We read the 42nd chapter of Isaiah now as if it were a part of the
Christian Evangel. And that is right. For whoever the Servant may have
been, of whom Isaiah was thinking, it is Christ and only Christ who
completely fulfils this prophecy. This is a true description of His
spirit and His method. "The dimly-burning wick he shall not quench."
The figure is easily understood. Here is a piece of flax floating in
oil, and burning so faintly that it seems a mere charred end from which
the smoke coils thinly upwards. Some one comes and snuffs it out,
because it smells. That is the way of the world's reformers, as Isaiah
saw it, and we can see it still. By and by they will trim the wick and
light it with fire of their own, but first they will quench the spark.
But there is One to come, said Isaiah, shooting his arrow of prophecy in
the air, who will go otherwise about it. He will not despise the spark
because it is so feeble. He will tend it and foster it, and make the
evil-smelling bundle of flax into a clear, shining light. And the
saying has found its mark in Jesus Christ.
When a woman that was a sinner made her way into the house where He sat
at meat, and wept at His feet, He amazed all those present by the
extraordinary gentleness of His dealing with her. He did not refer to
the evil in her life. He did not, as other good men would have done,
first cast her down, that He might afterwards lift her up. He simply
took the beautiful impulse after good which she brought Him out of a
life besmirched and tawdry, held it in His hands--a mere spark of
virtue--and breathing on it, blessed it, and behold it was a flame,
burning up the evil in her life, a lamp lighting her path along a new
and hopeful way. That was Christ. He does not, He will not quench the
dimly-burning wick.
Now--and this is our point--if those who profess and call themselves
Christians are to have the spirit in them that was also in Christ Jesus,
must not this be their mark too? Does not this prescribe their attitude
to life, that many-coloured, strangely-mixed compound of good and evil?
Good in any form, however feeble, however mixed, as in this world it
inevitably is, with what is evil, should find in those who call
themselves by Christ's name, its truest supporters, sympathisers,
friends.
To the eye and heart in sympathy with it, beauty often peeps out in
strange places.
"The poem hangs on the berry bush,
When comes the poet's eye,
And the whole street is a masquerade
When Shakespeare passes by."
So the mark of the Christ-like heart is just that it discerns, and,
discerning, loves the feeblest tokens of some inward grace that redeems
a life from evil. Do not be afraid that by welcoming the scant good,
you may be held to approve of the greater evil. That is a risk that God
Himself rejoices to take. Did not Christ risk that, when He accepted
that poor woman's worship? Did He not risk it when He held out His
hands to a man like Zaccheus? Does He not risk it always when He
declares, "Him that cometh unto Me I will in no wise cast out?" And
shall we refuse because the risk is too great?
Life presents us with many anomalies that refuse to square with our
theories. You find men exhibiting qualities of character, which any
Christian might be proud to emulate, outside of the Church altogether.
And you cannot simply label these--"glittering vices," and pass on. God
is not two but One, and goodness is His token wherever it be found. "The
World," says John Owen, "cannot yet afford to do without the good acts
even of its bad men." And the truth for us to learn is that the grace
of God is not bound by our standards or limits. Make the circle as wide
as you like, you will still discover fruits of the Spirit outside, where
by all our canons they were never to be expected.
"And every virtue we possess,
And every victory won,
And every thought of holiness
Are His alone."
It is for something more than tolerance I am pleading. For that may be
a weak and a wrong thing, if it spring not from belief in the good. What
our calling demands is something more, the rejoicing, hopeful
recognition of the good deed or purpose anywhere, and the offer of a
sympathy and a faith in which it can grow. That gift of yours may
actually be the decisive factor in a life balancing perilously betwixt
good and evil. Three times, the other evening, I tried to light my
study fire, and each time it went out. The paper burned, but the sticks
apparently would not light. At last in despair I flung in a burning
match and went away--and when I returned I found a cheerful blaze: the
brief glimmer of that last match had been the determining factor. You
will smile perhaps at the illustration, but you will remember, all the
better, that where the flax is even smouldering, there the angels are
still fighting for a soul. And you will, maybe, remember also that even
your warm sympathy may turn the scale, and fan the flicker to a flame.