time is the same, the object is the same; only the characters of the
two men are widely different. To which will you give the preference?
Could any pious Jew have doubted about his answer to this question?
Would you yourself have doubted if you had been a Jew and lived in
that age? Let us look more narrowly at these two men as they stand
praying within the sacred precincts. Here is the one, a Pharisee. The
sect to which he belongs is eminently religious, eminently patriotic;
the law of God is their study day and night; their daily life is
regulated on the strictest principles; they are the recognised leaders
of their countrymen, their religious teachers and their political
guides; they are regarded as the great bulwark against foreign tyranny
and heathen idolatry; they have altogether the confidence of the
people. And he is an eminently favourable type of the sect. It is not
enough that he avoids gross and flagrant crime; that he is upright in
his dealings with his fellow-men; that he respects the sanctity of the
marriage vows;--he goes very far beyond this: he fasts regularly, he
pays tithes scrupulously, he prays fervently after a manner, as this
incident shows; not a suspicion is breathed against the truth of his
statements as he thus describes himself. No doubt they were strictly
true; the very point of the parable depends upon their accuracy. What
more, then, would you have than this? Now, turn to the other
worshipper, the publican. What a contrast we have here! The publicans
were hated, despised, loathed by the Jews. There was only too much
reason for all this hatred and contempt. The publicans were so called
because they farmed the public taxes. The Roman masters let out the
collection of the taxes for so much to the publicans, and the
publicans made what they could by the collecting. Hence their position
was unsatisfactory from first to last. Though Jews themselves, they
were the representatives of the Roman masters of Judea. They thus
reminded their fellow-countrymen at every turn of the galling yoke of
a foreign tyranny, of a heathen tyranny, too. This made matters worse.
Religion as well as patriotism was grievously compromised by them.
This was bad enough; but this was not all. From the manner in which
they contracted with the Roman government they were tempted to
extortion and fraud. Their profits depended on petty acts of insolence
and overreaching, and there is every reason to believe that, as a
class, they did yield to their temptation. It might be said that their
hand was against every man and every man's hand was against them.
Remembering these facts, we are able the more truly to honour a
Matthew or a Zaccheus, towering far above the moral standard of their
class. And the man before us--what shall we say of him? He had yielded
to these temptations. Just as in the case of the Pharisee, so in the
case of the publican, there is every reason to accept as strictly true
his description of himself.
As I have said before, the very force of the parable depends on the
truth of this statement. He, doubtless, had been extortionate; he had
used his position and his power to oppress and defraud his
fellow-countrymen. He was, perhaps, conscious, besides, of other
grievous sins--not specially sins of his class, but sins of himself,
sins of mankind. There can be little doubt that when he beat upon his
breast, when he bewailed his sinfulness, when he entreated God's
mercy, he had on his conscience some heavier weight than the ordinary
sins and short-comings of the ordinary respectable and religious man.
What, then, shall we say? Who will waver between these two men? Who
can for a moment hesitate to rank the Pharisee higher than the
publican? And yet it is our Lord's judgment--it is God's own
verdict--that this man, this publican, this sullied, sin-stained, but
withal penitent man, went down to his home justified rather than the
highly respectable, highly respected, highly religious Pharisee. The
answer is this--to know God is the beginning and the end of all
wisdom; to know God is to think truly, is to act truly, is to live
truly. Now, the Pharisee did not know God; he was altogether at fault
in his ideas of God; he was on the wrong line, and however far he
might go on that line he would be no nearer to God. On the other hand,
the publican had taken the right direction; he might be still very far
from a thorough knowledge of God; but his ideas of God, however
imperfect, were right as far as they went. Let us look into this
matter a little more closely.
There are two ways of regarding God. We may look upon Him as a
taskmaster, or we may look upon Him as a righteous Father. The first
way is hopelessly, irretrievably wrong; the second way alone will lead
us to Him. We may look upon Him as a taskmaster. What then? He sets
before us a definite piece of work to do. If we do it, well and good;
we escape blame; we get our pay. It is give and take; certain things
are to be done, and certain other things are to be left undone. There
the matter ends. This is what is meant by justification by works. It
is a mere question of bargaining. We treat with God as a workman would
treat with an employer of labour; we look upon Him as one of
ourselves, a little more powerful, a little more exacting, a little
more stern, but still as one of ourselves--a man, magnified indeed,
but a man still, with whom we can stipulate and bargain and haggle
about the amount of work to be done. That is the error, the fatal
error, of the man in the parable who hid his one talent in the earth.
"I feared thee, because thou art an austere man"--not, "I loved thee,"
not "I reverenced thee," not "I worshipped thee," but "I feared thee."
It was apprehension, it was dread--nothing else; no affectionate
yearning, no childlike outpouring of the heart, no seeking after the
Father's embrace. "Thou art an austere man"--a hard man; yes, a
taskmaster, and a rigorous taskmaster, too. "Lo, there thou hast that
is thine"--not a little more, nor a little less--"thou hast that is
thine." "Nay, everything is Mine. Heaven and earth are Mine; infinite
righteousness and infinite truth, and infinite purity and infinite
love, are Mine. Thou canst never give Me that is Mine." And so it is
with the Pharisee in our parable, though the type of character is
somewhat different. Fasting is enjoined, therefore he fasts; tithes
are commanded, therefore he pays tithes. Not a moment is deducted from
the fasting, not a penny is withheld from the tithes. He will be all
safe; he does his work and he claims his pay. Of those boundless
reaches of mercy, of truth, of love, which lie beyond all definite
precepts, all specific duties, he thinks nothing and he knows nothing;
of the infinity of God, he is wholly ignorant; of God's absolute
righteousness, of God's limitless goodness, he has not a thought;
therefore he is satisfied; therefore he despises others. If he had
any, even the faintest, conception of these, he could not be so
complacent, he could not compare himself advantageously with others.
To him who sees this infinity of God boasting is altogether excluded;
he is fain to call himself an unprofitable servant. Ah, yes! it all
springs from that one original root of falsehood, that perverse, fatal
idea of the relations of man to God--so much pay for so much
work--haggling between employer and employed--conflict, in an
exaggerated form, between capital and labour once more.
But the true way to regard God is to look upon Him as a righteous
Father, to see His righteousness first, and then to see His fatherly
love. To see His righteousness, the awe, the beauty, the majesty, the
holiness, the glory of His righteousness! Have we caught only a faint,
transient glimpse of it? What then? What becomes of our righteousness,
our merit, our self-satisfaction, our self-complacency? What
miserable, besmirched, filthy tatters do the very best of them seem if
only for a moment the skirts of His glistening raiment have crossed
the field of our vision, the glory of Him who is clothed in
righteousness. Do we thank God, can we thank God now, that we are not
as bad as other men are? Nay, thank Him for His opportunity, thank Him
for His mercy, thank Him for His forbearing patience, but thank Him
not where thanksgiving is a mere cloak of self-complacency. No; you
cannot compare yourself with another now; you see only your own sin,
you can measure only your own unworthiness now, or, rather, it appears
far beyond measuring to you. Your righteousness and this man's
unrighteousness, your good and this man's evil--what difference is
there between them in the presence of God's infinite holiness, that
great leveller of all human gradations?
"For merit lives from man to man,
And not, O God, from man to Thee!"
Ah, yes, Lord! I can see two things, and two only: Thy righteousness,
my sinfulness, these and nothing else.
But we must look not only to God's righteousness: we must look to His
fatherly goodness also. We have beheld the heinousness of our sin in
the mirror of His holiness; we must now behold the grace of our
forgiveness in the light of His love, His fatherly love. And have we
not full and perfect assurance that His love will never fail us? What
else is the meaning of His great, His inestimable gift to man of His
only-begotten Son, to take His flesh upon Him and to die for us? By
the infinity of His gift He would show us that His love is infinite
also--nothing less; and we do Him a wrong, a cruel wrong, if we
approach Him as a taskmaster, as a tyrant, as "a hard and austere
man;" we blaspheme His fatherly goodness. Have we sinned, and shall we
go to Him as to a taskmaster? What consolation, what forgiveness, what
hope of either here? Nay, rather we will seek Him as the prodigal son
sought Him; we will go to Him as to a father; we will address Him as a
Father; we will betake ourselves to Him with a child's penitent heart,
with a child's trusting soul, with a child's yearning embrace, and He
will have compassion on us, will hasten to meet us, though we may be
yet a great way off, and we shall be locked once more in His
everlasting arms.
Do you think, can you think, that the sense of His infinite love will
make you reckless, will make you indolent, will make you presuming?
Did love, true love, truly felt, ever have this effect? Nay, just in
proportion as you appropriate it, as you realise it, it will quicken,
it will stimulate, it will purify, it will inspire you; it will
transform your whole being into its own perfections from glory to
glory. God's love is the beacon star in the sky, arresting,
attracting, guiding, luring us forward on the heavenly path; the love
of Christ--not our love for Him; but His love for us--the love of
Christ, constrains us, binds us hand and foot, and drags us onward
with the cords of a man. The publican did see this, at least in part.
He saw God's righteousness in all its tremendous majesty, and he
abased himself before it; he saw God's fatherly love only dimly as
yet, but yearned for it. Therefore, though he was yet a great way off,
God ran to meet him; and so, notwithstanding his sin, he went down
from the temple that day "justified rather than the other."
One more thought is suggested by the parable. Prayer is the test of
character. So it was with this Pharisee and this publican; so it must
ever be, from the nature of the case. Prayer is the confronting of
self with God; prayer is the communing with God; prayer is the laying
bare of the soul before God. Thus prayer proves the realities of a
man's being. As a man prays, so he is. He who has learned to pray
aright has learned to live aright. The first and the last lesson of
our lives, the first and the last desire of our hearts, the first and
the last petition on our lips must be with us, as it was with the
disciples of old, "Lord, teach us to pray"; and to the old question
the old answer will be vouchsafed now, as then, "Our Father, which art
in heaven." "Our Father." The sense of God's Fatherhood, as manifested
in Christ, flooding our hearts, and dominating our lives--this is the
beginning and the end of all theology; there is nothing before and
nothing after this. Therefore, holy Father, we beseech Thee for Thy
dear Son's sake, teach us all, this night and ever, to pray; teach us
to know Thee, the only true God, and Jesus Christ, whom Thou hast
sent; teach us so to pray that we may be found among the company of
those faithful people who worship not a god of their own making, not a
taskmaster, not a tyrant, not "a hard and austere man," but worship
Thee, "worship the Father in spirit and in truth."
OUR CITIZENSHIP.[14]
"Our conversation is in heaven."--PHIL. iii. 20.
A better translation is "Our citizenship is in heaven."
We are all proud of our country. We delight to think of ourselves as
belonging to a land on which whoever sets his foot is free. We reflect
with satisfaction that we are citizens of a great empire on which the
sun never sets. We feel that we have derived a very real advantage
from our position; the glory of our past history is somehow reflected
upon us. We think with pride of how freedom has "broadened slowly
down, from precedent to precedent." We cherish the recollection too,
of the most glorious scenes in our history, as if, somehow, they were
part and parcel of ourselves. We feel as of one family, with its long
roll of illustrious statesmen, generals, men of science,--our
Shakespeare, Bacon, Newton, Wellington, Nelson, Hampden, Pitt,
Canning,--that these are our fellow-citizens. Their renown is our
renown. It is a great thing to extend our range of view beyond
ourselves, beyond our own households, our parish, and our own
neighbourhood, and yet to feel that there is a bond of union still;
that we are members of a great family, citizens of a great kingdom,
unique in her great world-empire. The inspiration of this thought,
which the recent Jubilee celebration has emphasised, makes us higher,
nobler, larger than ourselves. It drives out all the pettiness of
character and all the narrowness of view. True patriotism is a very
noble and ennobling sentiment. To be ready to do and to suffer, if
need be to die, for our country, what broad elevation of soul is there
not in a temper like this?
St. Paul felt all this. He was proud of the city, of the nation to
which he belonged. He was proud of the city in which he first saw the
light. We cannot mistake his tones here. "I am a citizen of no mean
city." This Tarsus, in which he was born, stood second to none as a
seat of learning in his time. He was proud, also, of his nationality.
Here, again, we cannot mistake the feeling which underlies his
language. "Of the stock of Israel, of the tribe of Benjamin." "Are
they Hebrew? So am I. Are they the seed of Abraham? So am I." He, too,
was the son of the patriarchs; he, too, was the heir of the promises;
he, too, had his portion among the twelve tribes that served God day
and night. Was he not descended from the one favoured tribe which had
given its first king to Israel, which had remained faithful to the
house of David when all the others revolted; which ever marched in the
van of the Lord's host when the armies went out to battle? "After thee
O Benjamin!" No taint of foreign admixture had sullied the purity of
his blood. He was "an Hebrew of the Hebrews." No concession to foreign
excitements, and no relaxation of national rites, had ever compromised
his position. He was a Pharisee of the Pharisees. Of all these things
he might well be prouder than the proudest. Albeit he paused and kept
down all his pride; he counted all as loss for the excellency of the
knowledge of Christ Jesus his Lord. And lastly, he was proud of his
position as a member of that great empire which stretched out her hand
into every clime, and carried her citizens into all quarters of the
globe. Here again his language tells its own tale. "They have beaten
us openly, uncondemned, being Romans, ... and now do they thrust us
out privily." "Is it lawful for you to scourge a man that is a Roman,
and uncondemned?"
Yes; it was a magnificent privilege this, that a man, whosoever he
might be, could claim the immunity, the protection, the deference
which was everywhere accorded to a citizen of Rome; to feel that he
was a solitary, homeless wanderer, and had nevertheless at his back
all the power, and all the prestige, and all the majesty of the
mightiest empire that the world had ever seen. But however natural,
and in some sense justifiable, may be this pride in ourselves, or in
St. Paul, we are reminded by the text that he and we alike are
citizens of a far larger, wider, more magnificent, more powerful, more
enduring empire. For which we have every reason to feel, not indeed
pride, not self-satisfaction, not vainglory, but perpetual
thanksgiving, and benediction to the Author and Giver of all good
things. Our citizenship is in heaven.
"Our citizenship." In the familiar version the word is rendered
"conversation," _i.e._, "walk of life." But it means very much
more than this; it points us out as members of a commonwealth,
citizens of a polity, subjects of a kingdom, in which we have special
interests, special responsibilities and functions. So, again, the
Apostle tells the Ephesians, now converted from heathenism to the
knowledge of Christ--"Ye are no more strangers and foreigners, but
fellow-citizens with the saints."
"Fellow-citizens with the saints." You and they, bound together as
members of one great nationality, with common duties, common
sympathies, common aims, citizens of a kingdom of which the noblest
and most powerful earthly empires are only faint types and shadows, a
kingdom which shall never end. Yes!
"Two worlds are ours, 'tis only sin
Forbids us to descry
The mystic heaven, and earth within,
Plain as the sea and sky."
And so we need to strive this day to pierce through the veil, that so
we may realise this our heavenly citizenship.
On this festival of All Saints, before all other days in the year, we
are invited to enter into the Holy City, to dwell on the glories of
the unseen world, to commune with the beatified servants of God of all
ages and all countries, and to gather inspiration and truth and
refreshment for our daily tasks in life; to pierce through the veil,
the dark impenetrable mist which shrouds the unseen world. Yet ever
and again this veil is lifted for a moment, ever and again we are made
to feel, by some startling occurrence, how narrow is the screen which
separates the seen from the unseen, the material from the spiritual,
the world of time from the world of eternity. Ever and again the stern
monitor death rises up an unbidden guest, an unwelcome spectre in the
midst of our worldliness and self-complacency, scaring us with the
suddenness of the apparition. Mystery of mysteries, when valuable
lives are suddenly cleft asunder, while so much that is worthless, and
worse, is spared. Mystery quite insoluble if this were all, if the
region beyond the grave were a mere vacuum; if men were dust and
nothing more; if there were no immortality, no heaven, nothing to live
for, nothing to work for, nothing to die for. Warnings these, solemn
and thrilling, if only we have ears to hear, that this life is not our
true life, that here we are strangers and pilgrims, that heaven is our
only abiding house, that we are fellow-citizens of the saints.
"Fellow-citizens of the saints." Think for a moment how much is
implied in this. What a vast assemblage, what a glorious companionship
is that in which you and I, with our frailties, our shortcomings, our
self-seeking, our worldliness, our distrust, our faithlessness, are
fain boldly to claim a place! All those glorious spirits, venerable
patriarchs, righteous kings, rapt seers, glorious psalmists, who lived
and wrought and suffered in the ancient days in the hope of a better
promise; men "who through faith subdued kingdoms, wrought
righteousness, ... of whom the world was not worthy;" all those
apostles and teachers who, kindling their torches at the sacred fire,
the glory of the Eternal Son Himself, carried the light of the gospel
into all lands, giving up everything for Christ, offering to lose
their lives, that by losing them they might find them. All these
martyrs and doctors of later ages who handed down the sacred treasure
through successive generations, amidst the fire of persecution and the
confusion of barbarism and the darkness of idolatry, rejoicing to be
devoured by hungry lions and to die at the stake. Polycarp, calm and
brave as his flesh quivered in the flame; Chrysostom, with his flowery
eloquence; Augustine, with his piercing insight and force,--these
share, too, in this glorious company whose names live in history. And
others, true saints of God, though they appear not in the calendar of
any Church; men and women from the rigour of whose lives succeeding
generations have their inspiration and strength; all whose holiness
and purity, whose courage and self-sacrifice, whose gentleness and
meekness, whose loving charity have been a never-failing fountain of
refreshment to the weary pilgrim in the thirsty wilderness of the
world. And others, too, there are whose memories shall perish not,
though they have left no name in history, but whose brows,
nevertheless, God Himself will crown with a halo of everlasting glory.
Poor, despised, unknown artisans and peasants, weak women and feeble
children, martyrs in the martyrdom of daily life, saints in the
saintliness of homely duty, throngs innumerable of every nation and
kindred and people and tongue, clothed with white robes and palms in
their hands, standing before the Throne of God, and serving Him day
and night in His temple.
And others again there are, unknown to the world, but well known to
you and to me, saints of our home, of our school, of our college, of
our workshop, of our office. Voices which were silent years ago mingle
in our ears still, the hands crumbling in the dust have left a
pressure that is still felt, the eyes long since glazed in death ever
now and again are bright for us. The mother at whose knees we lisped
our infant prayer, the child whose innocent prattle soothed our cares
and sweetened our lives, the husband or wife who was part of our
existence, the friend "more than my brothers are to me," whose
nobleness and purity, whose unselfishness was the good genius and the
pole star of our lives. These all are there, with these we hold
communion, with these we walk and talk once more to-day as of old.
This is the citizenship of which the text speaks, of which the day
reminds us, more glorious beyond comparison than any earthly society
which eye hath seen or of which ear hath heard. For these manifold and
great gifts of which the season reminds I beseech you this afternoon
give a worthy thankoffering. No, that cannot be, that is impossible,
but if not worthy, at all events large and liberal.
And what fitter object can I set before you than the support of a
society whose sole aim is the enrolment of citizens into the kingdom
of God, the enlargement of the communion of saints? The jubilee year
of our sovereign's reign is the jubilee year of this society. It was
only in the process of formation when our Queen ascended the throne;
one of her earliest acts was to give her name as its patron. It was a
right queenly act, for of all the blessings for which during the
half-century the nation has poured forth its thanksgiving at the
Jubilee festival, surely none has been greater or more enduring than
those which have been conferred through the instrumentality of this
society.
For what was the state of things at the beginning of this period?
Enormous arrears of spiritual work to be overtaken; everywhere great
masses of people in our large centres absolutely beyond the reach of
Church ministration; the population about to increase "by leaps and
bounds." During these fifty years the society has made not less than
21,000 grants to poor parishes here and there, the amounts being on an
average about L50. It has paid out in this way more than L1,000,000.
And this sum has been met by L1,000,000 from contributions coming in
from elsewhere; so that through its beneficent agency not less than
L2,000,000 have been contributed for the increase of clerical
ministration in the poor and populous districts of the land.
But these L2,000,000 are far from being an adequate standard of its
beneficent effects. The planting down of an efficient clergyman in a
poor district means the revival of Church work there; means,
frequently, the erection of a church and schools; means the creation
of a new parochial machinery. And thus the work of this Society is
borne through in a thousand various ways which it is impossible to
reckon up or to tabulate.