EVANGELIST

'Do the work of an evangelist.'--Paul to Timothy.

On the 1st of June 1648 a very bitter fight was fought at Maidstone, in

Kent, between the Parliamentary forces under Fairfax and the Royalists.

Till Cromwell rose to all his military and administrative greatness,

Fairfax was generalissimo of the Puritan army, and that able soldier

never executed a more brilliant exploit than he did that memorable night

at Maidstone. In one night the Royalist insurrection was stamped out and

extinguished in its own blood. Hundreds of dead bodies filled the

streets of the town, hundreds of the enemy were taken prisoners, while

hundreds more, who were hiding in the hop-fields and forests around the

town, fell into Fairfax's hands next morning.

Among the prisoners so taken was a Royalist major who had had a deep hand

in the Maidstone insurrection, named John Gifford, a man who was destined

in the time to come to run a remarkable career. Only, to-day, the day

after the battle, he has no prospect before him but the gallows. On the

night before his execution, by the courtesy of Fairfax, Gifford's sister

was permitted to visit her brother in his prison. The soldiers were

overcome with weariness and sleep after the engagement, and Gifford's

sister so managed it that her brother got past the sentries and escaped

out of the town. He lay hid for some days in the ditches and thickets

around the town till he was able to escape to London, and thence to the

shelter of some friends of his at Bedford. Gifford had studied medicine

before he entered the army, and as soon as he thought it safe he began to

practise his old art in the town of Bedford. Gifford had been a

dissolute man as a soldier, and he became, if possible, a still more

scandalously dissolute man as a civilian. Gifford's life in Bedford was

a public disgrace, and his hatred and persecution of the Puritans in that

town made his very name an infamy and a fear. He reduced himself to

beggary with gambling and drink, but, when near suicide, he came under

the power of the truth, till we see him clothed with rags and with a

great burden on his back, crying out, 'What must I do to be saved?' 'But

at last'--I quote from the session records of his future church at

Bedford--'God did so plentifully discover to him the forgiveness of sins

for the sake of Christ, that all his life after he lost not the light of

God's countenance, no, not for an hour, save only about two days before

he died.' Gifford's conversion had been so conspicuous and notorious

that both town and country soon heard of it: and instead of being ashamed

of it, and seeking to hide it, Gifford at once, and openly, threw in his

lot with the extremest Puritans in the Puritan town of Bedford. Nor

could Gifford's talents be hid; till from one thing to another, we find

the former Royalist and dissolute Cavalier actually the parish minister

of Bedford in Cromwell's so evangelical but otherwise so elastic

establishment.

At this point we open John Bunyan's _Grace Abounding to the Chief of

Sinners_, and we read this classical passage:--'Upon a day the good

providence of God did cast me to Bedford to work in my calling: and in

one of the streets of that town I came where there were three or four

poor women sitting at the door in the sun and talking about the things of

God. But I may say I heard, but I understood not, for they were far

above and out of my reach . . . About this time I began to break my mind

to those poor people in Bedford, and to tell them of my condition, which,

when they had heard, they told Mr. Gifford of me, who himself also took

occasion to talk with me, and was willing to be well persuaded of me

though I think on too little grounds. But he invited me to his house,

where I should hear him confer with others about the dealings of God with

their souls, from all which I still received more conviction, and from

that time began to see something of the vanity and inner wretchedness of

my own heart, for as yet I knew no great matter therein . . . At that

time also I sat under the ministry of holy Mr. Gifford, whose doctrine,

by the grace of God, was much for my stability.' And so on in that

inimitable narrative.

The first minister whose words were truly blessed of God for our

awakening and conversion has always a place of his own in our hearts. We

all have some minister, some revivalist, some faithful friend, or some

good book in a warm place in our heart. It may be a great city preacher;

it may be a humble American or Irish revivalist; it may be _The Pilgrim's

Progress_, or _The Cardiphonia_, or the _Serious Call_--whoever or

whatever it was that first arrested and awakened and turned us into the

way of life, they all our days stand in a place by themselves in our

grateful heart. And John Gifford has been immortalised by John Bunyan,

both in his _Grace Abounding_ and in his _Pilgrim's Progress_. In his

_Grace Abounding_, as we have just seen, and in _The Pilgrim_, Gifford

has his portrait painted in holy oil on the wall of the Interpreter's

house, and again in eloquent pen and ink in the person of Evangelist.

John Gifford had himself made a narrow escape out of the City of

Destruction, and John Bunyan had, by Gifford's assistance, made the same

escape also. The scene, therefore, both within that city and outside the

gate of it, was so fixed in Bunyan's mind and memory that no part of his

memorable book is more memorably put than just its opening page. Bunyan

himself is the man in rags, and Gifford is the evangelist who comes to

console and to conduct him. Bunyan's portraits are all taken from the

life. Brilliant and well-furnished as Bunyan's imagination was, Bedford

was still better furnished with all kinds of men and women, and with all

kinds of saints and sinners. And thus, instead of drawing upon his

imagination in writing his books, Bunyan drew from life. And thus it is

that we see first John Gifford, and then John Bunyan himself at the gate

of the city; and then, over the page, Gifford becomes the evangelist who

is sent by the four poor women to speak to the awakened tinker.

'Wherefore dost thou so cry?' asks Evangelist. 'Because,' replied the

man, 'I am condemned to die.' 'But why are you so unwilling to die,

since this life is so full of evils?' And I suppose we must all hear

Evangelist putting the same pungent question to ourselves every day, at

whatever point of the celestial journey we at present are. Yes; why are

we all so unwilling to die? Why do we number our days to put off our

death to the last possible period? Why do we so refuse to think of the

only thing we are sure soon to come to? We are absolutely sure of

nothing else in the future but death. We may not see to-morrow, but we

shall certainly see the day of our death. And yet we have all our plans

laid for to-morrow, and only one here and one there has any plan laid for

the day of his death. And can it be for the same reason that made the

man in rags unwilling to die? Is it because of the burden on our back?

Is it because we are not fit to go to judgment? And yet the trumpet may

sound summoning us hence before the midnight clock strikes. If this be

thy condition, why standest thou still? Dost thou see yonder shining

light? Keep that light in thine eye. Go up straight to it, knock at the

gate, and it shall be told thee there what thou shalt do next. Burdened

sinner, son of man in rags and terror: What has burdened thee so? What

has torn thy garments into such shameful rags? What is it in thy burden

that makes it so heavy? And how long has it lain so heavy upon thee? 'I

cannot run,' said the man, 'because of the burden on my back.' And it

has been noticed of you that you do not laugh, or run, or dress, or

dance, or walk, or eat, or drink as once you did. All men see that there

is some burden on your back; some sore burden on your heart and your

mind. Do you see yonder wicket gate? Do you see yonder shining light?

There is no light in all the horizon for you but yonder light over the

gate. Keep it in your eye; make straight, and make at once for it, and

He who keeps the gate and keeps the light burning over it, He will tell

you what to do with your burden. He told John Gifford, and He told John

Bunyan, till both their burdens rolled off their backs, and they saw them

no more. What would you not give to-night to be released like them? Do

you not see yonder shining light?

Having set Christian fairly on the way to the wicket gate, Evangelist

leaves him in order to seek out and assist some other seeker. But

yesterday he had set Faithful's face to the celestial city, and he is off

now to look for another pilgrim. We know some of Christian's adventures

and episodes after Evangelist left him, but we do not take up these at

present. We pass on to the next time that Evangelist finds Christian,

and he finds him in a sorry plight. He has listened to bad advice. He

has gone off the right road, he has lost sight of the gate, and all the

thunders and lightnings of Sinai are rolling and flashing out against

him. What doest thou here of all men in the world? asked Evangelist,

with a severe and dreadful countenance. Did I not direct thee to His

gate, and why art thou here? Christian told him that a fair-spoken man

had met him, and had persuaded him to take an easier and shorter way of

getting rid of his burden. Read the whole place for yourselves. The end

of it was that Evangelist set Christian right again, and gave him two

counsels which would be his salvation if he attended to them: Strive to

enter in at the strait gate, and, Take up thy cross daily. He would need

more counsel afterwards than that; but, meantime, that was enough. Let

Christian follow that, and he would before long be rid of his burden.

In the introductory lecture Bishop Butler has been commended and praised

as a moralist, and certainly not one word beyond his deserts; but an

evangelical preacher cannot send any man with the burden of a bad past

upon him to Butler for advice and direction about that. While lecturing

on and praising the sound philosophical and ethical spirit of the great

bishop, Dr. Chalmers complains that he so much lacks the _sal

evangelicum_, the strength and the health and the sweetness of the

doctrines of grace. Legality and Civility and Morality are all good and

necessary in their own places; but he is a cheat who would send a guilt-

burdened and sick-at-heart sinner to any or all of them. The wicket gate

first, and then He who keeps that gate will tell us what to do, and where

next to go; but any other way out of the City of Destruction but by the

wicket gate is sure to land us where it landed Evangelist's quaking and

sweating charge. When Bishop Butler lay on his deathbed he called for

his chaplain, and said, 'Though I have endeavoured to avoid sin, and to

please God to the utmost of my power, yet from the consciousness of my

perpetual infirmities I am still afraid to die.' 'My lord,' said his

happily evangelical chaplain, 'have you forgotten that Jesus Christ is a

Saviour?' 'True,' said the dying philosopher, 'but how shall I know that

He is a Saviour for me?' 'My lord, it is written, "Him that cometh to

Me, I will in no wise cast out."' 'True,' said Butler, 'and I am

surprised that though I have read that Scripture a thousand times, I

never felt its virtue till this moment, and now I die in peace.'

The third and the last time on which the pilgrims meet with their old

friend and helper, Evangelist, is when they are just at the gates of the

town of Vanity. They have come through many wonderful experiences since

last they saw and spoke with him. They have had the gate opened to them

by Goodwill. They have been received and entertained in the

Interpreter's House, and in the House Beautiful. The burden has fallen

off their backs at the cross, and they have had their rags removed and

have received change of raiment. They have climbed the Hill Difficulty,

and they have fought their way through the Valley of the Shadow of Death.

More than the half of their adventures and sufferings are past; but they

are not yet out of gunshot of the devil, and the bones of many a

promising pilgrim lie whitening the way between this and the city. Many

of our young communicants have made a fair and a promising start for

salvation. They have got over the initial difficulties that lay in their

way to the Lord's table, and we have entered their names with honest

pride in our communion roll. But a year or two passes over, and the

critical season arrives when our young communicant 'comes out,' as the

word is. Up till now she has been a child, a little maid, a Bible-class

student, a young communicant, a Sabbath-school teacher. But she is now a

young lady, and she comes out into the world. We soon see that she has

so come out, as we begin to miss her from places and from employments her

presence used to brighten; and, very unwillingly, we overhear men and

women with her name on their lips in a way that makes us fear for her

soul, till many, oh, in a single ministry, how many, who promised well at

the gate and ran safely past many snares, at last sell all--body and soul

and Saviour--in Vanity Fair.

Well, Evangelist remains Evangelist still. Only, without losing any of

his sweetness and freeness and fulness of promise, he adds to that some

solemn warnings and counsels suitable now, as never before, to these two

pilgrims. If one may say so, he would add now such moral treatises as

Butler's _Sermons_ and _Serious Call_ to such evangelical books as _Grace

Abounding_ and _A Jerusalem Sinner Saved_.

To-morrow the two pilgrims will come out of the wilderness and will be

plunged into a city where they will be offered all kinds of

merchandise,--houses, lands, places, honours, preferments, titles,

pleasures, delights, wives, children, bodies, souls, and what not. An

altogether new world from anything they have yet come through, and a

world where many who once began well have gone no further. Such counsels

as these, then, Evangelist gave Christian and Faithful as they left the

lonely wilderness behind them and came out towards the gate of the

seductive city--'Let the Kingdom of Heaven be always before your eyes,

and believe steadfastly concerning things that are invisible.' Visible,

tangible, sweet, and desirable things will immediately be offered to

them, and unless they have a faith in their hearts that is the substance

of things hoped for, and the evidence of things not seen, it will soon be

all over with them and their pilgrimage. 'Let no man take your crown,'

he said also, as he foresaw at how many booths and counters, houses,

lands, places, preferments, wives, husbands, and what not, would be

offered them and pressed upon them in exchange for their heavenly crown.

'Above all, look well to your own hearts,' he said. Canon Venables

laments over the teaching that Bunyan received from John Gifford. 'Its

principle,' he says, 'was constant introspection and scrupulous weighing

of every word and deed, and even of every thought, instead of leading the

mind off from self to the Saviour.' The canon seems to think that it was

specially unfortunate for Bunyan to be told to keep his heart and to

weigh well every thought of it; but I must point out to you that

Evangelist puts as above all other things the most important for the

pilgrims the looking well to their own hearts; and our plain-spoken

author has used a very severe word about any minister who should whisper

anything to any pilgrim that could be construed or misunderstood into

putting Christ in the place of thought and word and deed, and the

scrupulous weighing of every one of them. 'Let nothing that is on this

side the other world get within you; and above all, look well to your own

hearts, and to the lusts thereof.'

'Set your faces like a flint,' Evangelist proceeds. How little like all

that you hear in the counsels of the pulpit to young women coming out and

to young men entering into business life. I am convinced that if we

ministers were more direct and plain-spoken to such persons at such

times; if we, like Bunyan, told them plainly what kind of a world it is

they are coming out to buy and sell in, and what its merchandise and its

prices are; if our people would let us so preach to their sons and

daughters, I feel sure far fewer young communicants would make shipwreck,

and far fewer grey heads would go down with sorrow to the grave. 'Be not

afraid,' said Robert Hall in his charge to a young minister, 'of devoting

whole sermons to particular parts of moral conduct and religious duty. It

is impossible to give right views of them unless you dissect characters

and describe particular virtues and vices. The works of the flesh and

the fruits of the Spirit must be distinctly pointed out. To preach

against sin in general without descending to particulars may lead many to

complain of the evil of their hearts, while at the same time they are

awfully inattentive to the evil of their conduct.' Take Evangelist's

noble counsels at the gate of Vanity Fair, and then take John Bunyan's

masterly description of the Fair itself, with all that is bought and sold

in it, and you will have a lesson in evangelical preaching that the

evangelical pulpit needed in Bunyan's day, in Robert Hall's day, and not

less in our own.

'My sons, you have heard the truth of the gospel, that you must through

many tribulations enter the Kingdom of God. When, therefore, you are

come to the Fair and shall find fulfilled what I have here related, then

remember your friend; quit yourselves like men, and commit the keeping of

your souls to your God in well-doing as unto a faithful Creator.'