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QUIET TALKS
ON _POWER_
BY
S. D. GORDON
[Illustration]
NEW AND REVISED EDITION
CHICAGO NEW YORK TORONTO
FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY
LONDON AND EDINBURGH
COPYRIGHT, 1903, BY
FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY
Chicago: 63 Washington Street
New York: 158 Fifth Avenue
Toronto: 27 Richmond Street, W
London: 21 Paternoster Square
Edinburgh: 30 St. Mary Street
CONTENTS
PAGE
CHOKED CHANNELS 9
THE OLIVET MESSAGE 33
THE CHANNEL OF POWER 61
THE PRICE OF POWER 87
THE PERSONALITY OF POWER 117
MAKING AND BREAKING CONNECTIONS 147
THE FLOOD-TIDE OF POWER 173
FRESH SUPPLIES OF POWER 199
CHOKED CHANNELS.
An Odd Distinction.
A few years ago I was making a brief tour among the colleges of
Missouri. I remember one morning in a certain college village going over
from the hotel to take breakfast with some of the boys, and coming back
with one of the fellows whom I had just met. As we walked along,
chatting away, I asked him quietly, "Are you a christian, sir?" He
turned quickly and looked at me with an odd, surprised expression in his
eye and then turning his face away said: "Well, I'm a member of church,
but--I don't believe I'm very much of a christian." Then I looked at him
and he frankly volunteered a little information. Not very much. He did
not need to say much. You can see a large field through a chink in the
fence. And I saw enough to let me know that he was right in the
criticism he had made upon himself. We talked a bit and parted. But his
remark set me to thinking.
A week later, in another town, speaking one morning to the students of a
young ladies' seminary, I said afterwards to one of the teachers as we
were talking: "I suppose your young women here are all christians." That
same quizzical look came into her eye as she said: "I think they are
all members of church, but I do not think they are all christians with
real power in their lives." There was that same odd distinction.
A few weeks later, in Kansas City visiting the medical and dental
schools, I recall distinctly standing one morning in a disordered
room--shavings on the floor, desks disarranged--the institution just
moving into new quarters, and not yet settled. I was discussing with a
member of the faculty, the dean I think, about how many the room would
hold, how soon it would be ready, and so on--just a business talk,
nothing more--when he turned to me rather abruptly, looking me full in
the face, and said with quiet deliberation: "I'm a member of church; I
_think_ I am a deacon in our church"--running his hand through his hair
meditatively, as though to refresh his memory--"but I am not very much
of a christian, sir." The smile that started to come to my face at the
odd frankness of his remark was completely chased away by the distinct
touch of pathos in both face and voice that seemed to speak of a hungry,
unsatisfied heart within.
Perhaps it was a month or so later, in one of the mining towns down in
the zinc belt of southwestern Missouri, I was to speak to a meeting of
men. There were probably five or six hundred gathered in a Methodist
Church. They were strangers to me. I was in doubt what best to say to
them. One dislikes to fire ammunition at people that are absent. So
stepping down to a front pew where several ministers were seated, I
asked one of them to run his eye over the house and tell me what sort of
a congregation it was, so far as he knew them. He did so, and presently
replied: "I think fully two-thirds of these men are members of our
churches"--and then, with that same quizzical, half-laughing look, he
added, "but you know, sir, as well as I do, that not half of them are
christians worth counting." "Well," I said to myself, astonished, "this
is a mining camp; this certainly is not anything like the condition of
affairs in the country generally."
But that series of incidents, coming one after the other in such rapid
succession, set me thinking intently about that strange distinction
between being members of a church on the one hand, and on the other,
living lives that count and tell and weigh for Jesus seven days in the
week. I knew that ministers had been recognizing such a distinction, but
to find it so freely acknowledged by folks in the pew was new, and
surely significant.
And so I thought I would just ask the friends here to-day very frankly,
"What kind of Christians are you?" I do not say what kind you are, for I
am a stranger, and do not know, and would only think the best things of
you. But I ask you frankly, honestly now, as I ask myself anew, what
kind are you? Do you know? Because it makes such a difference. The
Master's plan--and what a genius of a plan it is--is this, that the
world should be won, not by the preachers--though we must have these
men of God for teaching and leadership--but by everyone who knows the
story of Jesus _telling someone_, and telling not only with his lips
earnestly and tactfully, but even more, _telling with his life_. That is
the Master's plan of campaign for this world. And it makes a great
difference to Him and to the world outside whether you and I are
_living_ the story of His love and power among men or not.
Do you _know_ what kind of a christian you are? There are at least three
others that do. First of all there is Satan. He knows. Many of our
church officers are skilled in gathering and compiling statistics, but
they cannot hold a tallow-dip to Satan in this matter of exact
information. He is the ablest of all statisticians, second only to one
other. He keeps careful record of every one of us, and knows just how
far we are interfering with his plans. He knows that some of us--good,
respectable people, as common reckoning goes--neither help God nor
hinder Satan. Does that sound rather hard? But is it not true? He has no
objection to such people being counted in as christians. Indeed, he
rather prefers to have it so. Their presence inside the church circle
helps him mightily. _He_ knows what kind of a christian you are. Do
_you_ know?
Then there is the great outer circle of non-christian people--_they
know_. Many of them are poorly informed regarding the christian life;
hungry for something they have not, and know not just what it is; with
high ideals, though vague, of what a christian life should be. And they
look eagerly to us for what they have thought we had, and are so often
keenly disappointed that our ideals, our life, is so much like others
who profess nothing. And when here and there they meet one whose acts
are dominated by a pure, high spirit, whose faces reflect a sweet
radiance amid all circumstances, and whose lives send out a rare
fragrance of gladness and kindliness and controlling peace, they are
quick to recognize that, to them, intangible something that makes such
people different. The world--tired, hungry, keen and critical for mere
sham, appreciative of the real thing--the world knows what kind of
christians we are. Do _we_ know?
There is a third one watching us to-day with intense interest. The Lord
Jesus! Sitting up yonder in glory, with the scar-marks of earth on face
and form, looking eagerly down upon us who stand for Him in the world
that crucified Him--_He knows_. I imagine Him saying, "There is that one
down there whom I died for, who bears my name; _if_ I had the _control_
of that life what power I would gladly breathe in and out of it, but--he
is _so absorbed in other things_." The Master is thinking about you,
studying your life, longing to carry out His plan if He could only get
permission, and sorely disappointed in many of us. He knows. Do _you_
know?
The Night Visitor.
After that trip I became much interested in discovering in John's Gospel
some striking pictorial illustrations of these two kinds of christians,
namely, those who have power in their lives for Jesus Christ and those
who have not. Let me speak of only a few of these. The first is sketched
briefly in the third chapter, with added touches in the seventh and
nineteenth chapters. There is a little descriptive phrase used each
time--"the man who came to Jesus by night." That comes to be in John's
mind the most graphic and sure way of identifying this man. A good deal
of criticism, chiefly among the upper classes, had already been aroused
by Jesus' acts and words. This man Nicodemus clearly was deeply
impressed by the young preacher from up in Galilee. He wants to find out
more of him. But he shrank back from exposing himself to criticism by
these influential people for his possible friendship with the young
radical, as Jesus was regarded. So one day he waits until the friendly
shadows will conceal his identity, and slipping quietly along the
streets, close up to the houses so as to insure his purpose of not being
recognized, he goes up yonder side street where Jesus has lodgings. He
knocks timidly. "Does the preacher from up the north way stop here?"
"Yes." "Could I see him?" He steps in and spends an evening in earnest
conversation. I think we will all readily agree that Nicodemus
_believed_ Jesus after that night's interview, however he may have
failed to understand all He said. Yes, we can say much more--he _loved_
Him. For after the cruel crucifixion it is this man that brings a box of
very precious spices, weighing as much as a hundred pounds, worth,
without question, a large sum of money, with which to embalm the dead
body of his friend. Ah! he loved Him. No one may question that.
But turn now to the seventh chapter of John. There is being held a
special session of the Jewish Senate in Jerusalem for the express
purpose of determining how to silence Jesus--to get rid of Him. This man
is a member of that body, and is present. Yonder he sits with the
others, listening while his friend Jesus is being discussed and His
removal--by force if need be--is being plotted. What does he do? What
would you expect of a friend of Jesus under such circumstances? I wonder
what you and I would have done? I wonder what we do do? Does he say
modestly, but plainly, "I spent a whole evening with this man,
questioning Him, talking with Him, listening to Him. I feel quite sure
that He is our promised Messiah; and I have decided to accept Him as
such." Did he say that? That would have been the simple truth. But such
a remark plainly would have aroused a storm of criticism, and he dreaded
that. Yet he felt that something should be said. So, lawyer-like, he
puts the case abstractly. "Hmm--does our law judge a man without giving
him a fair hearing?" That sounds fair, though it does seem rather feeble
in face of their determined opposition. But near by sits a burly
Pharisee, who turns sharply around and, glaring savagely at Nicodemus,
says sneeringly: "Who are you? Do you come from Galilee, too? Look and
see! No prophet comes out of Galilee"--with intensest contempt in the
tone with which he pronounces the word Galilee. And poor Nicodemus seems
to shrink back into half his former size, and has not another word to
say, though all the facts, easily ascertainable, were upon his side of
the case. He loved Jesus without doubt, but he had _no power_ for Him
among men _because of his timidity_. Shall I use a plainer, though
uglier, word--his cowardice? That is not a pleasant word to apply to a
man. But is it not the true word here? He was so afraid of what _they_
would think and say! Is that the sort of christian _you_ are? Believing
Jesus, trusting Him, saved by Him, loving Him, but shrinking back from
speaking out for Him, tactfully, plainly, when opportunity presents or
can be made. A christian, but without positive power for Him among men
because of cowardice!
I can scarcely imagine Nicodemus walking down the street in Jerusalem,
arm in arm with another Pharisee-member of the Sanhedrin and saying to
him quietly, but earnestly: "Have you had a talk with this young man
Jesus?" "No, indeed, I have not!" "Well, do you know, I spent an
evening with Him down at His stopping place, and had a long, careful
talk with Him. I am quite satisfied that He is our long-looked-for
leader; I have decided to give Him my personal allegiance; won't you get
personally acquainted with Him? He is a wonderful man." I say I have
difficulty in thinking that this man worked for Jesus like that. And yet
what more natural and proper, both for him and for us? And what a
difference it might have made in many a man's life. _Powerless_ for
Jesus because of timidity! Is that the kind _you_ are? Possibly some one
thinks that rather hard on this man. Maybe you are thinking of that
other member of the Sanhedrin--Joseph of Arimathea--who was also a
follower of Jesus, and that quite possibly he may have been influenced
by Nicodemus. Let us suppose, for Nicodemus' sake, that this is so, and
then mark the brief record of this man Joseph in John's account: "A
disciple _secretly_ for _fear_ of the Jews." If we may fairly presume
that it was Nicodemus' influence that led his friend Joseph to follow
Jesus, yet he had led him no nearer than he himself had gone! He _could_
lead him no higher or nearer than that.
John in his gospel makes plain the fact that Jesus suffered much from
these secret, timid, cowardly disciples whose fear of men gripped them
as in a vise. Five times he makes special mention of these people who
believed Jesus, but cravenly feared to line up with Him.[1] He even says
that _many_ of the _rulers_--the very class that plotted and voted His
death--believed Jesus, but that _fear_ of _the others_ shut their lips
and drove them into the shadow when they could have helped Him most.
These people seem to have left numerous descendants, many of whom
continue with us unto this day.
Tightly Tied Up.
Turn now to the eleventh chapter and you will find another pictorial
suggestion of this same sort of _powerless christian_, though in this
instance made so by another reason. It is the Bethany Chapter, the
Lazarus Chapter. The scene is just out of Bethany village. There is a
man lying dead in the cave yonder. Here stands Jesus. There are the
disciples, and Martha, and Mary, and the villagers, and a crowd from
Jerusalem. The Master is speaking. His voice rings out clear and
commanding--"Lazarus, come forth"--speaking to a dead man. And the
simple record runs, "He that _was_ dead"--life comes between those two
lines of the record--"came forth, bound hand and foot with
grave-clothes, and his face was bound about with a napkin." Will you
please take a look at Lazarus as he steps from the tomb? Do you think
his eyes are dull, or his cheeks hollow and pale? I think not! When
Jesus, the Lord of life, gives life, either physical or spiritual, He
gives abundant life. That face may have been a bit spare. There had been
no food for at least four days and likely longer. But there is the
flash of health in his eye and the ruddy hue of good blood in his cheek.
He has life. But look closer. He is bound hand and foot and face. He can
neither walk nor work nor speak.
I have met some christian people who reminded me forcibly of that scene.
They are christians. The Master has spoken life, and they have responded
to His word. But they are so tied up with the grave-clothes of the old
life that there can be none of the power of free action in life or
service. May I ask you very kindly, but very plainly, are you like that?
Is that the reason you have so little power with God, and for God?
Perhaps some one would say, "Just what do you mean?" I mean this: that
there may be some personal habit of yours, or perhaps some society
custom which you practice, or it may be some business method, or
possibly an old friendship which you have carried over into the new life
from the old that is seriously hindering your christian life. It may be
something that goes into your mouth or comes out of it that prevents
those lips speaking for the Master. Perhaps it is some organization you
belong to. If there is lack of freedom and power for Christ you may be
sure there is _something_ that is blighting your life and dwarfing your
usefulness. It may possibly be that practically in your daily life you
are exerting no more power for God than a dead man! A christian, indeed,
but _without power because of compromise_ with something questionable
or outrightly wrong! Is that so with you? I do not say it is, for I do
not know. But _you_ know. The hungry, critical world knows. Subtle, keen
Satan knows. The Lord Jesus knows. Do you know if that describes you?
You may know with certainty within twenty-four hours if you wish to and
will to. May we be willing to have the Spirit's searchlight turned in
upon us to-night.
The Master's Ideal.
There is another kind of christian, an utterly different kind, spoken of
and illustrated in this same Gospel of John, and I doubt not many of
them also are here. It is _Jesus' ideal_ of what a christian should be.
Have you sometimes wished you could have a few minutes of quiet talk
with Jesus? I mean face to face, as two of us might sit and talk
together. You have thought you would ask Him to say very simply and
plainly just what He expects of you. Well, I believe He would answer in
words something like those of this seventh chapter of John. It was at
the time of Feast of Tabernacles. There was a vast multitude of Jews
there from all parts of the world. It was like an immense convention,
but larger than any convention we know. The people were not entertained
in the homes, but lived for seven days in leafy booths made of branches
of trees. It was the last day of the feast. There was a large concourse
of people gathered in one of the temple areas; not women, but men; not
sitting, but standing. Up yonder stand the priests, pouring water out of
large jars, to symbolize the outpouring of the Holy Spirit upon the
nation of Israel. Just then Jesus speaks, and amid the silence of the
intently watching throng His voice rings out: "If any man thirst let him
come unto Me and drink; he that believeth on Me, as the Scripture saith,
_out of his belly shall flow rivers of living water_." Mark that
significant closing clause. That packs into a sentence Jesus' ideal of
what a true christian down in this world should be, and may be. Every
word is full of meaning.
The heart of the sentence is in the last word--"water." _Water_ is an
essential of life. Absence of water means suffering and sickness, dearth
and death. Plenty of good water means _life_. All the history of the
world clusters about the water courses. Study the history of the rivers,
the seashores, and lake edges, and you know the history of the earth.
Those men who heard Jesus speak would instinctively think of the Jordan.
It was their river. Travelers say that no valley exceeded in beauty and
fruitfulness that valley of the Jordan, made so by those swift waters.
No hillside so fair in their green beauty, nor so wealthy in heavy loads
of fruit as those sloping down to the edge of that stream. Now plainly
Jesus is talking of something that may, through us, exert as decided an
influence upon the lives of those we touch as water has exerted, and
still exerts, on the history of the earth, and as this Jordan did in
that wonderful, historic Palestine. Mark the quantity of
water--"rivers." Not a Jordan merely, that would be wonderful enough,
but Jordans--a Jordan, and a Nile, and a Euphrates, a Yang Tse Kiang,
and an Olga and a Rhine, a Seine and a Thames, and a Hudson and an
Ohio--"_rivers_." Notice, too, the _kind_ of water. Like this racing,
turbulent, muddy Jordan? No, no! "rivers of _living_ water," "water of
_life_, clear as crystal." You remember in Ezekiel's vision which we
read together that the waters constantly increased in depth, and that
everywhere they went there was healing, and abundant life, and
prosperity, and beauty, and food, and a continual harvest the year
round, and all because of the waters of the river. They were veritable
waters of life.
Now mark that little, but very significant, phrase--"_Out of_"--not
_into_, but "out of." All the difference in the lives of men lies in the
difference between these two expressions. "Into" is the world's
preposition. Every stream turns in; and that means _a dead sea_. Many a
man's life is simply the coast line of a dead sea. "Out of" is the
Master's word. His thought is of others. The stream must flow in, and
must flow through, if it is to flow out, but it is judged by its
direction, and Jesus would turn it outward. There must be good
connections upward, and a clear channel inward, but the objective point
is outward toward a parched earth. But before it can flow out it must
_fill up_. An _out_flow in this case means an _over_flow. There must be
a flooding inside before there can be a flowing out. And let the fact be
carefully marked that it is only the overflow from the fullness within
our own lives that brings refreshing to anyone else. A man praying at a
conference in England for the outpouring of the Holy Spirit said: "O,
Lord, we can't hold much, but we can overflow lots." That is exactly the
Master's thought. "Out of his belly shall flow rivers of living water."
Do you remember that phrase in the third chapter of Joshua--"For Jordan
overfloweth all its banks all the time of harvest." When there was a
flood in the river, there was a harvest in the land. Has there been a
harvest in your life? A harvest of the fruit of the spirit--love, joy,
peace, long-suffering; a harvest of souls? "No," do you say, "not much
of a harvest, I am afraid," or it may be your heart says "none at all."
Is it hard to tell why? Has there been a flood-tide in your heart, a
filling up from above until the blessed stream had to find an outlet
somewhere, and produce a harvest? A harvest outside means a rising of
the tide inside. A flooding of the heart always brings a harvest in the
life. A few years ago there were great floods in the southern states,
and the cotton and corn crops following were unprecedented. Paul
reminded his Roman friends that when the Holy Spirit has free swing in
the life "the love of God _floods_ our hearts."[2]
Please notice, too, the _source_ of the stream--"out of his belly." Will
you observe for a moment the rhetorical figure here? I used to suppose
it meant "out of his _heart_." The ancients, you remember, thought the
heart lay down in the abdominal region. But you will find that this book
is very exact in its use of words. The blood is the life. The heart
pumps the blood, but the stomach makes it. The seat of life is not in
the heart, but in the stomach. If you will take down a book of
physiology, and find the chart showing the circulation of the blood, you
will see a wonderful network of lines spreading out in every direction,
but all running, through lighter lines into heavier, and still blacker,
until every line converges in the great stomach artery. _And everywhere
the blood goes there is life._ Now turn to a book of physical geography
and get a map showing the water system of some great valley like the
Mississippi, and you will find a striking reproduction of the other
chart. And if you will shut your eyes and imagine the reality back of
that chart, you will see hundreds of cool, clear springs flowing
successively into runs, brooks, creeks, larger streams, river branches,
rivers, and finally into the great river--the reservoir of all. _And
everywhere the waters go there is life._ The only difference between
these two streams of life is in the direction. The blood flows from the
largest toward the smallest; the water flows from the smallest toward
the largest. Both bring life with its accompaniments of beauty and vigor
and fruitfulness. There is Jesus' picture of the Christian down in the
world. As the red stream flows out from the stomach, and, propelled by
the force-pump of the heart, through a marvelous network of minute
rivers takes life to every part of the body, so "he that believeth on
Me"--that is the vital connecting link with the great origin of this
stream of life--out of the very source of life within him shall go _a
flood-tide of life_, bringing refreshing, and cleansing, and beauty, and
vigor everywhere within the circle of his life, even though, like the
red streams and the water streams, he be unconscious of it.
An Unlikely Channel.
What a marvelous conception of the power of life! How strikingly it
describes Jesus' own earthly life! But there is something more marvelous
still--He means that ideal to become real in you, my friend, and in me.
I doubt not there are some here whose eager hearts are hungry for just
such a life, but who are tremblingly conscious of their own weakness.
Your thoughts are saying: "I wish I _could_ live such a life, but
certainly this is not for _me_; this man talking doesn't know _me_--no
special talent or opportunity: such strong tides of temptation that
sweep me clean off my feet--not for me." Ah, my friend, I verily believe
you are the very one the Master had in mind, for He had John put into
his gospel a living illustration of this ideal of His that goes down to
the very edge of human unlikeliness and inability. He goes down to the
lowest so as to include all. What proved true in this case may prove
true with you, and much more. The story is in the fourth chapter. It is
a sort of advance page of the Book of Acts. A sample of the power of
Pentecost before the day of Pentecost. You and I live on the flood-side
of Pentecost. This illustration belongs back where the streams had only
just commenced trickling. It is a miniature. You and I may furnish the
life-size if we will.
It is the story of a woman; not a man, but a woman. One of the _weaker_
sex, so called. She was ignorant, prejudiced, and without social
standing. She was a woman of no reputation. Aye, worse than that, of bad
reputation. She probably had less moral influence in her town than any
one here has in his circle. Could a more unlikely person have been used?
But she came in touch with the Lord Jesus. She yielded herself to that
touch. There lies the secret of what follows. That contact radically
changed her. She went back to her village and commenced speaking about
Jesus to those she knew. She could not preach; she simply told plainly
and earnestly what she knew and believed about Him. And the result is
startling. There are hundreds of ministers who are earnestly longing
for what came so easily to her. What modern people call a revival began
at once. We are told in the simple language of the Gospel record that
"_many believed on Him because of the word of the woman._" They had not
seen Jesus yet. He was up by the well. They were down in the village.
She was an ignorant woman, of formerly sinful life. But there is the
record of the wonderful result of her simple witnessing--they believed
on Jesus because of the word of that woman. There is only one way to
account for such results. Only the Holy Spirit speaking through her lips
could have produced them. She had commenced drinking of the living water
of which Jesus had been talking to her, and now already the rivers were
flowing out to others.
What Jesus did with her, He longs to do with you, _and far more_, if you
will let Him; though his plan for using you may be utterly different
from the one He had for her, and so the particular results different.
Now let me ask very frankly why have we not all such power for our
Master as she? The Master's plan is plain. He said "ye shall have
power." But so many of us do not have! Why not? Well, possibly some of
us are like Nicodemus--there is no power because of timidity, cowardice,
fear of what _they_ will think, or say. Possibly some of us are in the
same condition spiritually that Lazarus was in physically. We are tied
up tight, hands and feet and face. Some sin, some compromise, some
hushing of that inner voice, _something_ wrong. Some little thing, you
may say. Humph! as though anything _could_ be little that is wrong! _Sin
is never little!_
A Clogged Channel.
Out in Colorado they tell of a little town nestled down at the foot of
some hills--a sleepy-hollow village. You remember the rainfall is very
slight out there, and they depend much upon irrigation. But some
enterprising citizens ran a pipe up the hills to a lake of clear, sweet
water. As a result the town enjoyed a bountiful supply of water the year
round without being dependent upon the doubtful rainfall. And the
population increased and the place had quite a western boom. One morning
the housewives turned the water spigots, but no water came. There was
some sputtering. There is apt to be noise when there is nothing else.
The men climbed the hill. There was the lake full as ever. They examined
around the pipes as well as possible, but could find no break. Try as
they might, they could find no cause for the stoppage. And as days grew
into weeks, people commenced moving away again, the grass grew in the
streets, and the prosperous town was going back to its old sleepy
condition when one day one of the town officials received a note. It was
poorly written, with bad spelling and grammar, but he never cared less
about writing or grammar than just then. It said in effect: "Ef you'll
jes pull the plug out of the pipe about eight inches from the top you'll
get all the water you want." Up they started for the top of the hill,
and examining the pipe, found the plug which some vicious tramp had
inserted. Not a very big plug--just big enough to fill the pipe. It is
surprising how large a reservoir of water can be held back by how small
a plug. Out came the plug; down came the water freely; by and by back
came prosperity again.
_Why_ is there such a lack of power in our lives? The reservoir up
yonder is full to overflowing, with clear, sweet, life-giving water. And
here all around us the earth is so dry, so thirsty, cracked open--huge
cracks like dumb mouths asking mutely for what we should give. And the
connecting pipes between the reservoir above and the parched plain below
are there. Why then do not the refreshing waters come rushing down? The
answer is very plain. You know why. _There is a plug in the pipe._
Something in us clogging up the channel and nothing can get through. How
shall we have power, abundant, life-giving, sweetening our own lives,
and changing those we touch? The answer is easy for me to give--it will
be much harder for us all to do--_pull out the plug_. Get out the thing
that you know is hindering.
I am going to ask every one who will, to offer this simple prayer--and I
am sure every thoughtful, earnest man and woman here will. Just bow
your head and quietly under your breath say to Him: "Lord Jesus, show
me what there is in my life that is displeasing to Thee; what there is
Thou wouldst change." You may be sure He will. He is faithful. He will
put His finger on that tender spot very surely. Then add a second clause
to that prayer--"By Thy grace helping me, _I will put it out_ whatever
it may cost, or wherever it may cut." Shall we bow our heads and offer
that prayer, and hew close to that line, steadily, faithfully? It will
open up a life of marvelous blessing undreamed of for you and everyone
you touch.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] John 3:1. 7:50. 12:42 with 9:22. 19:38, 39.
[2] Rom. 5:5.
THE OLIVET MESSAGE.
Searchlight Sights.
Coming into Cleveland harbor one evening, just after nightfall, a number
of passengers were gathered on the upper deck eagerly watching the
colored breakwater lights and the city lights beyond. Suddenly a general
curiosity was aroused by a small boat of some sort, on the left,
scudding swiftly along in the darkness like a blacker streak on the
black waters. A few of us who chanced to be near the captain on the
smaller deck above, heard him quietly say, "Turn on the searchlight."
Almost instantly an intense white light shone full on the stranger-boat,
bringing it to view so distinctly that we could almost count the
nail-heads, and the strands in her cordage.
If some of us here to-night have made the prayer suggested in our last
talk together--Lord Jesus, show me what there is in my life that is
displeasing to Thee, that Thou wouldst change--we will appreciate
something of the power of that Lake Erie searchlight. There is a
searchlight whiter, intenser, more keenly piercing than any other. Into
every heart that desires, and will hold steadily open to it, the Lord
Jesus will turn that searching light. Then you will begin to see things
_as they actually are_. And that sight may well lead to discouragement.
Many a hidden thing, which you are glad enough to have hidden, will be
plainly seen. How is it possible, you will be ready to ask, for me to
lead the life the Master's ambition has planned for me, with such mixed
motives, selfish ambitions, sinfulness and weakness as I am beginning to
get a glimpse of--how is it possible?
There is one answer to that intense heart-question, and only one. _We
must have power_, some supernatural power, something outside of us, and
above us, and far greater than we, to come in and win the victory within
us and for us.
If that young man whose inner life is passion-swept, one tidal wave of
fierce temptation, hot on the heels of the last, until all the moorings
are snapped, and he driven rudderless out to sea--if he is to ride
masterfully upon that sea _he must have power_.
If that young woman is to be as attractive, and womanly winsome in the
society circle where she moves, as she is meant to be, and yet able to
shape her lips into a gently uttered, but rock-ribbed _no_ when certain
well-understood questionable matters come up, _she must have power_. If
society young people are to remain in the world, and yet not be swayed
by its spirit: on one side not prudish, nor fanatical, nor extreme, but
cheery, and radiant, and full-lived, and yet free of those compromising
entanglements that are common to society everywhere, _they must have a
rare pervasive power_.
For that business man down in the sharp competition of the world where
duty calls him, to resist the sly temptations to overreach, to keep
keenly alert not to be overreached; and through all to preserve an
uncensorious spirit, unhurt by the selfishness of the crowd--tell me,
some of you men--_will that not take power_? Aye, more power than some
of us know about, yet.
For that same man to go through his store and remove from shelf or
counter some article which yields a good profit, but which he knows his
Master would not have there--Ah! _that'll take power_.
_It takes power_ to keep the body under control: the mouth clean and
sweet, both physically and morally: the eye turned away from the thing
that should not be thought about: the ear closed to what should not
enter that in-gate of the heart: to allow no picture to hang upon the
walls of your imagination that may not hang upon the walls of your home:
to keep every organ of the body pure for nature's holy function
only--_that takes mighty power_.
For that young man to be wide-awake, a pusher in business, and yet
steadily, determinedly to hold back any crowding of the other side of
his life: the inner side, the outer-helpful side, the Bible-reading-
and secret-prayer- and quiet personal-work-side of his life, _that will
take real power_.
_It will take a power_ that some of us have not known to let that glass
go untouched, and that quieting drug untasted and unhandled. If the rear
end of some pharmacies could speak out, many a story would startle our
ears of struggles and defeats that tell sadly of utter lack of power.
_It takes power_ for the man of God in the pulpit to speak plainly about
particular sins before the faces of those who are living in them; and
_still more power_ to do it with the rare tactfulness and tenderness of
the Galilean preacher. _It takes power_ to stick to the Gospel story and
the old book, when literature and philosophy present such fine
opportunities for the essays that are so enjoyable and that bring such
flattering notice. _It takes power_ to leave out the finely woven
rhetoric that you are disposed to put in for the sake of the compliment
it will bring from that literary woman down yonder, or that bright,
brainy young lawyer in the fifth pew on the left aisle. _It takes power_
to see that the lips that speak for God are thoroughly clean lips, and
the life that stands before that audience a pure life.
_It takes power_ to keep sweet in the home, where, if anywhere, the
seamy side is apt to stick out. How many wooden oaths could kicked
chairs and slammed doors tell of! After all the home-life comes close to
being the real test of power, does it not? _It takes power_ to be
gracious and strong, and patient and tender, and cheery, in the
commonplace things, and the commonplace places, does it not?
Now, I have something to tell you to-night that to me is very
wonderful, and constantly growing in wonder. It is this--_the Master has
thought of all that!_ He has thought into your life. Yes, I mean _your
particular life_, and made an arrangement to fully cover all your need
of power. He stands anew in our midst to-day, and putting His pierced
hand gently upon your arm, His low, loving, clear voice says quietly,
but very distinctly, "_You--you shall have power._" For every subtle,
strong temptation, for every cry of need, for every low moan of
disappointment, for every locking of the jaws in the resolution of
despair, for every disheartened look out into the morrow, for every
yearningly ambitious heart there comes to-night that unmistakable
ringing promise of _His_--_ye shall have power_.
The Olivet Message.
Our needs argue the necessity of power. And the argument is strengthened
by the peculiar emphasis of the Master's words. Do you remember that
wondrous Olivet scene? In the quiet twilight of a Sabbath evening a
group of twelve young men stand yonder on the brow of Olives. The last
glowing gleams of the setting sun fill all the western sky, and shed a
halo of yellow glory-light over the hilltop, through the trees, in upon
that group. You instantly pick out the leader. No mistaking Him. And
around Him group the eleven men who have lived with Him these months
past, now eagerly gazing into that marvelous face, listening for His
words. He is going away. They know that. Coming back soon, they
understand. But in His absence the work He has begun is to be entrusted
to their hands. And so with ears and eyes they listen intently for the
good-bye word--His last message. It will mean so much in the coming
days.
Two things the Master says. The first is that ringing "go ye" so
familiar to every true heart. The second is a very decisive, distinct
"_but tarry ye_." What, wait still longer! Tarry, now, when your great
work is done! Listen again, while His parting words cut the air with
their startling distinctness "_but tarry ye--until ye be endued with
power_."
I could readily imagine impulsive Peter quickly saying, "What! shall we
_tarry_ when the whole world is dying! Do we not _know_ enough now?" And
the Master's answer would come in that clear, quiet voice of His, "yes,
tarry: you have knowledge enough, but _knowledge is not enough_, there
must be power."
There is knowledge enough within the christian church of every
land--aye, knowledge enough within the walls of this building to-night
to convert the world, if knowledge would do it. Into many a life,
through home training, and school, and college, has come knowledge,
while power lingers without--a stranger. Knowledge--the twin idol with
gold to American hearts--is essential, but, let it be plainly said, is
not _the_ essential. Knowledge is the fuel piled up in the fireplace.
The mantel is of carved oak, and the fenders so highly polished they
seem almost to send out warmth, but the thermometer is working down
toward zero, and the people are shivering. The spark of living fire is
essential. Then how all changes! There must be fire from above to kindle
our knowledge and ourselves before any of the needed results will come.
There is no language strong enough to tell how absolutely needful it is
that every follower of Jesus Christ from the one most prominent in
leadership down to the very humblest disciple, shall receive this
promised power.
Look at these men Jesus is talking to. There is Peter, the man of rock,
and John and James, the sons of thunder. They were with the Lord on the
Transfiguration Mount, and when He raised the dead. They were near by
during the awful agony of Gethsemane. They were admitted nearer to the
Master's inner life than any others. There is quiet matter-of-fact
Andrew, who had a reputation for bringing others to Jesus. There is
Nathanael, in whom is no guile. It is to these men that there comes that
positive command to tarry. If _they_ needed such a command, do not we?
"Yes," someone says, "I understand that this power you speak of is
something the leaders and preachers must have, but you scarcely mean
that there is the same necessity for us people down in the ranks, and
that we are to expect the same power as these others, do you?" Will you
please call to mind that original Pentecost company? There were one
hundred and twenty of them. And while there was a Peter being prepared
to preach that tremendous sermon, and a John to write five books of the
New Testament and probably a James to preside over the affairs of the
Jerusalem Church, and possibly a Stephen, and a Philip, yet these are
only a few. By far the greater number, both men and women, are unnamed
and unknown. Just the common, every-day folk, the filling-in of society;
aye, the very foundation of all society. They had no prominent part to
play. But they accepted the Master's promise of power, and His command
to wait, _as made to them_. And as a result _they, too_, were filled
with the Holy Spirit, that wonderful morning. I think, very likely, "the
good man of the house" whose guest Jesus was that last night was there,
and all the Marys, including the Bethany Mary, who simply sat at His
feet, and the Magdalene Mary, and housekeeper Martha, and maybe that
little lad whose loaves and fishes had been used about a year before.
That was the sort of company that prayerfully, with one accord, not only
waited but _received_ that never-to-be-forgotten filling of the Holy
Spirit.
Certainly, as some of you think, the preacher must have this power
peculiarly for his leadership. But just as really he needs it _because
he is a man for his living_, to make him sweet and gentle and patient
down in his home: to make him sympathetic and strong in his constant
contact with the hungry hearts he must meet. That young mechanic must
have this promised power if he is to live an earnest, manly life in that
shop. That school girl, whose home duties crowd her time so; that
keen-minded student working for honors amid strong competition; these
society young people; these all need, above all else, this promised
power that in, and through, and around and above all of their lives may
be a wholesomely sweet, earnest Christliness, pervading the life even as
the odor of flowers pervades a room.
Do you remember Paul's list of the traits of character that mark a
christian life--love, joy, peace, long-suffering, gentleness, goodness,
meekness, faithfulness, self-control?[3] Suppose for a moment you think
through a list of the opposites of those nine
characteristics--bitterness, envy, hate, low-spiritedness, sulkiness,
chafing, fretting, worrying, short-suffering, quick-temper, hot-temper,
high-spiritedness, unsteadiness, unreliability, lack of control of
yourself. May I ask, have you any personal acquaintance with some of
these qualities? Is there still some need in your life for the other
desirable traits? Well, remember that it is only as the Holy Spirit has
_control_ that this fruit of His is found. For notice that it is not we
that bear this fruit, but He in us. We furnish the soil. He must have
free swing in its cultivation if He is to get this harvest. And notice,
too, that it does not say "the _fruits_ of the Spirit," as though _you_
might have one or more, and _I_ have some others. But it is
"fruit"--that is, it is all one fruit and all of it is meant to be
growing up in each one of us. And let the fact be put down as settled
once for all that only as we tarry and receive the Master's promise of
power can we live the lives He longs to have us live down here among men
for Him.
If that father is so to live at home before those wide-awake, growing
boys that he can keep up the family altar, and instead of letting it
become a mere irksome form, make it the green, fresh spot in the home
life, he must have this promised power, for he cannot do it of himself.
I presume _some_ of you fathers know that.
There is that mother, living in what would be reckoned a humble home,
one of a thousand like it, but charged with the most sacred trust ever
committed to human hands--_the molding of precious lives_. If there be
hallowed ground anywhere surely it is there, in the life of that home.
What patience and tirelessness, and love and tact and wisdom and wealth
of resource does that woman not need! Ah, mothers! if any one needs to
tarry and receive the power promised by the Son of that Mary, who was
filled with the Holy Spirit from before His birth for her sacred trust,
_surely you do_.
Here sits one whose life plans seem to have gone all askew. The thing
you love to do, and had fondly planned over, removed utterly beyond
your reach and you compelled to fit in to something for which you have
no taste. It will take nothing less than the power the Master promised
for you to go on faithfully, cheerfully just where you have been placed,
no repining, no complaining, even in your innermost soul, but, instead,
a glad, joyous fitting into the Father's plan with a radiant light in
the face. Only His power can accomplish that victory! But _His can_. And
His may be yours for the tarrying and the taking.
Let me repeat then with all the emphasis possible that as certainly as
you need to trust Jesus Christ for your soul's salvation, you also need
to receive this power of the Holy Spirit to work that salvation out _in
your present life_.
A Double Center.
It has helped me greatly in understanding the Master's insistent
emphasis upon the promise of power to keep clearly in mind that the
christian system of truth revolves around a double center. It is
illustrated best not by a circle with its single center, but by an
ellipse with its twin centers. There are two central truths--not one,
but two. The first of the two is grained deep down in the common
Christian teaching and understanding. If I should ask any group of
Sabbath school children in this town, next Sabbath morning, the
question: What is the most important thing we christians believe? Amid
the great variety in the form of answer would come, in substance,
without doubt, this reply: "_The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth from
all sin._" And they would be right. But there is a second truth--very
reverently and thoughtfully let me say--of _equal importance_ with that;
namely, this: _the Holy Spirit empowereth against all sin, and for life
and service_. These two truths are co-ordinate. They run in parallel
lines. They belong together. They are really two halves of the one great
truth. But this second half needs emphasis, because it has not always
been put into its proper place beside the other.
Jesus died on the cross to make freedom from sin _possible_. The Holy
Spirit dwells within me to make freedom from sin _actual_. The Holy
Spirit does _in_ me what Jesus did _for_ me. The Lord Jesus makes a
deposit in the bank on my account. The Spirit checks the money out and
puts it into my hands. Jesus does in me now by His Spirit what He did
for me centuries ago on the cross, in His person.
Now these two truths, or two parts of the same truth, go together in
God's plan, but, with some exceptions, have not gone together in men's
experience. That explains why so many christian lives are a failure and
a reproach. The Church of Christ has been gazing so intently upon the
hill of the cross with its blood-red message of sin and love, that it
has largely lost sight of the Ascension Mount with its legacy of power.
We have been so enwrapt with that marvelous scene on Calvary--and what
wonder!--that we have allowed ourselves to lose the intense significance
of Pentecost. That last victorious shout--"It is finished"--has been
crowding out in our ears its counterpart--the equally victorious cry of
Olivet--"_All power hath been given unto Me._"