Conversion, 1851.
This was a time of great disappointment and discouragement. Everything
had turned out so different to the expectation I had formed and
cherished on first coming to this place. I was then full of hope and
intended to carry all before me with great success, and I thought I did;
but, alas! there was a mistake somewhere, something was wrong.
In those days, when I was building my new church, and talking about the
tower and spire we were going to erect, an elderly Christian lady who
was sitting in her wheel-chair, calmly listening to our conversation,
said, "Will you begin to build your spire from the top?"* It was a
strange question, but she evidently meant something, and looked for an
answer. I gave it, saying, "No, madam, not from the top, but from the
foundation." She replied, "That is right--that is right," and went on
with her knitting.
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* See Tract, "Building from the Top," by Rev. W. Haslam
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This question was not asked in jest or in ignorance; it was like a
riddle. What did she mean? In a few years this lady passed away, but her
enigmatic words remained. No doubt she thought to herself that I was
beginning at the wrong end, while I went on talking of the choir, organ,
happy worship, and all the things that we were going to attempt in the
new church; that I was aiming at sanctification, without justification;
intending to teach people to be holy before they were saved and
pardoned. This is exactly what I was doing. I had planted the boards of
my tabernacle of worship, not in silver sockets (the silver of which had
been paid for redemption), but in the sand of the wilderness. In other
words, I was teaching people to worship God, who is a Spirit, not for
love of Him who gave His Son to die for them, but in the fervour and
enthusiasm of human nature. My superstructure was built on sand; and
hence the continual disappointment, and that last discouraging
overthrow. No wonder that my life was a failure, and my labours
ineffectual, inasmuch as my efforts were not put forth in faith. My work
was not done as a thank-offering, but rather as a meritorious effort to
obtain favour from God.
Repentance towards God, however earnest and sincere, without faith
towards our Lord Jesus Christ, is not complete or satisfying. There may
be a change of mind and will, producing a change of actions, which are
done in order to pacify conscience, and to obtain God's favour in
return; but this is not enough. It is like preparing the Found without
sowing seed, and then being disappointed that there is no harvest. A
garden is not complete or successful unless the Found has been properly
prepared, nor unless flourishing plants are growing in it.
Repentance with Faith, the two together, constitute the fullness of
God's religion. We have to believe, not in the fact that we have given
ourselves--we know this in our own consciousness--but in the fact that
God, who is more willing to take than we to give, has accepted us. We
rejoice and work, not as persons who have surrendered ourselves to God,
but out of loving gratitude, as those who have been changed by Him to
this end.
I will go on now to tell how I was brought at this critical period of my
life to real faith towards our Lord Jesus Christ. This was done in a way
I knew not, and moreover, in a way I little expected. I had promised a
visit to Mr. Aitken, of Pendeen, to advise him about his church, which
was then building; and now, in order to divert my thoughts, I made up my
mind to go to him at once. Soon after my arrival, as we were seated
comfortably by the fire, he asked me (as he very commonly did) how the
parish prospered. He said, "I often take shame to myself when I think of
all your work. But, my brother, are you satisfied?"
I said, "No, I am not satisfied."*
"Why not?"
"Because I am making a rope of sand, which looks very well till I pull,
and then, when I expect it to hold, it gives way."
"What do you mean?"
"Why," I replied, "these Cornish people are ingrained schismatics."
I then told him of my gardener's conversion, and my great
disappointment.
"Well," he said, "if I were taken ill, I certainly would not send for
you. I am sure you could not do me any good, for you are not converted
yourself."
"Not converted!" I exclaimed. "How can you tell?"
He said, quietly, "I am sure of it, or you would not have come here to
complain of your gardener. If you had been converted, you would have
remained at home to rejoice with him. It is very clear you are not
converted!"
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* See Tract, "Are You Satisfied?" by Rev. W. Haslam.
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I was vexed with him for saying that, and attempted to dispute the
point; but he was calm and confident; while I, on the other hand, was
uneasy, and trying to justify myself.
In the course of our conversation, he said, "You do not seem to know the
difference between the natural conscience and the work of the Spirit."
Here he had me, for I only knew of one thing, and he referred to two.
However, we battled on till nearly two o'clock in the morning, and then
he showed me to my bed-room. Pointing to the bed, he said (in a voice
full of meaning), "Ah! a very holy man of God died there a short time
since." This did not add to my comfort or induce sleep, for I was
already much disturbed by the conversation we had had, and did not enjoy
the idea of going to bed and sleeping where one had so lately died--even
though he was a holy man. Resolving to sit up, I looked round the room,
and seeing some books on the table, took up one, which happened to be
Hare's "Mission of the Comforter." Almost the first page I glanced at
told the difference between the natural conscience and the work of the
Spirit. This I read and re-read till I understood its meaning.
The next morning as soon as breakfast was finished, I resumed the
conversation of the previous night with the additional light I had
gained on the subject. We had not talked long before Mr. Aitken said,
"Ah, my brother, you have changed your ground since last night!"
I at once confessed that I had been reading Hare's book, which he did
not know was in my room, nor even in the house. He was curious to see
it.
He then challenged me on another point, and said, "Have you peace with
God?" I answered, without hesitation, "Yes,"---for, for eight years or
more I had regarded God as my Friend. Mr. A. went on to ask me, "How did
you get peace?" "Oh," I said, "I have it continually. I get it at the
Daily Service, I get it through prayer and reading, and especially at
the Holy Communion. I have made it a rule to carry my sins there every
Sunday, and have often come away from that holy sacrament feeling as
happy and free as a bird." My friend looked surprised, but did not
dispute this part of my experience. He contented himself by asking me
quietly, "And how long does your peace last?" This question made me
think. I said, "I suppose, not a week, for I have to do the same thing
every Sunday." He replied, "I thought so." Opening the Bible, he found
the fourth chapter of St. John, and read, "'Whosoever drinketh of this
water shall thirst again.' The woman of Samaria drew water for herself
at Jacob's well, and quenched her thirst; but she had to come again and
again to the same well. She had no idea of getting water, except by
drawing, any more than you have of getting peace excepting through the
means you use. The Lord said to her, 'If thou knewest the gift of God,
and who it is that saith to thee, Give me to drink; thou wouldest have
asked of Him, and He would have given thee living water,' which would be
'a well of water springing up into everlasting life'" (John 4:10-14). My
friend pointed out the difference between getting water by drawing from
a well, and having a living well within you springing up.
I said, "I never heard of such a thing."
"I suppose not," he answered.
"Have you this living water?" I continued.
"Yes, thank God, I have had it for the last thirty years."
"How did you get it?"
"Look here," he said, pointing to the tenth verse: "You wouldest have
asked of Him, and He would have given thee living water." "Shall we ask
Him?" I said.
He answered, "With all my heart;" and immediately pushing back his
chair, knelt down at his round table, and I knelt on the opposite side.
What he prayed for I do not know. I was completely overcome, and melted
to tears. I sat down on the ground, sobbing, while he shouted aloud,
praising God.
As soon as I could get up, I made for the door, and taking my hat, coat,
and umbrella, said that "I was really afraid to stay any longer." With
this I took my departure, leaving my carpet-bag behind. It was seven
miles to Penzance, but in my excitement I walked and ran all the way,
and arrived there before the coach, which was to have called for me, but
brought my carpet-bag instead. In the meantime, while I was waiting for
it, I saw a pamphlet, by Mr. Aitken, in a shop window, which I bought,
and got into the train to return to Baldhu. My mind was in such a
distracted state, that I sought relief in reading. I had not long been
doing so, when I came to a paragraph in italics: "Then shall He say unto
them, Depart from Me; I never knew you." The question arrested me, "What
if He says that to you? Ah, that is not likely. But, what if He does? It
cannot be. I have given up the world; I love God; I visit the sick; I
have daily service and weekly communion. But, what if He does?--what if
He does? I could not bear the thought; it seemed to overwhelm me."
As I read the pamphlet, I saw that the words were spoken to persons who
were taken by surprise. So should I be. They were able to say, "We have
eaten and drunk in Thy presence, and Thou has taught in our streets: in
Thy name we have cast out devils, and done many wonderful works." Yet,
with all this, He replied, "Depart from Me, I never knew you." I did not
see how I could escape, if such men as these were to be rejected.
Conviction was laying hold upon me, and the circle was becoming
narrower. The thought pressed heavily upon me, "What a dreadful thing,
if I am wrong!" Added to this, I trembled to think of those I had
misled. "Can it be true? Is it so?" I remembered some I had watched over
most zealously, lest the Dissenters should come and pray with them. I
had sent them out of the world resting upon a false hope, administering
the sacrament to them for want of knowing any other way of bringing them
into God's favour. I used to grieve over any parishioner who died
without the last sacrament, and often wondered how it would fare with
Dissenters!
My mind was in a revolution. I do not remember how I got home. I felt as
if I were out on the dark, boundless ocean, without light, or oar, or
rudder. I endured the greatest agony of mind for the souls I had misled,
though I had done it ignorantly. "They are gone, and lost forever!" I
justly deserved to go also. My distress seemed greater than I could
bear. A tremendous storm of wind, rain and thunder, which was raining at
the time, was quite in sympathy with my feelings. I could not rest.
Looking at the graves of some of my faithful Churchmen, I wondered, "Is
it really true that they are now cursing me for having misled them?"
Thursday. Friday, and Saturday passed by, each day and night more dark
and despairing than the preceding one. On the Sunday, I was so ill that
I was quite unfit to take the service. Mr. Aitken had said to me, "If I
were you, I would shut the church, and say to the congregation, 'I will
not preach again till I am converted. Pray for me!'" Shall I do this?
The sun was shining brightly, and before I could make up my mind to put
off the service, the bells struck out a merry peal, and sent their
summons far away over the hills. Now the thought came to me that I would
go to church and read the morning prayers and after that dismiss the
people. There was no preparation for the Holy Communion that day, and I
had deputed the clerk to select the hymns, for I was far too ill to
attend to anything myself. The psalms and hymns were especially
applicable to my case, and seemed to help me, so that I thought I would
go on and read the ante-communion service, and then dismiss the people.
And while I was reading the Gospel, I thought, well, I will just say a
few words in explanation of this, and then I will dismiss them. So I
went up into the pulpit and gave out my text. I took it from the gospel
of the day--"What think ye of Christ?" (Matt. 22:42).
As I went on to explain the passage, I saw that the Pharisees and
scribes did not know that Christ was the Son of God, or that He was come
to save them. They were looking for a king, the son of David, to reign
over them as they were. Something was telling me, all the time, "You are
no better than the Pharisees yourself-you do not believe that He is the
Son of God, and that He is come to save you, any more than they did." I
do not remember all I said, but I felt a wonderful light and joy coming
into my soul, and I was beginning to see what the Pharisees did not.
Whether it was something in my words, or my manner, or my look, I know
not; but all of a sudden a local preacher, who happened to be in the
congregation, stood up, and putting up his arms, shouted out in a
Cornish manner, "The parson is converted! The parson is converted!
Hallelujah!" and in another moment his voice was lost in the shouts and
praises of three or four hundred of the congregation. Instead of
rebuking this extraordinary "brawling," as I should have done in a
former time, I joined in the outburst of praise; and to make it more
orderly, I gave out the Doxology--"Praise God, from whom all blessings
flow"--and the people sang it with heart and voice, over and over again.
My Churchmen were dismayed, and many of them fled precipitately from the
place. Still the voice of praise went on, and was swelled by numbers of
passers-by, who came into the church, greatly surprised to hear and see
what was going on.
When this subsided, I found at least twenty people crying for mercy,
whose voices had not been heard in the excitement and noise of
thanksgiving. They all professed to find peace and joy in believing.
Amongst this number there were three from my own house; and we returned
home praising God.
The news spread in all directions that "the parson was converted," and
that by his own sermon, in his own pulpit to. The church would not hold
the crowds who came in the evening. I cannot exactly remember what I
preached about on that occasion; but one thing I said was, "that if I
had died last week I should have been lost for ever." I felt it was
true. So clear and vivid was the conviction through which I had passed,
and so distinct was the light into which the Lord had brought me, that I
knew and was sure that He had "brought me up out of an horrible pit, out
of the miry clay, and set my feet upon a Rock, and put a new song into
my mouth" (Ps. 40). He had "quickened" me, who was before "dead in
trespasses and sins," (Eph. 2:1).
I felt sure, as I said, that if I had died last week I should have been
lost for ever. This was a startling and an alarming word to many of my
earnest people, who said, "What then will become of us?" I replied, "You
will be lost for a certainty if you do not give your hearts to God."
At the end of this great and eventful day of my life--my spiritual
birthday, on which I passed from death to life by being "born from
above"--I could scarcely sleep for joy. I awoke early the next morning,
with the impression on my mind that I must get up and go to a village a
mile off to tell James B---- of my conversion. He was a good and holy
man, who had often spoken to me about my soul; and had been praying for
three years or more on my behalf.
I had scarcely gone half-way before I met him coming towards me: he
seemed as much surprised to see me as I was to meet him. He looked at me
in a strange way, and then, leaning his back against a stone fence, he
said, "Are you converted?"
"Why do you ask me?" I replied. "I am just on my way to your house, to
tell you the good news--that I have found peace. My soul is saved."
The dear man said, "Thank God!" and it came from the very depths of his
heart. Shedding tears of joy, he went on to say, 'This night I woke up
thinking of you; you were so strongly in my mind, that I got up and
began to pray for you; but I could not 'get hold;' I wrestled and cried
aloud, but it was all of no avail; I begged the Lord not to give you up;
but it seemed I could not pray. After trying for more than two hours, it
came to my mind that perhaps you were converted. This thought made me so
happy, that I began to praise the Lord; and then I had liberty, and
shouted so loud that it roused up the whole house, and they came rushing
into my room to know what ever was the matter with me. 'I am praising
God,' I said; 'praising God--the parson is converted!--I feel sure he
is. Glory be to God! Glory be to God!' They said, 'You must be dreaming;
you had better lie down again, and be quiet.' But it was of no use, I
could not sleep; and so soon as the light began to break, I dressed
myself, and have come out to see whether it is true,"
"Yes," I said, "it is true; the Lord has saved my soul; I am happy!" I
thanked him then and there for all the help he had been, and for the
patience he had so long exercised towards me. We spent a happy time
together, thanking and praising God, and then he returned home to tell
his friends and neighbours the news.
After breakfast a visitor arrived, who was on an errand of quite another
kind. The report had by this time spread far and wide, that I was
converted in my own pulpit, and by means of my own sermon; also, that I
had said, "If I had died last week, I should have been lost for ever!"
My friend having heard this, immediately mounted his horse and rode over
to see me about it. He at once put the question, "Did you say, last
night, in your pulpit, that you were saved; and that if you had died
last week you would have been lost for ever?" I answered, "Yes, indeed,
I did; and I meant it." He looked quite bewildered, and stood for a long
time arguing with me; then taking a chair he sat down, and began to
sympathize and pity me, saying how grieved he was, for he could see
madness in my eyes. He tried to divert my thoughts, and begged that I
would go out for a ride with him. Seeing that he made no impression by
his various arguments, and that he could not prevail upon me to recall
my words, he ordered his horse; but before mounting he said, "I cannot
agree with you, and will oppose you as hard as I can."
"Very well," I replied; "but let us shake hands over it: there is no
need that we should be angry with one another."
Then mounting, he started off, and had not gone more than a few yards,
when, suddenly pulling up, he turned, and placing his hand on the back
of his horse, called out, "Haslam, God stop the man who is wrong!" I
answered, "Amen," and off he trotted.
On the Friday following he broke a blood-vessel in his throat or chest,
and has never preached since. His life was in danger for Several weeks,
though in course of time he recovered, but I have heard that he has
never been able to speak above a whisper. God has most undoubtedly
stopped him; while He has permitted me to preach for the last
nine-and-twenty years, on the average more than six hundred times a
year.
From that time I began to preach the Gospel, and was not ashamed to
declare everywhere what the Lord had done for my soul. Thus from
personal experience I have been enabled to proclaim the Word, both as a
"witness" and a "minister."
I, who before that time used to be so weak, that I could not preach for
more than fifteen or twenty minutes for three consecutive Sundays
without breaking down, was now able to do so each day, often more than
once, and three times every Sunday.