'"Bread of deceit" is sweet to a man; but afterwards his mouth shall
be filled with gravel.'--PROVERBS xx. 17.
'Bread of deceit' is a somewhat ambiguous phrase, which may mean
either of two things, and perhaps means both. It may either mean any
good obtained by deceit, or good which deceives in its possession. In
the former signification it would appear to have reference primarily
to unjustly gotten gain, while in the latter it has a wider meaning
and applies to all the worthless treasures and lying delights of life.
The metaphor is full of homely vigour, and the contrast between the
sweet bread and the gravel that fills the mouth and breaks the teeth,
carries a solemn lesson which is perpetually insisted upon in this
book of Proverbs, and confirmed in every man's experience.
I. The first lesson here taught is the perpetuity of the most
transient actions.
We are tempted to think that a deed done is done with, and to grasp at
momentary pleasure, and ignore its abiding consequences. But of all
the delusions by which men are blinded to the true solemnity of life
none is more fatal than that which ignores the solemn 'afterwards'
that has to be taken into account. For, whatever issues in outward
life our actions may have, they have all a very real influence on
their doers; each of them tends to modify character, to form habits,
to drag after itself a whole trail of consequences. Each strikes
inwards and works outwards. The whole of a life may be set forth in
the pregnant figure, 'A sower went forth to sow,' and 'Whatsoever a
man soweth, that shall he also reap.' The seed may lie long dormant,
but the green shoots will appear in due time, and pass through all the
stages of 'first the blade, and then the ear, and after that the full
corn in the ear.' The sower has to become the reaper, and the reaper
has to eat of the bread made from the product of the long past sowing.
Shall _we_ have to reap a harvest of poisonous tares, or of
wholesome wheat? 'If 'twere done when 'tis done, 'twere well it were
done quickly'; but since it begins to do when 'tis done, it were often
better that it were not done at all. A momentary pause to ask
ourselves when tempted to evil, 'And what then?' would burst not a few
of the painted bubbles after which we often chase.
Is there any reason to suppose that these permanent consequences of
our transient actions are confined in their operation to this life?
Does not such a present, which is mainly the continuous result of the
whole past, seem at least to prophesy and guarantee a similar future?
Most of us, I suppose, believe in the life continuous through and
after death retributive in a greater degree than life here. Whatever
changes may be involved in the laying aside of the 'earthly house of
this tabernacle,' it seems folly to suppose that in it we lay aside
the consequences of our past inwrought into our very selves. Surely
wisdom suggests that we try to take into view the whole scope of our
actions, and to carry our vision as far as the consequences reach. We
should all be wiser and better if we thought more of the 'afterwards,'
whether in its partial form in the present, or in its solemn
completion in the future beyond.