history of _pride_, the bane of civil life, and the disgrace of our
moral nature. It springs, first, from the _natural sentiment_, easily
indulged too far: it is, next, fostered by _general habit_; and, in the
end, made sacred by _fashion_. Thus, its tyranny grew up, and is now
so complete, that _lowliness of mind_ is ill looked upon even in the
Christian world; and her offspring, _meekness_, (the more provoking of
the two, as being that virtue drawn forth into outward act) seems in a
way to be fairly dismissed from it.
It would hardly serve to reinstate these despised virtues in their
pristine honours, to tell of their natures and conditions, to define
their properties, and deliver the grounds of reason on which their
pretensions are founded. Cold, abstracted philosophy, would do but
little in this service. Besides, few persons want to be informed
what humility is, or how becoming such a creature as man. And no
informations, in the general way of reasoning, could be given with so
much precision, but that a willing mind might find a way to mistake or
pervert them.
’Tis well then that the text supplies another method of combating the
universal pride of mankind. It calls upon us to contemplate, in the
person of Jesus, the true and living form of _humility_; and holds out
a solid, and suitable reward to the votaries of this divine virtue.
Would ye know what it is to be _meek and lowly in heart? Learn of
Jesus._ Do ye ask for what end ye should learn this lesson of him? the
answer is direct and satisfactory, _Ye shall find rest to your souls_.
These topics, then, must employ what remains of this discourse.
I. The particulars of Christ’s humility may be seen at large in the
history of his life. But they are summed up by the Apostle Paul in few
words.
_Let this mind be in you_, says he to the Philippians, _which was also
in Christ Jesus: Who, being in the form of God, thought it no robbery
to be equal with God_ [i. e. was in no haste to seize upon and assert
his right of equality with him]; _but made himself of no reputation,
and took upon him the form of a servant, and was made in the likeness
of man; and being found in fashion, as a man, he humbled himself, and
became obedient to death, even the death of the cross_[152].
Who, that hears these words, can have a doubt concerning the nature
of humility, or concerning the duties of it? If heaven stooped to
earth; if Jesus descended from the dignity, I do not say of an angel,
or an archangel, but of God himself, to the abject state of man; if
he humbled himself to the lowest condition of that state; veiled all
his glories in the form of a servant; in that form administered to our
infirmities and necessities; bore all the scorn, the contradiction,
the contumely of injurious men; and even submitted himself to death,
the ignominious death of the cross, for their sake—If _this mind was
in Christ Jesus_, who but must see, that the greatest of mankind may
well descend from all his real or fancied eminence, for the service of
his brother? may easily forego the little advantage, which his birth,
his rank, his wealth, his learning, or his parts, may seem to give him
over his fellows, when an act of charity is to be performed by him;
when the distresses, the infirmities, nay the vices of humanity, may be
relieved, and covered, and corrected, by such condescension? To stoop
for such ends is almost pride itself: and to emulate such a pattern, is
scarce humility, but glory.
Nor think, that this humility requires of you more than reason
requires. You may suppress your pride, without giving up necessary
self-defence. Ye may be _meek and lowly in heart_, without being
unjust to yourselves, or imprudent. When your essential interests are
concerned, ye may assert them with firmness, and even with spirit, in
all ways, which good sense allows, or true wisdom recommends. But let
not every petty injury, much less any fancied injury, be presently
avenged; let not little neglects or discourtesies be hastily resented;
overlook many injuries, if not considerable; nay, and many considerable
injuries, if they be but tolerable. Think not that your dignity will
suffer by such connivance. The true dignity of man, is the performance
of his duty. Or, if some indignity be sustained, consider on whose
account, and by whose command ye suffer it. Consider, that He, whose
dignity was infinitely above yours, submitted to _every_ indignity, and
for your sake. The authority of your divine Master is nothing, if it
cannot bind you in any instance to bear his _yoke_: And to what end is
the example of your divine Saviour set before you, if ye resolve, on
no account, to _take up your cross and follow him_[153]?
But, because our compassionate Lord saw how uneasy this precept would
be to the indulged and inveterate pride of his followers, he has
therefore condescended to assure them that their obedience to it will,
even in this world, be attended with a suitable reward. _Ye shall find
rest to your souls._ And this
II. Is the other topic, which I engaged to insist upon, in this
discourse.
The great objection to the virtues of _meekness and humility_, is, that
the practice of them will put us to some present pain in resisting the
impulse of our disordered passions. It will do so. Nature prompts us to
repel an injury; and that nature, vitiated and depraved, is in haste to
repel it with indignation, and even fury. To give way to the impetuous
sentiment, would give us immediate ease; and to suppress it, till the
practice becomes habitual, will cost us some throws and agitation of
mind. To counteract this instant disquiet, a recompence is proposed,
exactly suited to the trial. Our mind is discomposed, for the instant,
by the struggle we have to make with the incensed passion: When that is
over, it settles again into a full and permanent tranquillity. _We find
rest_, as the text speaks, _to our souls_: we have the purest peace
within, and have no disturbance of it to apprehend, from without.
1. The uneasiness which _pride_ engenders, receives, as I said, some
present relief, from the free course of that passion. But see the
consequence of giving way to it. Disgust, remorse, fear, and hate,
succeed to the indulgence of this fiery sentiment, I mean, when it
proceeds so far as to acts of revenge. But, if it stop short of this
extreme, still the mind, by nourishing its resentments, and brooding
over the idea of a supposed indignity, hurts its own peace; grows sore
and fretful, and suspicious; and, though it be somewhat flattered
by the first tumultuous effort of its indignation, which looks like
courage and high spirit; yet, the briskness of this sensation soon goes
off, and flattens into a sullen gloom of thought, the bane of every
selfish, as well as social enjoyment.
It is much otherwise with the _meek and lowly in heart_. They never
retaliate injuries, and seldom resent them. They either feel not
the stroke of them; or, if they do, the wound is instantly healed
by the balsamic virtue of their own minds. But, indeed, a man, well
disciplined in the school of humility, receives but few injuries, for
he _suspects_ none; it being, I think, true, that, for one real injury
done us by others, a hundred such things, as we call by that name, are
only bred in our own captious and distempered imaginations. And then,
for those few injuries which he actually receives, they are easily
slighted or forgotten by him; because he sees them only in their true
shape and size, and not as magnified by an extravagant opinion of his
own worth, and as extravagant a contempt of the aggressor. He knows
his own infirmities, and can allow for those of other men. If they are
petulant or unjust, he, perhaps, has been inobservant or imprudent:
besides, he never thought himself entitled to any special respect, and
therefore wonders the less, if no great ceremony has been used towards
him. To these suggestions of humanity, he adds those of _religion_.
He knows what his Master enjoins, and he remembers on what terms the
injunction is pressed upon him. And thus, though the indignity seem
great, he easily excuses one half of it, and forgives the other. The
issue is, that he finds _rest_ in his own soul, which the proud man
never does: so that, as to internal peace, the advantage is clearly on
the side of meekness and humility. But then,
2. As to _external peace_, the matter may be thought more
problematical. “For that softness of mind, which religion calls
_humility_, invites, it is said, and multiplies injuries. Forgive one
insult, and you draw upon you a hundred more so that, if humility be
a virtue, it is never likely to be out of breath for want of exercise
and employment. In a word, the world is so base, that there is no
keeping it in respect, but by _fear_: and how is that needful sentiment
to be impressed on the minds of injurious men, in those numberless
cases which civil justice cannot reach, but by a quick resentment and
personal high spirit?”
Such is the language of those who have learned their ethics of the
world, and not of the Gospel. But let us see what there is in the
allegation itself.
_To connive at one indignity, is_, they say, _the ready way to invite
another_. It may be so, in some rare cases, when we have to do with
singularly base and ungenerous natures; but even then, I think,
chiefly, if not solely, when that connivance is joined with imprudence
or folly: and then it is not humility should bear the blame, but our
own indiscretion. Besides, the question is concerning a general rule
of conduct: and this rule may be a fit and reasonable one, though it
admit, as most rules do, of some exceptions.
Again, though a wise and good man will frequently suppress, and always
moderate resentment, yet neither reason nor the religion of Jesus
requires, that in no case whatsoever should we be actuated by that
principle. The principle itself, as I have shewn, is a natural one, and
under due restraint may serve to good purposes; one of which, perhaps,
is to give check to overbearing insolence and oppression, I mean when
it rises to a certain degree and exceeds certain bounds. Even our
blessed Lord, who was meekness itself, thought fit on some occasions to
express a very strong resentment: as, when he upbraided the Pharisees
in no gentle terms, but, in a just indignation at their malice, went so
far as to brand them with the bitter names of _vipers and serpents_,
and to menace them with the flames of _hell_[154]. So that meekness
and resentment are not absolutely incompatible; though the danger of
exceeding in this last quality is so great, that the general rule both
of reason and Christianity, is to cultivate meekness in ourselves, and
to restrain our resentments.
“But, if exceptions be allowed in any case, the rule, it will be said,
becomes of no use; for that pride and passion will find an exception in
every case.” If they should, they must answer for themselves. In all
moral matters, something, nay much, must be left to the fairness and
honesty of the mind. Without this principle, the plainest rule of life
may be evaded or abused: and with it, even that hard saying, of _loving
our enemies_, which is near of kin to this of _meekness_, is easily
understood, and may be reasonably applied.
“Still, the rule, it is said, must be an improper one; for that the
world, not some few persons, but mankind in general, are only to
be kept in order by _force and fear_.” So far as there is truth in
this observation, the civil sword, in every country, supplies that
needful restraint. But in the general commerce between man and man,
in all offices of civility and society, that is, in cases where the
stronger passions and more important interests of men are not directly
concerned, as they are in what relates to property and power, the
observation is clearly not true. Here, pride is the predominant vice of
mankind. And pride is naturally softened and disarmed by placability
and meekness. The good humour of the world is easily and most
effectually maintained by mutual concessions and reciprocal civilities:
for pride, having a mixture of generosity in it, yields to these,
and loses all the fierceness of its nature. So that they, who bring
this charge against the world, calumniate their kind, and either shew
that they have kept ill company; or, as I rather suspect, have never
tried the experiment, which they say is so hopeless. Let them learn to
think more favourably, that is, more justly, of human nature. We are
passionate, infirm creatures, indeed; but still men, and not fiends.
Let them set the example of that _humility_, which they affect to
think so unpromising a guard against injuries: and I dare assure them
they will generally find themselves better defended by it, than by any
resentment or high spirit which they can possibly exert.
Lastly, I would observe, that, if in some rare instances, and
in places, especially, where fashion has made resentment highly
creditable, this practice be found inconvenient, the rule is not to
be set aside on that account. The authority of the legislator should
exact obedience to it; and the inconvenience will be amply compensated
by other considerations. We shall have the merit of testifying the
sincerity of our religion, by giving to God and man so eminent a proof
of it; and, in due time, we shall have our reward.
To conclude: in this and all other cases, we shall do well to _learn of
Jesus, who was meek and lowly in heart_. His authority, his example,
his affectionate call upon us in the words of the text, are powerful
motives to the practice of this duty. And for the rest, we have seen,
that it leads directly to _peace and quiet_, in our intercourse with
each other; or, if the perverseness of man should sometimes disappoint
us in this expectation, that it will certainly and infallibly _yield
rest to our own souls_.
SERMON XXIV.
PREACHED APRIL 30, 1769.
LUKE xvi. 14.
_And the Pharisees also, who were covetous, heard all those things, and
they derided him._
But what then were _those things_ which our Lord had said in the
hearing of the Pharisees, and for which they derided him?
Had he been inveighing against the vice of covetousness in any
unreasonable manner? Had he carried the opposite virtue to an extreme,
as some moralists have done? Had he told the Pharisees that the
possession, and much more the enjoyment of riches, was, universally,
and under all circumstances, unlawful? Had he pressed it as a matter
of conscience upon them, to divest themselves of their wealth, and to
embrace an absolute and voluntary poverty? Had he even gone so far as
to advise these Pharisees, as he once did a rich man, to _sell what
they had and give it to the poor, and then take up the cross and follow
him_[155]?
Alas, no. He had been saying none of _these things_. He did not think
well enough of the Pharisees to give this last counsel of exalted
charity to _them_; a counsel, which he had addressed to one whom he
loved, to one who was a virtuous man as well as rich, and who wanted
only this _one thing_, to make him perfect.
And as for those other precepts, which would have implied, that riches
were unlawful in themselves, and the possession of them a crime, he was
too sober a moralist to address a lecture of this sort to any of his
hearers.
The truth is, he had only been advising rich men to employ their
wealth in such a way as should turn to the best account, to _make
themselves friends of the mammon of unrighteousness_; that is, such
friends, as should be able to repay them with interest, and, when these
houses of clay are overturned, should _receive them into everlasting
habitations_: and, to give this advice the greater weight with them,
he had concluded his discourse with saying, that such conduct was even
necessary, if they aspired to this reward, for that they _could not
serve God and mammon_; that is, they could not serve _God_ acceptably,
unless they withdrew their service from _mammon_ in all those cases, in
which the commands of two such different masters interfered with each
other.
Such, and so reasonable was the doctrine which Jesus had been
delivering to the Pharisees. And how then could it provoke their
_derision_?
The text answers this question—THEY WERE COVETOUS. Their life
was a contradiction to this doctrine, and therefore they found it
unreasonable, and even ridiculous.
Nor let it be thought, that this illusion is peculiar to avarice. It is
familiar to vice of every kind, to scorn reproof; to make light of the
doctrine, which condemns it; and, when it cannot confute, to deride the
teacher.
So that the text affords this general observation, “That, when the
heart is corrupted by any vice, it naturally breeds a disposition to
unreasonable mirth and ridicule.”
And, because this levity of mind, in its turn, corrupts the heart still
further, it may be of use to open to you, more particularly, _the
sources of irreligious scorn_; to let you see from how base an origin
it springs; how it rises, indeed, on the subversion of every principle,
by which a virtuous man is governed, and by which there is hope that a
vicious man may be reclaimed.
Now ye will easily apprehend how the sinner comes to cultivate in
himself this miserable talent, if ye reflect; _how much he is concerned
to avoid the_ EVIDENCE _of moral truth; how insensible he chuses to be
to the_ DIFFERENCES _of moral sentiment; how studiously he would keep
out of sight the_ CONSEQUENCES _of moral action_: And if ye consider,
withal, how well adapted _the way of ridicule_ is, to answer all these
purposes.
I. FIRST, then, the sinner is much disposed to withhold his attention
from _the evidence of moral truth_; and the way of ridicule favours
this bad disposition.
When a moral lesson is addressed to us, it is but a common piece of
respect we owe the teacher of it, and indeed ourselves, to see what the
ideas are of which the doctrine is made up; to consider whether there
be a proper coherence between those ideas; whether what is affirmed in
the proposition be consonant to truth and reason, or not. If upon this
enquiry we find that the affirmation is well founded, either from our
immediate perception of the dependency between the ideas themselves,
or from the evidence of some remoter principle, with which it is
duly connected, we admit it thenceforth as a truth, and are obliged,
if we would act in a reasonable manner, to pay it that regard which
may be due to its importance. This is the duty of a rational hearer
in the school of instruction: and this, the process of the mind, in
discharging that duty. But this work of the understanding, it is plain,
requires attention and seriousness; _attention_, to apprehend the
meaning of the proposition delivered to us, and _seriousness_, to judge
of its truth and moment.
Indeed, if the result of our enquiry be, that the proposition is
unmeaning, or false, or frivolous, we of course reject it, and,
perhaps, with some contempt: but then this contempt is subsequent to
the inquiry, and would itself be ridiculous, if it went before it.
It is apparent, then, what reason demands in the case. But the
precipitancy of the mind is such, that it often concludes before it
understands, and, what is worse, contemns what it has not examined.
This last folly is more especially chargeable on those who are under
the influence of some inveterate prejudice, or prevailing passion.
For, when the moral instruction pressed upon us, directly opposes a
principle we will not part with, or contradicts an inclination we
resolve to cherish, the very repugnancy of the doctrine to our notions
or humours creates disgust: and then, to spare ourselves the trouble of
inquiry, or to countenance the hasty persuasion that we have no need to
inquire at all, we very naturally express that disgust in contempt and
ridicule.
I explain myself by the instance in the text, Jesus had said, _Ye
cannot serve God and mammon_. The Pharisees, who heard him say this,
had taken their resolution, _to serve mammon_; and they had, it
seems, a principle of their own, on which they presumed to satisfy
themselves, that they, likewise, _served God_. Now, this aphorism of
our Lord coming against these prejudices, they had not the patience to
consider what truth there was in the assertion; what it was _to serve
God_, and what it was _to serve mammon_; and what inconsistency there
was between these two services. This way of inquiry, which reason
prescribes, was too slow for these impatient spirits; and, besides, was
contrary to their fixed purpose of adhering, to their old principles
and practices. They therefore take a shorter method of setting aside
the obnoxious proposition. They conclude hastily, that their service
of mammon was, some how or other, made consistent with their service
of God, by virtue of their _long prayers_. And, for the rest, they
condescend not to reason upon the point at all: to get quit of this
trouble, or rather, to conceal from themselves, if possible, the
deformity of their practice, they slur an important lesson over with
an air of negligent raillery, and think it sufficient to _deride_ the
teacher of it.
Ye see then how naturally it comes to pass that the way of ridicule is
taken up by the sinner, to avoid the trouble and confusion which must
needs arise from a serious attention to the evidence of moral truth.
II. It serves equally in the next place, to sooth and flatter his
corruption, by keeping him insensible, as he would chuse to be, to _the
differences of moral sentiment_.
The divine wisdom has so wonderfully contrived human nature, that
there needs little more in moral matters, than plainly and clearly to
represent any instruction to the mind, in order to procure its assent
to it. Whatever the instruction be, whether it affirm this conduct to
be virtuous, or that vicious, if the mind be in its natural state,
it more than sees, it feels, the truth or falshood of it. The appeal
lies directly to the heart, and to certain corresponding sentiments
of right and wrong, instantly and unavoidably excited by the moral
proposition[156].
It is true, the vivacity of these sentiments may be much weakened by
habits of vice; but they must grow into a great inveteracy indeed,
before they can altogether extinguish the natural perception. The
only way to prevent this sensibility from taking place in a mind, not
perfectly abandoned, is to keep the moral truth itself out of sight;
or, which comes to the same thing, to misrepresent it. For, being
then not taken for what it is, but for something else, it is the same
thing as if the truth itself had not been proposed to us. But now this
power of misrepresentation is that faculty in which ridicule excells.
Nothing is easier for it than to distort a reasonable proposition, or
to throw some false light of the fancy upon it. The soberest truth is
then travestied into an apparent falshood; and, instead of exciting
the moral sentiment which properly belongs to it, only serves, under
this disguise, to provoke the scorner’s mirth on a phantom of his own
raising.
The instance in the text will again illustrate this observation.