place of rest your home? Walk abroad and alone by night. That awful
other world in the stillness and the solemn deep of the eternities
above, is it your home? Those graves that lie beneath you, holding in
them the infinite secret, and stamping upon all earthly loveliness the
mark of frailty and change and fleetingness--are those graves the
prospect to which in bright days and dark days you can turn without
dismay? God in his splendours,--dare we feel with Him affectionate and
familiar, so that trial comes softened by this feeling--it is my
Father, and enjoyment can be taken with a frank feeling; my Father has
given it me, without grudging, to make me happy? All that is having a
home in God. Are we at home there? Why there is demonstration in our
very childhood that we are not at home with that other world of God's.
An infant fears to be alone, because he feels he is not alone. He
trembles in the dark, because he is conscious of the presence of the
world of spirits. Long before he has been told tales of terror, there
is an instinctive dread of the supernatural in the infant mind. It is
the instinct which we have from childhood that gives us the feeling of
another world. And mark, brethren, if the child is not at home in the
thought of that world of God's, the deep of darkness and eternity is,
around him--God's home, but not his home, for his flesh creeps. And
that feeling grows through life; not the fear--when the child becomes
a man he gets over fear--but the dislike. The man feels as much
aversion as the child for the world of spirits.
Sunday comes. It breaks across the current of his worldliness. It
suggests thoughts of death and judgment and everlasting existence. Is
that home? Can the worldly man feel Sunday like a foretaste of his
Father's mansion? If we could but know how many have come here to-day,
not to have their souls lifted up heavenwards, but from curiosity, or
idleness, or criticism, it would give us an appalling estimate of the
number who are living in a far country, "having no hope and without
God in the world."
The second truth conveyed to us in this parable is the unsatisfying
nature of worldly happiness. The outcast son tried to satiate his
appetite with husks. A husk is an empty thing; it is a thing which
looks extremely like food, and promises as much as food; but it is not
food. It is a thing which when chewed will stay the appetite, but
leaves the emaciated body without nourishment. Earthly happiness is a
husk. We say not that there is no satisfaction in the pleasures of a
worldly life. That would be an overstatement of the truth. Something
there is, or else why should men persist in living for them? The
cravings of man's appetite may be stayed by things which cannot
satisfy him. Every new pursuit contains in it a new hope; and it is
long before hope is bankrupt. But my brethren, it is strange if a man
has not found out long before he has reached the age of thirty, that
everything here is empty and disappointing. The nobler his heart and
the more unquenchable his hunger for the high and the good, the sooner
will he find that out. Bubble after bubble bursts, each bubble tinted
with the celestial colours of the rainbow, and each leaving in the
hand which crushes it a cold damp drop of disappointment. All that is
described in Scripture by the emphatic metaphor of "sowing the wind
and reaping the whirlwind," the whirlwind of blighted hopes and
unreturned feelings and crushed expectations--that is the harvest
which the world gives you to reap.
And now is the question asked, Why is this world unsatisfying?
Brethren, it is the grandeur of the soul which God has given us, which
makes it insatiable in its desires--with an infinite void which cannot
be filled up. A soul which was made for God, how can the world fill
it? If the ocean can be still with miles of unstable waters beneath
it, then the soul of man, rocking itself upon its own deep longings,
with the Infinite beneath it, may rest. We were created once in
majesty, to find enjoyment in God, and if our hearts are empty now,
there is nothing for it but to fill up the hollowness of the soul with
God.
Let not that expression--filling the soul with God--pass away without
a distinct meaning. God is Love and Goodness. Fill the soul with
goodness, and fill the soul with love, _that_ is the filling it with
God. If we love one another, God dwelleth in us. There is nothing else
that can satisfy. So that when we hear men of this world acknowledge,
as they sometimes will do, when they are wearied with this phantom
chase of life, sick of gaieties and tired of toil, that it is not in
their pursuits that they can drink the fount of blessedness; and when
we see them, instead of turning aside either broken-hearted or else
made wise, still persisting to trust to expectations--at fifty, sixty,
or seventy years still feverish about some new plan of ambition--what
we see is this: we see a soul formed with a capacity for high and
noble things, fit for the banquet table of God Himself, trying to fill
its infinite hollowness with husks.
Once more, there is degradation in the life of irreligion. The things
which the wanderer tried to live on were not husks only. They were
husks which the swine did eat. Degradation means the application of a
thing to purposes lower than that for which it was intended. It is
degradation to a man to live on husks, because these are not his true
food. We call it degradation when we see the members of an ancient
family, decayed by extravagance, working for their bread. It is not
degradation for a born labourer to work for an honest livelihood. It
is degradation for them, for they are not what they might have been.
And therefore, for a man to be degraded, it is not necessary that he
should have given himself up to low and mean practices. It is quite
enough that he is living for purposes lower than those for which God
intended him. He may be a man of unblemished reputation, and yet
debased in the truest meaning of the word. We were sent into this
world to love God and to love man; to do good--to fill up life with
deeds of generosity and usefulness. And he that refuses to work out
that high destiny is a degraded man. He may turn away revolted from
everything that is gross. His sensuous indulgences may be all marked
by refinement and taste. His house may be filled with elegance. His
library may be adorned with books. There may be the sounds in his
mansion which can regale the ear, the delicacies which can stimulate
the palate, and the forms of beauty which can please the eye. There
may be nothing in his whole life to offend the most chastened and
fastidious delicacy; and yet, if the history of all this be, powers
which were meant for eternity frittered upon time, the man is
degraded--if the spirit which was created to find its enjoyment in the
love of God has settled down satisfied with the love of the world,
then, just as surely as the sensualist of this parable, that man has
turned aside from a celestial feast to prey on garbage.
We pass on to the second period of the history of God's treatment of a
sinner. It is the period of his coming to himself, or what we call
repentance. The first fact of religious experience which this parable
suggests to us is that common truth--men desert the world when the
world deserts them. The renegade came to himself when there were no
more husks to eat. He would have remained away if he could have got
them, but it is written, "no man gave unto him." And this, brethren,
is the record of our shame. Invitation is not enough; we must be
driven to God. And the famine comes not by chance. God sends the
famine into the soul--the hunger, and thirst, and the
disappointment--to bring back his erring child again.
Now the world fastens upon that truth, and gets out of it a triumphant
sarcasm against religion. They tell us that just as the caterpillar
passes into the chrysalis, and the chrysalis into the butterfly, so
profligacy passes into disgust, and disgust passes into religion. To
use their own phraseology, when people become disappointed with the
world, it is the last resource they say, to turn saint. So the men of
the world speak, and they think they are profoundly philosophical and
concise in the account they give. The world is welcome to its very
small sneer. It is the glory of our Master's gospel that it _is_ the
refuge of the broken-hearted. It is the strange mercy of our God that
he does not reject the writhings of a jaded heart. Let the world curl
its lip if it will, when it sees through the causes of the prodigal's
return. And if the sinner does not come to God taught by this
disappointment, what then? If affections crushed in early life have
driven one man to God; if wrecked and ruined hopes have made another
man religious; if want of success in a profession has broken the
spirit; if the human life lived out too passionately, has left a
surfeit and a craving behind which end in seriousness; if one is
brought by the sadness of widowed life, and another by the forced
desolation of involuntary single life; if when the mighty famine comes
into the heart, and not a husk is left, not a pleasure untried, then,
and not till then, the remorseful resolve is made, "I will arise and
go to my Father:"--Well, brethren, what then? Why this, that the
history of penitence, produced as it so often is by mere
disappointment, sheds only a brighter lustre round the Love of Christ,
who rejoices to receive such wanderers, worthless as they are, back
into His bosom. Thank God the world's sneer is true. It _is_ the last
resource to turn saint. Thanks to our God that when this gaudy world
has ceased to charm, when the heart begins to feel its hollowness, and
the world has lost its satisfying power, still all is not yet lost if
penitence and Christ remain, to still, to humble, and to soothe a
heart which sin has fevered.
There is another truth contained in this section of the parable. After
a life of wild sinfulness religion is servitude at first, not freedom.
Observe, he went back to duty with the feelings of a slave: "I am no
more worthy to be called thy son, make me as one of thy hired
servants." Any one who has lived in the excitement of the world, and
then tried to settle down at once to quiet duty, knows how true that
is. To borrow a metaphor from Israel's desert life, it is a tasteless
thing to live on manna after you have been feasting upon quails. It is
a dull cold drudgery to find pleasure in simple occupation when life
has been a succession of strong emotions. Sonship it is not; it is
slavery. A son obeys in love, entering heartily into his father's
meaning. A servant obeys mechanically, rising early because he must;
doing it may be, his duty well, but feeling in all its force the
irksomeness of the service. Sonship does not come all at once. The
yoke of Christ is easy, the burden of Christ is light; but it is not
light to everybody. It is light when you love it, and no man who has
sinned much can love it all at once.
Therefore, if I speak to any one who is trying to be religious, and
heavy in heart because his duty is done too formally,--my Christian
brother, fear not. You are returning, like the prodigal, with the
feelings of a servant. Still it is a real return. The spirit of
adoption will come afterwards. You will often have to do duties which
you cannot relish, and in which you see no meaning. So it was with
Naaman at the prophet's command. He bathed, not knowing why he was
bidden to bathe in Jordan. When you bend to prayer, often and often
you will have to kneel with wandering thoughts, and constraining lips
to repeat words into which your heart scarcely enters. You will have
to perform duties when the heart is cold, and without a spark of
enthusiasm to warm you. But my Christian brother, onwards still.
Struggle to the Cross, even though it be struggling as in chains. Just
as on a day of clouds, when you have watched the distant hills, dark
and gray with mist, suddenly a gleam of sunshine passing over reveals
to you, in that flat surface, valleys and dells and spots of sunny
happiness, which slept before unsuspected in the fog, so in the gloom
of penitential life there will be times when God's deep peace and love
will be felt shining into the soul with supernatural refreshment. Let
the penitent be content with the servant's lot at first. Liberty and
peace, and the bounding sensations of a Father's arms around you, come
afterwards.
The last circumstance in this division of our subject is the reception
which a sinner meets with on his return to God. "Bring forth the best
robe and put it on him, and put a ring on his hand, and shoes on his
feet, and bring hither the fatted calf and kill it, and let us eat and
be merry." This banquet represents to us two things. It tells of the
father's gladness on his son's return. That represents God's joy on
the reformation of a sinner. It tells of a banquet and a dance given
to the long lost son. That represents the sinner's gladness when he
first understood that God was reconciled to him in Christ. There is a
strange, almost wild, rapture, a strong gush of love and happiness in
those days which are called the days of first conversion. When a man
who has sinned much--a profligate--turns to God, and it becomes first
clear to his apprehension that there is love instead of spurning for
him, there is a luxury of emotion--a banquet of tumultuous blessedness
in the moment of first love to God, which stands alone in life,
nothing before and nothing after like it. And brethren, let us
observe:--This forgiveness is a thing granted while a man is yet afar
off. We are not to wait for the right of being happy till we are good:
we might wait for ever. Joy is not delayed till we deserve it. Just so
soon as a sinful man trusts that the mercy of God in Christ has done
away with his transgression, the ring, and the robe, and the shoes are
his, the banquet and the light of a Father's countenance.
Lastly, we have to consider very briefly God's expostulation with a
saint. There is another brother mentioned in this parable, who
expressed something like indignation at the treatment which his
brother met with. There are commentators who have imagined that this
personage represents the Pharisees who complained that Jesus was
receiving sinners. But this is manifestly impossible, because his
father expostulates with him in this language, "Son, thou, art ever
with me;" not for one moment could that be true of the Pharisees. The
true interpretation seems to be that this elder brother represents a
real Christian perplexed with God's mysterious dealings. We have
before us the description of one of those happy persons who have been
filled with the Holy Ghost from their mother's womb, and on the whole
(with imperfections of course) remained God's servant all his life.
For this is his own account of himself, which the father does not
contradict. "Lo! these many years do I serve thee."
We observe then: The objection made to the reception of a notorious
sinner: "Thou never gavest me a kid." Now, in this we have a fact true
to Christian experience. Joy seems to be felt more vividly and more
exuberantly by men who have sinned much, than by men who have grown up
consistently from childhood with religious education. Rapture belongs
to him whose sins, which are forgiven, are many. In the perplexity
which this fact occasions, there is a feeling which is partly right
and partly wrong. There is a surprise which is natural. There is a
resentful jealousy which is to be rebuked.
There is first of all a natural surprise. It was natural that the
elder brother should feel perplexed and hurt. When a sinner seems to
be rewarded with more happiness than a saint, it appears as if good
and evil were alike undistinguished in God's dealings. It seems like
putting a reconciled enemy over the head of a tried servant. It looks
as if it were a kind of encouragement held out to sin, and a man
begins to feel, Well if this is to be the caprice of my father's
dealing; if this rich feast of gladness be the reward of a licentious
life, "Verily I have cleansed my heart in vain, and washed my hands in
innocency." This is natural surprise.
But besides this there is a jealousy in these sensations of ours which
God sees fit to rebuke. You have been trying to serve God all your
life, and find it struggle, and heaviness, and dulness still. You see
another who has outraged every obligation of life, and he is not tried
by the deep prostration you think he ought to have, but bright with
happiness at once. You have been making sacrifices all your life, and
your worst trials come out of your most generous sacrifices. Your
errors in judgment have been followed by sufferings sharper than those
which crime itself could have brought. And you see men who never made
a sacrifice unexposed to trial--men whose life has been rapture
purchased by the ruin of others' innocence--tasting first the
pleasures of sin, and then the banquet of religion. You have been a
moral man from childhood, and yet with all your efforts you feel the
crushing conviction that it has never once been granted you to win a
soul to God. And you see another man marked by inconsistency and
impetuosity, banqueting every day upon the blest success of impressing
and saving souls. All that is startling. And then comes sadness and
despondency; then come all those feelings which are so graphically
depicted here: irritation--"he was angry;" swelling pride--"he would
not go in;" jealousy, which required soothing--"his father went out
and entreated him."
And now brethren, mark the father's answer. It does not account for
this strange dealing by God's sovereignty. It does not cut the knot of
the difficulty, instead of untying it, by saying, God has a _right_ to
do what He will. He does not urge, God has a right to act on
favouritism if He please. But it assigns two reasons. The first reason
is, "It was _meet_, right that we should make merry." It is meet that
God should be glad on the reclamation of a sinner. It is meet that
that sinner, looking down into the dreadful chasm over which he had
been tottering, should feel a shudder of delight through all his frame
on thinking of his escape. And it is meet that religious men should
not feel jealous of one another, but freely and generously join in
thanking God that others have got happiness, even if _they_ have not.
The spirit of religious exclusiveness, which looks down contemptuously
instead of tenderly on worldly men, and banishes a man for ever from
the circle of its joys because he has sinned notoriously, is a bad
spirit.
Lastly the reason given for this dealing is, "Son, thou art always
with Me, and all that I have is thine." By which Christ seems to tell
us that the disproportion between man and man is much less than we
suppose. The profligate had had one hour of ecstasy--the other had
had a whole life of peace. A consistent Christian may not have
rapture; but he has that which is much better than rapture:
calmness--God's serene and perpetual presence. And after all brethren,
that is the best. One to whom much is forgiven, has much joy. He must
have it, if it were only to support him through those fearful trials
which are to come--those haunting reminiscences of a polluted
heart--those frailties--those inconsistencies to which the habit of
past indulgence have made him liable. A terrible struggle is in store
for him yet. Grudge him not one hour of unclouded exultation. But
religion's best gift--rest, serenity--the quiet daily love of one who
lives perpetually with his Father's family--uninterrupted
usefulness--_that_ belongs to him who has lived steadily, and walked
with duty, neither grieving nor insulting the Holy Spirit of his God.
The man who serves God early has the best of it; joy is well in its
way, but a few flashes of joy are trifles in comparison with a life of
peace. Which is best: the flash of joy lighting up the whole heart,
and then darkness till the next flash comes--or the steady calm
sunlight of day in which men work?
And now, one word to those who are living this young man's
life--thinking to become religious as he did, when they have got tired
of the world. I speak to those who are leading what, in the world's
softened language of concealment, is called a gay life. Young
brethren, let two motives be urged earnestly upon your attention. The
first is the motive of mere honourable feeling. We will say nothing
about the uncertainty of life. We will not dwell upon this fact, that
impressions resisted now, may never come back again. We will not
appeal to terror. That is not the weapon which a Christian minister
loves to use. If our lips were clothed with thunder, it is not
denunciation which makes men Christians; let the appeal be made to
every high and generous feeling in a young man's bosom.
Deliberately and calmly you are going to do _this_: to spend the best
and most vigorous portion of your days in idleness--in uselessness--in
the gratification of self--in the contamination of others. And then
weakness, the relics, and the miserable dregs of life;--you are going
to give _that_ sorry offering to God, because His mercy endureth for
ever! Shame--shame upon the heart which can let such a plan rest in it
one moment. If it be there, crush it like a man. It is a degrading
thing to enjoy husks till there is no man to give them. It is a base
thing to resolve to give to God as little as possible, and not to
serve Him till you must.
Young brethren, I speak principally to you. You have health for God
now. You have strength of mind and body. You have powers which may fit
you for real usefulness. You have appetites for enjoyment which can be
consecrated to God. You acknowledge the law of honour. Well then, by
every feeling of manliness and generosity remember this: now, and not
later, is your time to learn what religion means.
There is another motive, and a very solemn one, to be urged upon those
who are delaying. Every moment of delay adds bitterness to after
struggles. The moment of a feeling of hired servitude must come. If a
man will not obey God with a warm heart, he may hereafter have to do
it with a cold one. To be holy is the work of a long life. The
experience of ten thousand lessons teaches only a little of it; and
all this, the work of becoming like God, the man who delays is
crowding into the space of a few years, or a few months. When we have
lived long a life of sin, do we think that repentance and forgiveness
will obliterate all the traces of sin upon the character? Be sure that
every sin pays its price: "Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also
reap."
Oh! there are recollections of past sin which come crowding up to the
brain, with temptation in them. There are old habits which refuse to
be mastered by a few enthusiastic sensations. There is so much of the
old man clinging to the penitent who has waited long--he is so much as
a religious man, like what he was when he was a worldly man--that it
is doubtful whether he ever reaches in this world the full stature of
Christian manhood. Much warm earnestness, but strange inconsistencies,
that is the character of one who is an old man and a young Christian.
Brethren, do we wish to risk all this? Do we want to learn holiness
with terrible struggles, and sore affliction, and the plague of much
remaining evil? Then _wait_ before you turn to God.
XXI.
_Preached May 15, 1853._
JOHN'S REBUKE OF HEROD.
"But Herod the tetrarch, being reproved by him for Herodias, his
brother Philip's wife, and for all the evils which Herod had done,
added yet this above all, that he shut up John in prison,"--Luke
iii. 19, 20.
The life of John the Baptist divides itself into three distinct
periods. Of the first we are told almost nothing, but we may
conjecture much. We are told that he was in the deserts till his
showing unto Israel. It was a period probably, in which, saddened by
the hollowness of all life in Israel, and perplexed with the
controversies of Jerusalem, the controversies of Sadducee with
Pharisee, of formalist with mystic, of the disciples of one infallible
Rabbi with the disciples of another infallible Rabbi, he fled for
refuge to the wilderness, to see whether God could not be found there
by the heart that sought Him, without the aid of churches, rituals,
creeds, and forms. This period lasted thirty years.
The second period is a shorter one. It comprises the few months of his
public ministry. His difficulties were over; he had reached conviction
enough to live and die on. He knew not all, but he knew something. He
could not baptize with the Spirit, but he could at least baptize with
water. It was not given to him to build up, but it was given to him
to pull down all false foundations. He knew that the highest truth of
spiritual life was to be given by One that should come after. What he
had learned in the desert was contained in a few words--Reality lies
at the root of religious life. Ye must be real, said John. "Bring
forth fruits meet for repentance." Let each man do his own duty; let
the rich impart to those who are not rich; let the publican accuse no
man falsely; let the soldier be content with his wages. The coming
kingdom is not a mere piece of machinery which will make you all good
and happy without effort of your own. Change yourselves, or you will
have no kingdom at all. Personal reformation, personal reality, _that_
was John's message to the world.