PIGGY MORRIS HEARS A “KNOCK AT THE DOOR.”
“The specious sermons of a learned man
Are little else but flashes in the pan;
The mere haranguing upon (what they call)
Morality is powder without ball;
But he who preaches with a Christian grace,
Fires at our vices, and the shot takes place.”
_John Byrom._
The service at the malt-kiln in Midden Harbour continued to be
attended with results most gratifying to the little band who had made
so bold a raid on territory long held by the devil in undisputed
peace. One Sunday evening the rude platform-pulpit was occupied by
Nathan Blyth, who, as my readers know, was a very effective local
preacher. The place was well filled by an eager but decorous crowd.
Few of the residents in Midden Harbour were absent from the service,
and a goodly number of people from the higher part of the village, and
even from other places, had assembled to hear “the word of the Lord.”
There were many there who, a little while ago, were little better,
either in habits or appearance, than the Gadarene demoniac, who were
now, thanks to the Great Miracle-worker, “sitting clothed, and in
their right mind.” Nathan Blyth, as a preacher, was in great request
at Midden Harbour, and it is no disparagement of the itinerant
preachers to say that Nathan was, on the whole, and before that
audience, even more popular than they. On the present occasion, Nathan
was speaking to a “people prepared of the Lord,” to expect in simple
trust and confidence the manifestations of the saving power of God. At
the further end of the malt-kiln sat Piggy Morris, who had hitherto
apparently withstood the gracious influences around him. He was not,
however, by any means contented or at ease. The combined influence of
his great favourite, Lucy Blyth, his son John’s remarkable conversion
and deliverance, the wise and well-timed visits of Mr. Clayton, the
earnest and honest activity of Mr. Mitchell, as well as the quiet
influence of his own godly daughter, had all conspired to make Piggy
Morris out of love with himself. The wonderful revival, too, though it
had not as yet seemed to lay much hold on him, had nevertheless
brought messages and impressions that rendered him unhappy and
discontented with himself, and at this stage, with everybody else; not
at all an uncommon state of things this, in those who are not far from
the kingdom of God.
Nathan Blyth preached a most touching and effective sermon from the
words, “Behold, I stand at the door and knock!” “You see,” he said,
“that the Lord is outside the sinner’s heart! He dwells in the bosom
of the Father, and is His glory and delight. He dwells in the angels,
and fills them with His glory! He dwells in the happy saints in
heaven, and their bliss is complete. He dwells in the heart of every
Christian believer here, and they are happy in His love. Everybody is
happy who has Jesus in his heart. He doesn’t dwell in the hearts of
devils, and their misery is complete. Sinner! He does not dwell in
your heart, and you are ripening for the same ruin. You are hastening
to that dark place where the doors can never be opened inward to admit
Him, or outward to release you from the terrors of the second death.
“But, my dear friends, though Christ is outside, He dearly wants to
come in. And what for, think you? Because He loves you! His love for
you brought Him from heaven to earth, led Him to Calvary, and brings
Him to your heart’s door, where He stands to-night! He wants to come
in! He knows how bad and sad, how poor and helpless you are, and so He
‘knocks’ and says, ‘Let Me in! Thy soul is perishing; I can save it!
Thy enemies are legion; I can conquer them! Thy needs are great; I can
supply them! Thy sorrows are many; I can lift them! Thy tears fall
fast; I can dry them! Thy sins are red like crimson; I can make thee
white as snow! Poor, lost, helpless, dying sinner, I can save thee! I
am thy Friend. I love thee! I died for thee! Now I plead with thee.
Sinner, poor sinner, let Me in!’
“But there’s somebody in already that keeps Him out. Satan is in the
heart. He has no right to it; but he has got it, and has become king
of it. His commands are wicked, but they are obeyed. His counsels are
deadly, but they are followed. That strong man armed holds his
ill-gotten goods, and the world and the flesh help him to keep the
house which he has stolen from the Lord Jesus. The devil fills it with
bad company, with selfishness, with wicked thoughts and lusts, with
worldliness and pleasure. It is like a great warehouse, or an
overcrowded inn, and _there’s no room_ for Jesus. He stands knocking
and asking, that loving Saviour! and He gets no answer except the
laughter or the scorn of the unrighteous guests inside. The door is
shut! the bars and bolts are all shot into their sockets; Prejudice
and Pride double-lock the door; a big dead-weight of stone called
‘don’t care’ is rolled against it, and the porter cries gruffly
through the keyhole, ‘Go Thy way; when it’s convenient I’ll let Thee
know!’ Oh, what a wonder that Jesus does not come with the hammer of
judgment, and nail the door to, and leave him to perish, with his own
heart for his coffin, and his sins for his grave! But no, no! Although
there’s a deaf ear and a closed door, Jesus stands, with bowed head
and folded hands, waiting, praying for thee, and crying, ‘The time is
short, poor sinner; let Me in!’
“Sinner, don’t you hear how He knocks? He knocks at your common sense,
and says, ‘Come, and let us reason together!’ He knocks at your
feelings, tells you of His sufferings, agony, and death, and says, ‘I
suffered this for you!’ He knocks at your hopes; He tells you of peace
and victory, of immortality and life. ‘There’s a heaven for you, only
let Me in!’ He knocks at your fears, and tells you, weeping as He
speaks, of the undying worm and the unquenchable fire. And all the
while He pleads, and calls, and prays, and entreats, ‘Poor sinner, let
Me in!’
“Sinner, don’t you hear His voice? Listen to your own _conscience_.
That’s His voice; what does it say? Listen! It says, ‘Open the door!’
Hark to His ministers; they’re His voice. They give knock after knock,
message after message, with a ‘thus saith the Lord’ Can anybody knock
louder or call more tenderly than the good men who come here to say,
as they do say with tears, for their Master’s sake, ‘Poor sinner, let
Him in?’ Listen to your mercies; they’re His voice. If you count them
they are more in number than the hairs of your head. Listen to your
troubles; they’re His voice, and bid you ask Jesus in to cure them. I
tell you the knockings and the voices are always at it; and Jesus is
speaking through them all, as He sees your sad and desperate
condition--‘Poor sinner, open the door and let Me in!’
“The wonder of it is that He waits so patient and so long. He won’t
break in. It’s your house, and you can do as you like. You have liked
for years to keep the devil and the world in, and you’ve had your way.
If you want them turned out, it can soon be done, only give Him
liberty. No, He won’t break in, but He will wait. Why, He has been
waiting for some of you for twenty, thirty, or forty years, and more.
It seems as though His love can’t be tired. Sometimes you nearly gave
way, and put your hand on the latch; but the good impression passed
away. You turned from the door, took your seat again to warm yourself
by your besetting sin; and Jesus, what did He do? He listened, sighed,
and wept, and waited still. Oh, how long He stands! You would not wait
long if you had come to offer anybody a favour. No; you would say, ‘If
they don’t want it, let them go without it.’ Oh, thank God, that Jesus
doesn’t! Sinner, He has been waiting through your merry youth, waiting
all along your mis-spent manhood, and now, when your back is bending,
and your hair is turning grey, and you are going graveward into the
shadow of death, the loving Saviour is waiting still. Hark to Him: ‘O,
Ephraim, how shall I give thee up! Open to me, my beloved, for my head
is filled with dew, and my locks are wet with the drops of the night!
The time is very short. Sinner! poor sinner, let Me in!’
“If you’ll only admit Him, He will be a glorious and welcome guest. He
says, ‘I will come into him, and sup with him, and he with me.’ It is
true the heaven of heavens cannot contain Him, yet He will dwell in a
humble and contrite heart, aye, and bring heaven with Him, too. Is
there a poor sinner here who says, ‘No, that cannot be; I wish He were
in my heart, but there’s no room; my heart is full of guests, and,
alas! they have become my masters, and I’m their slave?’ Still Christ
says, ‘Never mind their numbers or their power. Open the door; I will
first bind the strong man, and then expel him to make joyful room for
thee and Me.’
“But maybe the poor sinner is saying, ‘It can’t be, Lord, for even if
Thy enemies were gone, the chamber is so dirty, and the place so
filthy and unclean, that there is no place for Thy pure presence.’
‘Never mind,’ says Jesus; ‘open the door! I will not only thrust out
the tyrants, but I will wash thy heart in the fountain of My precious
blood. I will purge thee with hyssop, and thou shalt be clean. I will
wash thee, and thou shalt be whiter than snow.’
“Here again the poor sorrowing sinner says, ‘Yes, Lord; come in, but
not to sup with me, not to sit at my table. I have nothing to set
before Thee. I myself am hungry, but I have no bread.’ Still the
Saviour says, ‘Never mind; open the door! I will bring the bread; I
will spread the feast; I will do everything for thee; only open the
door and let Me in!’ O, my brothers, my sisters, all He wants is a
willing heart; an open door; an honest invitation! Give it Him now,
just now. Say, ‘Come in, my Lord, come in!’ Hark! ‘I will come in,
never more to leave thee, alike when skies are shining and clouds are
frowning. I’ll fill thee for ever with peace and joy. Thou shalt go to
the grave rejoicing, through the river of death with a song, into the
home of glory, the mansions of the blest.’ Then He will say, ‘Thou
didst open thy heart to Me; I will open My house to thee. Thou didst
take Me for thy guest, now thou shalt sit at My table.’ The Guest of
earth becomes the Host in heaven, and all who give the Saviour welcome
here are sure of a glorious welcome yonder.
“But if you persist in your refusal to open the door, He will one day
go away. ‘I stand,’ He says; He does not sit. Maybe from some of you
He is already turning away. If He goes, you are lost. Oh, stop Him;
open the door! Remember, Death is waiting as well as Jesus. Waiting,
not for your hand to open, but for the bidding of the Saviour to
_break in_. Then, Jesus has gone; then you will knock, but all in
vain. You will pass through another door. It shall be shut upon you by
the hand of Him who so long tried the latch of yours, and when He
shuts no man can open. But, thank God, sinner,--
‘He _now_ stands knocking at the door
Of every sinner’s heart;
The worst need keep Him out no more’”----
“That’s me!” shouted Piggy Morris, in a surging agony of deep
conviction. He sprang out from his seat just within the door, and
rushing forward to a form placed in front of the pulpit, the usual
praying-place for penitents, and falling upon his knees, cried aloud
for mercy like the publican of old. Nathan Blyth instantly gave out
the verse,--
“Jesus, the name that charms our fears,
And bids our sorrows cease,
’Tis music in the sinner’s ears,
’Tis life, and health, and peace.”
Kneeling by the side of Morris, who was soon joined by many others who
had been pierced by the two-edged sword, Nathan simply and wisely
directed the seeking sinner to the Cross. The meeting was held far on
into the night, and of course the denouncers of religious excitement,
then, as now, had much to say in condemnation of such fanatical and
unreasonable doings. Piggy Morris struggled hard and long. When such a
nature as his is grappled with by the spirit of conviction, there is
sure to be a sore fight. At length Lucy Blyth came forward, and
kneeling by his side, took his hand in hers, and whispered in his
ear,--
“The door’s open, Mr. Morris. Isn’t it?”
“It is! it is!” was the energetic answer.
“Jesus is on the threshold. Isn’t He? Hark! ‘I _will_ come in!’ Isn’t
it true?”
“Yes, Lord! come in!”
Leaping to his feet, and almost throwing Lucy down in his excitement,
he exclaimed,--
“He _is_ in! Glory be to God! Jesus is my Saviour! Mine!” and so, like
the lame man, he, too, went in through the Beautiful gate of the
temple “walking and leaping and praising God!”
“Let me go and tell Sally!” he shouted, and running out of the
malt-kiln, he went to tell his wife the sweetest news she had heard
from him, poor woman, since, more than thirty years ago, she had stood
by his side at the marriage altar in Nestleton Church. The good woman
could but weep and sob in voiceless gratitude, as he cast himself at
her feet and said,--
“Sally, my lass, the Lord has forgiven me, and so must you!”
Can we doubt that all the weary trials of the years were blotted out
in that delightful moment, and that Sarah Morris knew she held again
to her heart the loving husband of her youth!
No grander and more triumphant issue ever attended the preached Word
than that which, that day, crowned the labours of Nathan Blyth, the
local preacher. No prelatic hands had ever been laid upon his head; no
solemn ordination vows had ever set him apart for the high and holy
calling; no clerical training or episcopal degree had ever given him
conventional status as a minister of Christ; but God had sent him, his
Church had called him, the love of Christ sustained him, and neither
Paul nor Peter had a higher warrant for the message they proclaimed.
There is a lamentable tendency in these days among the Methodist
people to look askance at the local preachers. In many places they are
unacceptable in town and city pulpits; they are relegated to small and
unimportant spheres of labour. The natural consequence is a marked
indisposition on the part of young and capable men to enter the local
ranks, and an outcry on the part of superintendent ministers that
appointments are difficult to supply. Let Methodism beware! Let her be
careful how she trifles with this agency, so rife with power and
blessing. The enrolment of this glorious army was one of Wesley’s
grandest inspirations, and in the day when her local preachers fail
her, Methodism will be as weak as Samson was when his locks were
shorn.