single act of devotion to another's good is like a ray of golden
sunshine in a darkened room, and a life of such deeds may well be
called a golden life. Into the cabin of one of our government
transports was borne a poor wounded soldier, who, with many others,
was going home to die. He had just been laid in the middle berth--by
far the most comfortable of the three tiers of berths in the ship's
cabin--and was still thrilling with the pain of being carried from the
field, when he saw a comrade in even greater suffering than himself
about to be lifted to the berth above him, and, thinking of the pain
it would cost him to be raised so high, he exclaimed, "Put me up
there; I reckon I'll bear hoisting better than he will."
Where can we find sufficient inspiration for a life of devotion to
others? "Act as if the eyes of Cato were always upon you," was urged
upon the Roman youth to stimulate him to virtuous deeds. Act as if the
eyes of Jesus were upon you, we urge, for surely he bends from his
throne to watch you as you endeavor to tread the path your Saviour
trod.
To some of us God has given leisure from arduous toil, wealth, talents
and many opportunities for usefulness. Perhaps to all these gifts he
has added strong faith and bright hopes of heaven. What, then, are our
duties to the poor and ignorant, the weary and feeble ones?
"Strengthen ye the weak hands and confirm the feeble knees. Say to
them that are of a feeble heart, Be strong; fear not." Remember, and
forget it not, ye favored ones, that "unto whomsoever much is given,
of him shall much be required." Let nothing be hoarded. "Withhold not
good from them to whom it is due, when it is in the power of thine
hand to do it." Nature's and the Gospels' doctrine is, "Be ready to
distribute, willing to communicate." Looking up at the twelve silver
statues in Yorkminster cathedral, Oliver Cromwell asked, "Who are
those expensive fellows up there?" He was told that they were the
apostles of Christ. "Ah? let them be taken down and melted up," said
the old Puritan; "then they, like their Master, will go about doing
good."
It is said that in China the rich buy up and distribute clothing to
the poor, and in times of scarcity of food, through the kindness of
the rich, rice is sold to the poor at a third or fourth less than the
market price. This is done to win the favor of the gods. While we do
not hope to purchase God's favor by anything that we can do, yet we
may remember the words of the Lord Jesus, how he said, "Whosoever
shall give to drink unto one of these little ones a cup of cold water
only, in the name of a disciple, verily I say unto you, He shall in
nowise lose his reward." "And they that be wise shall shine in the
brightness of the firmament, and they that turn many to righteousness,
as the stars for ever and ever."
Let us daily strive to imitate our Master in compassion for others;
then shall our meditation prove profitable as well as pleasant.
[Illustration]
VII.
_The Sympathy._
"My meditation of him shall be sweet" _when I remember his sympathy_
with his chosen ones.
To have a friend who is ready to rejoice with us when we rejoice, and
to weep with us when we weep, how delightful it is! It doubles our
every joy and divides our every sorrow. Though some hearts seem to
scorn this tender plant of heavenly origin, we believe that none are
wholly insensible to the magic power of sympathy. Those who scorn it
most are often led to crave it most when the days of bitter grief draw
near. We call it a plant of heavenly origin, and so it is; for though
it is often found in unrenewed hearts, yet it attains its fairest
perfection in hearts regenerated by the Holy Spirit. Planted by the
hand of God and watered by heavenly dews, it reaches its greatest
height, and wins the admiration of many who fail to understand the
secret source of its life.
But human sympathy, even the deepest and tenderest, often fails us in
the hour of our greatest need. Who will say that Peter and the two
sons of Zebedee were not friends of the Lord Jesus? Certainly they
loved him, for they followed him whithersoever he went. Feeling his
need of human sympathy--for he was the man Christ Jesus--he took them
with him to Gethsemane. All he asked was that they should watch with
him. "Tarry ye here, and watch with me." Did they watch? You know the
record well. "And he cometh unto the disciples and findeth them
asleep, and saith unto Peter, What, could ye not watch with me one
hour?" When brought to our Gethsemane, is not our experience something
like our Master's? Where we looked for sympathy we find indifference;
we are there alone. Perhaps our sorrow may be of such a nature that we
cannot reveal it even to our best-beloved. Our secret grief lies like
ice upon our hearts, sending its chilling influences through every
member. The hands hang down listlessly and the feeble knees smite
together; the aching of the head is only exceeded by the aching of the
heart. Yet no one knows the agony that paralyzes our life. Or, sadder
still, the heart-friend may be snatched away, and while our hearts are
breaking by reason of bereavement, we may have no one left to whom we
may turn for comfort in our affliction.
Is there no friend whose sympathy is deep, ever abiding and ever
accessible? Thank God, there is One. His name is Jesus. In all our
afflictions he is afflicted. He suffered that he might sympathize.
Coming to a race concerning whom it was written "few are their days
and full of trouble," "it behooved him to be made like unto his
brethren," therefore he accepted the inheritance of suffering, and
became "a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief." "Himself took
our infirmities."
Is poverty your portion? Is it no uncommon thing for you to suffer
hunger, cold and weariness? Do friends forsake and foes oppress you?
Go and tell Jesus. Though no longer suffering the sorrows of earth, he
remembers them well. Think you that _he_ has forgotten those
wilderness seasons when he suffered hunger; or those times of weary
watching on the mountains; or that dark night when "all the disciples
forsook him and fled;" or that sad hour when his Father forsook him?
Though gone to God's right hand he is the same Jesus still. His heart
is full of love and pity. "He knoweth our frame," for he has put on
our humanity. He put on our humanity; he has never put it off. "Behold
the Man!" "And I beheld, and lo, in the midst of the throne, and of
the four beasts, and in the midst of the elders, stood a Lamb as it
had been slain." "And I heard the voice of many angels round about the
throne, and the beasts, and the elders; and the number of them was ten
thousand times ten thousand, and thousands of thousands; saying with a
loud voice, Worthy is the Lamb that was slain to receive power, and
riches, and wisdom, and strength, and honor, and glory, and blessing."
And is he absorbed by this homage? I tell thee nay.
Let us recall that parting scene at Olivet. His days of suffering are
now ended, and he is about to return to the glory which he had with
the Father before the world was. A few words of parting, and then a
cloud separates him from his sorrowing disciples. A cloud, the record
tells us. So it appeared to them; to us it seems rather a company of
shining ones--a heavenly convoy sent to attend King Jesus back to his
heavenly throne. In the midst of the homage of this heavenly host he
does not forget his sorrowful disciples, but arrests the glad song for
a moment that he may send words of comfort down to them. "And while
they looked steadfastly toward heaven as he went up, behold, two men
stood by them in white apparel, which also said, Ye men of Galilee,
why stand ye gazing up into heaven? This same Jesus which is taken up
from you into heaven shall so come in like manner as ye have seen him
go into heaven."
_This same Jesus_ is not now absorbed by the homage of that "great
multitude which no man could number." Surrounded by those "which came
out of great tribulation," can he for a moment forget those who are
going through great tribulation? He does not forget them. The hand
that was nailed to the cross is still swift to obey the impulses of
that great heart of love, and hastens to wipe away the tear that
gathers in the mourner's eye, to bind up the broken heart and to
smooth the pillow of the dying.
We cannot read the record of Christ's earthly life without perceiving
that his sympathy with suffering was deep and constant. Failing to
comprehend this, some may add to your grief by uttering these chilling
words: "Trouble not the Master." Remember, and forget not the
broken-hearted father whose "only daughter" died before the help of
the Good Physician could be obtained. There comes one from the ruler's
house saying unto him, "Thy daughter is dead; trouble not the Master."
The mournful message is heard by the Master, and turning to the
sorrowing father, he said, "Fear not; believe only, and she shall be
made whole." How speedily joy came into that darkened home when Jesus
entered and took the maiden by the hand!
Little know they that great heart of love who say to the sorrowful,
"Trouble not the Master." Young disciple, heed them not. Think no
sorrow too trifling to pour into his sympathizing ear. Whatever
troubles you interests him. "In all their affliction he was
afflicted." No tear falls unnoticed by him; no sigh escapes unheard.
He keepeth you "as the apple of his eye." What encouragement to carry
your griefs to Jesus! Satan would suggest that we "trouble not the
Master." He trembles to see such close communion between Christ and
the Christian. He knows that his power over the Saviour's "hidden
ones" is fast passing away, and he would be glad to raise all chilling
barriers to their delightful intercourse. "Get thee behind me, Satan!"
My Saviour invites, yea, urges, me to come to him with all my sorrows,
and I will cast all my cares on him, for he careth for me. "It is good
for me to draw near to God." Again and again have I found it good--oh
how good! All sympathy is sweet, but his sympathy is exceeding sweet.
Yes, so sweet is it that trouble is no longer trouble, because Christ
shares it with me. He changes the "valley of Baca" into the "land
Beulah." He gives me songs in the night, and his presence turns my
darkness into day.
"Trouble not the Master."
I tell you, Satan, it is no trouble for the Master to care for me; no
trouble to soothe my sorrowing spirit; no trouble to wipe away my
tears; no trouble to pillow my aching head upon his bosom; no trouble
to give me "beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment
of praise for the spirit of heaviness." Many and many a time has he
done this, blessed be his name! Nothing troubles him but my sins.
Would to God they might trouble him no more! They grieve him; then let
me forsake them. By his help I will. Begone, unbelief, pride,
worldliness, ingratitude--begone! It is ye that trouble my Master!
[Illustration]
VIII.
_The Love._
"My meditation of him shall be sweet" _when I consider his love for
me_.
The record of Christ's deeds of mercy toward a multitude of sick and
suffering ones gives us a wonderful glimpse of his heart. The thought
of his perfect sympathy with his people has comforted the Church in
all ages. But draw a little nearer and consider his _personal love for
you_, dear young Christian. Listen to his voice saying so tenderly, "I
have loved thee." Forget for a moment the multitude that need his
compassion and the disciples who share his sympathy, and try to
realize his deep, personal love for you. Consider that love as shown
on Calvary. Remember the great price he has paid for your redemption.
During the dark days of the Netherland revolt there went forth a
decree from the cruel Philip the Second; and though many a bloody
edict had gone out before from that throne, this one in cruelty
exceeded them all, for it condemned to death all the inhabitants of
the Netherlands. "Heretic" was branded upon every one, and, without
respect to age or sex, they were doomed to destruction. Now, if a
mighty deliverer could have traversed those gloomy streets proclaiming
full deliverance for those who were condemned, with what joy would he
have been hailed! Not only would the public thanks of the nation have
been his, but each rescued one would have hastened to express his own
thanks to his deliverer.
Let then your heart overflow with grateful love when you remember the
great Deliverer. "Guilty" was branded upon every forehead when Jesus
came to the rescue; and while the thanks of all the redeemed are
ascending to the throne, let your praises unite with theirs, for you
too were under condemnation when Jesus offered pardon. His terms were
simple--"only believe;" and through the grace of God you were led to
accept the offer of everlasting life. "There is therefore now no
condemnation," for the Son hath made you free.
"No condemnation!" How sweet it sounds! How much it means! Christ hath
fulfilled the Law's requirements, and you are free. As we meditate
upon it we seem to hear the Saviour saying, "Lovest thou me?" Dear
Lord Jesus, we cannot love thee as thou hast loved us. A mother's love
is as naught when compared with thy love, for she _may_ forget, but
thou hast said thou wilt never forget us. But yet our hearts cherish
most fondly this secret of thy love to us. "I have loved thee with an
everlasting love."
It gives us joy in our loneliest hours. We love to think about it when
we are all alone. Never are we less alone than when alone, for then it
is we hear the sweetest whispers that ever fell on mortal ears. And
when we hear the voice of our Beloved, can we be indifferent to his
love? I tell thee, nay. Love, a faint reflection of his own, rises in
our heart, and falling on our knees before him, we exclaim, "Lord,
thou knowest all things; thou knowest that I love thee." Sadly we feel
that it is a poor spark of love--nothing like his great love to
us--yet we rejoice that the little spark is there, and pray that it
may be kindled into a steady flame. "Lord, thou knowest all things."
Oh how glad we are of this! Thou knowest every emotion of our heart
toward thee. Thou knowest our grief because we do not love thee more.
But this meditation has its practical bearings. We may not always
dwell upon the high mountain apart thinking about our Saviour's love.
Let our communion with Christ be as close and confidential as
possible, but let us never forget that He who spent whole nights
communing with his Father also spent whole days ministering to others.
Let, then, the love of Christ constrain us.
Standing safely upon the Rock Christ Jesus, let our hearts go out in
pity for those who are still breasting the billows. Faint and
exhausted, they seem ready to perish. "Help, Master, help!" Let our
prayers for them ascend unceasingly. The Master is not far off, and in
answer to our prayers he will come and rescue them with his strong
arm. Let the love of Christ constrain us to labor for the perishing
around us. This is our working-time, and this principle of love is the
life of our work.
This word "constrain" has several meanings. It might be thus
expressed: "The love of Christ transports us." It carries away our
souls in ecstasy even from earth to heaven, and fills us with holy
rapture. How often at the table of the Lord have we been thus
transported by thoughts of his everlasting love! And as we went on our
pilgrim way we cast frequent glances back to that hour of heavenly
brightness. Earth grew dim during those moments of holy communion.
Fain would we have tabernacled there.
The love of Christ _urges_ us, _prompts_ us. Sweet it will be to rest
in the arms of his love. But this rest remaineth; we have not yet
reached it; to the present belong toil and labor. There must be no
loitering in the Christian life. Where the love of Christ fills the
heart there can be no loitering. It is a prompting principle, ever
leading us to new endeavors for the Master.
The love of Christ _unites_ us. Though diversities of opinion mark
those who bear the Christian name, yet, if the Saviour's love fills
our hearts, we have one common platform where we may meet and hold
sweet fellowship. Our experience is the same: "we love him because he
first loved us." Our Hope is the same: Christ in us, "the hope of
glory." Our home is the same: "and there shall be one fold." Our
Shepherd is the same: "and I will set up one Shepherd over them." And
though our creeds may differ, our chorus is the same: "Thou art
worthy, for thou wast slain, and hast redeemed us to God by thy blood
out of every kindred, and tongue, and people, and nation." Angels and
archangels round the throne join in the heavenly melody, saying, with
a loud voice, "Worthy is the Lamb that was slain to receive power, and
riches, and wisdom, and strength, and honor, and glory, and blessing."
"And every creature which is in heaven, and on the earth, and under
the earth, and such as are in the sea, and all that are in them,"
being united by the love of Christ, join in the song which celebrates
his wondrous love.
[Illustration]
IX.
_The Life Abundant._
"My meditation of him shall be sweet" _when I consider the life more
abundant which he gives_.
We are amazed at the languid, feeble lives of many around us. Among
the aged we naturally look for inactivity, but, alas! "even the
youths" faint and are weary, and the young men utterly fall. Before
"the time of old age" the grasshopper becomes a burden, and we hear
the young exclaiming, in world-weary tones, "I have no pleasure in
them." They said in their hearts, "Go to, now; I will prove thee with
mirth; therefore enjoy pleasure." And behold they found it vanity.
They builded houses, and planted vineyards, and gathered silver and
gold; but, looking back on all the works their hands have wrought,
they are compelled to acknowledge that all is vanity and vexation of
spirit. Therefore they hate life and all their labor which they have
taken "under the sun." "For what," say they, "hath man of all his
labor, and of the vexation of his heart, wherein he hath labored under
the sun? For all his days are sorrows, and his travail grief; yea, his
heart taketh not rest in the night. This also is vanity."
How marked and beautiful the change when Jesus takes possession of
these weary souls! "I am come," says the Master, "that they might have
life, and that they might have it _more abundantly_"--life in greater
quantity; "good measure, pressed down, and shaken together, and
running over."
We hear much about the power of love to arouse the dormant faculties
and animate the feeble spirit. When this love is the dear, deep love
of Jesus, who can estimate its life-giving power? Truly, we hardly
begin to live till Jesus reveals himself to us--until, kneeling at his
cross, we consecrate to him our time, our talents and our all. From
henceforth life has for us new beauty, because Jesus is the charm of
our life.
Life "more abundantly!" Let us enter more deeply into the meaning of
these words. Let us understand that religion does not close the door
upon any lawful calling. The days of religious seclusion are long
past, but the days have not yet come when men have fully learned that
daily business is not antagonistic to Christian life, but that it is
one of the means of its development. It has been truly said that there
have been noble bands of Christians who have gone to heaven despising
ambition, refusing crowns, disdaining sceptres, unwilling to be
cumbered with wealth, willing to bear hardship and suffering; but
there shall be another band of men who shall do more mighty things
than they--men of higher grace who shall conquer enemies more strong
and terrible, who shall go to heaven even with crowns and sceptres or
with great wealth. Through abounding grace they learn Christian
development in spite of, and by means of, those external things which
cause the spiritual shipwreck of multitudes.
Let the spirit of the Saviour, dwelling in us richly, sanctify all
commerce, all learning, all politics, all art. May religion dignify
our every act. Religion was not simply designed for the dying hour.
"Christ shall be magnified in my body, whether it be by life or by
death." "For to me _to live_ is Christ."
Dear Lord Jesus, thou hast showed me "the path of life," and by thy
presence, even on earth, thou hast given me "fullness of joy." Thou
hast given me power when faint, and "increased strength" when I had no
might. Therefore my life shall praise thee. "A new creature" in
Christ, henceforth I will not live unto myself, but unto Him which
died for me and rose again, "for the love of Christ constraineth me."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
X.
_The Forgiveness._
"My meditation of him shall be sweet" _when I consider the full and
free forgiveness he imparts_.
The hour in which we first felt the joy of sins forgiven can never be
forgotten. The burden had grown so heavy that we could carry it no
longer, so, bending the knee at the foot of the cross, the burden was
cast upon Christ.
For many days our joy and peace were so great that we fondly hoped to
be burdened no more; but as old wounds often break out anew, so it is
with the soul, and the memory of "sins that are past" often sweeps
over the Christian like a bitter wave. Daily sins cause daily grief to
the heart that loves the Lord. The only way of peace is to carry them
at once to Jesus, confess all and seek forgiveness. We never seek in
vain.
But these past sins, these iniquities of our youth, how they rise up
to condemn us and take away our peace! "Thou writest bitter things
against me," saith Job, "and makest me possess the iniquities of my
youth." "My sin is ever before me," cries David in the bitterness of
his soul. It must have been a lifelong grief to Peter that he had
denied his Lord and Master. Others might easily forget his hour of
weakness and sin while they listened to his fearless words on the day
of Pentecost and heard him exclaim, "Him, being delivered by the
determinate counsel and foreknowledge of God, ye have taken, and by
wicked hands have crucified and slain." But though others could
forget, how often must Peter's soul have been saddened by the memory
of his weakness and sin! Sounding along the corridors of memory, ever
and anon these words, "I know not the man," must have smote upon his
ears like a funeral knell. The recollection of that look of love must
often have brought tears to his eyes and filled his heart with tender
grief.
How many of us recall with deepest sorrow hours of weakness when,
yielding to strong temptation, we fell into sin! Perhaps no eye but
God's marked our wandering steps, no ear but his heard our words of
sin, no heart but his read the dark secret. The hour of true
contrition came when, ashamed and deeply grieved, we scarcely ventured
to look up to our offended Father, but casting our tearful eyes upon
the ground, we knelt and cried in anguish, "Thou hast set our
iniquities before thee, our secret sins in the light of thy
countenance." Remembering that "if we confess our sins he is faithful
and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all
unrighteousness," we freely confessed all, and in the deep peace that
followed we found a fulfillment of the promise. "I acknowledge my sin
unto thee, and mine iniquity have I not hid. I said, I will confess my
transgressions unto the Lord, and thou forgavest the iniquity of my
sin."
But though the Lord is "ready to forgive," and "plenteous in mercy"
unto all them that call upon him, yet these past sins are weapons that
the great adversary often uses successfully in his warfare with the
pilgrims, causing many almost to stand still when they should be
running in the way of God's commandments.
Think you that our God desires from us constant mourning over "sins
that are past?" If these are to lie a perpetual burden on our hearts,
robbing us of our peace and clouding our hopes of heaven, what
advantage then hath the Christian? or what profit is there in the
atonement of Christ?
We have somewhere heard of a chemist who was lecturing before his
class. A number of rags of varied hue lay before him, and by means of
strong chemicals he was changing their colors into whiteness.
Presently he paused, and holding up a piece of Turkey red, he
remarked, "Ah! now we shall have some trouble, for of all colors this
is the hardest to extract." Again and again he dipped it into the
strong solution, but with little effect; then cast it aside, saying,
"It must either remain as it is, or else lie in the solution till its
very fibres are destroyed."
But the blood of Christ has power to extract even scarlet stains.
"Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as snow; though
they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool."