cleverest who are the best scholars. There are white-haired old men
who are only just learning the alphabet of Christ's religion, in the
lowest place; and there are little children, so pure and white-souled,
that they have already mastered some of the hardest lessons. In other
schools the scholar must be naturally clever, or, at least, most
industrious, if he is to gain a high place, and win a prize. In
Christ's school there is a place, and a prize, for the dullest, and he
will succeed very well if only _he wants to learn_. I have known many
people who, as they said, "were no scholars," and yet they were not
very far from the kingdom of Heaven. Brethren, some of us have never
yet been to Christ's school. We have been playing truant, or
altogether taken up with the lessons of that great, selfish,
public-school--the world. I want you all to come to Christ's school
to-day, old and young, clever and dull, and to hear some of the lessons
which that school teaches. I think that if we examine ourselves
honestly in these lessons, we shall find how little we really know, and
we shall begin with shame to take the lowest place. And we must
remember this, that in Christ's school we shall have to _unlearn_ a
great deal which the world's school has taught us. The world will have
instructed us to take care of ourselves, at the expense of others. One
of the favourite mottoes in the great world school-room is--"every man
for himself." The world will have taught us that to make money, and to
be successful, are the highest aims possible. And there are many
similar lessons which are being daily learnt in the world school. Now,
when we become scholars of Christ, we have to unlearn a great deal of
this. Instead of finding the text, "every man for himself," placed
conspicuously before us, we see another, and quite opposite
command--"No man liveth unto himself, and no man dieth unto himself."
We were taught in that other school outside that to make money and to
succeed were the greatest good. Here we are instructed differently.
"Lay not up for yourselves treasure on the earth, where rust and moth
doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal." One of the
chief things which we learnt in the world's lesson-book was to mistrust
our fellow men, and to be ready to resent an injury when discovered.
In Christ's school the lesson is quite different, we are told to love
our neighbour as ourself, and more than this, to love our enemies.
There are some here to-day, perhaps, who are very old scholars of the
world's school. They have got all its lessons by heart, they can
repeat its selfish maxims, and practise its hard teachings. My
brothers, God grant that you may find out how greatly your education
has been neglected! God grant that you may learn, before it is too
late, how little you know about the things which concern your peace.
You, who have grown grey in the great world school, learning its
sordid, selfish lessons, grinding away at its daily tasks, adding up
your sums of addition, and interest, scanning the money table with
eager eyes, practising your skill in profit and loss, and daily writing
as your one copy--_make money, and be rich_--to you, I say, come into
Christ's school to-day, and see whose teaching is the better: that of
the world, or that of the Son of God. There comes to every school a
day of breaking up, when the scholars go home. One day a man is missed
in the great world school. His place is vacant. The shutters are up
at the shop, or office, the servants at the place of business speak in
smothered whispers. They miss the sound of the master's voice, the
echo of his step upon the stair. He has learnt his last lesson in
worldliness, and his schooling is over. The world has broken up, as
far as he is concerned, and he has gone home. But where? He knew
nothing beyond the world's lessons, he never provided for another home.
"What shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world, and lose his
own soul?"
Briefly, then, let us look at some of the chief lessons which we must
learn in the school of Jesus Christ.
First, we must learn to hate our old sins. Like David, like S. Peter,
like every penitent, when we think of the past we abhor ourselves, and
sit down among the ashes of humiliation. Like the Prodigal, we cry, "I
am no more worthy to be called Thy son." If you find yourself taking
pleasure in the thought of former sin, boasting of your evil deeds, be
sure you are yet in your ignorance, you have never learnt the alphabet
of Christ's lesson.
Next, we must learn to know our own weakness, and our need of a
Saviour. The world will not give us that lesson. The world will tell
us to make our own way, to trust to ourselves, to our cleverness, and
sharpness. In Christ's school we shall be taught our weakness, and
shall learn to say, "Lord, save me, I perish."
Another of the lessons we must learn is to _conquer ourselves_. The
world gives a great many instructions about conquering difficulties,
beating down obstacles, overcoming enemies; but it is Christ's school
alone which can show us how to conquer _ourselves_. You have probably
noticed the change in a young country lad after he has enlisted for a
soldier, and gone through his drill. Whereas he was a high-shouldered,
slouching, ungainly figure, now he has learnt to carry himself like a
soldier, he has conquered the old bad habits which he acquired by
lounging in the lanes, or plodding along the furrow. My brethren, we
have all got our bad habits, our ugly tempers, our sharp tongues, our
discontented feelings, and it is only the drill of Christ's soldiers,
and the teachings in Christ's school, which will make us get the better
of them. Christ's school will make a radical change in us. Jesus--our
Master--says, "behold I make all things new," and we know that they who
are in Christ are become new creatures, old things are passed away. We
may be quite sure that if we are Christ's scholars we shall be changed
people. S. Paul tells us, as he told the Ephesians, some of the marks
of this change. We shall learn to speak, and act, the truth. "Putting
away lying, speak every man truth with his neighbour." We shall learn
to control our temper,--"be ye angry, and sin not. Let not the sun go
down upon your wrath." We shall learn to work, and to work
honestly,--"let him that stole steal no more; but rather let him
labour, working with his hands the thing which is good." We shall
learn to control our tongue,--"let no corrupt communication proceed out
of your mouth, but that which is good to the use of edifying." We
shall learn to be kind and gentle to our neighbours,--"let all
bitterness and wrath, and anger, and clamour, and evil-speaking, be put
away from you, with all malice." The great world school will teach us
to practise these things, but not the school of Jesus. There we shall
learn "to be kind one to another, tender-hearted, forgiving one
another, even as God, for Christ's sake hath forgiven us."
And we shall learn in Christ's school to be brave. The world school
can teach us a certain kind of courage, but not the highest, nor the
best. The world can teach us how to resent an injury, not how to
forgive one. It is in Christ's school only that true heroes are made.
The world can make such soldiers as Caesar, or Napoleon, but the school
of Christ alone can make a Havelock or a Gordon. I have read of a poor
boy who came to school with a patch on his clothes. One of his
schoolmates singled him out for ridicule and insult; and the boy
answered--"do you suppose I am ashamed of my patch? I am thankful to a
good mother for keeping me out of rags, and I honour my patch for her
sake."
All the noble army of martyrs, of every rank and kind, learnt the
secret of their courage in the school of Christ, and have left us an
example to follow.
"By all the martyrs, and the dear dead Christ;
By the long bright roll of those whom joy enticed
With her myriad blandishments, but could not win,
Who would fight for victory, but would not sin;
By these our elder brothers, who have gone before
And have left their trail of light upon our shore,
We can see the glory of a seeming shame,
We can feel the fulness of an empty name."
My brothers, it may be there are some here now who have not so learned
Christ. Who have been in the world's school from the beginning, and
have grown weary of its selfishness, and its hollow maxims. If it be
so, pray now that Jesus, the Great Teacher, may give you a new heart,
and a new mind, bow the proud head, and bend the unwilling knee, say to
the Lord--"Lord Jesu, make me as a little child, let me come to school
to-night."
SERMON LV.
WARY WALKING.
(Twentieth Sunday after Trinity.)
EPHESIANS v. 15.
"See then that ye walk circumspectly."
Some people tell us that salvation is the easiest thing in the world.
We have only to _feel_ that we believe in Jesus Christ, and all is
done. Now neither Jesus Christ Himself, nor the Apostles whom He sent
to teach, tell us anything of the kind. On the contrary, our Saviour,
whilst He dwells on the fulness and freedom of salvation, offered to
all without money, and without price, tells us that many are called,
but few chosen. He warns us in to-day's Gospel that when the King
makes His Great Wedding Feast of salvation numbers make light of it,
and go their way to their farm, and their merchandise. He shows us
how, when the Bridegroom cometh suddenly. He finds half of the virgins
in darkness, their lamps gone out, and He commands us to watch, because
we know not the day nor the hour of the Lord's coming. He tells us
also that the way of life eternal is a narrow way, and the gate of
salvation a strait gate, whilst the road to eternal ruin is broad, and
easy. Our Lord bids us _strive_ to enter in at the narrow gate, and
assures us that few there be who find it. Now all this does not put
the Christian life before us as a life of idleness, and inaction; nor
does it describe salvation as a very easy thing. Both Jesus and His
holy Apostles tell us that we must strive, climb, fight, run the race
patiently, walk circumspectly, watch, pray, arm ourselves, have on a
wedding garment; a very different doctrine this from that dangerous,
do-nothing creed, which some would have us accept. I think S. Paul had
the narrow way and the strait gate in his mind, when he told his
followers to walk circumspectly, looking around them, minding their
steps, proceeding with care and caution. It used to be said of old
that all roads led to Rome, because she was the capital of the world.
And nowadays, in the most remote country place in England, you will
find a road which leads to London. But all roads do not lead to
Heaven. Some foolish people like to believe that they can travel
anyway they please, and yet reach Heaven at last. They love to imagine
that they can hold to any doctrine, however false and extravagant, and
set up a gospel of their own, and yet find the way to Heaven. There
are some who choose to walk in a way which seems right in their eyes, a
way of selfishness, and pride, and obstinacy; they will have _their own
way_, they tell us. Yes, but it is not God's way, and it does not lead
to Heaven. There are just two roads from this life to the life to
come, no more. The narrow way of God's commandments, ending in the
strait gate which opens on Heaven; and the broad road of sin,
terminating in the wide gate of Hell.
Let us think of some of the rules by which we must walk in the narrow
way. We must walk _humbly_. It is a narrow way remember, and if we
walk with our heads lifted up by pride, we shall miss our footing, and
slip from the path. The gate, too, is strait, or narrow. It is like
one of those low-pitched, narrow entrances which you may still see in
old buildings, and which were common once in all our ancient towns. A
traveller could not get through these gates unless he bent his head,
and bowed his shoulders. So, my brothers, if we wish to enter into the
gate of life eternal we must do so with bowed head, and with an humble,
lowly, penitent, and obedient heart. Pride cast Satan out of Heaven,
pride locks the door of life against many a man now. An unbeliever
once asked, with a sneer, who made the devil. And he was answered that
God made him what he _was_, and that he had made himself what he _is_.
So is it with us all. God makes us His children, heirs of Heaven, and
we too often, by our foolish pride, make ourselves into devils.
Believe me, the gate of life eternal is far too narrow to admit us with
the great swelling garment of pride puffed out on all sides of us.
Next, if we walk along the narrow way _we must not overload ourselves_.
There are some burdens which we _must_ bear, but the dear Lord, who
laid them upon us, will give us strength to carry them. It is the
burden of the world's making which will hinder us. We see a man who
wants to walk in the right way, who hopes to pass through the narrow
gate, who has so loaded himself with worldly things that he goes
staggering along, till at length he slips off on to the broad road to
destruction. He is like one escaping from a shipwreck, who tries to
swim ashore with all his money bags, and is sunk to the bottom by their
weight. Sometimes people, coming home from abroad, bring with them a
quantity of smuggled goods, and their clothes are all padded with
laces, and other ill-gotten gear. What happens? They are stopped at a
narrow gate, and stripped of all their load before they are permitted
to return home. So, my brothers, if you would pass the gate which
leads _home_, to the rest which remaineth for the people of God, you
must not overload yourselves with this world's gear. You must not fill
up your thoughts with your business, and drag that burden with you to
the very edge of the Churchyard mould. You are just blocking up the
way to eternal life with your bales of goods, your manufactures, your
business books. Some of you are blocking God's highway with the
waggons of worldly commerce, others with the gay chariot of frivolous
pleasure. Here is a woman trying to walk in the narrow way. She has a
crowd of children hanging upon her skirts. She has tried to be a good
mother, but she has let the cares and plans for her children draw her
away from God, and we see her dragged from the narrow way by those whom
she ought to have helped along it. Believe me, it is not open,
notorious evil-doers who form the majority on the broad road to
destruction. It is not the murderer, the thief, the drunkard, the
adulterer, the unbeliever, who crowd that down-hill road. They are
there with the rest, but they are outnumbered by those whom the world
calls very respectable. Amid that crowd of all ages and ranks, there
are those who have attended our Church Services, and knelt at our
Altars, some of them do so still. They have no vulgar vices, they
never swear, or exceed moderation in food and drink, they have wives
and families, and they pay their way like respectable householders.
And yet,--Oh! the pity of it--they are travelling on the broad road.
It is not open; disgraceful sin which has placed them there, but just
_worldliness_. The dust of the world has filled up every corner of
their life, and they have no room for God. The windows of their soul
are so begrimed with the dust and cobwebs of this life that the
sunshine of God's Holy Spirit cannot shine through them. One is so
taken up with his farm that his heart and soul seemed buried in the
soil of it. The Gospel message rings in his ear, but he makes light of
it. Another is so occupied with his merchandise, with making, and
getting, that he has no time to see how it stands with his soul, no
time to think of the account to be rendered to God when all earthly
accounts are closed for ever. One is so eager to obtain a good
position for himself, or his children, in the world, that he utterly
neglects to fit himself, or them, for a place in the world to come.
With some the idol is work, with others pleasure, but in either case
they worship an idol, and not God. There are women whose minds are so
taken up with the latest fashion, and the newest dress, that they have
neglected the white garment of holiness, and forgotten the old, old
fashion--death. My brothers, my sisters, take heed. It is not so much
the coarse vices of the brutal and ignorant which ruin souls, as the
selfish worldliness of those who ought to know better. If you are
living for self, for work, for pleasure, for society, for anything but
God, then, in spite of your respectable name, and your outward forms of
religion, you have slipped from the narrow way which leads to life
eternal. If you are determined to make this world your Heaven, you
must not be astonished if you are shut out of Heaven in the world to
come.
If these poor worldly folk could only see the end, could only
understand now how hollow and worthless, and disappointing, the things
of this world are at the last, they would cast aside every weight, and
strive to regain the narrow way of God's commandments. History is full
of instances of those who found, some too late, that the pleasures of
the world are worthless. How melancholy is the declaration of one who
says, "I have dragged on to thirty-three. What have all those years
left to me? Nothing except three and thirty." Diocletian the Emperor
tells us that he is happier planting cabbages at Salona, than ruling
the world at Byzantium. Another Emperor, Severus, declares that he has
held every position in life from the lowest to the highest, and found
no good in any. Look into the history of France, and see what the
world gave to Madame de Pompadour at the last. She had sacrificed
virtue and honour for the glitter of the court of Louis XV. And now in
the latter days she tells us that she has no inclination for the things
which once pleased her. Her magnificent house in Paris was refurnished
in the most lavish style, and it only pleased her for two days! Her
country residence was charming, and she alone could not endure it.
They told her all the gossip of the gay world, and she scarcely
understood their meaning. "My life," she says, "is a continual death."
At last the end came. And as they carried her to her burial, the king,
who had once professed to love her, said with utter unconcern--"The
Countess will have a fine day." This is what the world gave to Madame
de Pompadour.
My brethren, I have been striking the old notes to-day, and re-telling
an oft-told story. But sin and sorrow are ever the same, and the one
great concern of your life and mine is the same as when Jesus died for
us on Calvary. Let us take heed to our ways, and see on which road we
are journeying. If we have gone out of the way Jesus will bring us
back, _if we want to come back_. Ask Him, brothers, ask Him now. Pray
as perhaps you never prayed before.
"True prayer is not the imposing sound
Which clamorous lips repeat;
But the deep silence of a soul
That clasps Jehovah's feet."
"Strive to enter in at the strait gate. For wide is the gate, and
broad is the way, which leadeth to destruction, and many there be who
go in thereat."
SERMON LVI.
STRONG CHRISTIANS.
(Twenty-first Sunday after Trinity.)
EPHESIANS vi. 10.
"My brethren, be strong in the Lord,"
A weak and cowardly soldier is a pitiful object, but a weak-kneed,
cowardly Christian is still more so. S. Paul told the Ephesian
Christians to be _strong_ in the Lord, and in these days especially we
need strong Christians, strong Churchmen. I do not mean that we want
men to presume on their strength, to repeat the sin of the Pharisee of
old, and talk of their righteousness, or condemn their neighbours. I
do not mean that we must be noisy and violent, and quarrelsome in our
religion. None of these things are a proof of strength. A giant of
power is ever the gentlest, having the hand of steel in the glove of
silk. So the stronger a Christian is the more humbly he bears himself.
A writer of the day says very truly, "if the world wants iron dukes,
and iron men, God wants iron saints." Much of the unbelief and
indifference of these days is caused by the weakness of professing
Christians. When a man can point to a soldier of Christ who has
deserted his post, and fled from the battle, it is no wonder that he
hesitates to join an army which has such weak and cowardly warriors.
When the enemies of the Church can show us unprincipled Churchmen, who
have no firm faith in the doctrines which they profess, who have
drifted away from their moorings, and, like ships without ballast, are
blown about by every wind, it is not surprising if these enemies still
remain outside the Church. Can we marvel that some should sneer at
Holy Baptism, when they can name those who have tried to wash out the
sign of the Cross with every kind of sin? Can we marvel that they make
light of Confirmation, when we have so many who have been confirmed
going back from holiness, forsaking their Church, and joining the
world, the flesh, and the devil? Or need we wonder that they neglect
the Blessed Sacrament of the Altar, and try to keep others from it, if
they lay their finger on the Communicant whose life is bad? My
brothers, we need to set our own house in order, we of the Church are
as a city on a hill, men look at us, and woe unto us if the light
within us be darkness. What we want are strong Christians to set a
strong example. Teaching, argument, may do much with a careless world,
but the example of a consistent, holy, life will do far more.
Brethren, be ye strong, first of all, in _Faith_. Be quite sure that
you _do_ believe; be quite clear _what_ you believe, and then show your
faith _strongly_. Our faith is not built on sand, but on a rock. It
is not founded on such words as--perhaps, I suppose, I hope. No, the
Creed of the Church says, _I believe_. There are crowds of people
outside who will all tell you what they do _not_ believe. There is the
infidel who says he does not believe in God. There is the man who says
he believes in God, but not in the Blessed Trinity. There is one who
tells you that he believes in Jesus Christ, but not as God, only as
Man. Then comes another and declares that he does not believe in
eternal punishment. One says that he does not believe we are born
again in Holy Baptism, another will not believe in the Baptism of
infants. Some will not believe in Bishops, and others refuse to credit
any sect but their own. But the Church says plainly and boldly, I
_believe_. The Faith once delivered to the saints, the Faith which
Jesus taught to the first Apostles, the Faith which S. Paul preached,
and for which he died, is ours. Let us hold fast to it in unity of
spirit, in the bond of peace, and in righteousness of life. Be ready
to give a reason for the faith that is in you. There are mysteries
which none of us can understand, but, thank God, we can believe. And
we must show this faith of ours not only by believing in the doctrines
of the Church, but by putting our full trust and confidence in the
mercies of God. Where is the use of talking about our faith if we are
poor, fearful, unhappy people? If our faith is not strong enough to
let us trust God for to-morrow it is not worth having. It is the
melancholy, over-anxious, troubled about many things Christian, who is
always anticipating misfortunes, who does so much harm. Brethren,
trust God all in all, be strong in the Lord, be strong in your faith.
Next, brethren, be ye strong in _your language_. Now, do not
misunderstand me. I do not mean that you are to copy those who, in
pulpit and on platform, declare their favourite views and theories in
words of the most violent and intemperate kind. But I _do_ mean that
when the time comes to speak out, you should speak boldly and plainly.
Let the world know that you _do_ believe in the Lord Jesus Christ, and
the doctrines of His Church, and that you are not ashamed to own it.
Never be afraid to show your colours, or to declare the name of your
Leader. When Lord Nelson was going into his last battle, they wished
him to cover, or lay aside, the glittering orders of victory which
adorned his breast. But the hero refused, and perhaps his refusal cost
him his life. Well, let us never hide the marks of our profession as
Christian soldiers, even if we have to suffer, let men know that we
bear about in our bodies the marks of the Lord Jesus Christ. Oh! we
want these strong Christians in shop, and factory, in omnibus, and
railway carriage, in soldiers' barrack-room, in schoolboys' dormitory,
in servants' bed-chamber,--Christians who speak out strongly for Jesus.
Again, brethren, be strong in _self-sacrifice for Jesus_. We must not
forget our cross. The surest mark of a Christian is a willingness to
deny ourselves for the sake of others. Let me tell you the stories of
two simple servant maids who, under very different circumstances, gave
up their life for the life of little children. The scene of the first
story was in America, nearly five and twenty years ago; that of the
second story was in London, only a few weeks since. A young English
girl had taken service in a family going to America, and her special
duty was the charge of the three motherless children of her widowed
master. One cold day in December they all embarked in a great
Mississippi steamboat bound for the far North West. Day after day they
steamed through the swollen river, where pieces of ice were already
showing, past dark and gloomy shores, lined with lonely forest. One
night, near the end of their voyage, the girl had seen her charges, two
girls and a boy, safely asleep, and now, when all the other passengers
had retired, she was reading in the saloon. Suddenly the silence was
broken by a terrible cry, which told the frightened passengers that the
steamboat was on fire. The captain instantly ran the vessel for the
shore, and ordered the people to escape as best they could, without
waiting to dress. The faithful servant had called her master, and then
carried the children from their beds to the crowded deck. Quickly the
blazing vessel touched the muddy bank, and the father placed the
shivering children and the servant on one of the huge branches which
overhung the river. A few other passengers, fifteen in all, reached
other branches, the rest went down with the burning steamer. But what
hope could there be for the children, just snatched from their warm
beds, and now exposed unclad to the bitter December night? Their
father had no clothing to cover them, and, as he spoke of another
steamer which would pass by in the morning, he had little hope of his
children holding out. Then the servant maid declared that if possible
she would keep the little ones alive. Clinging in the darkness to the
icy branches, she stripped off her own clothing, all but the thin
garment next her body, and wrapped up the shivering children. Thus
they passed the long, dark hours of that terrible night. I know not
what prayers were spoken, but I know that Jesus, who suffered cold and
hunger for our sakes, made that servant girl strong to sacrifice
herself. During the night one of the children died, but in the
morning, when the first light came, the little girls were still alive.
Then, when her work was done, the freezing limbs of the brave girl
relaxed their hold, a deadly sleep fell on her, and she dropped
silently into the rushing river below. Presently a steamer came in
sight, and the two children, for whom she had died, were safe.