The Hebrew uses the metaphor of the 'heart' to cover a great deal more
of the inward self than we are accustomed to do. We mainly mean thereby
that in us which loves. But the Old Testament speaks of the 'thoughts
and intents' as well as the 'affections' of the heart. And so to this
Psalmist his 'heart' was not only that in him which loved, but that
which purposed and which thought. When he says 'My heart is fixed' he
does not merely mean that he is conscious of a steadfast love, but also
and rather of a fixed and settled determination, and of an abiding
communion of thought between himself and God. And he not only makes this
declaration as the expression of his experience for the moment, but he
mortgages the future, and in so far as any man dare, he ventures to say
that this temper of entire consecration, of complete communion, of fixed
resolve to cleave to God, which is his present mood, will be his future
whatever may wait his outward life then. The lesson from that resolve is
that our religion, if it is worth anything, must be a continuous and
uniformly acting force throughout our whole lives, and not merely
sporadic and spasmodic, by fits and starts. The lines that a child's
unsteady and untrained hand draws in its copy-book are too good a
picture of the 'crooked, wandering ways in which we live,' in so far as
our religion is concerned. The line should be firm and straight, uniform
in breadth, unvarying in direction, like a sunbeam, homogeneous and
equally tenacious like an iron rod. Unless it be thus strong and
uniform, it will scarcely sustain the weights that it must bear, or
resist the blows that it must encounter.
For a fixed heart I must have a fixed determination, and not a mere
fluctuating and soon broken intention. I must have a steadfast
affection, and not merely a fluttering love, that, like some butterfly,
lights now on this, now on that, sweet flower, but which has a flight
straight as a carrier pigeon to its cot, which shall bear me direct to
God. And I must have a continuous realisation of my dependence upon God,
and of God's sweet sufficiency, going with me all through the dusty day.
A firm determination, a steadfast love, a constant thought, these at
least are inculcated in the words of my text. 'My heart is fixed, O God!
my heart is fixed.'
Ah, brethren! how unlike the broken, interrupted, divergent lines that
we draw! Our religious moments are not knit together, and touching one
upon the other, but they are like the pools in the bed of a half dried
up Australian stream--a pond here, and a stretch of white, blistering
pebbles there, and then a little drop of water, and then another reach
of dryness. They should all be knit together by one continuous flow of a
fixed love, desire, and thought. Is our average Christianity fairly
represented by such words as these of my text? Do they not rather make
us burn with shame when we think that a man who lived in the twilight of
God's revelation, and was weighed upon by distresses such as wrung this
psalm out of him, should have poured out this resolve, which we who live
in the sunlight and are flooded with blessings find it hard to echo with
sincerity and truth? Fixed hearts are rare amongst the Christians of
this day.
II. Notice the manifold hindrances to such a uniformity of our religious
life.
They are formidable enough, God knows, we all know it, and I do not need
to dwell upon them. There is, for example, the tendency to fluctuation
which besets all our feelings, and especially our religious emotions.
What would happen to a steam-engine if the stoker now piled on coals and
then fell asleep by the furnace door? One moment the boiler would be
ready to burst; at another moment there would be no steam to drive
anything. That is the sort of alternation that goes on amongst hosts of
Christians to-day. Their springtime and summer are followed certainly by
an autumn and a bitter winter. Every moment of elevation has a
corresponding moment of depression. They never catch a glimpse of God
and of His love brighter and more sweet than ordinary without its being
followed by long weariness and depression and darkness. That is the kind
of life that many of you are contented to live as Christian people.
But is there any necessity for such alternations? Some degree of
fluctuation there will always be. The very exercise of emotion tends to
its extinction. Varying conditions of health and other externals will
affect the buoyancy and clear-sightedness and vivacity of the spiritual
life. Only a barometer that is out of order will always stand at set
fair. The vane which never points but to south is rusty and means
nothing.
But while there cannot be absolute uniformity, there might and should be
a far nearer approach to an equable temperature of a much higher range
than the readings of most professing Christians give. There is, indeed,
a dismally uniform arctic temperature in many of them. Their hearts are
fixed, truly, but fixed on earth. Their frost is broken by no thaw,
their tepid formalism interrupted by no disturbing enthusiasm. We do not
now speak of these, but of those who have moments of illumination, of
communion, of submission of will, which fade all too soon. To such we
would earnestly say that these moments may be prolonged and made more
continuous. We need not be at the mercy of our own unregulated
feelings. We can control our hearts, and keep them fixed, even if they
should wish to wander. If we would possess the blessing of an
approximately uniform religious life, we must assert the control of
ourselves and use both bridle and spur. A great many religious people
seem to think that 'good times' come and go, and that they can do
nothing to bring or keep or banish them. But that is not so. If the fire
is burning low, there is such a thing on the hearth as a poker, and
coals are at hand. If we feel our faith falling asleep, are we powerless
to rouse it? Cannot we say 'I _will_ trust'? Let us learn that the
variations in our religious emotions are largely subject to our own
control, and may, if we will govern ourselves, be brought far nearer to
uniformity than they ordinarily are.
Besides the fluctuations due to our own changes of mood, there are also
the distracting influences of even the duties which God lays upon us. It
is hard for a man with the material task of the moment that takes all
his powers, to keep a little corner of his heart clear, and to feel that
God is there. It is difficult in the clatter of the mill or in the
crowds on 'Change, to do our work as for and in remembrance of Christ.
It _is_ difficult; but it is possible. Distractions are made
distractions by our own folly and weakness. There is nothing that it is
our duty to do which an honest attempt to do from the right motive could
not convert into a positive help to getting nearer God. It is for us to
determine whether the tasks of life, and this intrusive external and
material world, shall veil Him from us, or shall reveal Him to us. It is
for us to determine whether we shall make our secular avocation and its
trials, little and great, a means to get nearer to God, or a means to
shut Him out from us, and us from Him. There is nothing but sin
incompatible with the fixed heart, the resolved will, the continual
communion, nothing incompatible though there may be much that makes it
difficult to realise and preserve these.
And then, of course, the trials and sorrows which strike us all make
this fixed heart hard to keep. It is easy, as I said, to vow, 'I will
sing and give praise,' when flesh is comfortable and prosperity is
spreading its bright sky over our heads. It is harder to say it when
disappointment and bitterness are in the heart, and an empty place there
that aches and will never be filled. It is harder for a man to say it
when, like this Psalmist, his soul is 'amongst lions' and he 'lies
amongst them that are set on fire.' But still, rightly taken, sorrow is
the best ladder to God; and there is no such praise as comes from the
lips that, if they did not praise, must sob, and that praise because
they are beginning to learn that evil, as the world calls it, is the
stepping-stone to the highest good. 'My heart is fixed. I will sing and
give praise' may be the voice of the mourner as well as of the
prosperous and happy.
III. Lastly, let me say just a word as to the means by which such a
uniform character may be impressed upon our religious experience.
There is another psalm where this same phrase is employed with a very
important and illuminating addition, in which we read, 'His heart is
fixed, trusting in the Lord.' That is the secret of a fixed
heart--continuous faith rooted and grounded in Him. This fluttering,
changeful, unreliable, emotional nature of mine will be made calm and
steadfast by faith, and duties done in the faith of God will bind me to
Him; and sorrows borne and joys accepted in the faith of God will be
links in the chain that knits Him to me.
But then the question comes, how to get this continuous faith? Brethren!
I know no answer except the simple one, by continually making efforts
after it, and adopting the means which Christ enjoins to secure it. A
man climbing a hill, though he has to look to his feet when in the
slippery places, and all his energies are expended in hoisting himself
upwards by every projection and crag, will do all the better if he lifts
his eye often to the summit that gleams above him. So we, in our upward
course, shall make the best progress when we consciously and honestly
try to look beyond the things seen and temporal, even whilst we are
working in the midst of them, and to keep clear before us the summit to
which our faith tends. If we lived in the endeavour to realise that
great white throne, and Him that sits upon it, we should find it easier
to say, 'My heart is fixed, O God! my heart is fixed.'
But be sure of this, there will be no such uniformity of religious
experience throughout our lives unless there be frequent times in them
in which we go into our chambers and shut our doors about us, and hold
communion with our Father in secret. Everything noble and great in the
Christian life is fed by solitude, and everything poor and mean and
hypocritical and low-toned is nourished by continual absence from the
secret place of the Most High. There must be moments of solitary
communion, if there are to be hours of strenuous service and a life of
continual consecration.
We need not ask ourselves the question whether the realisation of the
ideal of this fixedness in its perfect completeness is possible for us
here on earth or not. You and I are a long way on this side of that
realisation yet, and we need not trouble ourselves about the final
stages until we have got on a stage or two more.
What would you think of a boy if, when he had just been taught to draw
with a pencil, he said to his master, 'Do you think I shall ever be able
to draw as well as Raphael?' His teacher would say to him, 'Whether you
will or not, you will be able to draw a good deal better than now, if
you try.' We need not trouble ourselves with the questions that disturb
some people until we are very much nearer to perfection than any of us
yet are. At any rate, we can approach indefinitely to that ideal, and
whether it is possible for us in this life ever to have hearts so
continuously fixed as that no attraction shall draw the needle aside one
point from the pole or not, it is possible for us all to have them a
great deal steadier than in that wavering, fluctuating vacillation which
now rules them.
So let us pray the prayer, 'Unite my heart to fear Thy name,' make the
resolve, 'My heart is fixed,' and listen obediently to the command, 'He
exhorted them all that with purpose of heart they should cleave unto the
Lord.'