will enter upon that process of self-wrestling and self-conflict which
has been described, will come to a profound sense of the truth which our
Lord taught in the words of the text. All such will find and feel that
they are in slavery, and that their slavery is their condemnation. For
the anxious, weary, and heavy-laden sinner, the problem is not
mysterious, because it finds its solution in the depths of his own
_self-consciousness_. He needs no one to clear it up for him, and he has
neither doubts nor cavils respecting it.
But, an objection always assails that mind which has not the key of an
inward moral struggle to unlock the problem for it. When Christ asserts
that "whosoever committeth sin is the slave of sin," the easy and
indifferent mind is swift to draw the inference that this bondage is its
misfortune, and that the poor slave does not deserve to be punished, but
to be set free. He says as St. Paul did in another connection: "Nay
verily, but let them come themselves, and fetch us out." But this slavery
is a _self_-enslavement. The feet of this man have not been thrust into
the stocks by another. This logician must refer everything to its own
proper author, and its own proper cause. Let this spiritual bondage,
therefore, be charged upon the _self_ that originated it. Let it be
referred to that self-will in which it is wrapped up, and of which it is
a constituent element. It is a universally received maxim, that the agent
is responsible for the _consequences_ of a voluntary act, as well as for
the act itself. If, therefore, the human will has inflicted a suicidal
blow upon itself, and one of the consequences of its own determination is
a total enslavement of itself to its own determination, then this
enslaving _result_ of the act, as well the act itself, must all go in to
constitute and swell the sum-total of human guilt. The miserable
drunkard, therefore, cannot be absolved from the drunkard's condemnation,
upon the plea that by a long series of voluntary acts he has, in the end,
so enslaved himself that no power but God's grace can save him. The
marble-hearted fiend in hell, the absolutely lost spirit in despair,
cannot relieve his torturing sense of guilt, by the reflection that he
has at length so hardened his own heart that he cannot repent. The
unforced will of a moral being must be held responsible for both its
direct, and its _reflex_ action; for both its sin, and its _bondage_ in
sin.
The denial of guilt, then, is not the way out. He who takes this road
"kicks against the goads." And he will find their stabs thickening, the
farther he travels, and the nearer he draws to the face and eyes of God.
But there is a way out. It is the way of self-knowledge and confession.
This is the point upon which all the antecedents of salvation hinge. He
who has come to know, with a clear discrimination, that he is in a guilty
bondage to his own inclination and lust, has taken the very first step
towards freedom. For, the Redeemer, the Almighty Deliverer, is near the
captive, so soon as the captive feels his bondage and confesses it. The
mighty God walking upon the waves of this sinful, troubled life,
stretches out _His_ arm, the very instant any sinking soul cries, "Lord
save me." And unless that appeal and confession of helplessness _is_
made, He, the Merciful and the Compassionate, will let the soul go
down before His own eyes to the unfathomed abyss. If the sinking Peter
had not uttered that cry, the mighty hand of Christ would not have been
stretched forth. All the difficulties disappear, so soon as a man
understands the truth of the Divine affirmation: "O Israel thou hast
destroyed thyself,"--it is a real destruction, and it is thy own
work,--"but in ME is thy help."
[Footnote 1: MILTON: Samson Agonistes, 832-834.--One key to the solution
of the problem, how there can be bondage in the very seat of
freedom,--how man can be responsible for sin, yet helpless in
it,--is to be found in this fact of a reflex action of the will upon
itself, or, a reaction of self-action. Philosophical speculation upon
the nature of the human will has not, hitherto, taken this fact
sufficiently into account. The following extracts corroborate the view
presented above. "My _will_ the enemy held, and _thence_ had made a
chain for me, and bound me. For, of a perverse _will_ comes _lust_; and a
lust yielded to becomes _custom_; and custom not resisted becomes
_necessity_. By which links, as it were, joined together as in a chain, a
hard bondage held me enthralled." AUGUSTINE: Confessions, VIII. v. 10.
"Every degree of inclination contrary to duty, which is and must be
sinful, implies and involves an equal degree of difficulty and inability
to obey. For, indeed, such inclination of the heart to disobey, and the
difficulty or inability to obey, are precisely one and the same. This
kind of difficulty or inability, therefore, always is great according
to the strength and fixedness of the inclination to disobey; and it
becomes _total_ and _absolute_ [inability], when the heart is totally
corrupt and wholly opposed to obedience.... No man can act contrary to
his present inclination or choice. But who ever imagined that this
rendered his inclination and choice innocent and blameless, however wrong
and unreasonable it might be." SAMUEL HOPKINS: Works, I. 233-235.
"Moral inability" is the being "unable to be willing." EDWARDS: Freedom
of the Will, Part I, sect. iv. "Propensities,"--says a writer very
different from those above quoted,--"that are easily surmounted lead us
unresistingly on; we yield to temptations so trivial that we despise
their danger. And so we fall into perilous situations from which we might
easily have preserved ourselves, but from which we now find it impossible
to extricate ourselves without efforts so superhuman as to terrify us,
and we finally fall into the abyss, saying to the Almighty, 'Why hast
Thou made me so weak?' But notwithstanding our vain pretext, He addresses
our conscience, saying, 'I have made thee _too weak to rise from the
pit_, because I made thee _strong enough not to fall therein_." ROUSSEAU:
Confessions, Book II.]
[Footnote 2: Romans vii. 9-11.]
[Footnote 3: Some of the Schoolmen distinguished carefully between the
two things, and denominated the former, _velleitas_, and the latter,
_voluntas_.]
[Footnote 4: MILTON: Paradise Lost, IV. 23-25; 35-61.]
THE ORIGINAL AND THE ACTUAL RELATION OF MAN TO LAW.
ROMANS vii. 10.--"The commandment which, was ordained to life, I found to
be unto death."
The reader of St. Paul's Epistles is struck with the seemingly
disparaging manner in which he speaks of the moral law. In one place, he
tells his reader that "the law entered that the offence might abound;" in
another, that "the law worketh wrath;" in another, that "sin shall not
have dominion" over the believer because he is "not under the law;" in
another, that Christians "are become dead to the law;" in another, that
"they are delivered from the law;" and in another, that "the strength
of sin is the law." This phraseology sounds strangely, respecting that
great commandment upon which the whole moral government of God is
founded. We are in the habit of supposing that nothing that springs from
the Divine law, or is in any way connected with it, can be evil or the
occasion of evil. If the law of holiness is the strength of sin; if it
worketh wrath; if good men are to be delivered from it; what then shall
be said of the law of sin? Why is it, that St. Paul in a certain class of
his representations appears to be inimical to the ten commandments, and
to warn Christians against them? "Is the law sin?" is a question that
very naturally arises, while reading some of his statements; and it is a
question which he himself asks, because he is aware that it will be
likely to start in the mind of some of his readers. And it is a question
to which he replies: "God forbid. Nay I had not known sin, but by the
law."
The difficulty is only seeming, and not real. These apparently
disparaging representations of the moral law are perfectly reconcilable
with that profound reverence for its authority which St. Paul felt and
exhibited, and with that solemn and cogent preaching of the law for which
he was so distinguished. The text explains and resolves the difficulty.
"The commandment which was ordained to _life_, I found to be unto death."
The moral law, in its own _nature_, and by the Divine _ordination_, is
suited to produce holiness and happiness in the soul of any and every
man. It was ordained to life. So far as the purpose of God, and the
original nature and character of man, are concerned, the ten commandments
are perfectly adapted to fill the soul with peace and purity. In the
unfallen creature, they work no wrath, neither are they the strength of
sin. If everything in man had remained as it was created, there would
have been no need of urging him to "become dead to the law," to be
"delivered from the law," and not be "under the law." Had man kept his
original righteousness, it could never be said of him that "the strength
of sin is the law." On the contrary, there was such a mutual agreement
between the unfallen nature of man and the holy law of God, that the
latter was the very joy and strength of the former. The commandment was
ordained to life, and it was the life and peace of holy Adam.
The original relation between man's nature and the moral law was
precisely like that between material nature and the material laws. There
has been no apostasy in the system of matter, and all things remain there
as they were in the beginning of creation. The law of gravitation, this
very instant, rules as peacefully and supremely in every atom of matter,
as it did on the morning of creation. Should material nature be
"delivered" from the law of gravitation, chaos would come again. No
portion of this fair and beautiful natural world needs to become "dead"
to the laws of nature. Such phraseology as this is inapplicable to the
relation that exists between the world of matter, and the system of
material laws, because, in this material sphere, there has been no
revolution, no rebellion, no great catastrophe analogous to the fall of
Adam. The law here was ordained to life, and the ordinance still stands.
And it shall stand until, by the will of the Creator, these elements
shall melt with fervent heat, and these heavens shall pass away with a
great noise; until a new system of nature, and a new legislation for it,
are introduced.
But the case is different with man. He is not standing where he was, when
created. He is out of his original relations to the law and government of
God, and therefore that which was ordained to him for life, he now finds
to be unto death. The food which in its own nature is suited to minister
to the health and strength of the well man, becomes poison and death
itself to the sick man.
With this brief notice of the fact, that the law of God was ordained to
life, and that therefore this disparaging phraseology of St. Paul does
not refer to the intrinsic nature of law, which he expressly informs us
"is holy just and good," nor to the original relation which man sustained
to it before he became a sinner, let us now proceed to consider some
particulars in which the commandment is found to be unto death, to every
_sinful_ man.
The law of God shows itself in the human soul, in the form of a _sense of
duty_. Every man, as he walks these streets, and engages in the business
or pleasures of life, hears occasionally the words: "Thou shalt; them
shalt not." Every man, as he passes along in this earthly pilgrimage,
finds himself saying to himself: "I ought, I ought not." This is the
voice of law sounding in the conscience; and every man may know, whenever
he hears these words, that he is listening to the same authority that cut
the ten commandments into the stones of Sinai, and sounded that awful
trumpet, and will one day come in power and great glory to judge the
quick and dead. Law, we say, expresses itself for man, while here upon
earth, through the sense of duty. "A sense of duty pursues us ever," said
Webster, in that impressive allusion to the workings of conscience, in
the trial of the Salem murderers. This is the accusing and condemning
_sensation_, in and by which the written statute of God becomes a living
energy, and a startling voice in the soul. Cut into the rock of Sinai, it
is a dead letter; written and printed in our Bibles, it is still a dead
letter; but wrought in this manner into the fabric of our own
constitution, waylaying us in our hours of weakness, and irresolution,
and secrecy, and speaking to our inward being in tones that are as
startling as any that could be addressed to the physical ear,--undergoing
this transmutation, and becoming a continual consciousness of duty and
obligation, the law of God is more than a letter. It is a possessing
spirit, and according as we obey or disobey, it is a guardian angel, or a
tormenting fiend. We have disobeyed, and therefore the sense of duty is a
tormenting sensation; the commandment which was ordained to life, is
found to be unto death.
I. In the first place, to go into the analysis, the sense of duty is a
sorrow and a pain to sinful man, because it _places him under a continual
restraint_.
No creature can be happy, so long as he feels himself under limitations.
To be checked, reined in, and thwarted in any way, renders a man
uneasy and discontented. The universal and instinctive desire for
freedom,--freedom from restraint,--is a proof of this. Every creature
wishes to follow out his inclination, and in proportion as he is hindered
in so doing, and is compelled to work counter to it, he is restless and
dissatisfied.
Now the sense of duty exerts just this influence, upon sinful man. It
opposes his wishes; it thwarts his inclination; it imposes a restraint
upon his spontaneous desires and appetites. It continually hedges up his
way, and seeks to stop him in the path of his choice and his pleasure. If
his inclination were only in harmony with his duty; if his desires and
affections were one with the law of God; there would be no restraint from
the law. In this case, the sense of duty would be a joy and not a sorrow,
because, in doing his duty, he would be doing what he liked. There are
only two ways, whereby contentment can be introduced into the human soul.
If the Divine law could be altered so that it should agree with man's
sinful inclination, he could be happy in sin. The commandment having
become like his own heart, there would, of course, be no conflict between
the two, and he might sin on forever and lap himself in Elysium. And
undoubtedly there are thousands of luxurious and guilty men, who, if they
could, like the Eastern Semiramis, would make lust and law alike in their
decree;[1] would transmute the law of holiness into a law of sin; would
put evil for good, and good for evil, bitter for sweet and sweet for
bitter; in order to be eternally happy in the sin that they love. They
would bring duty and inclination into harmony, by a method that would
annihilate duty, would annihilate the eternal distinction between right
and wrong, would annihilate God himself. But this method, of course, is
impossible. There can be no transmutation of law, though there can be of
a creature's character and inclination. Heaven and earth shall pass away,
but the commandment of God can never pass away. The only other mode,
therefore, by which duty and inclination can be brought into agreement,
and the continual sense of restraint which renders man so wretched be
removed, is to change the inclination. The instant the desires and
affections of our hearts are transformed, so that they accord with the
Divine law, the conflict between our will and our conscience is at an
end. When I come to love the law of holiness and delight in it, to obey
it is simply to follow out my inclination. And this, we have seen, is to
be happy.
But such is not the state of things, in the unrenewed soul. Duty and
inclination are in conflict. Man's desires appetites and tendencies are
in one direction, and his conscience is in the other. The sense of duty
holds a whip over him. He yields to his sinful inclination, finds a
momentary pleasure in so doing, and then feels the stings of the
scorpion-lash. We see this operation in a very plain and striking manner,
if we select an instance where the appetite is very strong, and the voice
of conscience is very loud. Take, for example, that particular sin which
most easily besets an individual. Every man has such a sin, and knows
what it is, Let him call to mind the innumerable instances in which that
particular temptation has assailed him, and he will be startled to
discover how many thousands of times the sense of duty has put a
restraint upon him. Though not in every single instance, yet in hundreds
and hundreds of cases, the law of God has uttered the, "Thou shalt not,"
and endeavored to prevent the consummation of that sin. And what a
wearisome experience is this. A continual forth-putting of an unlawful
desire, and an almost incessant check upon it, from a law which is hated
but which is feared. For such is the attitude of the natural heart toward
the commandment. "The carnal mind is _enmity_ against the law of God."
The two are contrary to one another; so that when the heart goes out in
its inclination, it is immediately hindered and opposed by the law.
Sometimes the collision between them is terrible, and the soul becomes;
an arena of tumultuous passions. The heart and will are intensely
determined to do wrong, while the conscience is unyielding and
uncompromising, and utters its denunciations, and thunders its warnings.
And what a dreadful destiny awaits that soul, in whom this conflict and
collision between the dictates of conscience, and the desires of the
heart, is to be eternal! for whom, through all eternity, the holy law of
God, which was ordained to life peace and joy, shall be found to be unto
death and woe immeasurable!
II. In the second place, the sense of duty is a pain and sorrow to a
sinful man, because it _demands a perpetual effort_ from him.
No creature likes to tug, and to lift. Service must be easy, in order to
be happy. If you lay upon the shoulders of a laborer a burden that
strains his muscles almost to the point of rupture, you put him in
physical pain. His physical structure was not intended to be subjected to
such a stretch. His Creator designed that the burden should be
proportioned to the power, in such a manner that work should be play. In
the garden of Eden, physical labor was physical pleasure, because the
powers were in healthy action, and the work assigned to them was not a
burden. Before the fall, man was simply to dress and keep a garden; but
after the fall, he was to dig up thorns and thistles, and eat his bread
in the sweat of his face. This is a _curse_,--the curse of being
compelled to toil, and lift, and put the muscle to such a tension that
it aches. This is not the original and happy condition of the body, in
which man was created. Look at the toiling millions of the human family,
who like the poor ant "for one small grain, labor, and tug, and strive;"
see them bending double, under the heavy weary load which they must carry
until relieved by death; and tell me if this is the physical elysium, the
earthly paradise, in which unfallen man was originally placed, and for
which he was originally designed. No, the curse of labor, of perpetual
effort, has fallen upon the body, as the curse of death has fallen upon
the soul; and the uneasiness and unrest of the groaning and struggling
body is a convincing proof of it. The whole physical nature of man
groaneth and travaileth in pain together until now, waiting for the
adoption, that is the _redemption of the body_ from this penal necessity
of perpetual strain and effort.
The same fact meets us when we pass from the physical to the moral nature
of man, and becomes much more sad and impressive. By creation, it was
a pleasure and a pastime for man to keep the law of God, to do spiritual
work. As created, he was not compelled to summon his energies, and strain
his will, and make a convulsive resolution to obey the commands of his
Maker. Obedience was joy. Holy Adam knew nothing of _effort_ in the path
of duty. It was a smooth and broad pathway, fringed with flowers, and
leading into the meadows of asphodel. It did not become the "straight and
narrow" way, until sin had made obedience a toil, the sense of duty a
restraint, and human life a race and a fight. By apostasy, the obligation
to keep the Divine law perfectly, became repulsive. It was no longer easy
for man to do right; and it has never been easy or spontaneous to him
since. Hence, the attempt to follow the dictates of conscience always
costs an unregenerate man an effort. He is compelled to make a
resolution; and a resolution is the sign and signal of a difficult and
unwelcome service. Take your own experience for an illustration. Did you
ever, except as you were sweetly inclined and drawn by the renewing grace
of God, attempt to discharge a duty, without discovering that you were
averse to it, and that you must gather up your energies for the work, as
the leaper strains upon the tendon of Achilles to make the mortal leap.
And if you had not become weary, and given over the effort; if you had
entered upon that sad but salutary passage in the religious experience
which is delineated in the seventh chapter of Romans; if you had
continued to struggle and strive to do your duty, until you grew faint
and weak, and powerless, and cried out for a higher and mightier power to
succor you; you would have known, as you do not yet, what a deadly
opposition there is between the carnal mind and the law of God, and what
a spasmodic effort it costs an unrenewed man even to _attempt_ to
discharge the innumerable obligations that rest upon him. Mankind
would know more of this species of toil and labor, and of the cleaving
curse involved in it, if they were under the same physical necessity in
regard to it, that they lie under in respect to manual labor. A man
_must_ dig up the thorns and thistles, he _must_ earn his bread in the
sweat of his face, or he must die. Physical wants, hunger and thirst,
set men to work physically, and keep them at it; and thus they well
understand what it is to have a weary body, aching muscles, and a tired
physical nature. But they are not under the same species of necessity, in
respect to the wants and the work of the soul. A man may neglect these,
and yet live a long and luxurious life upon the earth. He is not driven
by the very force of circumstances, to labor with his heart and will, as
he is to labor with his hands. And hence he knows little or nothing of a
weary and heavy-laden soul; nothing of an aching heart and a tired will.
He well knows how much strain and effort it costs to cut down forests,
open roads, and reduce the wilderness to a fertile field; but he does not
know how much toil and effort are involved, in the attempt to convert the
human soul into the garden of the Lord.