CHAPTER VI.

Passion.

There is a page in Tyerman's monumental "Life of George Whitefield,"

which illustrates, as few pages do, the quality of that essential of

true and effective preaching in regard of which we are now to speak.

It is that page in which are described the last hours of the great

evangelist.

On Saturday morning, September 29th, 1770, being exceedingly weak and

ill, but bent upon the continuance of his preaching work, Whitefield

set out from Portsmouth (U.S.A.) to ride to Boston. Fifteen miles from

Portsmouth, at Exeter, he was stopped and persuaded to preach. A

friend said to him, "Sir, you are more fit to go to bed than to

preach." "True, sir," replied Whitefield, and then, clasping his hands

and looking up to heaven, he added, "Lord Jesus, I am weary in Thy work

but not of it. If I have not yet finished my course, let me go and

speak for Thee once more in the fields, seal Thy truth, and come home

and die." At the commencement of his discourse he was unable for some

time to speak, but recovering himself he preached for two hours.

At Exeter, to pursue the story, the Rev. Jonathan Parsons, who, for

twenty-four years, had been Presbyterian minister at Newbury Port, met

the preacher. The two friends dined together at Captain Oilman's, and

then started for Newbury Port, a few miles further on. "On arrival

there," says the biographer, "Whitefield was so exhausted that he was

unable to leave the boat without assistance, but in the course of the

evening he recovered his spirits."

Let us give the rest of the story in the words of Mr. Tyerman:--"While

Whitefield partook of an early supper, the people assembled at the

front of the parsonage, and even crowded into its hall, impatient to

hear a few words from the man they so greatly loved. 'I am tired,'

said Whitefield, 'and must go to bed.' He took a candle and was

hastening to his chamber. The sight of the people moved him; and,

pausing on the staircase, he began to speak to them. He had preached

his last sermon, this was to be his last exhortation. There he stood,

the crowd in the hall gazing up at him with tearful eyes, as Elisha at

the ascending prophet. His voice flowed on until the candle which he

held in his hand burned away and _went out in its socket_! The next

morning he was not, for God had taken him."

Now, surely, here is a picture worth the painting, if only one could

catch the true spiritual significance and lesson of it all. Imagine

the scene: the listening multitude crowded into the spacious entrance

hall; the preacher, wearied and worn by disease, and still more by his

restless and sublime labours in preaching the word in field and temple

for many a wondrous year. The candle flickers and fails as the

glorious voice, which has made heavenly music for tens of thousands of

seeking souls, becomes weaker and weaker. The feeble flame, at last

goes out, and leaves the preacher still pleading the cause of the Lord,

whose face he is so soon to behold. History has no nobler scene to

show in all its gathered years!

We have appropriated this story because it appears to us to hold an

explanation of the meaning of the word at the head of this chapter.

Possibly there has never been, in all the years of the Church, a

greater preacher than this same Whitefield, and Whitefield's greatness

has, to a large extent, its explanation in this, the last scene of his

ministry. How many he led to God eternity alone can reveal. His

spiritual descendants are numbered by multitudes as the sand on the

sea-shore, the stars in the firmament, for number. When he died

millions in both the old world and the new wept the going of one who to

them had been the prophet of a great deliverance. To this day the

little New England village where he sleeps is the object of pious

pilgrimage to numbers to whom the echo of his voice still comes across

the breadth of intervening years. The secret is largely hidden in

"this last scene of all." In this mighty _passion_ to preach the word,

a passion which neither persecution nor betrayal nor disappointment nor

disease nor even the icy breath of approaching death could cool--in

this lies the explanation of a ministry that shook the world!

And without this passion even Whitefield's gifts of oratory would have

left no record for our reading, for it is absolutely essential to

effective preaching; absolutely essential to success. Without it the

choicest gifts, the profoundest learning will achieve but little.

_With_ it, even humble qualifications and limited scholastic equipment

will accomplish--have often accomplished--great things for God and the

lives of men.

And this passion for preaching will be a passion for preaching for its

_own sake_. To the true preacher preaching, and everything connected

with preaching, will be things in which his soul delights. He will

glory in sermon making and sermon preaching more than in any of his

life's other activities. It is not implied that he will always

approach his task without fear, or even without shrinking, or, at

times, a passing desire to shun the duty devolving upon him. There may

be hours when, as he truly realises the purpose of his work, a sense of

his responsibility will so surge through his spirit as almost to unman

him. Other times, again, may come, when even "nerves" may get the

better of him, for every preacher worth the name has "nerves," and

should thank God for them. There may be days in which, seeing as in a

vision something of the mighty issues dependent upon his faithfulness,

he will tremble lest he be, indeed, one of those fools who "rush in

where angels fear to tread." All these experiences may be--most likely

will be--his, and yet he will find in the exercise of his art, both in

preparation and performance such a pleasure, and such a sense of mental

exaltation, as nothing else can bring. A born artist loves to paint

for painting's sake; to such an one there is something almost

sacramental in the very mixing of the colours. The true sculptor hears

music in the tapping of the mallet upon the chisel as he shapes the

marble into grace and beauty. There is no drudgery in the calling that

is yours by ordination of nature, by right of true heartfelt affection.

The kind of preacher we mean would rather talk about preaching than

about any other subject, providing he meet with one like-minded with

himself. He is happy to the glowing point when he can discuss with

some sharer of the call the latest homiletic creation of his mind or of

the mind of his friend. When his creation comes to the stage of

delivery he is conscious of that perfect pleasantness which is always

felt by a man when engaged in the labour which, of all others, he loves

best to perform. "I'd rather preach than be King of England," he will

tell you sometimes; and though, on occasion, he may have his "hard

times," a form of discipline sent upon him for his soul's good, he will

generally be found within a single circling of the Sun as eager as ever

to return to the place of his humiliation. Many a preacher who has

felt, on Sunday evening, that the only thing left for him to do was

immediately to send in his resignation to the proper quarter, has,

before Monday evening, known what it was to hunger again for the

Sabbath's sweet return. A strange thing is this preaching madness when

it possesses a man, as it often will, body, soul and spirit; which no

place can satisfy save the preacher's place, no task save the

preacher's task, no honour save the honour of telling men about Jesus

Christ. Without it there can be no grand success. He who is not thus

possessed should decline to be drawn for this duty. Of such as he

there are more than enough already in the pulpit--in it, but _not at

home_ in it, not glad, gloriously glad, to be there--slaving to make a

sermon because "in three days Sunday will be here;" taking with them at

service time this so-called sermon, strong with the smell of books and

of midnight oil; speaking it in pain of utterance, and delighted when

the ordeal is over, with a delight most certainly shared by many who

neither came to scoff nor remained to pray. Heaven help the man whom

fate in the shape of foolish friends, or parents, or mistaken

church-officials has sentenced to hard labour in the pulpit; who is

condemned to preach without possession of that love of preaching which

makes for him in whose heart it dwells the business of declaring the

Gospel the noblest and most rapturous occupation in all the great, wide

world! If preparation be invariably irksome--_invariably_, we say, for

all men have their moods and no mere passing spell of depression is

worth more than a little special prayer; if preaching be always a pain

and a cross--_always_, we say--for God may cause the chariot wheels to

run heavily for reasons of His own, and the difficulty may not point to

retreat, but to supplication; if preparation and preaching be

invariably irksome and painful, the fact ought to make the preacher ask

whether a mistake has been made in his choice, which ought to be

rectified as soon as possible. The true preacher will be in love with

preaching for its own sake. This love will be part of the great

all-conquering passion of his life.

A "part," yes; but only a part. May we call it the human, the

temperamental, dispositional part? The passion we desiderate for the

present-day pulpit includes something almost infinitely higher than

this. It must include _the passion for Christ_. It is the hunger to

preach because Jesus Christ is the chief theme of preaching; because it

is in _His_ honour; because out of the fulness of the heart the mouth

would speak; because the soul's deep reverence for the Redeemer _must_

extol its object. He is to be _obeyed_, too, in preaching. It is a

form of service rendered to _Him_. The truth is _His_ truth, "the

truth as it is in Jesus," and _He_ gave the command which is honoured

in its publication. By this act of preaching _He_ is pleased. It is

an evidence of the preacher's glad surrender to _His_ will. It moves

others, too, to the same surrender. It extends _His_ kingdom;

increases the number of those who "bear _His_ name and sign." It helps

_Him_ to see "of the travail of His soul and be satisfied." It pushes

further back the bounds of _His_ empire; widens the area of _His_

sovereignty. It "crowns _Him_ with glory and honour." So the preacher

"makes his boast in the Lord," and is "glad."

Thus it can be said that all true preaching is worship, which is always

the expression of awe, reverence and love. We sometimes speak of

worship, _and_ preaching. To the true preacher this distinction does

not exist. No act in all the service is more truly an act of adoration

than is the preaching of such a man, because it is the pouring out of

his inmost heart's affection. With the spirit with which he prays and

sings; with the spirit of the Te Deum and the Magnificat, will he

preach; and out of the same emotions toward Him whom thus he serves.

Such preaching is a bringing of the fruits of the mind and the spirit

to the altar of sacrifice. The whole Doxology is in it!

Yes, preaching is worship. We Free Churchmen need to emphasise this

truth. Again and again have we heard the criticism that in our

churches there "is much sermon and little worship." We have not only

heard this criticism from the quarter whence it might be expected, but,

also, sometimes even from some of our own fellowship. There is an

answer to this complaint which proceeds from a misunderstanding of what

true worship really is, as well as from an underestimation of the true

sacredness of the preacher's work. It is this:--That preaching is

worship when offered in the spirit of worship, and that neither song

nor prayer becomes worship except upon the same condition. Further we

would say that _hearing_ is worship, too, when the hearer listens as in

the spirit. The hearer to whom song and supplication are worship,

indeed, will also make an act of adoration of his hearing of the word

which is sent unto him.

Behind such preaching as this, and producing the passion out of which

it will proceed, there must be high experiences of grace. Such passion

can only proceed from a personal knowledge of Christ and from that full

surrender which such knowledge at once brings to pass. Love has caught

the preacher in the way and led him to Calvary, where his heart has

been set on fire. He does but preach because he must, the Lord having

done for him such mighty things. As the memory of that divine arrest

on the road to Damascus abode with Paul, and so sustained a sense of

the mercy of his Lord that he could not help but preach the gospel, so

the recollection of the preacher will ever linger around the glad hour

when the Master met him in the path, having come down from heaven to

seek and to save even him. In these remembrances has the passion of

the preacher its origin and its reinforcement. It is the first fruit

of a melted heart. The true preacher is--the word is not a pleasant

one, but it is the only form of expression that, at the moment,

occurs--the devotee. He is the slave of love to Christ.

And without this whole-souled devotion--we say again--there can be no

great moving and saving preaching. Eloquence there may be,

intellectualism, sublimity of conception and description, pathos--all

the qualities which are needed in high public address, but something

will be lacking. None can speak of a maiden as can her lover, though

others may describe her with a choicer diction than he. None can speak

of a child as can his mother, to whom the little life is more precious

than her own and every childish way of significance and beauty.

"_Lovest_ thou _Me_?" said the Lord to Simon Peter on that grey morning

on the sea-shore. "Lovest thou Me?" He asked again, and yet again.

"Yea, Lord, Thou knowest that I love Thee," cried the disciple, his

soul aflame with a living passion never more to be extinguished or

bedimmed, "Thou knowest that I love Thee." Then said the Saviour,

"Feed My sheep," "Feed My lambs." Peter's preaching hour was come now

that this fire had been kindled in his soul. In that confession rang

the promise of all the after years, of the ministry in Jerusalem, of

his declaration of the Christ in many a heathen city, of the death he

was to die in Rome. Lack this flame of affection and preaching will be

a task, a penance, a weary iteration and reiteration of things so often

spoken as to render them threadbare and hackneyed to the speaker.

Possess this all-consuming love and preaching will be as "a song of the

Well-Beloved!"

But the passion of preaching has in it another ingredient--if in this

way the matter may be expressed. To be effective and successful the

preacher must have in his heart the _passion of humanity_. True

preaching is the supreme effort of a man burning to bless and save his

fellow-men. Precious to him are the souls before him; terrible to him

the thought that any one of them should come short of the salvation he

has been sent to proclaim, that one life should wither and be wasted.

He is "kindly affectioned" toward them. He _loves_, therefore he

preaches. As long as there are souls to be warned and invited,

penitents to be enlightened and led into the peace of God, hearts to be

comforted, powers to be taught a better way--as long, in short, as

there are men to whom his message may bring help and hope and life he

cannot hold his peace. He will be "all things to all men that

peradventure" he "may save some."

Now this is a harder thing--this passion for men, as that man must

possess it who aspires to preach the gospel with power and full

accomplishment of the purposes thereof. For the love he must feel must

be a love not only for such as of themselves inspire it, but for those

whose life and character are hateful. Of what is called "affinity"

between the man to be loved and sought and the preacher there may be

none. How can the ambassador of Jesus Christ, who has looked upon the

face of the Son of Man and in that look caught a conception of humanity

in its fairest beauty,--how can he be in love with men and see, as he

must see, their meanness and wrong-doing? The lawyer and the preacher,

it is said, see the seamy side of life, and there is no need for wonder

if, as has been reported, the lawyer often becomes a cynic. The wonder

is if the preacher do not become a cynic too. Seeing what he must see,

knowing what he must know, how is he to preserve that longing after the

souls of the very vilest which alone can sustain him in his search for

them "away on the mountains cold?" _Can it really be done_?

The answer to this question is, and must be, No. It cannot be done if

the preacher look at man only through his own eyes and try to love him

for himself alone. It will be found impossible to love one man because

we do _not_ know him. It will be found even more impossible--if

impossibility admit of degrees of comparison--to love another because

we _do_! Our hearts have neither power to conceive nor life to sustain

an universal affection.

And yet this love of man as man must be realised before ever we can

hope helpfully to lift up Christ and goodness for his acceptance. The

secret thereof must come as came the message itself; as came our call

to declare it,--through another love warming our hearts into living

heat. The passion for humanity comes to the preacher as a result of

his passion for Christ. His love for Christ goes beyond its divine

object to all who are precious to his Lord. The worst of men is, by

right of redemption, Christ's man, dear to the preacher, because bought

by the blood which is more precious than silver and gold. The heathen

are His inheritance and the uttermost ends of the earth are His

possession. Urged, sustained and comforted by this reflection, the

missionary crosses stormy seas, ready to find, if need be, a grave in a

foreign land far from home and friends that, so going, he may speak to

His Lord's beloved concerning His wondrous grace. Here, and here only,

is the true missionary motive, the one missionary argument. We do

_not_ seek to save the heathen because of an eschatology which would

consign them to the outer darkness. We cannot receive as true any

conception of God which includes belief in a doctrine involving so

terrible an injustice as that men should be eternally punished for

refusing that which has never been offered for their acceptance. We

think, rather, of the Lord as robbed of the love of hearts He died to

win, hearts made precious by His death, and in the passion kindled by

our vision of the Master looking from His cross away over tossing seas

to those far-off lands and including every son of savagery to the last

moment of time in His dying petition, "Father, forgive them, they know

not what they do." We perceive upon every soul the sign of the cross;

and this sign makes every man a brother to the ends of the earth. So

the preacher is lifted by his love for his Master into a love for all

for whom He agonised and died.

And this, from the beginning of his preaching to its end, and in

relation to all the experiences into which his labours shall bring him,

must be the true preacher's way of looking at his fellow-men. The

social reformer has his way, too, the politician his, the scientist

his. This is the preacher's way. Each and every man is sanctified to

him by the sprinkling of blood. So he, also, will bear a cross for the

saving of men; so he, too, will carry the sorrows and sins of humanity.

He will have a Gethsemane of his own, be led to a Calvary waiting for

_him_, for every saviour of men must tread this appointed way. Every

shepherd who is not an hireling "giveth his life for the sheep."

One word more. We have named the preacher's passion for his Lord. We

have also named his passion for those upon whom his Lord has set the

mark of His love. There is something more needed ere the flame of

passion burn with its fullest intensity. It is the passion of the

dream--the dream that is not a dream excepting to those who have only

heard of it by the hearing of the ear. To the preacher it will be a

_vision_. It is the vision of which we have already spoken, and may

speak again in pages yet to come--the vision of the divine ideal at

last triumphant. In this vision the preacher must live. To lose it is

despair. No one has so many disappointments as the idealist; but it is

the glorious fact that no one cares about his disappointments less.

Not that he does not see them, but because he sees _beyond_ them. The

true preacher--_he_ is your incorrigible optimist. Some men form their

expectations of the future out of material supplied in tables of

statistics, ecclesiastical Blue Books, censuses of church attendance,

returns and percentages. Not so the true preacher. He has "seen the

King in His beauty and the land that is far off." Columbus like, he

steers his barque toward the new world his faith has gazed upon, and,

as with Columbus, the passion of the coming victory holds him, heart in

tune and head erect, while others mournfully prophesy the disasters

always by shortsighted people seen.

So by the power of his passion the preacher declares his message and

this passion gives power to every word thereof. In that same passion

is his own sustenance in all the divers contradictions that preaching

may bring upon him. He needs it for his own preservation. Often the

preacher who accomplishes the most is, more than those who accomplish

less, rewarded with ingratitude, misjudgment, scorn. "The carnal mind

is at enmity against God, and is not reconciled to the law of God,

neither, indeed, can be." This means suffering for the preacher as it

meant suffering for the Lord. What can keep him in countenance among

it all? Love and the passion of the vision. In these will he conquer

ever! The prodigality of the younger son had long worn out the

patience of the elder brother. Love kept the father waiting on and

vision saw the lad's return while still he was far away. In this love

and vision he went forth the door; in this love and vision he returned

leading the late returning child back again to home and rest and peace

and purity. The parable is for preachers as well as prodigals. Oh,

for the passion, the far, far sight of this old history! They are our

greatest need to-day!

Passion! How is it with us now? Have we this absolutely essential

possession in our hearts, in our preaching, as we have had it

aforetime, as our fathers had it? Are we so set upon giving glory to

Christ that we long for the opportunity to come to speak His name in

the congregation? Are we so given up to the enterprise of saving men

that we rest not day nor night for very longing for their salvation?

Are we so full of the sense of the triumph drawing nearer that our

hearts are already rejoicing with the joy of Harvest? These are

questions for us all, and we may discover the quality of our preaching

from their answers, if only we will whisper them to ourselves with

faithfulness to God and men and our own souls.

BOOK II

THE MESSAGE:--

ITS ESSENTIAL NOTES

THEORY OF BOOK II.

The Effectiveness of the Message arises from the Completeness with

which it Meets the Needs of Men. We believe that the Measure of the

Gospel is the Measure of Man's Spiritual and Moral Necessity, and we

plead for a Full Statement thereof in order that it may Prove its

"Power unto Life."

_What are the Essential Notes of the Message?_

CHAPTER I.

The Note of Accusation.

In a purely heathen country the first business of the preacher must

naturally be concerned with the publication of the great historical

facts upon which the Christian faith is based. In such a land as ours,

where these facts are already the subject of common knowledge, his

first service to every soul to whom he is sent is to bring home the

truth of that soul's condition and necessity. It is not a pleasant

task. It is not an easy one. It forms a duty from which we

instinctively shrink, but no ministry is complete in which it is

neglected. No ministry that is incomplete can be effective and

successful.

Now an examination of the history of preaching will reveal to us that

all the great preachers have been examples of faithfulness concerning,

not only the softer, but also the sterner portions of their message.

Before us are the Hebrew prophets. By them was Israel arraigned at the

bar of God. Could anything be more fearful than the indictment they

laid? Kings, priests, councillors and commoners--against them all was

the testimony maintained. "Art thou he that troublest Israel?" asks a

conscience-stricken monarch of the seer from Mount Gilead. Troublers

of Israel they were, exposing, denouncing, declaring judgment against

evil doers. Such was their mission. Troublers of Israel, they were

sent to be.

After the prophets, when, at last, the fulness of time began to dawn,

he appeared who was to be the great herald of the Redeemer. "In those

days came John the Baptist preaching in the wilderness of Judea, and

saying, Repent ye, for the Kingdom of Heaven is at hand." John, too,

was an accuser. Hark, how he addresses the Pharisees; how he speaks of

"the axe laid at the root of the tree!" Once more did Israel hear of

her rebellion and transgression. Again was the veil torn from her

heart, the trappings of ceremonialism, the rags of hypocrisy. Again

were men made to tremble by warning of the doom about to break.

Wonderfully effective this ministry seems to have been--"Then went out

to him Jerusalem, and all Judea, and all the region round about Jordan,

and were baptized of him in Jordan confessing their sins." To the

preacher came martyrdom, and that as the direct consequence of his

faithfulness. It is dangerous to play the accuser at the foot of the

throne, and for this, in the lone dungeon of Machaerus, the Baptist

dies, but not until He whom he announced, and of whom the law and the

prophets did speak, has lifted up His voice to preach to the nations

and the ages. To the world came Jesus also as an accuser, and such

accusations were His as men had never heard--accusations founded upon

an infinite knowledge of mankind, on an infinite hatred of sin, on a

perfect vision of the end of all wrong-doing. To convince and convict

the world--for _this_ first of all was He made flesh. Over the land

His "Woe unto you" rang out as the thunder of a divine sentence,

blanching the cheek and smiting the soul with shame and fear. For this

testimony He died.

And after He had ascended up on high the apostles carried on this

accusing work. Knowing "the terrors of the law" they persuaded men.

As Paul "reasoned of righteousness, temperance and judgment to come,

Felix trembled." To him the prisoner of that memorable day spoke as

the representative of outraged deity. In his voice the hardened Consul

heard the echo of his own disregarded conscience, and was reminded of

his "more perfect knowledge of that way" which would one day make all

the deeper the blackness of his condemnation. The joints of his

harness were undone.

And so in that time of beginnings was set forth for all after years on

the stage of that Eastern land the pattern of Gospel preaching, and its

great copyists in all subsequent generations have come forth bearing,

as their first word to men, the message of accusation. "All have

sinned and come short of the glory of God;" such has been their opening

announcement. Sin is rebellion against God; such has been their

all-embracing definition. "The soul that sinneth it shall die;"--this

"certain fearful looking for of judgment" they have held up before

mankind. "Thou art the man!" has been the constant challenge of the

Christian ambassador. It would be an interesting employment to journey

back across the past and listen for this note as it fell from the lips

of the great preachers of bygone ages. Our own Connexional fathers,

however, as the figures most familiar to our minds, may remind us how

faithful the pulpit used to be in the execution of this hard task.

Some of us are old enough to remember as common, a phrase which now we

hear only occasionally and in the out of the way corners of our Church.

It was the expression "black sermon" as descriptive of a discourse in

which the sterner side of the revelation was enunciated. Such sermons

in those days formed part of every preacher's armoury. They were

sermons of accusation; sermons about sin; sermons diagnostic of the

state of the human heart. In these discourses the sinner was assailed

through the gateway of his fears. The old preachers believed there was

such a place as Hell, and said so,--sometimes with a great wealth of

staking, figurative language which was perhaps used less symbolically

than literally. They believed in a final and general judgment in which

the dead, small and great, with such as shall be then living upon the

earth, will be called to stand before the Great White Throne to give an

account of the deeds done in the body. Clearly did they see this

coming day and clearly did they proclaim that at any time its terrors

may break upon a careless and prayerless world. Some of them gained

celebrity by the vigour and colour of their descriptions. In the North

of England they still speak of the sermon with which Joseph Spoor

transported multitudes into the circumstances of that awful hour. Hugh

Bourne, it is well known, gave himself to this kind of preaching to a

degree which has made his name the more to be remembered on its

account. His language was literal indeed! To our mind, at the moment

of writing, returns something of the emotion with which in the days of

boyhood we listened to a sermon on "The Pale Horse and his Rider" from

a local preacher not long since passed to his reward. Another

discourse on "The Swellings of Jordan" has been with us vividly, though

forty years have flown since we heard it in a tiny chapel among the

Northern hills. We can remember, too, an expression now used no more,

but which we have often heard as part of the final appeal with which

such sermons were wont to close. "My friends," the preacher would say,

"I have cleared myself this day of your blood." Sometimes this

declaration would be followed by a challenge in which the ungodly of

the congregation were called to meet the preacher, "on that day when

the books shall be opened and the secrets of all hearts shall be

disclosed," there and then to bear witness of his guiltlessness as to

their damnation. It was very terrible, no doubt, very harrowing, and

often as unpleasant to listen to as to utter, but such preaching was

justified by its results. Many a sinner trembled as his heart was

opened before him. Many a strong man broke into cries and tears as he

saw himself a rebel against divine justice and mercy. Many an one

smote upon his breast in terror as the veil of the future was lifted,

and he saw himself standing guilty before the last tribunal, and

praying for the mountains to fall and hide him from the eyes of an

angry God. In our time, however, such preaching has become a

tradition. It might be centuries since it was a fashion in the land,

for hardly does its echo reach our ears to-day. And concerning this

fact there emerges a curious thing. Confessedly the effect of such

preaching was often the offending of the hearer. It has ever been

so--was so, as we have seen, with the prophets; the apostles; the Lord

Himself--and yet there is complaint when accusation and warning are

withheld, and that, strangely, from the very people who would probably

protest the most against it. It is said, even by these very people,

that nowadays _the preacher does not hurt_; that he fails to find the

conscience. The fact is, there exists in the heart of man an

instinctive expectation that the messenger of God will do these things.

It is one of the criticisms of to-day that sternness has died out of

theology. The preacher is no longer the representative of a _judge_;

no longer in God's stead the accuser of men. In every age the Church

displays favouritism in her doctrinal attachments. In our time it is

the doctrine of the divine Fatherhood of which the most is heard. This

were well if the whole truth were told; but what manner of fatherhood

is that of which we all too often hear? A fatherhood of colossal good

nature, of blind, of foolish, indulgence; a conception of paternal

wisdom and affection against which the conscience of the thoughtful

instinctively revolts. The man in the street is not satisfied, and

never will be satisfied, with a merely sentimental God. Some day,

perhaps, it may be discovered that he is outside the churches, not

because preaching, asking too much, has made him afraid, but because

preaching, asking too little, has left him contemptuous.

And how has the change come to pass? Some say that the lack of the

hour is a sense of sin. This sense, they tell us, has been lost as a

result of our theorising about the origin of moral evil. There are

some, indeed, who talk as if the tragedy of sin was not really a

tragedy at all, but actually a blessing in disguise. We have been

assured that the only hope for humanity lay in a moral fall which had

to come to pass that the race might achieve its destiny through its

experience of what is only called "wrong-doing," and of the suffering

resulting from it. Only by this rugged and shadowed road, so are we

informed, can we ever come to perfection and reach the golden age for

which our hearts are sighing. Others see in sin a proof that man is

struggling to be better. They regard his transgression as a hopeful

symptom of divine discontent. Many _do_ see tragedy in it all, but the

blame lies otherwhere than with the transgressor. Sin grows less

terrible, but more hopeless, as they talk about heredity, as they

transfer the responsibility from the criminal to his circumstances, his

education, the conditions of his life or the state of society. Not a

sentence of punishment but a vote of sympathy should crime evoke if all

that is said along such lines be true.

But not in any one of these things, nor in all of them put together,

lies the whole reason of our modern tenderness in dealing with sin.

Even preaching has its fashions, and he is a bold man who dares to

disregard the prevailing mode. The convention of the time may decide

that it is not quite "the correct thing" to lay too much emphasis on

the harder teaching of the Christian belief. Whether unpopular with

the people or not, this teaching may be unpopular with the preachers.

We do not speak of these unpleasant things, for why be singular in

direful prophecy? Of some preachers, to summarise, we will say that

their need is a recovery of the sense of sin; of others that a deepened

consciousness of every man's power to triumph over his inherited

tendencies, his circumstances, his training and the temptations of his

age, must precede the return of success. To others we would venture a

reminder that the preacher might, perhaps, be all the better for a

little more personal independence, and for the realisation that he is

not responsible only to men for the manner in which his work is done,

but to Him who sent him out to preach the whole message of His heart.

The thing for the preacher to do is to learn the truth and tell it,

even though it be bitter to the hearer and bitterer to himself; even

though it make short work of social respectability and conventional

religiosity, bringing the blush of shame to the cheek and setting the

pulses throbbing with the fear of the lightnings of God.

Faithfulness, then, is essential to the completeness of the

message--faithfulness as to the true condition of the soul and its

position in the sight of God. As Samuel stood before Saul in that

fateful hour when the king, having disobeyed the commandments of the

Lord, had brought of the sheep and of the oxen which he should have

utterly destroyed; as the prophets, the apostles, the Master alike

lifted up their witness against a corrupt and stiff-necked people, so

the preacher of to-day must bear his testimony against the sins of men;

must pronounce the penalties of ungodliness. A revelation of the

transgression of the individual, of the lost state of every soul out of

Christ, are part of the Word received from Him who sent him. This

declaration must not concern the individual alone. To the age, also,

he has a message of kindred truth. The pulpit is erected as a witness

against the generations as they come and go. It is by the preacher

that Jesus Christ speaks to successive centuries. He is the true

oracle of God. Against the carelessness, the covetousness, the

debauchery and corruption of the nations, God would speak through him.

Against the oppression of the poor, the robbery of the widow, the

exploitation of the savage; against the crimes of the empires, the

Almighty, through his lips, would make His anger known. He has done so

often and often. Again and again has the preacher turned back the

tides of national iniquity, again and again prevented the wrongful

purpose upon which a people had set its heart. The need is with us

still. This warning and accusing note of sternness must be regained.

To tell men of their sins and that they are lost unless God delivers

them; to tell the age of its iniquities and that the sure end of

national vice is national destruction--here is our work to-day.

So there needs something in the nature of a reversion to the methods of

days that are no more. Yet a _full_ return to the mode of our fathers

is impossible. Let this be acknowledged frankly and fully and at once.

Those "black sermons" to which we listened forty years ago can never be

preached again. The day has gone, at least within the area of

civilisation, for painting flaming pictures of hell, for realistic and

horrible descriptions of the tortures of the damned. That kind of

thing has had its day and can be done no more. Preachers could not do

it; hearers would not hear it. The misfortune has been that the

passing of our fathers' methods has not been followed by the discovery

of others in which the truth they conveyed could be expressed in forms

more suitable to different times. Even the man outside the Church has

left behind him the literal understanding of those old figures of

speech. Few now think of heaven as our grandsires thought of it; few

imagine hell as they imagined it. Yet is there still a heaven; yet is

there still a hell.

And, hard as it is to write it, it is to the preaching of hell that we

must return--the hell of degradation and of loss and of sure

retribution. That hell is the latter state to which every path of

wrong-doing leads with the inevitability of eternal law. Sin is hell

in the making. Hell is sin found out, perhaps, alas, too late. This

word is needed in our churches this very day.

It is needed, it was recently suggested to us, especially by our young

people. With good reason the churches are all anxious as to the young

people, so many of whom, alas! show a disposition to leave the temples

of their fathers. It cannot be said that the Church has not done her

best along certain lines to keep the coming generation at home. Older

men and women have been heard to murmur that too much has been done for

the young person's sake, too many things sacrificed. Religion has been

made very easy--too easy, it is said. Unpleasant demands have been

kept, it is suggested, too much in the background. We all know parents

who confess that their children are permitted to do things at home of

which they, the parents, disapprove, lest they should go elsewhere and

do worse. It is alleged that the same thing often happens in the

Church for the same reason. Ah! you must be careful what you say lest

you offend the young! This is an indulgent, a good-natured, a

compromising time. Behind this solicitude the best reasons lie, but is

there no danger to these young people in all this amiability? Is it

_quite_ impossible for a young man to be put in peril by our very

anxiety to save him?

Yes, there is such a possibility. It arises when we shrink from that

plainness of speech which is, after all, friendship's best service. Is

it not better to offend, even to wound deeply, than to speak only the

smoother things, however kindly the intent, and, so speaking, fail to

produce that great renunciation, that strengthening of bands, that

strong grasp of the Eternal which alone mean safety in future years?

We know that the whole question is encompassed with difficulties. It

is hard to write it, but the best friends of the young are not always

those preachers who are most tender concerning their feelings.

And not for the sake of the young only is this note of sternness

needed. It may be recalled that, some time ago, the columns of a

well-known religious weekly contained a discussion as to which are

morally the most perilous years of a man's life. The conclusion

reached therein was startling, but bore the test of reflection. We

have generally assumed that "the dangerous years" are those of early

manhood, the years that lie between leaving school and marriage. In

those years the youth has probably left the Sunday School behind him,

probably hangs only loosely to the Church. He feels the vigour of his

young manhood stirring within him. He is drinking his first draughts

of the wine of life. Restraints are being relaxed and companionships

are being formed, while there is a sense of freedom almost intoxicating

in its exhilaration. These are the days that we have commonly

described as the most perilous of life.

Probably, however, we have been wrong in this conclusion. In the

discussion referred to it was contended, perhaps established, that the

period of greatest moral and spiritual danger lies a score or more

years further along the road. From forty to fifty, and nearer fifty

than forty, was maintained to be the fateful age. Youth has innocence,

ambition, enthusiasm, ideals. Youth has generous impulses, has not yet

been soured by disappointments, has not yet found out the cynicism of

the world, has not become infected by the canker of covetousness. It

has made no enemies, is not corrupted by success, is not daunted by

failure. A score of years later some or all of these things will have

happened to a man. Harder has become the world, fiercer the battle in

which he is engaged, lower burn the fires of life; enthusiasm has faded

as grey hairs have come. _These_ are the perilous years.

There is one thing the preacher must never forget:--That the men and

women before him go in constant peril from temptation. Not of the

avowedly non-Christian only is this true, but of all. Yonder man,

known for his respectability, his regular attendance at the sanctuary,

falters, perhaps, this very day on the crumbling edge of a moral

precipice. Ever and anon some one is missed from the means of grace.

Where is he? Hush! Tell it softly and with tears. He has fallen who

but recently bade so fairly to carry his cross to the summit of the

hill. Can it be that he fell because in the House of Prayer no voice

warned him? Can it be that he has committed the greater sin because no

reproof was whispered in his ear concerning the beginnings of

transgression? Was there no message committed to the preacher for that

man as he drew near the parting of the ways? Did the messenger

suppress the truth because it was hard to utter?

What, then, is it that is asked? Not, of course, a ministry of

continual denunciation, of constant reproach, of endless

accusation--not that, but a ministry in which the witness shall be not

one-sided but complete. Let us hear, if you please, of the sweeter

things; tell us again, _and again_, of that divine Fatherhood in which

must be our final trust; whisper in our cars of the gentleness of God

and the infinite tenderness of His Son; but tell us _all_, for so

wayward are we, so presumptuous, so prone to go astray that we need to

hear of chastisement as well as mercy. We must be reminded that "the

way of transgressors is hard" as well as of the blessing that the Lord

has in His heart for us.

To the preacher, then, we would say:--Here is a task which must not be

neglected however hard it be. The word should be a hammer to break, a

sword to pierce, an arrow in the heart. Here is something for us all

to do:--To cultivate the arts of the counsel for the prosecution. In

the exercise of those arts all our knowledge of human nature, all

possible learning in the word will be needed to their very last

syllable. It is not true that any one is qualified to wave the lamp

that shall reveal the pitfall in the path of the over-confident

disciple. He must be a wise physician who has to diagnose the sickness

of the soul. He must be a lawyer learned in the law who has to explain

the position of the rebel before his flouted Sovereign. He must have

larger skill than most who has to bring home the broken will of God to

the soul. A reflection, more important still, has yet to be suggested.

For this work the preacher will need to be a man of holiness, for,

though he speak to his brother only as a fellow-sinner saved by Grace,

he must speak as one who has escaped from bonds. Thus comes character

into the business. "Woe is me," said the prophet, called to witness

against the transgression of Judah, "for I am a man of unclean lips."

Only by prayer, by the cleansing of the fountain, by sustaining grace

shall we be sufficient for these things. For this manner of preaching

one man alone can ascend into the hill of the Lord:--"He that hath

clean hands and a pure heart, and hath not lifted up himself unto

vanity, nor sworn deceitfully."

CHAPTER II.

The Note of Pity.

In the chapter just concluded we have tried to lay down that one

essential of the preacher's message is the note of sternness, that the

preacher is, on God's behalf, the accuser of his hearers, charging them

before the bar of conscience, declaring to the soul its state and

condition, pronouncing, also, the punishment which must follow

persistent rebellion against God. It becomes us immediately to say

something as to another note which must be heard in unison with this of

sternness, and that is the note of pity. It is time to insist upon

this. Only that man can declare the terrors of the law who knows

something of the spirit of the prophet who cried, "Oh, that my head

were waters, and mine eyes a fountain of tears, that I might weep day

and night for the slain of the daughter of my people!" Only he can cry

out against Jerusalem who, when he beholds the city, weeps over it as

he sees its crime and shame and notes the tempest gathering to burst

over its "cloud-capp'd towers, its solemn temples, its airy palaces."

The preacher, like his Lord, must be "a man of sorrows and acquainted

with grief." It must be true of _him_ that for "the hurt of the

daughter of My people was He stricken." His heart must have bled for

the tragedy of the world!

And into the delivery of the message this pity must find its way and

have expression, if not always in word, certainly in tone. In tone, we

say, for the tone of the preacher's utterance is almost, if not quite,

as important as its words. Lacking the accent of pity, the accusations

of the preacher will degenerate into scolding, and of all scolds the

pulpit scold is the most objectionable. Without a pitiful heart his

exposure of human nature will become mere fault-finding, and a

fault-finding ministry is a ministry of desolation. Again, without a

pitiful heart the preacher's utterance of the divine judgment will be

but more or less terrifying threats, and the pulpit is not set up to

threaten but to pronounce. We have heard preaching of this order. "I

am not at all well to-night," said a clergyman of whom we once read,

"and I shall give it 'em hot." Men are sometimes reminded of their

sins, not out of a sense of duty borne in upon a reluctant spirit, but

because the wind happens to be in the east, or the preacher's nerves

are badly out of order. The Church is told of her coldness, her

indolence and unfaithfulness, her narrowness, bigotry and greed, not

because, after a struggle to win permission to tell a more flattering

tale, the preacher comes forth under a divine compulsion to "cry aloud

and spare not," but because his digestion is upset, or his temporal

concerns are awry, or even because his personal ambitions have been

disappointed and himself unappreciated. There is such a thing as

bad-tempered, ill-natured preaching, in which the weapons of the Bible

armoury are borrowed for the expression of the preacher's chagrin and

spite. In a literal sense every word he speaks may be true, but the

spirit of the message destroys all possible good effects and turns the

word of God into an angry snarl. It might, therefore, be well to

decide to preach along lines of accusation, exposure, judgment or

warning only on those days when the heart is happiest, when life goes

well and the cheek of health glows with its brightest bloom. Perhaps

the resolution might take such a form as this:--_Resolved: Never to

preach a hard sermon when I feel like doing so_.

All this is no fancy picture, and the peril indicated is not imaginary

but real. The story of Jonah is left to all time for the warning of

the preacher. Seated yonder in his booth, biting his nails in

vexation, he is the type of the preacher whose righteous indignation,

because of its lack of that element of unselfishness, and that spirit

of pity by which moral anger should always be qualified, becomes simply

grim and merciless wrath. "Doest thou well to be angry?" the eternal

voice asks of him and of all who follow in his prophetic line. It was

not thus that Jesus looked upon the multitude. They despised Him--many

of them. That He knew. They accused and slandered Him one to another

and in their own secret hearts. Some of them said He was a glutton and

a wine-bibber, others that He had a devil, others, again, that He was

the friend of publicans and sinners. They ate His bread, accepted His

healing kindness, and all the time were making ready to cry, "Not this

man, but Barabbas," when opportunity should arise. All this He

understood, but "when He saw the multitudes He was moved with

compassion on them, because they fainted and were scattered abroad as

sheep having no shepherd."

"All His words are music,

Though they make me weep,

Infinitely tender,

Infinitely deep."

And the absence of this undertone of pity from the message of the

preacher always destroys the effect of his warnings and causes the

hearer to be less afraid than angry, as is always the case when men are

captiously scolded and found fault with and threatened. On the other

hand, its presence gives power and penetration to the terrors borne

upon its breath. It is instinctively felt that the hard words of the

preacher are spoken as by one who weeps before he speaks. He does but

speak because he must, because it would be cruellest cruelty to be

silent. "For Zion's sake I will not hold my peace." "Zion's

sake"--here, then, is the motive of all this unfolding of the secret

history of the hearer's heart and life. From very pity this man cannot

speak of health when he sees the canker in the rose which blooms upon

the cheek, when he perceives that, despite the appearance of strength

and vigour, "the whole head is sick, the whole heart is faint." He has

not told us pleasant things to-day, though we would have liked to hear

them, and he would have been glad to tell them, because he is too

deeply concerned for us to prophesy golden groves at the end of a

journey whose every footstep is taken upon the broad road leading to

destruction. With meekness can we receive the reproofs of a parent

knowing that, however hard his word, his heart is tender. "Whom He

loveth He chasteneth," was written of the Lord. When it can be written

of the Lord's ambassador, then again it will be true that although "no

chastening for the present seemeth to be joyous but grievous," yet will

it yield "the peaceable fruit of righteousness unto them which are

exercised thereby." Let us take it, then, that pity is an essential of

the preacher's message, and must make its presence felt, if not in

word, at least in accent, or tone, or atmosphere. Is it too late in

the argument to ask what this pity really and truly is?

In Theodore Hunger's volume, "The Freedom of Faith," a book which will

be found in many of our libraries, there is a chapter on the pity of

Jesus Christ which would probably repay us for another perusal. Very

powerfully the author maintains that pity is a deeper and sublimer

passion than love. In "The Alchemist," Balzac, depicting an ideally

perfect affection makes the object of it deformed, indicating that love

has not attained its highest height until it has become pity. Thus the

mother's love for her child is never so noble as when expressed in

ministering to its sickness. How near to the little one does she come

in those painful, anxious hours when, perchance, all the reward her

love seems like to bring is the blighting of her dearest hopes. She

loves her child in health, but that love is rewarded with joy; she

loves it as it triumphs in its little tasks of intellect, but that love

is rewarded with pride; its moral achievements awaken her admiration;

its spiritual victories arouse her gratitude, and in admiration and

gratitude, love has compensation; but none of these emotions so carry

over her soul into fellowship with the soul of that dear one, none

bring her into a touch so close, or give such gentleness to the

fingers, such softness and tenderness to the voice as does pity, "when

pain and sickness wring the brow." And what of the parental feeling

for that other child--the child, we mean, whose name no one speaks in

her ear, who has gone out from the family circle, who is away in the

far country, wasting his substance in riotous living; who, indeed,

_has_ wasted it, and who is now feeding the swine of the stranger, and

longing to fill his belly with the husks that the swine do eat?

Behold, now, the father standing upon the threshold shading his eyes as

longingly he gazes along the road which climbs the distant hill. A

world of trouble is in his eyes. "Yonder young fool who has wandered

away is not worth a single sigh of this grand old man," we say. "He is

reaping as he has sown," we moralise. Time was when this youth went

brightly to and fro in the homestead, when innocence sat throned upon

his forehead, when truth shone brightly from his eyes, when purity and

modesty mantled with blushes his boyish cheek. The old man loved him

_then_. But this watching from the threshold, this long, long tearful

look down the road winding away to the land of profligacy and shame,

these are the glories of his love. Here is _pity_. This is affection

glowing in its fairest flower, its most precious fruit. Before us is a

dim adumbration of the pity of God, the highest manifestation of His

love for man. Similarly the pity of man for man is the highest

manifestation of our love one for another. It is by pity, and by pity

only, that humanity can be brought into true unity. It is by pity that

the preacher comes into oneness with his congregation. There is a

sense in which he comes nearer to his hearers through their sufferings

and their sins than through their joys and their virtues, for suffering

and sin give occasion for compassion. Only let the man in the pulpit

feel this emotion toward the man in the pew; only let the tragedy of

his wrong-doing, the poverty of his soul resultant from his neglect of

higher things, the awful fact that he is without God and hope in the

world come home to the preacher's heart; only let the shadow of this

man's fate cast its darkness upon the preacher's soul and oh! how

precious does that man become, sinner though he be. Let the man in the

pew but feel that the heart of the man in the pulpit is almost breaking

for the longing it has toward him and how differently will he receive

the reproof that man may bring; with what new reverence will he attend

to the solemn warning he may utter. At last a _brother_ seeks his soul!

For another result of pity will be that the Gospel of reconciliation

will be preached indeed. If from the compulsion of compassion the

preacher declared the terrors of the law, from the same divine concern

he will glory to declare the way of return, the counsel and invitation

of mercy. Even as none but a pitiful man can declare the words of the

law so only a pitiful man can declare the provisions and conditions of

the Cross. If the words of the Law, without pity are mere scolding and

fault-finding and threatening, the words of the Gospel without pity

must be cold, perfunctory and lifeless. Calvary was the expression of

infinite compassion. In its own spirit alone can its message be set

forth. You may preach even the justice of God in such a way as to make

His judgments seem full of the kindest intention to the heart. On the

other hand, you may preach the sacrifice of love in such a manner as to

make the story hard as judgment thunders. You may throw a pardon at a

man in such a fashion as to make the forgiveness it expresses more

bitter than a curse.

But how are we so to abound in pity as to be able, at all times, to

fill our message with its gracious influence, for pity is not always

easy, in which fact is one element of its high nobility? The sins of

men, their vices with their results in life and character, often make

it hard to pity them. A horrible thing is sin, and so horrible its

effects that it seems, at times, almost impossible to look upon those

in whom these effects are evident with any emotions save those of

loathing and disgust. It was no very natural thing for Jonah to look

with any sort of tenderness on that great, debauched, besotted Nineveh,

reeking in its vileness, foul with the accumulated moral filth of many

generations. Out of a man's own righteousness, too, his jealousy for

God and his reverence for goodness, there may grow a certain hardness

and, from very loyalty to God, it may not be easy to look with

compassionate eyes upon the transgressor. We cannot but remember that

every blessed purpose of the Kingdom is delayed by sin. By this black

impediment every golden dream of devout saints, of moral and spiritual

reformers is held back from happy fulfilment. It is difficult, indeed,

to feel pitiful when the heart for Christ's sake is longing to behold

the glories He died to bring to pass and sees those glories thus

wantonly postponed. Yes, the note of pity is often hard to strike.

The more we think of all that is involved the more emphasis we throw

into the question--_how has it to be done_?

The truth is that pity for such a service needs to be earnestly and

constantly cultivated. It only follows as the result of spiritual

processes in the preacher's own soul. It is not the mere outflowing of

a natural kindliness of disposition, of inborn good nature. It is more

than mere sloppy sentimentality. _That_ kind of pity, if you may call

it by such a name, never tells the truth excepting when it is pleasant,

never preaches a sermon of rebuke, never reasons concerning "judgment

to come." There is no such word as Hell in its vocabulary; there is no

accusation in its programme. The pity we mean blazes up into moral

anger, smites and wounds, and compassionates the while. This pity

requires cultivation. Quoting an old phrase, "it never grew in

Nature's garden." An understanding of men is absolutely essential to

attainment herein. Some one has said that "if we knew all we would

pity all." God _does_ know all and _does_ pity all. The compassion of

Jesus was aided by His knowledge of the multitude; so must ours be. It

is a terrible story--this story of transgression--but those who know it

best water it with tears. Nothing is served by closing our eyes to

facts, though the temptation is great to exercise the mistaken charity

of declining to know. Is there no danger of a cowardly refusal of

vision, of making the fellowship of saints a hiding place whither we

can escape from the sights and shames of the world? Are we quite

guiltless of seeking in the Christian Society a forgetfulness of the

things that wither and blast human souls without? Do none of us make

of the Church "a little garden walled around," where the sound of

crying and of cursing breaks not upon our peace as we dream our happy

dreams? We are sent to look steadfastly upon the sore, to behold and

analyse the very truth, for it is in the measure in which our souls are

pierced that we compassionate.

But the greatest school for the learning of pitifulness is yonder at

the feet of Jesus. In His company hearts grow hard to sin and tender

to sinners. "Is there any sorrow like unto My sorrow?" He cries, and

we know that His sorrow was not for Himself, but for those who spurned

Him. "Father, forgive them, they know not what they do," He prays,

and, lo! the cry is for His very murderers, and the music of it melts

our spirit toward the transgressor while the transgression becomes more

hateful in our eyes. Where do you abhor sin as you abhor it upon the

slopes of Calvary? Where do you pity sinners as you pity them there?

There is the fountain of judgment. There is the fountain of

forgiveness.

Yes, the greatest school of pitifulness is in the presence of Christ.

From Him, in Temple court and city street, on mountain brow and

sea-shore, in the wilderness and in the domestic circle of Bethany, the

preacher catches that new tone which shall give his accusation

commendation and power. But there is another teacher, still, who will

greatly help to fix the lesson in his heart if only he be heard. That

teacher is Memory. Memory is always waiting to whisper in the

preacher's ear. "And such were some of you," writes St. Paul to the

Corinthians, "but ye are washed, but ye are sanctified, but ye are

justified in the name of the Lord Jesus, and by the spirit of our God."

Ah! the preacher, himself is but a sinner saved by grace. There was a

time when _he_, also, was in the far country, when he, also, was a

rebel against law and love, when even he was "lost already." Can he

forget those days of darkness and of shame? Can he forget how the

warning ambassador of his hitherto despised Redeemer came to _him_?

Can he forget the mire and the clay and the horrible pit from which a

strong hand brought him forth? Let him "think on these things" as he

looks upon his congregation, as he rebukes their contumacy. Let him

remember that he has come into the pulpit only by the steps of mercy,

by the long-suffering grace of a sin-pardoning God.

Here, then, is an essential part of the preacher's training--the

training of his own heart to tenderness. If he fail in giving

attention to this, all other education will be worse than fruitless.

The age needs the pitiful Church. The age and the Church need the

pitiful ministry. This is not to say that men look to the pulpit for

nothing but softly spoken indulgences. Conscience has taught them that

the message should hurt where hurt is salutary. They will not

recognise as kindness the withholding, or the dilution of any truth.

On the other hand they give to the motive of the preacher who does

these things a less flattering name. They will say--have we not heard

the criticism?--that the preacher is afraid to be faithful, afraid to

offend for reasons that are selfish and cowardly. The offence of

unwelcome truth is covered when that truth is watered by a preacher's

tears.

So let us preach--declaring "the _whole counsel_" concerning sin for

pity's sake, preaching the whole truth concerning salvation too.

Something is in our mind to ask concerning our presentation of this

last-named portion of our message:--Are we always quite faithful as to

what we call the conditions of salvation? In the presentation of these

conditions great skill and great care are required. It is so easy to

under--or over--emphasise, so easy, out of jealousy for God, to make

the way too hard or, out of a desire to win men, to make it too easy.

Perhaps in the latter possibility lies, in our time, the greater

danger. Do we always ask for _penitence_ as unmistakably as we ought?

There should be repentance "_toward_ God" as well as "faith in our Lord

Jesus Christ." We may at least suggest the question:--Whether we do

not sometimes call for the latter, saying too little of the former.

Again, in calling for faith in our Lord Jesus Christ, is it not easy to

appear to demand a mere belief in historic facts when what is required

is the trustful surrender of the soul to the Redeemer? We have seen

fifty people hold up their hands, at the request of a preacher, to

signify their turning to God, and we have noted that no outward sign of

deep emotion accompanied the act. We have watched a multitude pass

through an inquiry room where, though inquirers were many, tears were

few. That "there are diversities of operations" we know. "Old times

are changed, old manners gone." All this we admit, and, perhaps, we

should not demand to see again such things as Time has cast behind him.

But, oh! those were great days when the returning rebel smote upon his

breast and would not so much as lift up his eyes unto heaven, as with

sobs and groans, he cried, "God be merciful to me, a sinner." Those

were glorious scenes when, in one and the same hour, he broke for ever

with old habits, old companionships, old loves and, with eyes still

streaming went forth exclaiming, "'Tis done, the great transaction's

done!"

CHAPTER III.

The Note of Idealism.

The Christian preacher is not only the accuser of men and the

ambassador of reconciliation; he is also the Prophet of a new order.

"Go, preach, the Kingdom of Heaven is at hand," so runs his commission.

His message must convey more than the promise of a deliverance from the

_consequences_ of sin. It must proclaim new possibilities for the

individual. It must point to higher altitudes for the race. The

preacher announces a New Jerusalem descending out of heaven. His

ministry is not to lead to the better only, but to the best.

For such preaching as this there is, deep down in the heart of man, a

great hunger and thirst. Sordid and materialistic as is the life of

the age, engrossed as the multitudes appear to be in the pursuit of

mammon, of vain glory and of pleasure, there still lingers in the human

breast a suspicion that men were fashioned for something higher than

the things that, so often, first engross and then exhaust their powers.

The millionaire is not satisfied with his millions and, of late, has

told us so. The man of pleasure is not satisfied with his pleasures,

and, when he unburdens his secret mind, confesses his disappointment

and disgust. Corn, wine and oil, houses, lands and station are all the

objects of loathing as well as of pursuit, to those who, having won

them, have found out their real quality. It is a primal instinct of

the race that "the life is more than meat and the body than raiment."

To the student of our times there is nothing more pathetic than to

observe the struggles of those upon whom materialism casts its spell to

escape from their bondage. To aid them in this endeavour they call the

painter, the sculptor, the dramatist, the man of letters, the player

skilled in the language of music, and to one and all they say,

"Idealise! Idealise!" Periods of realism in art never last long,

though, in a sense, realism is easier to the artist than idealism. The

explanation is that it is not realism that is really in demand. The

artist must give us not man as he is, but as he _ought_ to be; not life

as we know it, but life as we _would_ know it and live it, too; not the

human face scarred and seamed by vices inherited from a thousand

tainted years, but fresh, and sweet, and beautiful as it came from the

hands of God, new washed in the dews of His infinite affection. Even

nature must be idealised, and the painter struggles to produce the

perfect landscape, the sculptor to represent the perfect form. The

artist who mixes no imagination with his colours never holds for long

the public honour. The heart of man asks for the ideal; the actual is

not enough.

And to the preacher, also, these unsatisfied spirits bring the same

request. If it is not upon their lips, you may read it in the deep

longing of their unquiet eyes. The age is not a happy age, and its

lack of happiness does not arise, alone, from its sicknesses, its

bereavements, its shattered hopes, the cruelties of "offence's gilded

hand." Some one has said that men would be happy if it were not for

their pleasures, and the saying contains a profound truth. In this

unhappiness they turn to see if, peradventure, the preacher can show

them higher and clearer heights of joy. Sometimes, thank God! the

vision splendid is spread before them. It is a vision no poet or

painter, save such as have been to the springs of the Eternal, can

depict, and if the glory of it find its way into the seeker's soul life

for him is never the same again. But sometimes, alas! he is

disappointed. The voice in the pulpit is little more than a

sanctimonious echo of the voices of the street. Then goes the

sorrowing seeker hence, and lo, the tiny glimmer of hope with which he

came has all but been put out!

For it is a criticism one all too often hears, that the modern

preacher, instead of asking too much, asks too little, and that, when

he _does_ ask for much, his asking is more for great faith than for

great living from both the individual and the age. It has been

remarked that almost the whole of the difference between the Christian

preacher and the heathen moralist is expressed in the statement that

the preacher adds to his teaching a flavour of Jewish history and

sweetens with the promise of a future life. Otherwise the heathen

moralist points as far up the mountain side as he. There is such a

possibility as that of preaching along too low a level. It is an ill

thing when the preacher becomes content with the straw and forgets the

crown.

For the preacher like the rest of men may become enslaved to things and

powers material. "Where there is no vision the people perish," and of

vision, in the larger sense, the preacher may share the general

poverty. After all, even he belongs to the age into which he was born,

and it needs qualities that are none too common to resist the

influences of the times and of environment. Beside all this, are there

not personal experiences in the lives of all of us which make it hard

to keep our eyes upon the stars? We think of the local preacher

spending his week in the market or behind the counter, in office or

mine or factory or in the field wrestling with Nature for the bread

that perisheth. We think of the minister often worried, almost

distracted, by "the care of the churches," by the crabbed foolishness

and miserable jealousies of contentious men and women. We must

remember that for many a preacher life is not a May Day festival, but a

question and a struggle. Surely the wonder is _not_ that sometimes the

man in the pulpit speaks in a minor key, but that, under all the

conditions of his life, we hear from him so much of the higher music as

we do. The memory comes to us as we write of a man who preached the

Gospel for years with the cruel disease of cancer gnawing at his

vitals. We can recall others who came to proclaim the golden year from

domestic circles blighted by the debauchery and vice of children but

too well beloved. Did these men sometimes speak falteringly, and with

hesitation, the message in which they asked and promised glorious

things? Did they, from the very darkness of the clouds lowering above

them, see only the lower slopes of the Mountains of the Lord? Who

could wonder? The preacher is but a man!

Yes, the preacher is but a man, and as a man finds out something

else:--That, after all, it is not out of his experiences of life, nor

from the influences of his time, nor from both together that the

greatest hindrance to altitude of tone in his preaching arises. As a

man _is in heart and life_ so in some degree he preaches. The call of

the Gospel is to perfection, and the perfect man is not yet, though

many there are, even in these days, whose lives are a constant and

noble struggle to reach this far-off mark. Is it strange that

sometimes a preacher's own failure to gain the wished for heights

should cause him to put before others possibilities, not, indeed,

according to his own low level of attainment, but still far below those

he is sent to declare? Living on low levels means inevitably preaching

on low levels, though, as a man's preaching is derived from higher

sources than are found in his own soul, his call to others ought always

to be of higher things than he has, himself, attained.

Here, then, are some of the reasons why it often happens that our

preaching lacks the elevation of high idealism. This idealism is none

the less needed that there are reasons for its absence. Along these

lines lies one of the great struggles of the preacher's life, which is

so triumphantly to resist the influences of his day and the depression

of his personal experiences, so to live his own life that he shall

always be able to act as a joyful guide to the Alps of God.

And what are these higher heights to which he has to point his fellows?

We ask the question first as concerning the individual and then as

concerning the nations. We shall surely find it easy to obtain an

answer to the inquiry in both its forms.

"_Easy!_" Yes; for the heights designed for us to reach are so clearly

mapped out in the teaching, and especially in the life of Him whose

word the preacher comes forward to declare, and whose example it is his

glorious employment to put before the world. "The prize of the mark of

our high calling" is the utter conquest of sin in the heart, its

eradication not only in branch but in very root. Our goal is the

utterly blameless life. It is more glorious, even, than this. It is

the realisation in their perfection, not of negative virtues alone, but

of virtues positive, active, aggressive. It is in brief the "perfect

man in Christ Jesus."

And of what use is any lower understanding or interpretation of the

purpose of Christ? Indeed, is any lower interpretation possible on the

face of things? We cannot bring ourselves to believe that He would of

set purpose come to secure a _partial_ triumph in the subjects of His

grace. We speak of the difficulties of this our doctrine, but, after

all, greater difficulties would have to be overcome in consenting to

any lower conception of the divine intent. Try to imagine the Master

effecting the saving of a soul with the design that it shall still hold

to some remains of former vices, to some of its old lusts, of its

ancient enmities. Imagine Him, again, agreeing that a man shall

continue to be the prey of evil tempers, of covetousness, of jealousy,

of pride and falseness. Imagine Him entering into a tacit compromise

with the forces of evil, that He will take _so much_ and expect no more

in the worship and ownership and conquest of those for whom He died.

The idea is unthinkable! Jesus Christ came, suffered, bled, died, rose

again, and ascended up on high that once more the eyes of God might

look upon _a perfect man_.

Now, all this sounds very old-fashioned and very much like the teaching

that we have heard, and perhaps in varying degrees disparaged, from the

lips of those whom we call, sometimes with a slight, but none the less

real, touch of sarcasm, "holiness men." How afraid we are that any one

should ask us to be too good! But the teaching of Scriptural holiness

was once one of the glories of Methodism and clear in the forefront of

her preaching. To-day, perhaps, we hear less concerning that gospel

than once we did. Is it absolutely certain that this fact always works

out to the advantage of the preacher and his people? To-day, also, we

hear less concerning the joy of the Christian life than formerly; less

concerning new triumphs in the conversion of sinners than in days it is

glorious to remember. To-day men complain, as we have already heard,

that the preachers ask too little and do not bid them look so high as

something in their bosoms tells them they ought to look. The preaching

of Scriptural holiness has been discredited, it must be confessed, by

the language into which it has often been thrown; by a disposition to

censoriousness in those who have given it a large place in their

ministry; by a disposition, too, on the part of its preachers to label

as sins many things which were capable of innocent use and enjoyment,

to cut out of life more than they sought to put in, dealing rather in

prohibitions than in inspirations. This doctrine has suffered, again,

more than most, from the inconsistencies of its apostles, as was indeed

inevitable and should have been expected, for the higher a man's

preaching the more clearly his personal imperfections are brought out

by force of contrast, which may be rather to the glory of the preaching

than to its discredit. Say, however, all that can be said in this

direction concerning the doctrine of Christian Perfection; the ideals

of the Gospel for human living are no lower than the highest word the

Perfectionist has ever uttered. These ideals, as put before us and

required of us, are part of the message of the Cross, and the preaching

which does not include and enforce them is incomplete and cannot

become, in the highest sense, effective in the accomplishment of its

divine purpose. When a man's preaching presents ideals higher than

those of the Sermon on the Mount; when he asks for a whiter purity, a

more embracing charity, a nobler style of living than are required by

Jesus Christ, _then_ will have come the time to call a halt. Up to

this point he has behind him not only divine permission but divine

command. By his ears, if he but listen, may be heard, also, the voices

of men who are weary of the valleys and the swamps, and who long to

climb the heights and pierce the clouds that hold their vision from the

skies. We need a new Puritanism, and it must not be a Puritanism

principally of prohibitions, as was the old. It must be a Puritanism

in which all the glories possible to heart and mind and soul are set

forth in charm and beauty.

But the preacher has a message for society, as well as for the

individual, and it is essential to the highest uses of that message

that sublimer notes should be struck than are commonly heard. Jesus

Christ showed an interest in trade, and the sellers of doves and

changers of money heard from Him, one day, words of such a sort as made

their ears to tingle. The preacher must not be afraid to insist on

perfect integrity, perfect honesty, and even perfect brotherhood in

commerce. We have heard somewhere the story of a business man in

Brighton to whom, one day, a customer chanced to speak concerning F. W.

Robertson--perhaps, taking one thing with another the most influential

preacher of the Victorian era. Leading his client into a little room

behind the shop he pointed, with these words, to a portrait upon the

wall: "That is F. W. Robertson, and when, standing behind the counter,

I feel a temptation to do a dishonest thing in trade, I come in here

and look up at that face." What a tribute this to a great ministry

which had its message for the office and the shop and turned commerce

and handicraft into great religious acts. To the world of industry the

messenger of Christ must also bring the new ideals he has learned. Why

should the relationships of master and servant, of capital and labour,

be poisoned by suspicion and marred by covetousness, oppression,

evasion of mutual obligations? The problem to be solved in this

twentieth century is probably this of the relations between the man

with money to spend and the man with work to sell. Ah, if only Jesus

Christ were President of the Board of Trade! Paul was not afraid to

lift up his voice on these extremely practical subjects, and even now,

the sixth chapter of Ephesians is far from out of date: "Servants," he

says, turning to the one class, "be obedient to them that are your

masters .... not with eye-service as men-pleasers, but as the servants

of Christ, doing the will of God from the heart." To the masters also,

he has something to say: "And, ye masters, do the same things unto

them, forbearing threatening, knowing that your Master also is in

heaven; neither is there respect of persons with Him." St. James, that

great practical homilist, could not be silent here. Of all who ever

addressed the capitalist upon his responsibilities surely never one

spoke more strongly than did he. "Go to, now, ye rich men, weep and

howl for your miseries that shall come upon you..... Behold, the hire

of the labourers who have reaped down your fields, which is of you kept

back by fraud, crieth: and the cries of them which have reaped are

entered into the ears of the Lord of Sabaoth." Here is denunciation

hot and stirring, and the preacher may at times have to denounce, and

when the time comes, must face that duty manfully for the sake of God

and men. On this page, however, we plead not for denunciation but for

idealism,--idealism supported by the truths of the Fatherhood of God

and the Brotherhood of Man, and enforced by all the tender meanings of

the Cross.

For the world of statesmanship, again, the preacher has a teaching of

idealism, which is a very different thing from the preaching of party

politics, which has done more harm a thousand times than any good it

has ever effected. In the nation as Christ would have it there should

be no jealousy between class and class; no oppression of the poor by

the rich; no reproach for either honest poverty or honest wealth. In

such a state there would be a chance for every man. Government would

not mean tyranny; liberty would not mean licence. There would be

purity of administration. There would be consecration of national

resources to the good of all. War, by such a state, would be as

impossible as it is now imminent. In such a state, again, sermons on

the text, "Our country right or wrong," would neither find preachers to

deliver them nor audiences to listen to them. When the New Jerusalem

is built in England, the slum, the gin palace, the workhouse, and the

gaol will be things of the past. "Thus saith the Lord of Hosts; there

shall yet old men and old women dwell in the streets of Jerusalem, and

every man with his staff in his hand for very age. And the streets of

the city shall be full of boys and girls playing in the streets

thereof." Oh, the dream is overpowering in its glory; and it is not a

dream, but a prophecy from Calvary to the sorrowing nations of a sinful

world!

So the errand of the preacher is to declare the Golden Age for which

men have longed with, oh, such longing! amid the sins, and crimes, and

miseries which have made up so much of human history. Of this so

greatly desired time have they dreamed. To bring it in they have

schemed and laboured, bled and died. They have thought to hasten its

dawn by the founding of "Utopias," of "Merrie Englands," by many a

promising, but disappointing device. There is but one man who can tell

them how it must come--how indeed it will come--and he is the man who

has sat at the feet of Jesus Christ; who has seen His arms extended

wide upon the Cross and learned those politics in which eternity is

set. The Golden Age will come when the world shall listen to him, and

give itself to the practice of that old doctrine which is to be the

creation not only of a new Heaven, but, also, of a new Earth.

But the preacher must do more than formulate the divine command; more

than paint glowing pictures of glorious possibilities. It is required

that his idealism shall be shown to be practicable. It is of no use to

tell a drunkard that Christ wants sobriety, or a liar that the Lord

wants truth in the inward parts; it is of no use preaching about the

conquest of temper and of passion; about the crucifixion of

covetousness and envy and jealousy; about patience, gentleness,

kindness, love, unless, along with the demands of this new scheme of

living, the great evangelical watchwords and promises ring strong and

true. The glory of the preacher is that he, alone of those who bring

forth programmes for the lives of men, can tell us how his programme

may be carried out. He has a wonderful authority given unto him in his

dealings with the weak and erring. He can make to every man who gives

himself to Christ, and to the living of the life He asks, the promise

that Christ will give to him nothing less than His own very self. To

any man who tremblingly, tearfully "makes up his mind to try," the

preacher may pledge his Lord in guarantees which will be honoured to

the very uttermost. _Power_! There is God's for his promising.

_Grace_! There is Christ's for his disposal. He is the almoner of an

infinite bounty. Then to the preacher there comes from his own vision

a courage which he can communicate to others. No other man sees such

possibilities in human nature as he, for he looks on man in Jesus

Christ, and discerns better things in him than man had hoped for in

himself. He beholds, also, the Spirit of God at work in the world;

hears His footsteps as He goes to and fro in the land. Hence he can

cry to the nations to lift up their head, knowing that "the Lord

Omnipotent reigneth." He is the idealist whose ideals--more

"impossible" than all the dreams of moralists and poets--are the true

practical politics of individual and national life. The time is ripe

for a new preaching of the possibilities of humanity, for a new setting

forth of what life and character, personal and national, may be, and

_must_ be, to please Him and realise the blessing the Creator had it in

His heart to give to man when first He sent him forth in the glory of

His image. For such preaching, we have already said, men are waiting,

listening, longing. They wait, too, for a new declaration of the high

provisions of help available for human endeavour. Men instinctively

anticipate that the ideals of God concerning them will be high, but

they anticipate, also instinctively, that the provision for the

realisation of these ideals will be sufficient. They do not ask that,

for the sake of human weakness, God shall make honesty less than

honest; truth less than true; purity less than pure, but they do ask

that for all these things He shall give grace and guidance. Does our

preaching answer these instinctive expectations, these deep longings,

these inborn hopes in those to whom we are sent? Do we truly put

before them that high life their spirits yearn to live? Do we show

them the path "o'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent," to the

heights that kiss the stars?

If we do, well; but if not:--Then, perhaps, we should not wonder, nor

be astonished, if pews are empty, if church membership declines, if men

say that there is little profit in coming to hear thoughts no higher

than their own. They look for the preacher to ask for better, higher,

harder things than all their other leaders. If he fail in this his

church has but little to draw them within its doors. Practical

idealism is essential to effective and successful preaching.

CHAPTER IV.

The Note of Edification.

The preacher is appointed for the upbuilding of the Church and of the

individual believer upon "the foundation of the apostles and prophets,

Jesus Christ Himself being the chief corner stone." Upon this

foundation, with almost infinite care, with untiring labour and

solicitude and prayerfulness, has he to rear "a temple fitly framed

together" of "gold, silver and precious stones;" upon this foundation

he has to build the fabric of saintly character in men. Only that

preacher is truly successful who, in the end, is able humbly to claim

to have been in this sense a "wise master-builder;" who can point to

the results of his labours in the beauty and strength of the churches

in which he has toiled, in the saintliness of the men and women to whom

he has spoken the re-creating, re-edifying word.

Now, in our day, it is, perhaps, specially needful that this part of

the preacher's duty should be particularly emphasised. Of the Church

it has to be said that she has fallen on somewhat evil times, for there

is evidence of the growth of a tendency toward a Churchless

Christianity. Many there are who take the view that union with the

Church is of small importance to the development of Christian faith and

character. There are more who regard such union as something which,

while it may have certain advantages, is nevertheless entirely optional

with the Christian believer. Again and again have we been told that

Christianity consists of belief in Jesus Christ resulting in an attempt

to imitate Him, and that, as this belief and this attempt can be

achieved outside of any organised religious community, a man may be

essentially a Christian without being a member of the Church. The

reasons for this attitude are not far to seek. Among them are a

selfishness which fears the sacrifice that membership of the Church

might involve; a slothfulness anticipating with apprehension the

possible demands for Christian service which the Fellowship might make,

and a lack of real intensity and enthusiasm in conviction, which

hesitates to make an out-and-out stand for Christ and truth.

From the same causes, in all ages, men have kept outside the organised

flock of God and, therefore, such reasons as these need not greatly

alarm us. But there is another objection to joining the Church which,

alas! is often heard, which peculiarly concerns the preacher and ought

to lead him to much careful inquiry. It is that objection which quotes

against the Church her own condition. It is alleged that, nowadays,

the faith of the Church is in a state of flux; that her enthusiasm has

cooled to the point of chill; that her members are in such small degree

better than the men and women outside their society that their company

does not promise any moral and spiritual help to a man in search of

saving and ennobling companionships. It is said, moreover, that the

Church is so divided, sub-divided and sub-_sub_-divided that it is

impossible to be sure as to where the true Church may be found.

Finally, we are told that in all probability if Jesus Christ came to

earth in the flesh, He would in these times be found outside the

sanctuaries in which His name is supposed to be honoured.

Now, many of these assertions may surely be shown to be the result of

misunderstanding, of delusion, even of prejudice, and so should not be

taken too much to heart. They may serve, however, to remind us of two

truths which ought to be often in mind. The first is that Christianity

needs the Church; the second, that the Church needs Christianity. As

to the former proposition:--The Church is the Christian organism. It

is principally through her agencies and activities that the purposes of

Christianity are to be realised. This is true not only of those

universal purposes which include the ideals of world-wide sovereignty,

but, let men say what they will, it is true of those which relate to

the realisation of Christ's will in the individual soul. It is not the

fact that men find it as easy to live the Christian life outside the

Church as within. This is sufficiently demonstrated by experience.

Personal religion grows in the fellowship and the sacrifice, in the

labours, the strength and inspiration consequent upon membership in a

great and imperial family.

But the Church needs Christianity, and this, too, the preacher, for her

sake, must deeply and constantly realise. The best antidote to the

tendency toward a Churchless Christianity will be found, not in

argument or command; certainly not in denunciations addressed to those

who are outside the fold, but in the realisation by the Church herself

of her glorious possibilities both as to character, labour and

conquest. What is needed to save the Church from the opposing

influences of our times is simply more of what she _may_ have _if she

will_. She needs a definite and not a nebulous belief. She needs a

living and burning enthusiasm; a joy that will not be silent, and a

hope that will not cower before the pessimism of the age. She needs

such a piety as shall furnish a splendid contrast to the lives of all

around her. In short, she must realise the ideals of her Founder, and

every glorious prophecy shall be fulfilled. All the nations of the

world shall flow into her. Kings shall come to the brightness of her

rising. Men shall flock to her courts as doves to glowing windows from

the cold and darkness of the wintry night.

So, for the sake of the world which cannot spare the Church, and for

the sake of the Church which cannot dispense with what the preacher has

to give, it is required that this duty of the Christian ministry be

emphasised. Another reason must be stated that it may be

underlined:--Faith, piety and enthusiasm, labour, sacrifice and victory

are vital to the inner health and joy of the Church herself. _This_,

too, the preacher must remember. Solemn, indeed, is the obligation

resting upon him, and solemnly have the great preachers of all ages

taken this responsibility to heart. "The care of the churches!"--how

heavily it lay upon the shoulders of those early ambassadors whose

confessions of fear concerning failure are written in the epistles.

How it has driven to the Mercy Seat for help and guidance those whose

work it has been in troublous times, to keep the flock of God committed

to their custody! The feeding of the sheep in the wilderness, the care

of the lambs, the strengthening of the weak, the endless, patient,

prayerful striving needed in the pursuit of erring, foolish, falling

ones, that all may be presented perfect in Christ Jesus--what demands

do these make upon the preacher's noblest powers! In the dressing and

polishing, to change the figure, of each quarried stone that the result

may be seen in a building after the similitude of a palace, flashing in

the light of God--here has lain the task in which many a glorious life

has been gloriously spent; for even Jesus could not entrust to a man a

grander or more onerous task than this!

And what manner of preaching is needed for the service of this saving

and edifying end? It must surely be a preaching _of_ the Church _to_

the Church. It is to be questioned whether we have not largely failed

to place before our people the New Testament doctrine of the Church.

With such a failure may be associated another:--To emphasise duly the

importance of those sacraments which are the inheritance of the Church

from age to age. Can we deny that there is among our members a

tendency to view very lightly the privileges and obligations of their

membership in what we call--we have sometimes thought unhappily and

with unfortunate effect--our societies? Again, can it be denied that

amongst us as a people the Sacrament of the Lord's Supper is

undervalued? Faithfulness to the Church and to her sacraments run

together. How many are there who have but the dimmest possible

conception of what the Church is and of what membership in the Church

really signifies and involves? There is much work to be done

here--spade work we might almost call it--for the ground has hardly yet

been broken amongst us. May we venture a suggestion that, among things

inherited from an earlier day, the word "societies" as signifying

churches should be dropped in favour of the nobler word, and that the

preacher, in particular, should cease to use it in this relationship?

Unless we are wrong in our reading of history this use of the term grew

out of the view, long held by the founder of Methodism, that while the

Anglican community was the _Church_, the assemblies collected by

himself were merely groups of people meeting for mutual help in

spiritual things. The time came, no doubt, when he would have been

willing to allow to these assemblies, as to the great community of

which they were the individual congregations, the title for which we

plead; though he himself it must be remembered, remained a member of

the Church of England until his death. Let the preacher take very high

ground on this matter. This little band of lowly men and women meeting

in their humble sanctuary by the wayside for intercourse on spiritual

things, for the hearing of the word of life, for mutual encouragement

in the celestial pilgrimage, for praise and prayer and breaking of

bread; this little company "gathered together in My name," Jesus being

"in the midst;" this little circle upon which is shed abroad the Holy

Ghost for the teaching, comforting, sanctifying and anointing of the

heavenly Bride--this little company, we say, is more than a "society."

Its members form a _church_, and theirs are the glory, the privileges,

the obligations of that "upper room" of eternal memory. Let them be

told this--kept in remembrance of it--led to delight in it--encouraged

to glory concerning it. Let it be laid down that it is not for this

village fellowship to thank any man or woman, however exalted his or

her social station, for condescending to membership therein, but that

the honour of the association lies in being permitted an entrance into

the fold, small as is the number of the flock and lowly as its members

may be. We are confident that the scattered churches of our name need

lifting into a realisation of their high dignity in Christ Jesus. Of

all the subjects waiting for earnest study, and to which we as

preachers, both ministers and laymen, need for the sake of present day

necessities to turn our minds, none is more important than this. The

Church can only retain, or rather, perhaps, we ought to have said--can

only enter into her power through self-realisation. _Here_ is need for

a systematic educational work, and, should it be left undone, we must

not be astonished if our members wear the bonds of their union lightly,

and easily find ways out of a fellowship whose true significance they

have never understood. Another eventuality, too, must not astonish

us:--The Church of England _does_ hold and preach a doctrine of the

Church, preaches it diligently; preaches it, sometimes, with such

limitations of application as we may well resent. The Roman Catholics

do the same, and with limitations that are still more uncompromising.

We of the Free Churches must not be astonished if, as a result of

definite and positive teaching within other walls and a lack of such

teaching within our own, the people drift away from us. _To build up

the Church we must preach the Church_. She needs the sense of herself.

Important, however, as is the enunciation of the doctrine of the

Church, the work of her edification will demand that the preacher have

many other things to say. We have already referred to the presentation

of a high idealism as essential to the completeness of the Christian

message. It is indispensable to the adequate accomplishment of this

duty that the preacher give himself to a systematic exposition of the

Scriptures. May we even dare to say that it will be necessary for him

to devote much of his strength to what has been termed doctrinal

preaching? That these words will have a terrible sound in many ears we

are aware. It is very unpopular, nowadays, to lay emphasis on the

necessity for creed as well as for conduct--for creed, indeed, for the

sake of conduct. We will, nevertheless, make bold to remark that one

of the great desiderata of the day is a revival of expository

preaching, while another, equally great, is a renaissance of doctrinal

preaching. There is not too much theology taught in the churches, but

too little. We are told that the preacher's first business is to treat

of what are called "living issues"; that he should, above all, exalt

conduct and charity as the great concerns of the soul. It is contended

that men need guidance on public questions and that the preacher, as

the representative of the Lord Jesus Christ, and of the Church, should

endeavour to meet that need. Of course there is truth in it all, but

it is also true that men need, most of all, the knowledge of God, and

that, whatever bewilderment may exist in relation to public questions

and moral issues, there is bewilderment, even greater, as to "the faith

once delivered to the saints." There is no truly edifying preaching

that is without theology. By such knowledge is the Church built up,

and the preacher will teach it to his people in the form in which it

can be assimilated. One thing he will surely not forget:--That upon

him rests a great responsibility, not only in regard to the Church of

to-day, but also concerning the Church of to-morrow, as now gathered

before him in the persons of the young people preparing for life and

service. He ought, certainly, to provide strengthening food for them

in view of responsibilities to come. It is a great charge, this of

building up the body of Christ, and it is upon us all to ask ourselves

to what extent we have endeavoured to discharge this obligation. We

admit that the temptations to evade it are many. Doctrinal and

expository preaching require so much thought, such careful preparation,

such scrupulous exactness in expression. It is little wonder that,

wearied by other activities, the preacher sometimes seeks for subjects

which can be treated with greater ease and less expenditure of

intellectual effort than those we have indicated.

And such wonder as we may have is further diminished when we recollect

that the idea is very commonly held that the people do not want

preaching of this type; that, even within the churches indeed, they

prefer being _pleased_ to being taught. Possibly this is not so true

as has been assumed. Perhaps again, in that degree in which it _is_

true, the lesson to be learned from the fact is not that such preaching

should be withheld, but rather that an effort should be made to invest

it with elements of interest and attractiveness which have possibly too

often been lacking. On this point we will have something to say later

on. Meanwhile we are open to maintain that people do not dislike

exposition and theology _as such_. The late Doctor McLaren was an

expository preacher, and his sermons were as charming as fairy tales,

multitudes flocking, through a long course of years, to hear them. C.

H. Spurgeon was a doctrinal preacher, and untold thousands hung

entranced upon his lips. Each man built up a great congregation, in

which the fruits of the spirit flourished in a perpetual harvest of

virtues, works and sacrifice. To-day the greatest churches in London

are, almost without exception, those whose members sit at the feet of

great preachers who are also, according to their separate schools,

great theologians and masters in the art of interpreting the

Scriptures. We remember as we write a cold and depressing Sabbath

evening last autumn when we turned into Westminster Chapel. Only a few

years ago this great sanctuary was a wilderness in which might be

realised the tragedy that is contained in the phrase "a down-town

church." At this moment it is the home of a mighty spiritual

fellowship. On the night of our visit the immense temple was crowded

from floor to ceiling. The congregation had obviously been drawn from

all ranks and conditions of society. Professional men sat side by side

with horny-handed sons of toil, fine ladies with servant girls, the old

with the young. What new device of sensationalism had brought them

together? What startling announcement had been flung out over the city

to attract this mighty concourse? Absolutely none! The sermon was a

closely reasoned doctrinal address, full of quotations from the

Scriptures and of comparison of passage with passage. It was a sermon

to _tax_ attention. We mention this experience to show that doctrinal

preaching need not mean empty sanctuaries, as is often asserted. Here

was a great congregation and, better still, here was a living Church.