those words of the Psalmist, _If my father or my mother forsake me_, as
they must do at the hour of death, then the Lord will take me up; Ps.
xxvii. 10. And you rejoice in that glorious promise, _Be ye separate
from idols_, saith the Lord; that is, separate yourselves from the
sinful practices of the world, _and I will receive you, and I will be a
Father to you, and ye shall be my sons and my daughters, saith the Lord
Almighty_; 2 Cor. vi. 17, 18. Has death entered into a family, and taken
the head, the husband away? The words of Isaiah grow sweeter than ever;
Is. liv. 5. _Thy Maker is thy Husband, the Lord of Hosts is his name,
even the God of the whole earth._ Are the widows and the fatherless
children in danger of oppression, because they have lost their defender?
They run to the lxviii. Ps. and live upon the 5th verse of it; _A Father
of the fatherless, and a Judge of the widows, is God in his holy
habitation_. Is a brother summoned away by the stroke of death? But the
Lord Jesus is alive still: He that took flesh and blood upon him, that
he might be made like the rest of the children of God, _He is not
ashamed to call them brethren_; Heb. ii. 11. This is a _brother_ that
was _born for_ the day of _our adversity_; this is the _friend that
sticks closer than a brother_, and abides with us when a brother
departs, according to the expression of the wise man; Prov. xvii. 17.
and xviii. 24. Thus the names, and characters, and relations of God the
Father, and of our Lord Jesus Christ, acquire a new sweetness, and
appear with greater love and glory in them, at the death of our earthly
relatives.
There is many a christian can speak feelingly, and say, “Never did I
live so much upon my God, I never knew nor loved my Saviour so well,
never conversed so much with his word, never did I find such sweetness
in his names, nor his promises, nor such pleasure in secret converse
with him, as I have done since the day I lost such a friend, or such a
dear relation by the stroke of death: I have learned now to put no trust
in creatures; _for their breath goeth forth, and that very day their
thoughts of kindness perish_; Ps. cxlvi. 3-8. _Now refuge fails me, no
man_ seems to be _concerned for me_, since the death of such a friend;
_I say_, therefore, _to my God, thou art my refuge_; Ps. cxlii. 4, 5.”
III. The death of our dearest friends calls us to a noble trial of our
love to God, and our submission to his sovereignty. Human nature indeed
is afraid of trials; but when the present aids of divine grace give us
the victory, then _blessed is the man that endureth temptation; for when
he is tried, he shall receive the crown of life, which the Lord hath
promised to them that love him_; James i. 12. And upon this account, he
exhorts christians in the second _verse_, to a very sublime and
difficult practice, _My brethren, count it all joy when ye fall into
divers temptations, knowing this, that the trial of your faith worketh
patience_, and if it endures the trial, _it will be found unto praise,
and honour, and glory, at the appearing of Jesus Christ_; 1 Pet. i. 7.
When God sends his messenger of death, and takes a dear and beloved
creature from our arms, or our bosom, the divine question is like that
of our Lord to Peter, _Simon, lovest thou me?_ John xxi. 15-17.
Christian, _lovest thou me more than_ thou lovest this creature? Art
thou willing to resign this comfort at my call? Hast thou not given
thyself to me, and does thy heart refuse to give up thy son, thy
brother, or thy dearest friend? Hast thou not called me thy sovereign? I
am come now to enquire into thy sincerity. Dost thou resign thy most
beloved objects to my disposal? I gave up my Son to death for you; and
have you any thing so dear to you as my Son was to me? What says your
heart in answer to these solemn questions? Do you love me above all
things, or no? Is your will bowed down to my foot? Can you now repeat
from your very souls the same language, in which you have often
addressed me in your closets, and in my sanctuary, “I am thine, Lord, I
am thine; all that I have is thine?” Or do you murmur and quarrel at my
providence, when I send my servant death to your house, to try whether
these professions of yours were sincere or no?
Happy the christian that comes off with honour in this hour of trial,
and who can say heartily, Lord, I resign what thou demandest, and am
angry with myself that I should find so much reluctance in my heart, to
surrender any thing at the call of God! What a shining evidence of our
sincerity is obtained at such a season? What a noble proof of our
supreme love to God? And it shall be recorded in heaven for our honour,
and produced in the day of the Lord Jesus?
There is nothing in all the history of Abraham, the father of the
faithful, that gives him a more shining character on earth, or, perhaps,
in heaven, than that he gave up his son Isaac, at the command of God,
and _took the wood, and the fire, and the knife, in his hand_, and
devoted his beloved, his only son to death; though it was in a way so
terribly painful and so shocking to nature, that he himself must be the
executioner. He had offered the precious sacrifice already in his heart,
when the angel of the Lord came down and stopped his hand: Now I know
that thou fearest God, and I know that thou lovest him too, seeing thou
hast not withheld thy son, thy only son from me; Gen xxii. 9-12.
Thus the death of the dearest relation turns greatly to our advantage,
when it gives us so bright an evidence of our own graces, and assures us
that we are hearty lovers of God.
IV. The death of a beloved relative, has often wrought for the good of a
saint, when the long and painful sorrow which has attended it, has shewn
us how dangerous a thing it was to love a creature too well.
“O! What a wound do I feel at my heart, says a christian, since the
death of so near a relation: It pains me all the day: It fills my eyes
with tears, and forbids my rest in the night: I am so troubled that I
cannot sleep: It unfits me for the present duties of life, and hangs too
heavy upon me, in the midst of the duties of religion. Surely, that
creature dwelt too near my heart, and was joined in too close a union,
since my heart bleeds and smarts so long after the parting stroke. Let
me watch my affections for time to come, and set a guard upon my love,
that it never, never tie my soul so fast to a creature again. Come down,
blessed Saviour, and take faster hold of my heart; let thy own hand heal
the wound that death has made, and let thy mercy pardon the guilt of my
excessive creature-love: Dwell thou in my soul, my Lord and my God, and
fill up all the unhappy and painful vacancy: Keep my affections for ever
true to thee, and let my love to thee be supreme and unrivalled; nor let
the softer passions of my nature wander and lose themselves amongst
creatures again, lest they contract new guilt: lest they provoke thee to
repeat the same smarting tragedy, and to renew these scenes of
mourning.”
V. The death of our kindred is for our advantage, when it awakens us to
review our own conduct toward them, whether we have behaved aright or
no, and when it quickens our duty to surviving relatives.
While they are alive, and present with us, our neglect of duty towards
them does not so soon strike our consciences; but when the stroke of
death divides them from us in this world for ever, we are ready then to
bethink ourselves, whether our carriage toward them has been just and
kind: And if our enquiry finds out our guilt, our hearts are tender at
that season, and we soon yield to the conviction. “Did I pay that duty
to a father, which he well deserved, and which God required? Did I treat
a mother with that filial affection, and submissive tenderness that
became a child? Did I pay that just deference and honour to the counsels
and advice of my parents as I should have done? Did I treat my sisters
with that decent affection and respect that became me? And did I
exercise brotherly love toward all my equal relatives? Or has my conduct
been undutiful, unkind, and unbecoming?”
And especially if we have this to charge ourselves with, that we took no
care for the welfare of the souls of those that are dead. Such thoughts
as these will hang heavy about the heart, and press hard upon the
conscience in that day. “Did I not see my child or my brother walk in
the ways of sin: and yet did I ever give him a hint of his dreadful
danger? Did I fear that he was a stranger to the grace of God, and yet
did I not neglect to invite him to receive the gospel? Had I not reason
to question whether he was a sincere convert or no? But how little have
I done toward his conversion?
“Or if he was ever concerned about the affairs of his soul, and awakened
and thoughtful about death and hell, did I direct him in the way of
peace? Did I endeavour to lead him to Jesus the Saviour? Or did I let
him go on without instruction, and without comfort, till death laid its
cold hands upon him, and he plunged into the eternal world at a mournful
uncertainty? O my heart! my heart! The anguish of it pains me beyond
what I am able to bear. O that I could recal my brother, or my son from
the grave! How would I follow him with counsels and intreaties? And
neither give him nor myself any rest, till I had good hope, through
grace, that he had fled for refuge to lay hold on Christ and his
salvation. I would never be at ease, nor would I cease pleading for him
at the throne of grace, till I had found some evidences of a new nature
in him, and a change of heart from sin to repentance and holiness.
“Or suppose my departed relative was a true christian, what did I do
toward the increase of his faith? Did I ever allure him to holy
conversation? Did I take occasion now and then to introduce religious
discourse? Did I converse with him ever about the matters of our common
salvation, that as iron sharpens iron, so we might have quickened each
others zeal and love, and helped each other onward in our way to heaven?
“Surely I have found myself too guilty, in some of these instances.
Forgive my criminal negligence, O my God, and through thy grace, I will
apply myself to double diligence, with regard to my relatives that yet
survive: I will enquire, as far as it is proper, into the state of their
souls: I will seek the most powerful and the kindest methods, to awaken
the thoughtless sinners amongst them; and I will study, and pray, and
ask God what I shall say to make a deep impression upon their hearts:
And though I have no office in the church, yet what I have learned
there, I will talk over at home: I will preach Christ crucified, and all
his gospel to them, as God shall give me proper opportunity. I will
converse more freely with my pious kindred about the things of God, and
learn their inward sentiments of religion and experimental godliness.
Thus will I bring holy discourse into the parlour and the chamber; and
every soul in my house shall be a witness of my endeavours to promote
the eternal welfare of those that are near me.”
Now when the death of a near relation attains such an end as this, and
raises our repentance and holy zeal at this rate, we cannot doubt but
that we receive sensible advantage by it.
VI. The death of our friends, who were truly religious, inclines us to
review their instructions and their virtues, and sets them before our
eyes, in a fresh and lively manner, to influence our own practice.
We are too ready to forget their advice, while they are living and daily
present with us, and we take too little notice of those virtues, in
which they were eminent. We beheld their humility toward God and men,
their condescension to their inferiors, their love and hearty friendship
toward their equals, and their sweetness of temper toward all around
them. We beheld it, and perhaps we loved and honoured them for it; but
we took but little pains to copy after them. We saw their pity to the
poor and the miserable, their charity to persons of different sects and
sentiments in religion; their readiness to forgive those that offended
them, and their good-will and obliging carriage to all men. There was a
beauty and loveliness in this conduct, that rendered them amiable
indeed, but how little have we transcribed of their example, either into
our hearts or our lives? We observed their constant tenderness of
conscience, their devotion toward God, and their zeal for the honour of
Christ, and his gospel in the world. O that we had made these graces the
matter of our imitation! What can we do now more to honour their memory,
than to speak, and live, and act like them?
It may be we have got their pictures drawn by some skilful hand, and
their images hang round us in their best likeness, as tender memorials
of what we once enjoyed, to give us now and then a melancholy delight,
and awaken in us the pleasing sadness of love. These we call our most
precious pieces of furniture, and our hearts rate them at an uncommon
price. But it would be much richer furniture for our souls, to have the
best likeness of our pious predecessors and kindred copied out there.
Let us now and then reflect what were their peculiar virtues, and the
remarkable graces that adorned them; and if we could imagine the spirit
of each of them to look down upon us, through those eyes which the
pencil has so well imitated, and to speak through those lips, each of
them would say, in the language of the softest and most sacred
affection; _Be ye followers of me as dear children_, so far _as I was a
follower of Christ_.
And this thought I would more especially impress on those who were most
unhappily negligent of the pious counsel of their ancestors, or ran
counter to their holy advice and example in their life-time. “I was too
regardless, may a young christian say, of the wise and weighty sayings
of my father deceased, they return now upon my thoughts, with a fresh
and living influence. I have been too ready to neglect what a kind
mother taught me; but the instructions that I received from her dying
lips, had such an air of solemnity and tenderness in them, that they
have made a deep impression upon my heart; and I hope I shall never
forget them. The prudent and pious rules that my elder relations have
often set before me, recur to my thoughts with double efficacy since
their death: I shall hear them speak no more, I shall see their holy
examples no more: I will gather up the fragments of their religious
counsels, and make them the rule of my conduct: I am w ell assured their
souls are happy, and by the grace of God I will tread in their steps,
till I arrive at those blessed regions, where I hope to meet them.”
This thought leads me on to the last instance of benefit which we derive
from the death of our kindred in the flesh.
VII. The death of dear and near relations calls our thoughts in a more
powerful and sensible manner, to converse with the grave and eternity.
When our neighbours, or our common acquaintance die, we attend the
funeral, and cast an eye into the grave; we spend a thought or two on
the pit of corruption, and the mouldering dust: We awaken a meditation
or two on things heavenly and the world to come; and we return quickly,
and busily to this world again: But when God sends death into our
chambers, and it makes a slaughter there, it awakens us more effectually
from a drowsy frame, and it nails our thoughts down to our most
important and everlasting concerns. “Part of me is gone to the dust
already, it is not long ere the surviving part shall go also. Death has
smitten the desire of my eyes, and the partner of my joys, it will
strike me ere long, and am I ready?” This thought dwells upon the heart
of a true christian at such a season, and while the Spirit of God
assists the work, it is not in the power of all the trifles in this
earth to banish the holy thought, and carnalize the mind again. As when
a man is seized with the dead palsy, or has a limb cut off, and buried
in the dust, how sensibly does this awaken in him the thought of death
and futurity? “The sentence of death is begun to be executed on me
already, and the whole execution will be quickly fulfilled; it is time
now to be ready, for death is in good earnest, and has begun his work.”
And if our departed relative were a christian indeed, and gave us
comfortable hope in his death, then it leads our thoughts naturally to
heaven, and most powerfully touches the springs of our heavenly hopes.
It raises our pious wishes to the upper world and we say, as Thomas did
at the death of Lazarus, _Let us go, that we may die with him_; John xi.
16. Let us go to our God and our holy kindred, and enjoy their better
presence there. Let us not _sorrow for the dead, as those that mourn
without hope_; 1 Thess. iv. 13. but look upward to things unseen, and
forward to the great rising-day, and rejoice in the promised and future
glories that are beyond life and time.
Every dear relative that dies and leaves us, gives us one motive more to
be willing to die: Their death furnishes us with one new allurement
toward heaven, and breaks off one of the fetters and bonds that tied us
down to this earth. Alas! we are tied too fast to these earthly
tabernacles, these prisons of flesh and blood. We are attached too much
to flesh and blood still, though we find them such painful and such
sinful companions. We love to tarry in this world too well, though we
meet with so many weaning strokes to divide our hearts from it. O it is
good to live more at a loose from earth, that we may be ready for the
parting hour: Let us not be angry with the sovereign hand of God that
breaks one bond after another; though the strokes be painful, yet they
loosen our spirits from this cottage of clay, they teach us to practise
a flight heaven-ward in holy meditations and devout breathings; and we
learn to say, _How long, O Lord, how long?_
The Recollection.—“Have any of us lately felt such parting strokes as
these? Have we lost any of our beloved kindred? God calls upon us now,
and enquires, What have you learned of these divine lessons? I would ask
myself this day, Have I seen the emptiness and the insufficiency of
creatures, and recalled my hope and confidence from every thing beneath
and beside God? Have I past through this solemn hour of trial well, and
shewn my supreme love to God, and my most entire submission to his
sovereignty, by resigning so dear a comfort at his demand? Have I been
taught by the inward pain which I felt at parting, and by the smart
which still remains, how dangerous a thing it is to love a creature too
well? Have I duly considered my past conduct toward my relations
deceased, and does it improve itself to my conscience at the review? Or
have I found matter for self-condemnation and repentance? Have I
treasured up the memory of their virtues in my heart, and set them
before me as the copy of my life? Have my thoughts followed the soul of
my dear departed friend, and traced it with pleasure to the world of
blessed spirits; and does my own soul seem to fix its hope and joy
there, and to dwell there above? Are my thoughts become more spiritual
and heavenly? Do I live more as a borderer on the other world, since a
piece of me is gone thither? And am I ready for the summons, if it
should come before to-morrow?”
“Happy christian, who has been taught by the Spirit of grace to improve
the death even of the dearest relative to so divine an advantage! The
words of my text are then fulfilled experimentally in you: _Death is
yours_: Death itself is made a part of your treasures. The parting
stroke is painful indeed, but it carries a blessing in it too; for it
has promoted your heavenly and eternal interest.” _Amen._
HYMN FOR SERMON XLII.
_Death of Kindred improved._
Must friends and kindred drop and die?
Must helpers be withdrawn?
While sorrow, with a weeping eye,
Counts up our comforts gone.
Be thou our comfort, mighty God,
Our helper and our friend:
Nor leave us, in this dang’rous road,
Till all our trials end.
O may our feet pursue the way,
Our pious fathers led?
While love and holy zeal obey
The counsels of the dead.
Let us be wean’d from all below;
Let hope our grief dispel;
Death will invite our souls to go,
Where our best kindred dwell.
SERMON XLIII.
_Death a Blessing to the Saints._
1 COR. iii. 22.—Whether life or death,—all are yours.
We have already seen many divine comforts, and a rich variety of
blessings derived from the formidable name of DEATH: One would scarce
have thought that a word of so much terror should have ever been capable
of yielding so much sweetness; but the gospel of Christ is a spring of
wonders: It has consecrated all the terrible things in nature, even
death itself, and every thing beside sin, to the benefit of the saint.
Death, in all its appearances, may furnish the mind of a believer with
some sacred lesson of truth or holiness. When it appears in the extent
of its dominion, and bringing all mankind down to the dust; when it lays
hold on an impenitent sinner, and fills his flesh and soul with agonies;
when it assaults a saint, and is conquered by faith; when it makes a
wide ravage among our acquaintance, when it enters into our families,
and takes away our near and dear relatives from the midst of us, still
the christian may reap some divine advantage by it.
But can our own death be ever turned into a blessing too? Nature thinks
it hard to learn such a strange lesson as this, and has much ado to be
persuaded to believe it. How dismal are its attendants to flesh and
blood! What languishings of the body! What painful agonies! What
tremblings and convulsions in nature frequently attend the dying hour
even of the best of christians! Can that be a blessing which turns this
active and beautiful engine of the body into loathsome clay; which
closes these eyes in long darkness, and deprives us of every sense? Can
death become a blessing to us, which cuts us off from all converse with
the sun and moon, and that rich variety of sensible objects which
furnish out such delightful scenes all around us, and entertain the
whole animal creation? Can that be a blessing which divides asunder
those two intimate friends, the _flesh and the spirit_, that sends one
of them to the noisome prison of the grave, and hurries away the other
into unknown regions? Yes, the gospel of Christ has power and grace
enough in it to take off all these gloomy appearances from death, and to
illuminate the darkest side of it with various lustre. So the sun paints
the fairest colours upon the blackest cloud, and while the thick dark
shower is descending it entertains our eyes with all the beauties of the
rain-bow; a most glorious type and seal of the covenant of grace, that
can give a pleasing aspect to death itself, and spread light and
pleasure over the darksome grave.
If we are believers in Christ, _death_ is ours as well as _life_. These
two contrary states may each of them derive peculiar benefits from the
new covenant. The christian may be taught so to value and improve life,
that he may be not only patient, but chearful and thankful in the
continuance of it. This has been made evident in a large discourse
already: And yet it must be confessed, that the advantages which death
brings to a believer are still greater and more glorious, and this will
appear in the following particulars:
I. Death finishes our state of labour and trial, and puts us in
possession of the crown and the prize. St. Paul was appointed to die by
the sword of Nero, and to end his labours and his race in blood; yet he
rejoices to think that his race was just at an end, and triumphs in view
of the glorious recompence; 2 Tim. iv. 7, 8. _I have fought the good
fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith, henceforth is
laid up for me a crown of righteousness._ There is a voice from heaven
that proclaims the dead happy; upon this account, that their toil and
fatigue is come to an end. Rev. xiv. 13. _Blessed are the dead that die
in the Lord, for they rest from their labours, and their works follow
them_; that is, the prize of everlasting happiness which Christ has
promised to his labouring saints. Rev. ii. 10. _Be thou faithful unto
death, and I will give thee a crown of life._ So the weary traveller
counts the last hour of the day the best; for it finishes the fatigue
and toil of the day, and brings him to his resting-place. So the soldier
rejoices in the last field of battle; he fights with the prize of glory
in his eye, and ends the war with courage, pleasure, and victory.
II. Death frees us for ever from all our errors and mistakes, and brings
us into a world of glorious knowledge and illumination. The vale of
death is a dark passage indeed, but it leads into the regions of perfect
light. _Now we know but in part_, says the apostle; 1 Cor. xiii. 12.
_Now we see but through a glass darkly, then we shall see God and our
Saviour face to face, and know them even as we are known_; not in the
same degree of perfection indeed, but according to our measure and
capacity, we shall know them, in a way of vision, or immediate sight, as
God knows his creatures, as one man knows his friend, whose face he
beholds with his eyes; or as one spirit knows another, by some unknown
ways of perception which belong to spirits.