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OLD WINE AND NEW:
Occasional Discourses.
BY
THE REV. JOSEPH CROSS, D.D., LL.D.,
AUTHOR OF "EVANGEL," "KNIGHT-BANNERET," "COALS FROM THE ALTAR,"
"PAULINE CHARITY," AND "EDENS OF ITALY."
NEW YORK:
THOMAS WHITTAKER,
2 and 3 Bible House.
1884.
Copyright, 1883,
By JOSEPH CROSS.
Franklin Press:
RAND, AVERY, AND COMPANY,
BOSTON.
DEDICATORY EPISTLE.
To THOMAS WHITTAKER, Esq., Publisher, New York.
My Dear Friend: In former times and other lands, when one
wrote a book, he inscribed the volume to some distinguished
personage--a bishop, a baron, a monarch, a magnate in the world of
letters--through whose name it might win its way to popular favor, and
achieve a success hardly to be hoped for from its own merit. Such
overshadowing oaks seemed necessary to shield from sun and storm the
tender undergrowth; and the dew that lay all night upon their branches
the breezy morning shook off in showers of diamonds upon the humbler
herbage at their roots. In an age pre-eminently of self-reliance and a
country characterized no less by personal than political independence,
authors have learned at length to walk alone, marching right into the
heart of the public with no patronage but that of the publisher; and if
a book have not the intrinsic qualities to bear the scorching beams and
freezing blasts of criticism, down it must go amidst the _debris_
of earth's abortive ambitions and ruined hopes. Not so much from
conscious need of help as from high esteem of the noblest personal
qualities, therefore, I beg leave upon this page to couple with my own
a worthier name. Two years ago, when I placed in your trusty hands the
manuscript of Knight-Banneret, I had the least possible idea
of the harvest which might grow from so humble a seed-grain cast into a
very questionable soil. The result was an encouraging disappointment;
and Evangel soon followed, enlarging the horizon of hope; and
Edens of Italy sent a refreshing aroma over all the landscape;
and Coals from the Altar kindled assuring beacon-fires for the
adventurer; and Pauline Charity, supported by Faith and Hope,
walked forth in queenly state. During the publication of these several
productions, so pleasant has been our intercourse--so great your
kindness, candor, courtesy, magnanimity, hospitality, and every other
social virtue--that I look back upon the period as one of the happiest
of my life; and now, at the close of the feast, hoping that our last
bout may be the best, I cordially invite you to share with me Old
Wine and New.
Yours till Paradise,
JOSEPH CROSS
Nov. 1, 1883.
PREFACE.
Dear Reader: In the preface to Pauline Charity, did
not the writer promise thee that volume should be his last? Some months
later, however, at the bottom of the homiletical barrel, he found a few
old acquaintances, in threadbare and tattered guise, smiling
reproachfully out of the dust of an undeserved oblivion. He beckoned
them forth, gave them new garments, and bade them go to the printer.
And lo! here they are--twenty-two of them--in comely array, with
fresh-anointed locks, knocking modestly at thy door.
If any of the former groups from the same family were deemed worthy of
thy hospitality--if any of the twenty-two Evangelists
gladdened thy soul with good tidings--if any of the twenty-two
Knights-Banneret stimulated thy zeal in the holy conflict--if
any of the twenty white-hooded sisters of Charity warmed thy
heart with words of loving kindness--if any of the sixty seraphs,
winged with sunbeams, laid upon thy lips a Coal from the
Altar--if any of the twelve cherubs, fresh from the Edens of
Italy, led thee through pleasant paths to goodly palaces and
blooming arbors--turn not away unheard these twenty-two strangers, but
welcome them graciously to the fellowship of thy house, and perchance
the morrow's dawn may disclose the wings beneath their robes.
But if tempted to discard them as the vagrant offspring of a senile
vanity thrust out to seek their fortune in the world of letters, know
thou that such temptation is of the Father of lies. For not all of
these are thy patriarch's Benjamins--sons of his old age. The leader of
the band is his very Reuben--the beginning of his strength. Another is
his lion-bannered Judah, washing his garments in the blood of grapes.
In another may be recognized his long-lost Joseph, found at last in
Pharaoh's chariot. And several others, peradventure, more ancient than
thy father, though bearing neither gray beard nor wrinkled brow. And
the consciousness of a better ambition than vanity ever inspired
prompts their commission to the public, to speak a word in season to
him that is weary--to comfort the mourners in Zion, giving them beauty
for ashes, the oil of joy for weeping, the garment of praise for the
spirit of heaviness, and filling the vale of Bochim with songs in the
night. Nay, if the mixture of metaphors be not offensive to thy
fastidious rhetoric, these brethren are sent down into Egypt to procure
corn for thee and thy little ones, O Reader! that ye perish not in the
famine of the land.
"Go to! the tropical language is misleading. We open the door to thy
children, and find nothing but a hamper of Wine--twenty-two
bottles--some labelled Old, and others New."
As thou wilt, my gentle critic! Perhaps twenty-two jars of water only.
Yet healthfully clear, and sweet to the taste, it is hoped thou wilt
find the beverage; and if the Lord, present at the feast, but deign to
look at it, thou mayest wonder that the good wine has been kept till
now.
Of Edward Irving, when he died fifty years ago, a London editor wrote:
"He was the one man of our time who more than all others preached his
life and lived his sermons." To preach one's life were hardly
apostolical, though to live one's sermons might be greatly Christian.
At the former the author never aimed; of the latter there is little
danger of his being suspected. Yet this book is in some sort the record
of his personal history. For a farewell gift to the world, he long
contemplated an autobiography--had actually begun the work, written
more than a hundred pages, and sketched a promising outline of the
whole; when, in an hour of indigestion, becoming disgusted, he dropped
the enterprise, and made his manuscript a burnt offering to the
"blues." As a substitute for the failure, these discourses represent
him in the successive stages of his ministry, being arranged in the
chronological order of production and delivery, with dates and
occasions in footnotes--the only autobiography he could produce, the
only one doubtless to be desired. Should grace divine make it in any
measure effectual to the spiritual illumination of those who honor it
with a perusal, he will sing his _Nunc Dimittis_ with thankful
heart, and wait calmly for the day when every faithful worker "shall
have praise of God." Farewell.
J. C.
Feast of All Saints, 1883.
CONTENTS.
Discourse.
I. Filial Hope. 1829
II. Rest for the Weary. 1830
III. My Beloved and Friend. 1833
IV. Refuge in God. 1838
V. Parental Discipline. 1840
VI. Joy of the Law. 1842
VII. Sojourning with God. 1858
VIII. Building for Immortality. 1859
IX. Wail of Bereavement. 1862
X. Wisdom and Weapons. 1863
XI. Love tested. 1866
XII. Manifold Temptations. 1866
XIII. Contest and Coronation. 1866
XIV. Calvary Token. 1866
XV. Heroism Triumphant. 1868
XVI. Fraternal Forgiveness. 1869
XVII. Christ with his Ministers. 1872
XVIII. Kept from Evil. 1873
XIX. Contending for the Faith. 1874
XX. The Fruitless Fig-Tree. 1876
XXI. Christian Contentment. 1883
XXII. "Ye know the Grace." 1883
OLD WINE AND NEW.
I.
FILIAL HOPE.[1]
Beloved, now are we the sons of God; and it doth not yet appear what we
shall be; but we know that, when he shall appear, we shall be like him;
for we shall see him as he is.--1 John iii. 2.
"I am to depart, you to remain; but which shall have the happier lot,
who can tell?" So spake Socrates to his friends just before he drank
the fatal hemlock. In all the utterances of the ancient philosophy
there is no sadder word. The uncertainty of the hereafter, the
impenetrable gloom that shrouds the state of the departed, sets the
contemplative soul shivering with mortal dread. Like the expiring
Hobbes, more than two thousand years later, the grand old Athenian felt
himself "taking a leap in the dark." In his case, however, there was
more excuse than in that of the modern unbeliever. The dayspring from
on high had not yet visited mankind. The morning star was still below
the horizon. Four centuries must pass before the rising Sun of
righteousness could bring the perfect day. The Christ came, the true
Light of the world; and life and immortality, dawning from his manger,
culminated upon his sepulchre. Redeeming Love has revealed to us more
of God and man than all the sages of antiquity ever knew; and our
reviving and ascending Redeemer has shed a flood of radiance upon the
grave and whatever lies beyond. In the immortal Christ we have a
sufficient answer to the patriarch's question--"If a man die, shall he
live again?" In his mysteriously constituted personality taking our
nature into union with the Godhead, by his vicarious passion ransoming
that nature, and then rising with it from the dead and returning with
it to heaven, he assures all who believe in him of an actual alliance
with the living God and all the blissful immunities of life eternal.
And thus the apostle's statement becomes the best expression of our
filial hope in Christ: "Beloved, now are we the sons of God; and it
doth not yet appear what we shall be; but we know that, when he shall
appear, we shall be like him; for we shall see him as he is."
The ground of our glorious hope as disciples of Christ is found in our
gracious state as sons of God. But is not this the relation of all men?
Originally it was, but is not now. By creation indeed "we all are his
offspring," but not by adoption and regeneration. Sin has cut off from
that original relation the whole progeny of Adam, and disinherited us
of all its rights and privileges. The paternal likeness is effaced from
the human soul. Alienated from the life of God, men have become
children of the wicked One. Only by restoring grace--"a new creation in
Christ Jesus"--can they regain what they have lost. To effect this,
came forth the Only Begotten from the bosom of the Father, and gave
himself upon the cross a ransom for the sinful race. Whosoever
believeth in him is saved, restored, forgiven, renewed after the image
of his Creator in righteousness and true holiness. Jesus himself
preached to Nicodemus the necessity of this new birth, and "born of
God" is the apostolic description of the mighty transformation. More
than any outward ordinance is here expressed--more than mere morality,
or reformation of life--a clean heart created, a right spirit renewed,
the inception of a higher life whereby the soul becomes partaker of the
Divine Nature. All this, through faith in Christ, by the power of the
Holy Ghost. Now there is reconciliation and amity with God--"an
everlasting covenant, ordered in all things and sure." More; there is
sympathy, and sweet communion, and joyful co-operation, and spiritual
assimilation, and oneness of will and desire, and free access to the
throne of grace in every time of need. "And because ye are sons, God
hath sent forth the Spirit of his Son into your hearts, crying--Abba,
Father." "And if children, then heirs--heirs of God, and joint-heirs
with Jesus Christ." And oh! what an inheritance awaits us in the
glorious manifestation of our Lord, when all his saints shall be
glorified together with him! For, "it doth not yet appear what we shall
be; but we know that, when he shall appear, we shall be like him; for
we shall see him as he is."
Our sonship, you see, is the ground of our hope. Our hope, you will now
see, is worthy of our sonship.
At present, indeed, our glorious destiny is not apparent. By faith we
see it, dim and distant, as through the shepherds' glass; in hope we
wait for it with calm patience, or press toward it with strong desire;
but what it is--"the glory that shall be revealed in us"--we know not,
and cannot know, till mortality shall be swallowed up of life. It is
spiritual; we are carnal. It is heavenly; we are earthly. It is
infinite; we are finite. It is altogether divine: we are but human.
Some of God's artists, as St. Paul and St. John, have given us gorgeous
pictures of it, which we gaze at with shaded eyes; but while we study
them, we cannot help feeling that they fall far short of the copied
original. In our present state, what idea can we form of the condition
of the soul, and the mode of its subsistence, when dislodged from the
body? Nay, what idea can we form of the natural body developing into
the spiritual, and all its rudimental powers unfolding in their
perfection? Or, to speak more accurately and more scripturally, what
idea can we form of the resurrection body, awaking from its long sleep
in the dust, re-organized and re-invested--with new beauties, perhaps
new organs, new senses, new faculties, all glorious in immortality? And
the enfranchised intellect, who can guess the grandeur of its
destiny--what new provinces of thought, new discoveries of truth, new
revelations of science, new disclosures of the mysteries of nature and
of God? And the spirit--the ransomed and purified spirit--who can
imagine what perfection of love, what affluence of joy, what transports
of worship and of song, what society and fellowship with the saints in
light, it shall enjoy when it has entered its eternal rest? We know not
how the statue looks till we see it unveiled; and the whole creation,
as St. Paul writes to the Romans, is waiting for the unveiling of the
sons of God. Now they are his hidden ones--hidden in the shadow of his
wings, in the secret place of his tabernacle--their life hidden with
Christ in God--their character and true glory hidden from the
world--their ineffable destiny and reward hidden from themselves, till
their dear Lord shall appear, and they also shall appear with him in
glory. And well is it that our knowledge of the better world to come is
so obscure and imperfect--necessarily obscure and imperfect, because
God hath graciously revealed only what was essential to our salvation;
for if he had revealed all that he might have revealed--if we could
foresee and comprehend all that awaits us in the blessed everlasting
future--we might have been so dazed and delighted with the splendors of
the vision, as to be incapable of business, unfit for society, and
better out of the world than in it. Wisely, therefore, God hath veiled
the future, even from his saints. The oak is in the acorn, but we
cannot divine its form, and must await its manifestation in the tree.
Yet this we know, saith the apostle--and surely this ought to satisfy
our highest ambition of knowledge--"that when he shall appear, we shall
be like him, for we shall see him as he is."
Appear he certainly will. Let us not lose sight of this blessed hope.
It is his own promise to the disciples on the eve of his departure: "I
will come again, and receive you unto myself; and where I am, there ye
shall be also." And the angels of the ascension reiterate the assurance
to them, as they stand gazing after him from the Mount of Olives: "This
same Jesus, who is taken up from you into heaven, shall so come in like
manner as ye have seen him go into heaven"--that is, visibly,
personally, gloriously, in the clouds, with the holy angels. And what
saith the apostle? "Christ was once offered to bear the sins of many;
and to them that look for him, he shall appear the second time, without
sin, unto salvation"--the second advent as real as the first, and as
manifest to human sight. To such statements no mystical or figurative
meaning can be given, without violence done to the language. Not in the
destruction of Jerusalem was the prediction fulfilled; nor has it since
been fulfilled, nor ever can be, in any revival or enlargement of the
Church; neither does Jesus come to his disciples at death, but through
death they pass to him. Come at length he will, however, and every eye
shall see him sitting upon the throne of his glory. The redemption of
our humanity by price pledges a further redemption by power, which
cannot be accomplished without his personal return to the ransomed
planet. "And we know that, when he shall appear, we shall be like him,
for we shall see him as he is."
That likeness to our Lord must be both corporeal and spiritual. St.
Paul speaks of the whole Church as "waiting for the adoption--to wit,
the redemption of the body;" and elsewhere states that the Saviour for
whom we look "shall change our vile body, that it may be fashioned like
unto his own glorious body"--spiritualizing the natural, sublimating
the material, endowing the physical organism with powers like his own,
and adorning the long-dishonored dust with the radiant beauty of
immortality. Yet more wonderful must be the change wrought upon the
intellectual and spiritual nature. To be like "God manifest in the
flesh"--what is it but to realize a mental development and maturity far
transcending all that the wisest ever attained to in this mortal state,
perpetual union of our redeemed humanity with the Divinity, and a
blissful process of assimilation going on forever? Christ is light
without darkness; and to be like him implies a clearness of
understanding and a certitude of truth free from all prejudice,
distortion, and blinding error. Christ is divine charity incarnate; and
to be like him is to love as he loved--with the ardor, the intensity,
the self-forgetfulness, which drew him to the manger and led him to the
cross. Christ is immaculate holiness made visible to men; and to be
like him is to be as spotless, as faultless, as free from iniquity,
perversity, hypocrisy, impurity, as He who could challenge the world
with the demand--"Which of you convinceth me of sin?" Christ is every
moral excellence combined and blended in human character; and to be
like him is to be subject to all those high principles and noble
impulses which give him infinite preeminence as a model to mankind, and
make him in angelic estimation "the fairest among ten thousand and
altogether lovely." Christ is the King whom God the Father hath exalted
above all powers and principalities even in heavenly places; and to be
like him is to reign with him, partners of his glory upon an
imperishable throne, when all the dominions of earth shall have passed
away as a forgotten dream. All this, and much beside that no human
imagination can conceive, is manifestly comprehended in the apostolic
statement, that "he shall come to be glorified in his saints, and
admired in all them that believe"--men and angels, the whole universe,
beholding in every disciple a perfect _facsimile_ of the glorified
Master. And thus the declaration is triumphantly verified: "We know
that, when he shall appear, we shall be like him, for we shall see him
as he is."
Spirit is invisible. In his essence, we shall never see God. That men
might see him, he became incarnate in human flesh. Except in the person
of Jesus Christ, his creatures will never see him. But even Christ is
far away, gone back to heaven, and seen only by faith. Often, no doubt,
his disciples wish they could see him with their eyes of flesh; but
they never will till his promised personal return. With the apostle,
they are ever thinking and speaking of him whom, not having seen, they
love; in whom, though now they see him not, yet believing, they rejoice
with joy unspeakable and full of glory. But often, looking at him even
by faith through the disturbing and distorting media of prejudice and
passion, they make sad mistakes about him, about his complex nature,
his divine perfections, his human character, his former work in the
flesh, his present mediation with the Father, his spiritual relation to
the Church, his headship over the redeemed creation. We can appreciate
another only through his like within ourselves, our sympathy with his
moral qualities. Wanting such sympathy, vice never appreciates virtue,
the carnal never discerns the spiritual, the selfish never understands
the benevolent and disinterested. Failing to discover the true
substratum of character, they mistake motives, ridicule peculiarities,
and give no credit for qualities which they cannot perceive. Thus,
through the imperfection of our sympathy with the Saviour, or the utter
want of such sympathy, even when we regard him by faith, we see him not
as he is. Ask the world, "What think ye of Christ?" you will get a
great variety of answers. One will tell you he is a myth, a phantom, a
creation of genius, that never had a real historic existence. Another
will call him a pretender, an impostor, a false prophet, utterly
unworthy of human credit and confidence. Another pronounces him an
amiable enthusiast, and a very good man; but self-deceived as to his
mission and ministry, and not a teacher sent from God. Another deems
him a wise moralist, enunciating principles and precepts such as the
world never heard before; and in his life, an example of all that is
pure and excellent; but not essential and eternal God, nor a vicarious
sacrifice for human sin. But here is one who regards him as supremely
divine, and yet "the Lamb of God that taketh away the sins of the
world;" and, by the nail-prints in his palms and the thorn-marks on his
brow, so shall he be recognized when he cometh in his kingdom, and the
nations of the quickened dead go marching to his throne. All mistakes
about him will thus be corrected; and those who have seen him only
through a glass darkly, shall see him face to face; and all who have
loved and honored him as their Saviour, and trusted in him as their
wisdom, righteousness, sanctification, and redemption, awaking in his
likeness from the dust, shall begin the antiphon which preludes the
eternal song: "This is our God! we have waited for him, and he will
save us! This is the Lord! we have waited for him, we will be glad and
rejoice in his salvation!" Oh that we all may then be found like him,
and see him as he is!
[1] The author's first sermon, preached at Pompey Hill, Onondaga
County, N.Y., on the sixteenth anniversary of his nativity, July 4,
1829--written afterwards, and often repeated during the fifty-four
years of his ministry--the thought here faithfully reproduced, the
language but little changed.
II.
REST FOR THE WEARY.[1]
Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give
you rest.--Matt. xi. 28.
A fine legend is related of St. Jerome. Many years he dwelt in
Bethlehem, the town of his dear Lord's nativity. Hard by was the cave,
formerly occupied as a stable, in which the blessed Babe was born. Here
the holy man spent many a night in prayer and meditation. During one of
these--waking or sleeping, we know not--he saw the divine Infant, a
vision of most radiant beauty. Overwhelmed with love and wonder, the
saint exclaimed: "What shall I give thee, sweet child? I will give thee
all my gold!" "Heaven and earth are mine," answered the lovely
apparition, "and I have need of nothing; but give thy gold to my poor
disciples, and I will accept it as given to myself." "Willingly, O
blessed Jesus! will I do this," replied the saint; "but something I
must give thee for thyself, or I shall die of sorrow!" "Give me, then,
thy sins," rejoined the Christ, "thy troubled conscience, thy burden of
condemnation!" "What wilt thou do with them, dear Jesus?" asked Jerome
in sweet amazement. "I will take them all upon myself," was the reply;
"gladly will I bear thy sins, quiet thy conscience, blot out thy
condemnation, and give thee my own eternal peace." Then began the holy
man to weep for joy, saying: "Ah, sweet Saviour! how hast thou touched
my heart! I thought thou wouldst have something good from me; but no,
thou wilt have only the evil! Take, then, what is mine, and grant me
what is thine; so am I helped to everlasting life!"
This, my dear brethren, is what Jesus, with unspeakable compassion,
offers to do for us all. He would have us bring the several burdens
under which we toil and faint, and lay them down at his feet. Pardon
for guilt he would give us, peace for trouble, assurance for doubt and
fear, and for all our fruitless agony divine repose. See how miserably
men mistake his gospel, when they regard it merely as a set of
doctrines to be believed, of duties to be performed, of ceremonies to
be observed, instead of a mercy to be received, a blessing to be
enjoyed, a salvation offered for our acceptance. It is indeed the
unspeakable gift of God, the sovereign remedy of all our ills; in
which, as rational and immortal beings, fallen in Adam, but redeemed by
Christ, we have an infinite interest. There is a tenderness in the
invitation, combined with a moral sublimity, demanding for its
utterance the melody of an angel's tongue, with the accompaniment of a
seraph's harp; and we ought to listen to the words of Jesus to-day with
a faith, a love, a joy, such as Simon, James and John never knew, nor
the pardoned sinner of Magdala, sitting in rapt wonder at the Master's
feet. "Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will
give you rest."
How suitable was this address to those who first heard it, laboring and
heavy laden with the costly rites and burdensome observances of the
Levitical law! Those rites and observances required a large portion of
their time and a larger expenditure of money; yet of their real nature
and meaning the common people knew very little, and therefore felt them
to be a burden which neither they nor their fathers were able to bear.
Types and symbols they were of better things to come; but they could
not take away sin, nor quiet a troubled conscience, nor give any
assurance of the reconciliation and favor of Heaven. For this, God must
be manifested in human flesh, the Prince of peace must come and set up
his kingdom among men, by the blood of his sacrifice redeeming us from
the curse of the violated law, and securing an eternal salvation to all
them that obey him. Jesus here assures the Jews that he is what John
the Baptist has already proclaimed him--"the Lamb of God that taketh
away the sins of the world." It is as if he had said: "Come away from
your bloody altars and sacrificial fires. These are but the shadows, of
which I am the substance; the prophecies, of which I am the fulfilment.
In me they all find their meaning and their virtue, and by my mission
as the promised Saviour they are set aside forever. Come unto me, and I
will give you rest."
Some there were, no doubt, among the hearers of Jesus, who were
laboring and heavy laden with vain efforts to justify themselves by the
deeds of the law. The Jews imagined that by doing more than their duty
they could make God their debtor, and by extra acts of piety and mercy
insure their own salvation as a matter of sheer justice. And even among
Christians, who profess to take Christ as their only Saviour and his
merit as the only ground of their justification before God, are there
not many who are not altogether free from this Pharisaic leaven,
endeavoring by their moral virtues and perfect obedience to make amends
for the errors and delinquencies of the past? But creature merit is
absurd, sinful merit impossible, and "by the deeds of the law shall no
flesh be justified." The creature belongs to the Creator; and loving
the Creator with all his soul, and serving the Creator with all his
energies, and continuing that love and service without fault or failure
throughout all the immortal duration of his being, he merely renders to
God his own, and is still an unprofitable servant. But the sinner,
already in arrears of duty to the Creator, can never, by yielding to
God what is always due even from sinless creatures, satisfy the demands
of the law upon its transgressor; and without some other means and
method of pardon, which the divine wisdom alone can reveal, the old
debt remains uncancelled upon the books, and no power can avert the
penalty. Moreover, the sinner by his sin becomes incapable of offering
to God any true love or acceptable service without divine grace
prevening and co-operating to that end, so that no possible credit can
accrue to human virtue and obedience, but all the glory must redound to
God. Christ calls us away from all such futile hopes and fruitless
endeavors. "I am your Saviour," he saith; "by no other name can you be
saved; by no other medium can you come to the Father; through no merit
but mine can you obtain absolution from your guilt; through no
sacrifice or intercession but mine can you know that peace and purity
for which you have hitherto striven and struggled in vain; come unto
me, and I will give you rest."
And still another class, found in every large gathering of men and
women, especially wherever the dayspring from on high hath dawned,
there must have been among these hearers of the divine Preacher--those,
namely, who were laboring and heavy laden with the conscious burden of
their guilt. True it is, indeed, that such as are going on still in
their trespasses do not commonly feel their sins to be a burden. They
rejoice in them, and roll them as a sweet morsel under their tongues,
talking of them as if it were a fine thing to be foolish and an honor
to be infamous. But when the law of God is effectually brought home to
the understanding and the heart--when they see themselves in the light
of the divine holiness, and the whole inner man seems converted into
conscience--then they feel that sin "is an evil and exceeding bitter
thing," and cry out with the terrified Philippian, "What must I do to
be saved?" or exclaim with the awakened and illuminated Saul, "Oh!
wretched man that I am! who shall deliver me from the body of this
death?" or, smiting a guilty breast, pray with the publican of the
parable, "God be merciful to me a sinner!"
"As writhes the gross
Material part when in the furnace cast,
So writhes the soul the victim of remorse!
Remorse--a fire that on the verge of God's
Commandment burns, and on the vitals feeds
Of all who pass!"[2]
And remorse is accompanied with terror, and fearful apprehensions of
the wrath to come. Condemned already, the affrighted sinner sees a more
formidable sword than that of Damocles hanging over his head. Amidst
all his carnal pleasures and social enjoyments, he is like that prince
of Norway, who went to his wedding festival well knowing that it would
end in his execution; and at the altar, and in the gay procession, and
over the table loaded with luxuries, and through palatial halls strewed
with flowers and ringing with music and merriment, saw everywhere and
heard continually the preparations for the fatal hour. The agony of
such a situation how can we imagine? I once knew an awakened sinner who
described himself as enclosed in the centre of a granite mountain, no
room to move a muscle, no seam or crevice through which one ray of
light could reach him--picture of utter helplessness and absolute
despair! Ah! my brethren! He who made the granite may dissolve it, or
reduce the solid mountain to dust! And is there any guilt or misery
from which the Mighty to save cannot deliver the soul that trusts in
him? Your sin may be great, but his mercy is greater. Your enemies may
threaten, but has he not conquered them and nailed them to his cross?
To whom, then, will you apply for help, but to your divine and
all-sufficient Saviour? Go not to human philosophy,
"Which leads to bewilder and dazzles to blind,"
but cannot satisfy the mind nor tranquillize the conscience. Go not to
the ritual law of Israel, which could never make the comers thereunto
perfect; nor to the blessed saints and martyrs, none of whom can avail
you as mediators between your sinful souls and God; nor depend upon
sacraments and sermons, for these can aid you only as they bring you
into spiritual contact with Christ, the light and life of the world.
Hear him calling--rise and obey the call--"Come unto me, all ye that
labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest."
Rest is a pleasant word--how pleasant to the husbandman, toiling on
through the long summer day! how pleasant to the traveller, pressing
forward with his load to the end of his tedious journey! how pleasant
to the mariner, after tossing for weeks on stormy seas, stepping upon
his native shore and hasting away to his childhood's home! how pleasant
to the warrior, when, having won the last battle of his last campaign,
he returns with an honorable discharge to his mother's cottage among
the hills! Rest is what we all want, and what Jesus offers to the weary
and heavy laden soul. I saw a young lady bowed down with grief at the
memory of her sins; and when I spoke to her, she looked up with a smile
that made rainbows on her tears, and said: "O sir! I have had more
happiness weeping over my sins for the last half hour than I ever had
in sinning through all my life!" And if
"The seeing eye, the feeling sense,
The mystic joys of penitence,"
have in them so much sweetness for the soul, what shall we say of
"The speechless awe that dares not move,
And all the silent heaven of love!"
It is the rest of conscious pardon and satisfied desire; the rest of
faith, seeing the invisible and grasping the infinite; of hope,
reposing in the infallible promise and anticipating a blissful
immortality; of resignation, losing its own will in the will of God,
and leaving all things to the disposal of the divine wisdom and
goodness; of perfect confidence and trust, saying with St. Paul: "I
know whom I have believed, and am persuaded that, he is able to keep
that which I have committed unto him against that day." Christ is the
love of God incarnate in our nature; and where shall the loving John
find rest, but in the bosom of the Eternal Love? And, tossed by many a
tempest, or racked with keenest pain, why should not the weary and
heavy-laden disciple of the divine Man of sorrows sing like one of his
faithful servants whose flesh and spirit were being torn asunder by
anguish:--
"Yet, gracious God, amid these storms of nature,
Thine eyes behold a sweet and sacred calm
Reign through the realm of conscience. All within
Lies peaceful, all composed. 'Tis wondrous grace
Keeps off thy terrors from this humble bosom,
Though stained with sins and follies, yet serene
In penitential peace and cheerful hope,
Sprinkled and guarded with atoning blood.
Thy vital smiles amid this desolation,
Like heavenly sunbeams hid behind the clouds,
Break out in happy moments. With bright radiance
Cleaving the gloom, the fair celestial light
Softens and gilds the horrors of the storm,
And richest cordial to the heart conveys.
Oh! glorious solace of immense distress!
A conscience and a God! This is my rock
Of firm support, my shield of sure defence
Against infernal arrows. Rise, my soul!
Put on thy courage! Here's the living spring
Of joys divinely sweet and ever new--
A peaceful conscience and a smiling Heaven!
My God! permit a sinful worm to say,
Thy Spirit knows I love thee. Worthless wretch!
To dare to love a God! Yet grace requires,
And grace accepts. Thou seest my laboring mind.
Weak as my zeal is, yet my zeal is true;
It bears the trying furnace. I am thine,
By covenant secure. Incarnate Love
Hath seized, and holds me in almighty arms.
What can avail to shake me from my trust?
Amidst the wreck of worlds and dying nature,
I am the Lord's, and he forever mine!"[3]
Hear ye, then, the loving words of Jesus. The invitation is unlimited;
the grace is free for all. No sin is too great to be forgiven, no
burden too heavy to be removed, no power in earth or hell able to keep
you back from Christ. However dark your minds, however hard your
hearts, however dead your spirits, hear and answer: "I will arise and
go!"
"Just as I am, without one plea,
But that thy blood was shed for me,
And that thou bidst me come to thee,
O Lamb of God, I come!"
Lo! with outstretched arms he hastes to meet you, with tokens of
welcome and the kiss of peace.
"Ready for you the angels wait,
To triumph in your blest estate;
Tuning their harps, they long to praise
The wonders of redeeming grace."
All heaven, with expectant joy, awaits your coming. Come, and satisfy
the soul that travailed for you in Olivet! Come, and gladden the heart
that broke for you upon the cross! Come, and at the nail-pierced feet
find your eternal rest!
[1] Preached in Syracuse, N.Y., 1830; at Weston-super-Mare,
Somersetshire, Eng., 1857.]
[2] Pollok.
[3] Isaac Watts in his last illness.
III.
MY BELOVED AND FRIEND.[1]
This is my beloved, and this is my friend, O daughters of
Jerusalem!--Song of Sol. v. 16.
By the ablest interpreters and critics of Holy Scripture, the Song of
Solomon has generally been regarded as an epithalamium, or nuptial
canticle. But, like many other parts of the sacred volume, doubtless,
it has a mystical and secondary application, which is more important
than the literal and primary. The true Solomon is Christ, and the
Church is his beautiful Shulamite. In this chapter, the Bride sings the
glory of her divine Spouse, and our text concludes the description. But
what is thus true of the Church in her corporate capacity, is true also
of her individual members; and without its verification in their
personal experience, it could not be thoroughly verified in the organic
whole. Every regenerate and faithful soul may say of the heavenly
Bridegroom: "This is my beloved, and this is my friend, O daughters of
Jerusalem!"
Christ for a beloved--the Son of God for a friend! What nobler theme
could occupy our thoughts? what sublimer privilege invest the saints in
light?
So constituted is man, that love and friendship are necessary to his
happiness, almost essential to his existence. Accumulate in your
coffers the wealth of all kingdoms, and gather into your diadems the
glories of the greatest empires. Bid every continent, island and ocean
bring forth their hidden treasures, and pour the sparkling tribute at
your feet. Subsidize and appropriate whatever is precious in the solar
planets or magnificent in the stellar jewellery of heaven, and hold it
all by an immortal tenure. Yet, without at least one kindred spirit to
whom you might communicate your joy, one congenial soul from whom you
might claim sympathy in your sorrow, the loveless heart were still
unsatisfied--
"The friendless master of the worlds were poor!"
Among the children of men, however, love and friendship, in one respect
or another, will always be found defective, liable to many
irregularities and interruptions, painful suspicions and sad
infirmities, which mar their beauty, tarnish their purity, and imbitter
their consolations, turning the ambrosia into wormwood and the nectar
into gall. Sometimes they are manifest only in words, and smiles, and
hollow courtesies, and other external tokens; while the heart is as
void of all true affection and confidence as the whitewashed sepulchre
is of life and beauty. Beginning with flattery, they often proceed by
hypocrisy, and end in betrayal. Or if there be sincerity in the outset,
it may prove as impotent as childhood, as changeful as autumn winds, or
as fleeting as the morning cloud. Or if not destroyed by some trivial
offence, or suffered to die of cold neglect, their ties are clipped at
length by the shears of fate, and no love or friendship is possible in
the everlasting banishment of the unblest.
But amidst all the sad uncertainties of human attachments, how pleasant
it is to know that "there is a Friend who sticketh closer than a
brother"--a Beloved whose affection is sincere, ardent, unchanging,
imperishable--who can neither deceive nor forsake those who have
entered into covenant with him--from whom death itself will not divide
us, but bring us to a nearer and sweeter fellowship with him than we
are capable now of imagining! Enoch walked with God till he was less
fit for earth than for heaven, and St. John leaned upon the heart of
Jesus till his own pulse beat in unison with the divine. Drawn into
this blissful communion, every true disciple becomes one spirit with
the Lord. Christ calls his servants friends, receives them into his
confidence, and reveals to them the secrets of his kingdom. Not ashamed
to own them now, he will confess them hereafter before his Father and
the holy angels. "They shall be mine," saith he, "in that day when I
make up my jewels." And the happy Bride, dwelling with ineffable
delight upon the perfections of her Spouse, and anticipating the
fulfilment of his promise when he cometh in his glory, concludes her
song of joy with the declaration--"This is my beloved, and this is my
friend, O daughters of Jerusalem."
What, then, are the conditions on which such intimacy of the soul with
Christ is to be established? Nothing is required but what is in the
very nature of things necessary. Prophet, Priest and King, he can take
into amicable alliance with him only such as respect and honor him in
these relations. The prophet cannot be the beloved and the friend of
those who refuse to hear his word; nor the priest, of those who reject
his sacrifice and intercession; nor the king, of those who are still in
arms against his gracious government. We must love him, if we would
have his love; we must show ourselves friendly, if we would enjoy his
friendship. Having died to redeem us, he ever lives to plead for us,
and by a thousand ambassadors he offers us his love and friendship;
but, no response on our part, no sympathy or co-operation, how can we
call him our beloved and our friend? "Can two walk together except they
be agreed?" There must be reconciliation and assimilation. We must
submit to Christ's authority, and co-operate with his mercy. We must
love what he loves, and hate what he hates. His friends must be our
friends, and his enemies our enemies. The world, the flesh, and the
devil, we must for his sake renounce; reckoning ourselves dead indeed
unto sin, and alive unto God through Jesus Christ our Lord. Does not
St. Paul tell us that as many as have been baptized into Christ have
put on Christ?[2] What does he mean? That in baptism we not only enter
into covenant with Christ, but also assume his character, and profess
our serious purpose to walk as he walked, conformed to his perfect
example, and governed by the same divine principles. As when one puts
on the peculiar habit of the Benedictines or the Franciscans, he
declares his intention to obey the rules and copy the life of St.
Benedict or St. Francis, the founders of those orders; so, in putting
on the Christian habit when you are baptized, you avow yourself the
disciple of Christ, and openly declare your death thenceforth to sin
and your new birth to righteousness. And without any thing in your
heart and life corresponding to such a reality, how can you say of
Jesus--"This is my beloved, and this is my friend, O daughters of
Jerusalem!"
But where there are no attractive qualities, there can be neither love
nor friendship. Something there must be to inspire affection and
confidence. In our divine Beloved resides every mental grace and every
moral virtue. Our heavenly Friend is "the fairest among ten thousand
and altogether lovely." Of the excellency of Christ all the charms of
nature afford but the faintest images, and poetry and eloquence falter
in the celebration of his praise. I ask your attention here to a few
particulars.
Jesus is always perfectly sincere. With him there are no shams, no mere
pretences, no unmeaning utterances of love or friendship. All is real,
all is most significant, and there are depths in his heart which no
line but God's can fathom.
And his ardor is equal to his sincerity. "Behold how he loved him!"
said the Jews when they saw him weeping at the tomb of Lazarus. "Behold
how he loveth them!" say the angels when they witness the far more
wonderful manifestations of his friendship for the saints. Let the
profane speak of Damon and Pythias, and the pious talk of David and
Jonathan; there is no other heart like that of Jesus Christ, no other
bond so strong as that which binds him to his disciples.
And his disinterestedness is commensurate with his ardor. In human
friendships we often detect some selfish end; Christ seeks not his own
glory or profit, but sacrifices himself for our salvation. No earthly
affection is greater than that which lays down life for a friend;
Christ died for us while we were yet enemies, upon the cross prayed for
those who nailed him there, and from the throne still offers eternal
life to those who are constantly crucifying him afresh and putting him
to open shame. And in all his gracious fellowship with those who love
him, it is their good he seeks, their honor he consults, their great
and endless comfort he wishes to secure.
And not less wonderful are his patience and forbearance toward them.
How meekly he endured the imperfections of the chosen twelve as long as
he remained with them in the flesh! How tenderly he bore their
misconceptions of his purpose, their misconstructions of his language,
their fierce and fiery tempers, their slowness of heart to believe! How
beautifully his patience carried him through all his life of suffering,
and sustained him in the bitter anguish of the cross! And since his
return to heaven, how often, and in how many ways, have his redeemed
people put his forbearance to the proof! Try any other friend as you
try Jesus, and see how long he will endure it. But our divine Beloved
will not faint nor be weary, till he have accomplished in us his work
of grace, and brought us in safety to his Father's house.
And who ever matched him in beneficence and bounty? "He is able," saith
the apostle, "to do exceeding abundantly above all we ask or think."
His ability is as large as his love, and that is immeasurable and
inconceivable. Other friends, loving us sincerely, may want power to
help us; he hath all power in heaven and earth. They may be far away in
the time of need; he saith--"Lo! I am with you alway, even unto the end
of the world." As the vine gives its life to the branches, as the
shepherd gives his time and care to the sheep, as the monarch gives
riches and honors to his favorites, as the royal spouse gives himself
and all he has to his chosen bride, so gives Christ to his elect,
making them joint-heirs with himself to all that he inherits as the
only begotten Son of God--unspeakable grace now, eternal glory
hereafter! "All things are yours, and ye are Christ's, and Christ is
God's!"
And what confiding intimacy find we in this heavenly friendship! The
father, the brother, the husband, live in the same house, occupy the
same room, eat and drink at the same table, with their beloved; Christ
comes into our hearts, takes up his abode there, and feasts with us,
and we with him. "Shall I hide from Abraham," said Jehovah, "the thing
that I do?" "therefore Abraham was called the friend of God." "The
secret of the Lord is with them that fear him," saith the Psalmist,
"and he will show them his covenant." "Henceforth I call you not
servants," said Jesus to the twelve, "but I have called you friends,
for whatsoever I have received of my Father I have made known unto
you." "Eye hath not seen," writes St. Paul, "nor ear heard, neither
have entered into the heart of man, the things which God hath prepared
for them that love him; but God hath revealed them to us by his Spirit;
for the Spirit searcheth all things, yea the deep things of God." Every
true disciple, like Ignatius, carries the Crucified in his heart, and
knows and comprehends with all saints, the lengths and breadths and
depths and heights of the love that passeth knowledge, being filled
with the fulness of God.