I do not mean here to touch at all upon the general thought that, by
its very nature, all evil tends to make us insensitive to its presence.
Conscience becomes dull by practice of sin and by neglect of
conscience, until that which at first was as sensitive as the palm of a
little child's hand becomes as if it were 'seared with a hot iron.' The
foulness of the atmosphere of a crowded hall is not perceived by the
people in it. It needs a man to come in from the outer air to detect
it. We can accustom ourselves to any mephitic and poisonous atmosphere,
and many of us live in one all our days, and do not know that there is
any need of ventilation or that the air is not perfectly sweet. The
'deceitfulness' of sin is its great weapon.
But what I desire to point out is an even sadder thing than
that--namely, that Christian people may lose their strength because
they let go their hold upon God, and know nothing about it. Spiritual
declension, all unconscious of its own existence, is the very history
of hundreds of nominal Christians amongst us, and, I dare say, of some
of us. The very fact that you do not suppose the statement to have the
least application to yourself is perhaps the very sign that it does
apply. When the lifeblood is pouring out of a man, he faints before he
dies. The swoon of unconsciousness is the condition of some professing
Christians. Frost-bitten limbs are quite comfortable, and only tingle
when circulation is coming back. I remember a great elm-tree, the pride
of an avenue in the south, that had spread its branches for more years
than the oldest man could count, and stood, leafy and green. Not until
a winter storm came one night and laid it low with a crash did anybody
suspect what everybody saw in the morning--that the heart was eaten out
of it, and nothing left but a shell of bark. Some Christian people are
like that; they manage to grow leaves, and even some fruit, but when
the storm comes they will go down, because the heart has been out of
their religion for years. 'Samson wist not that the Lord was departed
from him.'
And so, brother, because there are so many things that mask the ebbing
away of a Christian life, and because our own self-love and habits come
in to hide declension, let me earnestly exhort you and myself to watch
ourselves very narrowly. Unconsciousness does not mean ignorant
presumption or presumptuous ignorance. It is difficult to make an
estimate of ourselves by poking into our own sentiments and supposed
feelings and convictions, and the estimate is likely to be wrong. There
is a better way than that. Two things tell what a man is--one, what he
wants, and the other, what he does. As the will is, the man is. Where
do the currents of your desires set? If you watch their flow, you may
be pretty sure whether your religious life is an ebbing or a rising
tide. The other way to ascertain what we are is rigidly to examine and
judge what we do. 'Let us search and try our ways, and turn again to
the Lord.' Actions are the true test of a man. Conduct is the best
revelation of character, especially in regard to ourselves. So let us
'watch and be sober'--sober in our estimate of ourselves, and
determined to find every lurking evil, and to drag it forth into the
light.
Again, let me say, let us ask God to help us. 'Search me, O God! and
try me.' We shall never rightly understand what we are, unless we
spread ourselves out before Him and crave that Divine Spirit, who is
'the candle of the Lord,' to be carried ever in our hands into the
secret recesses of our sinful hearts. 'Anoint thine eyes with eye salve
that thou mayest see,' and get the eye salve by communion with God, who
will supply thee a standard by which to try thy poor, stained, ragged
righteousness. The _collyrium_, the eye salve, may be, will be, painful
when it is rubbed into the lids, but it will clear the sight; and the
first work of Him, whose dearest name is _Comforter_, is to convince of
sin.
And, last of all, let us keep near to Jesus Christ, near enough to Him
to feel His touch, to hear His voice, to see His face, and to carry
down with us into the valley some radiance on our countenances which
may tell even the world, that we have been up where the Light lives and
reigns.
'Because thou sayest, I am rich and increased with goods, and have need
of nothing, and knowest not that thou art wretched, and miserable, and
poor, and blind, and naked, I counsel thee to buy of Me gold tried in
the fire, that thou mayest be rich; and white raiment, that thou mayest
be clothed, and that the shame of thy nakedness do not appear; and
anoint thine eyes with eye salve, that thou mayest see,'