That second clause of the remonstrance on the lips of Christ in my text
is, according to the true reading, not found in the account of Paul's
conversion in the ninth chapter of this book. My text is from Paul's
own story; and it is interesting to notice that he adds this eminently
pathetic and forcible appeal to the shorter account given by the writer
of the book. It had gone deep into his heart, and he could not forget.
The metaphor is a very plain one. The ox-goad was a formidable weapon,
some seven or eight feet in length, shod with an iron point, and
capable of being used as a spear, and of inflicting deadly wounds at a
pinch. Held in the firm hand of the ploughman, it presented a sharp
point to the rebellious animal under the yoke. If the ox had readily
yielded to the gentle prick, given, not in anger, but for guidance, it
had been well. But if it lashes out with its hoofs against the point,
what does it get but bleeding flanks? Paul had been striking out
instead of obeying, and he had won by it only bloody hocks.
There are two truths deducible from this saying, which may have been a
proverb in common use. One is the utter futility of lives that are
spent in opposing the divine will. There is a strong current running,
and if you try to go against it you will only be swept away by it.
Think of some little fishing coble coming across the bow of a great
ocean-going steamer. What will be the end of that? Think of a
pony-chaise jogging up the line, and an express train thundering down
it. What will be the end of that? Think of a man lifting himself up and
saying to God, 'I will _not_!' when God says, 'Do thou this!' or 'Be
thou this!' What will be the end of that? 'The world passeth away, and
the lusts thereof, but he that doeth the will of God abideth for ever.'
'It is hard for thee to kick against the pricks'--hard in regard to
breaches of common morality, as some of my friends sitting quietly in
these pews very well know. It is hard to indulge in sensual sin. You
cannot altogether dodge what people call the 'natural consequences';
but it was God who made Nature; and so I call them God-inflicted
penalties. It is hard to set yourselves against Christianity. I am not
going to speak of that at all now, only when we think of the
expectations of victory with which so many antagonists of the Cross
have gaily leaped into the arena, and of how the foes have been
forgotten and there stands the Cross still, we may say of the whole
crowd, beginning with the earliest, and coming down to the latest
brand-new theory that is going to explode Christianity--'it is hard to
kick against the pricks.' Your own limbs you may wound; you will not do
the goad much harm.
But there is another side to the proverb of my text, and that is the
self-inflicted harm that comes from resisting the pricks of God's
rebukes and remonstrances, whether inflicted by conscience or by any
other means; including, I make bold to say, even such poor words as
these of mine. For if the first little prick of conscience, a warning
and a guide, be neglected, the next will go a great deal deeper. The
voice which, before you do the wrong thing, says to you, 'Do not do
it,' in tones of entreaty and remonstrance, speaks, after you have done
it, more severely and more bitterly. The Latin word _remorse_, and the
old English name for conscience, 'again-bite'--which latter is a
translation of the other--teach us the same lesson, that the gnawing
which comes after wrong done is far harder to bear than the touch that
should have kept us from the evil. The stings of marine jelly-fish will
burn for days after, if you wet them. And so all wrong-doing, and all
neglect of right-doing of every sort, carries with it a subsequent
pain, or else the wounded limb _mortifies_, and that is worse. There is
no pain then; it would be better if there were. There is such a
possibility as to have gone on so obstinately kicking against the
pricks and leaving the wounds so unheeded, as that they mortify and
feeling goes. A conscience 'seared with a hot iron' is ten times more
dreadful than a conscience that pains and stings.
So, dear brethren, let me beseech you to listen to the pitying Christ,
who says to us each, more in sorrow than in anger, 'It is hard for thee
to kick against the pricks.' It is no pleasure to Him to hold the goad,
nor that we should wound ourselves upon it. He has another question to
put to us, with another 'why,' 'Why should ye be stricken any more?
Turn ye, turn ye; why will ye die, O house of Israel?'
There is another metaphor drawn from the employment of oxen which we
may set side by side with this of my text: 'Take My yoke upon you, and
ye shall find rest unto your souls.' The yoke accepted, the goad is
laid aside; and repose and healing from its wounds are granted to us.
Dear brethren, if you will listen to the Christ revealed in the
heavens, as knowing all about you, and remonstrating with you for your
unreasonableness and ingratitude, and setting before you the miseries
of rebellion and the suicide of sin, then you will have healing for all
your wounds, and your lives will neither be self-tormenting, futile,
nor unreasonable. The mercy of Jesus Christ lavished upon you makes
your yielding yourselves to Him your only rational course. Anything
else is folly beyond comparison and harm and loss beyond count.