darkness. It is not an affair of strategy between two vast armies,
wherein skilful maneuvers determine the issue, many on either side
never coming into actual combat; but every Christian has to fight
hand to hand with the enemy. We cannot be lost in the crowd. We may
not stand in the middle of the hollow square, without sharing the
perils of the outer rank. Every Christian must not only occupy his
post in the grand army, but must personally grapple with the foe.
Before conversion there was no fighting. The devil's suggestions
and the heart's inclination were allied. Then we did the enemy's
bidding, or were lulled to sleep by his intoxicating cup. But when
light shone into the soul, and we strove to escape, the struggle
began. God, as our Creator and Redeemer, justly demands our
obedience and love. Whatever interferes with these claims, is an
enemy summoning us to battle. The world of frivolity is our foe.
How numerous and insinuating are its temptations--the more perilous
because of the difficulty of defining them!
Moreover, lawful pleasures and necessary cares become dangerous when
they cease to be subordinate to the love of God. The enjoyments
He bestows and the labors He appoints are calculated to minister
to godliness,--and yet they may be perverted to idolatry by our
forgetting Him on whom our highest thoughts should be fixt. What
danger is there that things in themselves holy and beautiful may
thus become pernicious and destructive!
The flesh, too, furnished its contingent to the army of our foes.
Not that any of our natural appetites, being divinely bestowed, can
have in them the nature of sin. No! the flesh, as God made it, is
pure and holy. But those instincts, which, regulated by the revealed
will of their Author, are "holiness to the Lord," may, by unhallowed
gratification, become those "fleshly lusts which war against the
soul." As we carry about with us these animal propensities, there is
necessity for constant vigilence lest our own nature, being abused,
should become our destroyer.
Inbred depravity lurks in the heart of even the true believer. Tho
dethroned, it is not completely expelled. With what selfishness,
covetousness, vanity, hastiness of temper, uncharitableness, have we
not to contend! Who has not some sin which most easily besets him?
How varied are the forms of unbelief! Spiritual pride, too, corrupts
our very graces, piety itself furnishing an occasion of evil, so
that when we have conquered some temptation or performed some duty,
our victory is often tarnished, our holy things corrupted, by our
falling into the snare of self-complacency.
Above all, there is that great adversary who "goeth about as a
roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour." He avails himself of the
world, and the flesh, and the infirmities of the spirit, to tempt
the soul of sin. This is no fable, altho one of Satan's most skilful
stratagems is to make men disbelieve in his existence. Overlooked
or despised, a foe is already half victorious. But the Captain of
our Salvation, in His word, often warns us both of the craft and of
the violence of our adversary. We sometimes read of "the wiles of
the devil"; and sometimes of "the fiery darts of the wicked one."
They who fail to watch and pray, are sure to be vanquished by such a
foe.
These are our enemies! And if we would possess the promise we must
"overcome." A mere profession of religion is of no avail. It is not
enough for our name to appear on the muster-roll of the camp. Many
wear the soldier's dress who know nothing of the soldier's heart.
Many are glad to glitter on the grand parade who fall off from the
hard-fought, blood-stained battle-field. It is not enough to buckle
on our armor; many do this, and lay it aside again. We must devote
ourselves to this great daily battle of life.
There is no exemption of persons. Women must fight, as well as men;
the tender and timid must be as Amazons in the conflict. Children
must carry the shield, and wield the sword. The aged and infirm must
keep the ranks. The sick and wounded must not be carried to the
rear. No substitute can be provided, and there is no discharge in
this war.
There is no exemption on account of circumstances. The rich and
poor, the learned and the unlearned, the cheerful and the sad,
all must fight. No accumulation of trouble, no unexpected death of
friends, can be an excuse for laying down our arms. We must go to
the marriage feast, and we must attend the funeral procession, as
warriors, wearing our armor and grasping our weapons. We must be
like those spoken of by Nehemiah, "every man with one hand wrought
in the work, and with the other hand held a weapon."
There is no exemption of place. Foes lie in wait for the Christian
wherever he goes--in the mart of commerce, in the busy workshop,
when he returns to his home, when he rests on his bed, in the
bustle of the day, in the silence of the night, in the circle of
his friends, in the bosom of his family, in society, alone, in the
city, in the fields, in his walks of benevolence, in his private
meditations, in the church, in his secret retirement, when he
worships with the great congregation, and when he enters his closet
and shuts the door. He can never elude the enemy; he carries the foe
in his own breast; the conflict ceases not!
There is no exemption of time, no season of rest. No truce is
sounded. Satan never beats a retreat, except to lead us into an
ambuscade. No white flag comes out that can be trusted. If we parley
it is at our peril; if we pause, we are wounded or taken captive.
Wars on earth may often terminate by mutual agreement. It is a war
of extermination; no quarter is given; either we must trample Satan
under foot, or Satan will drag us down to hell!
It is a warfare until death. While we are in the body it will be
always true--"We wrestle." The oldest Christian cannot lay aside his
weapons. "Having done all, stand." A great word that! "Having done
all!" "What!" you may say, "after a long life of conflict, surely I
may put aside my armor, and sheathe my sword, and recline on some
sunny bank, and enjoy myself after my victory!"
No; you must not expect it; "having done all" it is enough if you
stand at bay on the battle-ground; all you can hope for in this
world is to maintain your post, still defying the foe, who will be
still meditating fresh attacks. You will never be able to say with
St. Paul, "I have finished my course."
It is not the appearance of fighting. It is not a few faint,
irresolute strokes. "So fight I," said the Apostle, "not as one
that beateth the air." We must be resolute, determined, in earnest,
giving our enemy no advantage. We must "not give place to the
devil." We must watch against the smallest beginnings of sin. By
"keeping the heart with all diligence," by putting on "the whole
armor of God," by having faith as our shield, righteousness as
our breastplate, the hope of salvation as our helmet, by keeping
"the sword of the Spirit" bright with exercise, "praying with all
prayer," standing near our Captain, looking to Him, relying upon
Him, knowing that "without Him we can do nothing,"--so must we
fight! All this is necessary, if we would overcome.
It is not so easy to fight this fight as some suppose. It is not
a true faith merely, an evangelical creed, a scriptural church, a
comfortable sermon once or twice a week, a little Sabbath-keeping,
an agreeable pause in your pleasures, giving to them a new
relish--it is not this which constitutes Christianity. You that
think religion so very easy a thing, have a care at least, lest when
too late, you find that you know not what true religion meant.
Easy? A depraved being to trample upon his lusts--a proud being to
lie prostrate with humility and self-reproach--they that are "slow
of heart to believe," to receive the gospel as little children?
Easy? To "crucify the flesh," "to deny ungodliness," "to cut off a
right hand, and to pluck out a right eye"?
Easy? To be in the world, and yet not of the world--to come out
from it, not by the seclusion of the cloister, but by holiness
of life--to be diligent in its duties, yet not absorbed by them;
appreciating its innocent delights, and yet not ensnared by them;
beholding its attractions and yet rising superior to them?
Easy? To live surrounded by objects which appeal to the sight, and
yet to endure as seeing what is invisible?
Easy? To pray and see no answer to prayer, and still pray on--to
fight this battle, and find fresh foes ever rising up, yet still to
fight on--to be harassed with doubts and fears, and yet walk on in
darkness, tho we see no light, staying ourselves upon God?
Easy? To be preparing for a world we have never visited, in
opposition to so much that is captivating in a world where we have
always dwelt, whose beauties we have seen, whose music we have
heard, whose pleasures we have experienced?
Easy? To resist that subtle foe who has cast down so many of the
wise and the mighty?
Easy? When Jesus says it is a "strait gate," and that if we would
enter we must "strive," bidding us "take up our cross daily, deny
ourselves and follow him"? Ah! it is no soft flowery meadow, along
which we may languidly stroll, but a rough, craggy cliff that we
must climb. "To him that overcometh!" It is no smooth, placid
stream, along which we may dreamily float, but a tempestuous ocean
we must stem. "To him that overcometh!" It is no easy lolling in
a cushioned chariot, that bears us on without fatigue and peril.
The trumpet has sounded to arms; it is not peace, but war, war
for liberty, war for life, on the issue of which our everlasting
destiny depends! If we are to be saved, we must "overcome."
But tho the conflict is arduous, the encouragements are great. We
have armor of proof. We have a mighty Champion. Victory is ensured
to the brave. Others who stood on the same battle-field and fought
with the same enemies, are now enjoying an eternal triumph. Not one
faithful warrior ever perished. Their foes were not fewer than ours,
their strength was not greater. They overcame by the same "blood of
the Lamb" on which we rely.
"Once they were mourning here below,
And wet their couch with tears;
They wrestled hard, as we do now,
With sins, and doubts, and fears."
But they are wearing their crowns, they are enjoying their rest;
and the feeblest and most unworthy of our own day, trusting in the
same Savior, shall inherit the same promise. Then let us overcome.
Sheathe not the sword, and it shall never be wrested from you; lay
not down the shield, and no fiery dart shall ever penetrate it; face
the foe, and he shall never trample you down, never drive you back.
Listen to your Captain; how He animates you onward! Look to the
crown he is ready to bestow upon you; eat of the hidden manna
which He gives; read the name in the "white stone,"--the name of
God,--His name of love, recorded for your encouragement; and thus
be animated to walk worthy of this holy alliance, and not to allow
the foe to wrench from you such an assurance of divine favor, such a
passport to heavenly bliss.
A little more conflict, and that "white stone" shall introduce you
to the inheritance above, where, in the everlasting repose of the
inner sanctuary, you shall without intermission eat of the hidden
manna.
"Then let my soul march boldly on,
Press forward to the heavenly gate;
There peace and joy eternal reign,
And glittering robes for conquerors wait."
Some of you may consider this subject visionary and unreal. You
say, "I know nothing of this warfare. I know what the conflict of
business is, the race of fashion, the bustle of toil or pleasure;
but to anxiety about spiritual things I am a stranger."
You are enjoying peace--but--what peace? There is a captive in a
dungeon--his limbs are fast chained to the walls--yet he is singing
songs. How is it? Satan has given him to drink of his drugged cup,
and he does not know where he is. Look at that other. He says, "it
is peace." There is truly no fighting, but he is groveling in the
dust, and the heel of his foe is upon his neck. Such is the peace
of every one going on in his wickedness, unpardoned and unsaved.
"Taken captive by the devil at his will."
Chained in Satan's boat, you are swiftly gliding down the stream
to ruin, and because it is smooth, you dream that it is safe! What
is the difference between the saint and the sinner? Not that in
the saint there is no sin. Not that in the sinner there is never
a thought about God. The difference is this--that the saint is
overcoming his sin; but the sin is overcoming the sinner. Oh, what
a terrible thing if sin have the upper hand! No "hidden manna" is
yours. The symbols of religion you may look at, but real religion
must be a stranger to you. You know not its enjoyment. You do not
taste it. It is a hidden thing. Heaven too will be hidden. You hear
of its gates of pearl--but they will never open to you. You may
catch the distant accents of its songs--but in those songs you will
never join. And that "white stone" cannot be yours. You have no
joyful anticipation of heaven--but a fearful looking-for of fiery
indignation--or else the insensate resolve not to think at all. And
the "new name"--no! you cannot read it! You know God by no such
name as makes you seek His company. The thought of Him renders you
unhappy, and therefore you banish it from your mind. You are not
now alarmed, but soon the spell may be broken, and you may find the
chains riveted upon your soul forever.
I fancy I hear you say, "I wish that before it is too late, I could
escape! But mine is a hopeless case. My heart is hardened against
the gospel, and evil habit has so got the mastery over me, that I
have no power to begin this conflict!"
No, you have no power; but One has visited this world, and taken our
nature, who can help you. The mighty Son of God became the suffering
Son of Man that He might be the liberator of our enslaved race. He
burst open the prison doors, that captive souls might escape. He
stands near you, ready to break off your fetters and strengthen you
to fight the enemy who has so long opprest you. Tell Him your simple
but sad tale; how helpless, how miserable, how ruined you are! Tell
Him you want to be saved, but know not how to begin the work, and
ask Him both to begin and complete it for you! Let your prayer be
this: "Be merciful to me, a sinner"; and He who "came to destroy
the works of the devil," He "whose nature and property is ever to
have mercy and to forgive," will receive your "humble petitions; and
tho you be tied and bound with the chain of your sins, He, in the
pitifulness of His great mercy, will loose you."
He will pardon your past shameful concessions to the foe, and,
arraying you in "the whole armor of God," and animating you with His
Holy Spirit, He will enable you so to fight against the world, the
flesh, and the devil, that you also shall share in the prize of them
that overcome; you also shall eat of the "hidden manna," and receive
the "white stone."
ROBERTSON
THE LONELINESS OF CHRIST
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE
FREDERICK WILLIAM ROBERTSON, was born in London in 1816, educated
at Edinburgh University and took his degree at Oxford in 1841.
From a law office he passed into the ministry, where his career,
tho brief, was exceptionally brilliant. His English style commends
itself to the preacher's study for its naturalness, poetic beauty,
lucidity, and strength. It is the style of a man of unique genius.
In Aug., 1847, he began his remarkable ministry at Trinity Chapel,
Brighton. He died of consumption at Brighton in 1853, little more
than thirty-six years of age.
Perhaps the most remarkable feature in the career of Robertson was
the influence he exercised over the workingmen. This class had in
his day become estranged from the Church of England, few of whose
clergy had any power to attract their attention and adherence.
He was denounced as a socialist because of his foundation of a
workingmen's institute, and the opposition and vilification which he
thus met with no doubt helped to shorten his life.
ROBERTSON
1816-1853
THE LONELINESS OF CHRIST
_Jesus answered them, Do ye now believe? Behold, the hour
cometh, yea, is now come, that ye shall be scattered every man
to his own, and shall leave me alone; and yet I am not alone,
because the Father is with me._--John xvi., 31, 32.
There are two kinds of solitude: the first, consisting of isolation
in space; the other, of isolation of the spirit. The first is simply
separation by distance. When we are seen, touched, heard by none, we
are said to be alone. And all hearts respond to the truth of that
saying, This is not solitude; for sympathy can people our solitude
with a crowd. The fisherman on the ocean alone at night is not
alone, when he remembers the earnest longings which are rising up to
heaven at home for his safety. The traveler is not alone, when the
faces which will greet him on his arrival seem to beam upon him as
he trudges on. The solitary student is not alone, when he feels that
human hearts will respond to the truths which he is preparing to
address to them.
The other is loneliness of soul. There are times when hands touch
ours, but only send an icy chill of unsympathizing indifference to
the heart; when eyes gaze into ours, but with a glazed look which
can not read into the bottom of our souls; when words pass from
our lips, but only come back as an echo reverberated without reply
through a dreary solitude; when the multitude throng and press us,
and we can not say, as Christ said, "Somebody hath touched me"; for
the contact has been not between soul and soul, but only between
form and form.
And there are two kinds of men, who feel this last
solitude in different ways. The first are the men of
self-reliance--self-dependent--who ask no counsel, and crave no
sympathy; who act and resolve alone, who can go sternly through
duty, and scarcely shrink, let what will be crushed in them. Such
men command respect: for whoever respects himself constrains the
respect of others. They are invaluable in all those professions of
life in which sensitive feeling would be a superfluity; they make
iron commanders, surgeons who do not shrink, and statesmen who do
not flinch from their purpose for the dread of unpopularity. But
mere self-dependence is weakness; and the conflict is terrible when
a human sense of weakness is felt by such men. Jacob was alone when
he slept on his way to Padan Aram, the first night that he was away
from his father's roof, with the world before him, and all the old
broken up; and Elijah was alone in the wilderness when the court
had deserted him, and he said, "They have digged down thine altars,
and slain thy prophets with the sword: and I, even I, only am left,
and they seek my life to take it away." But the loneliness of the
tender Jacob was very different from that of the stern Elijah.
To Jacob the sympathy he yearned for was realized in the form of
a gentle dream. A ladder raised from earth to heaven figured the
possibility of communion between the spirit of man and the Spirit
of God. In Elijah's case, the storm, and the earthquake, and the
fire did their convulsing work in the soul, before a still, small
voice told him that he was not alone. In such a spirit the sense of
weakness comes with a burst of agony, and the dreadful conviction of
being alone manifests itself with a rending of the heart of rock.
It is only so that such souls can be taught that the Father is with
them, and that they are not alone.
There is another class of men, who live in sympathy. These are
affectionate minds, which tremble at the thought of being alone;
not from want of courage nor from weakness of intellect comes their
dependence upon others, but from the intensity of their affections.
It is the trembling spirit of humanity in them. They want not aid,
not even countenance, but only sympathy. And then trial comes to
them not in the shape of fierce struggle, but of chill and utter
loneliness, when they are called upon to perform a duty on which
the world looks coldly, or to embrace a truth which has not found
lodgment yet in the breasts of others.
It is to this latter and not to the former class that we must
look, if we could understand the spirit in which the words of the
text were pronounced. The deep humanity of the soul of Christ was
gifted with those finer sensibilities of affectionate nature which
stand in need of sympathy. He not only gave sympathy, but wanted
it, too, from others. He who selected the gentle John to be His
friend, who found solace in female sympathy, attended by the women
who ministered to Him out of their substance--who in the trial hour
could not bear even to pray without the human presence, which is the
pledge and reminder of God's presence, had nothing in Him of the
hard, merely self-dependent character. Even this verse testifies
to the same fact. A stern spirit never could have said, "I am not
alone: the Father is with me"; never would have felt the loneliness
which needed the balancing truth. These words tell of a struggle, an
inward reasoning, a difficulty and a reply, a sense of solitude--"I
shall be alone"; and an immediate correction of that: "Not alone:
the Father is with me."
There is no thought connected with the life of Christ more touching,
none that seems so peculiarly to characterize His spirit, as the
solitariness in which He lived. Those who understood Him best only
understood Him half. Those who knew Him best scarcely could be
said to know Him. On this occasion the disciples thought, Now we
do understand, now we do believe. The lonely spirit answered, "Do
ye now believe? Behold the hour cometh that ye shall be scattered,
every man to his own, and shall leave me alone."
Very impressive is that trait in His history. He was in this world
alone.
I. First, then, we meditate on the loneliness of Christ.
The loneliness of Christ was caused by the divine elevation of His
character. His infinite superiority severed Him from sympathy; His
exquisite affectionateness made that want of sympathy a keen trial.