That my love is still so faint;
Yet I love thee, and adore;
Oh for grace to love thee more!"
So praying, the breath of the Holy Spirit will soon blow the spark into
flame; and when the Master asks once more, "Lovest thou me?" with
bounding heart you will reply: "Lord, thou knowest all things; thou
knowest that I love thee!"
[1] Preached in London, Eng., 1866.
XII.
MANIFOLD TEMPTATIONS.[1]
Wherein ye greatly rejoice, though now for a season, if need be, ye are
in heaviness through manifold temptations, that the trial of your
faith, being much more precious than of gold that perisheth, though it
be tried with fire, may be found unto praise and honor and glory at the
appearing of Jesus Christ.--1 Pet. i. 6, 7.
Why is not the Christian life a perpetual joy? Why do so many sincere
Christians seem often melancholy and unhappy? The human heart is easily
moved, and very little is necessary to set it vibrating with pleasant
emotion. The voice of a happy child, the carol of a forest bird, the
beauty of an opening rose, the glory of a sunset sky, the coming of a
valued friend, the visitation of a vagrant dream, the recollection of a
peaceful hour, the wind that chases away the misty cloud, even a word
in season fitly spoken, may fill the soul with tranquil happiness or
raise it to an ecstasy of delight. Why, then, should not the believer
in Jesus rejoice evermore with joy unspeakable and full of glory? With
the glad tidings which the gospel brings us, the love of God in Christ
which it reveals, the assurance of redemption, the remission of sins,
the communion of saints, the ministry of angels, the visions of
paradise restored, the anticipated epiphany of our Lord in his glory,
the advent of the New Jerusalem in all its golden magnificence, the
restitution and renovation of this disordered _cosmos_, the
awakening of the body from its long sleep in the sepulchre, and the
life everlasting of the just in the many mansions of their Father's
house, why do we not make the valley of Baca ring with the prelude of
our eternal song? Strange, indeed, that all this should have so little
power to cheer, and gladden the people of God in the house of their
pilgrimage--that Christian enjoyment should seem in general so feeble
and so fleeting, when it ought to flow on with the constant strength
and increase of a great river to its repose in the amplitude of an
unsounded sea.
The apostle in the text solves for us the mystery. It is not that there
is nothing in Christianity to cheer and elevate the feelings. In the
great mercy of God, which hath begotten us again to a new and living
hope by the certain resurrection of our crucified Lord--in the prospect
of an imperishable inheritance reserved for us in heaven, and the
perfect assurance of our divine preservation till that inheritance
shall be revealed--we do indeed "greatly rejoice," exult with gladness,
leap with exuberant joy; though now for a little while, as necessary
for our spiritual discipline, we may be put to grief in "manifold
temptations." Faith we have in these glorious disclosures of Christ's
evangel, and that faith is genuine, efficient, sometimes quite
triumphant; but at present, perhaps, the gold is in the furnace,
enduring the test from which it shall soon come forth purified,
beautified, fit for the coronal of our expected King.
The word temptation sometimes means enticement, and sometimes trial. We
are tempted when we are enticed to evil, whether by Satan, or his
servants, or our own evil hearts; and we are tempted when our faith is
tried, when our virtue is tested, when our character is put to the
proof, whether by the malice of men or the providence of God.
Evidently, the term here is to be taken in the latter sense. The
temptations of which the apostle speaks are trials, such as those of
Job, Jacob, David, the holy prophets and martyrs, all in every age who
live godly in Christ Jesus. "Manifold temptations" are complicated
trials--trial within trial--one infolding another--one overlapping
another--many involved in one--all so interlaced and bound up together
that we cannot analyze them, cannot even trace the threads of the
tangled skein. The grief or "heaviness" which they produce does not
necessarily indicate a want of trust in God, or of submission to his
holy will. The firmest believer and most steadfast disciple may
sometimes, through outward affliction, walk in darkness and have no
light, even while he trusts in the name of the Lord and stays himself
upon his God. Christ never doubted his Father's love, nor feared the
issue of his mighty undertaking; yet when the hour and the power of
darkness came upon him, he "began to be sorrowful," "sore amazed," and
"very heavy." "Not my will, but thine, be done"--was the language of
his guiltless lips, when bowed in his baptism of blood beneath a burden
which might have crushed a world. So his suffering servants patiently
endure their tribulations, glorifying God in the midst of the fire, and
singing with the royal psalmist--"Why art thou cast down, O my soul!
and why art thou disquieted within me? hope thou in God, for I shall
yet praise him for the help of his countenance!"
Christianity offers us no exemption from the ills of life, but gives us
grace to bear them, and sanctifies all to our highest good. It is as
true now as in the days of David, "Many are the afflictions of the
righteous;" and after more than eighteen centuries, the apostolic
statement needs no qualification--"It is through much tribulation that
we must enter into the kingdom of heaven." The thwarted scheme; the
blighted hope; the ill-requited love; the frequent betrayal of
confidence; the falseness or fickleness of trusted friendship; the
cross of shame laid by another's hand upon the shoulder; the deep
anxiety about the future, which robs the present of more than half its
joys; the sudden failure of health, withering the bloom of youth, or
bringing down the strength of stalwart manhood; the moral defection of
one long loved and cherished, involving the irretrievable ruin of a
character as dear to you as your own; the death-couch where, day by day
and night by night, the mother fans the flickering spark of life in her
darling child; the dear mounds in the cemetery, where affection fondly
strews her memorial blossoms, and keeps them fresh and fragrant with
her tears; many a secret grief, too sacred for the stranger to meddle
with, and too tender to be breathed into the ear of the most familiar
friend; and more than all, Christ's virgin bride weeping in sackcloth
and ashes--a broken-hearted captive that cannot sing the Lord's song in
the land of the idolater and the oppressor;--these are some of the
fiery trials and manifold temptations by which a gracious Providence is
disciplining us for our better destiny. But the ordeal is as varied as
the shades of character and the aspects of human life. Now we have
fears within; anon we have fightings without; then deep calleth unto
deep at the noise of God's water-spouts, and all his waves and billows
are gone over us. But the Lord rideth in the tempest and sitteth upon
the flood; saying to the fiery steeds of the one and the angry waters
of the other--"Hitherto, but no farther!" No chance is here; all is
beneficent design and transcendent wisdom, restricting and controlling
the agencies of our providential discipline as our spiritual interests
may require. "Now," not always--"for a season," not forever--"if need
be," not without the ascertained--are the Lord's beloved subjected to
these terrible ordeals. The probation must precede the award. The shock
of battle comes before the victor's triumph. Be not disheartened, but
hold fast to your hope. The tide that is gone out will soon return. The
revolving wheel that has brought you so low will soon lift you on high.
But there is no rose without its thorn, nor dayspring unheralded by the
darkness. Our light afflictions are but for a moment. Like summer
showers they come and go, leaving the heaven brighter and the earth
more beautiful. Many a sore chastening, over which we have wept with a
sorrow almost inconsolable, has proved one of the greatest blessings
that God ever granted us in this vale of tears. What is needful for us,
he knows better than we. The refiner sits by his furnace; and the
hotter the fire, the shorter the process and the more thorough the
purification. The physician watches by his patient, with his hand upon
the pulse, observing every symptom, and thrilling to every throb of
pain. The trial cannot be too severe for his purpose, nor too long
continued for our good. God wants to see how much joy, how little
sorrow, he can mingle in our cup, with perfect safety to our spiritual
health, and a long series of experiments may be required for the
perfect solution of the problem. He is leading us through the great and
terrible wilderness to a city of habitation; and as we look back from
the hills of our goodly heritage upon the rough path of our pilgrimage,
the whole journey may seem to us as a dream when one awaketh. Not all
of the Christian's sufferings are the products of Christianity; many of
his bitterest griefs are altogether of his own creation; and yet there
is not an evil he endures, from which Christianity does not propose to
evolve good for him--not a dark cloud which it does not glorify with
its beams, nor a crown of thorns which it does not convert into a
jewelled diadem.
But while the burden is mercifully lightened, it is not at once
removed. The aim of our heavenly Father is not so much to take it away,
as to enable us so to bear it that it may become a blessing. Thus he
would test our faith, develop its strength, prove its reality and
efficiency. But why should faith be thus tested? why not rather the
whole Christian character? Because faith is the root of character; and
as is the root, so is the tree. The test of faith is practically the
test of character, and in this fact lies the obvious value of the test.
It is the law of the universe, and an essential factor in the process
of our salvation. Look at this mass of gold just brought from the mine.
How beautiful! how precious! But there are impurities in it. The true
metal must be disengaged from all baser substances. Cast it into the
crucible. "See! it is melted!" Yes, but not destroyed. "Is it not
welded to the alloy?" No; it is separated from it--purified--glorified!
So with our faith. Too precious to be purchased, even a single grain of
it, with all the gold-fields of the world, it must be purged of its
dross, and made easily distinguishable from the common counterfeits
which deceive mankind. God gives it to the furnace. Does it perish in
the process? Nay, it is as imperishable as Christ, and as enduring as
the soul. The ordeal proves its genuineness and develops its latent
lustre. The principle is universal, and everywhere manifest--evolved by
Nature, illustrated by Providence--testing laws, customs, institutions,
civilizations--awarding due honors to the wise, the pure, the brave,
the true-hearted--consigning the false, the foolish, the indolent, the
pusillanimous, to merited oblivion or infamy. Over the pearl-gates of
the city of God is inscribed: "Blessed is the man that endureth
temptation; for when he is tried, he shall receive the crown of life
which the Lord hath promised to them that love him." Abraham's faith
was tried by fire in the Plain of Mamre and on the Mount Moriah. St.
Peter's faith was tried by fire in the garden, in the basilica, and at
the Saviour's cross. In Eden, the first Adam's innocence was tested to
our shame; in the wilderness of Judaea, the second Adam's obedience was
tested to our glory. Before the birth of humanity, angelic loyalty
passed through its ordeal in the heavenly places; and when the fulness
of the prophetic times was come, God made proof of his love to a fallen
race by a trial which shook the earth and rocked the thrones of hell.
"If these things are done in the green tree, what shall not be done in
the dry?" Every thing else tested, why not Christian character? For,
what is Christian character? Is it not a man's protest against sin, his
declaration of a new life in Christ, his assertion of a citizenship in
heaven and joint heirship with the Son of God? Surely, this is a matter
of sufficient moment to require a test, and no test can be too rigid
that brings out the blessed reality. Think not strange, then, of the
fiery ordeal. Providence is thus co-operating with grace for your
sanctification. Bruised by tribulation, the flowers of Christian virtue
give out more freely their fragrant odors; and the clusters of the vine
of God must be trodden in the wine-press before they yield the precious
juice which shall gladden the children of the kingdom. "When he hath
tried me," saith Job, "I shall come forth as gold." By trial faith is
transmuted into works, and by works faith shall be justified before the
assembled worlds. "The Egyptians, whom ye have seen to-day, ye shall
see no more forever." Courage, ye fearful saints! The clouds which are
gathering over you shall rain righteousness upon you; the lightning
that blinds you reveals the chariot of your King; the thunder that
terrifies you assures you of his love. Courage! His glorious epiphany
is at hand. Forth shall he come from the pavilions of the sky, with an
escort of many angels, and anthems that wake the echoes of eternity.
Then shall the tears of earth become the gems of heaven; and the
tuneful sorrows of every psalmist shall rise, thrilling, into choral
hallelujahs! And who will ever regret the "heaviness through manifold
temptations" which hath wrought in him a meetness for the bliss
immortal, or behold with aught but joy ineffable the precious gold of
his faith which was tried with fire, now "found unto praise and honor
and glory at the appearing of Jesus Christ!"
[1] Preached at East Brent, Somersetshire, Eng., 1866.
XIII.
CONTEST AND CORONATION.[1]
I am now ready to be offered, and the time of my departure is at hand.
I have fought a good fight; I have finished my course; I have kept the
faith. Henceforth there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness,
which the Lord, the righteous judge, shall give me at that day; and not
to me only, but unto all them also that love his appearing.--2
Tim. iv. 6-8.
I go back eighteen centuries and a half into the past, and find myself
in a grand old Syrian city. About midday I ride out at a western gate
along a great highway looking toward a picturesque group of mountains.
Straight before me towers the white head of Hermon, like that of a
patriarch amidst his children. On my right and left are groves and
gardens and smiling villas, a paradise of verdure and beauty, as far as
the eye can reach. On this road marched Abraham two thousand years
before me, and Jacob returning from Padan-Aram, and Jonah going to
Nineveh, and all Israel in chains to Babylon. Enough, surely, in these
objects, to stir the dullest brain and kindle the coldest heart. Thus
occupied, my attention is suddenly arrested by a troop of horsemen
riding briskly toward the city. Their leader is a young man, of rather
low stature, with keen black eye, and stern and determined aspect. A
single look is sufficient to assure me that he is no common man, and
here on no common errand. It is the tiger of Tarsus, in fierce pursuit
of some of the lambs of the Good Shepherd. A few Christians from
Jerusalem, driven out by persecution, have come hither for refuge; and
Saul, with full authority, self-solicited, is on their track,
"breathing out threatening and slaughter." You know the rest. Blessed
be the lightning-stroke that consecrated what it smote, and made the
bold persecutor the bravest apostle of the Crucified!
Thirty years later, in the world's metropolis, I visit the Mammertine
Prison adjoining the Forum. Who is this, sitting on a block of
travertine, with a tablet on his knee, a stylus in his hand, and a
little ewer-shaped lamp at his side? As he looks up a moment from his
writing, I see something in his face that reminds me of the young
officer at the head of that vengeful expedition. He is indeed the same
man--the same, and yet another. Toil, hardship, privation,
imprisonment, and cruel treatment of all kinds, have wrought sad
changes in his physical frame. Bent, bald, almost blind, though not
more than sixty-five years old, I should hardly have recognized him
without a word from his warder. One of Nero's victims, he waits here
calmly for the hour of his release by the sword. Already doomed perhaps
by sentence of the tyrant--it is not certain--neither he nor his keeper
knows--he has undertaken another letter--most likely the last he will
ever write--to Timothy, his "dearly beloved son." Abounding with godly
counsel and encouragement to an intrepid and zealous young bishop, it
is full also of the most inspiring utterances of Christian faith and
hope. Among other incentives to diligence and fidelity, he adduces his
own experience and expectation, and these are his words of cheer: "I am
now ready to be offered, and the time of my departure is at hand. I
have fought a good fight; I have finished my course; I have kept the
faith. Henceforth there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness,
which the Lord, the righteous judge, shall give me at that day; and not
to me only, but unto all them also that love his appearing."
Not all called to be ministers and martyrs of Christ, we are all called
to be his constant and uncompromising followers; and in the humblest
sphere of Christian discipleship there is demand for the utmost
activity and zeal, and in many cases for the heroic martyr-spirit
commended to the bishop and exemplified in the apostle. Let us see,
then, what instruction we can get from the text.
The first thing here to be noted is the apostle's calm contemplation of
his present position: "I am now ready to be offered, and the time of my
departure is at hand."
In a popular work of fiction two characters are taking final leave of
each other. The one is full of heart and hope; the other, deeply
dejected and despondent. "Farewell," is the last sad word of the
latter--"Farewell! your way leads upward to happiness; mine
downward--to happiness also." Such helpless resignation to the
inevitable, in one form or another, we may all have witnessed. Few
things are more common in human experience; and the dying, however much
they have loved life or dreaded death, yield themselves at last to what
cannot be averted or avoided. But in the apostle's language there is
something more than this stolid and sullen submission. There is
cheerful faith and buoyant hope--a conscious triumph over all the evils
of life and all the terrors of death.
I had a friend very ill. For three days his life hung in doubt with his
physician. When he began to recover, he said to me: "Death came and
looked me in the face; but, thank God! I could look him in the face
without fear." Here stands a man face to face with the last enemy in a
far more terrible form. To die as a public criminal at the hand of the
executioner is very different from lying down to sleep one's self into
another world--very different even from falling in the field fighting
for all that is dearest to the patriotic heart. Yet the apostle speaks
of his fate as calmly as if he were about only to set out on a journey
or embark for a voyage. The manner of his death he already knows. A
Roman citizen, he cannot be burned, strangled, or crucified, like some
of his brethren; and Nero, devil as he is, can do no worse than take
off his head and send him to his Saviour. He is ready to be offered as
a sacrifice--poured out as a libation; and the time of his
departure--the loosing of the hawser--the lifting of the anchor--is at
hand, when he shall sail out upon the ocean of eternity.
A good man, dying, said: "I am in the valley, and it is dark; I feel
the waters, and they are cold." Not so the apostle. All with him is
bright, hopeful, joyous. His last hours are the best of his life. It is
not a stoical indifference to suffering, nor a disgust with the world
that has misused him, nor a weariness of his holy work. Long since he
learned in every state to be content. Some years ago he was in a strait
betwixt two, having a desire to depart and be with Christ, but willing
to remain a while in the flesh for the benefit of his brethren. For
him, to live is Christ, to die is gain. Living or dying, he is the
Lord's, and Christ is magnified in his flesh. At peace with heaven and
earth, what has he to fear from either? Knowing whom he has believed,
and confident that he is able to keep that which he has committed to
his custody, he is ready at the beck of the executioner to go forth
from his dungeon, and his last walk on the Ostian Way shall be the
triumphal march of the conqueror.
The second thing here to be noted is the apostle's pleasing review of
his accomplished career: "I have fought a good fight; I have finished
my course; I have kept the faith."
The reference is to the old Grecian games--the Olympian, the Isthmian,
the Nemean, and the Pythian. These festivals, we are informed,
originated with Pelops, were brought to perfection by Hercules and
Atreus, and restored by Iphitus when they had fallen into neglect. Very
popular they were, celebrated with great pomp and ceremony, and made
use of to mark memorable events and public eras--that of consuls at
Rome, of archons at Athens, of priestesses at Argos. From Greece they
passed to Italy; and were so much in vogue at the world's metropolis,
that an ancient author speaks of them as not less important to the
people than their bread. With these spectacles both St. Paul and his
beloved Timothy must have been well acquainted, and in the writings of
the former no metaphors are more frequent than those drawn from the
Grecian games.
"I have fought a good fight"--literally, striven a good strife, or
agonized a good agony. The reference is to the athletic contests of the
arena--wrestling, boxing, and fighting with swords. The apostle's life
had been a perpetual struggle and conflict. He says he has "fought with
beasts at Ephesus"--a metaphorical description doubtless of his fierce
encounter there with the enemies of Christianity. Wherever he went, he
met hosts of foes, marshalled under the banners of Jewish prejudice and
pagan superstition. And the world assailed him with all its enginery of
temptation and persecution; and the native corruption of his own heart
caused him many a sore conflict, though in all these things he was more
than conqueror through the victorious Captain of his salvation. As with
St. Paul, so with all Christians; baptized into a warfare with the
world, the flesh and the Devil; and signed with the sign of the cross
in token of this consecration as Christ's servants and soldiers to
their life's end. But this is "a good fight"--in a good cause, under a
good captain, with good arms, good allies, good comrades, good
supplies, good success, and good rewards--in all respects better than
the patriot's battle for freedom, the crusader's conflict for the holy
sepulchre, or any competition ever maintained in the arenas of Greece
and Rome.
"I have finished my course." The figure is changed. Seated with fifty
or sixty thousand spectators in the Circus Maximus, we are looking down
upon the _stadium_, where men stripped to the waist, with eyes
fixed upon the goal, are rushing along for the prize. There goes St.
Paul!
"Swiftest and foremost of the race,
He carries victory in his face,
He triumphs while he runs!"