E-text prepared by Al Haines
PAROCHIAL AND PLAIN SERMONS
by
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN, B.D.
Formerly Vicar of St. Mary's, Oxford
In Eight Volumes
VOL. VII.
New Edition
London
Longmans, Green, and Co.
and New York: 15 East 16th Street
1891
CONTENTS.
SERMON I.
The Lapse of Time.
"_Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might; for there is
no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom, in the grave, whither
thou goest._"--Eccles. ix. 10
SERMON II.
Religion a Weariness to the Natural Man.
"_He hath no form nor comeliness; and when we shall see Him, there is no
beauty that we should desire Him._"--Isaiah liii. 2
SERMON III.
The World our Enemy.
"_We know that we are of God, and the whole world lieth in
wickedness._"--1 John v. 19
SERMON IV.
The Praise of Men
"_They loved the praise of men more than the praise of God._"--John xii.
43
SERMON V.
Temporal Advantages.
"_We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry
nothing out. And having food and raiment let us be therewith
content._"--1 Tim. vi. 7, 8
SERMON VI.
The Season of Epiphany.
"_This beginning of miracles did Jesus in Cana of Galilee, and manifested
forth His glory; and His disciples believed on Him._"--John ii. 11
SERMON VII.
The Duty of Self-Denial.
"_Surely I have behaved and quieted myself, as a child that is weaned of
his mother: my soul is even as a weaned child._"--Psalm cxxxi. 2
SERMON VIII.
The Yoke of Christ.
"_Take My yoke upon you, and learn of Me, for I am meek and lowly in
heart, and ye shall find rest unto your souls; for My yoke is easy, and
My burden is light._"--Matt. xi. 29, 30
SERMON IX.
Moses the Type of Christ.
"_The Lord thy God will raise up unto thee a Prophet from the midst of
thee, of thy brethren, like unto me; unto Him ye shall hearken._"--Deut.
xviii. 15
SERMON X.
The Crucifixion.
"_He was oppressed, and He was afflicted, yet He opened not His mouth; He
is brought as a lamb to the slaughter, and as a sheep before her shearers
is dumb, so He openeth not His mouth._"--Isaiah liii. 7
SERMON XI.
Attendance on Holy Communion.
"_Ye will not come to Me, that ye might have life._"--John v. 40
SERMON XII.
The Gospel Feast.
"_When Jesus then lifted up His eyes, and saw a great company come unto
Him, He saith unto Philip, Whence shall we buy bread, that these may
eat?_"--John vi. 5
SERMON XIII.
Love of Religion, a New Nature.
"_If we lie dead with Christ, we believe that we shall also live with
Him._"--Romans vi. 8
SERMON XIV.
Religion Pleasant to the Religious.
"_O taste and see how gracious the Lord is: blessed is the man that
trusteth in Him._"--Psalm xxxiv. 8
SERMON XV
Mental Prayer.
"_Pray without ceasing._"--1 Thess. v. 17
SERMON XVI.
Infant Baptism.
"_Except a man be born of water and of the Spirit, he cannot enter into
the Kingdom of God._"--John iii. 5
SERMON XVII.
The Unity of the Church.
"_And I say also unto thee, That thou art Peter, and upon this rock I
will build My Church; and the gates of hell shall not prevail against
it._"--Matt. xvi. 18
SERMON XVIII.
Stedfastness in the Old Paths.
"_Thus saith the Lord, Stand ye in the ways, and see, and ask for the old
paths, where is the good way, and walk therein, and ye shall find rest
for your souls._"--Jer. vi. 16
SERMON I.
The Lapse of Time.
"_Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might; for there is
no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom, in the grave, whither
thou goest._"--Eccles. ix. 10.
Solomon's advice that we should do whatever our hand findeth to do with
our might, naturally directs our thoughts to that great work in which
all others are included, which will outlive all other works, and for
which alone we really are placed here below--the salvation of our
souls. And the consideration of this great work, which must be done
with all our might, and completed before the grave, whither we go,
presents itself to our minds with especial force at the commencement of
a new year. We are now entering on a fresh stage of our life's
journey; we know well how it will end, and we see where we shall stop
in the evening, though we do not see the road. And we know in what our
business lies while we travel, and that it is important for us to do it
with our "might; for there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor
wisdom, in the grave." This is so plain, that nothing need be said in
order to convince us that it is true. We know it well; the very
complaint which numbers commonly make when told of it, is that they
know it already, that it is nothing new, that they have no need to be
told, and that it is tiresome to hear the same thing said over and over
again, and impertinent in the person who repeats it. Yes; thus it is
that sinners silence their conscience, by quarrelling with those who
appeal to it; they defend themselves, if it may be called a defence, by
pleading that they already know what they should do and do not, that
they know perfectly well that they are living at a distance from God,
and are in peril of eternal ruin; that they know they are making
themselves children of Satan, and denying the Lord that bought them,
and want no one to tell them so. Thus they witness against themselves.
However, though we already know well enough that we have much to do
before we die, yet (if we will but attend) it may be of use to hear the
fact dwelt upon; because by thinking over it steadily and seriously, we
may possibly, through God's grace, gain some deep conviction of it;
whereas while we keep to general terms, and confess that this life is
important and is short, in the mere summary way in which men commonly
confess it, we have, properly speaking, no knowledge of that great
truth at all.
Consider, then, what it is to die; "there is no work, device,
knowledge, or wisdom, in the grave." Death puts an end absolutely and
irrevocably to all our plans and works, and it is inevitable. The
Psalmist speaks to "high and low, rich and poor, one with another."
"No man can deliver his brother, nor make agreement unto God for him."
Even "wise men die, as well as the ignorant and foolish, and leave
their riches for other[1]." Difficult as we may find it to bring it
home to ourselves, to realize it, yet as surely as we are here
assembled together, so surely will every one of us, sooner or later,
one by one, be stretched on the bed of death. We naturally shrink from
the thought of death, and of its attendant circumstances; but all that
is hateful and fearful about it will be fulfilled in our case, one by
one. But all this is nothing compared with the consequences implied in
it. Death stops us; it stops our race. Men are engaged about their
work, or about their pleasure; they are in the city, or the field; any
how they are stopped; their deeds are suddenly gathered in--a reckoning
is made--all is sealed up till the great day. What a change is this!
In the words used familiarly in speaking of the dead, they are no more.
They were full of schemes and projects; whether in a greater or humbler
rank, they had their hopes and fears, their prospects, their pursuits,
their rivalries; all these are now come to an end. One builds a house,
and its roof is not finished; another buys merchandise, and it is not
yet sold. And all their virtues and pleasing qualities which endeared
them to their friends are, as far as this world is concerned, vanished.
Where are they who were so active, so sanguine, so generous? the
amiable, the modest, and the kind? We were told that they were dead;
they suddenly disappeared; that is all we know about it. They were
silently taken from us; they are not met in the seat of the elders, nor
in the assemblies of the people, in the mixed concourse of men, nor in
the domestic retirement which they prized. As Scripture describes it,
"the wind has passed over them, and they are gone, and their place
shall know them no more." And they have burst the many ties which held
them; they were parents, brothers, sisters, children, and friends; but
the bond of kindred is broken, and the silver cord of love is loosed.
They have been followed by the vehement grief of tears, and the long
sorrow of aching hearts; but they make no return, they answer not; they
do not even satisfy our wish to know that they sorrow for us as we for
them. We talk about them thenceforth as if they were persons we do not
know; we talk about them as third persons; whereas they used to be
always with us, and every other thought which was within us was shared
by them. Or perhaps, if our grief is too deep, we do not mention their
names at all. And their possessions, too, all fall to others. The
world goes on without them; it forgets them. Yes, so it is; the world
contrives to forget that men have souls, it looks upon them all as mere
parts of some great visible system. This continues to move on; to this
the world ascribes a sort of life and personality. When one or other
of its members die, it considers them only as falling out of the
system, and as come to nought. For a minute, perhaps, it thinks of
them in sorrow, then leaves them--leaves them for ever. It keeps its
eye on things seen and temporal. Truly whenever a man dies, rich or
poor, an immortal soul passes to judgment; but somehow we read of the
deaths of persons we have seen or heard of, and this reflection never
comes across us. Thus does the world really cast off men's souls, and
recognizing only their bodies, it makes it appear as if "that which
befalleth the sons of men befalleth beasts, even one thing befalleth
them, as the one dieth so dieth the other; yea, they have all one
breath, so that a man hath no pre-eminence over a beast, for all is
vanity[2]."
But let us follow the course of a soul thus casting off the world, and
cast off by it. It goes forth as a stranger on a journey. Man seems
to die and to be no more, when he is but quitting us, and is really
beginning to live. Then he sees sights which before it did not even
enter into his mind to conceive, and the world is even less to him than
he to the world. Just now he was lying on the bed of sickness, but in
that moment of death what an awful change has come over him! What a
crisis for him! There is stillness in the room that lately held him;
nothing is doing there, for he is gone, he now belongs to others; he
now belongs entirely to the Lord who bought him; to Him he returns; but
whether to be lodged safely in His place of hope, or to be imprisoned
against the great Day, that is another matter, that depends on the
deeds done in the body, whether good or evil. And now what are his
thoughts? How infinitely important now appears the value of time, now
when it is nothing to him! Nothing; for though he spend centuries
waiting for Christ, he cannot now alter his state from bad to good, or
from good to bad. What he dieth that he must be for ever; as the tree
falleth so must it lie. This is the comfort of the true servant of
God, and the misery of the transgressor. His lot is cast once and for
all, and he can but wait in hope or in dread. Men on their death-beds
have declared, that no one could form a right idea of the value of time
till he came to die; but if this has truth in it, how much more truly
can it be said after death! What an estimate shall we form of time
while we are waiting for judgment! Yes, it is we--all this, I repeat,
belongs to us most intimately. It is not to be looked at as a picture,
as a man might read a light book in a leisure hour. _We_ must die, the
youngest, the healthiest, the most thoughtless; _we_ must be thus
unnaturally torn in two, soul from body; and only united again to be
made more thoroughly happy or to be miserable for ever.
Such is death considered in its inevitable necessity, and its
unspeakable importance--nor can we ensure to ourselves any certain
interval before its coming. The time may be long; but it may also be
short. It is plain, a man may die any day; all we can say is, that it
is unlikely that he will die. But of this, at least, we are certain,
that, come it sooner or later, death is continually on the move towards
us. We are ever nearer and nearer to it. Every morning we rise we are
nearer that grave in which there is no work, nor device, than we were.
We are now nearer the grave, than when we entered this Church. Thus
life is ever crumbling away under us. What should we say to a man, who
was placed on some precipitous ground, which was ever crumbling under
his feet, and affording less and less secure footing, yet was careless
about it? Or what should we say to one who suffered some precious
liquor to run from its receptacle into the thoroughfare of men, without
a thought to stop it? who carelessly looked on and saw the waste of it,
becoming greater and greater every minute? But what treasure can equal
time? It is the seed of eternity: yet we suffer ourselves to go on,
year after year, hardly using it at all in God's service, or thinking
it enough to give Him at most a tithe or a seventh of it, while we
strenuously and heartily sow to the flesh, that from the flesh we may
reap corruption. We try how little we can safely give to religion,
instead of having the grace to give abundantly. "Rivers of water run
down mine eyes, because men keep not Thy law," so says the holy
Psalmist. Doubtless an inspired prophet saw far more clearly than we
can see, the madness of men in squandering that treasure upon sin,
which is meant to buy their chief good;--but if so, what must this
madness appear in God's sight! What an inveterate malignant evil is it
in the hearts of the sons of men, that thus leads them to sit down to
eat, and drink, and rise up to play, when time is hurrying on and
judgment coming? We have been told what He thinks of man's unbelief,
though we cannot enter into the depths of His thoughts. He showed it
to us in act and deed, as far as we could receive it, when He even sent
His Only-begotten Son into the world as at this time, to redeem us from
the world,--which, most surely, was not lightly done; and we also learn
His thoughts about it from the words of that most merciful Son,--which
most surely were not lightly spoken, "The wicked," He says, "shall go
into everlasting punishment."
Oh that there were such a heart in us that we would fear God and keep
His commandments always! But it is of no use to speak; men know their
duty--they will not do it. They say they do not need or wish to be
told it, that it is an intrusion, and a rudeness, to tell them of death
and judgment. So must it be,--and we, who have to speak to them, must
submit to this. Speak we must, as an act of duty to God, whether they
will hear, or not, and then must leave our words as a witness. Other
means for rousing them we have none. We speak from Christ our gracious
Lord, their Redeemer, who has already pardoned them freely, yet they
will not follow Him with a true heart; and what can be done more?
Another year is now opening upon us; it speaks to the thoughtful, and
is heard by those, who have expectant ears, and watch for Christ's
coming. The former year is gone, it is dead, there it lies in the
grave of past time, not to decay however, and be forgotten, but kept in
the view of God's omniscience, with all its sins and errors irrevocably
written, till, at length, it will be raised again to testify about us
at the last day; and who among us can bear the thought of his own
doings, in the course of it?--all that he has said and done, all that
has been conceived within his mind, or been acted on, and all that he
has not said and done, which it was a duty to say or do. What a dreary
prospect seems to be before us, when we reflect that we have the solemn
word of truth pledged to us, in the last and most awful revelation,
which God has made to us about the future, that in that day, the books
will be opened, "and another book opened, which is the book of life,
and the dead judged out of those things which were written in the books
according to their works[3]!" What would a man give, any one of us,
who has any real insight into his polluted and miserable state, what
would he give to tear away some of the leaves there preserved! For how
heinous are the sins therein written! Think of the multitude of sins
done by us since we first knew the difference between right and wrong.
We have forgotten them, but there we might read them clearly recorded.
Well may holy David exclaim, "Remember not the sins of my youth nor my
transgressions, according to Thy mercy remember Thou me." Conceive,
too, the multitude of sins which have so grown into us as to become
part of us, and in which we now live, not knowing, or but partially
knowing, that they are sins, habits of pride, self-reliance,
self-conceit, sullenness, impurity, sloth, selfishness, worldliness.
The history of all these, their beginnings, and their growth, is
recorded in those dreadful books; and when we look forward to the
future, how many sins shall we have committed by this time next
year,--though we try ever so much to know our duty, and overcome
ourselves! Nay, or rather shall we have the opportunity of obeying or
disobeying God for a year longer? Who knows whether by that time our
account may not be closed for ever?
"Remember me, O Lord, when Thou comest into Thy kingdom[4]." Such was
the prayer of the penitent thief on the cross, such must be our prayer.
Who can do us any good, but He, who shall also be our Judge? When
shocking thoughts about ourselves come across us and afflict us,
"Remember me," this is all we have to say. We have "no work, nor
device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom" of our own, to better ourselves
withal. We can say nothing to God in defence of ourselves,--we can but
acknowledge that we are grievous sinners, and addressing Him as
suppliants, merely beg Him to bear us in mind in mercy, for His Son's
sake to do us some favour, not according to our deserts, but for the
love of Christ. The more we try to serve Him here, the better; but
after all, so far do we fall short of what we should be, that if we had
but what we are in ourselves to rely upon, wretched are we,--and we are
forced out of ourselves by the very necessity of our condition. To
whom should we go? Who can do us any good, but He who was born into
this world for our regeneration, was bruised for our iniquities, and
rose again for our justification? Even though we have served Him from
our youth up, though after His pattern we have grown, as far as mere
man can grow, in wisdom as we grew in stature, though we ever have had
tender hearts, and a mortified will, and a conscientious temper, and an
obedient spirit; yet, at the very best, how much have we left undone,
how much done, which ought to be otherwise! What He can do for our
nature, in the way of sanctifying it, we know indeed in a measure; we
know, in the case of His saints; and we certainly do not know the limit
of His carrying forward in those objects of His special favour the work
of purification, and renewal through His Spirit. But for ourselves, we
know full well that much as we may have attempted, we have done very
little, that our very best service is nothing worth,--and the more we
attempt, the more clearly we shall see how little we have hitherto
attempted.
Those whom Christ saves are they who at once attempt to save
themselves, yet despair of saving themselves; who aim to do all, and
confess they do nought; who are all love, and all fear, who are the
most holy, and yet confess themselves the most sinful; who ever seek to
please Him, yet feel they never can; who are full of good works, yet of
works of penance. All this seems a contradiction to the natural man,
but it is not so to those whom Christ enlightens. They understand in
proportion to their illumination, that it is possible to work out their
salvation, yet to have it wrought out for them, to fear and tremble at
the thought of judgment, yet to rejoice always in the Lord, and hope
and pray for His coming.
[1] Ps. xlix. 2-10.
[2] Eccles. iii. 19.
[3] Rev. xx. 12.
[4] Luke xxiii. 42.
SERMON II.
Religion a Weariness to the Natural Man.
"_He hath no form nor comeliness; and when we shall see Him, there is
no beauty that we should desire Him._"--Isaiah liii. 2.
"Religion is a weariness;" such is the judgment commonly passed, often
avowed, concerning the greatest of blessings which Almighty God has
bestowed upon us. And when God gave the blessing, He at the same time
foretold that such would be the judgment of the world upon it, even as
manifested in the gracious Person of Him whom He sent to give it to us.
"He hath no form nor comeliness," says the Prophet, speaking of our
Lord and Saviour, "and when we shall see Him, there is no beauty that
we should desire Him." He declared beforehand, that to man His
religion would be uninteresting and distasteful. Not that this
prediction excuses our deadness to it; this dislike of the religion
given us by God Himself, seen as it is on all sides of us,--of religion
in all its parts, whether its doctrines, its precepts, its polity, its
worship, its social influence,--this distaste for its very name, must
obviously be an insult to the Giver. But the text speaks of it as a
fact, without commenting on the guilt involved in it; and as such I
wish you to consider it, as far as this may be done in reverence and
seriousness. Putting aside for an instant the thought of the
ingratitude and the sin which indifference to Christianity implies, let
us, as far as we dare, view it merely as a matter of fact, after the
manner of the text, and form a judgment on the probable consequences of
it. Let us take the state of the case as it is found, and survey it
dispassionately, as even an unbeliever might survey it, without at the
moment considering whether it is sinful or not; as a misfortune, if we
will, or a strange accident, or a necessary condition of our
nature,--one of the phenomena, as it may be called, of the present
world.
Let me then review human life in some of its stages and conditions, in
order to impress upon you the fact of this contrariety between
ourselves and our Maker: He having one will, we another; He declaring
one thing to be good for us, and we fancying other objects to be our
good.
1. "Religion is a weariness," alas! so feel even children before they
can well express their meaning. Exceptions of course now and then
occur; and of course children are always more open to religious
impressions and visitations than grown persons. They have many good
thoughts and good desires, of which, in after life, the multitude of
men seem incapable. Yet who, after all, can have a doubt that, in
spite of the more intimate presence of God's grace with those who have
not yet learned to resist it, still, on the whole, religion is a
weariness to children? Consider their amusements, their
enjoyments,--what they hope, what they devise, what they scheme, and
what they dream about themselves in time future, when they grow up; and
say what place religion holds in their hearts. Watch the reluctance
with which they turn to religious duties, to saying their prayers, or
reading the Bible; and then judge. Observe, as they get older, the
influence which the fear of the ridicule of their companions has in
deterring them even from speaking of religion, or seeming to be
religious. Now the dread of ridicule, indeed, is natural enough; but
why should religion inspire ridicule? What is there absurd in thinking
of God? Why should we be ashamed of worshipping Him? It is
unaccountable, but it is natural. We may call it an accident, or what
we will; still it is an undeniable fact, and that is what I insist
upon. I am not forgetful of the peculiar character of children's
minds: sensible objects first meet their observation; it is not
wonderful that they should at first be inclined to limit their thoughts
to things of sense. A distinct profession of faith, and a conscious
maintenance of principle, may imply a strength and consistency of
thought to which they are as yet unequal. Again, childhood is
capricious, ardent, light-hearted; it cannot think deeply or long on
any subject. Yet all this is not enough to account for the fact in
question--why they should feel this distaste for the very subject of
religion. Why should they be ashamed of paying reverence to an unseen,
all-powerful God, whose existence they do not disbelieve? Yet they do
feel ashamed of it. Is it that they are ashamed of themselves, not of
their religion; feeling the inconsistency of professing what they
cannot fully practise? This refinement does not materially alter the
view of the case; for it is merely their own acknowledgment that they
do not love religion as much as they ought. No; we seem compelled to
the conclusion, that there is by nature some strange discordance
between what we love and what God loves. So much, then, on the state
of boyhood.
2. "Religion is a weariness." I will next take the case of young
persons when they first enter into life. Here I may appeal to some
perhaps who now hear me. Alas! my brethren, is it not so? Is not
religion associated in your minds with gloom, melancholy, and
weariness? I am not at present going so far as to reprove you for it,
though I might well do so, if I did, perhaps you might at once turn
away, and I wish you calmly to think the matter over, and bear me
witness that I state the fact correctly. It is so; you cannot deny it.
The very terms "religion," "devotion," "piety," "conscientiousness,"
"mortification," and the like, you find to be inexpressibly dull and
cheerless: you cannot find fault with them, indeed, you would if you
could; and whenever the words are explained in particulars and
realized, then you do find occasion for exception and objection. But
though you cannot deny the claims of religion used as a vague and
general term, yet how irksome, cold, uninteresting, uninviting, does it
at best appear to you! how severe its voice! how forbidding its aspect!
With what animation, on the contrary, do you enter into the mere
pursuits of time and the world! What bright anticipations of joy and
happiness flit before your eyes! How you are struck and dazzled at the
view of the prizes of this life, as they are called! How you admire
the elegancies of art, the brilliance of wealth, or the force of
intellect! According to your opportunities you mix in the world, you
meet and converse with persons of various conditions and pursuits, and
are engaged in the numberless occurrences of daily life. You are full
of news; yon know what this or that person is doing, and what has
befallen him; what has not happened, which was near happening, what may
happen. You are full of ideas and feelings upon all that goes on
around you. But, from some cause or other, religion has no part, no
sensible influence, in your judgment of men and things. It is out of
your way. Perhaps you have your pleasure parties; you readily take
your share in them time after time; you pass continuous hours in
society where you know that it is quite impossible even to mention the
name of religion. Your heart is in scenes and places when conversation
on serious subjects is strictly forbidden by the rules of the world's
propriety. I do not say we should discourse on religious subjects,
wherever we go; I do not say we should make an effort to discourse on
them at any time, nor that we are to refrain from social meetings in
which religion does not lie on the surface of the conversation: but I
do say, that when men find their pleasure and satisfaction to lie in
society which proscribes religion, and when they deliberately and
habitually prefer those amusements which have necessarily nothing to do
with religion, such persons cannot view religion as God views it. And
this is the point: that the feelings of our hearts on the subject of
religion are different from the declared judgment of God; that we have
a natural distaste for that which He has said is our chief good.
3. Now let us pass to the more active occupations of life. Here, too,
religion is confessedly felt to be wearisome, it is out of place. The
transactions of worldly business, speculations in trade, ambitious
hopes, the pursuit of knowledge, the public occurrences of the day,
these find a way directly to the heart, they rouse, they influence. It
is superfluous to go about to prove this innate power over us of things
of time and sense, to make us think and act. The name of religion, on
the other hand, is weak and impotent; it contains no spell to kindle
the feelings of man, to make the heart beat with anxiety, and to
produce activity and perseverance. The reason is not merely that men
are in want of leisure, and are sustained in a distressing continuance
of exertion, by their duties towards those dependent on them. They
have their seasons of relaxation, they turn for a time from their
ordinary pursuits; still religion does not attract them, they find
nothing of comfort or satisfaction in it. For a time they allow
themselves to be idle. They want an object to employ their minds upon;
they pace to and fro in very want of an object; yet their duties to
God, their future hopes in another state of being, the revelation of
God's mercy and will, as contained in Scripture, the news of
redemption, the gift of regeneration, the sanctities, the devotional
heights, the nobleness and perfection which Christ works in His elect,
do not suggest themselves as fit subjects to dispel their weariness.
Why? Because religion makes them melancholy, say they, and they wish
to relax. Religion is a labour, it is a weariness, a greater weariness
than the doing nothing at all. "Wherefore," says Solomon, "is there a
price in the hand of a fool to get wisdom, seeing he hath no heart to
it[1]?"
4. But this natural contrariety between man and his Maker is still more
strikingly shown by the confessions of men of the world who have given
some thought to the subject, and have viewed society with somewhat of a
philosophical spirit. Such men treat the demands of religion with
disrespect and negligence, on the ground of their being unnatural.
They say, "It is natural for men to love the world for its own sake; to
be engrossed in its pursuits, and to set their hearts on the rewards of
industry, on the comforts, luxuries, and pleasures of this life. Man
would not be man if he could be made otherwise; he would not be what he
was evidently intended for by his Maker." Let us pass by the obvious
_answer_ that might be given to this objection; it is enough for my
purpose that it is _commonly urged_, recognizing as it does the fact of
the disagreement existing between the claims of God's word, and the
inclinations and natural capacities of man. Many, indeed, of those
unhappy men who have denied the Christian faith, treat the religious
principle altogether as a mere unnatural, eccentric state of mind, a
peculiar untoward condition of the affections to which weakness will
reduce a man, whether it has been brought on by anxiety, oppressive
sorrow, bodily disease, excess of imagination or the like, and
temporary or permanent, according to the circumstances of the disposing
cause; a state to which we all are liable, as we are liable to any
other mental injury, but unmanly and unworthy of our dignity as
rational beings. Here again it is enough for our purpose, that it is
allowed by these persons that the love of religion is unnatural and
inconsistent with the original condition of our minds.
The same remark may be made upon the notions which secretly prevail in
certain quarters at the present day, concerning the unsuitableness of
Christianity to an enlightened age. Men there are who look upon the
inspired word of God with a sort of indulgence, as if it had its use,
and had done service in its day; that in times of ignorance it awed and
controlled fierce barbarians, whom nothing else could have subdued; but
that from its very claim to be divine and infallible, and its
consequent unalterableness, it is an obstacle to the improvement of the
human race beyond a certain point, and must ultimately fall before the
gradual advancement of mankind in knowledge and virtue. In other
words, the literature of the day is weary of Revealed Religion.
5. Once more; that religion is in itself a weariness is seen even in
the conduct of the better sort of persons, who really on the whole are
under the influence of its spirit. So dull and uninviting is calm and
practical religion, that religious persons are ever exposed to the
temptation of looking out for excitements of one sort or other, to make
it pleasurable to them. The spirit of the Gospel is a meek, humble,
gentle, unobtrusive spirit. It doth not cry nor lift up its voice in
the streets, unless called upon by duty so to do, and then it does it
with pain. Display, pretension, conflict, are unpleasant to it. What
then is to be thought of persons who are ever on the search after
novelties to make religion interesting to them; who seem to find that
Christian activity cannot be kept up without unchristian party-spirit,
or Christian conversation without unchristian censoriousness? Why,
this; that religion is to them as to others, taken by itself, a
weariness, and requires something foreign to its own nature to make it
palatable. Truly it is a weariness to the natural man to serve God
humbly and in obscurity; it is very wearisome, and very monotonous, to
go on day after day watching all we do and think, detecting our secret
failings, denying ourselves, creating within us, under God's grace,
those parts of the Christian character in which we are deficient;
wearisome to learn modesty, love of insignificance, willingness to be
thought little of, backwardness to clear ourselves when slandered, and
readiness to confess when we are wrong; to learn to have no cares for
this world, neither to hope nor to fear, but to be resigned and
contented!
I may close these remarks, by appealing to the consciences of all who
have ever set about the work of religion in good earnest, whoever they
may be, whether they have made less, or greater progress in their noble
toil, whether they are matured saints, or feeble strugglers against the
world and the flesh. They have ever confessed how great efforts were
necessary to keep close to the commandments of God; in spite of their
knowledge of the truth, and their faith, in spite of the aids and
consolations they receive from above, still how often do their corrupt
hearts betray them! Even their privileges are often burdensome to
them, even to pray for the grace which in Christ is pledged to them is
an irksome task. They know that God's service is perfect freedom, and
they are convinced, both in their reason and from their own experience
of it, that it is true happiness; still they confess withal the strange
reluctance of their nature to love their Maker and His Service. And
this is the point in question; not only the mass of mankind, but even
the confirmed servants of Christ, witness to the opposition which
exists between their own nature and the demands of religion.
This then is the remarkable fact which I proposed to show. Can we
doubt that man's will runs contrary to God's will--that the view which
the inspired word takes of our present life, and of our destiny, does
not satisfy us, as it rightly ought to do? that Christ hath no form nor
comeliness in our eyes; and though we see Him, we see no desirable
beauty in Him? That holy, merciful, and meek Saviour, the Eternal, the
Only-begotten Son of God, our friend and infinite benefactor--He who
left the glory of His Father and died for us, who has promised us the
overflowing riches of His grace both here and hereafter. He is a light
shining in a dark place, and "the darkness comprehendeth it not."
"Light is come into the world and men love darkness rather than light."
The nature of man is flesh, and that which is born of the flesh is
flesh, and ever must so remain; it never can discern, love, accept, the
holy doctrines of the Gospel. It will occupy itself in various ways,
it will take interest in things of sense and time, but it can never be
religious. It is at enmity with God.
And now we see what must at once follow from what has been said. If
our hearts are by nature set on the world for its own sake, and the
world is one day to pass away, what are they to be set on, what to
delight in, then? Say, how will the soul feel when, stripped of its
present attire, which the world bestows, it stands naked and shuddering
before the pure, tranquil, and severe majesty of the Lord its God, its
most merciful, yet dishonoured Maker and Saviour? What are to be the
pleasures of the soul in another life? Can they be the same as they
are here? They cannot; Scripture tells us they cannot; the world
passeth away--now what is there left to love and enjoy through a long
eternity? What a dark, forlorn, miserable eternity that will be!
It is then plain enough, though Scripture said not a word on the
subject, that if we would be happy in the world to come, we must make
us new hearts, and begin to love the things we naturally do not love.
Viewing it as a practical point, the end of the whole matter is this,
we must be changed; for we cannot, we cannot expect the system of the
universe to come over to us; the inhabitants of heaven, the numberless
creations of Angels, the glorious company of the Apostles, the goodly
fellowship of the Prophets, the noble army of Martyrs, the holy Church
universal, the Will and Attributes of God, these are fixed. We must go
over to them. In our Saviour's own authoritative words: "Verily,
verily, except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of
God[2]." It is a plain matter of self-interest, to turn our thoughts
to the means of changing our hearts, putting out of the question our
duty towards God and Christ, our Saviour and Redeemer.
"He hath no form nor comeliness, and when we see Him, there is no
beauty that we should desire Him." It is not His loss that we love Him
not, it is our loss. He is All-blessed, whatever becomes of us. He is
not less blessed because we are far from Him. It is we who are not
blessed, except as we approach Him, except as we are like Him, except
as we love Him. Woe unto us, if in the day in which He comes from
Heaven we see nothing desirable or gracious in His wounds; but instead,
have made for ourselves an ideal blessedness, different from that which
will be manifested to us in Him. Woe unto us, if we have made pride,
or selfishness, or the carnal mind, our standard of perfection and
truth; if our eyes have grown dim, and our hearts gross, as regards the
true light of men, and the glory of the Eternal Father. May He Himself
save us from our self-delusions, whatever they are, and enable us to
give up this world, that we may gain the next;--and to rejoice in Him,
who had no home of His own, no place to lay His head, who was poor and
lowly, and despised and rejected, and tormented and slain!
[1] Prov. xvii. 16.
[2] John iii. 3.
SERMON III.
The World our Enemy.
"_We know that we are of God, and the whole world lieth in
wickedness._"--1 John v. 19.
Few words are of more frequent occurrence in the language of religion
than "the world;" Holy Scripture makes continual mention of it, in the
way of censure and caution; in the Service for Baptism it is described
as one of three great enemies of our souls, and in the ordinary
writings and conversation of Christians, I need hardly say, mention is
made of it continually. Yet most of us, it would appear, have very
indistinct notions what the world means. We know that the world is a
something dangerous to our spiritual interests, and that it is in some
way connected with human society--with men as a mixed multitude,
contrasted with men one by one, in private and domestic life; but what
it is, how it is our enemy, how it attacks, and how it is to be
avoided, is not so clear. Or if we conceive some distinct notion
concerning it, still probably it is a wrong notion,--which leads us, in
consequence, to misapply the Scripture precepts relating to the world;
and this is even worse than overlooking them. I shall now, then,
attempt to show what is meant by the world, and how, in consequence, we
are to understand the information and warnings of the sacred writers
concerning it.
1. Now, first, by the world is very commonly meant the present visible
system of things, without taking into consideration whether it is good
or bad. Thus St. John contrasts the world with the things that are in
it, which are evil, "Love not the world, _neither_ the things that are
in the world[1]." Again, he presently says, "The world passeth away,
_and_ the lust thereof." Here, as in many other parts of Scripture,
the world is not spoken of as actually sinful in itself (though its
lusts are so, of course), but merely as some present visible system
which is likely to attract us, and is not to be trusted, because it
cannot last. Let us first consider it in this point of view.
There is, as a matter of necessity, a great variety of stations and
fortunes among mankind; hardly two persons are in the same outward
circumstances, and possessed of the same mental resources. Men differ
from each other, and are bound together into one body or system by the
very points in which they differ; they depend on each other; such is
the will of God. This system is the world, to which it is plain belong
our various modes of supporting ourselves and families by exertion of
mind and body, our intercourse with others, our duty towards others,
the social virtues,--industry, honesty, prudence, justice, benevolence,
and the like. These spring all from our present lot in life, and tend
to our present happiness. This life holds out prizes to merit and
exertion. Men rise above their fellows, they gain fame and honours,
wealth and power, which we therefore call worldly goods. The affairs
of nations, the dealings of people with people, the interchange of
productions between country and country, are of this world. We are
educated in boyhood for this world; we play our part on a stage more or
less conspicuous, as the case may be; we die, we are no more, we are
forgotten, as far as the present state of things is concerned; all this
is of the world.
By the world, then, is meant this course of things which we see carried
on by means of human agency, with all its duties and pursuits. It is
not necessarily a sinful system; rather it is framed, as I have said,
by God Himself, and therefore cannot be otherwise than good. And yet
even thus considering it, we are bid not to love the world: even in
this sense the world is an enemy of our souls; and for this reason,
because the love of it is dangerous to beings circumstanced as we
are,--things in themselves good being not good to us sinners. And this
state of things which we see, fair and excellent in itself, is very
likely (for the very reason that it is seen, and because the spiritual
and future world is not seen) to seduce our wayward hearts from our
true and eternal good. As the traveller on serious business may be
tempted to linger, while he gazes on the beauty of the prospect which
opens on his way, so this well-ordered and divinely-governed world,
with all its blessings of sense and knowledge, may lead us to neglect
those interests which will endure when itself has passed away. In
truth, it promises more than it can fulfil. The goods of life and the
applause of men have their excellence, and, as far as they so, are
really good; but they are short-lived. And hence it is that many
pursuits in themselves honest and right, are nevertheless to be engaged
in with caution, lest they seduce us; and those perhaps with especial
caution, which tend to the well-being of men in this life. The
sciences, for instance, of good government, of acquiring wealth, of
preventing and relieving want, and the like, are for this reason
especially dangerous; for fixing, as they do, our exertions on this
world as an end, they go far to persuade us that they have no other
end; they accustom us to think too much of success in life and temporal
prosperity; nay, they may even teach us to be jealous of religion and
its institutions, as if these stood in our way, preventing us from
doing so much for the worldly interests of mankind as we might wish.
In this sense it is that St. Paul contrasts sight and faith. We see
this world; we only believe that there is a world of spirits, we do not
see it: and inasmuch as sight has more power over us than belief, and
the present than the future, so are the occupations and pleasures of
this life injurious to our faith. Yet not, I say, in themselves
sinful; as the Jewish system was a temporal system, yet divine, so is
the system of nature--this world--divine, though temporal. And as the
Jews became carnal-minded even by the influence of their
divinely-appointed system, and thereby rejected the Saviour of their
souls; in like manner, men of the world are hardened by God's own good
world, into a rejection of Christ. In neither case through the fault
of the things which are seen, whether miraculous or providential, but
accidentally, through the fault of the human heart.
2. But now, secondly, let us proceed to consider the world, not only as
dangerous, but as positively sinful, according to the text--"the whole
world lieth in wickedness." It was created well in all respects, but
even before it as yet had fully grown out into its parts, while as yet
the elements of human society did but lie hid in the nature and
condition of the first man, Adam fell; and thus the world, with all its
social ranks, and aims, and pursuits, and pleasures, and prizes, has
ever from its birth been sinful. The infection of sin spread through
the whole system, so that although the frame-work is good and divine,
the spirit and life within it are evil. Thus, for instance, to be in a
high station is the gift of God; but the pride and injustice to which
it has given scope is from the Devil. To be poor and obscure is also
the ordinance of God; but the dishonesty and discontent which are often
seen in the poor is from Satan. To cherish and protect wife and family
is God's appointment; but the love of gain, and the low ambition, which
lead many a man to exert himself, are sinful. Accordingly, it is said
in the text, "The world lieth in wickedness,"--it is plunged and
steeped, as it were, in a flood of sin, not a part of it remaining as
God originally created it, not a part pure from the corruptions with
which Satan has disfigured it.
Look into the history of the world, and what do you read there?
Revolutions and changes without number, kingdoms rising and falling;
and when without crime? States are established by God's ordinance,
they have their existence in the necessity of man's nature, but when
was one ever established, nay, or maintained, without war and
bloodshed? Of all natural instincts, what is more powerful than that
which forbids us to shed our fellows' blood? We shrink with natural
horror from the thought of a murderer; yet not a government has ever
been settled, or a state acknowledged by its neighbours, without war
and the loss of life; nay, more than this, not content with
unjustifiable bloodshed, the guilt of which must lie somewhere, instead
of lamenting it as a grievous and humiliating evil, the world has
chosen to honour the conqueror with its amplest share of admiration.
To become a hero, in the eyes of the world, it is almost necessary to
break the laws of God and man. Thus the deeds of the world are matched
by the opinions and principles of the world: it adopts bad doctrine to
defend bad practice; it loves darkness because its deeds are evil.