A HAPPY SUNDAY.
"HERE'S Sunday come again," said Leonard, yawning, as he left the
breakfast-table; "I hate Sunday."
"So do I," said Harry, catching the infection, and stretching himself
out lazily.
"I scarcely wonder at that, my dear boys," said Myra gently, "if you
always spend it as you did the last one. I made no remark, because I
had so lately come, but I felt sorry for you."
"What a curious thing! I thought you would be vexed with us for hating
Sunday," said Leonard, looking inquisitively at her.
"I am not pleased, of course, but I hope to see you love it some time.
Come, Elsie, let me hear something about it, darling."
Elsie jumped from her chair, and standing with her little hands clasped
behind her, she began:
"'Happy, happy Sunday,
We will not toil to-day,
But leave till busy Monday
Lessons, work, and play.
"'It is our happy holy day,
It tells of God and heaven;
Oh, let us give up one day
To Him who gave us seven.'"
"Who taught you that? When did you learn that?" exclaimed several
voices at once.
"Sister Myra taught me. She knows everything," said the little maiden
triumphantly.
"What does it mean about giving it up, I wonder? I am always more tired
on Sunday than any day in the week," said Harry.
"Tired of yourself, tired of doing nothing, are you not, Harry?"
"I daresay that is it; and Sunday must be made for something better
than that, of course."
"Sunday belongs to the religion of Jesus, doesn't it, Myra? So I am
sure we ought to like it if we could," said Florence.
"If you should love the religion of Jesus, you will soon love and enjoy
His day, 'the Lord's day,' as His disciples called it. For you may
imagine what it would be, after they had seen Him murdered and buried,
and were mourning for Him in secret as one loved and lost, and whose
death had crushed all the bright hopes they had indulged about Him,
to hear that on the first day of the next week He was alive again,
had sent them a loving message, and was ready to meet and bless them
again as soon as they could come to Him. Then they knew that all He had
said was true, that all He had promised He could perform, and they met
astonished friends with the joyful shout, 'He is risen, He is risen
from the dead!' Well might they celebrate that wonderful day with songs
of praise and deep thanksgiving."
"I daresay they might," said Margaret, "but what does it matter to us
all this long time after?"
"Everything, dear Margaret. The rising again of the Son of God from the
grave shows Him to be the Holy One who died to save His people from
their sins; you and me, Margaret, if we believe in Him. And it is the
pledge of our resurrection in due time, for He said to His trusting
servants,—
"'Because I live, ye shall live also.'
"And when we feel that all Jesus did, and is, and will yet do, is
for us, that we may be forgiven and saved, and made partakers of His
glory, we gladly hail our Christian right to one day of the seven, on
which to give Him special honour, to worship Him, read and hear His
word, and learn more and more how best to serve and please Him. You
see, our pleasure in His day depends entirely on our love to Himself.
The observance of it is good for every one, for every family and
every nation, because God has said so; but the happiness of it is the
enjoyment of those only who value His work, and desire to be His, now
and for ever."
"I thought religion meant going to church, and reading good books on a
Sunday."
"Religion, dear sister, is really the reuniting to the Lord God of that
which sin separated from Him; only He could plan the way to do it; for
poor sinful creatures would never have even wished, of themselves,
reunion with the holy God. So He sent His dear Son to tell us of His
love and pity for us, to die instead of us, suffering what we deserved,
and taking our human nature up with Him into the presence of His Father
and our Father, His God and our God, there to feel for our sorrows, to
pardon our sins when we are grieved about them ourselves, to hear our
prayers, to intercede for our benefit, to give His Holy Spirit, and to
make everything that happens work for our good. That glorified divine
and human Saviour is the link that reunites God and man; and faith is
the link that unites the sinner to Christ. Do you understand me, dears?"
"I think I see it," said Harry; "believing in Him, what you call faith,
unites to Jesus, and Jesus unites to God. He is in the middle, between
us."
"Yes, in His human nature dwells the loving, gracious God who planned
it all: as it is written,—
"'God was in Christ, reconciling the world unto Himself, not imputing
their trespasses unto them.'
"Faith is the gift of God, and the union thus formed influences the
affections of our hearts and the conduct of our lives, so as to
produce what the Bible calls 'fruits of the Spirit; love, joy, peace,
longsuffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, temperance,' and
such like. Are they not lovely fruits and sweet flowers? And shall we
not like to have them growing up beautifully among us? This is real
religion."
"I am sure we shall," said Florence; "but we have not many of them yet."
"Oh, we will have patience, dear Florrie; 'with God all things are
possible;' and He is very patient and longsuffering."
"I should like to please Him, Myra," said Florence softly. "I will try
to remember and do what is right always, and then perhaps He will love
me."
"Dear Florrie, you have not caught yet the meaning of what I have
said. God does not want us to buy His love, nor to try and do what is
impossible.
"'Herein is love, not that we loved God, but that He loved us, and sent
His Son to be the propitiation for our sins.'
"That is, to be the offering, the atonement, through which the loving
Father could honourably and justly receive back to favour those who
have rebelled against and grieved Him. The religion of Jesus is a
religion of love.
"'God so loved the world that He gave His Son.'
"Christ proved His love by His work for us; and when, by the gift and
grace of His Holy Spirit, we are so impressed with it as to love Him
because He first loved us, it is like seed cast upon good ground,
springing up in every sweet fair thing that thoughts, words, and deeds
can accomplish for Him. This, you see, is not doing things to make God
love us, which is a gloomy, hard mistake, and keeps one in a constant
fret and uncertainty about succeeding at last,—but a free and happy
life of loving obedience. It is the most miserable thing possible to
displease one whom we dearly love and who we know loves us,—is it not?"
"I am sure it ought to be," said Harry; "and is this the sort of love
that makes people choose to deny themselves and take up crosses of
their own accord?"
"Yes, when the cross lies in the path of duty, as we find God's will
taught in His word, but not that cross or that sort of self-denial that
some people invent for themselves, and claim merit and reward for."
"Does anybody do that?" asked Margaret.
"Yes, many do make that sad mistake, and distress themselves with what
they call penances, and charities, and rounds of devotional services,
thinking that the pure, loving God will favour them and save them for
it, though He has distinctly said that we are redeemed only by the
blood of Christ, and that we can add nothing to its value."
"Why, Myra, I do believe those crusaders that we read about thought
that going to get Jerusalem from the Turks was to please God and win
heaven for themselves."
"You are right, Harry. They were taught so by the priests and monks;
and the pope proclaimed pardon of all sins to those who drew their
swords against infidels. It is a dreadful mockery of poor anxious
hearts, and a great blasphemy of the grace of God, so to deform
Christianity and misrepresent salvation. Oh, Harry, if you could see
the shocking ignorance of God, and of everything good and true, among
the poor Italian people, where nothing but the religion, as they call
it, of popery has ever been taught for hundreds of years, and where
the pope himself has lived and reigned, you would shrink with pain
and indignation from a system that makes bargains of human souls, and
leaves the heart and character worse than it finds them."
"Some people go into convents and monasteries to got made good, don't
they?"
"I am afraid many are deceived by that fancy, and find out too late
that no walls, not even the most beautiful, no chanted prayers, the
most incessant, no penances, the most austere,—can touch the root of
sin, nor keep the unruly wills and affections in order for half an
hour. In fact, they are more rampant and unruly and troublesome than
when scope is given for their use and exercise in the world they were
made for while in a mortal body. God does not grudge our love for
friends, and pleasant things, and personal enjoyments, while we receive
them thankfully from Him, and do not forget Him in His kind gifts. We
are to try and be like our dear Saviour, who never shut Himself up from
human society, and even met Satan himself in the wilderness when His
duty required it.
"'We need not bid, for cloistered cell,
Our neighbour and our work farewell,
Nor strive to wind ourselves too high
For mortal man beneath the sky;
"'The trivial round, the common task,
Would furnish all we ought to ask;—
Room to deny ourselves, a road
To bring us daily nearer God.'"
"But," said Margaret, in a dissatisfied tone, "everybody is not
religious in this way, Myra, or if they are, nobody knows it."
"Christianity—the religion of the Bible, of Jesus—always speaks in
some way, dear Margaret; if the lips are silent, the life declares it.
'Every tree is known by its fruit,' you know."
"But if people do not think much about—about what you have been telling
us, what are they to do?"
"Make haste to think about it, and learn what the Lord God has done for
them as soon as possible," said Myra.
"It seems to me," said Margaret gloomily, "you mean to say that papa
and mamma and Helen are not gone to heaven."
"Oh, Margaret, for shame!" cried Harry and Florence. "She said nothing
of the sort."
"But she means that."
"I assure you, Margaret, that they have not once been in my thoughts
during our conversation, until you have brought them there now."
"Well?" said Margaret inquiringly.
"'Neither is there salvation in any other; for there is none other name
under heaven given among men, whereby we must be saved.'
"That is, the name of Jesus," said Myra, in a firm and gentle voice.
"'And this is the record, that God hath given to us eternal life, and
this life is in His Son. He that hath the Son hath life; and he that
hath not the Son of God hath not life.'"
"If that's in the Bible, I don't like it," cried Margaret.
"There is more than that in the Bible, dear sister," added Myra; "but
those are true statements, nevertheless. Now listen to this."
And she read the story of Jesus walking on the water to His disciples
in the tempest-tossed ship.
"What I want you to notice is Peter's cry, and the Lord's instant
answer. Peter was sinking; he felt he should be lost; there was no
power in himself to stand upon those rocking waves. In his agony, he
cried, 'Lord, save me!' and immediately Jesus stretched forth His hand
and caught him."
The children all gazed upon Myra with intense interest and attention as
she continued,—"Now, the miracles of our Lord were not only proofs of
His power, but they were also emblems of His truth, and illustrations,
in natural things, of His power and grace in spiritual things. Peter's
condition when sinking in the sea is like that of a sinner sinking
to everlasting destruction, if no hand is near to save. Peter's cry
brought the hand of Jesus instantly to his help; the sinner's cry of
real belief in His power and pity brings the arm of Jesus around the
sinner's soul, snatching from eternal death, and raising to eternal
life.
"'Call upon Me,' He says, 'in the day of trouble: I will deliver thee.'"
"Oh, Margaret, let us hope and think they called," whispered Florence
in Margaret's ear.
"But we don't know," persisted Margaret.
"Listen again," said Myra.
And she read the story of the dying thief on the cross by the side of
the Lord Jesus.
"Now it is not likely that the people who were moving about and looking
on, during that awful scene, knew what was passing between the Lord and
the penitent thief. And when the soldiers came to see that they were
dead, they little thought that the soul of one of those poor convicts
was gone with Jesus to Paradise. History would never have recorded
it; the friends of the man—if he had any—did not know it, but the
wise, kind Lord bade His servant afterwards relate it, for the comfort
of—yes, even of such as we are."
"But, Myra, suppose there was no time to think or speak, no power,
perhaps."
"Well, listen yet again, dear Margaret."
And Myra read the story of the brazen serpent.
"Just imagine the utter helplessness of those bitten, dying creatures;
they had no power to do a single thing to save themselves from the
poisonous fangs of the deadly reptiles; and it would have mocked
their agony to bid them perform some act of devotion. They were
bidden to look, only to look, at the brazen serpent which Moses held
up; and whoever looked was healed. Oh, fancy the eager uplifting of
the drooping eyelid, the sudden animation of hope that could not be
disappointed. And,—
"'As Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, even so must the
Son of Man be lifted up: that whosoever believeth in Him should not
perish, but have eternal life.'
"The look now is the look of faith that no other eye can see, and only
God can know, until either on earth or in heaven the happy news is
told. Dear Margaret, these things—
"'. . . were written for our learning, that we . . . might have hope.'—
"Hope for our dear ones whose end we did not see, hope for ourselves in
dark and helpless days. But not one word of hope or promise is given to
delay, to unbelief, while we live to choose between God and sin, faith
and unbelief. Now is our opportunity, to-morrow may be too late. The
religion of Jesus is to teach us how to live and serve, as well as to
give peace when we come to die."
"It is a wonderful book, this Bible," said Harry; "I never thought
there were such interesting things in it. Why, there is nothing we can
say or think that you cannot answer out of it."
"Just look at the time," cried Florence; "why, we shall only just get
to church in time for the English service at twelve. We have talked
ever since breakfast."
"And about religion too, and we are not tired!"
After dinner, they all took a walk as far as little Elsie's power
allowed, and Myra sat down on the grassy bank while the children filled
her lap with the lovely autumnal wild flowers.
"Why, Myra, what are you doing?" cried Harry, coming to her with a
second handful. "You have spoiled that pretty flower that I asked you
the name of. What made you open it so wide?"
"I am sorry if you wanted it again," said Myra, "but I never saw one
like it before; and the exquisite shading of colour in its delicate
leaves, and the soft lines diverging from the centre both inside and
out, beguiled me into destructiveness even in my admiration. Besides
that, I was thinking."
"What about, Myra? I like to know your thoughts."
"I was thinking of a great difference between man's works and God's
works. The closer we look into man's doings of all kinds, the more
we detect imperfection, and our appreciation is either diminished
or exhausted; but the more minutely we examine into everything God
makes or does, the more we are obliged to admire and wonder. This
pretty flower under the microscope would reveal infinite perfection in
form and colour, beyond what we see with the naked eye; but put the
finest painting that the greatest artist ever executed under the same
scrutiny, and what coarseness, what daubing it would display! Man aims
at effect; God produces perfection."
"Myra, are you always thinking religion?" asked Harry earnestly.
"Can we help thinking of what we love?" said Myra, smiling.
"I want to ask you something, may I?"
"Surely you may, dear brother; and I will answer if I can."
"Are we your cross? Are you denying yourself to stay with us?"
Myra looked surprised, and the colour rose over her face, but she
answered frankly,—
"At first I felt something like it, Harry, for you all seemed not
to want me, but now I am feeling it less every day. And if there is
any self-denial in it, I am glad to prove that I can deny myself for
Christ's sake and yours."
"But do not crosses and self-denials make people unhappy? I can't bear
you to be unhappy."
"Do not fear it, darling brother," said Myra; "I am just where I like
to be, and where I think my Lord wishes me to be. Anything else would
make me unhappy. Now kiss me, and promise that you will put such
fancies out of your head from this minute."
Harry gave her one of his bouncing kisses.
"Suppose God should wish you to go away, how would you know, Myra?"
"If it should please Him to do something better for you all, and show
me that I am not needed, then I should go."
"But suppose He had something better for 'you,' Myra?" queried the
persevering boy.
"That cannot be, Harry," she replied, after another feeling of surprise
at the question. "Nothing can be better for any one than the path of
duty, in which only we find peace and blessing."
Harry seemed satisfied at last, and after tea they read and talked
over the subject of it. And Myra sang, in her best style, English and
Italian hymns, to their great delight, and all joined in regret when
bed-time came to end the shortest Sunday they had ever spent.
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