased in bulk by its
nearness, the distant good receded, diminished, disappeared. Their
faith failed; they would trust no farther than they could see: they
drew back and got into the Broadway, taking a common but sad refuge
in the number and gayety of their companions.
When these faint-hearted people, who yet had set out well, turned
back, their light was quite put out, and then they became worse than
those who had made no attempt to get in; "for it is impossible," that
is, it is next to impossible, "for those who were once enlightened,
and have tasted of the heavenly gift, and the good word of God, and
the powers of the world to come, if they shall fall away, to renew
them again to repentance."
A few honest, humble travellers, not naturally stronger than the rest,
but strengthened by their trust in the King's word, came up by the
light of their lamps, and meekly entered in at the Strait gate. As
they advanced farther they felt less heavy, and though the way did not
in reality grow wider, yet they grew reconciled to the narrowness of
it, especially when they saw the walls here and there studded with
certain jewels called _promises_, such as, "He that endureth to the
end shall be saved;" and, "My grace is sufficient for thee."
Some, when they were almost ready to faint, were encouraged by seeing
that many niches in the Narrow-way were filled with statues and
pictures of saints and martyrs, who had borne their testimony at the
stake, that the Narrow-way was the safe way; and these travellers,
instead of sinking at the sight of the painted wheel and gibbet, the
sword and the furnace, were animated by these words written under
them: "Those that wear white robes came out of great tribulation;"
and, "Be ye followers of them who through faith and patience inherit
the promises."
In the meantime there came a great multitude of travellers, all from
Laodicea: this was the largest party I had yet seen; these were
neither cold nor hot; they would not give up future hope, they could
not endure present pain; so they contrived to deceive themselves by
fancying, that though they resolved to keep the Happy land in view,
yet there must needs be many different ways which led to it, no doubt
all equally sure without being all equally rough; so they set on foot
certain little contrivances to attain the end without using the means,
and softened down the spirit of the King's directions to fit them to
their own practice.
Sometimes they would split a direction in two, and only use that half
which suited them. For instance, when they met with the following
rule, "Trust in the Lord, and do good," they would take the first
half, and make themselves easy with a general sort of trust, that
through the mercy of the King all would go well with them, though they
themselves did nothing. And on the other hand, many made sure that a
few good works of their own would carry them safely to the Happy land,
though they did _not_ trust in the Lord, nor place any faith in his
word: so they took the second half of the spliced direction. Thus some
perished by a lazy faith, and others by a working pride.
A large party of Pharisees now appeared, who had so neglected their
lamp that they did not see their way at all, though they fancied
themselves to be full of light; they kept up appearances so well as to
delude others, and most effectually to delude themselves with a notion
that they might be found in the right way at last. In this dreadful
delusion they went on to the end, and till they were finally plunged
in the dark valley, never discovered the horrors which awaited them on
the dismal shore. It was remarkable, that while these Pharisees were
often boasting how bright their light burned, in order to get the
praise of men, the humble travellers, whose steady light showed their
good works to others, refused all commendation, and the brighter their
light shined before men, so much the more they insisted that they
ought to glory, not in themselves, but their Father which is in
heaven.
I now set myself to observe what was the particular let, molestation,
and hinderance, which obstructed particular travellers in their
endeavors to enter in at the Strait gate. I remarked a huge portly
man, who seemed desirous of getting in, but he carried about him such
a vast provision of bags full of gold, and had on so many rich
garments which stuffed him out so wide, that though he pushed and
squeezed like one who had really a mind to get in, yet he could not
possibly do so. Then I heard a voice crying, "Woe to him that loadeth
himself with thick clay." The poor man felt something was wrong, and
even went so far as to change some of his more cumbersome vanities
into others which seemed less bulky; but still he and his pack were
much too wide for the gate.
He would not, however, give up the matter so easily, but began to
throw away a little of the coarser part of his baggage; but still I
remarked, that he threw away none of the vanities which lay near his
heart. He tried again, but it would not do; still his dimensions were
too large. He now looked up and read these words: "How hardly shall
they who have riches enter into the kingdom of God!" The poor man
sighed to find that it was impossible to enjoy his fill of both
worlds, and "went away sorrowing." If he ever afterwards cast a
thought towards the Happy land, it was only to regret that the road
which led to it was too narrow to admit any but the meagre children of
want, who were not so encumbered by wealth as to be too big for the
passage. Had he read on, he would have seen that "with God all things
are possible."
Another advanced with much confidence of success; for having little
worldly riches or honors, the gate did not seem so strait to him. He
got to the threshold triumphantly, and seemed to look back with
disdain on all that he was quitting. He soon found, however, that he
was so bloated with pride, and stuffed out with self-sufficiency, that
he could not get in. Nay, he was in a worse way than the rich man just
named, for _he_ was willing to throw away some of his outward luggage;
whereas this man refused to part with a grain of that vanity and
self-applause which made him too big for the way. The sense of his own
worth so swelled him out, that he stuck fast in the gateway, and could
neither get in nor out.
Finding now that he must cut off all those big thoughts of himself,
if he wished to be reduced to such a size as to pass the gate, he gave
up all thoughts of it. He scorned that humility and self-denial which
might have shrunk him down to the proper dimensions: the more he
insisted on his own qualifications for entrance, the more impossible
it became to enter, for the bigger he grew. Finding that he must
become quite another manner of man before he could hope to get in, he
gave up the desire; and I now saw, that though when he set his face
towards the Happy land he could not get an inch forward, yet the
instant he made a motion to turn back into the world, his speed became
rapid enough, and he got back into the Broad-way much sooner than he
had got out of it.
Many, who for a time were brought down from their usual bulk by some
affliction, seemed to get in with ease. They now thought all their
difficulties over; for having been surfeited with the world during
their late disappointment, they turned their backs upon it willingly
enough. A fit of sickness perhaps, which is very apt to _reduce_, had
for a time brought their bodies into subjection, so that they were
enabled just to get in at the gateway; but as soon as health and
spirits returned, the way grew narrower and narrower to them; they
could not get on, but turned short, and got back into the world.
I saw many attempt to enter who were stopped short by a large burden
of worldly cares; others by a load of idolatrous attachments; but I
observed that nothing proved a more complete bar than that vast bundle
of prejudices with which multitudes were loaded. Others were fatally
obstructed by loads of bad habits which they would not lay down,
though they knew they prevented their entrance. Some few, however, of
most descriptions who had kept their light alive by craving constant
supplies from the King's treasury, got through at last by a strength
which they felt not to be their own.
One poor man, who carried the largest bundle of bad habits I had seen,
could not get on a step; he never ceased, however, to implore for
light enough to see where his misery lay: he threw down one of his
bundles, then another, but all to little purpose, still he could not
stir. At last, striving as if in agony--which is the true way of
entering--he threw down the heaviest article in his pack: this was
selfishness. The poor fellow felt relieved at once, his light burned
brightly, and the rest of his pack was as nothing.
Then I heard a great noise as of carpenters at work. I looked to see
what this might be, and saw many sturdy travellers, who, finding they
were too bulky to get through, took into their heads not to reduce
themselves, but to widen the gate: they hacked on this side, and hewed
on that; but all their hacking and hewing and hammering was to no
purpose, they got only their labor for their pains: it would have been
possible for them to have reduced themselves, but to widen the
Narrow-way was impossible.
What grieved me most was, to observe that many who had got on
successfully a good way, now stopped to rest, and to admire their own
progress. While they were thus valuing themselves on their attainment,
their light diminished. While these were boasting how far they had left
others behind, who had set out much earlier, some slower travellers,
whose beginning had not been so promising but who had walked
circumspectly, now outstripped them. These last walked, "not as though
they had already attained," but "this one thing they did, forgetting the
things which were behind, they pressed forward towards the mark for the
prize of their high calling." These, though naturally weak, yet by
"laying aside every weight, finished the race that was before them."
Those who had kept their "light burning," who were not "wise in their
own conceit," who "laid their help on One that is mighty," who had
"chosen to suffer affliction rather than to enjoy the pleasures of sin
for a season," came at length to the Happy land. They had indeed the
dark and shadowy valley to cross; but even there they found "a rod and
a staff" to comfort them. Their light, instead of being put out by
the damps of the valley of the Shadow of Death, often burned with
added brightness.
Some, indeed, suffered the terrors of a short eclipse; but even then
their light, like that of a dark lantern, was not put out, it was only
hid for a while; and even these often finished their course with joy.
But be that as it might, the instant they reached the Happy land, all
tears were wiped from their eyes; and the King himself came forth and
welcomed them into his presence, and put a crown upon their heads,
with these words: "Well done, good and faithful servant; enter thou
into the joy of thy LORD."
THE PARABLE OF THE LABORERS IN THE VINEYARD.
The kingdom of heaven is compared by our Saviour to "a householder
which went out early in the morning to hire laborers into his
vineyard. And again he went out about the third hour, and saw others
standing idle in the market-place, and said unto them, Go ye also into
the vineyard: and they went their way. And he went out about the sixth
and ninth hour, and did likewise. And about the eleventh hour he went
out, and found others standing idle, and saith unto them, Why stand ye
here all the day idle? They say unto him, Because no man hath hired
us. He saith unto them, Go ye also into the vineyard; and whatsoever
is right, that shall ye receive."
By the _householder_ here spoken of, our Saviour himself is intended;
and by the _laborers_ _hired into the vineyard_, those persons are
meant who enter into his service. These laborers are said to be found
_standing idle in the market-place_; for the gospel finds men idle,
that is, not employed in God's service. They are working busily
enough, perhaps, for themselves; for men will rise up early, and go to
bed late, for the sake of getting money, or following pleasure; but
then their diligence is of a wrong kind. They are not diligent in the
way of duty to their Maker. They may be likened to a certain kind of
servants, who though they may seem busy, and may get from ignorant
persons some credit for being so, are nevertheless merely running on
their own errands, and doing their own work, so that they are no
better than idle in respect to the work which they ought to be doing
for their householder or master.
But when they become true Christians they are no longer like those
idle fellows who are always sauntering about with their arms folded,
in the market-place, pretending that they are in want of employment,
no man having as yet hired them: they may now be compared to a set of
laborers in the vineyard or garden, who, whenever you look at them,
are sure to be seen either digging, or planting, or watering, or
doing, in short, whatever is most wanting in the place where they are
working; and they have always an eye, moreover, to the honor and
interests of the great Householder their Master.
The householder is said to _go out at different hours of the day_ to
hire these servants. This signifies that the light of revelation was
sent at different periods of the world to the different people in it,
and in particular to the Jews at one period, and the Gentile nations
at another. The Jews had been much offended at seeing Christ address
himself to the Gentiles, who, as they thought, not having been called
into the church or vineyard of God at an early period of the world,
ought not to be received at a later hour. Our Saviour, therefore,
makes use of this parable, or story, as a convenient means of showing
how unreasonable these Jewish prejudices were.
I mean here, however, to accommodate the parable to the purpose of
showing in what manner the gospel often addresses itself _to men in
different periods of life_, calling one at an early age, and one much
later, into the same vineyard of Christ. We are in no danger of
erring exactly as the Jews did, by raising objections to Christ's
calling the great body of the Gentile nations into his church. We may
be in great danger, however, of acting much in the same spirit with
the Jews, and if we do so, that spirit is most likely to show itself
in our objecting to extend the privileges of the gospel to some poor
outcasts or aged sinners among ourselves.
First, then, I will put the case of one who is brought to obey the
gospel _in the morning of life_, and is one of the youngest of the
laborers in our Lord's vineyard. He sets out well, as I will suppose,
and goes on well through all the following stages of life; even his
most early prayers are not a mere matter of form, but they spring out
of a persuasion already rising up in his mind, that he is entirely
dependent on God, and needs the help of his Holy Spirit. It pleases
God, in answer to his infant prayers, to strengthen this child against
his early temptations, so that he does as Christ commands, and not as
wicked children may require or expect of him. Such a child as this
will also be diligent in learning his lessons, and improving his time;
for he will be like the laboring men in the vineyard, spoken of in
the parable, and not like the idle ones in the market-place.
Now what a vast quantity of good may such a person be the means of
doing in the course of a long life on earth. First of all, he is a
blessing to his young connections and school-fellows, for he will
often reprove vice and irreligion in them, even though it should be
much against the modesty of his own natural inclinations. Then he
grows up to be a bold witness for God in the face of all the gay and
unthinking young men or women among whom he is thrown in early life.
Next, he proceeds to do good about the village or town where he is
settled. After this, perhaps, he marries, when his wife, and all
her connections, and his own offspring also, have the advantage of
observing him. They remark his humble, candid, pious, and affectionate
spirit, and his diligent and self-denying life, and they profit both
by his kind services and his example.
Now, too, his income very probably increases through his good
character and industry, and hence he is able to assist the poor, the
fatherless, the widow, and to pay for the instruction of the ignorant;
for he spends little on himself. Having no vices he has few wants,
and his family, being trained to religious habits, and preserved from
the gay and expensive customs of the world, have few wants also. Thus
is happiness of all kinds spread abroad. He explains, also, as he has
opportunity, those Christian doctrines which have led him into this
life of usefulness, and is a great promoter of the gospel, so that a
little world of Christians is continually gathering together around
him, and even a new generation is coming forward, which shall, by and
by, rise up and call him blessed.
In the midst of all this usefulness, however, he is very modest and
lowly. He gives God the praise of every good thing he does, and he is
sincerely pained when flattering and inconsiderate people load him
with their extravagant commendations; for he sees a thousand faults in
himself which he is much engaged in overcoming, though others perceive
them not. He is conscious of neglecting many an opportunity of doing
good, and of failing to suppress sufficiently many an evil thought;
and though some irreligious people may fancy that he already carries
things too far, as they absurdly term it, yet there is nothing of
which he is himself more sure than that he falls short in every
duty, and especially in those things of which they least see the
importances--in zeal for religion, in the duties of prayer and praise,
and in all the feelings and expressions of gratitude to his Creator
and Redeemer.
But while we are thus describing the amiable character of a Christian,
let it be remarked also, that he meets with various difficulties, and
is exposed to not a few misrepresentations, His virtuous singularity,
for instance, is considered by some, who do not understand his
principles, to be unnecessary preciseness, and is thought to arise
from a conceited or disobliging spirit. His courage in reproving vice,
if unsuccessful, is called, by those whom he reproves, impertinence.
His activity in doing good is not seldom ascribed to forwardness. Even
his extraordinary liberality is accounted for, by those who do not
care to follow his example, by saying that it is mere vanity, or
lavish imprudence. And, above all, his piety is apt to be thought, by
the impious and irreligious, to be mere hypocrisy, or at best a poor,
pitiable sort of weakness.
Thus, then, while the Christian has many peculiar hopes, and joys, and
consolations on the one hand, he experiences many trials and hardships
on the other. Nevertheless, he bears up under them all; many of them,
indeed, appear light to him in comparison of what they seem to other
men, and grow more and more light as he becomes used to them. He goes
on, therefore, cheerful and contented: he labors much, he suffers
much, he renounces much, he contends much in the cause of Christ;
and he does this in every place to which he moves, in every changing
situation and circumstance, and in every season of life through which
he passes.
And now at last, after a long life, death closes in upon him; he looks
with thankfulness back to what is past, and with composure to the
important and decisive hour that is approaching. He trusts, indeed,
not in himself, but in his Saviour, for, after all, he is but "an
unprofitable servant, having done no more than it was his duty to do;"
but he has much comfortable proof that his Christian faith has not
been a mere name; and he is able to take up the same language with the
apostle, and to say, with a measure of the same confidence, "I have
fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith;
henceforth there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness, which the
Lord the righteous Judge shall give me at that day." This then is one
of those who, to borrow the phrase in the parable, may be said to have
"borne the burden and heat of the day."
There is another class of persons who may now be spoken of as entering
into the vineyard of Christ at a somewhat later hour; at the age, we
will suppose, of _twenty-five or thirty_. These have lost an hour
indeed; they have idled away one precious season of life. Alas, it is
also to be feared, that during the heat and self-confidence of youth,
they have done much evil, as well as neglected to do good. Perhaps it
has also happened that they have already formed some rash connection,
and established themselves on some irreligious plan; but now they
repent; they break through all difficulties; they turn away from
the path in which they had set out in life, and they turn into
the vineyard of Christ. They become humble, diligent, and useful
Christians; for even those also give a good part at least of their
health and strength to the cause of their Saviour, and with grief and
shame at having been thus far idle, they become fellow-laborers with
those happier persons already spoken of.
But let us come to a class of persons who repent somewhat later still;
I mean at the age of _forty or fifty_. How affecting is the condition
of such persons when it is well considered. They now discover that
they have been all their lives living, as it were, to no purpose; that
the whole of these forty or fifty years has been idly thrown away, or
if spent in labor, it has been mere labor in vain. For even though
they may have been diligent, yet they have been merely diligent in
doing their own will, and not the will of God; they have been working
in their own vineyard, and not in the vineyard of Christ; they have
been year after year pushing their own fortune, building up their own
credit, exalting their own consequence, indulging their own ease,
following their own pleasure, caring about their own interest, or
family interest, while the great interests of the kingdom of Christ
have been quite out of the question.
Now, therefore, they have to repent perhaps of the very things they
have been the most proud of. They have also to resist many sinful
habits which have become, as it were, a second nature; they have to
disentangle themselves from a multitude of irreligious connections,
whose opinions have hitherto ruled over them; they have to unteach
even their own children many a false principle which they had taught
them. With many a weary and painful step, they have to measure back
the whole ground which they have been treading; and they have to undo,
as it were, every thing which for fifty years they have been doing.
When more than half of life is over, they have to enter upon the work
which they were sent into the world to do; but at length they hire
themselves into the vineyard of Christ, and he receives them, though
it is the ninth hour: and now they husband well their time, and begin
to be fruitful in every good work; and whatever they do, they do all
to the glory of God: they perform what he commands, and simply because
he commands it: they become a part of the church of Christ, and are
numbered among the laborers in his vineyard.
But if the case of such as were last spoken of is affecting, what
shall be said of those _aged persons_ whom it still remains for us to
describe? Some there are--but, alas, it is to be feared, that it is
the case of very few--who even at seventy, or more than seventy years
old, repent, and become the servants of Christ When scarcely an hour
of life remains, when the evening is closing in, and the "night cometh
in which no man can work," then it pleases God to send his grace
possibly to a few of these also, and they go for the short hour that
remains into the same vineyard of Christ.
How mournful is the view which we have now to take of such an aged
sinner's condition. Here is a person, the whole term of whose earthly
existence, one poor uncertain hour excepted, has been spent in a
sinful course. How plain is it in his case, that there can be no such
thing as merit, and that if ever he is saved, it must be through the
mere mercy of God--a doctrine, indeed, which is equally true in the
case of all. Let us run over the woful tale of his wicked life, and
as before we thought fit to describe an eminent and distinguished
Christian, so now, by way of making the difference more particularly
striking, let us draw the picture of one who, though no thief or
murderer, and therefore not accounted one of the most abandoned of
mankind, yet is lying under a load of much more than ordinary guilt.
Those persons who feel themselves guilty of any part of the crimes we
shall enumerate, should take their share of the reproof, and if they
have not repented, so as to enter into the vineyard of Christ, they
should remember, that though they may be criminals of a smaller size,
yet they are still remaining under condemnation.
To a perverse and disobedient childhood has succeeded, as we will
suppose, a wild and vicious youth, and then a proud and ambitious
manhood, and after this a fretful or covetous old age. In the course of
his long life many temptations have broken in upon him, and by turns he
has yielded to them all. Many different situations have been filled by
him, and in each, as he now sees, he has either neglected or betrayed
his trust. He has been a negligent and bad father, an unreasonable,
nay, secretly an unfaithful husband, a careless inattentive brother,
a hollow, flattering, and designing friend; perhaps, also, a mean
time-serving politician, and even a mischievous common acquaintance.
Do you ask what has been the turn of his common conversation? Instead of
being pious, useful, benevolent, candid, and sincere, it has at one time
been proud and passionate, at another vain and flourishing, at another
slanderous and revengeful; now again, it has been selfish, crafty, and
dissembling, often also daringly impious and profane, and not seldom
exceedingly polluting and impure. Do you ask what have been the sinful
deeds he has done? O what a dreadful variety has there been in them! At
one time he has been trying to overreach his fellow-trader; at another,
he has been endeavoring to seduce some unhappy maiden: at one time he is
seen quarrelling with his neighbor; at another, he falls out with one of
his own family, after which he grows mad with every one around him, and,
at last, equally mad and out of humor with himself. He has been selfish,
griping, and avaricious on all occasions, and what he has saved or
gained by oppression and fraud, he has spent on his profligacy: he has
got drunk with the money which he has acquired by dishonesty, and he has
paid for his debauchery at night by the sum which he has contrived in
the morning to keep back from the poor. At the same time he has been
turbulent, factious, and complaining--always talking of what is amiss in
others, and very sudden and severe in judging them, but very proud and
confident in himself, disdaining even the smallest blame. Would you get
into favor with him, you must flatter him at every word; and you will
please him best by doing it grossly and to his face, for he is quite
used to praise: he has long lived among those who look up to him as
their patron, or gape at him as their principal wit, or glory in him as
their chief songster, possibly as the chairman of their drinking club,
and as their merry leader in debauchery.
To all these sins he adds that of being the decided enemy of every
religious man. Is the gospel preached at his very door, he stands in
the front rank of its enemies; he denies its efficacy, makes a joke of
its doctrines, reviles its followers, and is the avowed hinderer of
its progress. Christianity, indeed, is against him, and therefore it
is no wonder that he is against Christianity. Hence it is, that the
religion of every man around him, however pure and excellent, if it is
but zealous and fervent, is declared, without distinction, to be mere
hypocrisy, enthusiasm, bigotry, and cant.
But let us look a little also to the various _consequences_ of his
life of sin. Who can trace a thousandth part of the miseries which
have arisen even from one single source; I mean from the levity and
inconsideration which have made one leading feature in his character?
Who can calculate the effects of all those evil principles which he
has scattered at random, reaching even to distant places and
generations? Who can calculate the mischief which he may have caused
even in one of his light convivial hours? View the inscription on that
gravestone, which is now almost overgrown with thorns. Ah, it is the
name of an old companion, an ale-house friend, who once used to sing
with him, in one joyful chorus, "the praises of the flowing bowl," and
who thus was encouraged in those habits of intemperance which led to
that untimely grave.
Let us open one other source of no less painful reflection. Behold
that miserable female, once the gay partner of his guilty pleasures,
whom if he has not been the first to seduce, he has at least carried
on and confirmed in a life of sin, and whom he has left afterwards to
sink in want, to grow loathsome through disease, and to become a
nuisance to the village or the town. He has helped to ruin but not to
deliver her; he has soon left her to the tender mercies of some of her
own sex as hardened as herself, among whom she has sunk, and groaned,
and died.
Which way, then, shall this aged sinner turn his eyes? Every scene,
every place, every month and day of his life, which he can call to
remembrance, reminds him of some sin. Shall he look to some of his
more reputable actions? Alas, even when his conduct has been most
creditable, his motives have been unchristian and impure. "True, I
have had some character," he now says to himself, "but I have had no
title to it. Men have not known me; or if a few have known me, and yet
praised me, they have praised me because they have wanted to carry
some point of their own by pleasing me: nay, my companions have even
praised me for what was evil, for the same people seem now, methinks,
to blame me in proportion as they discern any thing in me that is
good." Thus the recollection of the applauses he used to receive from
these wicked men is one aggravation of his pain.
But shall he look to his more innocent and early years? Alas, the
review of his infancy only serves to remind him how naturally and how
soon he went astray; how soon "he forsook the guide of his youth, and
forgot the covenant of his God." Thus, if he looks backward, all is
misery, and horror, and despair. Shall he then look forward and
comfort himself by thinking how effectually he will repair all the
evil he has done? But how shall he now repair it? Of those whom he has
corrupted many are dead, and of the survivors very few can now be
found. Go, then, and bring these few back to God. Alas, one will mock,
another will dissemble, a third will despise. Go, try to reclaim even
the children of thine own loins, who are all trained through thy means
in an evil course. Nay, even these also will scoff at thy rebuke, and
say, "Our old father is grown troublesome and peevish through age; he
is turned religious only because he has just done with this life, and
has one foot in the grave."
What then, I say, can this aged sinner do to remedy the evils he has
caused? He can only abhor himself for what is past, and repent
sincerely of all that he has done. See him then at length abhorring
himself, and "repenting in dust and ashes." See him retiring to his
chamber, and, for the first time, communing seriously with his own
heart. See him reviewing the whole of his past life, from the first
dawn of reason to the present hour, endeavoring to survey with
exactness his thoughts, words, and actions, and all his most secret
practices, intentions, and inclinations. See him meditating also on
his numberless omissions, taking the law of God for his rule, and
beginning now, for the first time, to discover what manner of person
he has been. How does he stand amazed at his own former stupidity and
blindness and hardness of heart, and how astonished also at the
patience of God, which has so long borne with him.
And now his heart relents, the tears of penitential sorrow begin to
flow; the lion also is changed into a lamb, and the same person who
before might have been compared to the woman in the gospel, "out of
whom there went seven devils," or to "Saul breathing out threatenings
and slaughter," may now be likened to the Magdalen weeping at the feet
of Jesus, or to Paul trembling and astonished, and crying out, as he
lay on the ground, "Lord, what wilt thou have me to do?" or to the
same Paul, when it was afterwards said of him, "Behold, he prayeth."
With trembling limbs, and with a body bowed down with age, behold then
this repenting sinner walking to that public worship which he had so
long neglected; with weak and failing eyes he opens the scripture; at
the age of seventy he begins to inquire with childlike simplicity into
the nature of the gospel, and knowing how short his time is, he makes
haste to obey it.
And now, perhaps his old companions deride him; for as he once sneered
at others who were religious, and called them all hypocrites, so is he
now sneered at, and called a hypocrite in his turn: he becomes the
scoff of the drunkard and the merry jest of the profane, and they that
"sit in the gate make songs of him." Now also the very sins of his
youth, which had been scarcely mentioned before, are brought forward
by his former favorites and friends as present evidence against him;
his crimes are even aggravated, and are all blazed abroad; but it is
one proof of his sincerity, that even these cutting reproaches do not
shake him from his purpose, nor induce him to turn back to his old
companions. No, they may laugh, they may smile at what they call his
pretended sanctity, but in truth he is no hypocrite.
"The tear
That drops upon his Bible is sincere."
He is disposed to doubt, indeed, for a time, his own sincerity; for
his guilt is so great, and the blessings of the gospel, including as
they do the gift of eternal life, appear so large in his eyes, that
he cannot at once raise his hopes so high. His sincerity is proved,
however, by his proceeding to repair, as far as he has opportunity,
each evil that he has done; by his mourning over what he cannot cure,
and by the determination of his mind, through the help of divine
grace, to walk for the future in newness of life. In short, he feels
that if his life were prolonged a thousand years, and youth and health
were restored to him, he should choose to spend his strength and the
utmost length of his days in the service of the same Master, and to be
a laborer in the same vineyard.
But here, methinks, some objector rises up, and says, "What then,
shall this man be accepted of God, like him who has been moral and
orderly all his days, or like the first person you mentioned?" We
shall now answer this objection by proceeding with the parable.
The Jews are there represented as _murmuring against the good man of
the house_, on account of his rewarding the more late and early
laborers, the ancient Jews and the newly converted Gentiles, by giving
each of them a penny, "saying, These last have wrought but one hour,
and thou hast made them equal unto us, who have borne the burden and
heat of the day. But he answered one of them, and said, Friend, I do
thee no wrong: didst not thou agree with me for a penny? Take that
thine is, and go thy way: I will give unto this last even as unto
thee. Is it not lawful for me to do what I will with mine own?" It was
no injury to the Jews that the poor Gentiles were admitted, though at
a later hour, into the church, and the Jews had therefore no right to
complain; on the contrary, they ought to have rejoiced at it. In like
manner, it can be no injury to those among us who may have served
Christ from our youth, that any poor outcast should be admitted to
the same Christian privileges with ourselves; and we also ought to
rejoice, as the angels of God are said to do, over one sinner that
repenteth. Again it may be remarked, that even the first calling of
the Jews arose not from any superior merit in them, but from the
sovereign goodness of God. Surely, therefore, it was most unreasonable
in those people to complain of God's extending the same mercy to the
Gentiles. Much in the same manner, it may be remarked in respect to
the present day, that the salvation even of the best of men arises
not from any merit of their own, but merely from God's free mercy in
Christ; and surely, therefore, one pardoned sinner among us ought not
to complain of the extension of the same pardon to another.
But the parable, in the two last verses of it, proceeds a step
further, for it is there added by our Saviour, "Is thine eye evil
because I am good?" which is as if he said, "What, do you take offence
then at my being so merciful? Does it provoke your envy to see a vile
Gentile called at the eleventh hour, and made equal to yourselves, who
profess to have been the people of God from the beginning, and to have
borne the whole burden and heat of the day?" Some very awful words are
then added, wherein it is implied, that they who are ready to make
this objection, brought thereby their own religious character into
suspicion; and that these very penitents of the eleventh hour, whom
they now presumed to despise, should hereafter even take place above
them--for it is said, "So the first shall be last, and the last first;
for many are called, but few chosen."
These words appear to be a prophecy of our Judge, which relates to the
great day of judgment. Then many a popular but irreligious character,
many a one who has been praised to the stars in this ignorant and
misjudging world, and whose supposed virtues have both deceived
himself, and dazzled all around him, shall sink at once into
everlasting shame and disgrace; while many a poor, despised, yet
repenting sinner, shall come forward and receive his crown of glory.
O, what a wonderful change in many of the appearances which we now
see, shall we witness on the day of judgment. Let us not fail to
remark, that then also many a false though flaming professor of the
gospel, many a vain, forward, and conceited teacher, many a
self-confident enthusiast, and many a narrow-minded and fiery bigot,
who has spent his life in little else than in judging and condemning
others, shall be brought forward in the face of the assembled world,
and shall receive his own condemnation. Then also many a diffident and
trembling believer, and many a meek and lowly Christian, who has been
laboring with little noise in some obscure corner of his Lord's
vineyard, and on whom the bigots, not seeing him among their party,
have presumptuously dealt damnation, shall take that prize which has
been denied to those who set themselves up as judges over him, and
shall be bid to enter into the joy of his Lord. "So the first shall
be last, and the last first; for many are called, but few chosen."