'What time I am afraid, I will trust in Thee. 4. ... In God I have
put my trust: I will not fear.'--PSALM lvi. 3, 4.
It is not given to many men to add new words to the vocabulary of
religious emotion. But so far as an examination of the Old Testament
avails, I find that David was the first that ever employed the word that
is here translated, _I will trust_, with a religious meaning. It is
found occasionally in earlier books of the Bible in different
connections, never in regard to man's relations to God, until the
Poet-Psalmist laid his hand upon it, and consecrated it for all
generations to express one of the deepest relations of man to his Father
in heaven. And it is a favourite word of his. I find it occurs
constantly in his psalms; twice as often, or nearly so, in the psalms
attributed to David as in all the rest of the Psalter put together; and
as I shall have occasion to show you in a moment, it is in itself a most
significant and poetic word.
But, first of all, I ask you to notice how beautifully there comes out
here the _occasion_ of trust. 'What time I am afraid, I will put my
trust in Thee.'
This psalm is one of those belonging to the Sauline persecution. If we
adopt the allocation in the superscription, it was written at one of the
very lowest points of David's fortunes. And there seem to be one or two
of its phrases which acquire new force, if we regard the psalm as drawn
forth by the perils of his wandering, hunted life. For instance--'Thou
tellest my wanderings,' is no mere expression of the feelings with which
he regarded the changes of this early pilgrimage, but is the confidence
of the fugitive that in the doublings and windings of his flight God's
eye marked him. 'Put thou my tears into Thy _bottle_'--one of the few
indispensable articles which he had to carry with him, the water-skin
which hung beside him, perhaps, as he meditated. So read in the light of
his probable circumstances, how pathetic and eloquent does that saying
become--'What time I am afraid, I will trust in Thee.' That goes deep
down into the realities of life. It is when we are 'afraid' that we
trust in God; not in easy times, when things are going smoothly with us.
Not when the sun shines, but when the tempest blows and the wind howls
about his ears, a man gathers his cloak round him, and cleaves fast to
his supporter. The midnight sea lies all black; but when it is cut into
by the oar, or divided and churned by the paddle, it flashes up into
phosphorescence, and so it is from the tumults and agitation of man's
spirit that there is struck out the light of man's faith. There is the
bit of flint and the steel that comes hammering against it; and it is
the contact of these two that brings out the spark. The man never knew
confidence who does not know how the occasion that evoked and preceded
it was terror and need. 'What time I am _afraid_, I will trust.' That is
no trust which is only fair weather trust. This principle--first fear,
and only then, faith--applies all round the circle of our necessities,
weaknesses, sorrows, and sins.
There must, first of all, be the deep sense of need, of exposedness to
danger, of weakness, of sorrow, and only then will there come the
calmness of confidence. A victorious faith will
'rise large and slow
From out the fluctuations of our souls,
As from the dim and tumbling sea
Starts the completed moon.'
And then, if so, notice how there is involved in that the other
consideration, that a man's confidence is not the product of outward
circumstances, but of his own fixed resolves. 'I _will_ put my trust in
Thee.' Nature says, 'Be afraid!' and the recoil from that natural fear,
which comes from a discernment of threatening evil, is only possible by
a strong effort of the will. Foolish confidence opposes to natural fear
a groundless resolve not to be afraid, as if heedlessness were security,
or facts could be altered by resolving not to think about them. True
faith, by a mighty effort of the will, fixes its gaze on the divine
Helper, and there finds it possible and wise to lose its fears. It is
madness to say, 'I will not to be afraid!' it is wisdom and peace to
say, 'I will trust, and not be afraid.' But it is no easy matter to fix
the eye on God when threatening enemies within arm's-length compel our
gaze; and there must be a fixed resolve, not indeed to coerce our
emotions or to ignore our perils, but to set the Lord before us, that we
may not be moved. When war desolates a land, the peasants fly from their
undefended huts to the shelter of the castle on the hilltop, but they
cannot reach the safety of the strong walls without climbing the steep
road. So when calamity darkens round us, or our sense of sin and sorrow
shakes our hearts, we need effort to resolve and to carry into practice
the resolution, 'I flee unto Thee to hide me.' Fear, then, is the
occasion of faith, and faith is fear transformed by the act of our own
will, calling to mind the strength of God, and betaking ourselves
thereto. Therefore, do not wonder if the two things lie in your hearts
together, and do not say, 'I have no faith because I have some fear,'
but rather feel that if there be the least spark of the former it will
turn all the rest into its own bright substance. Here is the stifling
smoke, coming up from some newly-lighted fire of green wood, black and
choking, and solid in its coils; but as the fire burns up, all the
smoke-wreaths will be turned into one flaming spire, full of light and
warmth. Do you turn your smoke into fire, your fear into faith. Do not
be down-hearted if it takes a while to convert the whole of the lower
and baser into the nobler and higher. Faith and fear do blend, thank
God! They are as oil and water in a man's soul, and the oil will float
above, and quiet the waves. 'What time I am afraid'--there speak nature
and the heart; 'I will trust in Thee'--there speaks the better man
within, lifting himself above nature and circumstances, and casting
himself into the extended arms of God, who catches him and keeps him
safe.
Then, still further, these words, or rather one portion of them, give us
a bright light and a beautiful thought as to the _essence_ and inmost
centre of this faith or trust. Scholars tell us that the word here
translated 'trust' has a graphic, pictorial meaning for its root idea.
It signifies literally to cling to or hold fast anything, expressing
thus both the notion of a good tight grip and of intimate union. Now, is
not that metaphor vivid and full of teaching as well as of impulse? 'I
will trust in Thee.' 'And he exhorted them all, that with purpose of
heart they should _cleave_ unto the Lord.' We may follow out the
metaphor of the word in many illustrations. For instance, here is a
strong prop, and here is the trailing, lithe feebleness of the vine.
Gather up the leaves that are creeping all along the ground, and coil
them around that support, and up they go straight towards the heavens.
Here is a limpet in some pond or other, left by the tide, and it has
relaxed its grasp a little. Touch it with your finger and it grips fast
to the rock, and you will want a hammer before you can dislodge it.
There is a traveller groping along some narrow broken path, where the
chamois would tread cautiously, his guide in front of him. His head
reels, and his limbs tremble, and he is all but over, but he grasps the
strong hand of the man in front of him, or lashes himself to him by the
rope, and he can walk steadily. Or, take that story in the Acts of the
Apostles, about the lame man healed by Peter and John. All his life long
he had been lame, and when at last healing comes, one can fancy with
what a tight grasp 'the lame man held Peter and John.' The timidity and
helplessness of a lifetime made him hold fast, even while, walking and
leaping, he tried how the unaccustomed 'feet and ankle bones' could do
their work. How he would clutch the arms of his two supporters, and feel
himself firm and safe only as long as he grasped them! That is faith,
cleaving to Christ, twining round Him with all the tendrils of our
heart, as the vine does round its pole; holding to Him by His hand, as a
tottering man does by the strong hand that upholds.
And there is one more application of the metaphor, which perhaps may be
best brought out by referring to a passage of Scripture. We find this
same expression used in that wonderfully dramatic scene in the Book of
Kings, where the supercilious messengers from the king of Assyria came
up and taunted the king and his people on the wall. 'What confidence is
this wherein thou trustest? Now, on whom dost thou trust, that thou
rebellest against me? Now, behold, thou trustest upon the staff of this
bruised reed, even upon Egypt, on which, if a man lean, it will go into
his hand and pierce it: so is Pharaoh, king of Egypt, unto all that
trust on him,' The word of our text is employed there, and as the phrase
shows, with a distinct trace of its primary sense. Hezekiah was leaning
upon that poor paper reed on the Nile banks, that has no substance, or
strength, or pith in it. A man leans upon it, and it runs into the palm
of his hand, and makes an ugly festering wound. Such rotten stays are
all our earthly confidences. The act of trust, and the miserable issues
of placing it on man, are excellently described there. The act is the
same when directed to God, but how different the issues. Lean all your
weight on God as on some strong staff, and depend upon it that your
support will never yield nor crack and no splinters will run into your
palms from it.
If I am to cling with my hand I must first empty my hand. Fancy a man
saying, 'I cannot stand unless you hold me up; but I have to hold my
bank book, and this thing, and that thing, and the other thing; I cannot
put them down, so I have not a hand free to lay hold with, you must do
the holding.' That is what some of us are saying in effect. Now the
prayer, 'Hold Thou me up, and I shall be safe,' is a right one; but not
from a man who will not put his possessions out of his hands that he may
lay hold of the God who lays hold of him.
'Nothing in my hand I bring.'
Then, of course, and only then, when we are empty-handed, shall we be
free to grip and lay hold; and only then shall we be able to go on with
the grand words--
'Simply to Thy Cross I cling,'
as some half-drowned, shipwrecked sailor, flung up on the beach, clasps
a point of rock, and is safe from the power of the waves that beat
around him.
And then one word more. These two clauses that I have put together give
us not only the occasion of faith in fear, and the essence of faith in
this clinging, but they also give us very beautifully the _victory_ of
faith. You see with what poetic art--if we may use such words about the
breathings of such a soul--he repeats the two main words of the former
verse in the latter, only in inverted order--'What time I am afraid, I
will trust in Thee.' He is possessed by the lower emotion, and resolves
to escape from its sway into the light and liberty of faith. And then
the next words still keep up the contrast of faith and fear, only that
now he is possessed by the more blessed mood, and determines that he
will not fall back into the bondage and darkness of the baser. 'In God I
have put my trust; I will not fear.' He has confidence, and in the
strength of that he resolves that he will not yield to fear. If we put
that thought into a more abstract form it comes to this: that the one
true antagonist and triumphant rival of all fear is faith, and faith
alone. There is no reason why any man should be emancipated from his
fears either about this world or about the next, except in proportion as
he has faith. Nay, rather it is far away more rational to be afraid than
not to be afraid, unless I have this faith in Christ. There are plenty
of reasons for dread in the dark possibilities and not less dark
certainties of life. Disasters, losses, partings, disappointments,
sicknesses, death, may any of them come at any moment, and some of them
will certainly come sooner or later. Temptations lurk around us like
serpents in the grass, they beset us in open ferocity like lions in our
path. Is it not wise to fear unless our faith has hold of that great
promise, 'Thou shalt tread upon the lion and adder; there shall no evil
befall thee'? But if we have a firm hold of God, then it is wise not to
be afraid, and terror is folly and sin. For trust brings not only
tranquillity, but security, and so takes away fear by taking away
danger.
That double operation of faith in quieting and in defending is very
strikingly set forth by an Old Testament word, formed from the verb here
employed, which means properly _confidence_, and then in one form comes
to signify both _in security_ and _in safety_, secure as being free from
anxiety, safe as being sheltered from peril. So, for instance, the
people of that secluded little town of Laish, whose peaceful existence
amidst warlike neighbours is described with such singular beauty in the
Book of Judges, are said to 'dwell _careless_, quiet, and _secure_.' The
former phrase is literally 'in trust,' and the latter is 'trusting.' The
idea sought to be conveyed by both seems to be that double one of quiet
freedom from fear and from danger. So again, in Moses' blessing, 'The
beloved of the Lord shall dwell _in safety_ by Him,' we have the same
phrase to express the same twofold benediction of shelter, by dwelling
in God, from all alarm and from all attack:
'As far from danger as from fear,
While love, Almighty love is near.'
This thought of the victory of faith over fear is very forcibly set
forth in a verse from the Book of Proverbs, which in our version runs
'The righteous is bold as a lion.' The word rendered 'is bold' is that
of our text, and would literally be 'trusts,' but obviously the metaphor
requires such a translation as that of the English Bible. The word that
properly describes the act of faith has come to mean the courage which
is the consequence of the act, just as our own word _confidence_
properly signifies trust, but has come to mean the boldness which is
born of trust. So, then, the true way to become brave is to lean on God.
That, and that alone, delivers from otherwise reasonable fear, and Faith
bears in her one hand the gift of outward safety, and in her other that
of inward peace.
Peter is sinking in the water; the tempest runs high. He looks upon the
waves, and is ready to fancy that he is going to be swallowed up
immediately. His fear is reasonable if he has only the tempest and
himself to draw his conclusions from. His helplessness and the scowling
storm together strike out a little spark of faith, which the wind cannot
blow out, nor the floods quench. Like our Psalmist here, when Peter is
afraid, he trusts. 'Save, Lord! or I perish.' Immediately the
outstretched hand of his Lord grasps his, and brings him safety, while
the gentle rebuke, 'O thou of little faith! wherefore didst thou doubt?'
infuses courage into his beating heart. The storm runs as high as ever,
and the waves beat about his limbs, and the spray blinds his eyes. If he
leaves his hold for one moment down he will go. But, as long as he
clasps Christ's hand, he is as safe on that heaving floor as if his feet
were on a rock; and as long as he looks in Christ's face and leans upon
His upholding arm, he does _not_ 'see the waves boisterous,' nor tremble
at all as they break around him. His fear and his danger are both gone,
because he holds Christ and is upheld by Him. In this sense, too, as in
many others, 'this is the victory that overcometh the world, even our
faith.'