*fW- - ■■ fopsngW |„ ■.; I 
 
 f UNITED STATES OF C AilfRICA. f 
 
 
SERMONS 
 
 EEV. P. B. HAUGHWOUT, A. M. 
 
 A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 
 
 BY HIS WIFE, 
 
 AN INTRODUCTION BY REV. V. R. HOTCHKISS, D. D. 
 
 Pmorial d&bitioir. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 NICHOLS & HALL 
 
 18 7 8. 
 
 *j\ 
 
 <V 
 
-S/6 33 3 
 
 
 1877, 
 By MES. P. B. HAUGHWOUT. 
 
 Printed by 
 Alfbed Mtjbgb & Son, Boston. 
 
 LC Control Number 
 
 111 
 
 tm P 96 031691 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Introduction 5 
 
 Biographical Sketch 7 
 
 SERMONS. 
 
 L Religion develops Character. Pro v. xxiii, 7 . 39 
 
 II. Through Suffering. John xvii, 24 . . . . 49 
 
 III. Christian Determination. 1 Cor. ii, 2 . . . 57 
 
 IV. Dead Flies. Eccl. x, 1 68 
 
 V. The Open Door. John x, 9 82 
 
 VI. Analogy as confirming Christian Doctrines. 
 
 Prov. x, 16 96 
 
 VH. Christ Suffering. Luke xxiv, 26 ... 108 
 
 VIII. Christ Crucified. Luke xxiv, 26 ... . 120 
 
 IX. Christ Risen. Luke xxiv, 5, 6 133 
 
 X. Bowing in the House of Rlmmon. 2 Kings v, 18 . 144 
 
 XI. Peter's Resolve. Matt, xxvi, 33 ... . 157 
 
 XII. The Heavenly Promise. Matt, xi, 28 . 169 
 
 XIII. The Ark in the House. 2 Sam. vi, 11 . . . 184 
 
 XIV. Reason of the Faith. 1 Peter iii, 15 198 
 XV. Baptism. Romans vi, 4 221 
 
 XVI. The Sinner's Love, the Saviour's Forgiveness. 
 
 Lukevii,47 231 
 
 XVII. Jacob wrestling with God. Gen. xxxii, 24-26 . 243 
 
 XVIIL Orpah and Ruth. Ruth i, 14 255 
 
 XIX Parable of the Unjust Steward. Luke xvi, 1-12, 268 
 
 XX. The Woman of Samaria. John iv, 29 . . . 279 
 
4 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 XXI. Looking on Christ at the Judgment. Rev. i, 7, 293 
 
 XXII. Where are we ? 1 Tim. iv, 1 308 
 
 XXIII. " I go A fishing." John xxi, 3 . . . .321 
 
 XXIV. Joy of Christ's Fellowship. Matt, xi, 6 . . 333 
 XXV. The Fulness of Christ. Col. iii, 11 . .347 
 
 XXVI. Paul and Silas praying in Prison. Acts xvi, 
 
 25,26 361 
 
 XX VIE. "Not by Might nor by Power, but by my 
 
 Spirit." Joshua vi, 20 373 
 
 XXVIII. Christian Warfare. 2 Tim. vi, 7 . . . .387 
 XXIX. The Christian Race. 2 Tim. iv,7 . . . . 394 
 
 XXX. Faith. 2 Tim. iv, 7 403 
 
 XXXI. "Ready to be offered." 2 Tim. iv, 6 . . .413 
 
INTEODUCTIOlSr 
 
 The writer of this note has had no opportunity to read 
 any of the discourses contained in this volume, but his 
 acquaintance with their author gives him ground of assur- 
 ance as to their exceptional merits. That acquaintance has 
 been of long standing; and it has been intimate, even to the 
 point of the freest and fullest interchange of views on a great 
 variety of subjects. If the sermons are a fair outcome of 
 the man, as I have known him, they will be found worthy of 
 a permanent place in our religious literature. 
 
 They were not written, I suppose, with any view to publi- 
 cation; and they were prepared and delivered, I learn, in the 
 early period of Mr. Haughwout's ministry. Had they been 
 given to the public under his own eye, they would, doubtless, 
 have been first subjected to careful revision and severe 
 pruning, and would have received, in some parts, that larger 
 and weightier exposition of which his matured strength was 
 capable; yet as they are, they will reveal to the reader a 
 rare combination of wide investigation, penetrating thought, 
 poetical fervor, and robust faith in the great fundamental 
 facts and doctrines of the gospel of Christ. 
 
 Mr. Haughwout had gathered and mastered and appropri- 
 ated for use a larger range and variety of "knowledges ,r 
 than any other man of his years whom it has been my good 
 fortune to know, and the critical accuracy and orderly 
 arrangement of his acquisitions were as marked as the 
 abounding fulness of his researches. What he knew he 
 knew scientifically. In these respects he was a marvel and a 
 mystery to many. To them it almost seemed that knowledge 
 was born in him. But there are those who know that all this; 
 wealth of mental possessions had been garnered by an indus- 
 try that never tired, and by an intellectual watchfulness* 
 
6 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 that was always on the alert for fact and truth. His life was 
 a constant and strenuous tasking of himself in the pursuit of 
 knowledge and self-culture; and the result was a mind 
 filled to an extent and disciplined to a degree far beyond the 
 average of even the higher educational attainments. 
 
 Mr. Haughwout was scrupulously conscientious in all his 
 mental processes. Of everything like inexactness in think- 
 ing and slovenliness of speech he had a horror as of a sin. 
 Both in thought and language he aimed at precision, even to 
 the utmost point of accuracy. That he always attained, we 
 neither afiirm nor believe; but he sought this goal of excel- 
 lence under the spur and rein of a self -discipline that brought 
 him well on towards it. 
 
 To as many, therefore, as knew our departed friend in the 
 delightful companionship of his living presence, this vol- 
 ume will be a welcome gift; and to such as did not thus 
 know him, it is commended as revealing something of a 
 noble and highly cultured Christian manhood, consecrated to 
 the service of Christ, and of the truth as it is in Him. 
 
 It is not to be expected that all the positions and state- 
 ments to be found in the following pages will command uni- 
 versal assent. Mr. Haughwout was a self-trained and 
 independent thinker, and as such he will probably be found 
 to have thought differently, on some points, from many in 
 our body ecclesiastic; or, at least, to have expressed his 
 thought in an unusual form. "We believe, nevertheless, that 
 nothing will be found that need disturb the settled, evangel- 
 ical view of Scriptural teaching on the great themes that are 
 here handled. 
 
 The main blemish in the style of these discourses will 
 probably be found in a redundancy of rhetorical ornament, 
 owing, in part, to the fact of their composition in the early 
 period of the author's ministry, but due also, in part, to his 
 poetical temperament, and to his uncommon facility in sum- 
 moning troops of words to his service. 
 
 With these few words of introduction, the accompanying 
 volume is committed to the kind consideration of those into 
 whose hands it may come, with the prayer that the blessing 
 of God may rest upon it, and make it a spiritual good to many 
 hearts. 
 
SKETCH OF THE LIFE 
 
 PETER BKETTON HAUGHWOUT. 
 
 Peter Britton Haughwout was born at Tomp- 
 kins ville, Staten Islaud, May 25, 1828. His paternal 
 ancestors were from Germany, and were among the 
 earliest settlers of the island. His father, Winant 
 Haughwout, was a man of sterling integrity and 
 uprightness of moral character. He was at one time 
 engaged in successful business in New York, but 
 through financial reverses lost his property, which 
 determined him to remove West in the hope of 
 retrieving his fortunes. He accordingly settled with 
 his family in Adrian, Michigan. 
 
 His mother, Sarah Britton Haughwout, is sup- 
 posed to be of French extraction, a descendant of 
 the De Brittany Huguenots who fled to this country 
 for religious freedom at the time of the revocation of 
 the Edict of Nantes. With such an ancestry, it is no 
 wonder their son early manifested a thoughtful turn 
 of mind. He was carefully trained in the faith of 
 the Dutch Keformed Church, of which his parents 
 were members, and which, without questioning, he 
 
8 LIFE OF PETER BRITTON HAUGHWOUT. 
 
 obediently attended, until, in his early manhood, he 
 was converted, and united with the Baptist Church, 
 to which faith he remained ever a firm adherent. It 
 was an incident of no little interest that his parents 
 about this time underwent an entire change of doc- 
 trinal views, and were baptized the same day with 
 their son, his father afterward holding the office of 
 deacon until his death. 
 
 Of the early developments of Mr. Haughwout's 
 mental gifts and impressionable nature, his mother, 
 a bright, intelligent lady, now seventy-two years of 
 age, whose vigor of intellect seems unabated, 
 proudly recounts many manifestations. Of an 
 ardent, impulsive temperament and the quickest 
 imaginable sensibilities, he could never bear the sight 
 of pain or suffering, and has often been known to 
 weep over a bird that had been wantonly killed. 
 
 When he was six and a half years of age, he lost 
 a sister two years younger than himself, an event 
 that prostrated his mother with grief. The little 
 fellow was greatly perplexed and distressed by her 
 sorrow. After trying in vain to console her, he sud- 
 denly ran from the room, presently returning, bring- 
 ing in his small hands an open Bible, with his finger 
 pointing to the words, K Suffer little children to come 
 unto me." "Mamma," he joyfully exclaimed, "hear 
 what Jesus says ! " and then he read, with an eager- 
 ness indescribable, those words which have soothed 
 so many stricken hearts. " Don't you know little 
 sister has gone to Jesus, and you will go too some 
 time? O mamma, don't cry, since you know sister 
 
LIFE OF PETER BRITTON HAUGHWOUT. y 
 
 is so happy !" "And," said his mother, "his prattle 
 cheered me more than all the minister said." So 
 early in life did he assume the office of comforter. 
 
 Although an extremely playful boy, his natural 
 vivacity urging him to an excess of activity, his thirst 
 for knowledge, which in his later years became the 
 ruling passion of his life, began in his extreme youth 
 to show itself. Faithful in his attendance upon school, 
 carefully studious and thorough in whatever he under- 
 took, possessed of a quick, penetrating mind and a 
 retentive memory, what marvel that his progress was 
 both rapid and sure ! When he was thirteen years of 
 age, he sustained the fracture of a thigh, from which 
 misfortune he had scarcely recovered when the acci- 
 dent was repeated. During all the months of weary 
 confinement, his sole grief was because of the ban- 
 ishment of his books, the use of which his physician 
 had unwisely interdicted, and which decree he was 
 obliged to revoke, saying to the lad's mother, "Let 
 him have his books, let him have his books ! I never 
 saw so strange a child. Pain seems nothing to him : 
 he is fretting himself to death for books ! " And, 
 placed in a frame and fastened to the bed, his hands 
 being too small to steady it, he read through Horn's 
 "Introduction to the Bible," — a child but thirteen 
 years of age ! He carried all his life the little Latin 
 Testament which had already become his constant 
 companion. 
 
 Soon after his recovery, his father settled upon 
 a farm. This event, which removed the boy from the 
 reach of schools, marks an epoch in his life. All his 
 
10 LIFE OF PETER BRITTON HAUGHWOUT. 
 
 ambition, all his desires for scholastic attainments, all 
 the latent forces of his character, were aroused. After 
 carefully surveying the situation, and balancing its 
 obstacles against his aspirations, he formed a decision 
 from which no subsequent adverse circumstances 
 were ever able to swerve him. He at once inaugu- 
 rated a systematic course in English Literature, Latin, 
 and Greek, although often obtaining with great diffi- 
 culty the text-books he needed. His method of 
 study was necessarily somewhat peculiar. His means 
 not permitting the aid of masters, and his services 
 being often called into requisition on the farm, his 
 mornings were given to manual labor as long as his 
 strength would permit; then quickly disappearing 
 into his room, and exchanging his working for his 
 in-door dress, he would apply himself with character- 
 istic energy, the remainder of the day and usually 
 far into the night, to study. When he was sixteen 
 years of age, the calamity which had twice pros- 
 trated him was experienced for the third time, and 
 the surgeon declared amputation absolutely necessary. 
 Here the young man's determination and force of will 
 served him to a purpose. " What ! cripple me for 
 life ?" he asked. "You shall never do it." "But 
 you'll not live," the surgeon remonstrated. "Then 
 I '11 die, but I '11 die a whole man," he responded. Con- 
 trary to all expectations, he recovered and lived, a 
 " whole man," and pursued his routine of manual and 
 intellectual labor as vigorously as ever. In the winter 
 of his sixteenth year he added to his duties those of 
 teacher in a public school, which position he filled 
 
LIFE OF PETER BRITTON HAUGHWOUT. 11 
 
 for three successive winters, using the long nights for 
 study. 
 
 To give an idea of the results of this incessant 
 application, one fact must be stated. When he was 
 about eighteen years of age he was examined by the 
 faculty of Michigan University as preliminary to his 
 entering that institution as a pupil, the means for 
 which had been generously volunteered by Baptist 
 friends ; but he was found already so far in advance 
 of their prescribed curriculum, in some departments; 
 his scholarship exceeding that of their graduates, that 
 they advised him to forego the merely nominal advan- 
 tage it would be to him, and to give no further- 
 thought to the matter of a college course. 
 
 But these days and nights of unremitting effort 
 began to tell seriously upon a constitution by nature 
 the most delicate, audit became a matter of frequent 
 occurrence for his mother, ever anxious about him, 
 upon feigning an errand to his room, to find him 
 lying upon the floor, his book by his side, his hands 
 dropped helplessly down, his brain unconscious from 
 exhaustion. What wonder was it that, in his nine- 
 teenth year, he was suddenly attacked with brain- 
 fever, from which his physician expressed the opinion 
 that he could not possibly recover. This incautious 
 remark was uttered in the presence, and during a 
 lucid interval of the sufferer. "Not live, not live !" 
 he moaned. " Why, doctor, I have done nothing yet, 
 not even attained my majority ; and do you dare to 
 say I am not to live? But /say I will live, and by 
 God's help will do some work, too." How well he 
 
12 LIFE OF PETER BRITTON HAUGHWOUT. 
 
 succeeded in his determination the abundant manu- 
 scripts he has left of sermons, lectures, addresses, 
 and scientific work bear witness. 
 
 Soon after his restoration to health, through his 
 own desire and the expressed wishes of his friends, 
 his mind was seriously directed towards the law, for 
 which profession he seemed to have special abilities ; 
 but after earnest, careful, and conscientious delibera- 
 tion he decided that the pulpit, and not the forum, 
 was the congenial arena for his work. He therefore 
 applied for, and obtained a licence from the Lenawee 
 Michigan Association to preach, and assumed the 
 charge of the Baptist Church in Hudson, Michigan, 
 entering upon the service with great relish. His first 
 sermon was based upon the words of Paul, " God 
 forbid that I should glory, save in the cross of our 
 Lord Jesus Christ." This theme always sounded the 
 deepest wells of his spiritual nature, and drew thence 
 the purest, sweetest, most satisfying draughts. 
 
 About this time he commenced the study of the 
 Hebrew language, under a tutor, making marvellous 
 progress. One circumstance relating to this period 
 of his life, as told by his tutor, will bear repetition. 
 Returning home one hot summer afternoon from the 
 institution where he had charge of the Latin and 
 Greek languages, the tutor was confronted at his 
 door by his pupil, book in hand. Retiring with the 
 young man to a private room, and throwing himself 
 down at his ease, he listened to page after page, page 
 upon page, until his patience was fairly exhausted. 
 Suddenly charging down upon the offending victim, 
 
LTFE OF PETER BRITTON HAUGHWOUT. 13 
 
 " How many more pages have you ? " "Oh, I don't know ; 
 perhaps twenty." The tutor scanned him in absolute 
 amazement, as if to ascertain of what stuff he was made, 
 and then said, " Take the book and go home, my friend. 
 We have both had enough of it for one day." . 
 
 When he was twenty-one years of age, in May, 
 1849, he was ordained to the work of the gospel min- 
 istry, in the church which he had served as a licen- 
 tiate two years. He remained in Hudson but six 
 months after his ordination, but those who are left 
 of his old pastorate remember with deep interest 
 the young man whom they styled "the eloquent boy 
 preacher," so many years ago. 
 
 While he was in this church, the work which he 
 longed to accomplish he did not realize. Spiritual 
 life seemed at a low ebb throughout the country, 
 and but few were added to their number while he 
 remained with them, and those only by letter. But 
 at that date the position of the pastor of a Western 
 village church was no sinecure. Often, during what 
 they termed the " sickly season," was he called upon 
 to attend funerals eight, ten, twelve miles out in the 
 country, paying his own expenses, returning jaded, 
 ill from exposure, without having received a word of 
 approval. "Well," he would sometimes say, "am I 
 not the servant of the people? The servant must not 
 be greater than his Lord." 
 
 In April of the following year, 1850, he was mar- 
 ried to Mary L., daughter of Rev. L. Hotchkiss, of 
 Medina, Michigan, and sister of Rev. Dr. Hotchkiss, 
 of Buffalo, New York. 
 
14 LIFE OF PETER BEITTON HAUGHWOUT. 
 
 His next pastorate, in Tecnmseh, Michigan, was 
 but for a year, circumstances having decided him to 
 turn his steps eastward. Accordingly he accepted an 
 invitation from the First Baptist Church in Nunda, 
 Livingston County, New York. Here again the work 
 proved too heavy for him. The church numbered 
 seven hundred. He preached three times on the Sab- 
 bath, and attended one evening service during the 
 week ; also his hours of study were increasing, 
 rather than diminishing, and were prolonged until 
 two or three o'clock in the night. He broke down 
 utterly, and tendered his resignation after but nine 
 months. One drop of joy he experienced here ; he 
 had the pleasure of baptizing a few converts into the 
 fellowship of the church. 
 
 In August of the same year, he retired to his 
 fathers farm, seeking in freedom from care the 
 recuperation he needed in order to the fresh prosecu- 
 tion of his work. After a year of relaxation, he 
 again assayed to preach, supplying for a few months 
 churches in the vicinity of Buffalo, remaining a guest 
 in the home of his wife's brother, Dr. Hotchkiss. 
 During this interval of rest, he accompanied Dr. 
 Hotchkiss to Rochester, where the doctor was deliv- 
 ering lectures in the theological seminary. 
 
 While there, he entered the college and witnessed 
 the examination of the Greek class. The professor 
 in charge, for some reason, failed to recall a techni- 
 cal term, and appealed to the class. No one was able 
 to rescue him from his dilemma until Dr. Hotchkiss 
 quietly suggested that if he should ask "this young 
 
LIFE OF PETER BRITTON HAUGHWOUT. 15 
 
 man," indicating young Haughwout, "he thought he 
 would get what he wanted." The invitation was 
 given. Quick as thought the "young man," blush- 
 ing with modesty, gave "what was wanted," and 
 thereupon had to finish the lesson himself. This 
 incident so interested the professor that he prevailed 
 upon young Haughwout to allow himself to be 
 brought before the faculty, and after a brief, sharp 
 examination, they conferred upon him the degree of 
 A. M. in honor of his rare attainments. 
 
 In the winter of 1853-4 he accepted an invitation 
 to the pastorate of the First Baptist Church in Medina, 
 New York. His efforts with this people resulted 
 rather in a gradual building up, and cementing of the 
 component parts of the body, than in any special and 
 marked interest. He labored here three years, and 
 while his earnest desires for the conversion of sin- 
 ners were not crowned with success, he stamped his 
 impress upon the church in the moulding, transform- 
 ing influence of knowledge and culture. In the 
 winter of 1856-7 he accepted a unanimous invitation 
 to the pastorate of the First Baptist Church in Fall 
 River, Massachusetts, which for a term of fifteen 
 years he served with all the fulness of his matured 
 powers. It was a subject of deep grief to him 
 that he did not witness those results of his ministry 
 for which he longed. Often, returning home from 
 some special effort, into which he had thrown all the 
 earnestness of his nature, fired by love for Christ 
 and man, in the extremest dejection, walking the 
 floor for hours, his hands clasped, his head bowed, 
 
16 LIFE OF PETER BRITTON HAUGHWOUT. 
 
 his whole appearance that of profoundest sorrow, 
 reiterating, "Of what use are encomiums upon my 
 preaching ? What does it all amount to ? Nothing, 
 less than nothing, while they do not heed my Mas- 
 ter's message. Where are the results of my work? 
 I cannot go on in this way. I cannot bear it ! " 
 And when at last he was permitted ,to lead into the 
 church a goodly company, who ascribed their sal- 
 vation, under God, to the influence of his preaching, 
 his joy was as extreme as his sorrow had been, and 
 drew from him the remark, " I think I am too happy 
 to live ! " 
 
 In the fifth year of his connection with this people, 
 they generously provided the means, and granted him 
 leave of absence for an extended foreign tour ; and 
 in August, 1860, he sailed for Liverpool. The jour- 
 nal which he has left gives abundant proof of the 
 intense pleasure and large profit derived from his 
 travels. Objects of interest received more than a 
 cursory glance ; they were studied thoroughly, 
 incorporated into his life, made a part of himself, for 
 purposes of future use. Each seemed invested with 
 some special charm for him ; each contributed to 
 the enlargement of his nature and the development 
 of his spiritual life. But it was when standing on 
 Mars Hill, and recalling the scenes in the life of that 
 wonderful man, whose connection with the spot 
 has immortalized it for all time, that his religious 
 emotions were stirred to their depths. He lingered 
 upon its sacred soil as long as time would allow, loath 
 to take his departure ; and when at last he turned to 
 
LIFE OF PETER BFJTTON HAUGHWOUT. 17 
 
 go, he felt his "eyes fill with tears and his heart too 
 full for utterance." After seven months of profitable 
 travel, he returned to his people with recuperated 
 health and quickened spirit, and entered upon his 
 work with fresh zest. 
 
 Soon after his return, the Rebellion rang out its 
 first defiant note, and his patriotic soul was fired 
 with indignation. His labors in support of the Union 
 were incessant. His manuscripts show an immense 
 amount of work done in this direction, as well as 
 in his own legitimate field. He gave his services 
 eagerly, unsparingly, and only regretted his inability 
 for more severe labors. 
 
 During the year 1868 he frequently supplied the 
 Eowe Street Church, Boston, Massachusetts, of which 
 Dr. Baron Stow had been so long the beloved pastor, 
 and which has been since changed to the Clarendon 
 Street, with Rev. Mr. Gordon as its pastor. In 1859 
 he was elected to the Board of Overseers of Harvard 
 College, Cambridge, wdiich position he filled with 
 credit to himself for a period of six years, acting as 
 president of the Greek committee, and having charge 
 of the annual examination of the Greek classes. 
 
 Yet, never- allowing his severe labors to interfere 
 with his prescribed course of study, he pursued an 
 uninterrupted routine in languages, classics, sciences, 
 and general literature, that reminds one of those 
 curious animals whose gormandizing only whets the 
 appetite for more food. He seized upon every line 
 of research with avidity, and about this time enlarged 
 his knowledge of Natural History by scrutinizing 
 
18 LIFE OF PETER BRITTON HAUGI1WOUT. 
 
 closely the habits of the spider for the, space of two 
 years, finding his morning recreation in capturing and 
 confining them in glass tubes. Yet he never seemed 
 to lose sisrht of or forget for a moment the work to 
 which he had devoted his life, and was never so happy 
 as when imparting some Bible truth, which seemed, 
 under his handling, to take on new beauty and force. 
 Said one of his friends, "Never shall I forgot the 
 conversation we had on the last Sunday of his life, 
 as we walked over the old ground we had travelled 
 so much, and I listened to his views upon certain 
 passages of Scripture. It was sweet beyond ex- 
 pression." 
 
 But his health was rapidly sinking, his periods of 
 enforced rest becoming more frequent, and the hearts 
 of his friends were growing like lead ! In 1870 a 
 great affliction overtook him in the death of his faith- 
 ful friend, Dr. Eli Thurston, who had been for twenty- 
 two years the able pastor of the Central Congrega- 
 tional Church of Fall River, with whom he had ex- 
 changed pulpits every month for many years. His 
 soul was knit to the soul of this excellent man like 
 that of David to Jonathan's. He never seemed to 
 recover from this bereavement, any allusion to his 
 friend always bringing a rush of emotion, and the 
 injunction to be " laid, at the last, by his side." 
 During this year he became so much disheartened 
 by his repeated attacks of illness and his consequent 
 failure to fill his appointments with the church, that he 
 formally resigned his long pastorate. 
 
 After a few months of rest, he consented to act, 
 
LIFE OF PETER BRITTON HAUGHWOUT\ 19 
 
 in the absence of any pastor, as supply for the First 
 Baptist Church of Dunkirk, New York. He served 
 this church for two years with great acceptance, 
 though with frequent interruptions from illness. He 
 always retained a warm affection for and interest in 
 this people, and spoke of them with great pleasure. 
 In the winter of 1873 he accepted -his last invitation, 
 and entered upon the pastorate of the First Baptist 
 Church in Jamestown, New York. 
 
 Here his overwrought nerves seemed for a time gal- 
 vanized into fresh life, and his mind appeared to take 
 on new vigor as he rambled over the ghrious hills 
 and through the lovely valleys that skirt and beautify 
 the picturesque shores of Chatauqua Lake. Here, 
 too, he entered, with all the ardor of his enthusiastic 
 nature, into scientific work, and made careful and 
 thorough investigation into the world of infinitesimal 
 life, discernible only through the medium of a pow- 
 erful microscope. How vividly his friends will recall 
 the picture made by him and his companion, Prof. H. 
 S. Albro, walking with quick, energetic step, or 
 slowly, arm in arm, and with evident effort, as his 
 mood or strength would allow, in the direction of some 
 stream, with little phials and ladles with which to 
 secure the prey ; then the triumphant return, and 
 eager examination of the prizes, his face aglow with 
 interest, his whole being aroused, pain and weariness 
 forgotten, enthusiasm at white heat, and the words 
 forcing themselves from his lips in a rushing torrent 
 for hours, until reminded by exhaustion how he had 
 overrun the limits of prudence. 
 
20 LIFE OF PETER BRITTON HAUGHWOUT. 
 
 His study presented, at this time, a singular and 
 somewhat startling appearance. Books upon almost 
 every imaginable subject lined the walls; current 
 periodicals scattered about on tables or on the floor ; 
 every chair in proximity to his piled with the books 
 he happened to be using ; two or three of the latest 
 modern and ancient atlases lying open, in utter dis- 
 regard of the remonstrance of the bindings ; lexicons 
 standing so close to his chair that, upon rising to greet 
 a visitor, his quick, energetic movements rarely failed 
 to topple over one row, at least ; a collection of ancient 
 and modem coins, now on exhibition in Brown Uni- 
 versity ; on one side a mineralogical cabinet, many of 
 whose treasures had been polished by himself; a case 
 of moths and butterflies put up by himself, the nets 
 in which they had been caught lying close at hand ; 
 canes from all parts of the world, Indian curiosities 
 and relics, pictures of churches and cathedrals hang- 
 ing on the walls ; and, placed in position to secure the 
 most effective light, his microscope, at once his solace 
 and instructor ; these all combined to perfect a place 
 which he appropriately named his "working den." 
 
 Still, with harrying pain now a constant guest, 
 laboring through two revivals during his three years' 
 pastorate (in which the divine favor set its seal upon 
 his ministry by adding to the church more than fifty 
 souls), assisting in establishing a young people's 
 church society, delivering frequent lectures and 
 addresses, he yet achieved the labor of compiling 
 and leaving ready for publication a valuable work 
 on microscopy, with colored plates, illustrative of 
 
LIFE OF PETER BRITTON HAUGHWOUT. 21 
 
 his discoveries. His scientific work was his recrea- 
 tion ; his forte was preaching. This he entered into 
 with all the fire and tenacity of a first love, and 
 when his friends ventured to suggest a professorship, 
 as the means of lightening his labors and prolonging 
 his useful life, he would never entertain the thought 
 for an instant. 
 
 "No, no ! " he would exclaim. "I'll die with my 
 legitimate working dress on. I put it on in my youth : 
 when God wants it off, He must remove it. I never 
 will." And now the book of his life is nearing its 
 closing page, "his story its saddest leaf." Although 
 the poem which is here introduced, bearing his signa- 
 ture, has no date, it was probably written about this 
 period, as indicative of his sorrowful presentiments. 
 
 WHAT IS YOUR LIFE ? 
 
 One day of wailing when life is begun, 
 One day of sorrow when life is done, 
 One long day between of trouble and care, — 
 And behold, life's story is written there! 
 
 A dew-drop bright on a spider's thread, 
 A fleecy cloud with the rainbow spread, 
 A fire-fly's flash on the evening air, — 
 And behold, life's frailty written there! 
 
 A lily-white cheek with its bloodless veins, 
 A rosy cheek with its hectic stains, 
 So fair and so frail, so bright and so brief ! 
 Look, and see of life's story the saddest leaf. 
 
 Two pale hands crossed on the breast, 
 Two pale eyelids heavily pressed, 
 Two pale lips that are closed so fast, — 
 And behold, life's labor is done at last 1 
 2* 
 
22 LIFE OF PETER BRITTON HAUGHWOTIT. 
 
 In the spring of 1876 he was stricken down with 
 a brain disease that threatened to end his usefulness, 
 and, at the instance of his friends, he consented to be 
 placed under the care of a physician, on whose skill 
 reliance was placed to bring the treatment to a suc- 
 cessful issue. Under this efficient regime, the result 
 was abundantly gratifying, and in a few months the 
 patient was restored to his friends, the only cloud 
 upon his horizon being the fear that he might not 
 be able to resume pastoral work. So passed quickly 
 the time until the fifteenth day of April, 1877. 
 While sitting at the breakfast- table on that Sun- 
 day morning, suddenly he exclaimed, "Now I'll 
 throw up my cap and shout, I am a free man ! " 
 alluding to the fulfilment of the prescribed time for 
 his enforced rest. " I am going to preach ! " He 
 was lono'ino- for the battle ; his idleness had become 
 irksome. That week he received pressing invita- 
 tions to visit his waiting people in Jamestown, and 
 ascertain if his new-found strength were sufficient 
 to warrant his return to his pastorate. Quickly 
 responding to the call, he started within a few hours 
 for that place. As he bade adieu to a friend, he 
 earnestly said, "If I fail in this effort, — mark ray 
 words > — if I find I cannot do my work, I shall not 
 live. But it is not death I dread : I dread only a 
 useless life." 
 
 With expressions of genuine gratitude to the 
 family who had generously tendered to himself and 
 wife the hospitalities of their magnificent home for 
 a period of ,six months, he bade good by to the 
 
LIFE OF PETER BRITTON HAUGIIWOUT. 23 
 
 place of his earlier, and started for the scene of 
 his last labors. Reaching New York the next 
 morning, he visited his mother and sister, and 
 talked cheerfully and hopefully of the future, 
 dwelling with deep feeling upon the fact that he 
 had such hosts of friends, saying, "I am proud 
 of my true, disinterested friends." Resuming in 
 good spirits his journey, he swiftly n eared the 
 goal of his desires. Arriving at Jamestown on 
 Wednesday evening, he was welcomed by every 
 mark of affectionate interest. The remaining three 
 days of the week were spent in reunions, very 
 grateful to him. 
 
 On Saturday he visited the parsonage which he had 
 left a year before in such distressing circumstances, 
 and which his friends hoped would soon be made 
 alive again by his presence. This visit shook his 
 nerves and touched his sensibilities very keenly ; 
 but shaking off the temporary agitation, he entered 
 the garden, and found in the old spot that had so 
 Ions: needed and missed the master's hand a few lit- 
 tie flowers, struggling through the tangle of weeds ; 
 these he picked, and tenderly placing them in a box, 
 sent them to his wife, who was awaiting his return 
 in Fall River. 
 
 On Sunday morning, the twenty- second of April, 
 one week after the day on which he was going to 
 "throw up his cap and shout," he entered the church, 
 and stood in his old place before a large audience. 
 The sight of so many friends, recalling past associa- 
 tions, nearly unmanned him ; but soon forgetting all 
 
24 LIFE OF PETER BRITTON HAUGHWOUT. 
 
 else in the absorbing interest of bis theme, be de- 
 livered with intense fervor his last sermon. 
 
 On Monday he complained of having passed a rest- 
 less night, and expressed some anxiety in regard to 
 himself, but still hoped all would be well in a day or 
 two. 
 
 But he continued steadily growing more ill, con- 
 stantly reiterating the desire for sleep and rest. " If 
 I could sleep, all would be well." As he gave no 
 sign of rallying, on Tuesday his son was tele- 
 graphed for, who reached Jamestown on Wednesday 
 evening. Thursday morning, Mr. Haughwout rallied, 
 and his friends took heart of cheer. His son, think- 
 ing that a journey might prove beneficial, hastened 
 preparations for departure. The carriage which was 
 to convey them to the train was waiting at the door. 
 Suddenly Mr. Haughwout began rapidly pacing the 
 floor, every vestige of color having left his face. 
 " If I find I cannot do my work, I shall not live." 
 Perhaps this fatal prophecy occurred to him. Turn- 
 ing to a young friend, he exclaimed, " I am going 
 away for a few days. You won't forget me when I 'm 
 gone, will you?" "No, no," the answer came, "I'll 
 never forget you." Scarcely were the words uttered 
 when she was startled, by a fall, hearing which, his 
 son, hurrying to his aid, beheld his father lying out- 
 stretched, upon the floor, his hands folded, his eyes 
 closed, his heart pulseless forever ; while upon the 
 face the Hand which " wipes away all tears from the 
 eyes," had left its Divine impress in a smile of inef- 
 fable sweetness. 
 
LTFE OF PETER BRITTON HAUGHWOUT. 25 
 
 The longed-for, restful " sleep " had come ! 
 
 After a brief funeral service, his son, accompanied 
 by Hon. Jerome Preston, started, with the remains 
 of his father, towards the home from which he had 
 gone, so full of hope, less than two weeks before. 
 He was to " lie, at the last," by the side of his friend, 
 Dr. Thurston. The funeral was attended on Sunday, 
 April twenty-ninth, in his old church, the First Bap- 
 tist Church of Fall River, one week from the day he 
 preached in Jamestown. Rev. A. K. P. Small, 
 assisted by Rev. H. C. Graves, S. W. Butler, M. 
 Burnham, and W. W. Adams, D. D., officiated at 
 the funeral. Rev. Mr. Burnham offered prayer, and 
 following this Rev. H. C. Graves read appropriate 
 selections of Scripture, and added the following 
 beautiful original stanzas, suggested by the pitiful 
 cry for " rest " : — 
 
 HE BESTS. 
 
 IN MEMORY OF REV. P. B. HAUGHWOUT. 
 
 O Christ, Thou leadest up Thine own 
 
 The way thyself hast trod, 
 The shining, glorious, saintly path, 
 
 The king's highway to God. 
 
 We give Thee thanks, O mighty Lord, 
 
 Who didst the victory win! 
 With Thee in life Thy servant stands, 
 
 Above all death and sin. 
 
 This side the grave, with patient heart, 
 
 Where darkness lingers yet, 
 They wait on Thee who see Thee not; 
 
 Sun of their soul! 'tis set. 
 
26 LIFE OF PETER BRITTON HAUGHWOUT. 
 
 But morning streams across the deep; 
 
 All, all 's beyond the sight. 
 There 's life and love, there 's glory still. 
 
 Wait, wait the coming light! 
 
 He rests! God's servant rests to-day; 
 
 Heaven's Sabbath is begun; 
 Peace fills the soul when Jesus speaks, 
 
 " Servant of God, well done." 
 
 Rev. A. K. P. Small, successor of the deceased, 
 delivered a noble, eloquent tribute to the mem- 
 ory of this Christian minister. He spoke as fol- 
 lows : — 
 
 "It need not be said in this presence that it is 
 no ordinary event which brings us together to-day. 
 It is not in response to any church-bell, or in 
 observance of mere custom, but because of the 
 silent, sacred impulses of many hearts to which I 
 know not who can give suitable expression. For 
 a special reason, I cannot presume to be a suitable 
 organ for the utterance of your real appreciation of 
 this public servant of God. 
 
 " Though one may have seen him privately and 
 socially, being charmed with his conversation, de- 
 lighted with his friendship and gleams of genius and 
 erudition, almost as certain to radiate from him any- 
 where as heat from a glowing furnace, yet if one has 
 never seen him in the pulpit, catching the thrill of 
 his presence and his voice, the power from the inces- 
 sant outflinging of gems of knowledge and beauty, 
 gathered from all departments of nature and revela- 
 tion, if one has never felt the welcome, magnetic mas- 
 
LIFE OF PETER BRITTON HAUGHWOUT. 27 
 
 tery of this prince in Israel, when on his own sacred 
 throne, you who so many times, spellbound, have lis- 
 tened, will assuredly say that one never knew Mr. 
 Haughwout. 
 
 "That much-desired privilege was never mine. 
 Hopefully have I waited for it, but it can never be. 
 I have only seen him as the soldier off duty, in fatigue 
 dress, waiting for recuperation. 
 
 " Yet I cannot be persuaded that I do not know 
 him. How could a successor live for any time among 
 this people and not know him ? Are there anywhere, 
 in all this region, strange stones, old bowlders having 
 wrapped up in them the mystery of ages ? To which 
 one of them could he not sro and read it, through and 
 through, telling to the dumb stone its own exact his- 
 tory of centuries ago ? Living as I have among this 
 people, not dumb, but eloquent through his own inspi- 
 ration, must not one be hopelessly dull not to know 
 our late pastor ? 
 
 " Well enough have I known him to be prepared 
 to repeat the remark of Mr. Sumner when the most 
 brilliant senator fell by his side, 'There is a void 
 difficult to measure as it will be difficult to fill.' 
 Besides his character as a minister of the gospel, it 
 is no forced eulogy, but only fact, by all acknowl- 
 edged, that his was no common order of intellect or 
 measure of literary acquirement. Above what is 
 common in ordinary professional life, he was phi- 
 lologist and naturalist ; if not technically scientist 
 
28 LIFE OF PETER BRIXTON HAUGHWOUT. 
 
 and historian, he was a most enthusiastic student in 
 these departments. 
 
 "His power of accumulation, amounting to mys- 
 tery, was possible to but few. That quickness of 
 intuitive discernment, that analytical insight, omni- 
 bus memory, literary enthusiasm, — ah ! this indeed, 
 for himself and for his friends, really the great 
 misfortune, — that intense mental activity, outrun- 
 ning, consuming physical power, making him too 
 early the victim of disease, that relentless foe, which 
 drove him from this, his chosen field, and thus sud- 
 denly snatches him from all friends on earth. But 
 for disease, which rendered change and rest abso- 
 lutely indispensable, how certainly he would never 
 have been permitted to leave this pulpit ! Then 
 after recuperation, being the pastor of another enthu- 
 siastically devoted people as long as strength would 
 allow, how singular the Providence, permitting him 
 to come and enjoy the hospitality of these friends 
 during these last months, then to go, just for a 
 parting message, to the other branch of the family, 
 his earthly remains coming back to receive the final 
 offices of affection from these loving hands ! 
 
 " With astonishing eloquence and power he 
 preached last Sunday to a crowded audience, so 
 delighted to gather before him again. His own 
 inimitable words are needed to give any suitable 
 description of that service, especially of its touch- 
 ing close. He alluded to the ceremony of an ancient 
 order, in which the password for the members of the 
 
LIFE OF PETER BRITTON HAUGHWOUT. 29 
 
 higher degree was given by placing the hand on the 
 heart and pronouncing the word 'whole,' then pass- 
 ing in on the left side ; while members of the lower 
 degree, placing the hand on the right side, pro- 
 nounced the word ' half,' passing in on the right 
 side. 
 
 "'Before the heavenly portals,'. said Mr. Haugh- 
 wont, 'though I may not say "whole," yet say- 
 ing " half," and trusting wholly in the blood 
 and mercy of Jesus Christ, I hope for glorious 
 entrance.' 
 
 " O weary brother, so often fainting and needing 
 rest, have the fetters dropped off? Has thy mind, 
 in all its unclouded brilliancy, burst out, free to regale 
 itself without fatigue in all that it has capacity for? 
 Is the whole limitless spiritual domain now the open 
 garden for thy luxury? Oh, thank Heaven for the 
 victory ! " 
 
 Eev. Mr. Burnham, pastor of the Central Con- 
 gregational Church, followed Mr. Small. He re- 
 ferred to the deep and strong friendship that existed 
 between the deceased and the former pastor of the 
 Central Church, who preceded him seven years in his 
 departure from earth He spoke only to offer a 
 proper tribute to a man whom his people loved. 
 " One of the first things I received after coming to 
 the Central Church was a copy of Mr. Haughwout's 
 splendid tribute to the memory of Dr. Thurston, 
 his warm and devoted friend. One of these men 
 w T as strong, the other brilliant. I can see their 
 
30 LIFE OF PETER BRITTON HAUGHWOUT. 
 
 influence on the public to-day. They worked side 
 by side for their country during the troublous 
 years of the Rebellion, and it was fitting, when 
 the elder fell, that his younger friend should pro- 
 nounce his eulogy ; and I would that I could have 
 heard some of that beatiful eloquence as it fell 
 from his lips ! I have read his description of 
 Christ in Grethsemane, praying and suffering ; and 
 another of His resurrection, in which the angels, 
 rolling away the stone, touching the dead eyelids, 
 which opened amid shoutings of praise and joy 
 in heaven, were painted with masterly eloquence. 
 
 "He has now entered that celestial scene, where 
 he can enjoy the realities of his former hopes." 
 
 Rev. Dr. Adams, pastor of the First Congrega- 
 tional Church, delivered the Inst address. The 
 following is but an epitome of his remarks : — 
 
 "My acquaintance with Mr. Haughwout was full 
 and pleasant, and when passing through troublous 
 experiences myself, I always found sympathy in 
 communion with the friend now lying cold and 
 silent before us. 
 
 "His study was a place of general knowledge. 
 Geology, mineralogy, and chemistry were there 
 represented. His aims were broad and limitless ; 
 his criticisms on men and politics were searching 
 and thorough. I cannot come before you as a 
 mourner to-day. He is now in the sphere where 
 his longing desires for knowledge can be gratified, 
 and where he can range unfettered by weariness 
 and disease. We will think of him but gone for 
 
LIFE OF PETER BRITTON HAUGHWOUT. 31 
 
 a little season. There is but a breath between us 
 now, and by the grace of God we shall never be 
 separated." 
 
 On Sunday, May sixth, the memorial services 
 were held in the First Baptist Church, James- 
 town, New York. After the- reading of the 
 Scriptures and prayer by Prof. Albro, the hymn, 
 written by Rev. H. C. Graves, of Fall River, 
 was sung, after which the following resolutions 
 were read : — 
 
 "Fall River, April 30, 1877. 
 
 " The Fall River Ministerial Association desires to 
 express its sympathy with the family of the late Rev. 
 P. B. Haughwout, with the First Baptist Church in 
 Fall River, and the Baptist Church in Jamestown, 
 New York. 
 
 "Some of us knew the brother as an intense and 
 tireless student in his profession ; and in all learning 
 as an effective, brilliant, and earnest preacher ; as 
 a genial, stimulating, and warm-hearted Christian 
 friend and fellow- worker. Some of us have known 
 him through his works which remain to testify of him, 
 through the strong affection cherished for him by all 
 who have been in personal fellowship with him, 
 through the impress of his character upon his former 
 parish in Fall River. 
 
 w We desire to encourage ourselves and all to 
 whom he was dear by the freshened sense of the 
 grace of God, through which our brother triumph- 
 antly endured great trials to the blessed end, by 
 
32 LIFE OF PETER BRITTON HAUGHWOUT. 
 
 the precious hopes with which we may follow him 
 in the new life on which he has entered, by the 
 increasing sense of the identity of the church above 
 and the church below, by the profound conviction 
 that in the Lord we are not really sundered from 
 our brother. 
 
 " May the Lord graciously manifest his fulness to 
 the widow who so long and so faithfully watched 
 over and strengthened the husband of her youth ! 
 
 " May He enable the churches of which our 
 brother was former pastor to show forth the praises 
 of God more fully and gladly, because of the new 
 treasure which they have on high, and the human 
 affections, which now more than before draw them 
 heavenward ! 
 
 "Done by vote of the Association, this thirtieth 
 day of April, A. D. 1877. 
 
 "S. Wright Butler, Secretary." 
 
 After the reading of the "Eesolutions," Prof. 
 H. S. Albro delivered a brief address, saying: 
 "I regard the contact with, and the influence of 
 such a man as Mr. Haughwout as among the 
 greatest of human blessings. The three years of 
 my acquaintance with Mr. Haughwout I regard 
 as the most happy years of my life. The first 
 time I heard him from the desk, two distinct im- 
 pressions were made upon me as I listened. I 
 was fed with mental and spiritual food, and at 
 the same time I felt an admiration for his won- 
 derful intellectual power. The friendship of Mr. 
 
LIFE OF PETER BRITTON" HAUGHWOUT. 33 
 
 Haughwout was a blessing and a privilege beyond 
 the power of language to express. The sweetest 
 thing about any friendship is the foot that our 
 friend appreciates the little acts of kindness and 
 the minor expressions by which we unconsciously 
 express our regard. This delicate appreciation Mr. 
 Haughwout possessed. There was an intellectual 
 stimulus to be derived from an association with 
 him that can hardly be too highly rated. His 
 knowledge was so broad and so thorough, and 
 he was so interested in his studies, that he im- 
 parted his enthusiasm to his friends in no small 
 measure. Another of his strongly marked charac- 
 teristics was his moral heroism. No man who 
 knew him ever could believe that he ever stood 
 in the pulpit, and did not dare to utter what he 
 was convinced was the truth. In private he was 
 equally bold and honest in dealing Avith both his 
 own faults and the faults of his friends. The main 
 secret, perhaps, of his wonderful power was the 
 fact that he lived on a higher moral plane than 
 most men. He was not tempted by the petty 
 jealousies, the mean rivalries, the bad passions 
 which come in to mar the lives of other men. His 
 inner life, his thoughts, ambitions, hopes, and 
 aspirations, were all pure. The best monument 
 that can be erected to Mr. Haughwout's memory 
 by those whom he so faithfully served is the 
 building up in each one of such a Christian char- 
 acter as it was his highest and holiest pleasure to 
 set forth and commend." 
 
34 LIFE OF PETER BBITTON HAUGHWOUT. 
 
 At the close of Prof. Albro's remarks, Mr. A. F. 
 Jenks delivered a strong, manly, stirring memorial 
 address which the brevit}^ of space forbids giving in 
 its fulness. He said : — 
 
 "This is no ordinary memorial occasion. The 
 man and the circumstances are both peculiar. He 
 who pronounces a panegyric upon the life of a 
 man, tacitly at least approves of the life he has led 
 and the principles he has advocated. How many 
 men under such circumstances have been almost 
 compelled, indirectly to be sure but really never- 
 theless, to pay a tribute to vice, to compliment 
 infidelity, or to do homage to ionoranee ! Xo 
 such necessity, however, is laid upon an3 r man 
 who, with honest and generous heart, seeks to 
 pay a tribute to the memory of the late Rev. 
 P. B. Haughwout. Your presence here to-day 
 is not simply a tribute of respect to the man : 
 you came to do honor to the man of genius and 
 culture. Xor is it simply the l man of genius and 
 culture ' whom you honor. By your presence 
 here, whether you will it or not, you pa} r a tribute 
 also to religion. For this man was the triple 
 product of genius, culture, and religion. It was 
 the function of culture to stimulate his genius ; 
 but religion performed the threefold office of sav- 
 ing the man, directing his genius, and sanctifying 
 his learning. A tribute to him is a tribute to 
 learning sanctified by religion, and to religion 
 glorified by culture. 
 
 "What shall we say of his natural gifts of intellect 
 
LIFE OF PETER BRITTON HAUGHWOUT. 35 
 
 and heart? Let us pause for a moment before that 
 animated form whose every look and gesture bore 
 evidence of an extraordinary intellect. Let our ears 
 catch again the familiar sound of that voice whose 
 eloquent utterances ever and anon sparkled with wit, 
 scintillated with the oft-repeated flashes of his genius, 
 became majestic in argumentation $ flamed with sar- 
 casm, or stormed with denunciation. Let us sum- 
 mon to our aid the volumes of his sermons, these 
 gems of thought, replete with practical wisdom, 
 learning, and piety. These shall portray to those 
 who knew him the power of his natural gifts, in a 
 language more eloquent than words. Those who 
 never saw or heard, can never know. For his 
 hearers, his pulpit was almost an oracle ; for himself, 
 it was a throne. From it he fascinated his audience 
 by his eloquence, conquered them by his arguments, 
 and swayed them by his appeals. When the dark- 
 ness of a stormy night is dispelled by electric light, 
 the darkness that ensues is blacker than before. For 
 a whole year we had been watching and waiting, and 
 praying in the darkness for the return of that light 
 toat had guided our course in other and better days, 
 when suddenly it came. Like the flash of a meteor 
 it burst upon us, and as suddenly disappeared. But 
 yesterday it came, to-day it is gone. The sable 
 shadows of morning are hovering near, and the night 
 is darker than ever ! "How are the mighty fallen in 
 the midst of the battle ! " In the very prime of man- 
 hood the summons came. His intellect was still 
 expanding ; daily contributions were still enriching 
 
36 LIFE OF PETER BRITTON HAUGHWOUT. 
 
 the storehouse of his memory ; the heavy blows of 
 Providence had wellnigh chastened away the last 
 vestige of pride and selfishness from a soul by 
 nature generous, charitable, and kind. Before him 
 the whitening harvest of his life lay waiting for his 
 sickle ; his soul was aflame with eagerness to gather 
 in the golden sheaves. But he has fallen. Who can 
 estimate the possibilities of such a life if only it had 
 been spared? 
 
 " From whatever standpoint we scrutinize the 
 character before us, whatever parts of it come under 
 the field of observation, whether we look at it in 
 detail or as a whole, Ave are driven forwards to the 
 grand conclusion that he aimed at a scholarship 
 perfect in thoroughness and accuracy, and broad as 
 the realm of truth ; that he aimed to make his learn- 
 ing subserve the best interests of mankind, by 
 wielding it in defence of the great truths and prin- 
 ciples of the Christian faith ; and that he aimed to 
 possess and to exhibit before the world those Chris- 
 tian and personal virtues which he urged with such 
 mighty power upon the attention of others. That 
 he succeeded in a remarkable decree in attaining to 
 these lofty ideals is the unanimous verdict of all who 
 knew him best and are most capable of forming and 
 stating an intelligent and impartial opinion. That 
 he had his faults, no one w r ould have the arrogance 
 to deny; but that he willingly or wilful iy tolerated 
 his faults, no one who knew him would for a moment 
 admit. If this seems an exaggeration to any of you, 
 I will quote from a private letter, written some time 
 
LIFE OF PETER BRITTON HAUGHWOUT. 37 
 
 ago to a friend of mine in Jamestown : ? I claim to 
 know more of the real character and motives and 
 inner life of Mr. Hanghwout than any other man 
 that belonged to his flock, or lived in Jamestown. 
 There never lived a man that I have had the good 
 foitune to know, who was purer and nobler in his 
 private life, who had a stronger hatred for any- 
 thing that is mean or base, or that savored of 
 indulgence of any low, vulgar, or beastly passion, 
 than he. He had an abhorrence for anything that 
 tends to degrade the soul or retard the mind in 
 its lofty search for truth.' 
 
 "He was charitable and sympathetic towards his 
 fellow-men, and recognized the right of every man 
 to hold his own opinions. He hated ruts and 
 empty forms and shams. He believed in a religion 
 that changed the heart, a religion having sufficient 
 power to get to the surface of a man's life, where it 
 can be seen. 
 
 " Fellow-members of the Eumathetic Society, as I 
 see you seated in a body to-day, and wearing the em- 
 blem of mourning, I cannot help thinking that you 
 realize, in a large degree, the loss you Lave sustained. 
 I cannot help thinking that those simple badges of 
 mourning, which meet the eye of the casual observer, 
 are significant of a sorrow within that is deep and 
 pungent. To the services of your lamented pastor 
 and his beloved companion, you owe the existence of 
 your organization, and much of that solidity of char- 
 acter and steadiness of purpose which have charac- 
 terized you in the past. I need not remind you how 
 
38 LIFE OF PETER RRITTON HAUGHWOUT. 
 
 deeply he loved you : of that you are well assured. 
 He called you f Good Disciples.' Be such in your 
 lives ! 
 
 "To-day, the man, the scholar, and the saint lives 
 with us only in memory. Alas, too true, only in mem- 
 ory ! But there may he live ever, inspiring us by the 
 power of his great example to that preparation of 
 heart and life which shall make us meet to be par- 
 takers with him of that life upon which he has trium- 
 phantly entered." 
 
RELIGION DEVELOPS CHARACTER.* 
 
 " As he thinlceth in his heart, so is he." — Prov. xxiii, 7. 
 
 We make no mistakes air^where greater than those 
 which we so often make in judging of character. 
 And the most common of these is the notion — and 
 a mere notion it is — that we are able to take the 
 draught and dimensions of a man's character from 
 what we see of it. We especially think that know- 
 ing a man intimately, in the daily routine of social 
 and business transactions with him, must needs fur- 
 nish us with all the essential elements for solving the 
 problem of his character. That is a mistake. That 
 may answer for some men, and it may be utterly 
 futile for others. If by character, we mean the 
 actual forces and qualities which enter into the com- 
 position and texture of a man's personality, of his 
 mode of thought, feeling, and action, then we can 
 see that whether any one man's life is a complete in- 
 dex to his character depends on a score of things 
 which must all be ascertained before we can answer 
 the question. 
 
 There are few men and women living who fin;- 
 
 * The last sermon of the author, delivered in Jamestown, New 
 York, Sunday, April 22, 1877. He died Thursday, April 26, 187, . 
 
40 RELIGION DEVELOPS CHARACTER. 
 
 their daily life a full expression of the powers and 
 qualities that are in them. Why, if we did this, if 
 our daily life were an adequate rendering, a luminous 
 and satisfying interpretation of our inner self, there 
 would be an end to half our cares, ambitions, strug- 
 gles. We are all reaching out for larger scope, larger 
 means, larger conditions of living. We are not satis- 
 fied ; and what is the reason, but that we have in us 
 and of us a sense of power, a feeling of inward adjust- 
 ments, a consciousness of untried and undeveloped 
 forces, which cry for a higher level, for more room, 
 for a broader sweep and play of opportunity ? The 
 character of a man takes in not only what you see, but 
 what you do not see, — a vast fund of mere potentiali- 
 ties, that is waiting for a more productive season, but 
 which, though waiting, is by no means without a 
 silent, suasive, stimulating action on mind and temper. 
 A few drops of nitric acid will burn your flesh, 
 but you may pour an ounce of it into a pail of water, 
 and then safely plunge your fingers into the mixture. 
 The acid is there, but you have neutralized it for the 
 time. Now for most men their actual life neutralizes 
 half the elements of their characters, and the character 
 which they show is only the residual quantity of un- 
 neutralized self. Take a skilled mechanic, and put 
 him to hod-carrying, and no matter how well he does 
 his hod-carrying, you would never learn from that 
 the talents which he has as a mechanic ; or set an 
 accomplished book-keeper to measuring tape and rib- 
 bon over a counter, and you at once obscure and sup- 
 press his book-keeping faculty. And you can see that 
 
RELIGION DEVELOPS CHARACTER. 41 
 
 what is specially true here is generally true of the ele- 
 ments of character. Life does not exhaust us, it does 
 not call out all there is in us ; and it is the misfortune 
 of many men that their actual life employs only the 
 poorest and worst part of their stock of character. 
 How often you have heard the plaintive, almost piti- 
 ful response of the rum-seller to the demand that he 
 give up his business, the response that he had the 
 business entailed on him, and that he would be glad 
 to-be rid of it on terms consistent with his daily 
 bread. Imagine a man of conscience and of respec- 
 table social belongings engaged in that business. He 
 is not as bad as his employment, he is not as de- 
 graded as his circumstances. He feels and we know 
 that his better self is neutralized by his pursuit, and 
 that he is capable of a hundred-fold higher level than 
 that to which the clutch of some malignant fiend has 
 dragged him down. 
 
 One of the kindest-hearted, most generous men I ever 
 knew was galled and humiliated by the fact that his 
 fortune was locked up in the business of dram-selling. 
 His family were every way estimable. His daughter 
 I baptized, and she was one of the most faithful of all 
 the converts then added to the church. I knew the 
 keen sensitiveness of the father to the stigma which 
 public opinion affixed to his business, and I knew 
 that he was willing to sacrifice half his money for the 
 privilege of disentangling himself, but he was not 
 willing to give up all, for, as it was, his very wealth 
 commanded for his family some consideration ; and 
 he told me he knew very well that if he descended to 
 
42 RELIGION DEVEIOPS CHARACTER. 
 
 poverty for the sake of his conscience, the very men 
 who applauded the deed would soon show that they 
 had little respect for the poverty it would have entailed 
 upon him. So that the man's pride, you see, fought 
 on both sides : on one hand it was wounded by the 
 conscious ignominy of his employment, and on the 
 other hand it struggled against the consequences of 
 his renunciation. Now, how are we to judge that 
 man's character? Mind, not his business, for there 
 is no question as to that, — how did he think in his 
 heart, — but his character ? There was a soul crushed 
 down below its natural level, a heart yearning for a 
 purer air, a mind capable of a nobler round of thought 
 and effort, all overmastered, weighted down, and half 
 strangled by the sordid investments they wore before 
 the world, which distorted their features, black- 
 ened their real complexion, and spread the taint of 
 meanness over all their belongings. 
 
 Now, there was a case for the solvent power of re- 
 ligion. If that could have touched that man's soul, 
 he would have been equal to his hard problem. And 
 it is just so with the confirmed drunkard. He is judged, 
 and he must expect to be judged, by the worst and 
 weakest side of his nature. It is his fatality that 
 his vice drags down to its 'own level all the materials 
 of his character, and saturates them with its own vile 
 contagion ; yet generally, often at least, he is a 
 man of nobler potence, of greater possibilities, than 
 lie in the average man, and his vice is not caused by 
 deficiency of materials, but by bad balancing and 
 counterpoising ; it is not a mere leak, it is an over- 
 
RELIGION DEVELOPS CHARACTER. 46 
 
 flow. Unhappy is the man whose sensibility holds 
 the long arm of the lever, while the short arm is in 
 Ihe feeble palm of his will ! When Vice coaxes 
 him, she clothes herself with the very poetry of his 
 nature, and charms him with his own eloquence, and 
 masks herself with his own good-nature, and walks 
 into his heart with the beauty of an angel of light, 
 and he does not suspect that she has stolen her dis- 
 guise from his own wardrobe, and decked herself with 
 the jewels of his own wealth. Take an unhappy in- 
 ebriate of this princely caste, and you have the most 
 desperate wreck that ever yet waited salvage, and 
 there is no power really equal to the problem but that 
 of religion. Here, again, is a case for the gospel. 
 
 A young man, the son of one of the leading fami- 
 lies in the city of my residence and labors at the time, 
 wealthy, travelled, educated, bright, and witty, the 
 charm of his social circle and the pride of his friends, 
 was in great danger of falling. By accident I discov- 
 ered that he was living very fast, while yet the secret 
 of his midnight hours was well kept from his family. 
 Knowing him well, I spoke a kindly word to him, 
 hardly, I confess, hoping that it would do any good ; 
 but it did this good, that, about six months after- 
 wards, he came to me in confidence, and in great 
 distress declared that he should be ruined if some 
 power stronger than his own did not save him, and 
 he asked me, with tears and pleading eagerness, 
 whether I thought religion could save him. That 
 was not for me so easy a question as you might think, 
 for with all my confidence in the power of religion 
 
44 RELIGION DEVELOPS CHARACTER. 
 
 to save any man in any circumstances, I doubt 
 whether that power can be made available for a man 
 who seeks it with only one specific and selfish end in 
 view. If we go to Christ crying only, " Master ! 
 help me in this one thing," it is too much as if we 
 tacitly added, "In all other things I can help my- 
 self, and I shall not need Thee." Something to that 
 eifect I had, in conscience, to tell the young man. 
 
 At length, God seemed to help him more effectually 
 than his best friends, by laying him low in sickness 
 almost unto death. Then he was able to seek Christ 
 for Christ's own sake ; and when he recovered he 
 walked forth a completely new man, with a moral 
 energy, a decision of character, a rugged solidity of 
 purpose, of which he had never shown a symptom 
 before; and the young man who, years ago, was 
 trembling on the verge of social and moral ruin, stands 
 to-day one of the foremost men in the community. 
 That, too, was a case of neutralization. The ocean 
 is full of salt, but you do not find it till you take 
 means to crystallize it; it has more silver in it, also, 
 than there is in the mines of Peru, but we do not see 
 it. And in the character of those about us there 
 are elements of nobleness and greatness and moral 
 worth, which are hidden from all eyes, and are 
 unknown even to their possessors, because the} 7 have 
 never been condensed, crystallized, and put in the 
 setting of visible^ fact by that one force, whatever it 
 may be, which alone would seek them out and develop 
 them. 
 
 Do you suppose that we have not scores of men 
 
RELIGION DEVELOPS CHARACTER. 45 
 
 here who, with the requisite training of experience, 
 would have risen to as much distinction as any mem- 
 ber of the present United States Cabinet? Have we 
 not men who could sign their names as well and as 
 fast as our Secretary of the Treasury? The trouble 
 is, we have so many men who sign their names too 
 fast and too often ; (and if we had not men who could 
 conduct financial matters with as much skill as Secre- 
 tary Richardson, 1 should expect the town to go into 
 bankruptcy before twenty-four hours had passed.) 
 
 Now just so much as we see and know depends 
 upon the position which a man holds in life. Put 
 him in a place which makes a continual draught upon 
 his powers, without fairly exhausting them, and you 
 will see him grow up to that place, opening out daily 
 with a larger expansion to meet the requirements of 
 his post. Put him in a place beneath him, and his 
 faculties will sink down to it, and you will never know 
 how much of a man he really w T as, and had the abil- 
 ity to become. 
 
 And now I wish to apply what I have said to the 
 moral character especially, and I assert that, without 
 the ripening force of religion, no man is more than 
 half developed, and most men remain, life-long, with 
 the worst side of their character turned out to the 
 world. 
 
 There are closets in our nature to which religion 
 furnishes us the only key, and if that do not unlock 
 them, their stores remain forever unknown. There 
 are men here among us who keep but a low place in 
 society, and are moral zeroes in the labors and strug- 
 
 3* 
 
46 RELIGION DEVELOPS CHARACTER. 
 
 gles of the time to better itself, who yet possess, 
 without knowing it, a faculty of leadership that would 
 make them princes of men, if only the power of 
 religion could touch and vitalize their hearts. A man 
 does not know himself, as long as the truth of God is 
 ignored by him. He is like the poor bushman of 
 Australia, who was the heir of one of the great 
 estates in England ; but when he was told the truth, 
 laughed at it, and w r ent his w T ay, and w^as found, on 
 the morrow, sleeping in a litter of straw by the side 
 of his own cattle. But when he took in the truth of 
 his estate, do you think he was content to sleep in 
 the stable and make his bed of straw? It is just so 
 with the ennobling power of the truth that we are the 
 heirs of God's estate of immortality. Make yo ur 
 heirship a tangible fact to your own apprehension, 
 let the glory of it descend like the sunbeams and 
 crown your life, let the inspiration of it suffuse 
 your thought and burn in your deepest conscious- 
 ness, and I say to you that you are doing things to- 
 day that you w T ould not then be bribed to tolerate, 
 and there are dormant elements of manliness in you 
 that w r ould awake them to a life larger and nobler 
 than }'ou have yet dreamed of living. I often think 
 that it might well be that in the scrutiny of the last 
 day we should be obliged to undergo such a ques- 
 tion as used to be asked in one of those old secret 
 societies wdiich so often, like the moles, under-drained 
 and subsoiled the surface of Europe. The members 
 were of two classes, and they met in two divisions, 
 one on the right, and one on the left, of the main 
 
RELIGION DEVELOPS CHARACTER. 47 
 
 entrance. At the door stood a sentinel or guard, 
 and as the members came np to him they quietly 
 announced, "A whole," and then they took the 
 right ; or they said, " A half," and then they took 
 the left. They meant that they were whole and half 
 members respectively. And when we come to pass 
 in at the great door of God's tribunal, tell me, how 
 many of us will dare announce themselves us ivhole, — 
 " 1 am a whole man," — and what a host must go in 
 with the fearful password on the lips of every one of 
 them, " I am half a man" ! The unreligious man is 
 but half a man. The better part of him is unknown 
 to us or to himself. He finds no use for it, and God 
 knows it is of no use to the world. For his own 
 sake, for the sake of what influence he has in this 
 world, he ought to reclaim the lost half of himself, 
 and he will not, he can not find it save under the 
 cross of Christ. And are there not men among us 
 whose very salvation depends on their finding this 
 nobler half of their selfhood ? They are the victims 
 of some special weakness, perhaps they are the 
 dupes of their own genial nature. Their will-power 
 is too feeble to contend with the temptations which 
 waylay and beset their steps. They "would do good, 
 but evil is present with them" and too potent for 
 their powers of resistance. 
 
 If any men need the help of Christ, these are the 
 men ; and these are the men who, when they do 
 find the better half of themselves, show in it, and 
 bring out of it exemplars of beauty and of urgency 
 that flash back on us the light of apostolic triumphs. 
 
48 RELIGION DEVELOPS CHARACTER. 
 
 God will not save us in fractions. He claims the 
 whole man, and no power can reach and regenerate 
 the whole man, no power can lift us out of the slough 
 of our criminal nature, and cleanse us with the refine- 
 ments of a nobler culture and crown us with the 
 heirship of the dear hereafter, no power can do this 
 but the truth as it is in Christ Jesus. 
 
 "In delivering this last discourse, Mr. Haughwout 
 said much that was not upon the written page, but 
 was suggested to him by the spirit of the hour. 
 Those who were present can never forget the deli- 
 cate and modest, but yet most feeling reference to 
 himself and the past eventful year, or the almost 
 prophetic reference to the time when he should stand 
 trembling before God's great tribunal." He closed 
 the service by reading with thrilling pathos the 
 hymn, 
 
 " I love to tell the story of unseen things above," 
 
 placing his hand, with a most impressive gesture, 
 upon his heart as he repeated the line, 
 
 " It did so much for me," 
 
 and then, raising his hand above his head in a trans- 
 port of ecstasy, 
 
 <k I love to tell the story, the old, old story, 
 Of Jesus and his love! " 
 
THROUGH SUFFERING. 
 
 " Father, I will that they, also, whom Thou hast given me, be with 
 me ivhere I am; that they may bdwld my glory, which Thou hast 
 given me ; for Thou lovedst me before the foundation of the 
 world." — JoHsrxvii, 24. 
 
 The problem of suffering in this world is even 
 more perplexing and involves a deeper mystery than 
 that of sin. It has been a notion often maintained 
 that there is a casual connection between the two, 
 between sin and suffering ; but a moment's thought 
 teaches us that such a connection holds through only 
 a small fragment or segment of the vast world, 
 which bends and groans under the empire of pain. 
 So universal is suffering, that, even to the eye of 
 pagan philosophy, it seemed to assert for itself the 
 dignity of a law, and to stand towards the Creator 
 in the light and character of a ministry. So far as 
 it is the consequence of sin, the result of human 
 error or transgression, it was easy to give it rank as 
 an agency of the divine justice, and to detect also 
 the holy uses it must serve as a corrective, remedial, 
 and instructive power of the divine benevolence. 
 But the gospel takes a still higher view, and gives to 
 suffering a still nobler and diviner character. It 
 actually raises it up to the level of an educating 
 power ; while admitting its lower purposes and char- 
 
50 THROUGH SUFFERING. 
 
 acters, it takes it into the system of disciplinary, 
 developing, sanctifying ministries, and teaches us to 
 treat it with an awful but submissive respect, as we 
 would, and do, all the great parts of that mystic but 
 demonstrable scheme of providence and of grace by 
 which God trains us here for a larger life, and a 
 richer and riper world to come. . 
 
 The old monks, you know, seized on this idea of 
 suffering as an educating force, and then perverted 
 the application of it by the attempt to invent a new 
 species of development through purely gratuitous 
 sufferings, the self-invoked pangs of hunger and of 
 bodily mortifications. God knows we have suffering 
 enough without putting ourselves to the trouble of 
 creating it ; but those old monks, giving up all the 
 cares and duties of an active life, and withdrawing 
 from the world into a luxurious dormancy of idleness 
 and solitude, would have found no suffering at all, 
 not enough to push this theory into practice, if they 
 had not now and then laid the whip on their shoulders. 
 Their system was an abuse, and a monstrous con- 
 fusion of gospel teaching and heathen superstition. 
 
 Not the sufferings we make for ourselves, but those 
 which come to us in the allotment of God, not the 
 artificial, nor yet the guilty pains which are charge- 
 able upon our own folly or sin, but those which we 
 cannot help or avoid, and which spring right out of 
 our lives as the inevitable products of our toil, our care, 
 our daily strife, — these are the sufferings which the 
 gospel enriches with its ennobling grace, which the 
 Master makes a ministry of education, and of which 
 
Til COUGH SUFFERING. 51 
 
 the apostle says, "Our light afflictions, which are but 
 for a moment, shall work out for us a far more exceed- 
 ing and eternal weight of <rlory." And this is the 
 
 © © © «/ 
 
 Christian thought which is shadowed forth in the 
 Saviour's prayer. Just reflect a moment. He prays 
 that his disciples maybe with him, where he is, that 
 they may behold his glory. Now where was Jesus, 
 where his disciples were not with him, and where, 
 judging from their weakness, their vacillation, their 
 timidity, it was extiemely probable they would hang 
 back, and decline to follow the Master ? Wherever 
 it was, it was where the glory of Jesus was most con- 
 spicuously displayed, and where they, if they only 
 had the courage and the resolution to stand by him, 
 would share that glory and be lighted up with the 
 halo of its reflections. We all know where that glory 
 shone brightest ; not in the temple, where Jesus con- 
 founded the doctors ; not on the Mount of Transfigura- 
 tion, where three at least of the disciples witnessed 
 the heavenly confirmation ; not on the Mount of Olives, 
 where they all followed his triumphal, king-like pro- 
 cession into the city : but in that dark vale of Geth- 
 semane, and under the shade of the old olive-trees, in 
 the hour of the Saviour's deepest agony, when he 
 was left alone by them all, and made to them that 
 touching appeal for the sympathy of companionship, 
 "What, could ye not watch with me one hour?" 
 there, and afterwards, through the bitter succession 
 of his humiliations, ending on the cross, when his dis- 
 ciples all forsook him, or stood gazing at him from 
 afar, — those were the places, those were the times, 
 
52 THROUGH SUFFERING. 
 
 those were the occasions, which the Great Master had 
 in his mind when he prayed that his discip'es might 
 be with him and see his glory. 
 
 It was, then, the glory born of his sufferings, the 
 light from the fiery furnace of his griefs, of which the 
 Saviour spoke as if it were the culminating and me- 
 ridian splendor of his life and character ; and it was 
 this which he wanted his disciples to witness and to 
 share with him. 
 
 Right here we may make to ourselves the applica- 
 tion of the text, in asking the question how far, as 
 men and as disciples, we are able to respond to the 
 test from which the twelve shrank. We can stand on 
 the heights, but can we go down into the depths? 
 We can follow Christ up the hill, but can Ave tread 
 in his steps when he leads us into the garden ? We 
 are good companions in the toil, but can we stay with 
 Jesus when the work is not to strike, but to suffer, 
 not to do, but to bear and endure? Tell me how a 
 man has used his trials, and I can tell you what sort 
 of man he is. Human strength comes out, not under 
 the ordinary burdens of life, but when trouble or mis- 
 fortune has come rolling down upon us like a stone 
 from the hillside, and threatening to knock us over 
 the parapet of our steep and narrow path. Christian 
 strength comes out, not when the sun shines, and 
 daily work is like an unbroken song of joy and con- 
 tent, but when the heavens scowl, and the storms 
 descend, and there is no music anywhere but what 
 the quiet heart can make for itself and in itself. 
 
 Weak men are broken by suffering. Weak Chris- 
 
THROUGH SUFFERING. 53 
 
 tians lose tone and grow sour by the ferment of 
 trouble. The best-seasoned men are those who have 
 been kiln-dried by the heats of adversity, and weather- 
 beaten on all sides of them. What would you give 
 for a pilot who had never carried his ship through a 
 tempest, or for a captain who dared not stand by his 
 pilot when the wind howled through the rigging, or 
 the breakers roared on a lee coast ? What swells the 
 census of suicides but the want of that moral fibre 
 which is nourished and braced by the grace of suffer- 
 ing? Cowards that have basked in the summer sun, 
 and that run from the shadow of a passing cloud ; 
 imbeciles, who have had the mill ground for them by 
 the hands of others, and now cry piteously that they 
 can never do their own grinding. Coward or imbecile 
 is every man who rushes unbidden out of this world 
 because he finds it growing harder, colder, darker 
 than before. 
 
 There are processes by which the Almighty sweeps 
 away the refuse of humanity, and this may be one of 
 them ; but there is a process by which God cleans a 
 noble nature, and sifts and filters out of it the baser 
 material, and that is by suffering. Even History has 
 purified and exalted her great names by the after- 
 glow and backward-burning altar-fires of their mis- 
 fortunes, their agonies, and their death. 
 
 One day of St. Helena balances forever the tyranny 
 of Napoleon. Columbus is greater in his chains than 
 on the steps of the Spanish throne. The knife of the 
 assassin has left Caesar all his glory, and the bullet 
 of Booth has turned Lincoln into a hero and a martyr. 
 
 4 
 
54 THROUGH SUFFERING. 
 
 Such is the magic that lies in the touch of suffering, 
 even when that touch is but on the outside, and the 
 effect is in the mind of the beholder. But when the 
 touch goes to the heart of the sufferer, and we see 
 him taking brightness from his pains, and growing 
 better for his sorrows, and holding his heart like a 
 cup to catch the heavenly clew that never comes but 
 in the dark, then we look upon that transforming 
 process by which religion makes her best men, his- 
 toiy her saints and apostles, and heaven its minister- 
 ing spirits. 
 
 We all fight against pain, we run from any threat 
 of trouble or bereavement, we should like to hide 
 from our cares and anxieties, we would give half of 
 life to cover the other half with a sorrow-proof coat 
 of mail ; and yet, you strike out the things we so 
 dread, and the greater and the better part of us were 
 annihilated. " What," said a lady once to King Louis 
 Philippe, — "what part of your life lingers most in 
 your memory ? " " Madam," said he, " that part in 
 which I suffered most, and it is the best part of all 
 my life." 
 
 Just cast your remembrance backward, and see 
 what impressions have been made on you by your 
 sufferings. Perhaps, if you have borne much, if you 
 have known disappointment, bereavement, trial, sick- 
 ness, or heart-aches worse than any of these, you 
 find certain landmarks in your griefs : there are years 
 that are topped with sorrow, like pine-clad hills, there 
 are months that streak your memory as with black 
 bands, and there are days and hours so accented with 
 
THEOUGH SUFFERING. 55 
 
 misery that you will recall them when all the rest 
 have faded into forgetfulness. And who knows, per- 
 haps some of these sorrows have been } r our very 
 salvation. You may know that they have been so, you 
 may be able to see that they came just in time to turn 
 3'our dangerous steps, and pluck you back to honor, 
 to peace, to safety. If you are a Christian, you may 
 feel that at that time, reluctant though you were, you 
 went Avith your Master, and beheld his glory. 
 
 I do not like suffering, and yet I have a firm belief 
 that I need what God sends. I have, perhaps, the 
 spirit of that poor knight w T ho longed to fight when 
 he heard his companions arming for the battle, but 
 his duty was the humble one of watching, and 
 w^hile he watched, there came a random arrow, and 
 gave him a fearful wound. His companions came 
 back victorious, and shared the prizes of valor and 
 the spoils of war, while he lay groaning on his couch. 
 And while he was repining, his master sent him 
 this message, " Console thyself, thou hast won an equal 
 prize, it is the wound thou bearest ! " Oh ! if I could 
 know as much as that, if 1 could feel that my wounds 
 would be accepted by my gracious Master as titles to 
 a soldier's share in the palms of victory and the re- 
 wards of fidelity, I either should not shed so many 
 tears, or they would all be turned into a rain of joy. 
 Suffering does for us what the knife of the primer 
 does for the tree. There are some trees not worth 
 pruning, and you pass them by, as God passes by the 
 wildings of human nature. You cannot graft in the 
 scion of a nobler stock till you have made a cut, and 
 
56 THROUGH SUFFERING. 
 
 the cut may bleed. Just the same law obtains for 
 you. Shrink not from the knife, and look forward 
 to the richer and sweeter fruit, which only grafting 
 by sorrow and pruning by suffering will enable you 
 to bear. 
 
CHRISTIAN DETERMINATION. 
 
 " For I d'termined not to know anything among you, save Jesus 
 Christ and him crucified." — 1 Corinthians ii, 2. 
 
 Nothing demands more courage than to stand forth 
 as the original advocate of an unwelcome and gen- 
 erally despised idea. It is, I believe, the highest 
 stvle of courasre to be able and willing to do this, 
 and he is the highest type of manhood who is bold 
 and fearless enough to confront the disdain and 
 opprobrium which await every one who attempts to 
 start the inertia of this self-satisfied world by rolling 
 upon it the weight and volume of a new and un- 
 acceptable opinion. "They may crush me," said 
 Calvin, " but the truth I teach they cannot crush," — a 
 noble confidence ; but what an heroic heart beats in 
 the bosom of a man who is ready to be crushed for 
 the sake of the cause he defends ! 
 
 Such a heart had the apostle Paul, and he, fol- 
 lowing the Master, set the example which John Cal- 
 vin followed ; for when death frowned upon him, 
 when he had already tasted the bitterness of death in 
 a thousand perils and a score of persecutions, he 
 exclaimed tranquilly, "But none of these things move 
 me, neither count I my life dear unto myself." We 
 can form now but a poor conception of the self-abne- 
 
58 CHRISTIAN DETERMINATION. 
 
 gation, the ardor, the sublime daring, of the spirit 
 which breathes in the text. It was held at first the 
 reproach of the Christians, that they put their faith 
 in a dead man, yea, in a crucified malefactor*, that 
 they seemed to honor the manger of Bethlehem 
 above the silver cradle of a prince, and to cleave to the 
 cross of Calvary as if its arms were those of a god. 
 And so they did. But what a thing this was to do 
 in the face of that supercilious Greek and Roman 
 world ! It cut through every sentiment of the dom- 
 inant heathenism. It confounded the most current 
 opinions and the deepest feelings of the Gentile 
 world. It went against flesh and blood, and shocked 
 and outraged whole centuries of educated and estab- 
 lished thought. This was that offence of the cross 
 which the Greeks not only stumbled over, but which 
 they ridiculed, jeered at, and utterly scouted. To 
 hold up the crucified Jesus as the hope of the race 
 was almost a safe thing to do, from its unspeakable 
 audacity. Men would open their eyes with aston- 
 ishment, and then close them with a smile of pity, 
 and say to the preacher, as Agrippa said to Paul, 
 '"Thou art beside thyself." John Huss, preaching 
 the forgiveness of sins by Jesus, instead of absolution 
 by a priest, was nothing to this. Garrison, denoun- 
 cing slavery to excited crowds of slave-holding sym- 
 pathizers, was only a shadow by starlight of this 
 might}' solidity of courage and defiance. 
 
 There is nothing, in church or state, so hard to 
 overcome as an unfeeling conservatism, a conserva- 
 tism that rests on dead facts, and that retains no 
 
CHRISTIAN DETERMINATION. 59 
 
 drop of sap, no spark of fire, from the generous 
 enthusiasm which gave it life at the start. And 
 when Paul preached, he was in presence of the vast 
 conservatism of a thousand inanimate years and a 
 thousand dead divinities, stored up, like broken 
 furniture, in the temples and in the intellect of the 
 world. And when I consider what this metallic 
 resistance must have been, with what hopeless 
 stolidity it must have beaten back any faith but 
 that of the apostles, and any power but that of 
 Grod, I can but consider the early success of the 
 gospel as one of the greatest miracles ever wrought 
 in its behalf, — a miracle wholly unparalleled in 
 the history of any other religion. But knowing, as 
 Paul did, at what precise point the truth came into 
 closest contact with the repugnant conservatism of 
 the heathen world, and provoked also the most 
 violent hostility of the human heart, what would he 
 have clone, had he been a weaker man? He would 
 have kept that particular point out of the line of col- 
 lision. He Avould have put the cross into shadow. 
 He would have anticipated that modern confection of 
 all human creeds, which rolls out the name of Jesus 
 in a flood of names, and leaves it undisiinguishable 
 from others save by its brevity and its toneless utter- 
 ance. But Paul knew no such weakness. He had 
 his infirmities, as he tells us, but they were only 
 spots on the goblet, not flaws in the gla?s. His 
 grateful heart would have felt itself dishonored for- 
 ever by one moment's recreancy to the name of 
 Jesus. That name was for him the sign-manual of 
 
60 CHRISTIAN DETERMINATION. 
 
 redeeming love. The flash that blinded him on his 
 way to Damascus, might seem to have burned that 
 name upon his heart. " When I am dead," said the 
 gallant English king, " take out my heart, and you 
 will find ? Fiance ' engraved upon it." But men did 
 not wait for Paul to die that they might learn what 
 name was written upon his heart. If he is at liberty, 
 and rejoicing in the labors of his mission, he calls 
 himself the apostle of Jesus. If he is in prison, 
 loaded with chains, he takes his style and writes, 
 "Paul, the prisoner of the Lord Jesus." We can 
 say, in happj 7- times, " We are the disciples of Jesus" ; 
 but when trouble smites us and suffering grinds us, 
 how hard it is sometimes to sign ourselves, with 
 undiminished confidence, " The afflicted of the Lord 
 Jesus ! " But everywhere and always Paul was the 
 Lord Jesus' ; and whether lying half dead by the 
 roadside or towering like an acknowledged Jupiter, 
 in the massiveness of that power which swayed the 
 multitudes of Lystra ; wdiether standing on Mars' 
 Hill, or immured in the dark hole of the Mamertine 
 prison, out of his abounding love, in the intensity of 
 his earnestness, he could have sung the strain of the 
 Psalmist, only w 7 ith a loftier pitch than David : "Let 
 my right hand forget her cunning, and let my tongue 
 cleave to the roof of my mouth, if I forget thee, O 
 my Master, if I prize not thy name above my chief 
 
 joy !" 
 
 But I ask you to look at the text : you will observe 
 a sort of climax in it. Let us remember that it was 
 the cross w T hich rendered the name of Jesus so odious 
 
CHRISTIAN DETERMINATION. 61 
 
 to the wise of this world ; that it was not Christ the 
 teacher, but Christ the sufferer, not Christ living, but 
 Christ crucified, that taxed the pride and excited the 
 scoffs of men, and then we can feel the peculiar dash 
 of energetic decision with which Paul exclaims, "I 
 determined to know nothing among you but Christ, 
 and him crucified." It is tantamount to saying, I 
 knew well what made my doctrine so unpalatable to 
 the Greeks, and I knew that some of you would have 
 desired me to say less of that ungracious cross. You 
 would have been pleased to have me compromise, by 
 suppressing the hard story of a dying Redeemer ; but 
 I resolved not to compromise. I resolved not only 
 to preach the wonder-working Jesus, but the suffer- 
 ing Jesus. I loved the whole theme, from Bethle- 
 hem to Calvary, and I believed the end of that match- 
 less life more s:lorious than the bef>innin2f. And I 
 determined to keep back nothing, to soften nothing, 
 to know nothing but Christ, and that Christ crucified. 
 If there is any shame in the cross, I will crown myself 
 with that shame. If there is any scandal in it, let 
 that Power remove it which took it out of my way, 
 and brought me to look in sorrow upon Him whom I 
 had pierced. But for that cross we had not been 
 redeemed ; and while I live I shall stand by that 
 cross, and I shall point to Jesus, hanging and bleed- 
 ing on that cross, and I shall say, If He had not loved 
 us, He had not died there and thus ; and if He had 
 not died, we had not lived. " Behold the Lamb of 
 God, that taketh away the sins of the world ! " 
 
 Let me now ask your attention to the limitation of 
 3 
 
62 CHRISTIAN DETERMINATION. • 
 
 the apostle 's theme, which seems to be imposed by 
 the words of the text, "Nothing but (not anything 
 save) Christ and him crucified." Is this only a ver- 
 bal limitation? Is it only apparent, and due merely 
 to the highly relieved form, the alto relievo, in which 
 the sentence is cast? Js this only a rhetorical ex- 
 travagance of expression, or did the apostle mean 
 it, in the amplitude of its exclusiveness and in the 
 density of its concentration? 1 believe he meant it, 
 in every word and accent. .Remember what he had 
 been accustomed to preach, when he was living after 
 the straitest sect of the Pharisees. Remember what 
 his education had been, not in Hebrew learning alone, 
 but in the arts and philosophy of Greece. Remem- 
 ber what ambitions he had laid on the altar of his con- 
 secration to Christ. Above all, remember what he 
 was, by natural endowment, by his mighty intellect, 
 by his impressive eloquence, weak though he calls it. 
 Call all this to mind, and you will see into what a host 
 of digressions, into what a multitude of by-themes, 
 flowery fields of poetry; thorny lanes of speculation, 
 enchanting vistas of taste and ingenuity, Paul might 
 easily have been tempted. But all these he excluded, 
 and deliberately shut himself up to that one subject 
 which had taken possession of him. On that he con- 
 verged all the magnificent logic and the constructive 
 force of his gigantic mind ; on that he poured in 
 blazes of splendor the illumination of his knowledge 
 and his art. Every second blow fell just where the 
 first had fallen ; every shaft entered where the pre- 
 vious one had made a dent in the target. He holds his 
 
CHRISTIAN DETERMINATION. 63 
 
 hand toward the cross till }'ou can fairly see on it, 
 imprinted as in letters of phosphorus, "Christ and 
 him crucified." He bathes that name with his tears, 
 he weds that name to his lips, he melts that name into 
 his preaching, till, like molten ore flowing from the 
 furnace, it shoots forth a thousand glowing threads, 
 and interweaves its golden tissues with the whole fab- 
 ric of his thought and speech. 
 
 And what was the power by which he was able to 
 do this ? You know what we say of the man of one 
 idea. But if the man of one idea have nothing but 
 his intellect to aid him, he will only succeed in plant- 
 ing his idea, not in the souls of men, but in the pil- 
 lory of social irony, disgust, and ridicule. There is 
 power in this unification of thought, but it depends 
 on the character and value of the thought itself. 
 There is tremendous power in the self-radiating dif- 
 fusiveness of a life devoted to one idea, but it is 
 the power of heat, not of light ; the power of that 
 chemistry which transmutes every element that enters 
 the mind or the heart, and works over every circum- 
 stance into the shape and pressure of the one dom- 
 inant thought. It is the genius of love, not of learn- 
 ing ; the spark of zeal, not the torch of science ; and 
 as there is no love in this world like a personal love, 
 and no faith like a faith fed by daily, gushing sym- 
 pathies, so there is no power among men equal to 
 the single-hearted earnestness of a disciple of Jesus ; 
 and when you put this power behind that vast idea 
 which lies in the name of the world's Redeemer, 
 I care not who the man may be, Moody from his 
 
61 CHRISTIAN DETERMINATION. 
 
 store, Spurgeou from his studies, or Richard Weaver 
 from his coal-pit, you have an energy that beats on 
 the hearts of men with the swell and ponderous effect- 
 iveness of a storm wave on the ocean ; nothing can 
 resist it. Then a man does not stand before you hold- 
 ing up his idea at arm's length for you to look at ; 
 but the man and his idea are one, and each is misjkt- 
 ier by the union. Then a man does not preach Christ 
 as if he were eulogizing the dead, and glorifying a 
 sainted memory; but you feel Christ in his words, 
 you see Christ in his character, and you carry away 
 the conviction that Christ himself has been preaching 
 to you. Oh, that we could have this style of preach- 
 ing once more in our pulpits and our churches ! an 
 oblivion of self, wrought by love, a remembrance of 
 Jesus fired by zeal, and accumulating warmth and 
 vigor with every day's experience, till we also could 
 " determine to know nothing but Christ and him cru- 
 cified." 
 
 I have spoken of the limitation which the text im- 
 poses upon the theme of apostolic preaching, and 
 now I ask you to consider the real expansion of that 
 theme which is given by the text. The apostle says, 
 " Nothing but Christ,"' but that was almost equiva- 
 lent to saying, " Everything in Christ." We must 
 not take that narrow view of the text which is too 
 frequently taken by many well-meaning Christians, 
 that view which seems to look upon any presentation 
 of the truth which does not confine itself to element- 
 ary principles, as a failure to present the saving truth 
 of the gospel. 
 
CHRISTIAN DETERMINATION. 65 
 
 I think here of what a leading English statesman 
 once said. He was discussing the Reform Bill in the 
 House of Commons, and he went on to talk of the in- 
 fluence which a sense of political responsibility exerts 
 upon the humblest citizen, and, diverging somewhat, 
 discussed the Irish question, when he was called to 
 order. He replied, " Mr. Speaker, there may be men 
 here who do not know that every radius of a circle 
 points to the centre, and if there are, I will soon con- 
 vince them that this radius points to the very centre 
 and heart of the subject now before us," and he did. 
 
 Now we have good brethren who seem to have 
 the same difficulty in understanding that every radius 
 of truth points toward Christ, and that, when the 
 apostle said, "nothing but Christ," he did not mean, 
 " nothing but the name of Christ," but nothing that 
 does not lead, or, rather let me say, everything that 
 does lead to Christ. Do you believe the Book of 
 Esther does not preach the government and loving 
 providence of Gocl, because the name of God is not 
 once found in it? Do you believe Paul was not 
 preaching Christ before Festus, because he reasoned 
 of " temperance, righteousness, and the judgment to 
 come " ? Do you think Jesus was not preaching the 
 great doctrine of salvation when he uttered what are 
 known as the Beatitudes, or that Paul was preach- 
 ing anything but Christ when he spake on Areopagus, 
 because he did not mention the very name of Jesus 
 in that memorable discourse? I tell you, my breth- 
 ren, that the preaching of Christ is restricted within 
 no straitlaced dogmatism, though it be thoroughly 
 
G») CHRISTIAN DETERMINATION. 
 
 evangelical, and that it is not made up of pharisaic 
 repetitions, though eveiy other note be sounded with 
 the name of Jesus. 
 
 He imitates Paul who seeks, as Paul did, to save 
 men by any feasible means, and who, like Paul, now 
 with argument, now with persuasion, then with ear- 
 nest rebuke, and then with loving entreaties, per- 
 suades men to believe in the only name by which 
 they can be saved. Said Baron Bunsen, — I give, not 
 his words, but the sense of them, — " There is no name 
 like that of Jesus, but if any other name will prove a 
 stepping-stone, by which any man can mount to faith 
 in Christ, I would not hesitate to commend that 
 name." And is not this the very policy of an earnest 
 love of Jesus? Cried Paul, "I become all things to 
 all men, if by some means I may gain some." It is 
 the very spirit of an earnest disciple, the most self- 
 adaptive spirit man has ever known. When a man 
 is in earnest, what does he care for the old set forms 
 and the old ruts and grooves of routine and custom ? 
 If he leave them, men may call him eccentric, his 
 brethren may disfraternize him ; but if he can only 
 accomplish his object, he will triumph, and all the 
 zest of his triumph will be found in the thought that he 
 exalted the name and the cross of Christ. 
 
 And now, even more than in the days of Paul, 
 " Christ and him crucified " is the theme which hushes 
 into silence every strife of theories, every war of 
 words, and every jar of interests. On that blessed 
 name of Jesus, the hearts of men hang as they never 
 hung before. This is my conviction, and I would to 
 
CHRISTIAN DETERMINATION. ()7 
 
 God, I and you, my brethren, might act upon it! 
 Oh, for the strength to do it, as we have, I doubt 
 not, the spirit to do it ! Immortality is suspended 
 upon that name of Jesus. Do you believe men 
 forget this fact? No ! at the last, they will all say, as 
 President Buchanan said in his last moments, " I 
 have had the conviction, growing with every added 
 year of my life, that Jesus Christ is the only hope 
 of men, and I humbly seek him, and put my trust in 
 his atoning blood." And I ask you whether there 
 is, for an earnest disciple, a more expansive theme 
 than that of "Nothing but Christ." Christ is every- 
 thing for such a disciple ; business or recreation, toil 
 or pleasure, joy or grief, all preach of the name 
 he loves, and by his love for Jesus he will make 
 eveiything preach of Jesus. Oh, my brethren, this 
 is no restricted theme ! It compels you to face 
 everywhere ; like the soldier at Agincourt, you can 
 say, " While I stand, I face the enemies of my king, 
 and when I fall, you will find that I fall with my 
 face toward home." Take Christ intimately into 
 your hearts, and you then make every pulse throb 
 w r ith love of Jesus and you make every action a 
 sermon of the name you love. If you determine to 
 know nothing but Christ, you will know all things, 
 and you will tolerate nothing in your lives which 
 does not bear the seal and impress of that name 
 " which is above every name," to which be praise and 
 glory forever ! 
 
DEAD FLIES. 
 
 '■'Dead flies cause the ointment of the apothecary to send forth a 
 stinking savor." — Ecclesiastes x, 1. 
 
 There is no other book in existence which utters 
 so deep a bass note of heavy, gloomy recollections as 
 this book of the "Preacher," and there is no other, out- 
 side of the New Testament, which strikes, with so broad 
 and solemn a sweep of the hand, all the strings of our 
 common humanity. It is the wail of a broken heart. 
 It is the long-drawn sigh of exhausted pleasure, the 
 nausea of indulgence, the disgust of satiety. It is 
 the cry of a great soul, wrung with an anguish which, 
 repentance itself made sharper, as an old wound does 
 the knife of the surgeon. We seem to see Solomon, 
 heaped with his crimes and smarting with the sting of 
 his follies, sitting, solitary and desolate, in the cold 
 splendor of his throne and his palace. Age has come 
 upon him, and death waits at the door. The fire of 
 his passions has burnt itself to ashes, and his blood 
 has cooled till every pulse is a shiver at his heart. He 
 remembers what he was, when, in the morning of his 
 life, he rose from his dream, and presented himself be- 
 fore God to ask for wisdom. He recalls the magnifi- 
 cence of his earlier reign, the grandeur of his state, 
 
DEAD FLIES. H9 
 
 and the fume of his policy, his deeds, and his pros- 
 perity. He remembers his enthusiasm in the service 
 of God, what proud hopes swelled within him, what 
 triumphs of joy revelled in his heart, when he stood 
 by the altar of the temple, and saw his work crowned 
 with the glory of the Shekinah, and spread forth his 
 hands to invoke, in immortal words, the perpetual 
 presence of God with himself and the people. Was he 
 in a trance then, or is he in a trance now? What are 
 these stocks and stones, these curved images of Baal, 
 these idols of the heathen, that thrust their grisly 
 faces between him and the God of his fathers? What 
 are these lurid flames, lighting up the sky from the 
 high places around Jerusalem? What means that 
 motley crew of strange priests, with their idolatrous 
 symbols and their inhuman rites and ceremonies? 
 Y\ 'hat means this tingling shame at the mention of 
 Egypt and of Pharaoh's daughter? What is this 
 blurred vision of licentious mirth, days of feasting 
 and nights of unhallowed sensuality ? Why does he 
 start at the shadows on the wall, as if he dreaded an 
 avenger from his fo;saken God? Why does the 
 thought of dying turn every curtain into a pall, and 
 shroud him in darkness, till his eyes strain to catch 
 assurance from some straggling sunbeam ? Is this the 
 mockery of wine, or is it the "fearful looking for of 
 judgment "? 
 
 And now, while plotters are undermining his throne, 
 
 and his own heirs longing for his death, with this 
 
 crushing load upon his spirit, wearied of life, wrapped 
 
 round with the sackcloth of abasing memories, he 
 
 3* 
 
70 DEAD FLIES. 
 
 takes up the record of his godless years, and with 
 indelible and blackest ink he writes across it, " Van- 
 ity of vanities, all is vanity." 
 
 Out of the depths of this sad experience what 
 voices of teaching and of warning break forth ! He 
 had heaped up gold like the sand of the sea, he had 
 drawn from India and from Africa their choicest 
 treasures ; and with the wealth of kingdoms in his 
 hands, he exclaims, " He that loveth silver shall not be 
 satisfied with silver, nor he that loveth abundance 
 with increase." He had srone throuo'h life with cour- 
 tiers for his footstool, flattery for his air, and luxury 
 for his pillow. His nod had been laAV to submissive 
 thousands, and his pleasure had been perfumed with 
 all the sweets of gracious compliance, and yet he ex- 
 claims, " One man among a thousand have I found, 
 but a woman among a thousand have I not found." 
 Must not his eyes have been blind not to have made 
 that discovery? Or had all around him followed the 
 example of their sovereign, and thrown off manhood 
 and womanhood when he threw off the fear of 
 God? 
 
 The words of the text might seem to have been 
 wrung from the lips of Solomon by a bitter sense of 
 his own miserable apostasy. 
 
 No man had ever gained a higer repute for wis- 
 dom than he, no man had ever covered himself with 
 more honor ; yet now, in the dark and drear ex- 
 perience of his closing days, sitting on the ash-henp 
 of repentance, and beating his breast in cruel and 
 almost sardonic mockery of the state he had kept, and 
 
DEAD FLIES. 71 
 
 the splendors in which he had lived, he can see plainly 
 and feel keenly the one drop of poison which has 
 turned his cup of life into vanity, the plague-spot 
 which has spread its vile contagion through all his 
 wisdom, and cankered his honor and his greatness. 
 
 It is true, he speaks only of a few dead flies in the 
 ointment of the apothecary, whereas his corruption 
 had been as the carcass of an elephant in a garden 
 of spices. He speaks of a little folly, when his folly 
 had attained monstrous proportions, and grown rank 
 with a luxuriousness of heaven-defying wickedness. 
 But I apprehend Solomon, in his gloomy brooding, 
 would do as almost every great criminal does when 
 he sits behind the grating of a prison, and in the 
 shadow of a felon's doom, and lets his thought have 
 free play among the events and scenes of his past 
 life. He skips over his last great crime ; he is too 
 benumbed in conscience to feel the enormity of his 
 offence. But he knows what he was, and what he is, 
 and he does not stop to measure the great follies 
 which have completed his degradation, but he goes 
 back to the little follies that first turned him aside 
 from the path of tiuth and honor; he sees the fatal 
 point at which, by some small sin, he broke through 
 the hedge, and rushed into the pathway of ruin, 
 and it is upon this small sin, it is on these little fol- 
 lies, that he charges all the accumulated guilt and 
 wretchedness of his career. And so Solomon might 
 pass over the later and more aggravated vices of his 
 career, and fasten his regard, with a stinging self- 
 consciousness, upon that one dead fly which dropped 
 into his ointment when he yielded to the fascinations 
 
72 DEAD FLIES. 
 
 of Pharaoh's daughter, and opened his heart to the 
 wiles of Egyptian cunning, and the seductions of 
 Egyptian idolatry. 
 
 That was the fly whose gilded and 'burnished 
 wings had charmed him, and that was the fly whose 
 ephemeral beauty, touched by the foul finger of 
 decay, had spoiled his perfume, and made the savor 
 of his reputation hateful to God and to man. 
 
 The first thing we observe, in trying to bring out 
 the force of the moral maxim in the text, is, that 
 the flies are not only small in themselves, but they fill 
 a very small space in the box of perfume ; and that it 
 is precisely so with those pestilent vices and follies 
 which give a noxious savor to the characters of men. 
 They are often so small as to escape detection. 
 They are sometimes wrapped up so entirely in one 
 or two prominent virtues, buried so deep in the oint- 
 ment, that only the closest familiarity is able to 
 detect their existence ; yet there they lie, a source of 
 corruption in the heart of sweetness, a grain of 
 arsenic in a mixture of myrrh. We have a sensibil- 
 ity to the savor of character, which is as keen, in its 
 way, as the scent of the nostrils. There is a deli- 
 cate moral perfume which transpires through a man's 
 looks and speech and actions, which spreads on the 
 air, and conveys to all around him the odor of fra- 
 grant gums and spices, or the smell of dead flies. 
 And it is a singular fact that the evil in character is 
 more pronounced than the good ; it has a more pene- 
 trating and diffusive pungency ; it saturates a man's 
 morals and pervades his religion more swiftly and 
 thoroughly, so that, though it may take years to find 
 
DEAD FLIES. 73 
 
 out all the in-eat jroocl there is in a character, we are 
 |3retty sure to discover the bad in it the first time we 
 set it up where the winds of heaven can blow over it. 
 There are men we can never trust, because of this 
 almost indefinable and yet decisive perfume of their 
 character. We feel sure there is unsoundness in 
 them, yet we cannot point it out. We feel as the old 
 knight felt, when he was about rushing into the lists 
 of the tournament, and took into his hand the lance 
 that was given him. He lifted it, and brandished it 
 once or twice, and exclaimed that it was not worthy 
 to be trusted with his honor. But there was no flaw in 
 steel or shaft, and yet at the first blow it broke like a 
 rush, and right in the heart of the wood was discov- 
 ered the burrow of a worm. We have that feeling 
 respecting some men. We can see no flaw in them, 
 yet we are convinced they are not sound ; and very 
 often, when a hard blow breaks them, and lays them 
 open, the secret is revealed, and the burrow of a 
 worm is found in their hearts. And so unerring is 
 that instinct of the moral sense which warns us of 
 the dead flies in human character, that it seems 
 strange any man should hope to conceal from others 
 the little nest which he has filled with corruption. 
 There are those who would sink with shame if they 
 suspected that they carried about with them the odor 
 of their follies. They would hide themselves from 
 the light if they could only know how general and how 
 offensive is the savor of the reputation they have 
 made for themselves. They share the infatuation 
 of the drunken reveller, who goes home from his 
 
74 DEAD FLIES. 
 
 nightly orgies smiling with the placid assurance that 
 there is no taint in his presence, and no trace of ca- 
 rousal for wife or child to weep at. 
 
 Vain and besotted delusion ! There are things 
 fur which God wants no detective, follies that leave 
 an evidence deep as that of a branding-iron, and vices 
 that so scarify a man's moral nature that even the grace 
 of God cannot efface the deformity, or bring back the 
 wholesome fragrance of innocence. How much pit- 
 iable weakness and sorrowful regret in the hearts of 
 those who once indulged such follies, and gave way 
 to such vices, now proclaim and prolong the infec- 
 tion of dead flies, and confirm the fearful truth 
 that, though repentance and God's compassion may 
 wipe out the sin, the effects of the sin linger in 
 body and soul, and all the sweet air of heaven can- 
 not cleanse the deadly atmosphere of their presence 
 till "this mortal shall have put on immortality." 
 
 And let me observe that the flies are apt to get into 
 the ointment while it is being made. They are at- 
 tracted by the flavor of honey. They are drawn to 
 the apothecary's mortar by the inviting smell of his 
 balsams and essences. They buzz around his head 
 and flit under his hand, till at last they are caught by 
 the descending pestle, and crushed into the ointment. 
 
 It is just so with the dead flies in character. The 
 time of clanger is when the elements are entering into 
 combination, when character is mixing up its ingre- 
 dients, and getting ready to solidify itself for life, 
 and that time is in the days of its youth. No old 
 man is ever tempted to make perfume of dead butter- 
 
DEAD FLIES. 75 
 
 flies. No man whose sense and conscience have 
 been schooled by experience, is likely to be cheated 
 into the small follies of youthful appetite and pas- 
 sion. There are few soldiers in the great army of 
 wrong-doers who were not recruited when they were 
 young. The janizaries of Satan, like the janiza- 
 ries of the old Turks, are trained up from their youth. 
 The temptations of the young man are like the fires 
 of Moloch ; it is folly to think he can dally with them, 
 and then come out without being scorched. And yet 
 w 7 e know there are young men among us who are 
 playing with the tempter, and binding her charms 
 recklessly about their necks, who would be terrified 
 if they believed they could never rid themselves of 
 the spell she has put upon them. There are young 
 men who give themselves up to the insinuating and 
 captivating pastimes of evil companionship, who 
 join in the ribald jokes and the bacchanal songs, and 
 the vulgar amusements of men whose names they 
 know w T ould disgrace the signatures of their fathers 
 on the same paper, young men who rush into ex- 
 cesses at night which they blush to remember by 
 day, and cultivate a nocturnal society whose known 
 partnership would blast what little good fame they 
 have. There are young men among us who are doing 
 all this without a thought that they are contracting a 
 vile slime of manners and sentiments which will stick 
 to them like mastic on a stone wall. They at least 
 have no faith in the apostolic apothegm, "Evil com- 
 munications corrupt good manners." They are per- 
 fuming their reputations with dead flies, they are 
 
76 DEAD FLIES. 
 
 steeping their lives in the exhalations of vice ; their 
 characters begin to smell rank with the miasm of 
 vicious associations ; and yet, even though they may 
 sometimes be rudely admonished that they are falling 
 into bad odor, they hope by and by to sprinkle them- 
 selves with disinfectants, to purify the ointment with 
 a little chloride of lime, and neutralize the dead flies 
 in their character with the potash of respectability. 
 But, I repeat, it would take a miracle to do this. 
 Not more surely are the sins of the fathers visited on 
 the heads of their children, than the follies of youth 
 are innoculated into all the tissues of character ; and 
 the weak sp^ts of many a man, now standing clean 
 and unsoiled among his fellows, are just the places 
 where the follies of his youth have gangrened, and 
 the dead flies lie festering in the ointment. It is not 
 always the feeling of innocent sadness, it is sometimes 
 the feeling of a guilty remorse, the sense of what we 
 lost, and madly lost, in the follies of our younger 
 days, that makes us say, — 
 
 " I would I could recall those days 
 When I was a free, laughing bo}^; 
 When every note was one of praise, 
 And every impulse one of joy! " 
 
 We learn to sins: this when we find that the abuse 
 of 3 T outh has taken from us what we never can 
 recover, that it has turned the boyish note of praise 
 into a long sigh that quavers with repentance, and 
 the impulse of joy into the cracked string of a harp 
 that has forgotten its music. I do not mean that 
 
DEAD FLIES. 77 
 
 religion has not power to redeem a wasted youth, or 
 that it does not provide a large compensation for the 
 joys and exultant energies which youthful follies 
 have deadened forever. But I say this, that God 
 meant religion to be something more than a compen- 
 sation ; and that if a young man waste and corrupt 
 half the material of his manhood, all the religion God 
 can give him will never make him more than half the 
 man he might have been. 
 
 And I ask you to observe how the same consider- 
 ations apply to the formation of Christian character. 
 There is a time when that is young, and as impressi- 
 ble and ductile as hot iron on the anvil. The Chris- 
 tian man will be what the convert grows into. What- 
 ever mould he throws himself into, he will harden 
 to, and after a few years you will have to break him 
 into pieces, and melt him over, before you can turn 
 him into any other shape. Christian character is 
 not a mathematical line, stretching from point to 
 point, but an outline, which, with God's help, we are 
 required to fill up ; it is the measure and stature of 
 a " perfect man in Christ Jesus," with every organ 
 complete and in full play. Yet you see in the church 
 characters as maimed as men who have no eyes, no 
 hands, or no feet. There are large-headed men with 
 small hearts, and great-hearted men with no arms ; 
 burly-looking men without tongues, and loud-tongued 
 men with no digestion. We seem satisfied to culti- 
 vate one or two organs, and to consign the others to 
 spiritual atrophy and starvation. We are content to 
 get a tolerable perfume from our ointment, and do 
 
78 DEAD FLIES. 
 
 not mind a few straggling flies ; and in the best and 
 clearest savor of many a good Christian character 
 there is often perceptible a very strong suspicion of 
 dead flies, and all its real sweetness is smothered, 
 and its power nullified, by the obtrusive presence of 
 some little weakness. There are those whom we can- 
 not fail to believe good Christians on the whole, but 
 whom we would not like to subject to an analytical 
 dissection, for we know the}' could not bear it. Yet 
 it is the truth that though God may take a man as a 
 whole, the world insists on taking him in parts. God 
 knows men altogether, as units : we know them only 
 in fractions. We cannot always tell on what gen- 
 eral plan a character is built up, because we can see 
 it only in one section at a time ; and therefore a 
 half-educated and faulty Christian may be the object 
 of as many different judgments as he shows to men 
 different aspects of his life. 
 
 His character may have three or four stories, and 
 he may serve the Avorld on the ground floor, and rule 
 his household in the upper chambers, while to wor- 
 ship God and serve his Master he goes up into the 
 attic. In this way his life is so divided, and his 
 character exhibited in such shifting lights and frag- 
 mentary parts, that while the church holds him for a 
 true saint, his family may fear him as a despot, and 
 the world point at him as a tricky, money-making 
 son of Belial. 
 
 We put great stress on the large virtues. We 
 call for faith, temperance, and charity. We touch 
 up into brightness the boss of the shield, while the 
 
DEAD FLIES. 79 
 
 rim is eaten with rust. We take great pains with the 
 cardinal points of character, while those smaller 
 elements of a pure Christian life, those virtues which 
 Paul so loved to inculcate, — meekness, long-suffering, 
 gentleness, patience, kindly affection, — these are left 
 to struggle as they may ; and our petty weakness at 
 these points disables us when we are strongest, and 
 provokes scepticism where we are most sincere and 
 earnest. 
 
 A man may have a great deal of grace, and be 
 blessed with very few graces. He may have a good 
 heart with a very wry face. He may preach well to 
 sinners, and walk by them on the street without 
 a sign of recognition. He may have a most persua- 
 sive tongue and a most disobliging temper, a most 
 magnificent generosity in giving, and a most grasp- 
 ing greed in taking. He may be full of warm sym- 
 pathies, and yet freeze them before they reach his 
 lips or trickle down to his fingers. He may build a 
 church, and yet refuse a dollar to some public char- 
 ity ; or he may found a hospital, and tear a church 
 into pieces. These are some of the oppositions of 
 character, these are the defects in filling up the out- 
 line of the Christian man, these are some of the speci- 
 mens of a mutilated virtue, these are a few of the 
 dead flies in the ointment, that destroy the influence 
 of many a life and take away the sweet savor of many 
 a reputation. 
 
 And do not let us forget how the flies sret into the 
 ointment. They clo not fall into it in swarms. They 
 do not plunge into the mortar with a rush of wings, 
 
80 DEAD FLIES. 
 
 and dive down into the ointment by files and compa- 
 nies. They fall into it one by one ; and the apotheca- 
 ry, as he sits over his unguent, crushing one fly after 
 another, may keep saying to himself, "It is only a 
 little thing, it is only one fly more, the perfume is as 
 strong and clean as ever"; but when, after a few 
 days, he takes down his box of ointment, it is no 
 longer the aroma of myrrh and frankincense that 
 gives character to the mass, but the loathsome smell 
 of the neglected flies. 
 
 That is the history, that is the chronology, of a 
 faulty and vicious character. The young man takes 
 in one vice at a time, and he generally asks, "Is it 
 not a little one?" The Christian tolerates one little 
 weakness, till he is not ashamed or aft aid to let 
 another and another drop down by the side of it. 
 Our faults have such a logical cohesion, they are so 
 sure to follow in succession, and pile themselves up 
 in such a conglomerate consistence, that it is im- 
 possible to cherish one and hate all the rest ; it is 
 impossible to admit one, and shut the door against all 
 the others. And no man is safe who does not fight 
 them all. No young man is safe who tampers with 
 temptation in the hope of outwitting it, or keeping 
 it at bay. No Christian is safe who lives in the con- 
 scious neglect of a single one of his known duties. 
 No one is safe, no one can keep a pure character 
 and an undefilecl reputation, who does not rid the 
 ointment of every fly that falls into it. 
 
 All our life is a struggle with the dead flies. 
 There are dead flies in society, that make sick the 
 
DEAD FLIES. 81 
 
 very air wo breathe ; that cany moral disease into 
 every neighborhood they infest, and make it almost 
 an experiment of life and death to put the innocence 
 of youth where their pestiferous influence can reach 
 it. There are dead flies in the state, in the halls 
 of legislation, in the courts of justice ; and hardly a 
 month passes, hardly a law is enacted, but some reck- 
 less apothecary's pestle, some corrupt hand of power 
 crushes a fly into the ointment intended to heal the 
 wjunds of the body politic. There are dead flies in 
 the church, men of unsavory reputation, who tax all 
 the charity of the church to its utmost strain, and 
 then bring down upon it the scorn and contempt of 
 infidels ; idle men and women, who lend no perfume 
 to their profession, and take half the perfume out of 
 the profession of others. 
 
 And for all these dead flies there is but one rule 
 applicable, and I pray God we may have the grace 
 and the energy to apply it with vigor : Take out the 
 dead flies, one by one, get rid of them before they cor- 
 rupt the ointment. Throw them away, and leave God 
 to find some use for them, where they can turn back 
 into their native dust without sending a plague down 
 every wind. 
 
THE OPEN DOOR. 
 
 "J am the door" — John x, 9. 
 
 It is a fact of curious interest, that while in heathen 
 lands, and under the grinding pressure of idolatrous 
 systems, men believe that their salvation is a work of 
 vigorous pains and life-long difficulties, here, where 
 life is strown with the germs of Christian immortal- 
 ity, men seem to consider that but little effort is 
 required to lift the soul from the clods to the clouds, 
 and from earth to heaven. The gospel is so free that 
 we hold it cheaply ; it asks so little of us in return for 
 the immense boon it bestows, it seems so anxious to 
 persuade us, and so ready to save us, that we almost 
 fancy it will save us, in some way or other, whether 
 we exert ourselves or not. If the way to heaven had 
 been a royal road, paved with gold and silver, walled 
 in with partiality and exclusiveness, and opening with 
 a toll-gate, not to be entered without an enormous 
 tax, no doubt there are hundreds who would have 
 struggled to gain admittance, while now they sit care- 
 lessly, expecting to be carried to heaven on "flowery 
 beds of ease." The grandest spectacle this world has 
 to offer is one which not a score of persons in a thou- 
 sand put themselves to the trouble of looking at once 
 
THE OPEN DOOR. 83 
 
 a year ; and yet it is the cheapest sight eye can gaze at. 
 It costs nothing ; on the contrary, it pays yon what 
 money cannot buy, — beauty, magnificence, power, 
 — before which millions, in the old time, prostrated 
 themselves, and at which the highest art of the 
 painter tries itself with despairing aim. Let some 
 great artist paint a sunrise, and we will rush to see 
 it, and gladly pay our money for the poor imitation 
 in oil, while we hardly care to look at the reality 
 itself, at the cost of awaking and ^oinsjto the Avindow. 
 Now men treat the gospel just in this way. It is not 
 that they do not desire salvation, it is not that they 
 wish or mean to slight the Divine mercy, but that sal- 
 vation is so free, that mercy is so abundant and so 
 beseeching, that it really seems as if heaven could be 
 won without a second thought. Place a million of 
 gold before a man, and tell him that shall be his at 
 the end of forty years' drudgery, and he will stoop to 
 the drudgery, smiling as if he were going to a king's 
 banquet; but let the angel Gabriel dime down, and 
 throw that million into one scale and that man s soul 
 into the other, and bid him choose which he would 
 take, and can we doubt what his choice would be? 
 No ! We do not mean to leave our souls in jeopardy. 
 We do not mean to practise the folly of the drunkard, 
 who pledges reputation, honor, everything dear to 
 man, for a few hours of intoxicated mirth : but the 
 gospel is like the sunrise ; it can be enjoyed any clay, 
 it is always waiting for us ; we perpetually promise 
 ourselves that we will attend to it, we will make the 
 necessary exertion ; and day after day, year after 
 
84 THE OPEN DOOR. 
 
 year, glides on, and leaves us sunk and torpid in the 
 same old dream of what is to be when we have a con- 
 venient season. 
 
 But w r e make a fatal mistake. We misinterpret 
 the freeness of the gospel ; we translate divine will- 
 ingness into human facility ; and we forget that, 
 with all Jesus' readiness to save us, w r e must be 
 ready to be saved, or we defeat even the infinite love 
 that seeks us. "Strive," said Jesus, "to enter in at 
 the strait gate." Plainly there are difficulties to 
 be overcome, some within us and some outside us. 
 And this seems to me the very first truth contained 
 in the Saviour's declaration, "I am the door." Where 
 there is a door, there is a wall. Where there is an 
 enclosure, there is no entrance possible save at some 
 definite point. Jesus does speak of those w T ho 
 climbed up some other way, but he speaks of them 
 as thieves and robbers, and admits no right to be in 
 the sheepfold which has not been legitimated by an 
 entrance through the door. Now does the gospel 
 rear such a wall around the blessings and treasures 
 of the kingdom? There are men who discard the 
 idea, who will have no hedges between the promises 
 of love and the wants of men, who will acknowl- 
 edge no conditions in the terms of salvation, no 
 specific requirements, no inexorable demands, but 
 who claim that the city of refuge is without gates ; 
 that the kingdom of God is all highway, and that a 
 man may choose his own road, and travel in any 
 direction he pleases, with the perfect assurance of 
 reaching the celestial home at last. They say that 
 
THE OPEN DOOR. 85 
 
 forgiveness waits upon all men, and that the only 
 really inaccessible place is the place where God has 
 shut up the angels that kept not their first estate. 
 But Jesus speaks of one sin, and says of it, "It shall 
 never be forgiven men, neither in this world nor 
 in that which is to come." They say there is no 
 need that we should go to Christ, since he has come 
 to us, and saved us whether we would or not. But 
 Jesus says, " He that cometh unto me I will in no 
 wise cast out." They say that salvation depends on 
 no exercise of human volition. The best and the 
 worst, the pious and the scoffing, the saint and the sin- 
 ner, will march side by side in the great procession 
 of the redeemed, and sit down together with Abra- 
 ham, Isaac, and Jacob. But Jesus says, "He that 
 believeth shall be saved, and he that belie veth not 
 shall be damned." When we read these affirmations 
 of Jesus, we can understand the feeling which 
 prompted the disciples when they asked their mem- 
 orable question. They had listened to the whole 
 doctrine of Jesus ; they had witnessed all the pas- 
 sionate yearning of his love, and knew how he 
 longed to bring men under his healing hand and his 
 
 CD CD CD 
 
 saving tenderness ; and yet they were so moved by 
 the apparent difficulties of salvation that they asked, 
 and the words sound as if they were breathed out 
 with all the palpitations of fear, and through lips 
 quivering with intense concern, "Lord, are there 
 few that be saved?" If there had been no occasion 
 and no reason for this question, how easy it would 
 have been for Jesus to answer it! With all his 
 4 
 
86 THE OPEN DOOR. 
 
 springing compassion he would have been in haste to 
 reply, "No! there are not few. I have broken 
 down every wall. I have made the way so broad 
 that no one can miss it even if he try. I have 
 blocked up the road to destruction, and I have made 
 it as hard for a rich man to enter therein as for a 
 camel to go through the eye of a needle." But what 
 he did say was just the reverse of all this. It was 
 enough, and more than enough, to confirm all the 
 solemn anxieties which beat in the disciples' ques- 
 tion. " Strait is the gate and narrow is the way 
 that leadeth unto life, and few there be that find it." 
 What a difficulty that must be which stood confessed 
 under the very eyes that wept over sinners ! A 
 learned but unconverted minister of the Church of 
 England once came upon these words in the lesson 
 for the day, and as he read them the question came 
 up in his mind, "Am I one of the few?" And the 
 question went home with him, piercing him deeper 
 and deeper, till he carried it, with tears and peni- 
 tence, to Jesus himself, crying out, "Am I one of 
 the few ? " 
 
 Yes, there is a wall betweeen heaven and the sinner. 
 The words of Jesus rise before us as the ponderous 
 stones in that mighty wall. Its foundations are as 
 deep as the wickedness of the heart, and as old as 
 the guilt of Adam. It stood through ages, stern 
 as the terror of the law which thundered, "The soul 
 that sinneth it shall die." The angels of justice 
 guarded it, like the flaming cherubim at the gates of 
 Eden. It has taken omnipotence to pierce that wall. 
 
THE OPEN DOOR. 87 
 
 It was the mystery of eternity how " God could be 
 just, and yet justify the sinner." The love of Jesus 
 has solved that mystery. The cross has framed itself, 
 like an archway, in the wall of man's exclusion from 
 heaven. Out of the blankness and darkness a door 
 has opened, and the beams of hope come streaming 
 through upon the lost and the guilty. The soul, 
 stifling in the atmosphere of sin, and fainting with 
 despair, has but to stand in presence of the gospel, 
 and it is as if heaven had opened a window, and 
 fanned him with a reviving breath. 
 
 A party of miners in an English colliery were in 
 great peril through a rush of foul air. They went 
 staggering along the galleries, and mistaking their 
 way seemed only to hasten into greater danger, till 
 at last they sent forward the strongest man among 
 them, and then sat clown, to wait for life or death. 
 By and by, when they had wellnigh perished, they 
 heard their comrade's voice resounding along the 
 gallery, — "I see light ahead. Here is the shaft. 
 Thank God for life ! " And when any weary sinner, 
 pressed by the fear of death, and groping about for 
 some way of deliverance, throws himself at the foot 
 of the cross, it is with a joyousness of relief, with an 
 exultation of discovery, that proclaim, "There is 
 light ahead. Here is the door. Thank God for 
 life ! " 
 
 But I suppose no man doubts that the gospel does 
 open a way of entrance into the kingdom of God. 
 Even the sceptic will own that if there is any infal- 
 lible pledge of immortality, it is to be found in the 
 
88 THE OPEN DOOR. 
 
 teachings of Jesus ; if there is any opening through 
 the dark wall of ignorance, which his eye beholds 
 frowning everywhere around the narrow chambers of 
 human life, he will admit that it is to be found at the 
 cross and the sepulchre of Jesus. One of the disci- 
 ples of an eminent infidel, when he lay at the point 
 of death, sent for his master, and upbraiding him as 
 the author of his misery, charged him by the agony 
 he felt, by the doom he feared, to say what he should 
 do to win if only a moment's respite from the 
 anguish which he suffered ; and the infidel, forget- 
 ting himself in his terror at the spectacle before him, 
 answered the dying man, "Believe in Christ. Be- 
 lieve in Christ. If any can save you, he can do it." 
 
 We may think what we will, while life runs with a 
 full tide, and the world is sweet with blossoms and 
 gay with smiles ; we may fancy that we have oup 
 own secret of admission into heaven, that we can 
 unlock a hundred gates with our own private keys : 
 but heap trouble and sorrow upon us, cut down our 
 pride with the scythe of misfortune, or hold over our 
 heads the formidable scvthe of death, and we have 
 one conviction that shatters our theories into frag- 
 ments, and that is that there is no refuge for a sinner 
 but in the mercy of the gospel, no door of hope but 
 that which opens at the voice of pleading penitence 
 and faith in the Lord Jesus. 
 
 But, consider again, how many there are who ac- 
 cept what the gospel teaches of heaven and immor- 
 tality, and believe that it docs open a door, and the 
 only door, by which we can enter into them, while 
 
THE OPEN DOOR. 89 
 
 yet they ignore, or overlook, the very place where 
 the door is to be found. Some are searching for it 
 in their own stainless morality. Some are trying to 
 find it through the haze and fog of blinding misin- 
 terpretations of Scripture. Some are expecting to 
 reach it through their good works and charities, 
 while others seem groping for it in the debris and 
 rottenness of other men's characters, hoping that if 
 such and such a man can gain admittance, they too 
 may slip in, with plenty of room to spare. Invite 
 them to enter the kingdom, and they look every 
 man at his own preferred portion of the wall, and as 
 the Christians at Corinth exclaimed, " I am of Paul," 
 "I am of Apollos," "I am of Cephas," so these 
 seem to cry, "I have my own door," "I will enter 
 here," "I will knock there for admittance." While 
 we may ask them, as Paul asked the Corinthians, "Is 
 Christ divided?" Can you take Jesus in your moral- 
 ity, while you exclude him from your religion? Can 
 you seek Jesus in your personal virtues, when you 
 shut him out of your hearts ? Can you rejoice at the 
 blurs and blots you see on the image of Jesus in 
 another, while no line of that image is discernible in 
 yourselves? For observe, Jesus says, "I am the 
 door." It is not what Jesus teaches, it is not what 
 Jesus has done only, but what he is, that opens a way 
 into the kingdom. It matters little what opinion we 
 may entertain of the historical Jesus, how favora- 
 ble our judgment may be, or how orthodox. It 
 matters little what we believe about Jesus or con- 
 cerning him. The Jesus that saves men is not a 
 
90 THE OPEN DOOR. 
 
 past, but a present Jesus, not dead, but living; and 
 the faith that brings us to him is not a faith towards 
 him, but a faith into him, close as the bond of dear- 
 est brotherhood, and vital as the sympathy between 
 heart and lung. There was no more power to heal 
 in the Saviour's visible arm, when he walked the 
 earth, than there is to-day in that invisible arm, 
 which he stretches forth to heal and save the sinner. 
 There was no more glory in the footsteps that tracked 
 the burning sands of the desert or pressed the lilies 
 of the valley than there is to-day in those footprints 
 which mark the Saviour's marshalling tread at the 
 head of his conquering people, or those more beauti- 
 ful steps which are as fragrant as flowers at the bed- 
 side of the dying, on the turf of graves where lie our 
 beloved, or in the house of mourning. The world 
 has seen no other power like the power of Jesus, and 
 that power owes it mightiness, its variety, its sharp- 
 ness, its exquisite skilfulness, to the fact that it en- 
 velops the same old nerve of divinity which trem- 
 bled through the passion of the Saviour's life, in the 
 tears and agony of the garden, and in the unutter- 
 able languishments and expiations of love which 
 wrapped the cross as with a veil of angelic sorrows. 
 "I am the door," says Jesus, and these words come 
 to us with the emphasis and the meaning of that eter- 
 nal, "I am," which stamps the offices of Jesus with 
 the perpetuity, not of historic interest and exemplary 
 authority alone, but of enduring personality and un- 
 broken continuity of living and almighty presence 
 and power. 
 
THE OPEN DOOR. 91 
 
 A few years ago a well-known and distinguished 
 clergyman of one of our dubio-Ckristian denomi- 
 nations preached in a Western town ; and he dis- 
 coursed ably and eloquently on the redeeming and 
 inspiring virtue of such an example as that left by 
 Jesus, and tried to show that that was the great secret 
 of what the gospel calls the atonement, that we have 
 only to imitate Jesus, to cultivate his love for God 
 and his benevolence toward men, and we should be 
 saved. It was a time of great drought, and at the 
 close of the sermon a poor old farmer, noted and 
 honored for his warm love of Jesus and the singular 
 purity and whiteness of his character, rose up and 
 said, "The great man has told us much about the 
 Jesus who lived 1800 years ago, but he has told us 
 nothing about the Jesas of to-day. He has talked a 
 great deal about the Jesus who went before us, but 
 he has not said a word about the Jesus who walks 
 with us, and is 'formed in us the hope of glory.' 
 Now, I thank God for the rain of last }^ear. But for 
 that I don't think I should have had any seed to plant 
 this spring. But I cannot rely on the last year's rain 
 to ripen my harvest next fall ; I want it to rain a little 
 now; and I feel just so about Jesus. I bless God 
 that he came among us so long ago, but we want him 
 all the time, and 1 am glad that he told us, f Lo, I am 
 with you always, even to the end.'" 
 
 And the old farmer struck the key-note of all 
 Christian experience. It is the personal Jesus, with 
 all the investiture of his divine powers, who now 
 speaks in his word, pleads with his Spirit, and offers 
 
92 THE OPEN DOOR. 
 
 his help to need} 7 sinners. He is the way, he is the 
 door, and whoever would find life must come to him 
 as to an actual and embodied presence, and casting 
 off all dependence on his own morality or good 
 w T orks, must simply pray, 
 
 " O Jesus, I Lave naught to plead, 
 In earth beneath or heaven above, 
 But just my own exceeding need 
 And thy exceeding love." 
 
 And let me remark now, that by God's great mercy 
 this is an open door, wide open, which no man can 
 close against another, and through which every re- 
 penting soul can pass. God shows no indulgence to 
 the stubborn and wilful sinner. He lays stripes upon 
 him. He arrays the very laws of nature against him. 
 He turns the very honey of his pleasures into corro- 
 sive acid. He surrounds him with ghastly mockeries 
 of all he has sought and loved, till, when death comes, 
 life itself appears to him but a monstrous distortion, 
 aud the future is peopled with the gigantic shapes of 
 the sins he loathes and the punishment he fears. 
 But let the sinner come to Jesus with his head bowed 
 down in shame, and his heart melted with contrition, 
 and a thousand ministering hands are outspread to 
 Avelcome him, and though he has piled his sins up at 
 the very threshold of mercy's door, love sweeps them 
 all away, the door is opened to him, andsougs of joy 
 «:ush out to cheer him as Jesus bends down and lifts 
 him through. 
 
 In the old days of the slave-trade there was a cap- 
 tain of a slaver whose hands were dyed with all the 
 
THE OPEN DOOR. 93 
 
 atrocities of the middle passage, but whom remorse 
 had at length overtaken, and driven into all the pit- 
 iful anguish of a man who thought he had sinned too 
 deeply for Jesus to pardon him. One Sunday, in 
 great wretchedness, almost tempted to throw him- 
 self into the water, he went into the Bethel on the 
 East River, and there he heard a sermon on the words 
 of our text ; and as the pastor, himself a converted 
 seaman, discoursed on the ample and abounding love 
 of Jesus, and ended at length by a cordial invitation 
 to sinners, exclaiming, "The door is open. Jesus 
 keeps it open. He can't shut it, mercy will not let 
 him. He does not want to shut it, not even against 
 the guiltiest. All may come. Jesus asks you all," 
 the heart -stricken captain, unable to restrain his 
 emotions, sprang from his seat, and in accents of 
 pathos that thrilled the congregation, cried out, " O, 
 say that again, say it all over again ! Those are the 
 sweetest words I ever heard. Here is a poor wretch 
 that is only waiting to come in, if he can find a chance. 
 Tell me the door is open, and show me how to find 
 it, and I will go through if I have to leave all my 
 flesh behind me." Yes, the door is open. The 
 persecuting Saul found it open, Mary Magdalen 
 found it open, the dying thief found it open ; Jesus 
 watches for all. The fountain of his blood is 
 troubled and waiting for all ; and the largest, black- 
 est, deepest sinner may come to that fountain, singing 
 with perfect confidence, 
 
 "And there may I, though vile as he, 
 Wash all my stains away." 
 
 4* 
 
94 THE OPEN DOOR. 
 
 If Christians could take pride in any characteristic 
 of the gospel, they might erect themselves and vaunt 
 themselves at the boundless capaciousness of the 
 mercy which receives the sinner. Yet sin-laden 
 men, apostate Christians, and even good and faith- 
 ful disciples, are often fretted and harassed by the 
 thought that they have revolted from all grace, and 
 salvation is impossible for them. That good and 
 great man, Bishop Butler, author of the "Analogy 
 of Revealed and Natural Religion," when he lay down 
 to die, found his spirit enshrouded with distrust and 
 his death-bed hung round with gloom, till, as one of 
 his friends w 7 as trying to comfort him, and was read- 
 ing these words, "Whosoever believeth on me hath 
 everlasting life," "Stop!" cried Butler, "let me 
 think on those words. c Whosoever,' that is strong 
 language. That really seems to take in Samuel 
 Butler; yea, it takes in all the Butlers that be- 
 lieve. I certainly believe Jesus is all my hope, 
 Jesus will take me in." And the light of peace 
 dawned again and broke through the clouds, and 
 shone upon the track by which he went through 
 the gates of death, and entered into the kingdom 
 011 high. 
 
 My friends, I invite you to seek the door of the 
 kingdom. In vain does it stand open, in vain does 
 Jesus wait to take you in, if you wall not come to 
 Jesus and press to enter in. He will not close the 
 door against you while life lasts ; do not close it 
 against yourselves. Do not venture to abuse all 
 your opportunities, and go down to death at last, 
 
THE OPEN DOOR. 95 
 
 crying, like the exiled English statesman, f 'I am 
 banished from the kingdom ; I might have been 
 chief among those who stand before my king, 
 but my folly has beggared me and banished me 
 forever ! " 
 
ANALOGY AS CONFIRMING THE CHRISTIAN 
 DOCTRINES OF THE FUTURE WORLD, THE 
 REWARD OF SAINTS, AND THE PUNISH- 
 MENT OF SINNERS. 
 
 " The labor of the righteous tendeth to life, the fruit of the nicked to 
 sin." — Pkov. x, 16. 
 
 All the parts of that vast scheme which constitutes 
 God's government over his creatures must have one 
 fixed, constant, unalterable purpose and end. We 
 may not be able to ascertain what it is, but whatever 
 it is, we know that it is necessary, from the very nature 
 of the Supreme Being, that it should be in all places 
 aud ail ages the same ; and we are able to discover 
 with clearness and certainty, that, however numerous 
 may be the more proximate and less important pur- 
 poses comprehended by that final object, they must 
 all be connected and harmonized by a common refer- 
 ence and a common contribution to that final purpose. 
 And from these premises we are able further to con- 
 clude, that all the means and instruments used by 
 Almighty wisdom must be characterized by a similar 
 agreement ; that since they are designed to secure the 
 same great object, or to promote some purpose which 
 directly refers to that object, and is subsidiary to it, 
 they must all be connected one with another, and 
 
ANALOGY AS CONFIRMING CHRISTIAN DOCTRINES. 97 
 
 sustain a constant relation of reciprocal reference and 
 dependence. Now it is by these considerations that 
 we are led to the knowledge of that law of analogy, 
 which, however, is not asserted merely by abstract 
 speculations, but is demonstrated by all that man has 
 yet learned of the world in which he lives, and of the 
 universe of which that world is so small a part. For 
 iu the arrangements by which infinite wisdom and 
 goodness govern the earth and its inhabitants, we dis- 
 cover, obvious to every eye, such proportion and 
 harmony as could subsist only in a plan whose separate 
 portions consent and conduct to a common object, in 
 other words, an analogy, pervading all the laws of 
 matter and mind, and forming a bond of closest union 
 among all the works and creatures of Almighty Power. 
 And this prevailing law of analogy it is which fur- 
 nishes to man one of the safest practical principles 
 of his conduct, and the strongest supports of his 
 reason and judgment. It is this which enlightens 
 his future and directs his present, teaches him pru- 
 dence and inspires him with confidence ; and whenever 
 this law is contradicted by an object which solicits his 
 faith or invites his effort, he loses his assurance in 
 doubt, and feels as one groping in darkness. Now, 
 since the Author of all things is one and eternal, 
 "without variableness or shadow of turniug," since 
 his great and ultimate purposes must be, like himself, 
 fixed and immutable, we have reason to believe that 
 the same law of analogy which we discover in all the 
 departments of human knowledge, pervades the entire 
 universe, and that the same essential principles of 
 
98 ANALOGY AS CONFIRMING CHRISTIAN DOCTRINES. 
 
 Divine government whieh we find to prevail on earth 
 are in truth everywhere the fundamental principles of 
 God's self-manifestation. And if we may thus ex- 
 pand the law of analogy from the earth to the universe, 
 widening its application from a mere point in space 
 to the vast and boundless heavens, much more surely 
 and safely may we expand the same law from the 
 present to the future, widening its application from a 
 mere point in eternity, to the ceaseless roll and lapse 
 of future ages. Doing this, we must then believe that 
 the principles of God's present government of man 
 afford us the knowledge of the system and laws by 
 which God will govern man hereafter. That consti- 
 tution and order under which we now live, and accord- 
 ing to which our actual experience of happiness or 
 misery is determined, clearly show us what will be the 
 Divine arrangement according to which our destinv 
 will be fixed in the world to come. 
 
 This argument from analogy is thus entirely inde- 
 pendent of the proof from God's word. We draw 
 our conclusions, not from what God has revealed in 
 the Bible, but from what he has written on his works, 
 and disclosed in the whole course of his actual dealings 
 with his creatures. We show by this that the prin- 
 ciples of his future government, as they are explained 
 in his word, are not inconsistent with, but are con- 
 firmed by, the laws of that natural constitution under 
 which we actually live. 
 
 There are many who raise objections to the doctrines 
 of the Bible, as violating what they are pleased to 
 regard as the character of the Divine Being, and as 
 
ANALOGY AS CONFIRMING CHRISTIAN DOCTRINES. 99 
 
 conflicting with those ideas of superlative goodness 
 which they suppose to be the great and exclusive 
 principles of God's method of government. There 
 are those who object to the Scriptural doctrines of 
 the last judgment, and the future felicity or misery 
 of mankind, as contrary to reason, and much more 
 contrary to the Divine attributes. If, then, laying 
 aside all proof from interpretation of the Scripture, 
 w r e deduce a confirmation of the doctrines thus denied 
 from the simple analogy of man's present condition 
 and the principles of God's actual government over 
 men in this world, we shall derive an argument and 
 proof too strong and certain to be gainsaid or resisted. 
 Let us begin with that principle which lies at the basis 
 of God's future government, and man's future state, 
 that this present life is designed to be a course of 
 preparation for the life which is to succeed. We lay 
 aside for the moment all the proofs which are fur- 
 nished by the Christian religion, and only ask how far 
 this principle is warranted and upheld by our actual 
 experience in this world. And we draw a strong 
 confirmation from that law which w T e are taught pre- 
 vails through all the orders and ranks of being, 
 animal and vegetable, in the lower creation, that law 
 of progression which marks the life and growth of 
 every creature, of everything, into many distinct 
 stages of development, following one after another 
 in regular and undeviating sequence. In truth, what 
 is growth itself, what is the meaning of the term, and 
 what the idea which is included in the fact, but this 
 very law of progression? Nothing lives only as it 
 
100 ANALOGY AS CONFIRMING CHRISTIAN DOCTRINES. 
 
 embodies and develops this law. Xothing through- 
 out the wide universe, so far as we know, accomplishes 
 its end, and attains its natural perfection, but by this 
 successive unfolding and expansion of its powers. 
 In the vegetable and in the animal are to be found 
 the same periods of gradual advancement, the same 
 marks of a progressive existence. Man becomes mas- 
 ter of all the faculties of his humanity, physical and 
 moral, he attains the stature and perfection of man- 
 hood, only as he thus successively accomplishes the 
 different stages of his growth, and passes from infancy 
 to age. We have, then, all the force of this analogy 
 to sustain the belief, that our future history will be 
 governed by the law of progression, of gradual de- 
 velopment ; that in truth, our earthly life involves only 
 the incipient periods of human life, and the eternal 
 ages beyond will carry on this life by the same prin- 
 ciples, passing it through a series of advancing stages, 
 toward the high and perfect type of humanity realized 
 in the character of our Lord Jesus Christ. But we 
 observe, in the second place, that this law of progres- 
 sion involves and comprehends the principle that each 
 stage of growth is but an advance on the previous, 
 and a preparation for the following stage, a principle 
 which we know to be too obvious for proof. Every 
 period of life commences with the same degree of 
 development with which the previous period ended. 
 It takes up the powers which are furnished by the 
 former stages of growth, and carries them on to the 
 next succeeding period. At no step in the process 
 can you find in the animal or the plant what was not 
 
ANALOGY AS CONFIRMING CHRISTIAN DOCTRINES. 101 
 
 there in the beginning. No step adds anything which 
 
 is not a legitimate consequence of natural develop- 
 ment, or confers any power which was not, in the 
 very beginning, provided for in the nature and the 
 laws of the animal or plant. We discover at a 
 glance that this is the principle according to which 
 the life of man is unfolded and governed. His 
 infancy is, in the strictest sense, an incipient period 
 of growth, naturally leading him to, and fitting him 
 for, the advanced stage of youth. His youth is, in 
 the most literal sense, a preparation for manhood 
 and all its vigorous life and exertion. His manhood 
 involves no powers, confers no ability, which were not 
 provided in his youth. His youth is, by the evident 
 design of nature, and in actual experience, a school 
 for his manhood. It does, beyond all question, give 
 shape and coloring to the periods that follow it. It 
 is the porch and vestibule of his manly age, the seed- 
 time of his harvest, the young and healthful, or 
 sickly plant, which is afterwards matured or dwarfed 
 in the vigorous or rotten tree of his character and 
 life. Carrying forward this principle likewise, and 
 applying it, by the argument of analogy, to the 
 future destiny of man, we are led to the conclusion, 
 firm and irresistible, which we announced at the 
 beginning, that this life is a process of preparation 
 for that which is to come. Just as we see the dif- 
 ferent periods of human life on earth connected by 
 the relation of antecedent and consequent, cause and 
 effect, we must believe our present humanity to be 
 connected with our future destiny. We are com- 
 
102 ANALOGY AS CONFIRMING CHRISTIAN DOCTRINES. 
 
 pelled by analogy to acknowledge this relation, com- 
 pelled to the belief, that the principles of God's 
 present method of dealing with us will be carried 
 on into the future world. We shall, then, commence 
 in eternity, with the same character and powers which 
 we may possess and exhibit at death. Whatever 
 they be, they will form the germs of our future 
 development, just as we see the powers of youth 
 entering into the growth and life of manhood. 
 Death is only a passage from the present to the 
 future. It is not a member of that series of stages 
 by which our nature is really unfolded and regularly 
 expanded. It is merely a transit from one stage to 
 another, the connecting link between the present and 
 the future life. To be sure, one part of man will be 
 wdiolly terminated by death, all the earthy and mor- 
 tal ; but all of him which shall survive beyond the 
 grave, the soul, in which lies his distinguishing 
 excellence as man, and not brute, will, by the law of 
 succession, enter upon its course of immortality, just 
 as it was prepared in this present mode of existence. 
 Holy or unholy, virtuous or vicious, it will stand, it 
 must stand, at the gate of the infinite clothed with the 
 very same character in which it shall have been found 
 by death. If it would be folly to demand in us on 
 earth powers or habits to which we have not been 
 trained and educated, equally foolish would it be, by 
 the law of analogy, to expect in the being after 
 death a character which he never acquired before it. 
 We observe that in the actual experience of man on 
 earth, there is a universal, fixed, absolute relation 
 
ANALOGY AS CONFIRMING CHRISTIAN DOCTRINES. 103 
 
 between the character which he possesses, and the 
 happiness or misery which he enjoys or suffers. No 
 man who has attentively considered his own life, or 
 who has made himself acquainted with the history of 
 others, will for one moment hesitate to avow his 
 belief in this principle. There is a natural connec- 
 tion between the evil one does, and that he suffers. 
 A disregard of the laws of our being is attended, by 
 necessity, with penalties of pain and suffering. Phys- 
 ically and morally, transgression is punished with 
 unhappiness. A conduct that defies the laws of 
 nature, and tramples on their authority, brings upon 
 itself an amount of misery proportioned to the 
 offence. Vice is imbued, in its essence and sub- 
 stance, with the elements of moral degradation and 
 ruin. Immorality, despising the plainest principles 
 of our being, tends always to certain misery. Virtue, 
 obedience to the nature of man and the constitution 
 of things, just as certainly tends to happiness and 
 peace. It will not avail to say that this order is 
 often broken, this connection often destroyed, that 
 virtue loses its reward and vice escapes its punish- 
 ment. We are seeking for the ordained law by 
 which man is commonly governed. We see, indeed, 
 that the plainest principles of our bodily existence 
 are often thwarted, and that physical suffering is pre- 
 vented by the appliance of remedies or the ingenuity 
 of practice ; yet we never hesitate to declare, in spite 
 of this, that the neglect of physical laws is attended 
 with pain, that he who thrusts his hand into fire will 
 
104 ANALOGY AS CONFIRMING CHRISTIAN DOCTRINES. 
 
 be burned, for this is the natural tendency, and we 
 call this tendency a law. 
 
 Now, all the provisions of nature, all the laws of 
 the universe, material and intelligent, are the ordi- 
 nations of God. They are the statutes, the principles 
 of his government. We are, in this life, as much 
 under the control of his power, as much subject to 
 his will, as we ever shall be. It is by his own 
 appointment that we live as we do, and under the 
 principles by which we are governed. Our actual 
 experience on earth is determined as surely by his 
 constitution of things, as we can ever suppose it will 
 be hereafter. We are, therefore, compelled to admit, 
 that in God's present government of man, it is a 
 fixed principle that all vice shall be punished with 
 suffering, and virtue rewarded with happiness, and 
 we are obliged to acknowledge that this principle is 
 the general rule by which human experience is meas- 
 ured, in its share of pleasure or pain. This is the 
 tendency of human conduct, and the tendency is 
 enough of itself to establish the law. Now, of what 
 avail is it to object that there are so many instances 
 in which vice goes unpunished and virtue unre- 
 warded? The only inference is, that the principle is 
 not fully carried out, and the most that we can con- 
 clude is, that there is so far an incompleteness in the 
 divine government, that its principles lack a perfect 
 execution. And if this incompleteness goes to prove 
 anything in respect to the destiny of man, it goes to 
 assure us that a time is coming when this imperfec- 
 tion will be adjusted, when this principle will be 
 
ANALOGY AS CONFIRMIXG CHRISTIAN DOCTRINES. 105 
 
 wholly carried out, when virtue shall be rewarded 
 and vice shall be punished in the full extent, and to 
 the letter and spirit of the divine law. And this 
 conclusion is confirmed by that force of analogy 
 which we have thus far applied. Apart from all 
 questions respecting the character of this law, that 
 sin will be attended with misery, and holiness with 
 happiness, we have every proof, drawn from the 
 present condition of man, to assure the belief that 
 this same law will be the rule of our destiny here- 
 after. And of what value can be the objection, so 
 often urged, that the future punishment of sin would 
 be inconsistent with the character of the Deity ? Of 
 what value? If it is unjust for God to punish sin in 
 the world to come, it must be unjust upon principle, 
 and then it would be as inconsistent to punish sin at 
 one time as at another, and in one, even the least 
 degree, as in even the highest. 
 
 We can no more imagine God capable of commit- 
 ting a small degree of sin, than we can imagine him 
 capable of all sin together. If, then, it is unjust upon 
 principle that God should inflict misery upon sin- 
 ners, we are not to suppose that one single instance 
 of such punishment can be found in the whole history 
 of the universe. And what a supposition would this 
 be in the face of God's actual government of man on 
 earth, a government in which, as we have seen, the 
 tendency of all human conduct is ever according to 
 the fixed law, that sin leads to, and ends in suffering, 
 as holiness leads to happiness ! 
 
 It is useless to argue against the future punishment 
 
106 ANALOGY AS CONFIRMING CHRISTIAN DOCTRINES. 
 
 of sin, so long as our experience testifies with daily 
 and hourly voice that misery lies at the end of every 
 path of sin ; and if sin succeed in escaping it while on 
 this earth, our reason teaches us that Almighty jus- 
 tice must rectify the exception by the awards of the 
 life to come. The very perfections of the Godhead 
 are involved in the execution of this principle. If 
 virtue is not to be rewarded, if vice and guilt are to 
 go unpunished in a future life, then must our reason 
 be confounded in the admission, that man has the 
 power to elude the vigilance of the Most High, that 
 he has the ability to turn aside one of the most evi- 
 dent arrangements of his government, and that he 
 may, by mere dexterity, shield himself from the pen- 
 alties God has threatened, and make him a respecter 
 of persons, and a partial judge among men. 
 
 We thus learn how unanimously and forcibly the 
 voice of reason and nature exclaims in attestation of 
 the revealed doctrines of the Bible. We learn how 
 flatly the partial views of those who refuse these doc- 
 trines are contradicted by the evidences that lie in 
 multitudes on every side, and along the whole path 
 of life. The eternal world opens its portals to re- 
 ceive us just as we are, "with all our sins and guilt, 
 or our virtues ; and it opens to conduct us only to a 
 higher stage of existence, where we shall appear just 
 as we are fitted to appear while here in the body. 
 Xo miracle is promised to transform our natures 
 alter death has consumed the clay that conceals 
 them. No new powers are pledged to aid us in 
 shaking off the grasp and fiendish embrace of a guilty 
 
ANALOGY AS CONFIRMING CHRISTIAN DOCTRINES. 107 
 
 conscience. Heaven will spurn ns from its gates, as 
 surely ns we spurn heaven's offers on earth. The 
 consequences which time did not bring forth from the 
 mass of our guilt and degradation, eternity will ripen 
 with all the quickened powers of our souls, and the 
 misery which we succeeded in escaping here, w T ill 
 then come upon us with accelerated speed and inten- 
 sified bitterness. It was because these truths are 
 the inviolable laws of God's universe, it was because 
 these laws could be annulled by no human power, 
 that Jesus Christ brought himself and his gospel 
 upon earth. He offers us his assistance to retrieve 
 our downward footsteps. He pledges his Almighti- 
 iness to our support, in the effort to throw from our 
 consciences and characters the burden which, in 
 eternity, must inevitably crush our souls in misery 
 and wreck. 
 
 Let us strive to attain, ere the end of this brief 
 preparatory life, the germs which may grow up into 
 immortal felicity. Let us acquire powers which will 
 not leave ns, after the judgment, behind all the ranks 
 of God's creatures, the lowest, the meanest, and the 
 feeblest ! All that we gain here of moral advantages, 
 we shall keep hereafter. All the knowledge, all the 
 sound and educated ability, all the Christian attain- 
 ments, which we can gather before death comes to 
 remove us, we shall carry with us into the sacred and 
 blessed employments and pleasures of heaven, and 
 they will form the germs of that course of high 
 angelic discipline which shall continue, through the 
 long periods of immortality, to place us nearer and 
 nearer the throne and presence of Infinite Wisdom. 
 
CHRIST SUFFERING.* 
 
 " Ought not Christ to have suffered these things?" — Luke xxiv, 2.6. 
 
 To many minds, unenlightened by the Holy Ghost, 
 the sufferings of our blessed Lord, awful as they 
 seem, and in reality were, appear to have been purely 
 gratuitous, and to have been invoked upon himself by 
 an exalted martyr spirit, that shrank from no sacrifice, 
 however great or fearful. This is the view of all those 
 who regard Jesus Christ only in the character of a 
 distinguished reformer, rising like a brilliant meteor 
 when the heavens were black, attracting the gaze, 
 astonishing the hearts of men for a season, and then 
 sinking back in gloom forever, save a few rays left 
 behind to struggle in the darkness. How could such 
 partial observers of our Lord's character and mission 
 apprehend those eternal reasons, appreciate the depths 
 of that love, which moved him to bow the heavens and 
 come down to save man? How could they know 
 anything of that infinite argument, the divine wis- 
 dom which underlies, as a necessiry groundwork, the 
 whole scheme of redemption ? For to them Christ 
 appears not as he really was ; that more glorious half, 
 his divine nature, is denied him ; nor over the dreacl- 
 
 * This series of three sermons, "The Sufferings, Crucifixion, and 
 Resurrection of Christ," was written when the author was hut twenty- 
 one years of age. 
 
CHRIST SUFFERING. 109 
 
 fill cross, shrouded in the thick night that closed 
 upon his sacrificial agonies, broods a solitary ray ot 
 the Father's glory. To such, therefore, our Saviour 
 must ever seem as some earthly hero, whose toils and 
 death were not only voluntary, which we believe, but 
 undergone merely because they were inevitable, the 
 natural reaction of the elements against which lie had 
 been contending, which we do not believe. Sucq 
 persons, like the two disciples of Emmaus, may 
 lavish their sympathy upon Jesus of Nazareth, and 
 burn incense to his exalted virtues and beneficent 
 deeds, but they are not prepared to lift their hearts 
 in holy reverence to the Christ of God, or to make 
 his intense sufferings and vicarious death the ground 
 of a blessed hope of heaven and glory. Be it not so 
 with us ! But while w^e wonder at the scorn and hate 
 he received for the more than mortal goodness that 
 flowed through all his life, stand amazed at his 
 dreadful agonies in Gethsemane, and awe -struck at 
 the sight of the bowed head, the outstretched hands, 
 nailed and bleeding, of the Son of God on the cross, 
 let us recall to our minds the words he spake to the 
 two disciples, " Ought not Christ to have suffered 
 these things?" Let us pay close attention to this 
 language. He does not say, "Ought not that man 
 whose death ye deplore," but, " Ought not that 
 divine Being whose advent ye still expect, that prom- 
 ised Saviour who is the anointed of God, to suffer 
 these things?" For we may observe that the per- 
 fect tense in our translation does not render the 
 original exactly, which is not by any means so defi- 
 5 
 
110 CHRIST SUFFERING. 
 
 nite. On this direct reference to the Redeemer 
 spoken of by the prophets lies a strong argument in 
 favor of Jesus of Nazareth as that Redeemer. Now 
 the two disciples seemed to object to the redemptorial 
 character of Jesus of Nazareth, on the ground that 
 he had now died, before restoring their lost kingdom 
 to the Jews, whereas, in their opinion, according to 
 their interpretation of- the prophets, the promised 
 Redeemer should soon, or at least not long after 
 his advent, assume the reins of an earthly govern- 
 ment, and live king forever. And in this belief 
 they were only clinging to the notions prevalent 
 among the Jews, and notions not yet dissipated from 
 the minds of the twelve intimate disciples of Jesus. 
 Hence, however strong had been their faith in the 
 abject son of Joseph and Mary, whose mightiness 
 " in deed and in word " gave a bright promise of 
 speedy deliverance from their oppressors, his sudden 
 death, and that death so unjust and ignominious, now 
 quenched all their hopes. And, as if still further to 
 strengthen their objections against his divine char- 
 acter, they add, "And beside all this, to-day is the 
 third day since these things were done." Entirely 
 to refute these objections, our Lord appeals to their 
 knowledge of the Scriptures, asking them if the 
 divine Saviour promised in the prophets was not 
 clearly and emphatically set forth as a sacrifice, " a 
 lamb led to the slaughter," as one who, before en- 
 tering into his glory, that is, before assuming the 
 sceptre of his kingdom, must pass through many 
 sufferings, and even die. And to enlighten their 
 
CHRIST SUFFERING. Ill 
 
 understandings, and prove that Christ was thus 
 appointed to death, he commences at Moses, and 
 expounds to* them all those portions of the divine 
 word which relate to himself, showing thus that the 
 death of Jesus of Nazareth, so far from being an 
 objection against, is a strong and conclusive argu- 
 ment in favor of his redemptorial character, as the 
 Saviour predicted by the prophets. 
 
 The present discussion will embrace two points, 
 what and why Christ suffered. It is impossible for 
 us not to be moved at the spectacles of intense hard- 
 ship which present themselves in the whole course 
 of our Lord's life. We are to suppose ourselves ac- 
 quainted with the whole design he had in view, and 
 to be informed of the disinterestedness of his motives ; 
 and then, with this knowledge freshened and en- 
 larged at every successive stage in the events of his 
 history, we shall be better prepared to sympathize 
 with this innocent man in all his sufferance of hate 
 and cruelty. I need not do more than barely to 
 mention those more remarkable incidents in his 
 earlier history which disclose to our view the extreme 
 poverty that ever attended upon him, and the fearful 
 malice which, coming from the high places of the 
 nation, constantly frowned upon him in public, and 
 with an evil eye that glared with unhallowed passion 
 watched him in his most secluded retreats. From 
 the time of his astonishing discussion with the doctors 
 in the temple till his public ministry, he lived in 
 retirement with his parents, working with his own 
 hands for the bread he ate, and undergoing all the 
 
112 CHRIST SUFFERING. 
 
 toils, the fatigues, the struggles, of the most ordinary 
 mechanic. Let us dwell upon this portion of his life. 
 We of the present clay are not prepared at once to 
 form a correct opinion upon this section of our 
 Lord's history : and we who live in a country where 
 the high distinctions of old aristocracy throw no 
 shadow upon the lot of the workingman, we of a 
 republican nation, are of all least qualified, without 
 careful study, to enter into the spirit of the " olden 
 time," when caste and rank drew broad lines of sepa- 
 ration and raised lofty barriers between the working, 
 toiling millions, and the proud, vaunting, despotic 
 few who set the iron heel of power upon them, until, 
 like crushed worms, they writhed and bled in helpless 
 wretchedness. He felt all the bitterness of those 
 narrowing conventionalities of society that denied to 
 him a just position, and one in which he might have 
 both received and imparted the sympathies of human 
 kindness. Think now where we are ; we are in the 
 workshop of an obscure mechanic. How can we 
 refrain from calling to mind the most illustrious of 
 the sons of science, of philosophy, of theology, of art? 
 The workshop has been blessed by heaven itself as 
 the birthplace of mighty genius, and the school in 
 which the noblest intellects have trained themselves. 
 He was not the pupil of some proud teacher in the 
 temple. He was brought up at the feet of no Ga- 
 maliel, but he was self-taught in all the learning of 
 Moses and the prophets. And now let us behold him 
 in the public labors of his ministry. He entered 
 upon them when he was about thirty years of age. 
 
CHRIST SUFFERING. 113 
 
 Did he expound the prophets in the synagogue of his 
 own native village ? Despite the eloquence that gushed 
 in a living stream from his lips, his neighbors shook 
 oft 1 the spell of his discourse by taking refuge under 
 his humble parentage. Is not this Joseph's son? And 
 when, oppressed by the thought of such hollow- 
 hearted pride, such paltry infidelity, he attempted to 
 vindicate his position, then the whole assembly 
 rushed upon him with maniac fury, dragged him to 
 the brow of a hill, and sought to "hurl him dow r n 
 headlong." Follow him on his lonesome way, mark 
 his tears, listen to his cries, and well may you believe 
 the prophets ; he is a " man of sorrows and acquaint- 
 ed with grief." Again we behold him covertly steal- 
 ing out of the city and winding his weary path along 
 the vale of Jehoshaphat, to the lowly cots of Bethany. 
 He loves intercourse with unsophisticated nature, 
 because he knows that for truth, the truth which he 
 came to teach man, there is no more genial home 
 than the heart of the mighty people. He loves the 
 oppressed masses, and they love him. Then why is 
 he not permitted quietly to pursue his labors, and to 
 elevate from the rank of bondmen the drudges of the 
 priestly caste and the tools of craft and policy in high 
 places ? 
 
 His motives are either misunderstood or miscon- 
 strued, his object but imperfectly known even to 
 his most intimate friends. As a man, he was often 
 beset by the seductions of fame and glory, tempted 
 to sell his soul to Satan, that on the throne of an 
 earthly dynasty he might sit in the splendor of a 
 
114 CHRIST SUFFERING. 
 
 king. With Jill the suggestions of the Devil, with all 
 the idolizing fondness of the people, he was obliged 
 to contend, as well as with his avowed persecutors. 
 He was continually waging war with the iron usages 
 of society and the pernicious dogmas of a degenerate 
 religion. His path was hedged on the right and on 
 the left. Thus was he compelled to work the works 
 of Him that sent him, while all hell and Judaea were 
 thirsting for his blood. 
 
 We are now to behold him in the closing scenes of 
 his life ; his energies are now ripe for suffering, as 
 well as for victory, and his full soul feels strong to bear 
 the awful burden imposed by divine justice. Let us 
 take a view of the chief events that fill up the measure 
 of our Lord's suffering. Behold him just passing out 
 of the gate of the city. He has blessed and eaten 
 bread with his disciples for the last time. The sweet 
 friendship which binds them to his heart is about to 
 be broken up, and as the last strains of the hymn they 
 lately sang together still linger in their ears, he talks 
 affectionately to them of the time when, in his upper 
 kingdom, they shall join in drinking of a new cup and 
 swelling a new song of praise. It is night, and the 
 most solemn stillness spreads over the gloomy grove 
 which they are just entering, broken only by the rus- 
 tling of the leaves and the murmur of the brook, a faint 
 sound of distant music floating upon the air, and the 
 sifi'hs and sobs that continue to break forth from bosoms 
 oppressed with grief. Behind them flows the Cedron, 
 which they have just crossed ; and before them, its 
 summit crowned with the rich foliage of the trees, 
 
CHRIST SUFFERING. 115 
 
 through which many a star is seen glimmering, rises 
 the Mount of Olives. It is here, just at the foot 01 
 the bill, that our Lord has been wont to meet his dis- 
 ciples and teach them the great things of his king- 
 dom. Here has his voice broken out in fervent suppli- 
 cation, here has he prostrated himself alone before his 
 Father. Could these trees speak, had these flowers 
 tongues, oh, what stories would they tell us of bursts 
 of anguish, prayers that seemed to rend the very 
 heavens, and bring angels down to listen in astonish- 
 ment. Now we are to witness a scene of anguish 
 unparalleled forever. The little band has passed 
 the entrance, and our Lord, commanding them to 
 pray, goes farther into the wood, and is soon lost in 
 the darkness, at the distance of a stones cast from 
 them. Here, kneeling down, he prays, " Father, it 
 thou be willing, remove this cup from me. " This is 
 the language of a heart utterly prostrate beneath a 
 sense of pain too grievous to be borne. Jesus is now 
 in the power of a dreadful curse. From the trans- 
 gression of the first man down to this hour the cup 
 of wrath has been filling up, God now pours into it 
 the justice due to any repenting sinner, down to the 
 last day of grace, and then hands it to his Son, that 
 he may drink it to the dregs. A mountain, a tre- 
 mendous load of human guilt, is resting upon him. 
 From kneeling he bows his face upon the earth, 
 stretches out his hands before him, lies like one 
 accursed, withered under the frown of Omnipotence. 
 He has just prayed that the cup of anguish might 
 pass, yet he cries, "Not my will, but thine be done " ; 
 
116 CHRIST SUFFERING. 
 
 and he still drains it off, though, with the almighti- 
 ness that slumbers in his arm, he could dash it 
 aside, and let it flow like liquid fire over the guilty 
 world. Here is a diviue being, with all the spiritual- 
 ized sensitiveness of infinite perfection, stretched on 
 the ground, the Son of God smitten with the univer- 
 sal curse of human guilt. 
 
 Whatever way you look at it, with whatever ar- 
 guments you approach this subject, you are over- 
 whelmed with the conviction that our Lord's anguish 
 in the garden is beyond all the powers of speech or 
 thought. Heaven itself is amazed, and the eye of 
 every angel is riveted on the spectacle of a prostrate 
 God ! And can this cup pass from his lips ? Oh, is 
 there no help in heaven? His disciples have wept 
 themselves into unconscious slumber, and lie wrapped 
 in the folds of their garments under the foliage of a 
 cluster of olives. But there is a watch in heaven 
 over that prostrate form. The eternal Father be- 
 holds his Son agonizing on the ground ; and from his 
 presence he sends an angel, Who, on wings fleet as 
 the lightning, flies down, enters the grove, touches 
 the almost lifeless form and invigorates it with fresh 
 strength. Oh, what a sight is this ! An angel minis- 
 tering to his sorrow-smitten God ! And again he 
 prays, more earnestly than before. Fresh strength has 
 sharpened anew his pains, and who can tell that fear- 
 ful doubts are not now assailing the steadfastness of 
 his heart? Satan has tempted him before, when the 
 keen sense of hunger had fastened on the body of his 
 intended victim and reduced it to weakness. Who 
 
CHRIST SUFFERING. 117 
 
 can say that the wily tempter is not now availing 
 himself of the extreme prostration of our Lord, and 
 endeavoring, with all the cogency of argument that 
 he can wield, to sway him from his purpose? He 
 holds, perhaps, such language as this, "Let the world 
 perish, let sinners meet their doom. Kid yourself 
 of this horrible anguish. Justice will approve it, 
 heaven will shout at your return, and hell will open 
 wide its jaws to swallow the accursed race of Adam ! " 
 But our Lord replies, "I came to save man, and I 
 must not falter in my purpose. The world is sink- 
 ing, and my arm alone can bear it up. Away, thou 
 enemy of God and man ! I am sent to bruise thy 
 head, to rescue the victim from thy grasp, and by 
 my agonies and blood to win deliverance for the 
 world." And now the hour has past, its sufferings 
 have baptized a glorious victory. There is music in 
 heaven. The Saviour rises and passes slowly and 
 feebly to the group of his disciples still slumbering 
 on the ground, gently bidding them rise. Well has 
 it been for them to be wrapped in sleep. Would not 
 their bosoms have yearned with self-distressing sym- 
 pathy had they been permitted to behold their Mas- 
 ter languishing on the damp ground? A kind Provi- 
 dence has spared them this gush of grief, that they 
 may have strong resolution to face the dangers now 
 gathering thick and black around them. And as 
 they sit in a little circle, drinking in the instructions 
 and consolations of their Lord, a dim light appears 
 at a distance-, in the direction of the city. And now 
 another and another is seen flashing on the gloom, 
 
118 CHRIST SUFFERING. 
 
 and rocking to and fro and up and down, like the 
 watchlights of a bark riding on the sea. Ever and 
 anon dark forms are suddenly disclosed by some 
 broader ray, and there is a gleam of weapons, bran- 
 dished as in defiance, and cutting circular lines of 
 fiery glow on the thick shadows, save where the light 
 is intercepted by the body of some old tree. And 
 now all are buried in the valley of the Ceclron ; but 
 at intervals a nois}' shout rings out upon the still air, 
 and up the stream the moving lights throw a quiver- 
 ing reflection on the bosom of the rippling waters. 
 And now they all ascend the bank, a fierce-looking 
 rabble, with swords and lanterns, their bearded 
 visages and glaring eyes and boisterous merriment 
 betokening purposes of some dark deed. 
 
 They enter the quiet grove, some parting to the 
 right and left, and others advancing directly to the 
 spot where our Lord and his disciples are still re- 
 clining. The prey is soon found, and a shout of, 
 "Here they are," brings the host together around 
 their leader. The disciples arise, Peter draws his 
 sword ; Jesus advances towards the mob, and is met 
 by the traitor, who gives him the betraying kiss, the 
 signal agreed upon by the multitude, who now rush 
 forward to secure their victim. The foremost" assail- 
 ant is boldly met by Peter, who aims a heavy blow 
 at his head, but the weapon is either parried or 
 dodged, and only cuts off an ear. Jesus rebukes the 
 martial spirit of the passionate disciple, and com- 
 mands him to put up his sword into its sheath. 
 Never again shall this spot of earth be trodden by 
 
CHRIST SUFFERING. 119 
 
 the feet of the Son of God. No more shall the stars 
 look down through this canopy of leaves upon the 
 prostrate form of Him who placed them in the 
 heavens and hade them shine. These old trees shall 
 fall and decay ; the murmuring Cedron shall be 
 hushed in the waste of its waters ; those old walls, 
 with all their lofty turrets, shall be broken down. 
 That proud temple, rising in gorgeous splendor from 
 the edge of yon beetling precipice, shall perish in 
 the destroying flames; over the holy city begins to 
 brood the wrath of the Almighty, which, erelong, 
 bursting like the thunder-cloud, shall overwhelm it 
 as with a flood, and its glory shall be like the " early 
 dew which passeth away " ; but the remembrance of 
 this night of suffering shall live forever ; and the 
 prayers that have echoed in its w^oocl, the tears that 
 have fallen on its flowers, the agony that has called 
 down angels to consecrate its shaded walks, shall 
 forever embalm in the hearts of the followers of the 
 blessed Jesus the hallowed name of Gethsemane. 
 
CHRIST CRUCIFIED. 
 
 "Ought not Christ to have suffered these things? " — Luke xxiv, 26. 
 
 In our first discourse on these words we attempted 
 to trace our Lord through his career of suffering, 
 dwelling particularly upon his agony in the garden. 
 We saw him then the prey of his own feelings. His 
 anguish was occasioned by internal causes, and the 
 pains that prostrated his body flowed from the acute 
 mental distress that had fastened on his spirit. Our 
 Lord's physical sufferings were the ordained counter- 
 part, and in a sense the necessary condition of his 
 mental anguish, while this last was, in the same 
 manner, the counterpart and condition of the former. 
 The cruel tortures of his body, the preparations for 
 his death, everything served to remind him of the 
 awful position he occupied as a victim atoning for 
 the sins of others ; while the fearful pangs of his soul 
 were the constant monitors of the extreme sufferings 
 that should be let loose upon his body, making every 
 vein a passageway for the wormwood and the gall to 
 be poured into his heart. Thus were his mind and 
 body continually acting and reacting on each other, 
 giving the greatest possible intensity to those pangs 
 that made his last days the bitterest that Gocl or man 
 
CHRIST CRUCIFIED. 121 
 
 ever knew, and on the cross wrung out his heart in a 
 death to which no parallel can be found, anomalous, 
 as we have reason to believe, in the whole circle of 
 history, and, like his birth, miraculous and divine. 
 We saw Jesus Christ captured as a common male- 
 factor, by a set of men obviously bought up for the 
 occasion. This is not all, he was taken in midnight 
 darkness. Now place these two facts together, and 
 they read us a whole volume of significance. Jerusa- 
 lem was at that time thronging with visitors, assem- 
 bled at the great annual festival of the Passover, and 
 there is no doubt that many had come expressly to 
 see and hear the Mighty Teacher whose fame filled 
 the land. And could we have been present at the 
 secret conclave of priests and doctors, who felt their 
 influence over the multitude leaving the long fringes 
 and broad hems of their garments, could we have 
 heard their plotting together, we would have listened 
 to such language as this : " We must not wait until 
 morning lest the people come upon us and stone us ; 
 we must hire a mob to steal him away under the 
 cover of darkness, and before morning- we must pass 
 him into the hands of the Romans." We are now to 
 behold Jesus before the high-priest ; and what may 
 we expect for him there ? If his accusers were polit- 
 ical despots, we might hope for his safety ; but the 
 history of mankind has taught us that religious tyrants, 
 trampling on the sacred rights of humanity in the 
 name of God, are the worst autocrats that ever 
 belched forth persecution on the pure heart and meek 
 head of suffering innocence. He who crushes the 
 
122 CHRIST CRUCIFIED. 
 
 cause of truth and justice in his own name, does it at 
 the peril of being condemned at a higher tribunal 
 than his own ; but he who sheds virtuous blood under 
 the awful sanctions of religion, stands alone in unap- 
 proachable power. A Pontius Pilate would have 
 saved the Son of God, but the priests of a national 
 religion thirsted for his blood. 
 
 The morning now begins to advance ; a thin and 
 narrow streak of light arches over the summits of the 
 eastern hills, and a few dim, gray rays are seen 
 trembling through the misty streets of the great city. 
 It is that period of profoundest silence when all 
 nature seems to be gathering strength for a new 
 resurrection. The paschal lamb is to be sacrificed; 
 and on this day a universal sacrifice is to be offered 
 up for sin. At this early hour Jesus Christ is led 
 by his persecutors bef >re the judgment-seat of the 
 Roman governor ; this hasty movement is designed 
 to anticipate the difficulties that would arise were the 
 Great Teacher to be publicly condemned before the 
 vast populace of the city. Pilate goes through with 
 .a rapid examination of the prisoner, and by his 
 manly bearing and courteous civility, in strong con- 
 trast with the behavior of the high-priests, secures 
 to all his questions the most satisfactory answers. 
 He is convinced of the innocence of the man before 
 him and declares his honest conviction of the prison- 
 er's faultlessuess ; but the infuriate mob cry out, 
 " Give us Barabbas." 
 
 Pilate retires into the judgment-hall. We can 
 only guess at the emotions that must throb in his 
 
CHRIST CRUCIFIED. 123 
 
 heart now, compelled to decide between two courses 
 of action, each equally, perhaps, repugnant to his 
 feelings ; he must become the murderer of an innocent 
 man, or he must involve himself in the enmity of 
 the national priests, whose good-will is absolutely 
 necessary to the quiet and repose of his govern- 
 ment. He will make one more effort. He goes out 
 to the rabble and warmly testifies his full persuasion 
 of Christ's entire innocence and the utter injustice 
 that would attend his condemnation. The mob 
 drown his voice with a cry of, " Crucify him, crucify 
 him." Pilate again returns to the hall, and, as if to 
 seek even a paltry excuse under the shadow of which 
 to condemn him, presses his questions still more 
 closely upon the Saviour. But the calm and dispas- 
 sionate answers he receives, the meek dignity that 
 invests his presence with a winning charm, penetrate 
 the stout Roman's heart, and tell him more power- 
 fully than words that the blessed Jesus is a wronged 
 and abused sufferer. 
 
 One more expedient remains : Christ is a Galilean, 
 and rightly belongs to the jurisdiction of Herod, the 
 tetrarch of that province. Pilate will throw off the 
 responsibility of his condemnation on Herod. Herod 
 is not unwilling to have this case referred to him ; for 
 a long time he has been exceedingly desirous for a 
 sight of the man whose astonishing works have filled 
 the land with his fame. He makes but few inquiries 
 respecting the charges alleged against him, and cares 
 not in the least which way the affair terminates, but 
 he craves a miracle. His whole soul is intent on 
 
124 CHRIST CRUCIFIED. 
 
 this one thing. He begs, he promises, he threatens, 
 he insults, he natters, he storms ; but Christ never 
 wrought a miracle to satisfy curiosity, and he does 
 not deign to take any notice of Herod's importunate 
 demands. That prince will give himself but little 
 more trouble ; and so, as if to turn the whole matter 
 into a farce, he calls in half a score of soldiers and 
 orders them to dress up Jesus in a gorgeous purple 
 robe and entwine his brow with a wreath of the thorn, 
 whose leaves, resembling those of the ivy that emper- 
 ors are accustomed to wear, seem to reflect calumny 
 upon him, and whose sharp spines, turned inward 
 and piercing through the flesh, produce the most 
 fearful wounds ; and in this mock apparel, with a 
 rabble of profligate wretches behind him, and a crowd 
 of merciless priests kneeling before him, and with 
 tantalizing obsequiousness saluting him, "Hail, King 
 of the Jews," he is brought back to Pilate. We may 
 well suppose that by this time the priests were at 
 the very acme of excitement. They had been par- 
 tially defeated in all their previous attempts, and 
 now saw that a desperate effort alone could enable 
 them to win the victory. We may conjecture their 
 passionate entreaty, their angry menaces. Pilate 
 now sees but one course along which he can steer 
 his conduct, and save himself from the fearful po- 
 litical dangers that will probably harass him if he 
 acquit Jesus Christ. His resolution is taken. Gro- 
 ing out before the people, he washes his hands to 
 signify his innocence of the murder, and pronoun- 
 cing the sentence of condemnation, he orders the 
 
CHRIST CRUCIFIED. 125 
 
 Roman guard to scourge Jesus. They take him into 
 another apartment, and there divest him of his 
 apparel. Binding his hands firmly to prevent his 
 struggling, they prostrate him on the floor, with his 
 face downwards. The scourge is a large knotted 
 rope, fastened on the end of a short rod. One of the 
 soldiers takes it and proceeds to inflict the dreadful 
 blows. They raise him up and put on him his own 
 simple raiment. He speaks not a word, but the same 
 serenity lingers in his eye, the same holy calm 
 spreads over his countenance. He is now led forth 
 to execution. The priests have chosen a place by 
 the name of Golgotha, from its resemblance to the 
 form of a skull, it being a small, conical elevation, 
 near the outer wall of the city. Jesus is compelled 
 to bear a portion of the cross on which he is to be 
 crucified, consisting of the upright or longer piece. 
 On each side of him attends a strong division of the 
 Roman garrison quartered in the city, and in front 
 and in rear two larger companies, completely enclos- 
 ing the whole body of the priests and Jewish officers, 
 with their victim, march with lances already charged, 
 to prevent any insurrection among the vast concourse 
 that stretches far behind. 
 
 They have but just arrived at the gate of the wall, 
 when Jesus, weak from his accumulated sufferings 
 and overtasked with the weight of the rugged wood, 
 sinks upon the ground. One Simon, just entering 
 the city, is stopped by the priests and made to assist 
 the Saviour in bearing the cross. The wall is passed, 
 the short distance between it and Calvary is soon 
 
126 CHRIST CRUCIFIED. 
 
 gone over, and the ascent is made. The Roman 
 auard wheel off in a circle around the brow of the 
 hill, and rest upon their lances. The Jewish officers 
 proceed to make the necessary preparations for the 
 crucifixion. The piece of wood designed for the 
 upright portion of the cross is taken from the shoul- 
 ders of Jesus and Simon and laid on the ground. 
 Another piece, about one fourth or one fifth the 
 length of the former, is nailed upon it at right angles, 
 leaving a short space between it and the head of the 
 longer pale. Upon this cross our Saviour is now 
 laid, his hands unbound and outstretched upon the 
 transverse beam, and his feet resting about half-way 
 the space between it and the bottom of the cross, 
 the one foot being placed upon the other. A pain- 
 ful operation is now to be performed. Two or three 
 men kneel down to hold the Saviour in his position, 
 while another takes a hammer and drives a large nail, 
 or spike, directly through the palm, the teuderest 
 part of each hand, and another through both his 
 feet, into the solid wood. Nothing but the most 
 excruciating agony can be supposed possible, as the 
 result of this cruel treatment. The priests might have 
 accomplished their purpose just as effectually by the 
 use of ropes, instead of those spikes. But they 
 seemed to be racking their ingenuity to devise means 
 of torture. A hole has been dug in the centre of the 
 hill, and in it the cross is now planted, with the body 
 of Jesus upon it. Let us take a view of the whole 
 scene. We will look to the southward and east- 
 ward. The sun is hanging high in the heavens, and 
 
CHRIST CRUCIFIED. 127 
 
 there is not a cloud to be seen in the whole expanse. 
 Their lances glitter and flash in the light, as the sol- 
 diers move to and fro, or, laying aside their pon- 
 derous shields, recline upon the earth. The hill is 
 gently declinous, and the side sloping towards the 
 city is thronged with a vast multitude, that reaches, 
 broken only at intervals, even to the gate of the wall. 
 About half-way the plain is seen a small group of 
 women, now gazing up the ascent, now bowing their 
 heads as if in grief. A public road winds round the 
 base of the hills, along which people are constantly 
 passiug to the festival in the city. These generally 
 stop for a few minutes, make some hurried inquiries 
 of the crowd, and then pursue their way. 
 
 On the northwest side of the hill, also, a few 
 groups may be seen scattered up and down, having 
 gone around to obtain a better view of the spectacle. 
 Within the circle formed by the Roman guard, you 
 may notice the haughty priests and Jewish officers, 
 some standing, some reclining, gathered in little 
 knots in front of the cross, vying with one another 
 in their efforts to load the crucified man with oppro- 
 brium and iusult. 
 
 Just around the foot of the cross you behold the 
 most interesting group of all. It consists of the 
 relatives and friends of Jesus. There is his mother, 
 her heart throbbing with anguish, such as mothers 
 alone can feel, her hands, now clasped in prayer, 
 now wrung in agony; and there also is John, the 
 disciple whom Jesus loved so tenderly, who was 
 wont to recline upon his bosom, and who was 
 
158 
 
 CHRIST CRUCIFIED. 
 
 honored with his confidence above the rest of the 
 chosen few. These friends have experienced some 
 humanity from the guard, and been by them per- 
 mitted thus to watch near the cross. 
 
 Now let us cast our eyes upon the Saviour himself. 
 The sight of one dying as a malefactor is anything 
 but pleasing, even when we know he merits his 
 doom. 
 
 It is hard for friends to watch the fading eye, the 
 quivering lip, of one departing from this life in the 
 ordinary way by disease ; especially do we feel a 
 poignant sorrow when we stand by the death-bed of 
 one in the bloom and freshness of youth or the 
 vigorous prime of manhood. But when we witness 
 the forcible cutting asunder of the bands of life, the 
 compulsive separation of a human being from all the 
 joys and happiness that sweetened his mortal exist- 
 ence, it is scarcely possible for us to choke down an 
 almost involuntary expression, that, after all, human 
 justice is a dreadful thing. But to behold innocence 
 torn from the budding sympathies of friendship 
 before its natural time, Oh, this is the hardest, the 
 most heart-rending of all ! Behold the Saviour. 
 He is in the very prime of life. It is at this, the 
 most interesting portion of his life, that the Saviour 
 is to die. His head is bowed and his eyes closed, 
 save when he looks down upon his weeping mother 
 and her friends. The posture of his body is a most 
 painful one. You remember that, but a short time 
 ago, he was prostrated in the garden under a sense of 
 mental anguish, altogether too acute for his physical 
 
CHRIST CRUCIFIED. 129 
 
 endurance. You remember that, from that time to 
 the present moment, he has been deprived of all 
 repose and nourishment, and been exposed to the 
 most cruel treatment. 
 
 You can imagine then how intense must be his suf- 
 ferings in body, when to all these last-mentioned 
 pains and fatigues, and buffetings and scourgings, 
 you add his present dreadful anguish, occasioned by 
 his crucifixion. But his mental distresses are the 
 most terrible of all. He is meeting death and hell, 
 and alone on that cross, achieving, by his pangs, the 
 possible salvation of all mankind. He is attempting 
 alone, what ages have given up in despair ; and though 
 his hands are nailed and his heart is breaking, he is 
 seizing humanity on the brink of woe, and bringing 
 it back to God ! He is a Lamb without spot or blem- 
 ish, bleeding and sacrificed, and consumed on the 
 altar, amid enkindling wrath, that is gathered up by 
 the avenging hand of justice and flung upon the 
 vicarious sufferer. 
 
 What thoughts are now rushing upon his mind. 
 A few more hours and all prophecy pertaining to him 
 will have been verified. Salvation will have been 
 provided. Heaven will break forth into new songs 
 of rejoicing ; hell will be appalled with new terrors ; 
 death and the grave will feel their massive bars give 
 way, and from the ruins of our poor race will spring 
 up a kingdom that shall not pass away, a dominion 
 that shall have no end. Well does the Saviour know 
 the import of those words, "And on him shall be laid 
 the iniquities of us all." He is now feeling the curse 
 
130 CHRIST CRUCIFIED. 
 
 of his Father. He has assumed the guilt of the sin- 
 ner, and now he must bear his woe. God is about 
 to strike him with his tremendous hand. The Saviour 
 thirsts. The j dip a sponge fastened on a stick of 
 hyssop, into a vessel filled with sour wine, the ordi- 
 nary drink of the Koman soldiers, and raise it to his 
 lips. His hour is now come. A strange pallor over- 
 spreads his countenance. He looks down upon his 
 friends at the foot of the cross, and speaks a few 
 words to them in a low, tremulous tone, and then 
 raising his head, he lifts his voice and prays, "Father, 
 forgive them, for they know not what they do." 
 The old soldiers were moved when they heard this 
 fervent prayer ; and well might they be, for cast your 
 eye to the sun, man never saw such darkness coming 
 on at such an hour. The disk of the sun is barely 
 visible, looking like an ash-heap in the midst of 
 mournful gloom. The old soldiers look affrighted, 
 they hover together more closely. The circle that 
 stretched around the hill is broken, and many of the 
 multitude on its sides press up close to the summit. 
 The priests all gather together near the cross, now 
 looking anxiously up into the blackened sky, and 
 now watching the convulsions that begin to shake the 
 fragile form above them. Look down towards the 
 city. You can just behold a section of the w T all, and 
 a few of the most lofty edifices that rise directly in 
 the rear of it. That vast crowd that filled the plain 
 is now half hidden in the misty dimness, but you 
 can see many hastening towards the city as if in 
 great fear. Strange news is brought by a messenger 
 hat has just come from the festival. 
 
CHRIST CRUCIFIED. 131 
 
 He says the great veil, that hangs before the holy 
 of holies in the temple, has been rent from top to 
 bottom. The Jews are tilled with absolute conster- 
 nation. Many of the priests, under an escort of the 
 Roman soldiers, go back in great haste to the city. 
 In the mean time the darkness has increased so much 
 that but a small circle around the cross is directly 
 visible. 
 
 Jesus has not spoken for the last half-hour. His 
 head is now up, leaning against the long pale of 
 the cross. His eyes are open and turned up. His 
 brow, covered with the crimson drops that flow from 
 the punctures of the plaited thorns, is knit with pain. 
 His lips are firmly compressed; and you may notice 
 a tremor quivering over his body. Is he conscious 
 of the stupendous miracle now throwing a dark pall 
 over the face of nature, and sinking upon the hearts 
 of men like the ghost of despair? Ah ! he feels the 
 pains of hell taking hold on his heart. He is utterly 
 {done. God, his Father, has abandoned him. The 
 angels, that w T ere wont to render homage, have hid 
 their faces. Heaven is closed to his vision. This 
 sense of deserted loneliness, added to that mental 
 depression which is the consequence of intense bodily 
 suffering, is too much for his soul to bear. He makes 
 a struggle. His whole frame shudders with agony. 
 . He opens his lips, and in a hollow, wailing tone that 
 makes every head bow down, he cries aloud, "My 
 God ! my God ! why hast thou forsaken me ! " His 
 mother looks up with anguish too deep for tears. 
 The Saviour is dying now. His eyes are fixed and 
 
132 CHRIST CRUCIFIED. 
 
 his lips quiver. Perhaps he is still praying. An- 
 other fearful struggle; a loud cry, "It is finished!'' 
 
 His head drops down, his spirit leaves the clay 
 tenement ; the Saviour is dead ! Was it some fear- 
 ful crash in the air, some sudden rending of the 
 rocks, that made the multitude shriek? Listen to 
 the astonished centurion who commanded the guard : 
 " Certainly this was a righteous man. Truly this was 
 the Son of God." And away on the plains of Egypt, 
 a philosopher of Athens, beholding the unnatural 
 gloom that hid the sun and overspread the sky, ex- 
 claimed, " Either the God of nature is suffering or 
 Nature herself is dissolving ! " 
 
 Eighteen hundred years have rolled away since 
 these scenes were witnessed. During that lapse of 
 time, how vast the throng of those who have passed 
 to heaven by their faith in that cross ! Again we 
 plant that cross before you and cry, " Behold the 
 Lamb of God which taketh away the sins of the 
 world." 
 
CHRIST EISEN. 
 
 11 Wluj seek ye the living among the dead? He is not here, but is 
 risen" — Luke xxiv, 5, 6. 
 
 Jesus had died. His sufferings, so numerous and 
 intense, and protracted for many years in the midst 
 of a scoffing nation, had now ended. The sacrifice 
 for universal sin, "the Lamb of God, without spot 
 or blemish," had been laid on the altar, and con- 
 sumed. The great work of the incarnation, that 
 comprehensive purpose for which the incarnation was 
 necessary, had been accomplished. The bonds which 
 had so long fastened the Divine Spirit to its tenement 
 of clay had been stricken away by the iron hand of 
 death. Over the darkened multitudes that drooped 
 their heads in that fearful hour, had broken the groan 
 of the parting spirit, when the last inspiration had 
 ceased to warm the quivering flesh. The cry, "It is 
 finished," had smitten through their hearts like an 
 arrow from the bow of the Almighty, and the har- 
 dened priest, the incensed ruler, the malicious scribe, 
 were pierced with the keen pangs of a strange fore- 
 boding, a bitter fear that their bloody deed had 
 gone up to heaven, to cry for chastising vengeance. 
 In the hearts of the disciples and friends and rela- 
 6 
 
134 CHRIST RISEN. 
 
 tives of the Saviour dwelt the deepest sorrow. With 
 moistened eyes they looked upon the lifeless body of 
 Him who had cherished them with the tenderest love, 
 soothed their cares and trials, lifted their thoughts 
 upon his high instructions, purified their souls with 
 the breath of truth, opened their eyes to see and their 
 ears to hear the things into which angels had desired 
 to look and prophets to inquire ; of him who had 
 healed their maladies and softened their pains, had 
 brought health to their dying sick and recalled their 
 dead from the grave, had lodged under their roofs 
 and eaten at their tables, and closely entwined about 
 their hearts the sweet sympathies of a long and most 
 intimate friendship. IN or was their grief mitigated 
 by any strong assurance that their beloved Master 
 would again appear to them ; that he would break 
 the bars of death, come forth from the enclosure of 
 the tomb, and, by his corporeal presence, prove the 
 divinity of his character and mission, and establish 
 their hearts in unwavering faith. 
 
 They grieve as those without hope. The precious 
 remembrances of his sweet discourse concerning the 
 Comforter whom he was to send, and the ultimate 
 triumphs of his religion over his enemies, were now 
 crowded out by the overpowering spectacle before 
 them. Their apprehensions of Christ's doctrines had 
 always been more or less physical. They had confi- 
 dently trusted that he would sit on the throne of 
 regal power, girt with the majesty of an earthly con- 
 queror, having broken the Koman yoke from the 
 neck of Judaea, and restored the shivered power and 
 
CHRIST RISEN. 135 
 
 faded splendor of the theocracy. With such expec- 
 tations they had followed him for years, and although 
 their zeal to hurry on the consummation of this 
 grand achievement had often been repressed by the 
 spiritual interpretations of Christ, yet their under- 
 standings remained dark ; they knew not the necessity 
 that was laid on Christ, were unable to appreciate 
 either the character or the objects of his death ; and 
 when they saw him nailed to the cross, trembling in 
 the grasp of his foes, agonizing under a fearful load 
 that weighed upon his heart, and at last yielding up 
 his life, perhaps then every fond trust in him as a 
 Saviour was torn from them, their belief was chilled, 
 and their bosoms were agitated by contending doubts 
 that gave increased bitterness to their sorrow, and 
 drove into their longing hearts the pangs of utter 
 desolate ness. 
 
 How sad, and to a mind too contracted to take in 
 the wide scheme of sacrificial mercy, how dispiriting 
 the sight of the Saviour dead ! Where now is the 
 power that broke asunder the bands of death, and 
 snatched the dead from the devouring grave ? Where 
 now is the voice that fell like an echo from God on 
 the ears of the charmed multitude, woke up senti- 
 ments of divinest beauty in the stifled hearts of the 
 poor, and made those hearts feel the pulse of invigo- 
 rated life, and expand beneath the mighty presence 
 of truth ; the voice that glided soothingly over the 
 bosom of agitated nature, and lulled to quiet the 
 storm - tossed waves of Tiberias ; the voice that 
 pierced the hypocrite with keenest mortification, shot 
 
136 CHRIST RTSEN. 
 
 trouble and anguish into the soul of the ungodly, yet 
 whispered the softest strains of consolation to the 
 penitent and breaved? Where is the expression of 
 that all-meaning eye, flashing in rebuke or beaming 
 the mildest lustre of winning love ? Where now the 
 scheme which has been ripening for years ? Where 
 is the promised salvation, where the rich emancipa- 
 tion expected so eagerly and waited for so longingly? 
 Alas ! the right hand of power is nailed to the 
 accursed wood, shorn of its strength ; the tongue is 
 cold and stiff, and its eloquence has ceased to kindle ; 
 the eye is pressed by an icy finger, and its look is 
 fixed and vacant. How utterly prostrate in hope are 
 the poor disciples. How bitterly they feel when the 
 cold and heartless jest and Pharisaic sneer are thrown 
 in their faces. How they are stung by the insensate 
 cavil, "He saved others: himself he cannot save." 
 But is the Saviour really dead? He has hung on 
 the cross but about six hours at the longest, and 
 ordinarily those who are crucified survive for days, 
 three, four, and even nine days. There seems to be 
 a doubt in the minds of the multitude as to his death, 
 and in order to ascertain whether he is, or is not, life- 
 less, a soldier thrusts the point of his spear into his 
 side. There is no struggle, no paroxysm; and from 
 the puncture there flow out mingled blood and water. 
 Whatever we may urge in explanation of this fact, 
 there can be no doubt that it gives every appearance 
 of the death of the Saviour. The Jews were satisfied 
 of it ; and when they hastened the death of the two 
 thieves by breaking their limbs, they passed by the 
 
CHRIST RISEN. 137 
 
 body of the Saviour, knowing that he was already 
 lifeless. 
 
 Nioht begins now to clothe the earth with her 
 dusky robes. The multitude silently, one after 
 another, depart. The disciples linger awhile in the 
 distance, loath to leave, then take one farewell look 
 at the body of their Lord, and with hearts sadly 
 oppressed, turn their footsteps to their desolate 
 abodes in the city. The fear of their adversaries, 
 a bitter sense of their forsaken condition, and the 
 remembrance of the dangers through which they 
 have passed, restrain them from seeking to pay 
 the last tribute of love to the Eedeemer in con- 
 signing his body to the tomb. Besides, there is 
 for him no honorable burial. As a malefactor 
 he has died, and therefore his body, like that of a 
 malefactor, is condemned to be thrown into "the 
 place of skulls," the accursed valley of Hinnom. 
 When he was alive, the Saviour had not where to lay 
 his head, and on the desert he made his bed of the 
 harsh sands, and was wet with the dews of the chill 
 night. Poor in his life, subjected to the commonest 
 hardships, pierced w T ith bodily pangs, and enduring all 
 "the ills that flesh is heir to," even in his death he 
 was doomed to the most bitter poverty. But God 
 had purposed to stop the counsels of hypocritical 
 priests and scribes, to set in motion an order ot 
 events out of which should spring, with palpable cer- 
 tainty, a great and grand demonstration of his power. 
 
 Christ was to rise from the dead, and in his res- 
 urrection to shake the dominion of the grave, to sow 
 
138 CHRIST RISEN. 
 
 the germ of immortality in the coffined clay of every 
 mortal, and to people the dark and pathless desert of 
 death with radiant hopes that like spirits should 
 hover about the dying, and on the departing soul 
 flash the morning beam of life's "eternal day." Had 
 the body of the Saviour been thrown into the com- 
 mon receptacle of dead malefactors, had the Re- 
 deemer risen from the sleep of death amid the dry 
 bones in the lonely valley of Tophet, where then 
 would have been that bright chain of evidences on 
 which now hangs our belief in his resurrection? 
 Many a precious link would have been wanting, and 
 although enough would undoubtedly have been fur- 
 nished to satisfy even narrow-minded incredulity, yet 
 there would have been less force in the testimony, 
 less harmony in the concurrence of events, and less 
 of that almost romantic interest which pervades the 
 history of the Saviour's sepulchral repose, guarded 
 by white- winged seraphs, the rolling back of the 
 stone, and his thrilling interview with Mary. 
 
 One of Christ's disciples, an honorable counsellor, 
 probably a senator in the Jewish sanhedrin, the 
 supreme legislative, judicial, and executive power 
 among the Jews, went to Pilate and begged the body 
 of Jesus. His request was granted. The rich coun- 
 sellor, who thus coveted the privilege of rendering to 
 the body of his Lord the last tribute of his affection, 
 had a costly tomb hewn out of the solid rock, in a 
 garden near the place of crucifixion, a sepulchre into 
 which no man had ever beenl aid. The Oriental 
 sepulchre possesses a romantic attraction which makes 
 
CHRIST RISEN 1 . 139 
 
 the house of the slumbering dead a place of quiet 
 loneliness, breathing the sweetest thoughts, and ting- 
 ing the sadness of bereaved friendship with a feeling 
 not altogether unlike a sober delight and joy. You 
 roll back the stone slab that covers the entrance and 
 there view the embalmed bodies of the loved and 
 lost, laid upon shelves, projecting one above another, 
 on two or three sides of the crypt, or placed in 
 small niches cut in the same manner. Or perhaps 
 you descend by a flight of stairs hewn out of the rock, 
 and stand in a spacious chamber, with its walls not 
 inelegantly carved into fantastic figures, and its solid 
 floor made smooth as a pavement of glass. Perhaps 
 from this chamber you descend by another flight of 
 stairs into another more remote, and un illumined save 
 by the light you carry in your hand. From this you 
 may enter another still more distant, until you stand 
 beneath the very ridge of a mountain, in the heart of 
 a vast pile of limestone or sandstone, surrounded 
 with the dead of past generations, whose clay is still 
 uncrumbled by the touch of time. The sepulchre of 
 Joseph, the senator, undoubtedly consisted of a soli- 
 tary chamber, the entrance into which was by a flight 
 of stairs cut in the rock, and along the sides of which 
 might have been excavated several niches ranged one 
 above another. At the entrance was placed a massive 
 stone slab, "probably made to turn in a correspond- 
 ing portion of the rock" in the manner of a door. 
 Assisted by Mcodemus, the ruler who came to Jesus 
 by night and interrogated him respecting his doctrine, 
 Joseph takes down the body from the cross, embalms 
 
140 CHRIST RISEN. 
 
 it with costly spices, wraps it in fine linen, covering 
 the head with a napkin, and lays it in the tomb. At 
 the request of the rulers, Pilate grants them a guard, 
 probably, at least, four quaternions of Roman sol- 
 diers. The stone is rolled to the entrance of the 
 sepulchre, fastened securely, and sealed. The watch 
 are stationed about the place, bold and dauntless 
 men, keenly alive to every sight and sound. With 
 such men to guard it, the body of the Crucified must 
 surely be safe from the designs of friends and foes. 
 No man will venture to attack that guard or break 
 with treasonous hand that inviolable seal. 
 
 But we may now pause to ask, Where are the poor, 
 forlorn disciples ? It is the Sabbath, the first of the 
 festival of the Passover. - The temple is crowded with 
 a vast multitude, attending the sacrifices and paying 
 their devotions. Search through the press, but you 
 will not find the disciples. Every synagogue is 
 thronged, but the disciples are not in the synagogue ; 
 and little thinks the haughty priest that now no more 
 the smoke of the sacrifice is pleasing to Jehovah ; 
 hovers no longer over the reeking altar the angel of 
 the covenant ; shines no more the bright shekinah, 
 the symbol of the Divine presence. That proud 
 temple is abandoned ; on its magnificent columns 
 and burnished dome the finger of wrath has written, 
 "Thy glory is departed." The last acceptable sacri- 
 fice, the great atonement, was made yesterday beneath 
 the frowning sky, in the person of Jesus Christ. A 
 dark cloud of retribution is gathering over the de- 
 voted city, and within its black folds slumbers the 
 
CHRIST RISEN. 141 
 
 bolt that is to dash clown its walls and palaces, its 
 synagogues and temples. How richly swells on the 
 still air the anthem of praise, from the halls and 
 porches of the temple, and floating in echo along the 
 valley of the Cedron, waking a response from the 
 lonely Olivet, and answered back from a thousand 
 rocks and deep recesses ! Soon shall those green 
 slopes, reposing now so quietly in sunshine and 
 shadow, be trodden by the foot of the soldiers. 
 Those rocks shall echo the truinpet-pealing notes of 
 war ; that stream shall be mingled with blood ; and 
 from that temple shall break the wail of woe from 
 the lips of thousands stifled in the enwrapping flames. 
 
 In an obscure part of the city, in an upper room, the 
 disciples had been passing the Sabbath, distracted 
 with grief, and doubt, and fear, anxiety in their 
 faces, trouble in their eyes ; every breath is a sigh, 
 and every heart-throb a pang. They have taken 
 their purpose ; they have determined to go back to 
 their old mode of life ; again will they drag the net 
 in the waters of Galilee, and strive to bury in its 
 liquid depths the remembrance of their three years 
 of hope and trust in their fated Master, and the 
 crushing weight of woe which has extinguished it in 
 ruin. 
 
 Let us visit now the sepulchre. It is the hour 
 before dawn, and the shadows lie dark on the ground, 
 and move in thick masses amonsf the trees that rise 
 about the tomb. All is quiet, save perhaps a faint 
 murmur of the wind stirring the leaves, and whisper- 
 ing in soft echoes from the jagged rocks. Undoubt- 
 
 6* 
 
142 CHRIST RISEN. 
 
 edly the watch are awake ; perhaps reclining on the 
 ground, noting any hostile approach, yet ready to 
 spring in an instant upon any rude assaulter of the 
 sepulchre. Behold, a light is seen in the depths of 
 the overhanging night, a white, brilliant cloud, sail- 
 ing through the ethereal sea. Nearer and nearer 
 it comes, flinging its dazzling whiteness on the tops 
 of the trees, tipping the soldiers' spears with silver, 
 and showing in clear outlines the rock that incloses 
 the sepulchre. Look at that strange appearance 
 again, and you can discern the form of a seraph, with 
 his white wings waving gently yet swiftly, his coun- 
 tenance glowing with a reflection from God, and his 
 hands folded in majesty. The guard look once, and 
 then turn their faces away in dismay and affright. 
 They attempt to rise and flee, but lo ! their limbs 
 relax, and they sink heavily upon the ground. The 
 angel now alights and stands at the sepulchre. The 
 air is radiant around his head, and the halo paints 
 itself upon the door of the tomb. The path along 
 which he has bent his flight is still to be seen, and, 
 far as the eye can reach, is thronged with an innu- 
 merable company of spirits, moving up and down as 
 of old in the vision of the patriarch, when he slept 
 by night on the earth at Bethel. Heaven is sympa- 
 thizing with the body of the Redeemer, and it is now 
 to come forth from its silence and repose. The 
 angel breaks the seal and rolls back the heavy stone. 
 There lies the body as it was laid by Joseph, wrapped 
 in linen, and the napkin on its head. The angel 
 enters and disrobes it. For a moment he regards the 
 
CHRIST RISEN. 143 
 
 composed features, views the prints of the braided 
 thorns, the spear and the nails, and then, stooping, 
 touches the closed eyes, and they open; the lips, and 
 they move. The Saviour breathes. The angel rises, 
 and coming forth from the sepulchre, to the nearest 
 seraph whispers, " He lives." To the next the whis- 
 per passes, "He lives." Up it is borne along that 
 line of rejoicing seraphs, " He lives." The guard 
 hear it, and tremulously murmur, " He lives." The 
 whole multitude of spirits shout, "He lives." And 
 the choir of heaven, striking their harps to the loftiest 
 measure, sing in full symphony, "He lives." Then, 
 unfolding their radiant wings, back to heaven they 
 fly, singing in melodious concert the song that shall 
 gush from the lips of the redeemed forever, " Hosanna 
 in the highest ! Worthy is the Lamb that was slain, to 
 receive power, and riches, and wisdom, and strength, 
 and honor, and blessing." 
 
 " And did He rise ? Hear, O ye nations ! Hear 
 it, O ye dead ! He rose. He rose. He burst the 
 bars of death, and triumphed o'er the tomb ! Then, 
 then, I rose, then first humanity, triumphant, passed 
 the crystal posts of life, and seized eternal youth ! " 
 
BOWING IN THE HOUSE OF RIMMON. 
 
 ' ' In this thing the Lord pardon thy servant, that when my master 
 goeth into the house of Simmon to worship there, and he leaneth 
 on my hand, and I bow myself in the house of Simmon ; when 
 I bow down myself in the house of Simmon, the Lord pardon 
 thy servant in this thing." — 2 Kings v, 18. 
 
 It is easy for us to read the character of Naaman 
 in the story of his cure by Elisha. He shows so 
 much pride, haughty self-sufficieucy, and aristocratic- 
 obstinacy, that we can readily believe nothing but the 
 desperate nature of his terrible disease would ever 
 have brought him to apply to the great prophet. 
 The national feeling of the surrounding peoples to- 
 ward the Jews seems to have anticipated, even then, 
 the contempt and aversion felt for them almost uni- 
 versally in later times ; and that high disdain was 
 likely to appear with especial virulence in so lofty a 
 station as that held by Naaman in the court of 
 Syria. Naaman shows it at the very start. He 
 evidently thinks that he is conferring too great an 
 honor on the petty kingdom of Israel by his lordly 
 condescension in asking a boon. 
 
 He is used, in his own country, to order the idol- 
 atrous priests and prophets, and command the officers 
 of religion just as he pleases, and he knows no differ- 
 
BOWING IN THE HOUSE OF RIMMON. 145 
 
 once between them, and the servants and service of 
 Jehovah. He supposes that his only suit will lie at 
 the door of the king of Israel, and he carries a royal 
 letter of introduction to him, so stern and imperative 
 in its style, that the Israelite king is fairly bewil- 
 dered and terrified by it, and exclaims, "Am I God 
 that this man doth send unto me to recover a man 
 of his leprosy ? " 
 
 At length Naaman is made to understand that he 
 must carry his petition to Elisha. He goes to him 
 with great pomp, and waits at the door in expecta- 
 tion of a most flattering reception. But he has found 
 a match in the prophet. The king may tremble, but 
 there is no weakness in the joints of Elisha. There 
 are armies behind the back of this proud Syrian, and 
 the fate of Israel may seem to hang upon his master's 
 nod ; but Elisha has that noble calmness of a great 
 career and a divine cause, which is insensible to fear, 
 and knows no difference between the prince and the 
 beggar. When John Knox was laid in his grave, 
 the Earl of Morton approached it and pronounced 
 his funeral oration in these simple words, "There lies 
 one who never feared the face of man." This spirit 
 of indifference to all the personal or material conse- 
 quences of an act of unquestioned duty, this central- 
 ization of the heart in the truth and the claims of an 
 honored mission, though it sometimes looks like pride 
 and wears the rigid features of an arbitrary and 
 almost despotic will, is yet found in the best and the 
 humblest reformers, in the characters of the poor 
 fishermen of Galilee, when they became the ap sties 
 
146 BOWING IN THE HOUSE OF RIMMON. 
 
 of the Lord Jesus, in the prototype of national de- 
 liverers, Moses, and most conspicuously in those 
 sharpest, severest, most statue-like impersonations of 
 the prophetic ideal, Elijah and Elisha. 
 
 Elisha does not stir from his place at the summons 
 of Naaman. He has received orders, and he now 
 takes his turn at giving orders, and sends out his 
 directions to the Syrian general as he might have 
 done to the most wretched outcast in the land. Naa- 
 man is angry. He wanted his dignity anointed with 
 servile complaisance; He wanted his precious time 
 consulted by the most expeditious process within 
 reach of the prophet's power. There is something 
 mean and humiliating in going down to bathe in the 
 
 O Co 
 
 Jordan, and he actually hesitates, as if he were 
 balancing the question between washing away his 
 pride and washing away his leprosy, and pride 
 almost conquers disgust at his disease. 
 
 But at length he is persuaded to make the experi- 
 ment ; and then, when the joy he feels at his recovery, 
 and the flush and glow of restored health, make him 
 sensible what a wonderful cure has been wrought, he 
 seems to awake, for the first time, to an honest and 
 hearty conviction, that he stands in the presence of a 
 power such as never graced the fanes or spake through 
 the lips of his ancestral idols ; and he exclaims in this 
 moment of ardor, " Behold, now I know that there is 
 no God in all the earth but in Israel," and he pledges 
 himself, to " ofTer henceforth neither burnt offerings 
 nor sacrifice to other but unto the Lord." 
 
 But now we see the typical character of the man. 
 
BOWING- IN THE HOUSE OF RIMMON. 147 
 
 Perhaps it would have been asking too much of Naa- 
 man, that he should ripen, in an hour, from a blind 
 idolater, into a thorough, intelligent, self renouncing 
 convert to the Lord. Perhaps he had gone now as 
 far as could reasonably be expected. But one thing 
 is certain, he himself did not think he had gone, or 
 indeed that he could go, quite as far as his convictions 
 would carry him. He thought of his distinguished 
 position as the honored confidant of his master. He 
 thought of his wealth and power as the head of the 
 Syrian army. Could he resign these to satisfy his 
 conscience? When his mas er went into the temple 
 of his idol, leaning on his arm, his official duty 
 required him to take part in his master's worship, to 
 bow when he bowed, and thus pay equal homage to 
 the vain emblem of divinity enthroned before them. 
 If he refused to do this, his offices were in jeopardy, 
 and his head unsafe upon his shoulders. Must he 
 really carry his renunciation to such a length ? Was 
 there no middle term, no mode of adjusting his new 
 faith to his old place and dignity ? He seems to 
 think there is. He believes that it will be quite 
 enough for him to withhold the burnt offerings, and 
 that then it cannot matter, if he keeps back the 
 substance of devotion, how many times he makes 
 his courtly bow to the idol-majesty of Eiinmon. 
 And so he adds, "In this thing the Lord pardon 
 thy servant, that when my master goeth into the 
 house of Rimmon to worship there, and he leaneth 
 on my hand, and I bow myself in the house of 
 Rimmon, when I bow down myself in the house 
 
148 BOWING IN THE HOUSE OF RIMMON. 
 
 of Rimmon, the Lord pardon thy servant in this 
 thing." I believe it is commonly thought, that this 
 evasive and dexterous double-dealing obtained the 
 sanction of the prophet ; but there is no word 
 implying any such sanction. The prophet simply 
 dismisses him with the formal words, "Go in peace," 
 which, if they imply no censure, do not contain any 
 distinct approbation. Elisha could cure the leprosy, 
 but he knew no art to heal the tainted temper of 
 Naaman; and if he looked upon the vice of his 
 worldly and politic mind as beyond all hope of 
 immediate correction, he would probaby have dis- 
 missed him, as he did, with no more words than 
 those which common courtesy required. 
 
 The Bible never takes the edge off the moral of a 
 story. It has painted Naaman just as he was, and 
 has laid on the colors with evident care and pains- 
 taking ; but to suppose that it approves the character 
 it paints, is to believe that it holds up here to admi- 
 ration a crafty sophistry, and a juggling and shuffling 
 policy which it has condemned in every precept and 
 on almost every page. " The Lord thy God is a jealous 
 God." There is the condensation, in terms of human 
 comparison, of the very spirit of God's truth and 
 God's government. Jealousy does not arise at great 
 and outbreaking offences, but at little, covert sus- 
 picions, hints and flittings of evil. At a gross sin, 
 that comes out with bold, unabashed forehead, we 
 are angry, we are indignant, as it is said, "God 
 is angry with the wicked every day." But when 
 we discover a wavering of that love we have the 
 
BOWING IN THE HOUSE OF KIMMON. 149 
 
 right to claim, when we detect the petty subterfuges 
 that screen an incipient disloyalty, our jealousy is 
 aroused, and we stand waiting, with fearful over- 
 look, for larger and darker issues. That is just the 
 attitude of God towards all half-way, half-hearted, 
 double-faced subjects of his kingdom. "I would," 
 says the Spirit, " that ye were either cold or hot,' 1 one 
 or the other ; but any selfish, cunning, deceitful mix- 
 ture of the two is just that tepid, vapid, relaxed, 
 nerveless character which God condemns, and Chris- 
 tian honesty cannot away with. 
 
 I have called Naaman's character, as disclosed by 
 the text, a typical character. It is the type of a 
 combination of selfishness and weakness, which is as 
 universal as human nature, and overcome, only when 
 human nature is mastered and overcome by the grace 
 of God. The spirit of Naaman is the spirit that 
 troubles the church, in the inconsistencies, and va- 
 cillations, and defections of Christian professors ; 
 troubles the State in the party shrewdness and finesse 
 and chicanery of legislators and rulers ; troubles 
 society in the self-torturing artifice, and pretension, 
 and worry, and parade of high life and high living ; 
 and troubles the morals of business and the peace of 
 honorable men, by the apparent necessities of a god- 
 less rule of usage and custom. 
 
 Consistency costs no longer blood, and stripes, 
 and bondage ; but it costs what men hold, perhaps, 
 as clear as their blood : it costs money, influence, 
 patronage, reputation, distinction. 
 
 There is a house of Rimmon over against every man's 
 
150 BOWING IX THE HOUSE OF RIMMON. 
 
 door, and if the world is his master, he goes in there 
 with the world on his arm, and bows himself down. 
 Ask of many a Christian where he is to-day, and the 
 answer might be, "He is in the house of Rimmon." 
 He has been trying to serve two masters, and has 
 ended by bowing down again at the feet of his old 
 idol. Ask of many a man whose heart holds the 
 truth as it is in Jesus, why he does not come out on 
 the Lord's side, and the answer might well be, "He 
 is like Naaman ; he does not like to break with the 
 world, he is bowing down in the house of Rimmon." 
 We are full of provisos that come between us and 
 a faithful, determined, unswerving adhesion to our 
 sense of right and our knowledge of duty. In the 
 first place, we are afraid to carry out our principles 
 to their just results. It is true of men and of parties 
 that their creed is immeasurably in advance, not of 
 their practice merely, but of their intentions and their 
 objects. Policy comes in, at almost every turn, to 
 cut down the too elevated standard of obligation, and 
 soften and sweeten obedience with a few selfish grati- 
 fications. It is difficult to persuade even a whole 
 church to carry out its principles with uncompromis- 
 ing impartiality. There is always some keen-eved 
 brother to remind us what havoc we shall make, 
 if we once draw over our delinquent members the 
 sharp sword of apostolic discipline. We want a 
 little license for our weak-minded brethren, who 
 happen to stand high in the kingdom of Syria, and if 
 they wish to bow down in the house of Rimmon, we 
 are disposed to think twice before we refuse them the 
 
BOWING IN THE HOUSE OF RIMMON. 151 
 
 privilege. We think a little cultivation of Rimmon 
 is not bad for the church : it gives it the opportunity 
 to walk in procession with the kings of money and 
 the queens of fashion ; it throws the graceful garb of 
 social rank over the sackcloth livery of the disciple, 
 aucl it gilds the catalogue of Christian names with the 
 titles of men and women who help fill the treasury, 
 and give worldly consequence to the acts and minis- 
 tries of the church. We are fearful of straight lines 
 in morals and in discipline. 
 
 The} r are terribly inconvenient. They carry us 
 where we do not wish to go, and they lead through 
 difficulties too unpleasant for a timid conscience to 
 face. It is said that w r hen Napoleon began his great 
 scheme of beautify iug and ventilating Paris, by open- 
 ing through the densest parts of the city those fine 
 boulevards which are now the boast and pride of 
 Parisians, an engineer, in laying out the line of a 
 street, was so much alarmed at the vast expense of 
 buying up and tearing down a long row of old 
 palaces and hotels, that he ventured to deviate just 
 enough to avoid the obstruction, and was busy in 
 regulating the angle when Baron Hausmann came 
 up, and observing what he had done, exclaimed, 
 " Straighten your line ; it must and shall go through, 
 if I have to blow up every hotel in Paris !" We have 
 a great many timid engineers in the church, who 
 believe in the virtue of angles as a great saving of 
 cost, and an easy method of conciliating opposition. 
 They would like to spare the fine palaces, and confine 
 their precise mathematics to the poor hovels and 
 
152 BOWING IN THE HOUSE OF MMMON. 
 
 cottages. They stand sentinel over their own prin- 
 ciples, ready to arrest them the moment they pass 
 their limited beat. They are willing to sacrifice a 
 little, they are loud-voiced, like Naaman, in proclama- 
 tion of their conviction, but, like him, they holdfast 
 one reserved right, that of bowing down, when occa- 
 sion requires, in the house of Eimmon. But let us 
 not think that Christians are singular in this fear of 
 carrying principles out to their utmost extent. It is 
 a fear that spreads through all classes, and shows 
 itself sometimes in business, in politics, in legislation, 
 with as many abnormal tricks of gesture and contor- 
 tions of countenance, as St. Vitus' dance. It is 
 almost impossible to drive the spike of a radical 
 moral principle into the planks of a political plat- 
 form. Our best men hesitate, the moment they see 
 any danger that every hard-striking blow of the ham- 
 mer will splinter the party they belong to. 
 
 They want all the truth that is consistent with a 
 good, safe majority. They are willing to push prin- 
 ciple as far as they can without being pushed out of 
 their own places. They believe in the Lord, but 
 they think it good policy not to withdraw from the 
 house of Simmon. 
 
 In the next place, there is a very general fear to 
 tell the whole truth, or trust any interest to the un- 
 suspecting logic of the whole truth, unmixed with 
 any human devices. We delight in compounds. We 
 love to amalgamate, or try to amalgamate, positives 
 and negatives, lights and shadows, metals and gases. 
 We are so fearful of the result of an upright, down- 
 
BOWING IN THE HOUSE OF RIMMON. 153 
 
 right, all-right, consistent spiritual architecture, that 
 we make our associations, and some of our churches, 
 as nondescript as many of our houses, beginning 
 them in one style, and finishing them in another. 
 Look at our public buildings, and you will often see 
 Greece on one side, and Tuscany on the other; the 
 Middle Ages in one story, looking out of a Gothic 
 window, crushed down by modern France or Switzer- 
 land, poised on an architectural precipice under the 
 name of a roof. Just so we build up our public 
 bodies, and many of our religious institutions. We 
 put good, sound evangelical material into the walls, 
 and then grow afraid to trust it without a little 
 mortar of our own tempering. We put Christ into 
 the constitution, and subscribe the by-laws in the 
 name of Kirnmon. 
 
 We do not wish to appear bigoted by standing 
 up resolutely for the unadulterated truth. We do 
 not wish to give offence, and peril our enterprise, 
 by insisting too strongly upon unacceptable doc- 
 trines. We hope to convert men by conceding half 
 the difference between us and them. We will veil 
 the stern face of Truth with a diplomatic smile, and 
 circumvent Rimmon himself by gracious genuflec- 
 tions and deferential bows. We have, in this age, 
 a wonderful confidence in the rather dangerous ex- 
 pedient of fighting the Devil with his own weapons. 
 The apostle said, "Touch not the unclean thing " ; but 
 we have a host of men who not only think it can 
 safely be touched, but believe it can be brought, by 
 judicious handling, into very practicable cleanliness. 
 
154 BOWING IN THE HOUSE OF RIMMON. 
 
 For instance, we have, a strong sentiment against 
 sensational novels as a tonic for the youthful mind. 
 But the literature of the time is so overwhelmingly 
 sensational, and the popular taste runs so eagerly in 
 this direction, that our gravest publishing houses are 
 afraid to go into the market without an appetizing 
 list of novels ; and our Sunday-school societies seem 
 to think, as truth is stranger than fiction, it is well 
 to qualify its incredible properties by saturating it 
 thoroughly in a vehicle of fiction. And so it comes 
 to pass, that half the books in our Sunday-school 
 libraries are as inapt, and as inane, and as worth- 
 less, for any appreciable Christian influence, as the 
 fables of Esop; and a child's edition of Shakespeare, 
 got up in Sunday-school style, would be as defen- 
 sible on moral grounds as they are. And of all our 
 worshippers in the house of Rimmon, who tread 
 more softly or bow more gracefully, than the pub- 
 lishers and editors of many of our religious papers? 
 How deftly they mix religion with romance, and give 
 ui a sermon on one page fit to be read on any day, 
 and a novel on another, particularly adapted to be 
 read on Sunday ; and lest any man should be so un- 
 compromising a precisian as to dislike this conjunc- 
 tion of God and mammon in a Sunday paper, they 
 put together the religious and the secular so conven- 
 iently, that all he has to do is to tear the paper apart 
 down the middle, and he holds the Lord in one hand 
 and Rimmon in the other ; and if his conscience is a 
 Sunday conscience, and particularly sensitive when 
 the church bells are ringing, he has the option of 
 
BOWING IN THE HOUSE OF RIMMON. 155 
 
 reserving his bow, and making bis obeisance, on some 
 other day. 
 
 Now let these specimens suffice to show the spirit 
 in which we are tempted to tamper with the truth, 
 and to gain by sheer policy what we are afraid we 
 should lose by an open, manly, straightforward moral 
 consistency. I confess that I cannot see why, if this 
 policy holds good for an inch of compliance, it should 
 not hold good for a yard ; why, if we may be per- 
 mitted to use the Devil's darning-needle, we should 
 not be allowed to use his spear and his battle-axe. 
 
 And it is precisely because we have so much of 
 this insinuating, half-wheedling, cajoling, ad-caplan- 
 dum policy, in our administration of the cause of 
 God ; it is because we are so diffident of success by 
 the innate power of the truth, and so nervous and 
 cowardly when we are called on to let out the truth 
 to the whole utmost reach of the cable ; it is because 
 we shrink from the apprehended social ostracism 
 and political martyrdom that threaten our refusal to 
 bow down in the house of Rimmon, that our preach- 
 ing and our labors have less of the power of Elisha 
 and Elisha's God in them, than they have of the 
 chariots and horsemen of the general of Syria. 
 
 In our wisdom the serpent has coiled himself 
 around the dove, and half suffocated her ; and while 
 society is full of men who believe in Jesus and wor- 
 ship idols, our efforts to save the world are coming 
 to have more shrewdness than earnestness, and more 
 human subtlety than divine simplicity. When Prince 
 Schwartzenberg was face to face with the worn-out 
 
156 BOWING IN THE HOUSE OF EIMMON. 
 
 legions of Napoleon, his officers, checked by the 
 mighty genius before which they stood, counselled 
 delay and caution. "Let us get in their rear," said 
 one; "Let us take them in flank," said another. 
 " No ! " said Schwartzenberg, " let us take them with 
 the bayonet" ; and they took them with the bayonet, 
 and routed them. A power beyond all the bayonets 
 that ever hedged armies lies in a whole-hearted 
 devotion to the gospel of Jesus. Face the world 
 with that; let our motto be, "The truth, the whole 
 truth, without fear or favor ! " Stop trying to take 
 sin in the flank, and to outwit the world by sly coun- 
 termarching, and you will find that a bold, manful, 
 incorruptible honesty is a force in this world which 
 all men honor, and that there is more of heaven in 
 the spot where an earnest man prays, and in the 
 words which an earnest man speaks, than in all the 
 houses of Rimmon in the land. 
 
PETER'S RESOLVE. 
 
 "Peter answered and said unto him, Though all men shall be 
 offended because of thee, yet will I never be offended." — Mat- 
 thew xxvi, 33. 
 
 Or all the bold, frank, open, and thoroughly 
 truthful men who had the honor to be chosen the 
 apostles of Jesus, Peter excelled in these qualities, 
 and stood foremost by virtue of them. There were, 
 among his brethren, greater abilities than his ; but it 
 is not great ability alone that makes the true leader 
 of men. There were more amiable and attractive 
 companions ; but they are not fine, social qualities 
 that men look for in stirring and dangerous times. 
 Perhaps in any one trait of worth or manhood, and 
 especially in the due proportion and the nicer shad- 
 ings and tonings of it, Peter was surpassed by his 
 brethren ; yet he stood among them primus inter 
 pares, a leader by the p.erogative of nature, full of 
 self-possession, though apt to let self carry him too 
 far ; unquestioned in his exercise of authority, because 
 he took it as a right appurtenant to him, and finally 
 rising to a still loftier degree by express commission 
 of his Master. 
 
 Whenever Peter appears in the scenes of gospel 
 history, it is with so plain an implication of prece- 
 
158 peter's resolve. 
 
 deuce, with so evident an air of magisterial function, 
 that one can easily understand the grounds of the 
 tradition which has always prevailed iu the church, 
 that Peter was an old man, or at least the oldest of 
 all the disciples. But plainly, Peter's was one of 
 thot-e minds that disdain to wait ordinary processes, 
 and stride on far in advance of their years. Like 
 Pitt and Bonaparte, he seems to have entered life 
 full-grown, and like them, too, he had that subtle, 
 indefinable charm, he was enveloped with that aura 
 of magnetic virtue, which almost always attends and 
 marks the real king of men, the man to whom the 
 multitude give their hearts. 
 
 Qualities crystallize differently in different men. 
 They may be the same virtues, may be precisely 
 equal, may be alike pure and unselfish, yet you will 
 find them admiiable in one man, and unnoticed in 
 another; beautiful and winning all regards in the one 
 case, and in the other, homely and crude, and almost 
 repulsive. Here they are crystallized under their 
 fairest forms, and with clean, sharp-cut angles, and 
 without a spot upon their transparent clearness ; there 
 you see them iu their most awkward shapes, with un- 
 seemly furrows, and of an earthy dulness and opacity. 
 Some men have no power to display themselves to 
 advantage. They throw the best side of their man- 
 hood into shade. Of other men you see only the 
 most favorable aspects ; they have the power or the 
 tact to conceal every harsh or ungentle feature. 
 Some men have the misfortune to discredit their own 
 best qualities, by the hard, ungracious way in which 
 
peter's resolve. 159 
 
 they bring them into notice. In fine, we impress 
 our own individualism upon our virtues and our 
 vices ; we put cur own signature to them, and stamp 
 them with the facsimile of our own minds. Bearing 
 nil this in view, we may well doubt whether Peter did 
 not present a composition of character and qualities 
 which has never been surpassed since. God made 
 him for use as an apostle, and his great gifts for that 
 office were often sadly out of place during his humble 
 career as a fisherman. 
 
 But we must narrow our view of Peter's character 
 to that aspect in which our text presents him to us, 
 rugged as the rocky shores of his beloved sea, from 
 whose wateis he drew his bread, and on whose bil- 
 lows, chafed by the storms, he had learned the les- 
 sons of sharp, quick decision, and instant execution. 
 Peter often appears to disadvantage by the side of the 
 amiable and courtly disciple whom Jesus especially 
 loved, 01 in compaiison with the educated Paul. He 
 had been used always to speak his mind. He had 
 no deep-laid scheme to brood over, like the traitor 
 Judas, to make him cautious and politic in his 
 speech. He was cherishing no proud ambition, to twist 
 his face into hypocrite smiles, and distil honeyed 
 words upon his tongue. He w r as not looking, like 
 the sons of Zebedee, for a throne on the right or left 
 hand of his Master. He was what God had made 
 him, and he was not attempting to improve God's 
 workmanship, n,or was he ashamed of it. He was 
 honesty in the mass, he was candor in the lump. 
 And his thought, whatever it was, had no crooked 
 
160 
 
 and covert path to travel before it found his tongue ; 
 it did not wait to be turned in a lathe, aud polished 
 by craft, and adjusted and fitted by sophistry, before 
 it could be trusted to the inspection of the world. 
 It came out with an energetic leap and a dash of 
 earnestness, that told it was a genuine part of the 
 mind within. It might be a bad thought or a 
 wrong thought, but there could never be a doubt it 
 was his thought. 
 
 With all this I suppose there was a great deal of 
 unqualified selfishness in Peter. He was strong even 
 in his weak points ; his nature was large, but its 
 development feeble and irregular ; and out of the 
 limited sphere in which he had ranged, Peter did not 
 know what revulsions or what revolutions might take 
 place. But he felt sure of one thing, he loved his 
 Master. He loved him with the entire grasp of his 
 nature. He followed Jesus for no human or earthly 
 reason that could obscure or set aside this prime 
 motor of his soul. Do we not suppose Jesus chose 
 his disciples with a divine prevision of their future 
 characters and labors as apostles? Did not Jesus 
 look down iuto the hearts of these men, and see there 
 what he wanted in the chief commissioner of his 
 religion? If he saw there the lurking baseness and 
 nascent treason of Iscariot, did he not also read in 
 the souls of the others that unquenchable love and 
 all-enduring constancy which have made them princes 
 of the church on earth? Did he not see then in 
 Peter the germs of that faithful affection which he 
 recognized afterwards when Peter, trembling at the 
 
161 
 
 thought of losing the place he had held in Jesus' 
 regard, appealed to his omniscience, and boldly 
 pleaded the Master's own testimony in his favor, 
 " Thou knowest all things*: thou knowest that I love 
 thee ! " 
 
 We need not suppose that Peter's love for Jesus 
 was one whit greater than that of the other disciples ; 
 but it was Peter's love, and here is the whole secret 
 of its character. It was the flower of his nature. It 
 was the growth of a strong, quick, vigorous soil. It 
 was a demonstrative love, like Peter himself, apt to 
 show itself upon slight provocation, and to choose 
 modes of expression peculiar to the man, and which 
 did not always commend their seemliness. It was an 
 officious love. When Peter heard his Master talk of 
 what he was to suffer at the hands of the priests and 
 scribes, his soul flamed with indignation. Impatient 
 by nature and habit, he could ill brook to see his 
 Master's mild submission, and to hear him talk so 
 resignedly of a fate which Peter looked at as the 
 most daring outrage. Why should Jesus suffer these 
 things? He saw no reason. And if Jesus talked so 
 patiently of enduring them, it must be that he felt 
 too little confidence in the love and zeal of his dis- 
 ciples. Peter did not know how it might be with 
 the others, but he would let the Master know there 
 was one he could depend upon. He would not stand 
 by and see his Lord fall unavenged into the hands of 
 his enemies ; and this is what he undertakes to assure 
 Jesus of. And he puts it in a form that only too 
 plainly invites comparison of himself with his breth- 
 
162 peter's resolve. 
 
 ren. "Though all should be offended because of 
 thee, yet will not I ! " As if he had said, You could 
 not think of submitting to such indignities, if you 
 trusted in your disciples. But your disciples shall 
 prevent them I will show them an example myself. 
 I will never see you cast helpless into the power of 
 those who hate you, not if I have to stand alone, and 
 fight for you single-handed ; and if the rest do not 
 help me, then let them go, but I will never abandon 
 you. Though all should be offended because of thee, 
 yet will not 1 ! Now many seem to misapprehend 
 this declaration of Peter's, and to mistake the char- 
 acter of Peter as read in the light of it. Because 
 Jesus replies to* him, and prophesies his coming sin 
 and shame, they think Peter's declaration totally 
 wrong, call his zeal into question, and condemn his 
 rashness, and lower his entire character by the in- 
 fluence of their judgment upon this single revalation 
 of it. 
 
 But we believe, in fact, that it was the strength of 
 Peter's character, not its weakness, that challenged 
 the implied censure and provoked the ordeal that 
 followed. Pardon the paradox, but Peter's weakness 
 here lay in his strength. His love was all that he 
 professed it. His intentions were as sincere as man's 
 ever were. Here was his danger. He was so sure 
 of himself that he could not see his need of anything 
 further, so sure of his own heart that he could not 
 doubt the event. If he had been weak, naturally, if 
 his had been the unstable, uncertain, effervescent tem- 
 per that many infer, if Jesus had doubted the sincer- 
 
peter's resolve. 163 
 
 ity of his love or the honesty of his purpose, he 
 would never have subjected him to such a trial, for 
 it would have ruined him. But Jesus knew that 
 there was a granite foundation beneath the sand, and 
 he meant only to wash away the sand. He saw that 
 Peter needed a lesson in self-knowledge, and he 
 taught it to him. Had there been an unsound fibre 
 in Peter's attachment, that night's dark peril would 
 have sapped it forever. His love seems to he 
 superficial, because it lies so near the surface; but 
 its roots strike down deep into the subsoil. 
 
 We must not think that Peter's fall was a punish- 
 ment. It did not happen because he had resolved it 
 should not. It was not a consequence of his reso- 
 lution, it was in despite of it; and Peter would 
 have sinned the same, in the same circumstances, 
 whether he had made this resolution or not. Jesus 
 simply foretold what he saw was to take place. He 
 did not ordain something to take place which other- 
 wise would not have happened. We must not, then, 
 look back on Peter's declaration through the sad 
 gloom of his temporary baseness. We must not say 
 that Peter sinned by making such a resolution. That 
 was not his sin, as some seem to suppose. What 
 should Peter have done? He felt all he expressed. 
 His soul flamed with loyal purpose. Could not the 
 Master look into that soul and see there the sincerity 
 of his utterance? Why then conceal his feeling? 
 
 There was no need of concealment. Peter needed 
 to be taught discretion. He wanted more charity for 
 others. He needed to tame down the energy of his 
 
164 
 
 zeal. He lacked self-knowledge. There was a gross 
 self-love in him which he seemed not aware of, and 
 he needed to he brought face to face with it, and to 
 grapple with it, and to put it beneath him forever. 
 His night of treason was one of splendid victory over 
 self-love. A weak man would have given all up for 
 lost, and have fallen helpless and passive back into 
 the ruts of his old habits. A wicked man would not 
 have repented at all, but have ignored his crime or 
 tried to smooth it over. But Peter was down only 
 for a few moments. He was thrown thrice by the 
 old wrestler, and awhile he lay, stunned and bruised ; 
 but then he gathered himself up ; he rose, he struck 
 back for life ; he fought hard to recover his lost 
 ground, and he won it, he held it, and never lost 
 an inch of it afterwards while he lived. If Peter 
 went down from his honorable place as a disciple, 
 into the darkness and wretchedness of that night, he 
 also ro^e from them to a pinnacle loftier than that 
 from which he fell. If he went down to that treason 
 discrowned and disgraced, he also came up out of it 
 with a more glorious crown upon his head, and with 
 the palm of a victor. Some read this story and infer 
 from it a general lesson against what they are pleased 
 to term all rash resolutions. They call Peter's re- 
 solve a rash one. " See," they say, " what is sure to 
 happen to one who makes such a demonstration of 
 his loyalty, and so proudly resolves to outdo all 
 others in his self-sacrificing zeal. Better make no 
 resolutions at all. Better just do the best you can, 
 and commit yourselves by no general promises and 
 
peter's resolve. 165 
 
 rash pledges." But who will show me that even 
 Peter's resolution was in vain? Who will prove to 
 me that it did not guide his steps to that very court 
 of judgment where he so soon forgot it? But for 
 that confident promise, who can say he might not 
 have hid himself when the decisive hour came, or 
 lacked the courage to strike off the ear of the high- 
 priest's servant? Do not let us charge Peters sin to 
 a cause that may have kept him from a far greater 
 one. It would be a singular specific against rash 
 purposes, not to form any purpose at all. 
 
 It is a curious lesson to draw from this demonstra- 
 tion of Peter's love and zeal, that it is safer not to 
 make any special exhibition of love and zeal. There 
 are some good men who tell us they do not make 
 an open profession of faith in Christ, because they 
 see so few who are able to make their professions 
 good, and they feel bound, if they do ever make a 
 profession, to show the world a Christian example 
 very different from the one now current. For fear 
 of making Peter's demonstration, they fall into the 
 very spirit they condemn, and conditionally promise 
 to do more and to do better than every one else. 
 They will not avow any Christian purpose at all, 
 because they are resolved that when they do, they 
 will keep it at every hazard. These men, if they 
 ever become Christians, will have a trial just like 
 Peter's, a night of humiliating and mortifying defeat, 
 that will teach a knowledge they are now lamentably 
 deficient in. 
 
 Men look at the truth with one eye, and then 
 
166 petek's resolve. 
 
 through a distorting glass, but they look at Christian 
 example with both eyes open. They are like those 
 astronomers who are studying the physical constitu- 
 tion of the sun. They care nothing for the sun's 
 splendor, they have no admiration for its vast wrap- 
 per of glowing and burning ether; but show them 
 only some little rent in it through which they can 
 see the dark body within it, show them some small 
 spot on the sun's disk, be it ever so trifling, and at 
 once they fly to their telescopes, glasses are put in 
 order, eveiy thought is alert, for they hope then to 
 make some discovery. The notion itself of condemn- 
 ing resolutions because they are so often broken is 
 absurd. Condemn all car-wheels as well, because 
 they are so often broken. Resolve you will trust no 
 carriage till you can be sure it will not fail you. 
 Resolves and purposes are the wheels upon which our 
 life advances. We have broken a great rmmy, but 
 where should we have been to-day without them ? You 
 condemn the rash disciple who promised so much 
 and who has fulfilled so little ; but what would his 
 fate have been if he had promised nothing, and feel- 
 ing no responsibility and taking none, he had thrown 
 his energies altogether in the other direction? Some 
 of the very men who have failed most lamentably, 
 like Peter, have been, like Peter, truest and most 
 loyal among the disciples of Jesus. They have fallen 
 deeply, because they stood so high ; they have sinned 
 grievously, because they loved strongly ; they have 
 had viler shame, because they had larger honor ; they 
 have suffered more defeats, because they dared more 
 battles and challenged more enemies. 
 
peter's resolve. 1(>7 
 
 The very thing we want is resolution, Christian 
 purpose, vigorous and intense determination. Of 
 course we want the material of the fire first, before 
 we court the flame ; we want the genuine love of 
 Peter, before we have Peter's pledge of it. The 
 Master was to be crucified, and no arm or power 
 could prevent it. But the Master's cause is not going 
 now to death, the truth is not to be crucified; and 
 arms and powers are to be marshalled and set in 
 array in their defence. Peter might fulfil his pledge, 
 and stand by his Master to the very last, but that 
 could not save him from his appointed sufferings and 
 death. But the cause of the Master is to be honored 
 and to be led to victory by the fulfilment of Peter's 
 pledge. It needs men who are willing and resolved 
 to stand by it. It calls for men whose hearts gush 
 out, like Peter's, unbidden, in the spontaneous 
 eagerness of their love and devotion. Better fail a 
 hundred times in the noble attempt to reach and 
 seize the prize, than sit down, dumb and passive, to 
 hug the wretched delusion that no effort ought to be 
 made till success be certain. Are we not to fight 
 our battles till some divine prophet vouchsafe to tell 
 us we shall conquer? Shall we never give voice to 
 our love for Christ for fear we shall, like Peter, do 
 something unworthy of it? Shall we lose Peter's 
 glory for fear of incurring his sin and suffering his 
 shame? Shall we give up his immortality of reward 
 for the sake of avoiding his night of disgrace? To 
 keep our characters unspotted with treason, shall we 
 never swear allegiance at all? That we may not 
 
168 peter's res< lve. 
 
 turn traitors, shall we refuse to carry arms? Lest 
 we become rebels, shall we turn cowards, and leave 
 others to fight for the truth and the right? Shall 
 this lame lojnc stand between us and the Redeemer 
 of our souls, this p irody of reason debar our rea- 
 sonable service, this mockery of sincerity keep us 
 from all honest avowal of our faith and our duty? 
 
THE HEAVENLY PROMISE. 
 
 " Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy-laden, and I will 
 give you rest" — Matt, xi, 28. 
 
 Were there ever spoken more gracious words than 
 these ? And for any heart that aches and sighs under 
 the oppressions of life, or carries about a secret bur- 
 den of weariness and sickness, could any words fall 
 more softly and soothingly than these? A great 
 poet has, by a single line, touched the canker of our 
 life into faithful likeness when he wrote, "Afterlife's 
 fitful fever, he sleeps well." It is a fitful fever that 
 burns in the selfishness and the ambition of the 
 worldling. While it lasts, it keeps up his strength, 
 it lends artificial vigor to his pulse, and it lulls his 
 sensibilities to a deceitful sleep. But the fever has 
 its intermissions, even in the hot hurry and headlong 
 precipitancy of the worldling. It is chilled by dis- 
 appointment, it is broken by trial, it is arrested 
 by disease ; and last of all, when the icy hand of 
 death hovers over the brow, and the shades of the 
 future creep like a mist from the dark valley, the 
 fever dies out, and leaves nothing behind but the 
 tormenting sense it has blunted so long. Forgotten 
 voices speak again, dead longings spring up into new 
 
170 THE HEAVEKLY PROMISE. 
 
 life, the soul tosses on the uneasy couch of its old 
 
 memories and its stinging self-reproaches, and all its 
 
 desires are melted clown into one, all its struggles 
 
 are turned to one passionate entreaty, and it asks, 
 
 again and again, 
 
 " Oh, where shall rest be found, 
 Eest for the weary soul? " 
 
 It is a thought of solemn moment, that no pain of 
 the soul can be stifled. You can stupefy it, you can 
 ease it with opiates, you can divert it with counter- 
 irritants, but you cannot destroy it ; all your art does 
 not go so far, for the suffering of the soul is only the 
 consciousness of an awakened life. When a sinner 
 begins to doubt the safety of his moral position, that 
 doubt itself is the proclamation of his soul's great 
 need, it is a whisper from God. And w T hen the soul 
 has once developed this sense of a better life, when 
 it acquires the capacity for moral suffering, it brings 
 itself under the visible shadow of that dark de&tiny, 
 "The soul that sinneth it shall die." After this, there 
 is no peace for it but in the hopes of the religion of 
 Christ. You may drown its cries in the tumult of 
 business, you may muffle them with levity and care- 
 lessness, but they will break out, in the pauses of 
 life, with louder and more clamorous tones. You may 
 wrap your heart with airy cheerfulness, and carry it 
 along through years of thoughtlessness, without a 
 twinge of pain or a shudder of fear. *But you have 
 not cured the old wound ; you have not plucked the 
 old sting from your soul. You awake some day, 
 some day of trouble or of sorrow, and you find that 
 
THE HEAVENLY PROMISE. 171 
 
 all your palliatives have lost their effect. Your soul 
 rebels against them, and as it complains to you once 
 more, you exclaim, "Ah! that is the old feeling I 
 had years ago. I thought I had buried it in the 
 world. That is the old question which harassed me 
 in my youth. I dreamed I had answered it, but I 
 find I have only adjourned it. My body is worn and 
 wasted, my flesh is bitten into wrinkles like a leaf 
 of autumn ; but my heart is as fresh as in my boy- 
 hood, and it is bringing up, to distress me, a thou- 
 sand things I hoped I should forget." This is the 
 experience of every man who stifles, instead of 
 curing, the pain of his soul. 
 
 There is a chemical body, the fumes of which are 
 sure to produce death within a few weeks, but after 
 inhaling them, the victim pa-ses on with no single 
 prognostic of the peril which awaits him, and no 
 science could detect the evil. His heart beats as 
 freely, life runs as joyously as before. But the poison 
 is darkly working within him, till, all at once, symp- 
 tom strikes him after symptom, like the knell of a 
 funeral bell, and he is carried to his grave. It is 
 just so with the poison of unrepented sin in the soul. 
 You may feel no sharp reminder of it to-day, you 
 may have no heaviness of heart, no weariness of 
 spirit. But these things await you. The most brill- 
 iant worldly success will not save you from them, 
 it will but make them more unendurable. For 
 success without a hearty leligion is an arch with 
 no key-stone, - — it must break down under its own 
 weight. One of the most successful of English 
 
172 THE HEAVENLY PROMISE. 
 
 statesmen, a man who had merged himself wholly in 
 the schemes of his ambition, was suddenly struck 
 down by disease ; and when a bishop, an old friend 
 of his, called to see him, and began to remind him 
 what great things he had clone, and what singular- 
 good fortune had waited upon him, he stopped him 
 with a movement of impatience, and said to him, 
 " Do not talk to me of that. There is a text in the 
 Bible which, if I could, I would have blotted out 
 years ago, and your words are only lighting it up 
 with fire, * Son, remember thou, in thy liftime, 
 receivedst thy good things.' " Is it not generally so 
 even with the most careless devotee of this world? 
 There is some text he would like to blot out that 
 flashes upon him, again and again, in capital letters. 
 There is some hallowed scene he would wish to for- 
 get ; there is a prayer he has heard ; there are tears 
 that have been shed for him ; there are sweet voices 
 long hushed in death ; there are faces dim with the 
 mist of time and of grief. How many things there 
 are that strike through his mail of worldly hardness, 
 sink into his heart, flit among the visions of his 
 sleep, and make him say to his restless spirit, 
 " What might I not have been if I had listened to 
 the counsels of my youth ! I have turned my good 
 angels into the ghosts of my folly. I have dug up 
 the roots of my happiness and given them for the 
 summer beauty of a few gay leaves and deceitful 
 blossoms of worldly success. I have remembered 
 the world, and the world will forget me. I have 
 forgotten God, and how can God remember me?" 
 
THE HEAVENLY PROMISE. 173 
 
 But I ask you now to consider how much labor and 
 heaviness are found in the hearts of all men, hidden, 
 it may he, by the gleam of prosperity, as the most 
 troubled waters hide their depths when the bright 
 sun glances and glitters on the surface. 
 
 We do not proclaim to others the sadness which 
 settles upon us. We could not tell all our griefs if 
 we would. "Every heart knoweth its own bitter- 
 ness." And here is the tender beauty of the Saviour's 
 welcome to the heavy-laden. He does not say, "Ex- 
 plain 3'our sorrows to me, give voice to your troubles, 
 write down the history of your sufferings and your 
 weariness, and I will find a cure." But He says, 
 "Come to me and I will give you rest. I know what 
 your burdens are ; I see the thorn that rankles in 
 your 'hearts; only come to me, with your tears for 
 speech, with ytur love for prayer, and I will roll off 
 the burden and pluck away the thorn." Is there 
 any one here who knows not Christ, without some 
 buiden weighing like an iron gauntlet on his soul? 
 I ask the young man of pleasure, who has bartered 
 his purity and his honor for the painted charms of 
 vice, and who has not strength enough to break the 
 net in which he has been caught, Does he not some- 
 times loathe the cup of which he drinks? Does he 
 not burn with shame when he crosses the threshold 
 of his home after a night of sin? Does his heart 
 never ache when he looks into the faces of his father 
 and mother ? Are there not moments of soberness 
 when his burden grows heavy, and he is ready to cry 
 out, like the poor knight cru&hed by his armor, " Take 
 
174 THE HEAVENLY PROMISE. 
 
 this load from me or I die " ? And I appeal to the man 
 without a vice, of clean life and unstained hands, who 
 holds God's word in his conscience, and knows that 
 his morality is nothing better than the cold shadow 
 cast by a statue of noble mould and divine power, 
 Do his virtues content his aspirations? Is he willing 
 to face the stream of death, with nothing but his char- 
 acter to cast in as a stepping-stone ? Does he not 
 shrink from the searching ills of life, does he not 
 start at the thought of death, with the painful con- 
 viction that he is not ready for them? He may fight 
 his battle bravely, and the world may cover him with 
 its plaudits, but when the end comes will he not ex- 
 claim, with the man described by Cecil, " The battle 
 is fought, the battle is fought, but the victory is lost 
 forever " ? 
 
 And I ask the backslider the same question. 
 Does not the joy of his earlier days sometimes come 
 back to him as a song might float from the lips of 
 those who have just entered heaven? Does he not 
 remember what he was once, "from what height 
 fallen," and what hopes, what promises, he has 
 broken in his fall? Does not his eye moisten and his 
 heart beat when he recalls the old family altar at 
 which he used to kneel, and the songs he used to 
 sing, and the hearts whose love gave its warmth 
 to his prayers, hearts on which, be they in heaven 
 to-day or on earth, he knows he has spread the dust 
 of disappointment and the ashes of sorrow? 
 
 I think there is no bitterness like that of the 
 unfaithful disciple, when he awakens to the appre- 
 
THE HEAVENLY PROMISE. 175 
 
 bension of his guilt. " I could not," said such a 
 man, — "I could not bear the thought that I had left 
 \uy wife to pray alone ; and I knew that she was 
 praying always for me. I was miserable when I 
 reflected that my children knew I had once been a 
 follower of Jesus : and what could they think of me 
 now ? So I asked God for strength, and I went into 
 the house one day, and I said to my wife, *I have 
 come to pray with you again ; we will set up the old 
 altar once more.' And I called my children, and I 
 said, 'Let us pray.' And when I saw their astonished 
 looks, I felt as if all my years of faithlessness were 
 wounding me through their eyes ; and when I knelt 
 down, all I could say was, f Lord Jesus, take back 
 the wanderer ! take back the wanderer ! ' " 
 
 And just think now of those other laborings and 
 heavinesses which are innocent in their origin, and 
 are beyond all human help. There is a father whose 
 heart is pining over the last blossom of his earthly 
 hope, trodden under foot by a heavy bereavement. 
 A chair is vacant at his table. A darkness falls 
 upon him when his eye discovers some little me- 
 mento of his lost child. Has this world anything 
 to give him in the place of what Grod has taken? 
 Has it any music so sweet as the childish voice that 
 was melody in his ear and a hymn of promise in his 
 life ? 
 
 And there is that heaviness which can find no name 
 in human speech, which death only lightens and 
 heaven alone can take away, the heaviness of fathers 
 and mothers sunk in shame and grief by the fol- 
 
176 THE HEAVENLY PROMISE. 
 
 lies of their children. A widow was called, a few 
 months ago, to visit and identify the body of her son, 
 who had been killed in a brawl with his boon com- 
 panions, ^he looked at him with eyes from which 
 the very excess of trouble had banished the sweet 
 power of weeping; but she knelt down at his side, 
 and laid her hand upon the white cheek, and she 
 could not even say, as David said in his mourning 
 for Absalom, "Would God, I had died for thee, O 
 my son ! " but she said, " Oh that he had died in his 
 innocence ! then I should have had him forever ! " 
 What anguish it is that can wring such a cry from a 
 mother's lips ! and what power can heal it or soothe 
 it but the power of that wonderful love w T hich speaks 
 in the words of the Lord Jesus, "Come unto me, 
 and I will give you rest"? 
 
 It does not regard those petty cares which distract 
 us only by moments and on occasions of passing 
 interest. It is not an invitation to the vexations of 
 pride or the shallow disturbances of vanity. Jesus 
 looks down into our hearts. He seems to put aside 
 all our trivial annoyances, all the little tumults that 
 agitate the surface of life, and to reach down to the 
 very springs of our life's great, secret, enduring sor- 
 rows. 
 
 There w'ere Pharisees around, him, and he seems 
 to say to them, "You are going up to the temple to 
 pay your tithes ; you are anxious with a thousand 
 scruples of legal precision. But I know you have 
 an inward unrest which no tithes can remove and no 
 legal scruples can conceal." He looks upon some 
 
THE HEAVENLY PROMISE. 177 
 
 woman of rank, and he seems to say, " You are try- 
 ing to atone for a week's idolatry of fashion by an 
 hour of worship in God's house. But I know that 
 you feel a burden of self-reproach which no Sabbaths 
 can diminish, and a feverish care and worry which 
 make your pomp a mockery to your own soul." 
 He looks upon a godless rich man, and he seems to 
 say, "Envious eyes are turned on you, and you de- 
 light to know it. The world sees in you its ideal of 
 happiness ; but I see that your smiles grow fewer as 
 your head grows gray. A skeleton sits down at 
 your feast. Under your purple you are wearing 
 a garment that chafes you with secret anxieties. 
 You begin to hear the voice that is ready to say to 
 you, 'This night thy soul shall be required of thee ! '" 
 He seems to see before him all the griefs that prey 
 on human hearts, the loneliness of widows, the cold 
 desolateness of orphans, the pinched leanness of 
 poverty, the haggard wanness of despairing guilt. 
 He sees them all, he knows them all, and he turns 
 to the multitude (if suffering, restless, anxious souls, 
 and what love speaks out, what freeness and fulness 
 of pity come forth in his pleading words, " Come 
 unto me, and I will give you rest" ! Every tone of 
 persuasion vibrates through these words, and every 
 accent we give them is but a fresh pronunciation of 
 the sole name which has efficacy to cure our sorrows. 
 You are looking for rest in the world ; you think 
 you can find it in the sunny spots of this life, where 
 pleasure dances down the swift hours, or honor and 
 riches beckon with smiling welcome. Jesus wins 
 
178 THE HEAVENLY PROMISE. 
 
 you away from this delusion. "Come unto me," he 
 cries, "and you shall find rest to your souls !" You 
 think rest can be bought ; you are willing to pay 
 money for it ; you are ready to search for it with the 
 labor of years. You would buy off your sorrows at 
 the sacrifice of your costliest treasures ; you would 
 lay down life, in your hours of remorse and of appre- 
 hension, for one line of that angelic pen which enrolls 
 in heaven the names of Jesus' disciples ; but this 
 grace is not to be bought. It is " without money 
 and without price." Jesus says, "Come unto me, 
 and I will give you rest." "I have taken the labor 
 upon myself; I have paid the price. In the world 
 ye shall have tribulation, but in me ye shall have 
 peace. I offer you this peace. I entreat you to 
 accept it. Only come unto me, and I will give you 
 rest." 
 
 Think who makes this offer. It is Jesus himself. 
 Can any one doubt his power? There is no chamber 
 in the palaces of light whose key is not in his hand ; 
 there is no store in heaven from which he cannot 
 draw. He lifts up the heaviest laden, and sets a 
 smile over the tears of the mourner like a rainbow 
 on the cloud, and makes his suffering disciple ex- 
 claim, out of a blessed experience, 
 
 " Earth has no sorrow which heaven cannot heal." 
 
 And can any man doubt Jesus' willingness? Ask 
 that question of the angels who sang at his birth, 
 " Peace to men on earth ! " Ask it of the widow of 
 Nain and Mary Magdalen and the penitent thief; 
 
THE HEAVENLY PEOMISE. 179 
 
 ask it at the grave of Lazarus and in the house of 
 the publican ; ask it of that world of love which 
 crowds itself into the life of the Redeemer, and that 
 heaven of sympathy which veils its brow at his 
 death. Let the answer come from the old olives 
 that shook their dews upon the agonizing Saviour in 
 the garden of Gethsemane. Let it come from the 
 cross, where Jesus stretched his hand to every re- 
 penting sinner, and, with his dying lips, set upon 
 his forehead the kiss of redeeming and reconciling 
 love. 
 
 The name of Jesus is power and willingness. 
 There is life in that name. Love has made it the 
 wing of its swiftest messenger. God has made it the 
 talisman of hope. When the dying saint hangs to 
 life but by one finger, and no name of wife or child 
 can longer bring a gleam of recognition into his eye 
 or a murmur to his lips, breathe the name of Je^us 
 in his ear, tell of the Master who is calling him home, 
 and the eye will sparkle once more, and the lip will 
 tremble with eagerness. "Now," said a great and 
 good man, when he lay on the verge of eternity, — 
 " now, dear ones, leave me with my Saviour. 1 have 
 given you my love. I have blessed you all, but be- 
 fore you go, only help me with your voices to sound 
 the praise of Jesus, and we will sing that hymn I have 
 loved so well, — 
 
 ' How sweet the name of Jesus sounds 
 
 In a believer's ears: 
 It soothes his sorrows, heals his wounds, 
 And drives away his fears.' " 
 
180 THE HEAVENLY PROMISE. 
 
 After the battle of Fredericksburg, a little drum- 
 mer-boy was found, mortally wounded, lying in a 
 clump of bushes. His mother had come from home 
 after him, and she was then a nurse in the hospital. 
 They wished to remove him into the hospital, but he 
 begged piteously to be carried into an orchard that 
 was near and to be laid down to die under the trees. 
 At last, some one came up who knew him, and told 
 him his mother was in the hospital. "Oh ! then," said 
 he, "take me there. I only wanted to die in the 
 orchard because I thought I should feel mother there ; 
 for when I was coming away, she took me into the 
 orchard, and prayed for me under one of the trees. " 
 And a smile of peace lighted up his face as they bore 
 him away to die in the arms of his mother. This is 
 just the feeling which the true disciple has toward 
 his Master. He wishes to live where Jesus is. He 
 is willing to die where Jesus is. Show him a prison, 
 and tell him Jesus is there, and he will enter it, and 
 sing praises like Paul and Silas. Show him a fiery 
 trial, and tell him Jesus is there, and he will walk 
 through it like the three children in the furnace, 
 saved by that company. Yes, there is power 
 enough, there is willingness enough in Jesus; but to 
 prove it, we must have Jesus with us and in us ; and 
 how can we, unless we come to him? 
 
 I ask you now to look a moment at the free, un- 
 stinted, measureless extent of that divine sympathy 
 which speaks in the words of Jesus, "Come unto 
 me, all ye." He makes no distinctions; he treats 
 all alike. Great labor or small, heavy laden with a 
 
THE HEAVENLY PROMISE. 181 
 
 year of sin, or bowed down, like the white-headed 
 sinner, under a lifetime of guilt, white ^ins or black, 
 secret troubles or open crimes, with our sorrows full- 
 blown, or with only a few small seeds of them in our 
 hearts, it makes no difference. He knows there is 
 no rest for us here, no hope for us hereafter, save in 
 him. He asks for only one thing. Give him re- 
 pentance, and he will give life in equal measure to 
 all of us; the deepest-dyed sinner will receive as 
 much as the most careful moralist. You may have 
 piled your sins up like a mountain of ice, but if you 
 will put penitence on the top, Christ's love will kindle 
 it like a fire, and the mountain will all melt away. 
 Love knows no restrictions. But if love ever seems 
 divinely partial, it is when it redeems, with so many 
 tears and so many yearnings, the life of one who has 
 most shamefully slighted it. 
 
 One of the most vigorous pens in Germany is held 
 to-day by the hand of a woman saved by such love. 
 She was the disgraced daughter of an illustrious 
 house. Her brothers and sisters stood high in po- 
 sition, while she was wandering for years, covered 
 with her shame, and a prey to the tortures of her heart. 
 She learned, one day, that there was to be a gather- 
 ing of all her brothers and sisters under the old roof, 
 and that her father had written to all of them to 
 come and bless him with their presence once more 
 before death should take from him the burden of 
 extreme age. She longed to go with them and begin 
 a new life, with repentance and contrition, at the 
 feet of her father and near the cradle of her infancy ; 
 
182 THE HEAVENLY PROMISE. 
 
 but she dared not go without knowing whether her 
 father would receive her. So she wrote to her father 
 these simple words: "Father, with shame on my 
 head and sorrow in my heart, I ask, May I come, 
 too?" And the answer came to her, written in the 
 trembling characters of age and of haste, "God ble^s 
 you, my poor child ! You have poured the last drop 
 of joy into the cup of your old father. Come, come, 
 come ! " And she came ; with a veil over her face 
 she passed through the door ; she hastened to the 
 chair where her father sat ; she knelt down before 
 him and sobbed out, "Father, forgive me!" The 
 old man laid his hand upon her head ; brothers and 
 sisters, with tears of joy, gathered around her; but 
 when they looked again at the father, they saw the 
 shadow of death on his face. With that great joy in 
 his heart, he had gone up to look down upon the 
 brighter life of his child, and to wait for her coming 
 without a veil over her face or a tear of shame in her 
 eye. 
 
 With such love, O sinner, Jesus entreats you to- 
 day. And do you not sometimes, when you think 
 of the name you disown, when you look on the 
 future and call up the fair pictures of that gath- 
 ering of the redeemed rn which you can have no 
 share if you do not repent, do you not feel half 
 moved to cry out in the longing of your heart, "May 
 I come, too? Is there any room for a poor sinner 
 like me? Is Jesus ready to receive me, after all my 
 years of indifference to his love?" Yes, there is 
 room, unbeliever and backslider, young and old, all 
 
THE HEAVENLY PROMISE. 183 
 
 ye heavy-laden. Jesus sends his message to you. 
 It is, "Come, come." Own your sins at his feet. 
 Lay down your sorrows at his cross. Take his love 
 into your hearts and give life to his service ; and by 
 and by, when your life's labors shall cease and all 
 your heart-heaviness shall fall away, what joy it will 
 be to know that you are going to an eternal rest 
 with Jesus, and that Jesus is calling to you, " Come, 
 ye blessed of my Father." 
 
THE ARK IN THE HOUSE. 
 
 "And the ark of the Lord continued in the house of Obed-edom, and 
 the Lord blessed Obed-edom and all his household." — 2 Samuel 
 vi, 11. 
 
 In Jerusalem itself you seldom hear, save from 
 the lips of strangers, the name Jerusalem ; and from 
 the time of David that name gradually dropped out 
 of the familiar speech of the Jews, and was succeeded 
 by the title which it still bears among Jews and 
 Turks, El Khods, or the Holy. This title the city 
 w T on from the events recorded in this chapter. Upon 
 his conquest of that part of the city which was 
 called " the city of David," David became anxious 
 to bring up the ark of the covenant, and to sanctify, 
 by that august, mystical, sacred presence, the des- 
 tined seat of his empire. During the vexatious 
 ascendency of the Philistine power and arms, the 
 ark had changed its abode again and again ; falling, 
 at one time, into the hands of the enemy, and so 
 signally avenging upon them the dishonor of its cap- 
 ture, that they were at length driven to restore it, and 
 only too gladly witnessed its passage across their 
 borders to Beth-shemesh. 
 
 It went from Beth-shemesh to Kirjath-jearim," the 
 
THE ARK IN THE HOUSE. 185 
 
 city of the woods," on the northern boundary of the 
 tribe of Judah, where it remained, most probably 
 in the care of the Levites, for twenty years. Here 
 David, attended by a suitable retinue, proceeded for 
 the purpose of transferring it to his chosen capital. 
 It is hard for us, without considerable preparation of 
 knowledge and of feeling, to enter into that old 
 strain of traditional sentiment and of religious 
 emotion which hallowed and celebrated the ark as 
 the mysterious centre of the national sanctity, and 
 the awful symbol of the divine presence and glory. 
 To do this, we ought to put before us all the facts 
 which illustrate the history and the significance of 
 the ark, and we ought to familiarize ourselves so 
 thoroughly with the culture and the habits of the 
 time, as to overcome the detrimental effects of the 
 contrast between the spiritual idea of the ark, and 
 its material form and appendages. For the ark was 
 only a box or chest of acacia wood, about four feet 
 long, and two and a half feet in width and depth, 
 overlaid with gold, inside and out, and the lid, 
 which was bordered with gold, supporting the mercy- 
 seat with its two cherubim, whose extended wings 
 touched each other over the middle of the lid. It 
 was provided with rings, and rods or staves by 
 which it was lifted and carried, and in its removal it 
 was always wrapped up in its appropriate coverings, 
 so that it was never seen by the multitude; and 
 afterwards, when it reached its longest resting-place 
 in the temple, nothing was ever seen of it outside 
 the veil in the holy of holies, but the ends of the 
 
18'i THE ARK IN THE HOUSE. 
 
 staves, which were withdrawn from the rings far 
 enough to project a little. 
 
 This ark was the depository of the two tables of 
 the law, — God's autograph and holograph covenant 
 with his people ; and perhaps also, by the side of 
 these tables, the pot of manna and the rod of Aaron. 
 Enthroned in the most sacred spot of the sanctuary, 
 it was a monument of the divine origin of the Jew- 
 ish law, a documentary assertion of the unity and 
 supremacy of Jehovah, a tangible protest against all 
 idolatry ; and gathering to it the splendor of mira- 
 cle, the ceremonial pomp of worship, and the grow- 
 ing romance of generations, it held the heart of 
 the devout Israelite with all the affection he felt 
 for his fathers and his country, and the awe and 
 fear inspired by the symbol of that majesty which 
 brooded over the nation, and often shone from 
 between the cherubim. We can understand, then, 
 with what a mixture of popular joy and of religious 
 devotion the ark must have been conducted from the 
 house of Abinadab on its way to the city of David. 
 It was placed upon a new cart, drawn by oxen, and 
 with David and his company in front, singing hymns 
 and playing " on all manner of instruments," it went 
 down the hill, through the rocky defile, and along 
 the road, by the thrashing-floor of Nachon. At this 
 point the oxen stumbled, slipped perhaps on the 
 declivity of the rock or struck their feet against the 
 stones, and the ark was shaken, and came near fall- 
 ing. To prevent this, as it w r ou!d seem, Uzzah, who 
 was driving the oxen, seized it with his hand, and 
 
THE ARK IN THE HOUSE. 187 
 
 forced it back to its place, or steadied it, until the 
 oxen had recovered themselves, and for this, as we 
 read, "the anger of the Lord was kindled against 
 Uzzah, and God smote him there for his error; and 
 there he died by the ark of the Lord." 
 
 I will not pretend that I understand this passage. 
 It seems to me that something is left out in the nar- 
 rative, which might have given us some help, we can 
 now never hope for, towards a correct interpretation 
 of the event. 
 
 So far as we can conjecture its meaning, it seems 
 to be precisely parallel with the judgment inflicted on 
 the men of Beth-shemesh, for the violence they had 
 done the ark in opening it and looking into it ; and 
 they were seized with the same feeling of terror 
 which possessed David, and showed their anxiety to 
 be discharged, as soon as possible, from the dangerous 
 custody of the ark. We can discover no sin in the 
 act of Uzzah, unless the sin lay in the irreverent 
 rashness of his hand, unless he was presumptuous 
 enough to imagine that God could not protect his 
 own, unless in his thoughtlessness he was anticipating 
 the blasphemous cunning of later times, and acting 
 on the so-called maxim, that "the end justifies the 
 means." 
 
 It is worth while to notice a very old tradition, that 
 over these tragic scenes in the procession of the ark 
 there burst forth a terrific thunder-storm, which is 
 supposed to have given the striking name which was 
 henceforth fixed upon the spot, "The breaking forth, 
 or the storm of Uzzah." 
 
188 THE ARK IN THE HOUSE. 
 
 Theie are at least seven psalms which celebrate 
 this going forth of the ark, and in these the descrip- 
 tions of a storm are significantly frequent, so that 
 the tradition would seem to rest upon a fair basis 
 of authority. And there is one other circumstance 
 which may shed some light upon the character of 
 the sin for which Uzzah was punished. The ark 
 was intended to be carried by the Levites. Its 
 divine sanctity seemed to require that it should be 
 treated with the respect and delicacy accorded to the 
 most costly treasures, yet David had spared the 
 shoulders of his men, and carried it in a cart, as 
 the Philistines had done, as if it had been an 
 ordinary piece of household furniture. And it would 
 seem that David himself was sensible of some such 
 want of. respect in his mode of conveying the ark ; 
 for when, three months afterwards, he came back to 
 complete the removal, he did not practise again the 
 lesson taught by the Philistines and set it upon a cart, 
 but had it borne on the shoulders of the Levites. 
 
 Yet at the time of Uzzah's death, David was filled 
 with mingled alarm and dissatisfaction. It appeared 
 to him an inexplicable thing that such a fearful judg- 
 ment had leaped from the very mercy-seat ; danger 
 seemed to lurk where he expected only blessing and 
 protection, and in the hasty mistrust that crept into 
 his mind, he left the ark in the house of Obed-edom, 
 and went back to his city without it. "And the 
 Lord blessed Obed-edom, and all his household." 
 Here starts into view, if not the most impressive, 
 yet the most attractive point, along the whole line of 
 
THE ARK IN THE HOUSE. 189 
 
 this narrative. How we wish that some hand had 
 opened the door of this house, and suffered us to 
 look in for a moment upon the family to whom this 
 visitant had come, unexpected as the angels that 
 came to the tent-door of Abraham. They probably 
 looked upon the ark, when it crossed their threshold, 
 very much as unbelieving men now look upon the 
 religion of Jesus. They saw it under its gloomiest 
 aspect. It was a dark mystery that quenched the 
 smiles on their faces and crusted the free flow of 
 their speech with an icy reserve. I doubt if their 
 sleep was as calm and clear as usual the first night 
 that veiled shrine rested uuder their roof. They 
 must have felt as many a sinner has felt when the 
 faith of Jesus has first entered his house in the con- 
 version of a child or a parent, as if God had come 
 too near, or sin were too bold to venture within his 
 awful shadow. " Daughter," said an impenitent man 
 to his child, when she came home from her baptism, 
 "this house is not large enough for your Jesus and 
 such a sinner as you would call me. One or the other 
 of us must leave." " It is true, father, and I hope 
 that the sinner will leave, and that my father will 
 remain." If there was any sin in the house of 
 Obed-edom, it must have been cast out ; and at the 
 foot of that mercy-seat, beneath which slept the 
 thunders of Sinai, and around which glowed the radi- 
 ance of the Shekinah, the members of that house- 
 hold must have learned to bow in the worship of 
 purer hearts than they ever knew before, till, at 
 length, fear was lost in grateful joy, praise took the 
 
 8* 
 
190 THE ARK IN THE HOUSE. 
 
 place of deprecation, cheerfulness came back where 
 apprehension had sat, and prosperity emptied out its 
 horn of plenty and filled their garners and their wine- 
 presses, so that all men, looking upon them, forgot 
 the judgment on the rash Uzzah in the blessing that 
 descended upon the pious Obed-edom. 
 
 But we are not to imagine that this blessing lay 
 wholly or chiefly in the increase of substance and the 
 accumulation of riches. It is a mistake to represent 
 the Old Testament as teaching that the earthly re- 
 wards of the just consist in a material prosperity, and 
 that he has no higher prize to call forth his ambitions 
 than the pleasure of eating the fat of the land. Was 
 it reserved for us to discover that riches bring a 
 snare, and that, by itself alone, material prosperity 
 is a blessing to no man ? Are we the first to see that 
 wealth hangs over many a house like a plague in the 
 air, tainting it in the springs of its happiness, and 
 infecting its moral life with cancerous spots too deep 
 for surgery ; that it eats like a gangrene into the soul 
 of many a man born capable of something better than 
 idleness and a dinner, drawing corks and dividends, 
 and steeping down the energies of his youth into 
 the rose-scented essence of indolent luxury? Is it 
 only among us that the fortune of the family so often 
 becomes the curse of the children, and that the noble 
 qualities of the father are extinguished in the son by 
 the very inheritance he leaves him? No ! prosperity 
 is only the sign, not the substance of the blessing. 
 There are three kinds of wealth : that wdiich a man 
 holds, that which he wins, and that which God gives 
 
THE ARK IN THE HOUSE. 191 
 
 him. The first sits on him as loosely as the coat he 
 wears ; the second grows to him like the flesh on his 
 bones ; but the third is the very life that he breathes. 
 There is more money in the first ; there is more in- 
 tellect in the second ; but in the last there is more 
 manhood than in both the others put together. If 
 wealth is to be a blessing, it wants a better voucher 
 than a court of probate can furnish, and a sounder 
 fibre than lies in the naked brain, or it comes to lie 
 over a man's soul like an enormous sponge, drinking 
 up all the generous juices of his nature, till he walks 
 the streets as dry and hard and cold as the bare 
 skeleton of a man, and goes down to his grave with- 
 out leaving enough of the salt of charity behind him 
 to keep his memory from rotting. If you do no 
 honest work for your money, and render to God and 
 men no honest equivalent for it ; if it stunt your 
 powers, stifle your benevolence, and alienate you from 
 the broad sympathies of your fellow-men, — then I 
 believe, as one of the most solemn verities of the 
 divine justice, that, though you may sit in state like 
 Dives, and dazzle the world with your purple and 
 fine linen, you will sink at last to Dives's couch, and 
 in the eternal world will have no share but in his 
 misery. But grow with your prosperity, let your 
 heart grow warmer with every gleam of God's sun- 
 shine, let your moral life unfold itself and show that 
 you are more of a man and more of a Christian for 
 eveiy step of advantage by which God raises you, 
 and train up your children to a religious sense of the 
 obligations which you feel yourself, and you may 
 
192 THE ARK IN THE HOUSE. 
 
 take your fortune as a blessing by divine promise, 
 and you may leave this world without a fear to haunt 
 you that you have made over to your children the 
 tremendous reversion of a curse. I repeat, there- 
 fore, that the blessing which the text speaks of did 
 not lie in the increase of riches. It could not, for 
 the fact which I now ask you to consider more 
 closely, that it came from the presence of the ark in 
 the house. It was, distinctively, a religious blessing, 
 and it must have leavened the whole interior life of 
 the family. Before that shrine the pride of wealth 
 would be abashed and humbled. In that presence 
 no mould of selfishness could deposit its hateful web 
 over the affections of parents or children. 
 
 There could be no bickerings there, no efferves- 
 cence of sour tempers and angry rivalries. That 
 ark was the centre of union for all the interests of 
 the house ; the air was purified around it, the life 
 that moved before it was elevated and sanctified, and 
 through its oracular mysteries heaven spoke its 
 sweetest prophecies, and God came down to hold 
 communion with his worshippers. 
 
 Now let us pass to that great truth, of which this 
 fact may serve as the antitype, the truth that the 
 religion of Jesus is the ark in the house ; that it does 
 for us what the ark did for the household of Obed- 
 edom ; that it holds us fast to the idea of a divine 
 superintendence ; that it sweetens our life by the 
 infusion of a kindliness and gentleness bej T ond the 
 freaks of passion ; that it raises the tone of our 
 whole thought and feeling by the charities which it 
 
THE ARK IN THE HOUSE. 193 
 
 nourishes and the hopes which it inspires ; that it 
 incarnates the principle of duty, and sets love above 
 life, wisdom above rubies, worth above wealth ; and 
 that, whether it bring in money or not, whether it 
 rob the heavens of a golden rain, and shear the fat 
 sheaves from the fruitful earth or not, it gives us a 
 content which is proof against want and against 
 abundance, against the irritating cares that grow like 
 thorns on the rind of poverty, and against the moth 
 and rust that consume the pride and beauty of the 
 unrighteous Mammon. What a good conscience is 
 to the man, that the recognition and practice of re- 
 ligion are to the family ; they are the conscience of 
 the household, an authority that extorts respect from 
 the most refractory, a spirit that glows with a warmth 
 and brightness no unchristian fireside can know, and 
 a monitor to young and old, that warns and pleads 
 with a persuasive power even a father's love or a 
 child's tenderness is unequal to. 
 
 If you ask me whether religion does all this, and 
 proves all this in every house in which it is nominally 
 enshrined, I answer, no; no more than the ark had 
 brought a blessing to every place where it had tarried 
 before it came to the house of Obed-edom. 
 
 There are Philistines among us who treat religion 
 as the old Philistines treated the ark ; they take it 
 captive, and make a parade of it for a little while, 
 and then send it beyond their borders. There are 
 houses in which religion is practically as mute as the 
 unread Bible that lies on the shelf; in which the 
 graces of a christian character never burst through 
 
194 THE ARK m THE HOUSE. 
 
 the harsh gravities of a stern, severe family discipline, 
 and in which, if the children ever see any likeness to 
 a holy character, they are reminded, not of Jesus 
 with his outspread hands of blessing, but of Moses 
 with the rod in his hands. There are families in 
 which religion, though professed, is a moral nullity, 
 represented by no duties ; reflected in no special 
 virtues ; pouring no oil on the troubled temper ; 
 lending no softness to the mother's reproof or the 
 father's correction ; and so completely obscured, 
 buried up, forgotten, in the hurry and worry of life, 
 that its very existence is not suspected until some old 
 register or some casual remark discloses the fact that 
 there is a professed christian in the house. Could 
 there be a bitterer satire on any man's profession of 
 religion than the ignorance of his own friends and 
 children that he is a member of the church of Christ? 
 No, when we speak of the ark in the house, we 
 speak of something that makes its presence visible 
 and felt. It may be only the devoted piety, the 
 pure heart, the stainless, fragrant, flowering life of a 
 single member of the family; it may be the incor- 
 ruptible honesty, the even and storm-proof tem- 
 per, and the manly, truthful, upright character of a 
 christian son ; it may be the quiet grace, the spiritual 
 loveliness, the affectionate fidelity, the uncomplaining 
 constancy, the winning and exemplary conduct of a 
 christian daughter ; it may be wrapped in the veil 
 of a father's anxious but loving solicitude, or of a 
 mother's tenderness ; and it may stand alone in the 
 household, without a sympathy that can drive a cloud 
 
THE ARK IN THE HOUSE. 195 
 
 from its solitude ; yet its power is felt by every 
 heart, descending like the dew of evening without 
 noise, and trembling and sparkling like the dew on 
 every green leaf in the life and office of the family. 
 
 That man's moral nature is but a fossil who does 
 not honor in his heart this ray of a better life which 
 heaven sends into the home he loves, and he is less 
 than man who would seek to silence this language of 
 God, or lift a desecrating finger against this ark in 
 his house. A converted banker in London has told 
 the story of a son of his who was weak in intellect, 
 but was a humble, consistent christian, and able to 
 set before his father an exnmple that preached to 
 him like a daily sermon. His father was a quick, 
 passionate, irascible man, full of hot and furious 
 speeches, but the first time after his son's conversion 
 his wrath broke out in the family the poor boy fell 
 upon his knees and began to pray for his father. "And 
 never," said the father, " after that did I begin to 
 give way to my ill-governed temper, but my poor 
 boy fell upon his knees and besought God to teach 
 me better. It was the most thorough lesson I had 
 ever received; and of all the marks of kind feeling 
 that were given me when I became a disciple of 
 Jesus, the dearest to me was the glad tear that stood 
 in the eye of my boy, then sick unto death, as he 
 seized my hand and said, 'Now, father, 1 can go, for 
 you don't need me to pray for you any more, you 
 can pray for yourself.'" 
 
 And think you that the house is insensible of the 
 spirit that broods over it in the christian love and 
 
196 THE AEK IX THE HOUSE. 
 
 faithfulness of one of its members? Does the hus- 
 band remain callous to the anxieties of a devoted 
 christian wife? Is the son unmindful of the prayers 
 of his mother or the counsels of his father? Will 
 the slow years fail to quicken the seed that has been 
 sown in the tears and heart-aches of a watchful sis- 
 ter? Are there not storms on the ocean to bring 
 back to the sailor the image of the home he has 
 left? Are there not troubles and sorrows to wash 
 the guilty heart of its contaminating clay, and show 
 again the seal which love has impressed upon it 
 in the years gone by? Unhappy is that house which 
 cannot throw over its children the shield of relig- 
 ion, which leaves them no memory of a love that 
 sits watching beyond the grave, and looking dowu 
 on them from the skies of immortality. Unhappy 
 is that house which offers no little sanctuary from 
 the griefs and afflictions that befall it, no ark of 
 refuge, no altar of prayer, where God can bind up 
 again its shattered hopes and speak comfort to its 
 torn and bleeding affections. The sun may shine 
 brightly upon it now, the air may blow sweetly 
 upon it, its walls may whisper of careless ease and 
 luxurious enjoyment ; but its prosperity is treach- 
 erous, the days of darkness are coming, the night 
 of sorrow and death is creeping toward it, and 
 there is no power in it to cheer with hope the 
 doom that is sure to overtake it, no hand to write 
 upon its earthly ruins the promise of a fairer house 
 and a happier home in the unchangeable clime of 
 heaven. 
 
 A young man of once great promise, high char- 
 
THE AKK IN THE HOUSE. 197 
 
 acter, and large wealth was condemned in an Eng- 
 lish court for a crime he had committed; and when, 
 standing at the bar, he received the sentence and 
 heard those words which were meant to soften, but 
 w r hich only sharpen its deadly edge, "May God have 
 mercy on your soul ! " he straightened himself, looked 
 in the face of the judge, and calmly and sadly said, 
 "Perhaps if your lordship had taken interest enough 
 in my soul to offer that prayer before, you would not 
 now have been busy putting the rope around my 
 neck ! " 
 
 Is there not many a sinner who may fling this 
 retort at those who sit in Pharisaic judgment on him 
 to-day ? Is there not many a daughter who can cast 
 it at the house from which she goes out plumed and 
 rustling in her pride and gayety, but without moral 
 clothing enough to keep her soul from the polluting 
 breath of the world she lives in? Is there not many 
 a son drifting to-day on the fragments of the ship- 
 wreck he has made, who could say to his father, 
 "You gave me gold, you freighted me deep with 
 what you sweated soul and conscience to gain, and 
 you launched me forth without a compass to guide 
 or an anchor to hold ! " Fathers and mothers, is 
 there no ark in } 7 our houses, no sanctity to keep off 
 from them the dangers that beset your children, no 
 emblem of a better world and a nobler life? Then 
 may God press his ark close up to your doorstep, and 
 fling over your life its shadow of solemn responsi- 
 bilities and eternal consequences, till you be con- 
 strained to open the door and take it in, and enshrine 
 it in the inmost chamber of the house. 
 
REASON OF THE FAITH. 
 
 " Be ready always to give an answer to every man that asketh you a 
 reason of the hope that is within you." — 1 Peter iii, 15. 
 
 I speak of the Reason of the Faith. It compre- 
 hends : — 
 
 First. A Personal, 
 
 Second. An Impersonal Element, which latter is the criti- 
 cal and historical evidence of the Gospel. In each of these 
 two elements there is, 
 
 First. A Constant Element. 
 
 Second. An Element of Variation ; and it is the variable 
 element which is chiefly assailed by the sceptical tendencies 
 of our time. 
 
 I suppose that, for the purpose which the text has 
 in view, we may regard the words, "hope that is 
 within you," as very nearly coincident in meaning 
 with what we understand by the words "faith of our 
 Lord Jesus Christ." Of course if we apply a nice, 
 verbal, analytical, and exegetical criticism to the 
 phrase, we could not say this, we should have to 
 give the word "hope" a sense fairly within the 
 proper definition of the term "hope," and this would 
 compel us to discriminate between this interior 
 " hope " of the christian and his more general and 
 fundamental christian faith. Here, then, is an in- 
 
REASON OF THE FAITH. 199 
 
 stance of that large class of hypercritical errors and 
 infelicities of interpretation, into which we are be- 
 trayed Iry a narrow literalism that presses too hard 
 upon the meaning of words, and gives too little 
 scope to the logic of thought which links them to- 
 gether, and in so linking them, modifies the mean- 
 ing of every one of them by its connection with all 
 the others. 
 
 You know how often the apostles speak of that 
 virtue and habit which they call "boldness," for it is 
 both a virtue or grace, and a practice. They pray 
 for this virtue. They beseech christians to pray for 
 them, that God may give them this boldness. They 
 entreat christians to cultivate it in themselves, and 
 show it to the world in their conversation. 
 
 Now this boldness, if we look at the sense of the 
 word, implies just what Peter enjoins in the text, by 
 the term " readiness," — " readiness to speak " ; it im- 
 plies the qualification and the willingness to stand up 
 and stand forth for the faith of the gospel, the abil- 
 ity to speak in defence of the truth, and the resolute 
 courage to do it, under frowns or smiles, to honest 
 inquirers or captious unbelievers. This is what Peter 
 enjoins, and this is what we mean by the " purpose" 
 of the text. And there is one word in the text which 
 is sufficient, of itself, to make it perfectly clear to us 
 that this is its purpose; it is the word " answer," — 
 that "ye may be ready always to give an answer.'' 
 This word is, in the Greek text, the original of our 
 word "apology," and we must remember that when 
 Peter used it, there were not clinging to the word 
 
200 REASON OF THE FAITH. 
 
 those accessory ideas which have grown up around it 
 in our later use, and which have made it one of the 
 humble, faint-hearted words of the dictionary, a sort 
 of word in reduced circumstances, going about with 
 shamefaced obsequiousness, and a telltale conscious- 
 ness of wrong-doing. When a man apologizes now, 
 we understand that he is excusing, not justifying, 
 himself, and the word carries with it a shade of de- 
 preciation and humiliation. Certainly, in the popu- 
 lar sense of apology, we owe, as christians, no apol- 
 ogy to the world, and we are not ready to make any. 
 "Apology," as Peter uses the word, corresponds with 
 the apostolic " boldness " I have spoken of, for the 
 same thought of speech or speaking is in both words ; 
 the boldness is an " outspokenness," and the apology 
 is a " speaking back," in justification and defence. 
 
 And with this in mind it is worth while to look and 
 see how nicely the first part of the text is jointed to 
 the latter part, and how precisely the words of Peter 
 respond to one another. The " answer " corresponds 
 with the "asking," and the "apology" corresponds 
 with the " reason," and this echo between the terms 
 becomes plainer still when you see that, in the origi- 
 nal, the "apology" includes the "reason" or "logos," 
 so that we may say that we are required, when asked 
 the "reason," or loyog, to give the "reason back" 
 or the "apology." So that, in fact, the "apology" 
 or "answer" which the christian is exhorted to be 
 able and ready to give, is just the reason which he has 
 for being a christian ; and the import of the whole 
 text might be well rendered into the words of advice 
 
REASON OF THE FAITH. 201 
 
 which one of the fathers gave to a young disciple : 
 "My son, yon are not bound to tell every one that 
 you are a christian, hut if any one ask you why you 
 are one, you are bound to tell him the reason." 
 
 This apology, then, this reason for our hope, is 
 the leading idea in our text, and the word "reason" 
 is the radiating point in the cluster of its ideas, its 
 implications and its uses. 
 
 And the first important question which we raise in 
 the discussion of this reason is the question, What 
 is this reason ? And in trying to answer this ques- 
 tion, and as a clew to guide us and a thread on 
 which to string our various considerations, I will lay 
 down the statement that the apostle does not con- 
 template here any one reason in particular ; he does 
 not have in his mind, under the references of the 
 word "reason," any single, fixed, constant, uniform 
 argument which is to stand for all christians alike, 
 in all circumstances and through all time. He does 
 not mean what we may call the historical reason of 
 Christianity, which one may learn from the books 
 and recite as a lesson by rote, or any other reason 
 which will serve equally well, for A, B, and C, and 
 which A might hand over to B, and B to C, and all 
 three pass around to the rest of the alphabet, as an 
 equally competent voucher for the hope of all, Greek 
 and Jew, learned and unlearned, young and old, 
 ancient and modern. Of course we have a standard 
 logic of christian apology, venerable by tradition, 
 rich with the eloquence of the ages, ripe with 
 scholarship, wreathed with the laurelled honors of 
 
202 REASON OF THE FAITH. 
 
 victory and of fame ; but suppose we were required 
 to plead that argument to-day in justification of our 
 christian hope, how many of us could do it, I will 
 not say to the silencing of our enemies, but to 
 the satisfaction of our own hearts? If we had to 
 build our humble confidence and our joyful assur- 
 ance of the future on this standard logic, this his- 
 torical reason of Christianity, how strong would that 
 confidence be, how high the flight of that assurance? 
 You may think it a bold averment for me to make, 
 but I make it with painful proofs of its correctness 
 under my eyes, aud within my own experience, that 
 for any young christian, unfamiliar with critical 
 studies, and half educated in history and in science, 
 the historical argument of Christianity is a perilous 
 venture, which only a sound heart and a diligent 
 brain and the grace of God can bring to a happy 
 issue. From the prominence of religion, its educa- 
 tional studies, such as those of sermons, the Sunday 
 school, the religious press, are carried further with 
 us than the general studies of- the simple intellect; 
 and the result is, that in our earlier years our prac- 
 tical religious knowledge is unbalanced by any cor- 
 responding attainments in general culture. We grow 
 up with a host of ideas which we have simply ac- 
 cepted without trying to base them definitely on any 
 intelligent reason. And so, when first these ideas 
 are brought face to face with our larger and older 
 learning, when our religious culture is put to the 
 luminous test of our more critical knowledge, we 
 almost always suffer a shock of surprise ; we find 
 
REASON OF THE FAITH. 203 
 
 there is darkness where we thought there was light ; 
 Ave find doubt where we looked for certainty ; we 
 are called on to readjust our opinions, and to root up 
 our prejudices ; and the whole process is one of 
 tangled perplexities, embarrassing alternatives, and 
 almost revolutionary dethronement of the old no- 
 tions, and inauguration of the new enlightenments. 
 And I repeat, the process is a dangerous one, unless 
 you place it under the guarantees of an honest con- 
 science in the pupil, and a wise guidance on the 
 part of the teacher. 
 
 But to show that the apostle was looking at some- 
 thing very different from the historical reason, or the 
 critical reason, we have only to consult the text, and 
 we see, in the first place, that it does not read " ask- 
 eth the reason," and in the original it does not read 
 "asketh a reason," but simply, "that ye may be able 
 to give an answer to him that asketh reason," etc. 
 I see no objection to translating the text in this way. 
 The most exacting purist in the English language 
 could not deny its idiomatic propriety. We actually 
 have the phrase, "to give reason," current in our lit- 
 erature and speech, and we mean by it just what the 
 apostle meant here, for he contemplated a large body 
 of evidence, too large to be called a reason and too 
 various to be called the reason, a body from which 
 every christian would draw his own familiar portion, 
 and to which also every christian experience would 
 add its own separate contribution. But if you look 
 at the text once more, you will see that this reason 
 bears a definite relation to its object, and that object 
 
204 REASON OF THE FAITH. 
 
 is, not the christian hope or faith taken generally, 
 but "the hope that is within you," the christian faith 
 as it is qualified in every man's experience, embodied 
 in every man's convictions, and intensified by every 
 man's consciousness. Now if you will show me that 
 this faith is the same in all men, in every element of 
 its consistence, in every character of its expression, 
 in strength, in degree, in vital force, in aspiring 
 reach, in heavenly uplook and worldly outlook, then 
 I will admit that there can be but one reason for it, 
 and that what holds good for you, must hold good for 
 me, what satisfied Paul, must have been enough for 
 Apollos, and what brought Zaccheus from his tree 
 was the same reason that pulled Dionysius from the 
 stone benches of the Areopagus. 
 
 I have no doubt that you perceive as clearly as I 
 can, the necessity of guarding my words against an 
 obvious inference which would assail the unity of the 
 christian faith. You might say to me, it was, after 
 all, the same reason which went home to the under- 
 standing and hearts of all those men ; their hope did 
 actually rest on the same foundation ; the christian 
 faith is one and the same for all men and for all ages. 
 Now I subscribe heartily to this catholic sentence in 
 the evangelical protocol of christian doctrine, — one 
 faith, one Lord, one baptism; and, of course, as the 
 faith is one, it must have, at its base, one and the same 
 justifying reason. But this reason is what I have 
 meant as the critical reason and the historical argu- 
 ment of our religion, and I am showing that this 
 critical reason is not the reason which the apostle has 
 
REASON OF THE FAITH. 205 
 
 in view in the text, but that this apostolic reason, 
 which we may also conveniently call the apologetic 
 reason, is personal to every christian man, and is, 
 in part, just as peculiar, just as individual and singu- 
 lar, as his christian experience. 
 
 It is easy to see that this apologetic reason is really 
 the larger reason of the two, for it may comprehend 
 the historical and general argument of Christianity, 
 besides its special evidences drawn from the personal 
 experience. And not only is it the larger reason, 
 but it is, we may justly contend, the more authorita- 
 tive and decisive reason. To what evidence does the 
 New Testament most frequently appeal? What tes- 
 timony does it invoke for the truth and genuineness 
 of its doctrines, and the moral power of the faith 
 which it implants in its disciples ? Certainly it is not 
 the critical evidence, not an evidence which we throw 
 into the scales of an intellectual judgment, or into 
 the crucible of a logical analysis. It is not to the 
 pure intellect the Master submitted the consummate 
 problem of life and salvation, or he would never 
 have said, "Except ye become as little children, ye 
 can in no case enter into the kingdom, " which is a 
 complete vacation of mere intellect, and contains the 
 first distinct assertion ever made of the imperial 
 supremacy of the moral nature. 
 
 And in these words the Master gave the world a 
 new instrument of life and culture, a novum orga- 
 non, that turned humanity upon its axis, and brought 
 its spiritual hemisphere for the first time nearest to 
 heaven, and under the broad hand of Infinite Love. 
 9 
 
206 KEASON OF THE FAITH. 
 
 And it was in their very consciousness of the divine 
 life that wrought in them, in the exulting joyous- 
 ness of the gospel's power to kindle and light up 
 a new sense in the christian soul, that the apostles 
 always appealed to the "witness within" as the 
 first, best, last, divinest evidence of the "hope that 
 was within." For them, indeed, the historical argu- 
 ment, as we have it, did not exist. The critical rea- 
 son is not an apostolic reason, and, from their very 
 origin, from the fact that they have been gradually 
 developed in the course of time, and were only in 
 embryo in the time of the apostles, we may justly 
 hold that these reasons are, however necessary, but 
 subordinate and accessory ; they are the portico and 
 the peristyle of the temple, they touch not the in- 
 most shrine, they look not upon the Holy of Holies, 
 and a man may worship at the altar, in the full 
 assurance of faith, who has passed them by with 
 but an indifferent side-glance. And I ask whether, 
 in our actual experience, we do not find that the 
 personal argument is the stronger, more persuasive, 
 more satisfying argument; that the gospel's clear- 
 est record of evidence is written in the private 
 chapters of individual history, and is not written 
 in the books. I can well believe that an honest 
 man might remain in doubt upon the historical 
 evidences of Christianity, and yet give a most 
 hearty faith and a most loyal obedience to the Lord 
 Jesus Christ. It would be like some case brought 
 before a grand jury ; the legal proofs may fail to fur- 
 nish ground for proceeding against a man of whose 
 
REASON OF THE FAITH. 207 
 
 guilt the whole jury are morally persuaded, and 
 while they indorse the papers, "Not a true bill," 
 they feel, in their consciences, that before God the 
 bill is a true one, and the law is too narrow for 
 the proofs. And you might file a copy of the 
 critical and historical proofs of the gospel before 
 a grand jury of honest men, and I can conceive 
 that they might find the technicalities too intricate 
 for a clear decision, they might grow weary of their 
 task, and exclaim, "Here are too many knots for 
 common mortals to untie. Here is too much sifting 
 for a few grains of corn," and they would take up 
 the bill and write across it, "Ignoramus," and yet 
 go home perfectly convinced that "the gospel is 
 the power of God unto salvation." For the proofs 
 you submitted would hardly touch that side of the 
 gospel which lies nearest to the core of a man's 
 deepest and most energetic convictions, the side on 
 which, when he sits in a jury-box, the judge speaks 
 to him, not the counsel, and on which he hears the 
 law, not the evidence alone ; and that side, in chris- 
 tian experience, is the moral consciousness, with its 
 native germs touchedinto a nobler life, its powers set 
 teeming and swarming with other germs, unknown to 
 the "natural man," and all its voices, once locked in 
 silence by the imprisoning mystery of guilt, now 
 freed by a whisper of omnipotent love, and keyed 
 to a strain of harmony which the soul feels to be 
 mightier in meaning than human speech can articu- 
 late, and able to link itself, the soul knows not how, 
 to the music that trembles through God's sphered 
 universe and thrills the hosts of eternity. 
 
208 REASON OF TPIE FAITH. 
 
 And when we use language like this, we need not 
 be, as is often charged, guilty of a crude rhapsody ; 
 for that indefiniteness whicfc obscures the expression 
 of the strongest christian feeling, like a nimbus 
 around the head of an old pictured saint, is, in fact, 
 one of the characters which our nature imposes 
 upon every transcendent emotion and upon every 
 inspiration of a transcendent power. There is the 
 same indefiniteness in the loftiest human genius, and 
 hence such genius breaks out into poetry, and hence 
 the true poetry lies in the thought, not in the lan- 
 guage, and is always transcendent, by its catholic 
 recognition of nature, as in Homer ; by its catholic 
 comprehension of man, as in Shakespeare ; by its 
 profound insights, as in Dante or Goethe ; or by its 
 subtle and mystic suggestiveness, as in Coleridge or 
 Browning. And does any one deny the power of the 
 grandest and most inspiring music because of its 
 indefiniteness, which is so great that from Pythago- 
 ras to Darwin no man has been found who could 
 bring it within the parallels of any scientific measure? 
 And Darwin himself, in his chapter on music, almost 
 grows rhapsodical, and falls little short of a poetical 
 flight that would have broken the wings of natural 
 selection. And we might say to the objector against 
 the validity of the internal witness of the christian, 
 " You find fault with what you call our rhetoric and 
 rhapsody, you wish us to impose scientific terms 
 upon the moral power that regenerates and vivifies 
 us. Very well, do the same yourself first for those 
 powers in which you do believe, show us how the 
 
REASON OF THE FAITH. 209 
 
 rhythmic waves of sound and the tremulous re- 
 sponses of the nerves set the human soul swinging 
 through these vast arcs of which you cannot see the 
 summit ; graduate for us the eagle-flight of genius, 
 and show us by what mechanical ladder of proto- 
 plasm and cell-walls the poet scales his ethereal heights 
 and becomes the cosmopolite of a score of worlds. 
 Show us how to do this, and then you will have 
 more reason to ask christians to square a divine 
 power under the formula of a human science and to 
 reduce to an equation that mighty ground-swell of 
 the ocean of thought and feeling which proclaims 
 God in the gospel, and the gospel in the history of 
 our race. 
 
 I feel as keenly as any one can, the need of strin- 
 gently cautious language in speaking of the experi- 
 mental witness of the gospel, of that evidence which 
 is supplied by the christian's own consciousness. 
 For we are sure to be met with the query, Has not 
 the Mohammedan this witness? Does not the howl- 
 ing dervish exhibit the transports of this interior 
 power? Does not the Hindoo fakir show us a sim- 
 ilar tenseness of devotion and red glow of religious 
 enthusiasm ? And I admit that all these exhibitions 
 are on the same human plane as the christian experi- 
 ence ; but there is as little difficulty in distinguishing 
 between the christian type and the others, as the 
 naturalists finds, when he looks upon two butter- 
 flies colored just alike, in telling which has the 
 true typical colors, and which has simply mimicked 
 the others. Religious history has its mimicries and 
 
210 REASON OF THE FAITH. 
 
 mockeries, and it would be a strange demand for 
 science to make, that we should discredit the true 
 prophet because of the false, and slay the sheep 
 because the wolf goes prowling about in sheep's 
 clothing. 
 
 Let me now briefly add that history confirms the 
 emphasis which we place upon the interior evidence, 
 by the fact that in every epoch of signal revival, men 
 turn to the inner witness of divine power more than 
 to the critical testimony. Jesus himself did this ; he 
 showed how unlike the old methods were to his own 
 new instrument when he said, " If ye will do the 
 works, ye shall know of the doctrine, whether it be 
 of God": not first evidence, then doctrine, then 
 works ; but first the work, then the doctrine and 
 the evidence, corroborating all our experience ; for 
 when christians lapse into infidelity, they slip first, 
 not in doctrine, but in practice ; not in intellect, but 
 in conscience. 
 
 See what prepotent eminence the Keformers have 
 always given to this personal and inward evidence, 
 how Luther called the church from priestly authority 
 to the testimonies of grace, and drove the roots of 
 christian life and hope down into the experience of a 
 justifying faith. Observe how, even in that strenu- 
 ous protest which Fox and the Friends organized 
 against the dead and sapless conservatism of the 
 English Church, the fresh impulse from within turned 
 back upon itself, and sought in the heart for the 
 highest evidence of what was called the New Light 
 and the Inward Witness, which, whatever we may 
 
REASON OF TIIE FAITH. 211 
 
 think of its bizarre and eccentric exhibitions, was 
 certainly a religious power worthy of high rank 
 among the christian forces which have guided the 
 development of modern history. See the same ten- 
 dency in the origin and early history of Methodism, 
 which again threw the preponderating weight in the 
 scale of experience as against authority, and which 
 may be said to be a scanning of the whole christian 
 life with the accent on the first syllable, and that is 
 the personal consciousness, or the work of God's 
 grace in the soul. Finally, see how, in any ordinary 
 and local revival, the inner witness exalts its author- 
 ity, and raises its voice, and becomes the one com- 
 manding and decisive argument in the christian's 
 apologetic reason "for the hope that is within him." 
 Such instances are verifications of the logic of our 
 religion. They confirm the profound meaning of 
 Christ, " They that worship the Father shall worship 
 him in spirit and in truth," in a truth that does not 
 cling to traditional ordinances, like lichen on a 
 mouldy wall, but springs from the very spirit of the 
 worshipper himself, the flower of his regenerate hu- 
 manity, and carries in itself its own best evidences, 
 as the flower does its own seeds. 
 
 And now comes the conclusion, which is for us 
 the most significant part of the discussion. Chris- 
 tianity must put forth her apology ; in the sense we 
 have considered, afresh in every age ; and as the 
 ages change, as society is educated to higher levels, 
 as the arts and sciences advance, and the mind's 
 outlook upon the world is enlarged and clarified , 
 
212 REASON OF THE FAITH. 
 
 we have the feeling that this apology is required, 
 within certain limits, to present new aspects, to 
 meet new demands, and to adjust itself to the new 
 relations of history. We have this feeling espe- 
 cially pronounced in presence of the new forces of 
 our time, and thousands of christians anchored, I am 
 afraid, in shallow water, are uneasy and apprehen- 
 sive, lest some storm be brewing that may compel 
 them to part their cables, or make them put to sea, 
 and in their timidity they are raising the dispirit- 
 ing ciy to the church which the captain sends to his 
 maintop, "Furl all, and lash tight to the yards." 
 Some good and eminent brethren of our own de- 
 nomination are sorely tempted to give up Baptist 
 logic for catholic liberality, let go close communion, 
 and other things of that sort, in hope of weather- 
 ing the hypothetic gale by casting overboard a part 
 of the cargo, and knocking away some of the heavy 
 top-hamper. Really, I cannot discern any special 
 cause of anxiety. I am not an ecclesiastic weather- 
 prophet, it is true, but I know there have been 
 more terrific storms than any that are yet in the sky, 
 more fearful monsters of the deep than Darwinism 
 and Positivism, and the old ship has never had her 
 bulwarks under water yet, nor has an honest soul 
 been swept from her decks. Be assured, brethren, 
 the fault of our liberal compromisers is not in the 
 exigencies of the time, but in their own gratuitous 
 haste to make concessions ; not in the unsound tim- 
 bers and knees of the ship, but in the weak knees 
 and the extremely cartilaginous backs of honorable 
 
REASON OF THE FAITH. 213 
 
 gentlemen who like to sail with a goodly company, 
 glistening with silken sails and a fresh coat of paint, 
 a great deal better than they like to stand up, like 
 men, to the tug of war for unfashionable principles 
 and unpopular platforms. 
 
 Let me ask you to consider that, in what we have 
 called the apologetic reason for our faith, there are 
 two elements, the personal, which grows out of the 
 individual christian experience, and the impersonal, 
 which we have called the critical evidence and the 
 historical argument, and that in each of these there 
 is one constant element, with one element of variation. 
 In the experimental evidence of the gospel, the con- 
 stant element is the actual work of God in the soul, 
 while the variable element is all that part of the 
 christian experience which is peculiar to the individ- 
 ual christian ; and you can see, if you keep this dis- 
 tinction in mind, that it is perfectly true that every 
 man has his own reason for the hope that is within 
 him. 
 
 We are accustomed to say that the language of 
 Zion is the same language for all the members of the 
 great family. 80 it is, as English is the same 
 tongue for all of us, yet we do not all speak and 
 use the English alike ; in fact, you can tell any one of 
 us from all the rest by the very tone of his speech, 
 and by the way in which he puts together the king's 
 English. And it is just so with us in the language 
 of Christ, there is always a variable element by 
 which every christian is known. He came to Christ 
 by his own road. He brought with him his own 
 9* 
 
214 REASON OF THE FAITH. 
 
 mental furniture. He was helped or hindered by his 
 own temper and habits, and he has had, all along the 
 way, a special experience which is the ground of 
 special evidences for him. What need is there, 
 then, to disturb ourselves with different types of 
 christian experience in different ages, or among dif- 
 ferent peoples? We say, there is an element of 
 variation in the very nature of this evidence. Let 
 this element go on varying ; it can safely do so, it can 
 meet every new force of education, it can adapt 
 itself to any degree of refinement, it can open to 
 every new science and respond to every necessity of 
 human progress ; while below this, and under all its 
 changes, there remains the same central imprint of a 
 divine hand on the heart, the same undying testi- 
 mony of " God working in us, the hope of glory." 
 
 It is just the same with the impersonal evidences 
 of the gospel. There is a constant element, which 
 is the history of the Bible and the christian church, 
 and there is an element of variation which is found 
 in what we may call the scientific evidences, and I 
 beg you to give its full significance to the fact that it 
 is mainly this variable element which is assailed by 
 the sceptical tendencies of modern science, and that 
 it is mainly the disturbance of this element which 
 agitates, in any degree, the fundamental positions of 
 the christian faith. And this variable element, this 
 body of scientific credentials, has always been vary- 
 ing ; and we say, let it vary to the end of time ; the 
 future will show precisely what the past has shown, 
 that neither essentially nor historically can the gos- 
 
REASON OF THE FAITH. 215 
 
 pel be shaken by any change in the matter or the 
 color of its scientific evidences. 
 
 It is in the nature of things that every new science 
 should throw some light into dark places, that our 
 views of whole ranges of truth should be altered 
 by new methods in philosophy, that we should have 
 to shift our opinions over on new pedestals, when 
 new discoveries bring us fresh material for our judg- 
 ments. Why, when Copernicus told the world what 
 the ancients, like Hipparchus, had told it before, that 
 the earth is in motion, the priests were as much 
 frightened as if Copernicus had engaged to bring 
 the whole solar system about their ears ; and when 
 Columbus declared the earth to be a globe, they 
 unanimously resolved that christian doctrine required 
 it to be flat, the Pope wanted it flat, it was to the 
 interest of morals that it should be flat, and flat they 
 would have it ; and great was the jubilation of infi- 
 dels at the strife between science and religion, as 
 they regarded it. Well, has the motion of the earth 
 unsettled the gospel? Has its roundness circum- 
 vented the Bible, or brought about a revolution in 
 morals? 
 
 Look at Genesis, that famous battle-field of the 
 giants, where for ages rival philosophies have wres- 
 tled with one another, and the physical sciences all 
 run atilt against the truth of Scripture. Why, I do 
 not kuow how many skeletons of interpreters and 
 commentators you might dig up on that field, but 
 I should say almost enough to stock a good-sized 
 museum of antediluvian fossils. And under all the 
 
216 REASON OF THE FAITH. 
 
 resounding blows which have been struck on that 
 desperate field, from Origen down to Pye Smith and 
 Hugh Miller, the gospel has stood with a face of 
 serene composure, unrippled by a moment's alarm, 
 and so it will stand under the shocks of new sciences, 
 while the cry of angry champions goes up and the 
 skeletons of defunct assailants go on accumulating 
 there, till, by and by, to get down to the real sense 
 of the Book will be like digging for crocuses in 
 spring through the debris of an old cemetery. I 
 once had a partial charge of the education of young 
 men in Harvard College, and I have often been 
 amused at the uniformity with which certain phases 
 of character were brought into view in every suc- 
 cessive class of the young men. Surely, there was a 
 profound sagacity in the man who invented sopho- 
 more as a second-year college-student. Well, it 
 does no harm to speak of it now, many of us have 
 been in that latitude. I observed that after the class 
 had been pretty well fed with the elements of geolo- 
 gy, and had had time for a little digestion, an attack 
 of Genesis would invariably break out among them. 
 Some would take it mildly, some would have it hard, 
 and a few patients would be quite prostrated by it. 
 I never knew any of them to die of it, and I believe 
 they all recovered, as most sensible geologists do. 
 But I confess that I can never listen now to the 
 flippant criticism which is so popular among young 
 sceptics of a certain class, without saying to myself, 
 ?t There is a sophomore with weak constitution, suffer- 
 ing from science on the liver, for it certainly cannot be 
 
REASON OF THE FAITH. 217 
 
 on the brain, there is not room enough there for it to 
 spread so much." And I would counsel any young 
 man who is tempted to ventilate his scepticism, to 
 wait awhile. If he is suffering from an attack of 
 Genesis, a little more knowledge will relieve him, 
 and I verily believe that if he is sufferiug from Dar- 
 win, homoeopathy is his surest recourse, and a little 
 more Darwin will re-establish his health. 
 
 Why, my friends, our experience in these times is 
 not at all novel or peculiar. The variable element 
 in the christian apology has always been changing 
 since the gospel was first preached. Sometimes it 
 has gone from one system of philosophy to another, 
 from Augustinism to Pelagianism, and vice versa; 
 from realism to nominalism ; from the schoolmen to 
 Descartes ; from Locke to Kant ; from Kant to Ham- 
 ilton. Sometimes it has lain dormant, and been 
 silently outgrown, like the oil cosmogonies, and like 
 many old methods of interpretation, such as the ex- 
 treme literal and the ultra-allegorical. Sometimes it 
 has been completely renovated by the sudden acces- 
 sion of new material, like the Usherian chronology of 
 the pre-Noachan age and the old views of the recent 
 creation of man, now entirely overthrown by incon- 
 testable discoveries and geologic research. And 
 every one knows that, side by side with this obso- 
 lescence of old opinions, and this fluctuation of the 
 variable element in christian evidences, there has 
 gone on an equally remarkable change in the weap- 
 ons and tactics of infidelity. The old schools of 
 sceptical philosophy are as antiquated as the sneers 
 
218 REASON OF THE FAITH. 
 
 of Porphyry. Hume's logic and Voltaire's sarcasm 
 have lost their point for our generation, and in 
 meeting the present line of attack upon us, we have 
 to face an entirely new quarter. 
 
 But the fact remains, and it is the very pivot of 
 christian confidence, that the impersonal christian 
 evidences admit of a wide range of variation, that 
 their very nature is flexible enough to adapt itself to 
 the broadest diversities of scientific opinion, that it 
 is in this range of variation we find the great adap- 
 tiveness, the universal aptness of the gospel, a test 
 under which any other religion crumbles into pieces, 
 and that through all these changes there is not a 
 flaw to be seen, not the scar of a single wound, not 
 a wrinkle of age, not a rust-spot of disuetude, not a 
 crack or scratch of wear and tear, upon the face and 
 features of the one central, apostolic, universal rea- 
 son, the one that lies nearest the divine power of the 
 gospel and envelops that power in the human heart 
 and biings it home, as nothing else could, to the 
 heart of every true christian man ; and that is the 
 verity and the measure of what the gospel does for 
 us and in us and through us, and which is every 
 Christian man's first, best, and last reason for the 
 hope that is within him. 
 
 We do need a better exhibition than we have yet 
 given of the true christian apology, one that shall 
 show how entirely secondary are those variable ele- 
 ments which physical science attacks, how entirely 
 consistent with the faith of the Lord Jesus is the 
 very freest play of these subordinate elements, nay, 
 
REASON OF THE FAITH. 219 
 
 how necessary this facile and elastic play of the out- 
 lying limbs of the body is to the body's vital organs, 
 and one that shall exalt the intrinsic evidence, the 
 personal reason, above all others, as the very element 
 of the gospel's catholicity, the very secret of its 
 power to become what it is, the one religion for all 
 men and for all time. 
 
 Meanwhile, my brethren, we have no need to dis- 
 turb ourselves. The constant element in the evi- 
 dences of the gospel is not assailed by science. The 
 attacks of such men as Strauss and Renan, and their 
 school, are not countenanced by the severe spirit of 
 our modern science. Physical science cannot assail 
 this constant element, for its jurisdiction does not 
 lie in the same court. It only thunders at the out- 
 posts. Darwinism itself, a magnificent hypothesis, 
 raised by a master mind and buttressed with a mas- 
 sive learning almost unparalleled, has not, if you 
 thoroughly understand it, the power to shake a stone 
 in the walls of the christian temple or efface a line 
 of the gospel record ; and still, as I have said, it is 
 but a theory, and it must give way in the very effort 
 to comprehend itself and to explain its explanations. 
 No, we need not be disturbed. From our citadel 
 to-day we can look down upon the progress of the 
 time and upon the movements of the enemy, as the 
 old knight looked out from his beleaguered castle on 
 the Rhine. There was a deep valley on one side of 
 him, and beyond the valley a rich table-land covered 
 with vineyards and cornfields, which was his by in- 
 heritance, but which he could not hold because it 
 
220 REASON OF THE FAITH. 
 
 was cut off by the deep valley. He knew that valley 
 ought to be bridged, but he was not able to do it; he 
 had not wealth enough to build the bridge. Shut up 
 by his eager foes, but safe on his pinnacled crag, 
 word was brought him one day that the enemy were 
 bridging the valley to get at his stronghold. He 
 went up to the battlements and looked out. A smile 
 broke upon his face, and he cried to his loyal men, 
 "Capital ! Don't disturb them ! Let them throw up the 
 last arch, let them pin down the last plank, and then, 
 thank them, the bridge is mine, and I take the table- 
 land." And he did it. So I say, my brethren, bless 
 the Lord for that divine policy of Providence which 
 has built, and which will go on building, bridges for 
 the gospel, till the banner of Christ shall gleam over 
 every valley and blaze on every table land. 
 
BAPTISM. 
 
 "Therefore we are buried with him by baptism into death; that like 
 as Christ was raised up from the dead by the glory of the Father, 
 even so we also should walk in newness of life.'" — Romans vi, 4. 
 
 Christianity, brought into comparison with other 
 religions, establishes its claim to a pure and beautiful 
 simplicity that places it, even in its lower and merely 
 aesthetic aspects, far above them all. When we re- 
 flect how complex and cumbrous was the religious 
 system of the Jews, how little it dealt with the heart, 
 and how much it absorbed all worship in a round of 
 shows and pomps, forms and ceremonies, we cannot 
 be surprised that the simple religion of Christ, in its 
 exterior features, should have seemed to the old Jew 
 cheap and poor by the side of the august religious 
 pageantry of the temple. And when we reflect that, 
 to the Jew, nearly all of religion consisted in mere 
 ceremony, and little seemed necessary beyond the sen- 
 suous homage that lay in bended knee and uplifted 
 hand, we cannot wonder, again, that the christian 
 doctrine of repentance and faith, and the christian 
 duties of self-denial and love, should have appeared 
 hard and humiliating, and become a grievous stum- 
 bling-block. With the heathen it was still worse. 
 They were in the depths of a profound materialism, 
 
222 BAPTISM. 
 
 and to them the gospel, both in its doctrines and in its 
 ceremonies, seemed mere foolishness. Now I believe 
 that, had Jesus been merely a great reformer, guided 
 only by human wisdom, he would have followed one 
 or the other of two tendencies, which almost univer- 
 sally operate in such circumstances ; and either he 
 would have borrowed from the ceremonies of the 
 Mosaic ritual, or, going to the other extreme, he 
 would have banished all outward forms and left only 
 a system of religious ideas. 
 
 But Jesus was no merely human reformer. He 
 was no philosopher founding a sect, no theosophist 
 building up a school of dogmatists. He was dis- 
 charging a heavenly mission, and organizing the 
 means by which the results of that mission might be 
 applied and extended among men. Therefore Jesus, 
 in instituting the christian church, sought only two 
 objects, to nourish the christian life of his disciples, 
 and to extend its power in the world. He called 
 forth no agencies, he appointed no ceremonies, he 
 commanded no duties, but such as he deemed needful 
 to accomplish these two objects. Hence the religion 
 of Jesus is so simple. Its basis is in the convictions 
 of the soul. Its vitality is cherished by the hidden 
 ministries of the inner life. It comes into the sight 
 of men in its fruits, not in hollow rites and glittering 
 forms. It has nothing of a merely ceremonial, nothing 
 of a merely formal, character. 
 
 Baptism and the Lord's Supper are not ceremonies 
 in the sense in which we apply that term to the ritual 
 of the old Jewish religion, or to that of the modern 
 
• BAPTISM. 223 
 
 Roman Catholic worship. They not only have a dis- 
 tinct and intelligible meaning, but they perform a 
 distinct and peculiar office in the interior economy of 
 the christian life and the christian church, and in the 
 outer relations of the gospel to the world. The 
 Lord's Supper is not a form observed, but a fact ac- 
 complished, a communion with Christ, an exercise of 
 love towards the church, and a proclamation of Christ 
 to the world. Its function is that of a duty dis- 
 charged, not merely that of a rite celebrated, and it 
 is clearly set forth in the words of the apostle, "As 
 oft as ye eat this bread, ye do show the Lord's death 
 till he come." 
 
 1. But baptism, from its positionand significance, is 
 undoubtedly the more prominent of the two holy rites 
 which our Saviour instituted and enjoined upon his 
 disciples. First of all let us consider the ceremonial 
 character of baptism. There are certain bonds of re- 
 lationship which connect baptism, in its purely out- 
 ward and formal character, with the general class of 
 those observances which we usually call ceremonies, 
 and which were familiar to all the religious systems 
 of the world. And among such observances there 
 were always a few which were invested with particu- 
 lar solemnity, and which were intended to convey 
 some special lessons. In this class were such cere- 
 monies as stood at the introduction of a religious 
 career, or served to give prominence to some new 
 feature or some new phase of the moral life. With 
 the Jews, circumcision solemnized the advent into 
 life itself ; it was the initiatory rite of Jewish nation- 
 
224 BAPTISM. 
 
 ality. No special religious idea was couched under 
 it beyond the general significance of admission into 
 the citizenship and privileges of the Jewish common- 
 wealth. The gospel broke down that old jealousy 
 and pride of nationality. Christ recognizes no favored 
 nation in his church, and circumcision, in its most 
 fundamental idea, is too much at war with the very 
 essence and scope of Christianity ever to have been 
 perpetuated, either in itself or in any substitute for it, 
 in the Christian church. 
 
 The heathen, also, were accustomed to the use of 
 special consecrating initiatory rites. The Greeks 
 cultivated a large class of what were called " mys- 
 teries " professing to lead men to a higher knowledge 
 and a purer life, and to which entrance could be had 
 only by certain prescribed ceremonies, which were in- 
 tended to shadow forth some great spiritual meaning. 
 Look, for a moment, at "John's baptism," which was 
 plainly such a rite as we have considered ; intended to 
 typify the introduction to a new career of the convert 
 submitting to it. Evidently, John's baptism was no 
 new, strange thing to the Jews. It was, in fact, but 
 the use of their own method of leading into the Jew- 
 ish congregation a proselyte to the law. 
 
 2. Now, look at the sacramental primacy of bap- 
 tism, its position, before any other rite, at the very 
 gate of the christian church and at the very door of 
 christian discipleship. It is the great symbol of the 
 christian life, the only rite which the disciple is en- 
 joined to observe in his individual character, and it is 
 the rite by which he enters the brotherhood of Christ. 
 
BAPTISM. 225 
 
 Evidently Christ chose baptism with a tacit reference 
 to its character and design as a rite of christian in- 
 itiation. He looked to the accepted and current 
 meaning of such rites, and knew that it would be in- 
 terpreted by men with the emphasis which belonged 
 to a rite of initiation. He took baptism as it was 
 known to the Jews, and was practised by John, 
 and perhaps also, employed by other nations than the 
 Jews. The Jewish mode was immersion. John's 
 mode, it appears from Josephus, independently of 
 the New Testament, was the same as that used by 
 the Jews ; and so Jesus, ordaining baptism, ordained 
 what baptism, at that time, meant for everybody ; 
 ordained just w 7 hat John had practised and what the 
 word means, immersion. 
 
 But standing where it does, at the head of chris- 
 tian discipleship and at the entrance into the church, 
 baptism, like those other initiatory rites we have 
 alluded to., must be supposed to have its own pe- 
 culiar significance. We know well what the Jewish 
 baptism meant ; it meant the purification of the soul, 
 its thorough cleansing from all the stains of sin, the 
 entrance upon a new life. And now, were we left, 
 without any positive teaching, to infer the signifi- 
 cance of baptism from the mode, we could not infer 
 anything less than the meaning it had for the Jews ; 
 and on the other hand, were we left to infer the 
 mode of baptism from its known significance, we 
 could not infer any other than the one we prac- 
 tise. But even suppose we knew neither the precise 
 significance nor the precise mode : we could then fall 
 
226 BArTisM. 
 
 back upon the universal meaning attached to such 
 rites of initiation, the idea of a new life, the idea 
 of a renovation and a purification, and from this we 
 could hardly fail to deduce the character of the rite 
 and the mode of its administration. 
 
 3. Look, then, at the symbolical meaning of bap- 
 tism. We have said that Christ appointed no rites 
 save such as enter also into the class of duties and 
 agencies, helps to the christian life and ministries 
 for the preaching of Christ. And it is so with bap- 
 tism. It „ sustains a relation first to the disciple and 
 secondly to the world, first as a christian office and 
 then as a christian symbol, an agency of christian 
 teaching. In the first relation, and in its aspect as 
 a christian duty, it is the typical expression of the 
 change which has been wrought in the heart of the 
 disciple. Its very mode is expressive, and is essen- 
 tial to express the character of this change, which is 
 that conveyed to us in the doctrine of regeneration, 
 a change as complete and as thorough as the mode 
 of the ceremony ; " old things are passed away, all 
 things are become new." The disciple is "a new 
 creature in Christ Jesus," he "is dead to the world, 
 and alive to Christ," " buried to sin, and raised to 
 holiness." This total change being the fact to be ex- 
 pressed by baptism, it is difficult to imagine anything 
 that could have been devised more beautiful in its 
 adaptation, or more significant and intelligible in its 
 import. 
 
 But baptism has another office in respect to the 
 disciple himself. It is not only the initiatory into a 
 
BAPTISM. 227 
 
 new relation, it is the symbolical assumption of that 
 relation ; it not only expresses a fact, accomplished in 
 the soul of the disciple, but it conveys an obligation 
 to be fulfilled in his life ; it is not only retrospective, 
 but prospective, and in this relation it is that baptism 
 takes the character of a sacrament. The sacrament 
 was among the Romans the name of the oath of alle- 
 giance and fidelity which the soldier took upon his 
 enlistment into the army. And baptism is the oath 
 of allegiance and fidelity to Christ, " Buried with him 
 in baptism, that like as Christ was raised from the 
 dead, even so we also should walk in newness of life." 
 
 But as a sacrament, also, we see the same corre- 
 spondence between the rite and the meaning which 
 holds in other relations. It not only declares, but it 
 promises newness of life. It not only suggests and 
 symbolizes, but it pledges and binds to the renuncia- 
 tion of sin and the pursuit of holiness. It expresses 
 and solemnly confirms by the voluntary guarantee of 
 the disciple's promise the fact that he has left behind 
 him the world and its fellowship, and preferred the 
 communion of the christian church and the citizen- 
 ship of Christ's kingdom ; and occupying as it does 
 an initial place among the rites of religion and the 
 public duties of christian life, evidently Christ meant 
 it should be observed by the disciple at the earliest 
 opportunity. We mistake its character if we think 
 we can postpone it at our will, or adjourn it to suit 
 our entire convenience. 
 
 It is the first christian duty that summons us after 
 we have received Christ ; and its character, its rela- 
 
228 BAPTISM. 
 
 tion, its importance arc such as led Christ to connect 
 it, in immediate and indissoluble sequence, with the 
 exercise of faith in him : " Repent and be baptized," 
 " Preach the gospel," " Teaching and baptizing," 
 " He that believeth and is baptized shall be saved." 
 But baptism sustains another relation, of a general 
 character as a christian monument. It is the symbol 
 to the world of the gospel of Christ, of those ideas 
 which, of all that enter into its revelations and its 
 doctrines, are the most fundamental and the most 
 distinguishing, the ideas of death and life, both in 
 their literal and natural, and in their spiritual and 
 christian sense. " Life and immortality have been 
 brought to light in the gospel." The promise of im- 
 mortality, on the part of Christ, and the hope of it, 
 on the part of the disciple, are both conveyed by the 
 ordinance of baptism. We do not now see these in 
 the rite, as the old Jews and Greeks saw them, be- 
 cause we have grown so entirely familiar with the 
 thought of that vast future to which Christ first 
 pointed the way. But to all the early church bap- 
 tism was a clear and expressive symbol of the res- 
 urrection of the dead. 
 
 Viewed, then, in its symbolical intentions, we 
 see the propriety of the form, considered in its sac- 
 ramental order ; we see the importance of the ob- 
 servance, regarded as the ceremonial confession of 
 Christ by his disciple ; we see the significance of the 
 ordinance. It is precisely adapted to the designs it 
 contemplated. It is an exact and faithful herald of 
 the purposes of Christ. It is a simple and intelligible 
 
BAPTISM. 229 
 
 memorial of the greatest doctrines of the gospel. It 
 is the appropriate and emphatic expression of the 
 cardinal fact of christian experience. It is the di- 
 vinely appointed and eloquent monument of the 
 mission of Christ and the cherished hopes of the 
 christian church. And such and so nice is the cor- 
 respondence between the rite and its design, be- 
 tween the act and the purpose, that we can say of 
 it, more than of any other religious ordinance ever 
 observed by man, the mode is the rite, the manner 
 is the deed. Touch the form, and you mutilate the 
 thing itself. Impair the manner, and the most beau- 
 tiful and expressive feature is marred beyond cure. 
 
 Let us remember, baptism is the command of 
 Christ. Its sanctity is established by the same divine 
 authority from which issues every christian obli- 
 gation. If you are a christian, you will cherish a 
 spirit of submission to that authority which will 
 honor this duty, and covet its performance without 
 hesitation and without delay. The man who can 
 pause to ask whether baptism is essential to salva- 
 tion pauses from an impulse of selfishness that will 
 lead him to cheapen the whole process of obedience, 
 and seek to enter heaven at the least possible cost. 
 Love anticipates obedience, and delights to show its 
 faithfulness by its alacrity. 
 
 With all the joy with which we witness the solemn 
 burial to the world and with Christ, of those who 
 have anchored their souls to him, there mingles a 
 feeling of sadness at the thought that for every one 
 whom God has given to the prayers of christians 
 
 10 
 
230 BAPTISM. 
 
 and the love of Christ, there remain so many still 
 blind to their true position, and careless of the future 
 before them, so many for whom prayer is still unan- 
 swered, and to whom Christ is still preached in vain. 
 The air teems with the expectation, and hums with 
 the whispering mysteries of God's love ; the hour is 
 sublime with the unwritten histories that are slum- 
 bering under the shadow of its winged moments ; 
 the prophetic instincts of our heart and the solemn 
 voices of the truth, tell us that you are to decide now 
 for time and for eternity. I put the terms of your 
 election before you, I summon the recording angel 
 of God to witness, I point to the judgment that is 
 fast approaching, and in the name of my Master I 
 bid you " choose, this day, whom you will serve." 
 
THE SINNER'S LOVE, THE SAVIOUR'S 
 FORGIVENESS. 
 
 " For she loved much; but to whom little is forgiven, the same lov- 
 eth little.'" — Luke vii, 47. 
 
 There are no other teachings of Jesus which come 
 home to our hearts with more power than those 
 which unfold the divine mystery of love. They are 
 like the softer and gentler strains of music, which 
 whisper after the shrill and loud tones of an orches- 
 tra ; they speak to delicate organs which noise only 
 beats into confusion, and they creep into little clefts 
 and apertures of the soul which trumpets and thun- 
 der only close up with a shudder. The threatenings 
 of Jesus bear no comparison in number to his per- 
 suasions of love ; and what an addition of power 
 these very threatenings derive from the fact that they 
 fall from those lips which trembled so often with the 
 accents of love. Jesus lived the love which he felt 
 and taught, and every word of severity which he 
 speaks, every look of reproof, every gesture of in- 
 dignation, shows against his love like a storm-cloud 
 in a sunlit sky, and makes us feel that, with all the 
 brightness and summer warmth of the divine good- 
 
232 sinner's love, saviour's forgiveness. 
 
 ness, there is a terrible secret of destroying force 
 ready to be revealed in its season. And it seems to 
 me that the only occasional threatenings of Jesus, 
 taken as hints, and coming as the mere outflashings 
 of a power that evidently seeks to suppress itself, are 
 so much the more significant. 
 
 When love is angry, I know there is some great 
 cause for it. Nature may try hard to cover up the 
 havoc which Vesuvius has made. She may sow seeds 
 over his lava-beds, and plant tufts of grass on the 
 lip of his crater, but when he sends up his lambent 
 tongues of flame, and crowns his head with a wreath 
 of sulphurous smoke, we know that danger is near, and 
 that mighty elements are provoked beyond retentiou. 
 And so when out of the gospel there come sounds 
 of wrath and of terror, when the glad tidings are 
 broken by rumblings of volcanic thunder, when love 
 hushes itself to listen to an echo that saddens it while 
 it listens, when Jesus pauses, in his mission of love, 
 to remind us of the day when love will be power- 
 less against the dread justice of Almighty God, we 
 ought to be convinced that what is spoken is but a 
 small part of what is held in reserve. One line from 
 Jesus is a volume, one word from his vast love counts 
 for tens of thousands. And it has struck me that 
 Jesus himself must have sought relief from the over- 
 whelming anticipations of the judgments which await 
 the impenitent ; that his heart must have been heavy 
 under the shadow of these judgments ; and that, 
 knowing as he did, that the greater part of those he 
 addressed would go down into blackness and dark- 
 
 
sinner's love, saviour's forgiveness. 233 
 
 ness forever, he sought with peculiar eagerness to 
 imprint on his own mind the charm and the grace 
 of that love which responded to his own love ; he 
 turned to it as parched travellers seek a well in the 
 desert, and he magnified it, not as a debt paid to him 
 as the Kecleemer alone, but as one of the sweetest 
 gifts which he could receive as a man. Love longs 
 for love. It is not angry because it does not get its 
 return. It does not grow less when it is met with 
 coldness or scorn, but it nourishes itself with tears, 
 it pines in sorrow, and prays with heart-ache and 
 weariness ; and when it discovers some little sign 
 of answering love, what joy thrills it, what a heaven 
 spreads over it, what a peace of growing hope wraps 
 it, like the stillness of a spring night, when all the 
 buds are swelling, and all the seeds are talking of 
 the morrow's sunshine. 
 
 With such eagerness, with such quiet gladness, 
 does Jesus seem, in the passage before us, to turn to 
 the woman who had shown her love for him by 
 bathing his feet from the fountain of her eyes and 
 wiping them with the hairs of her head. Let us un- 
 derstand the meaning of this story. Jesus is at din- 
 ner with a Pharisee, a man who evidently honors him 
 as a teacher of profound wisclon and high authority, 
 but who knows little as yet of his spirit and real mis- 
 sion, and who is fenced round with all the prejudices 
 of his caste and party. There is a poor woman 
 whom Jesus has previously met, and to whom he has 
 spoken words of tenderness and healing, and in 
 whose heart he has breathed the peace and joy of 
 
234 sinner's love, saviour's forgiveness. 
 
 forgiveness. He had found her loaded with shame, 
 and, for aught- we can tell, brazen with the boldness 
 of such impudence as the years of folly are sure to 
 bring with them. But he had touched her woman's 
 nature. His voice had roused all that was left of 
 her youthful innocence and her maidenly purity. He 
 was the first, no doubt, to tell her that there was yet 
 a place where she might come without offence, there 
 was yet an eye that looked on her with more than 
 motherly pity, and a hand that would clasp her own 
 without fear or without thought of defilement. She 
 had been scouted by the Pharisees ; they had held up 
 their fringes when they passed her ; she had been 
 despised by her own sex ; and for years of degra.- 
 dation, no speech of human regard, no voice of 
 compassion, no syllable of hope had fallen on her ear. 
 But Jesus passed her. He did not draw away his 
 seamless robe. He did not shun her as one infected 
 or accursed. She saw in his eye what no other eye 
 had ever shown to her. She heard in his language 
 what she had never expected to hear from human 
 lips. Her own mother was not more gentle. Her 
 own home held no such sweetness as distilled from 
 the tongue of the Master. As he spoke, her girl's 
 heart came back to her, her shame fell from her like 
 rags, her sins became loathsome, the beauty of a 
 better life grew possible to her, hope sprang up with- 
 in her, and at the feet of that loving Saviour she 
 humbled herself with mingled anguish and joy, and 
 from his hand of benediction she received the promise 
 and the beginning of that heaven on . earth which 
 
sinner's love, saviour's forgiveness. 235 
 
 swallows up the disgrace and the suffering of a once 
 bold, but now penitent sinner. 
 
 Between such a character and Simon the Pharisee, 
 there could be no stronger contrast. Simon would 
 have felt himself polluted by that woman's touch. If 
 he had lived in a house like ouri, she would never 
 have found admission. His servants would have 
 turned her from the door, and the money he would 
 never have given her, he would have given to them 
 for ejecting her. How many such Simons are in the 
 world now ! A few years ago a wretched girl was 
 picked up, in the streets of London, by a noble 
 christian mau, and was so won by his kindness and 
 generosity that she abandoned her vile haunts, and 
 determiued to lead a life of redemption and of honor. 
 She was penetrated with love for her benefactor, and 
 went to his house to show her gratitude. Agaiu and 
 again she was pushed from the doorsteps. But one 
 night, when there was an assembly in the house, she 
 found means to steal an entrance, and before all the • 
 compauy, she rushed to her deliverer and seized 
 him by the hand. Guest after guest, reading too 
 plainly the history of her life, turned away with a 
 sneer, or held up his hands in sanctimonious depre- 
 cation. But when the poor girl could force back the 
 emotion that choked her utterance, when she told the 
 story of the deed that had saved her, and repeated the 
 words of kindness which she said were the first she 
 had heard since the day she had been cast out upon 
 the w^orlcl , when she poured out her gratitude to her 
 deliverer, and, pressing his hand to her lips, turned 
 
236 sinner's love, saviour's forgiveness. 
 
 toward the door, the cynic sneer died away, the 
 pharisaic hands came down, and a voice broke forth 
 from a corner of the room, "He has saved many 
 such, God bless him ! " 
 
 Now just so did the woman come into the presence 
 of Jesus. He had done for her what mortal man 
 could never do ; he had forgiven her sins. Her tears 
 were tears of joy and love, such tears as fathers and 
 mothers shed over long-lost but recovered children, 
 such tears as children shed over the undeserved 
 but never - failing love of forgiving lathers and 
 mothers. 
 
 She cares not for Simon, she heeds not those who 
 are gathered in the room, she has no eye for any 
 but Jesus ; she hastens to him, where he sits, she 
 kneels down at his feet, and with her tears and her 
 kisses, too full of gratitude for speech, she pours out 
 her love in signs which the angels could interpret, 
 which Jesus was moved to read, and which have, 
 passed into a record more indelible than the sculp- 
 tured rocks of Egypt. 
 
 What obtuseness was that of Simon that he could 
 not read those signs. What blindness had his pride 
 brought upon him, that he failed to see the miracle 
 which Jesus' love had wrought. He saw nothing but 
 the old sinner, and he looked on her with abhor- 
 rence. Tell me, my friends, when you see an old 
 sinner coming to Christ, do you not feel as Simon 
 did? You look with distrust on his tears, you think 
 he needs a great many such tears to wash out his sins. 
 You know what he has been, and you know little of 
 
sinner's love, saviour's forgiveness. 237 
 
 what grace has done for him, and you would advise 
 us to show him the door, and keep him out till he 
 could come in, not like a sinner, but like a Phar- 
 isee. Blessed be Jesus ! he knows where repent- 
 ance begins, and we know only where it ends. We 
 would like to wait till a man has climbed up to 
 us, but Jesus waits only till he has set his foot on 
 the first round of the ladder, and then he reaches 
 his hand to him. Now Simon, with his stiff and 
 angular precision, could not understand such lan- 
 guage as that of the woman, and Jesus determined 
 to interpret it for him ; and he does this in a way 
 by no means complimentary to Simon. He con- 
 trasts her treatment of himself with that which he 
 had received from Simon. He says in effect, "You 
 have received me with courtesy, but she has greeted 
 me with love ; you did not give me even water, 
 she has given me tear^, — and the reason of this is 
 plain. You, in your pride, think you need nothing 
 of me, least of all forgiveness ; she, in her ex- 
 treme guilt and sorrow, has humbled herself at my 
 feet, and taken her pardon at my hands. Much 
 has been forgiven her, therefore she loves much ; 
 but of men like you, to whom little if anything is 
 forgiven, but little love is to be looked for." 
 
 Here, then, is the first truih which we learn from 
 this narrative, the truth that Jesus seeks for love, 
 not for honor. Simon gave him honor, he opened 
 his house to him, and spread his table for him, and 
 surrounded him with the marks of high esteem ; yet 
 one tear from the penitent at his feet was more costly 
 10* 
 
238 sinner's love, saviour's forgiveness. 
 
 in Jesus' eye than all the formal respect lavished on 
 him by his host. 
 
 What cheer there is in this thought for every poor 
 disciple ! No matter what his state may be in this 
 world, he can bring to Jesus a wealth which kings 
 cannot rival. Every sigh is heavier than gold, and 
 every tear brighter than a jewel; and while honor 
 stands waiting with its words and air of ceremony, 
 his humble love is welcomed to the feet of Jesus, 
 and his heart gladdened with approval. Which are 
 we giving Jesus to-day, honor or love, the frigid 
 respect of Simon or the warm gratitude of the 
 woman? That heart which broke in love for sinners, 
 asks for the hearts of men ; that love which shed itself 
 in redeeming blood, calls for love in return. Jesus 
 will turn from the feast of honor to smile upon 
 the lowliest penitent that comes a suppliant for his 
 pardon, or a beneficiary to thank him for his mer- 
 cy. Your professions of regard, my friends, are 
 nothing but the meats which Simon spread upon his 
 board ; they grow tasteless when love is kneeling at 
 the table. 
 
 Your courtesies of observance, your speeches of 
 polite deference, your spotless demeanor, your proud 
 self-uplifting above the stained and unclean sinners 
 around you, count for nothing with Jesus when a 
 forgiven soul lays itself down before him, and a kiss 
 of devotion proclaims the worship of a glad and 
 willing heart. It is love that kindles service into 
 pleasure. It is love that Jesus deserves, love he de- 
 mands ; and honor without love will never come 
 
sinner's love, saviour's forgiveness. 239 
 
 nearer to Jesus than Simon came as he poured out 
 his acid comments across the table. Would he have 
 stooped to the feet of Jesus ? Was that necessary to 
 honor? No, he would leave that to publicans and 
 sinners, while he carried his head erect and thanked 
 God he had done nothing for tears aud nothing for 
 forgiveness. And this leads us to observe that a 
 genuine love of Jesus springs from the sense of his 
 forgiveness. Jesus came into the world to save sin- 
 ners, and only self-conscious sinners can feel the need 
 or understand the greatness of that salvation. We 
 may revere Jesus, we may admire him, we may 
 crown his name with all jewels of speech, but we 
 have no true love for him if he has not touched our 
 hearts with his finger of forgiveness. When a great 
 citizen of Florence lay dying, at the time of the 
 plague, deserted by the courtiers, abandoned by his 
 friends and his own family, he appealed to a crowd 
 under his window for some offices of charity. "No," 
 said one, " you are not rich enough to buy us. We will 
 not give life for gold." But up started a young man 
 and pushed through the crowd exclaiming, " I will 
 come in to you, not for money, but for gratitude, for I 
 am one of those you saved from the death-block." 
 That is the language of true christian love ; it says 
 to Christ, "I will come to thee, not for thy great 
 name, not for reward, not for praise, but because I 
 am one of those thou hast saved from death." And 
 until a man has felt himself covered by the broad 
 pardon which mercy has hung over the cross, the 
 deepest spring of love is dry in his heart. Pharisaic 
 
240 sinner's love, saviour's forgiveness. 
 
 honor cries to Jesus, "I do thee reverence as the 
 greatest teacher known to men. J build thee a shrine 
 among the altars of saints and angels. I write thy 
 name above the names of the best and wisest. Is 
 not this enough ? I bow to thee in secret ; must I 
 bow to thee before men? I bid thee sit at my 
 table : must I kneel down like the woman ? Are her 
 tears to plead more eloquently than all my speeches, 
 and her humility and sighs to go further than my 
 splendid hospitality ? " This is the tone of this 
 world's Simons. Nothing has been forgiven them, and 
 they feel no love. They have no eye for that fairest, 
 most tenderly beautiful, divinest aspect of Jesus' 
 life and character, that in which he shows himself 
 as the friend of sinners, and the Saviour of the lost. 
 But it is just this which love never tires of exalting. 
 The song which the redeemed will sing in eternity 
 celebrates him that has saved us and washed us in his 
 own blood. 
 
 Apply this test, my friends, to your own hearts. Is 
 it the cross of Christ that sheds on his life the glory 
 you admire, or does it take all the grandeur of that 
 life to make the cross an image of beauty and of 
 power for you ? Is it to the atoning Saviour you are 
 looking for hope, or is it to him only who spake as 
 never man spake ? Is Bethlehem larger to you than 
 Calvary, or the temple more attractive than the gar- 
 den? All this is true, if your regard for Christ does 
 not send its roots down through the intellect into your 
 
 heart's consciousness of forgiveness. You know 
 
 s 
 
 nothing of the preciousness of Jesus' redeeming blood, 
 
sinner's love, saviour's forgiveness. 241 
 
 if it has not fallen on you. And let us now observe, 
 that a man's love for Jesus must be in proportion to 
 his conviction of the danger from which Jesus has 
 saved him, and the guilt which Jesus has cleansed 
 away; and this conviction does not depend upon 
 the mere quantity of our sins forgiven, but upon 
 the sense of them, which we entertain. If we think 
 that Jesus has really forgiven us but little, our love 
 will be small ; but if we have been once deeply 
 pierced with the feeling of our ingratitude to Christ, 
 if we have looked upon our sins in the light of that 
 piety which has sought to save us, then we shall feel 
 that there is but little difference between us and the 
 darkest sinner. We shall be pressed by the urgency 
 of a common need, and whether the sea beneath us 
 be one fathom or a thousand fathoms deep, we shall 
 cry like Peter, " Save, Lord, or I perish ! " When a 
 man of exemplary morals was once wrestling for for- 
 giveness, a friend of his asked him, " What have you 
 done that you should beg so for mercy?" " I have 
 done enough," said he, "if I have done no more than 
 live half my life slighting the mercy of my Saviour." 
 And do not all our sins, great or small, culminate 
 in this, that they blind us to the entreating love of 
 Jesus ? 
 
 This is the great charge which lies against you to- 
 day, my unconverted friends. You stand, like Simon, 
 looking askance at greater sinners than yourselves, 
 and comforting yourselves with the thought that you 
 cannot need much grace, it will not be a very hard task 
 for you to enter into the kingdom. But if ever Jesus 
 
242 sinker's love, saviour's forgiveness. 
 
 shall find you willing to be drawn to him, the day 
 yon kneel before him and beg for forgiveness, you 
 will think of no other sinner, you will find no place 
 too low, no seat too humble for you, all your morali- 
 ties will be forgotten, and you will come saying, — 
 
 " Just as I am, without one plea 
 
 Save that thy blood was shed for me, 
 O Lamb of God, I come, I come." 
 
JACOB WRESTLING WITH GOD. 
 
 "And Jacob was left alone; and there wrestled a man with Mm 
 until the breaking of the day. And when he saw that he pre- 
 vailed not against him, he touched the hollow of his thigh, and the 
 holloio of Jacob's thigh was out of joint, as he wrestled with him. 
 And he said, Let me go, for the day breaketh. And lie said, I will 
 not let thee go except thou bless me." — Genesis xxxii, 24-26. 
 
 Here is one of those episodes in the sacred story 
 which seem so thickly veiled from our penetration, 
 and to hide their meaning so securely from our eager 
 search. Why do these bits of mosaic, which are set 
 into the ground-plan of the Scriptures, as if to 
 heighten the general effect by a little vivid, and some- 
 times quaint and curious coloring, so often appear to 
 us unintelligible, as if they had no meaning for us 
 whatever, and had been framed in their places only 
 by some inscrutable vagary of the mind which 
 presided over the work? Why do we discover so 
 mucli uncertainty in our attempts to explain these 
 minor pieces of the wonderful architecture of the 
 Old Testament ? I believe one reason is not very far 
 to seek. It is that these little episodes come out 
 into such relief on the pages of Scripture, they are 
 generally set forth with such abruptness, are often, 
 in look, in tone, and in effect so much like fragments 
 
244 JACOB WRESTLING WITH GOD. 
 
 of an older building cemented in the wall of a more 
 recent structure, just as the modern palaces of 
 Home show the remains of ancient temples and por- 
 ticos cropping out of modern brick and mortar, 
 and they have such an air of recondite significance, 
 they look as it they meant so much more than the 
 rest of the history, that I believe we go to them 
 determined, predetermined, to make great myste- 
 ries of them, and dissatisfied if we cannot discover 
 in them something exceedingly profound and very 
 extraordinary. It is the same mood precisely which 
 makes an antiquary start at every old, half-defaced 
 inscription, and ready to see in every time-soiled 
 relic of marble some hieroglyphic of ancient wis- 
 dom. We are not willing to take the plain meaning 
 which lies on the surface ; we are not willing to read 
 the characters in good mother English, but we wish 
 to m ike Greek or Runic of them, and work out an 
 interpretation which will sound as strange as the setting 
 of the story looks, and be as far from the common - 
 sense of to-day as that setting is from our own actual 
 manners and customs. We forget that the Bible 
 teaches eternal truths, — truths which are the same in 
 all languages and under all symbols, which, like the 
 sun's light and warmth, are constant in their nature, 
 and common for all hearts, whether they stream 
 through the antique, colored window of Jewish story 
 or through the clear transparency of Jesus' teaching 
 in the New Testament. And when we are content 
 to rest in those great lessons which are meant to be 
 the wisdom aud guide of the world, we can look at 
 
JACOB WRESTLING WITH GOD. 245 
 
 any part of the Bible, and see there some reflection 
 of these great lessons. Every little fragment of the 
 story has caught the glow of these universal truths, 
 and every episode is tinged and dyed with some one 
 color of the all- overhanging rainbow of God's one, 
 chief, greatest message to a fallen and struggling 
 race. 
 
 All this I say with no intention to deny that sin- 
 gular quaintness which belongs to this story of Jacob's 
 wrestling with the angel ; but I believe the quaint- 
 ness is altogether in the external character of the 
 story. It is a unique story. There is nothing else 
 like it in all the Bible. And there does appear to be 
 something a little beyond surprise in the feeling with 
 which we gradually overtake the end, the denouement 
 of the narrative, and find that a mortal man has been 
 wrestling with his God ; and I suppose it is this 
 feeling which has tempted so many to turn this plain 
 history into a sort of parable, or an allegory, or a 
 dream, or a kind of charade, and then labor so hard 
 to explain what they have first made perfectly inex- 
 plicable. Let us rather try to make the story explain 
 itself, and let us look at it with our own direct vision, 
 not with the aid of prisms and spectroscopes, and see 
 if here also, as everywhere else, we cannot discern 
 a reflection of the great truths of all God's revela- 
 tion. 
 
 Jacob was, at this time, on his way to meet his 
 brother, and it is especially needful for us to know 
 in what mood of mind, with what feelings, he was 
 proceeding. The history does not leave this in doubt. 
 
246 JACOB WRESTLING WITH GOD. 
 
 Jaco') was in no happy frame. He carried a heavy 
 weight upon his conscience as well as on his heart. 
 He remembered the wrong he had done to Esau, and 
 the remembrance disquieted him. He knew the na- 
 tive wildness, the Bedouin roughness, that charac- 
 terized Esau, and he knew that he was not a man 
 likely to forgive or forget the injuries he had suffered. 
 Guilt always makes a man timid, and even cowardly, 
 in the presence of the avenger ; and though this guilt 
 of Jacob had been washed out by tears and purged 
 awajr by trials, and forgiven by a merciful God, 
 yet now, in the circumstances which revived all 
 those old memories of the deceit and fraud which 
 Jacob had practised, his sense of guilt reawoke, and 
 alarmed him and shook him with fear at the coming 
 of Esau. 
 
 And at this hour of apprehended peril, while the 
 habits of the patriarch hold him fast to his covenant 
 with God, and he tries what prayer can do to still the 
 tumult of his soul, it is easy to see that his trust 
 in God, if not weakened, is overshadowed, and his 
 prayer itself betrays with what agitating ascendency 
 the fear of his brother dominated the thought of 
 God. " Deliver me, I pray thee, from the hand of 
 my brother, from the hand of Esau, for I fear him." 
 This is the burden of his prayer, and he seems now 
 to remember God's promises, and to use them, only 
 as so many advantages to be turned to account in 
 the special pleading which runs through his prayer. 
 Plainly, here is a crisis, not in the fortunes only, but 
 in the faith of Jacob. The apprehension of Esau 
 
JACOB WRESTLING WITH GOD. 247 
 
 has come between him and God, and his hold on the 
 covenant is now enfeebled, and his confidence grown 
 so infirm, that he commits that error which was so 
 displeasing and offensive to God, and which God so 
 terribly rebuked and pnnished, long afterwards, in 
 the case of David. He seems to doubt that arm which 
 has so often girdled him, and hedged him in from 
 his enemies ; he seems to distrust that power which 
 has so often delivered and preserved him, and he 
 turns from God to seek safety in craft, in his own 
 subtlety, in a stroke of policy and strategy, and so 
 he divides his company and flocks and herds, and 
 hopes to save half, in this way, if he cannot save all. 
 And only after he has done this, does he betake him- 
 self to prayer. First, he makes his arrangements to 
 suit himself, and then he asks God to arrange his 
 affairs for him ; first, he follows his own counsels, 
 and then he entreats God to be his counsellor. 
 
 jNow that was more human than patriarchal. Do 
 we not very often do the same thing ? We do not 
 pray to God, " O Lord, show me what is right, 
 help me choose the right, and bless me in it ! " but 
 we say, "I have chosen what was desirable to me, 
 and now help me feel that it is right ; yea, be 
 pleased to make it right ! " And in our times of trial, 
 of doubt, of perplexity, our prayers catch that same 
 infection of selfish weakness which made Jacob so 
 anxious, not to hold fast to God, but to hold God 
 fast to him. We see the evil, but we do not see the 
 mercy. We see but one way to escape, and we pray 
 God to save us just in that one way, and are slow to 
 
248 JACOB WRESTLING WITH GOD. 
 
 believe God can deliver in any other. So when a 
 great grief falls upon us, we feel the anguish, and we 
 can feel little else, and we say, " Surely this is an 
 unmitigated evil. There is no mercy here." And 
 we let our suffering sense obtrude itself before our 
 faith, and our shortsightedness condemns the eternal 
 and infinite counsels of God. So Jacob made all 
 his arrangements, and issued his last orders for the 
 ensuing day, and then "he was left alone," — left 
 alone, but no doubt because he willed to be alone. 
 In the anxiety of that hour, he wished to be master 
 of his own thoughts. Would he have been so anx- 
 ious if he had kept his heart sweet and clear by a 
 submissive trust in the God of his fathers ? Could 
 he have been so anxious if he had held fast that old 
 feeling of nearness to God which once brought angels 
 down to sentinel his couch on the stony earth and 
 opened a visible communication with heaven by 
 means of that wondrous ladder? Where was the 
 faith which had painted on the midnight sky these 
 glowing visions of divine love, and where the joyful 
 gratitude which had watched these visions as God 
 turned them into substance and sealed their truth 
 with the confirmation of living reality? In this 
 eclipse of faith, this occultation, this shadowing of 
 religious trust, well might Jacob feel anxious ; for 
 it is a truth that not to feel anxious in presence of 
 danger is the proof, as it is the outgrowth, either of 
 sheer insensibility or of the highest and calmest 
 laith in God. Half-way exercises are as futile in re- 
 ligion as they are in art or in business. Carry a bold 
 
JACOB WRESTLING WITH GOD. 249 
 
 hand, if you mean to strike home with a close, clean- 
 cut, or a staggering blow. Cany a bold heart, brave 
 in its confidence, courageous in its trust, if you mean 
 to face evil and hope to overcome it. Rise above 
 your grief, and look humbly up to your heavenly 
 Father, and he will then lift you and exalt you where 
 you could not have stood but with some great trouble 
 under your feet. Faith, trust, cheerfulness, these 
 are the very rounds of Jacob's ladder, and these 
 the golden rays that shot through the visions of 
 Bethel. 
 
 But Jacob saw no ladder now, and no vision of 
 ministering angels ; and yet, far as he seemed to 
 have strayed from God, God was not far from him. 
 God gives up no one because of some momentary 
 weakness, but he seems to stand by the side of an 
 erring child till his error or his sin has brought him 
 fairly to extremities, and then he shows himself; 
 but sometimes, by as painful an exhibition as He 
 made to Jacob, and if not so palpably, just as con- 
 vincingly, he shows us that we, too, with all our 
 mortal weakness and human self-confidence, have 
 been struggling with the Almighty and seeking to 
 overcome him. "Jacob was left alone." And sud- 
 denly there came forth one who seemed to Jacob a 
 man, unknown to him, of course, and who at once 
 seized him and began to wrestle with him. Out 
 there, in the star- gilt darkness of the night, took place 
 that strange contest between the patriarch and the 
 stranger. Hour rolled on after hour, and still it con- 
 tinued, nor until the returning sun began to light 
 
250 JACOB WRESTLING WITH GOD. 
 
 up the east did these combatants know each other or 
 cease from their toils. 
 
 Noav let me state, first, what seems to me to be the 
 sufficient explanation of the singular way in which 
 God here reaches and probes the fainting heart of 
 Jacob and restores his wavering confidence. 
 
 It seems to us a very peculiar mode of enforcing a 
 religious truth ; and yet I can see, I think, its emi- 
 nent adaptation to the time, and to the opinions and 
 feelings of the time. Physical strength then, as for 
 so long afterwards, was everything in the estimation 
 of a man's gifts and qualities, and wrestling was the 
 one peaceful and favorite mode of displaying it. The 
 greatest heroes of old Greece, like the magnificent 
 Dorieus, were the men who had won the crown for 
 superiority in the wrestling and boxing matches which 
 made part of the famous Olympic games. It is very 
 easy to see that in this respect Greece might have been 
 the pupil of the patriarchs, so manifest among her sons 
 is the admiration entertained for all feats of physical 
 prowess, — the same sentiment which gave such un- 
 qualified praise to the youthful exploits of David, and 
 which lifted Samson into his niche in the temple of 
 national heroes. I have no doubt that Jacob was a 
 strong man and a skilful wrestler, and as little doubt 
 that he could be reached through his pride in these 
 abilities as effectively, perhaps, as in any other way. 
 
 Of course, our ideas are. all changed now, but we 
 must not carry back our ideas into those old ages, 
 and make them the tests of what was or was not fit 
 and becoming. God speaks to every age and every 
 
JACOB WRESTLING WITH GOD. 251 
 
 people in its own language, but he always speaks 
 the same truths, and it were as foolish for us to com- 
 plain that God has not used our ideas and our man- 
 ners as to find fault because he has not given the 
 Scriptures in English, rather than in Hebrew and 
 Greek. We do not hesitate to translate the Hebrew 
 and Greek : very well, let us learn to translate the old 
 ideas and the old manners. 
 
 Jacob wrestled on, probably with a vain reliance 
 on his undoubted strength and a growing hope of 
 final success, but he did not know with whom he 
 was contending. And did not God mercifully and 
 instructively deal with this wrestler as he often deals 
 with us, when we ignorantly and blindly attempt to 
 resist and overthrow him in his hard providences? 
 He does not crush us in our folly, he lets us go on 
 struggling, murmuring at our difficulties, trying one 
 resource after another, seeking to crown our foolish 
 hope with attainment. But if we will persist, in the 
 darkness, if we will not yield to him without feeling 
 his power, ah ! then he serves us just as he served 
 Jacob. He knows where our weakness lies, he 
 knows where his hand, if it be once laid, will wither 
 the strength in our bodies, dry the very marrow in 
 our bones, and bring us to the ground with a convic- 
 tion that it is vain to contend against God. 
 
 He knows where to find that one spot of infirmity 
 which lies nearest to our best and humblest feelings, 
 and he puts forth his hand and touches us, and our 
 nerves shiver, and our muscles shrink, and our hearts 
 cry out, " It is, it is the hand of the Lord ! He 
 
252 JACOB WRESTLING WITH GOD. 
 
 doeth all things well." He touched Jacob, and under 
 that touch, as he felt his strength depart and all his 
 confidence me it into trembling weakness, Jacob's eyes 
 were opened, his faith recovered its old keenness, 
 and he knew it was no mortal who had overcome him, 
 and he seems to have said at once in his heart, " Now 
 God has shown how blindly and. wickedly I have 
 been setting myself against him, how foolishly I 
 have been trusting to my own strength and distrust- 
 ing him. I have here been wrestling with him all 
 night, and yet at one light touch of his linger he has 
 blasted all my strength and my confidence. If he 
 overcomes me, can he not overthrow my brother? 
 Has not Esau, too, some weak spot which God can 
 find out, and may not God show him also that he is 
 contending with a power mightier than mine, and able 
 to bruise him as it has bruised me ? " In some such 
 way does Jacob seem to have reasoned. All his old 
 faith and trust started up afresh. He saw his errors, 
 he humbled himself, and he came back to the old 
 sense of nearness to God, and cried out to the de- 
 parting angel, "I will not let thee go except thou 
 bless me ! " His hard trial had at length brought 
 him again face to face with his God, and he clung to 
 him with resolute, and importunate, and happily 
 prevailing earnestness of faith and desire ; and from 
 that night of strange experience he came forth, no 
 longer Jacob, " the supplanter," but Israel, " the 
 Prince of God," and with a pledge and assurance 
 of power with God and with men. 
 
 Friends and brethren, I fear there are some of us 
 
JACOB WRESTLING WITH GOD. 253 
 
 who are, like Jacob, blindly wrestling with God. We 
 are following our own counsels and setting our hearts 
 upon the accomplishment of our plans. Our faith 
 is weak and we distrust, yea, we distrust the mercy 
 and the power of God. Would it be strange if God 
 should search out our weakness, and by soft and yet 
 paralyzing stroke, touch us into remembrance of what 
 we have forgotten, and send us limping on in life, 
 crippled just where we felt strongest, and pained 
 where we felt most proudly and vainly? Would it 
 be strange? Has not God touched some of these 
 wrestlers with him, and will they still keep up the 
 struggle and refuse to own his hand ? 
 
 But there are some who have learned this lesson, 
 who have won, by sorrow and with tears, that price- 
 less blessing which crowns submission and faith after 
 long wrestling. They have had their dark night of 
 struggling with a gloomy mystery, which has almost 
 thrown them prostrate, which has taxed all their faith 
 and hardihood of courage. They have thrown out 
 their arms, only to grapple the air ; they have planted 
 their feet, only to slide down a precipice. But they 
 have not lost their heart of faith and confidence, and 
 at last they too have looked up, and seen the streaks 
 of the morning, seen God's harbinger walking up the 
 slopes of day, and unfurling the sunny banners of 
 hope, and peace, and happiness. They have not let 
 the angel go till they had obtained a blessing. Let 
 ns remember that the morning is sure to come to us 
 if we wait for it. 
 
 We may have flung ourselves against the messen- 
 11 
 
254 JACOB WRESTLING WITH GOD. 
 
 gers of God, we may have been wrestling against 
 God ; but let us rekindle our faith, let us give up con- 
 fidence in our own strength, let us hold fast the gra- 
 cious angel who is dealing with us, and cease not 
 entreating him till he has left with us that blessing 
 of God which we desire. 
 
ORPAH AND RUTH. 
 
 "And Orpah kissed her mother-in-law: but Buth clave to her." — 
 Ruth i, 14. 
 
 This is the introduction to one of the most de- 
 lightful pastorals to be found in any language, a 
 poem in everything save metre, and with the charm 
 of an antique simplicity, with a pictorial vividness 
 and a home-telling power of truthfulness to nature, 
 to which neither rhythm nor rhyme could add a 
 grain of sense or eloquence. Thanks for this Book 
 of Euth, set in the midst of the Old Testament like 
 a jewel within a rim of gold, small as a gem, but 
 as bright as a gem, and as clean-cut and clear-pol- 
 ished as ever left the workshop of a poetical lapidary. 
 Generally, in reading the books of the Old Tes- 
 tament, we see but little of the inner life of the 
 people. There is a screen of political events 
 which shuts it out from us, except at a few, oc- 
 casional points, where we can just peep through 
 some narrow loop-hole, and get a few glimpses. But 
 here in this small book there is no screen at all, there 
 is no jealous lattice- work in the window ; the inlook is 
 as free as the outlook, and the eye can settle itself 
 unforbidden upon all the little domestic and social 
 
256 OKPAH AND RUTH. 
 
 economics which are elsewhere curtained round with 
 privacy. 
 
 Our present purpose requires, however, only the 
 outlines of the first part of the story, the story of 
 what happened in Israel while yet the judges were 
 ruling, about 1300 years before Christ. There was 
 a famine in the land, drought had fallen on the corn- 
 fields, or perhaps the Midianites had made one of 
 their many raids into the country, and emptied the 
 granaries and the cattle-folds. We learn from the 
 history of Gideon, who at last smote these Midianites, 
 and swept them with the besom of his wrath across 
 the Jordan, with what difficulty the poor Israelite had 
 to struggle in the task of earning bread, with one eye 
 on the plough, and the other on the neighboring hill- 
 top, hiding his corn in the wine-vats, and thrashing 
 by night, and often going out to look for that circle 
 of black-skinned tents which gave him such terrible 
 warning of the havoc and ruin that were coming. 
 From this or some other cause there was a famine in 
 the land, and it bore hard upon the sons of Ephraim 
 in Bethlehem- Judah, and Elimelech, probably a man 
 advanced in years, and not undistinguished in his 
 family and kinship, went into the country of Moab, 
 taking with him his wife and two sons. The Moabites, 
 as you know, idolatrous as they were, were blood con- 
 nections of the Israelites, and held a rich and pros- 
 perous territory across the Jordan. They were often 
 at war with the Israelites, and yet they seem never to 
 have quite forgotten the bond of consanguinity, and 
 they often gave a hospitable welcome to their neigh- 
 
ORPAH AND RUTH. 257 
 
 bors and kinsmen in times of pressure and calamity. 
 To the fertile valleys and the multitudinous flocks of 
 Moab, E lime lech fled from the jaws of famine. 
 
 Certainly it was not a very extended flight ; it was 
 nothing like the hegira which, fifty years ago, used 
 to unpeople the rocky farms of New England to furnish 
 staple for the giant States of the West ; and nothing 
 can better help us to an adequate notion of the very 
 small and contracted theatre on which G)d has made 
 pass before the world the wonderful scenes and act- 
 ors in the Bible drama, than the attempt to bring 
 the geography of Palestine within the field of our 
 own personal observation, and to set it to a scale 
 drawn out on our own ample stretch of land and 
 water. Going from Bethlehem to the Jordan River, 
 was only going from Fall River to the sea at New- 
 port ; and flying from hunger in Judah to corn in 
 Moab was no more than may have been done by 
 many a farmer in Westport, in the old days, who 
 carried his bags across the Taunton River, and got 
 them filled. So that there is no significance in 
 Elimelech's journey, though there is great signifi- 
 cance in its terminus among the old enemies of 
 Israel; and we may believe that only a hard necessity 
 would have driven him thither. We are told how 
 the family remained in Moab ten years. And 
 Elimelech died there ; and then the sons mar- 
 ried there, and they, too, died there ; and Naomi was 
 left alone with her two daughters-in-law. This triple 
 affliction of the poor widow seems to have been 
 regarded by her as a judgment from God, as if she 
 
258 ORPAH AND RUTH. 
 
 believed that God had thus punished her family for 
 entering into even a temporary compact with a race of 
 uncircumcised heathen. "The hand of the Lord," she 
 exclaims, " hath gone out against me ! " and she re- 
 solves to return to her own country, and end her days 
 in the shadow of Jehovah's sanctuary. 
 
 Now comes the artless discussion with her two 
 daughters-in-law, in which we see so beautifully 
 brought out the traits of two diverse characters, one 
 commonplace, and without a tone which surpasses the 
 average female character ; the other, touched with a 
 powerful hand, exalted to the very ideal of feminine 
 grace and feminine faithfulness, and finished with one 
 of those rare strokes of conspiring genius and felici- 
 tous art which make a picture immortal. Naomi 
 evidently shrinks from the thought of taking her 
 Moabitish daughters into the land of her fathers, 
 though this shrinking is by no means so strong as to 
 show itself on the surface of her mournful pleading 
 with them. On the contrary, she seems only con- 
 cerned, with a true mother's self-renouncing affec- 
 tion, for their welfare. Her heart has learned to 
 build itself upon their love, and she yearns for their 
 companionship. 
 
 Probably, in this household of Israel, they have left 
 off their idolatrous practices, and suffered their old 
 religion to drop into a slumberous, inarticulate pas- 
 siveness ; but it is plain they have yet gone no 
 further than this, and have made no open renuncia- 
 tion of the gods of Moab, or any profession of faith 
 in the Jehovah of their husbands and their mother- 
 
OEPAH AND RUTH. 259 
 
 in-law. They are come now to the crisis in their his- 
 tory, and just as, when a man is halting between two 
 opinions, his decision is often reached, not by the 
 royal road of reason, and argument, and reflection, 
 but by some short cut of emotion, affection, or sym- 
 patic, so for these two daughters everything hangs 
 upon the impromptu response which love has to 
 make to the noble and self-denying woman whose 
 tears are refuting the broken voice which bids them 
 leave her. Only one of them has hesitated at all. 
 She sees her mother's tears, but she has a keener 
 sense for her mother's words. She seems quite will- 
 ing to be persuaded, and at length goes up to her 
 mother and kisses her, and turns her back upon her 
 forever. 
 
 Not so with the other; she stands as if rooted to 
 her place, and when Naomi, in tenderly sad and dis- 
 consolate words, says to her, "Thy sister-in-law is 
 gone back unto her people and unto her gods ; re- 
 turn thou unto thy sister-in-law," Kuth breaks out 
 with her impassioned, yet steadily deliberate vow, 
 K Whither thou goest, I will go ; where thou lodgest, 
 I will lodge : thy people shall be my people, and thy 
 God my Grod ; where thou diest will I die, and there 
 will I be buried. The Lord do so to me and more 
 also, if aught but death part thee and me." 
 
 In spite of the three thousand years which have 
 piled their dust and ashes over this brave daughter of 
 Moab, the mother of kings, and the star-gleam of a 
 line of glory that rose and flashed over the plains to 
 Bethlehem, the winds have not swept her words 
 
260 ORPAH AND RUTH. 
 
 away. Passion has been speaking since in all tongues, 
 love has been pouring itself in song and in dirge, human 
 tenderness has wreathed itself with the choicest gar- 
 lands of eloquence ; yet the world has not found, the 
 heart has not answered, so sweet a spirit, wrapped in 
 such a power of graceful and compelling language, as 
 that which breathes and flames in these words of Ruth. 
 We can tell when we are in mid-ocean by the color of 
 the water, and we can tell by the intense coloring of 
 this speech what depths of faith, and loyalty, and love, 
 lay in the character of Ruth. Worthy was she, thrice 
 worthy, to become the remote mother of our Lord 
 and Saviour, and to set up for us, back in the dim 
 centuries, a radiant image of love, never eclipsed 
 save when her mighty descendant after the flesh was 
 lifted upon the cross. 
 
 But I ask you now to examine the contrast between 
 the two characters presented to us in this narrative, 
 and to judge whether there be not something instruc- 
 tive here which we may learn. 
 
 In the first sister we have the impersonation of 
 what we shall call the sentiment of habit and attach- 
 ment, which passes everywhere, in characters like 
 hers, under the name of love, but which is in very 
 truth, not love, but the mere sentiment of it; the 
 difference between the two being just the difference 
 between a coal of fire and a lucifer match out 
 of which you can get a fire only by friction. Blow 
 upon your live coal, and it blushes out redder and 
 redder, and Avaxes hotter and hotter; blow upon 
 your lucifer, and it goes out into darkness. Senti- 
 
ORPAH AND RUTH. 261 
 
 ment of any kind is a thin gloss which lies on the 
 surface of feeling like a varnish ; it does not go be- 
 yond the senses, it does not strike through the inte- 
 rior tissues, and color its way down to the heart. 
 It comes in from without, from circumstances, from 
 education, from the daily phases of life, a mere mo- 
 tion of the soul which takes up and repeats the 
 motion of the world around it, and which looks like 
 deep, genuine feeling, just as water in the Croton 
 reservoir looks like water from a living spring. And 
 alas ! how much mere Croton water there is in the 
 channels of human nature and of society ! How 
 much semblance of feeling that proves only disguised 
 affectation ; how much show of sympathy that van- 
 ishes like the glittering gossamers of the morning ; 
 how much shallow love that evaporates into idle pro- 
 fession, and ends only in a kiss like Orpah's ! And 
 I remark, in the first place, that the mere sentiment 
 of love goes no further than a kiss. It throws itself 
 on the lips. It warms itself in the eye. It learns 
 from use and custom alone how to play on the keys 
 of passion, and produce some weak but imposing 
 imitation of the genuine music of the heart. There 
 is no muscle in such love ; it is all nerve, and like 
 every other feeling which has no conductor but the 
 nerves, it thrills only in spasms, and is a thing of 
 times and seasons. Can you not find examples in 
 the sons and daughters, and brothers and sisters of 
 many a household? Can you not find them in the 
 members of the church, in those whose affection, 
 sometimes flaring up like a well-shaken torch, is yet 
 11* 
 
262 ORPAH AND RUTH. 
 
 as intermittent as the light of a fire-fly, and needs a 
 continual puff of fresh air, and a constant brushing 
 away of dead cinders to keep it alive? Ask such 
 love for a kiss, and you will get it, but ask it for 
 that profound, sustained sympathy which the thirsty 
 soul craves at times, and goes searching for like a 
 well in the desert, and you find it not. When the 
 daily tide in the household runs on smoothly, and 
 there is no strain on the old cables of habit and duty, 
 it is easy for son or daughter to pay the whole exte- 
 rior homage of love ; but let the way grow rough, 
 and life be jostled and jarred with cares and anxie- 
 ties and worries, then comes the test of affection ; 
 then does all feeling that merely simulates love, give 
 its last kiss, and turn away forever. And when I 
 look into the homes of poverty, hard, grinding, 
 coarse, sordid poverty, where the children of toil 
 pick their scant bread from their own bones, and 
 eat it not alone in the sweat of their foreheads, but 
 in bitter heart-sweat, when I look there, I do not 
 wonder I see so little love, bat that I find so much 
 that puts to shame the polished egotism that usurps 
 the name of love in so many higher places. For the 
 poor have wounds which no kisses can heal. They 
 live in an atmosphere that chokes and strangles all 
 sentiment and all superficiality of romantic feeling ; 
 and if love springs up with that envelope around it, 
 I know that it must be, not a sentiment of love, but 
 a religion of love, pure as God's highest ether, and 
 deep as man's largest capacity. And I remark, in 
 the second place, that no mere sentiment of love is 
 
ORPAH AND RUTH. 263 
 
 able to stand before the rush of trial and the stum- 
 bling-blocks of difficulty. We want sinews to do 
 that, not nerves alone. 
 
 Probably Naomi, before she called up her children 
 to take her leave of them, knew no difference be- 
 tween them in their attachment to her. Orpah was 
 as Ruth. But the difference came out when the poor 
 widow, in the candor of her own affection, set her- 
 self on one side and interest on the other, and asked 
 her daughters to choose between the two. Then was 
 the time for Ruth to speak out, and then was the 
 time when Orpah sank into silence, and all the sweets 
 of her love expired in a kiss. When a gallant war- 
 rior lay dying on the field, in the arms of his son, 
 seeing the en^my in the distance approaching the 
 spot where he lay, he bade his son leave him and 
 seek safety in flight ; but when his son appeared 
 but too eager to take his advice, the father cried 
 out, " Will you leave me, my son? Must I die here 
 alone ? " How many hearts have sent up that mourn- 
 ful cry when misfortune, and sorrow, and trouble 
 have thrown them on the field, and left them there to 
 perish ! Hearts of forsaken mothers and fathers , 
 hearts of abandoned friends, hearts of christian 
 brothers from whom every face of sympathy, every 
 hand of help has withdrawn itself; and under the 
 cloud of adversity, in the thick smoke of life's dan- 
 gerous battle, how rare is the human love that stands 
 fast by the fallen, and throws its arm around the suf- 
 ferer, and out of the rich fulness, and with the quiet 
 promptitude^ ot a resolute ^and unterrified heart, ex- 
 
264 ORPAH AND RUTH. 
 
 claims with Ruth, " Where thou goest I will go, aucl 
 where thou diest will I die." With what shudder- 
 ing and loathing contempt we regard the treatment 
 which Charles V, Emperor of Germany, gave to his 
 own mother. It was for him a choice between a 
 throne and his mother, aud he took the throne, and 
 shut up his mother iu the cell of a lunatic, aucl left 
 her to the tortures which an inhuman jailer inflicted 
 for nearly fifty years of wretchedness. Filial love 
 could not resist the glitter of that throne, and melted 
 like the hoar-frost before the sun. There is no throne 
 to tempt us, but there are splendors as keen and 
 brilliancies as dazzling, before which the light of love • 
 goes out on many a hearth-stone, and many a christian 
 altar, and in the son's heart gold sits, where his mother 
 once held her place, and the father's breast is a shrine 
 where Mammon gets the offering he once gave to his 
 children ; and on the christian's lips there is only a 
 kiss for the Master and the church, ere he sets his 
 face to the world, and goes back to pay his vows to 
 the old gods. 
 
 And if trial and peril and tribulation came to all 
 of us, what swaths of desolation they would leave 
 among us, — what windrows of dead branches, what 
 heartless farewell kisses, as the sole remains oi 
 that empty sentiment which hides itself in a gauzy 
 ostentation of love. I remark, finally, that the great 
 difference between the mere sentiment of love, and a 
 vital, deeply earnest, devoted affection, is one which 
 religion only can explain. 
 
 I do not deny that there is ardent, clinging, death- 
 
OKPAH AND KUTH. 265 
 
 less love, which knows little of a true religion ; there 
 is a pure, soft humanity of love, which gathers up 
 into one bundle of fibres all that is strongest in the 
 passionate instincts of our nature, while yet it has 
 not a single string in it that can awake a note of those 
 higher strains which breathe over life the music of 
 the spheres, and wed our hearts together in a sym- 
 phony sublimer than man's earthly passions can ever 
 know. I do not deny the existence of such a love, 
 but it touches us only around a segment of our 
 being ; it is too narrow to take us in the whole sweep 
 of our existence and our destiny. It is only the vox 
 humana in the organ ; it is only the flower on the 
 stalk ; it is the love of joyous smiles and April showers 
 of tears ; a love for life, not for death ; for the bloom- 
 ing hours and the flitting shadows, not for the dark, 
 deep, voiceless night of trouble and affliction. It is 
 a love that leaves out the soul, and with all its fra- 
 grance and its beauty, has no healing in it for man's 
 sharpest aches and sternest needs, those that meet 
 him wdien he is called to leave his household idols ; 
 and all that an unreligious love can give him is a 
 poor kiss upon his dying lips. Between this and a 
 love which draws to itself all the elements of religion, 
 there is that distinction which you may see between 
 Orpah and Ruth. Even the names of those sisters 
 are suggestive of this distinction. The one is Orpah, 
 "young vitality, youthful freshness," and the other 
 is Ruth, "friend of God," hinting to us the contrast 
 which exists between the uncertainty and inconstancy 
 of the most vigorous human powers, and the stead- 
 
266 ORPAH AND RUTH. 
 
 fastness of a heart which is stayed on God. Could 
 Orpah have said everything else, there was one thing 
 she could not say, " Thy God shall be my God"; 
 and therefore she turned again to her idols. And if 
 mere human love gets its tenderest beauty, and its 
 broadest scope, and its most unswerving loyalty 
 from religion, I ask how there can be any true love 
 for religion, for Christ, for the church, where the 
 essential facts of religion are wanting? And this 
 touches the case of many an unconverted man, who 
 stands to-day, like Orpah, divided between his old 
 gods and his old friends, and the divine call to a 
 christian life. 
 
 There is a sentiment in favor of Jesus, but it is too 
 weak to take up the cross of self-denial. There is a gen- 
 uine emotion that feels all the solemnity of the choice 
 which the sinner is called to make, and sometimes rises 
 and glows almost to the white heat of decision. 
 There is a surge of penitent feeling which sweeps 
 over the heart at the remembrance of the past, and 
 almost breaks away at times the dikes of pride, and 
 shame, and selfishness that constrain it. It would be 
 strange if men did not have such moments of tumul- 
 tuous feeling, when conscience kindles thought, and 
 eternity bends its awful frown upon the sinner. 
 
 But there is no virtue in all this. Let no such man 
 flatter himself that he comes nearer the kingdom 
 oecause his sentiments are in favor of it. Let no 
 Orpah delude herself into the belief that she is true 
 and faithful, because she seals her profession with a 
 kiss. It is not a feeling toward God that brings the 
 
ORrAH AND RUTH. 267 
 
 sinner to the cross, but a feeling' from God, and that 
 is a grace which only repentance and self-renuncia- 
 tion can bring. There is no true love for Christ that 
 does not spring from Christ ; there is no affection for 
 the church which does not cling to the church, and 
 plant itself within it. There is no loyalty to our 
 brethren which does not carry us into the midst of 
 them, with our hands ready to work, our hearts beat- 
 ing with sympathy, and our tongues prompt to declare 
 like Ruth, "The Lord do so to me, and more also, if 
 aught but death part you and me." 
 
PARABLE OF THE UNJUST STEWARD. 
 
 Luke xvi, 1-12. 
 
 This is one of the most interesting and instructive 
 of all that series of masterly fictions in which the 
 Saviour pictured and framed the lessons of wisdom, 
 truth, and love. We have here a story that reads 
 as fresh to-day as if it had been told only yesterday, 
 the story of the shrewd bankrupt. The character is 
 so true to life, the incidents are so faithfully in keep- 
 ing with the character, the cunning and trickery are so 
 like the arts which men use now, that one might be- 
 lieve, with no great violence to probability, that the 
 narrative had somehow fallen out of the private note- 
 book of some hard-pushed or hard-pushing Wall Street 
 or State Street broker. Like a great many brokers, 
 this man comes upon the scene in somewhat embar- 
 rassed circumstances. He had seen better clays, 
 when the world had gone well with him. He had 
 the management of a rich man's property, an im 
 mense estate, all whose business was done by him, 
 all whose profits passed through his hands, and if 
 he had not made his office pay its expenses and his 
 own, too, it had not been the fault of his modesty or 
 his honesty. 
 
PARABLE OF THE UNJUST STEWARD. 269 
 
 Probably, when ho entered into his office, he had 
 a £,*ood conscience and clean hands He could show 
 the best of references, and certificates of good moral 
 character, indorsed by men of the first standing in 
 society. He may even have had a good opinion of 
 himself, which, when one deserves it, is at least equal 
 to the best city references. 
 
 So he took the keys of his office, and went about 
 his work. 
 
 Now we sometimes find innocence of life and 
 character likened to a pure, unsullied, unwritten 
 piece of white paper, and the simile may be a very 
 good one, for some purposes. But the trouble prac- 
 tically is, that innocence of life is often too decidedly 
 and helplessly like a blank page of foolscap ; just as 
 white and clean it may be, but, also, just as indif- 
 ferently and passively and uselessly white and clean. 
 The devil has not put his signature there, vice has 
 not made its superscription, crime has not left its 
 villanous autograph ; but this is only because the 
 devil has not taken his time to make his mark, not 
 because there is not abundant room for the sweep of 
 his pen, and a very fair chance that a good oppor- 
 tunity may be given him. Give us rather a page of 
 life, a piece of paper that shows the ink-marks over 
 its whole broad surface ; a good, legal scrap of parch- 
 ment, filled up with an honest bond ; a substantial 
 promise to pay, fortified with securities, and as cur- 
 rent as a national bank-bill. Only let the marks be 
 of the right kind, and the paper may be as yellow as 
 the smoke of fuming years aud the dust of hard 
 
270 PARABLE OF THE UNJUST STEWARD. 
 
 travel may make it ; only let it be a genuine issue of 
 honest purpose and manly truthfulness, and when the 
 spirit of evil sees it, he turns from it in disgust : 
 he has been anticipated ; the ground has been occu- 
 pied ; there is no occasion for him to trouble himself; 
 the best he can do is merely to counterfeit it ; and he 
 knows as well as others, that the most wretched and 
 worst-paying counterfeits in this world are those 
 which put on the air and color of honesty for the 
 purpose of cheating ; and no forgery is baser than 
 the hypocrisy which tries to serve the devil in the 
 name of God. 
 
 Now this steward went to his work with very little 
 qualification but his native craftiness, managing skill, 
 and perhaps a little experience from former service 
 of the same kind ; and he met, at the start, the very 
 kind of temptation which besets every young man of 
 his stamp. For there is no union of qualities so sure 
 to plunge a man into difficulties, and lay snares, and 
 dig pitfalls for his honesty and his morality, as the 
 union of great shrewdness and great selfishness. 
 This steward had two fatal arts, which are certainly 
 not now among the lost arts, and I am afraid, they 
 never will be, — the art of making money fast, and 
 the art of spending it faster than he made it; and 
 unfortunately, these two arts follow each other so 
 closely, that nothing but a good conscience can keep 
 them apart. There is a great deal of misery in this 
 world from the want of money ; but the want of mon- 
 ey never yet ruined any man's character and ship- 
 wrecked his soul ; but a full horn of plenty, a great 
 
PARABLE OF THE UNJUST STEWARD. 271 
 
 cornucopia of cash, sets running a stream of mis- 
 chief that sweeps away the honor, the health, the 
 credit, the happiness, the souls of thousands. To get 
 more money than we need, is always a temptation to 
 need more than we get ; and a surplus of income is 
 just like the waste lot of a man's farm, sure to be- 
 come a nest of weeds, brambles, and rattlesnakes. 
 " Give me neither poverty nor riches," cried a wise 
 and holy man ; and if we are poor, may God give us 
 this man's wisdom or his holiness ; if we are rich, 
 then God give us both, for we need them. 
 
 This steward ran a rapid race, and very soon found 
 that his pay and perquisites were not enough to pro- 
 vide means for his pleasured, and then came to him 
 that critical ordeal of which so many of our young 
 men could speak to us from a bitter experience; fur 
 at this stage of his official history, the steward is the 
 type of a character as common in our streets, our 
 stores, our factories, as are the photographs in the 
 artists' show-windows. A young man with .no fixed 
 principles, and a very much fixed income, runs to 
 what he calls pleasure, as naturally as waste water runs 
 into the sewer. Start him with a light head and a 
 heavy pocket, and he will soon come back with his 
 condition just reversed, a light pocket and a heavy 
 head ; for no amount of money is sufficient to save 
 such a man from the heaven-ordained goal of the race 
 he runs. Pleasure like his is as voracious as a 
 famine, always crying, " Give, give " ; and when his 
 own supply of funds fails him, when his honesty is no 
 longer able to foot the bills of his folly, he reaches 
 
272 PARABLE OF THE UNJUST STEWARD. 
 
 the point at which God calls him, and the devil com- 
 pels him to pause awhile, and then make a peremp- 
 tory decision. for good or for evil. He can stop now, 
 if he will, and save himself. Up to this point he 
 has been foolish and wicked, but he has not added 
 crime to his folly. 
 
 He has been a rogue, perhaps, but not a scoun- 
 drel. He has injured himself, but he has not tried 
 to injure others. The trouble is for such an one, 
 that when he reaches this point, he has generally put 
 himself so far under the power of circumstances 
 that he feels obliged to go on a little longer. He 
 will play one more stake. He has pawned his char- 
 acter already, and he must redeem it. He has bought 
 pleasure so far with good, honest, solid cash. Why 
 should he not obtain it now on the credit of his 
 wits? He has the vanity, perhaps, to think he can 
 do what no other man ever yet did, that is, to steal, 
 and not become a thief, to cheat, and not turn into a 
 villain. For it is the wonderful logic of a fop's 
 vanity to admire in one's self what one laughs at or 
 despises in another; and many a man, or woman 
 even, would lose half of her conceit, if she could but 
 get a full outside view of her character or person, 
 at a distance of sixteen and a half feet. But our 
 tempted young man, having only an inside view of 
 himself, not very well lighted up, except through 
 the dusty skylights of his vanity, judges the dishon- 
 est schemes he meditates by the good opinion he 
 has of his own merits, and he fancies that roguery 
 and fraud become half legitimate by being smothered 
 
PARABLE (F THE UNJUST STEWARD. 273 
 
 in a blanket of virtuous resolutions. He must have 
 money just now ; this once he will take it without 
 earning it ; he will get it by the ancient craft of — 
 Oh, call it not stealing, but sequestration; name it 
 not vulgar forgery, but irresponsible penmanship ; 
 denounce it not by the rude term of cheating, but 
 call it more gently an abnormal extension of meum 
 into luum! How easy it is for the young man, with 
 this rose-water delicacy of treating and perfuming 
 his early tricks of dishonesty, to become a first-rate 
 artist with the least possible painstaking, till some 
 fine morning, like the poor steward before us, he 
 wakes up with the stern summons ringing in his ear, 
 " Give an account of thy stewardship." 
 
 But a rogue always dies hard, especially an old 
 rogue. Like a burglar shut up in the cell with his 
 bag of finely tempered tools, he is no sooner caught 
 in his tricks, than he sets himself to work his way to 
 escape by some trick more prodigious than the rest. 
 
 This is just what the steward did. There are some 
 men who contrive to live on their employers by 
 cheating the public, and others contrive to live on 
 the public by cheating their employers. The stew- 
 ard had been living on his lord, mainly by swindling 
 his lord's tenants. So he now took a turn, and set 
 his wits to work at devising an ingenious way of 
 living on the tenants by swindling his lord. Like 
 a courageous rogue, he set his true condition before 
 his eyes, and looked fairly at his prospects, and like 
 a right royal fop he came speedily to this natural 
 conclusion : " I cannot dig ; to beg, I am ashamed." 
 
274 PARABLE OF THE UNJUST STEWARD. 
 
 Like many a man related to the sons of his father, 
 the one useful thing he might have done in his ex- 
 tremity, he had not the ability or the will to do ; 
 and the only honorable alternative that was then left 
 him, he had not the humility or the honesty to do. 
 
 What he did do was, to transfer to himself obliga- 
 tions that were due to his lord. He converted the 
 tenants' legal debts to their landlord, into debts 
 of honor to himself; and as it has alwaj^s been said 
 there is honor among thieves, it is very probable that 
 this arrangement was satisfactory to both parties, and 
 that the ejected steward afterwards found a very 
 comfortable living among the accomplices of his 
 villany. 
 
 Now, why does our Saviour tell this story? Why 
 has he set before us this hard picture of unscrupu- 
 lous dealing and ingenious trickery ? Certainly he 
 could never mean to bestow a morsel of praise on a 
 character like this !. So far from it, he has drawn its 
 dishonesty with so unmistakable features, he has 
 scored the portrait with lines so deep indented, that 
 he has not judged it worth while to utter a word of 
 condemnation. Human nature condemns it; every 
 instinct of an honest heart condemns it ; the spirit 
 of all law and order condemns it ; every sentiment 
 of manhood, all loyalty to truth and good faith, con- 
 demn it. This is enough, surely, and we have only 
 to ask what the lesson is which Jesus taught by the 
 help of this story. You remember how, in the story 
 of the prodigal, Jesus has traced with graphic words, 
 every one of which stands out like a painting of 
 
PARABLE OF THE UNJUST STEWARD. 275 
 
 Hogarth, the young man's career of profligate in- 
 dulgence and degrading misery. He did this only to 
 lead us, by imp.essive stages, to that point in the 
 story at which the real, vital interest begins, that 
 point at which the young man, sick of his folly, and 
 goaded by the stings of conscience, conies to himselt 
 and exclaims, " I will arise. I will go to my father." 
 So in this story the sin, and cunning, and fraud 
 are brought in to give effect to the interest of that 
 moment when the detected, disgraced, ejected steward, 
 feeling himself on the verge of ruin, anxiously asks, 
 " What shall I do ? " and then sets all his wits at 
 work to discover some means of salvation. Of course 
 a wise man so endangered, would be sure to do this, 
 and of a good man- you naturally expect this display 
 of common prudence. But the point here is, that 
 even a knave, a spendthrift, a man who has lived like 
 a fool, when the pinch of danger comes, has still 
 sense and judgment enough to take care of the future. 
 No matter how reckless of life a man may have been, 
 if he knows he has but ten days to live, he grows ex- 
 ceedingly anxious as to how and where he is to spend 
 them ; and even the savage Wirtz, who had probably, 
 as he said, when he was reigning as tormentor-general 
 of our poor soldiers, and chief of the staff-of-death 
 at Andersonville, often contented himself with the 
 same kind of diet he dealt out to his starving prison- 
 ers, even he, when he was sent to prison, became 
 much troubled about his prison rations, and took great 
 pains to guard against a restricted bill of fere. 
 
 Even the worst of men, when necessity compels 
 
27 13 PARABLE OF THE UNJUST STEWARD. 
 
 them, or danger threatens them, are prudent enough 
 to make the best provision possible, though they look 
 no further than the wants of the body. The same 
 faculties they have used to gild their vices and screen 
 their villany, they are prompt to use when the hand 
 of discovery strips off their gilt and shows them as 
 they are. 
 
 And here, Christ would teach us, is the condemna- 
 tion of all of us, that for our life, our reputation, 
 our bread, we are wise enough to arm ourselves 
 and fight with every weapon of strength and skill 
 experience has taught us to use. The same cunning 
 that broke the bank-safe and took the money out, 
 breaks the jail and takes out the thief; the same 
 sharp dealing that won a fortune, contrives to save 
 it when endangered ; the same quick wit that took 
 advantage of the market, afterwards takes advantage 
 of the law and eludes the grasp of pursuing credit- 
 ors ; everywhere you see what powers men have 
 all brought into play by the exigencies of danger ; 
 and even when, like the steward, a man has tempted 
 danger by his own roguery, and provoked the re- 
 venges of misery by his crimes, he has yet sense 
 enough to stand by himself and seek to batfle the 
 pursuit he cannot escape. But how do we act when 
 the question takes hold, not on honor alone, or 
 wealth, or life, hut on the pearl of great price, 
 the hope of salvation, and the prospect of immor- 
 tality? Here there is a peril that threatens us all, 
 here is a necessity that gripes us with the death- 
 less hand of destiny, here is an interest which 
 
PARABLE OF THE UNJUST STEWARD. 277 
 
 language cannot measure ; yet before these thousands 
 of men and women are as heedless as if God had 
 denied sense to the human soul and confined it to 
 the muscles and nerves, or as if the soul itself were 
 a fiction and eternity a dream. Well did Jesus 
 say, " The children of this world are wiser in their 
 generation than the children of light." Probably the 
 most earnest question the bankrupt steward ever 
 asked was his cry, " What shall I do ? " He saw 
 only the dark cloud that swept the horizon of his 
 earthly hopes : he thought not of the storm that was 
 gathering out of his sight, of a justice which no 
 cunning can overreach and no crime escape. And 
 there are now young men whose feet are going 
 down to shame and disgrace as fast as time and their 
 own passions can urge them, whose sole anxiety is 
 lest they have to dig or to beg ; fast young men 
 whose speed of living has compromised their hon- 
 esty and added sin to folly, and compelled them 
 to pay for pleasure with a bond of perpetual fear, 
 a draft on future exposure and ruin. They know 
 their risk already. Torture has begun in their 
 hearts, and they hear everywhere a voice warning 
 them of the pit they have digged for themselves 
 and the retribution that hovers over the next turn in 
 their road. Could we get admission to the private 
 hours of these young men, could we wring from 
 their pillows the sighs and tears that confess the 
 pleadings of their better angels and betray their guilt 
 and dread, we should want no stronger evidence 
 to convince us that "the way of transgressors is 
 
 12 
 
278 PARABLE OF THE UNJUST STEWARD. 
 
 hard." And all the harder for this, which is another 
 lesson taught ns here, that the man who has be°'un 
 dishonestly and wickedly must go on so, if he do 
 not stop short by repentance. The prudence of the 
 steward could neither save him from detection nor 
 give him honest means to avert the consequences of 
 his villany. He had chosen his tools, and he was 
 obliged to use them just as they were. You can fight 
 fire with fire, you can neutralize poison with poison, 
 but no such treatment can possibly save a sinner. 
 He cannot cure one sin by another. He cannot avert 
 shame and ruin by new devices of cunning and crime. 
 There is but one possible remedy. He must turn in 
 his path, turn at once. " Turn ye, for why will ye 
 die?" 
 
 The day is near when the stewardship of life will 
 be demanded of us. How are we using it now, for 
 our Lord or for ourselves ? and what care have we 
 taken that when the substance of this world dis- 
 solves into the shadow of death, we may find room 
 for our souls in the " everlasting habitations " on high ? 
 
THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA. 
 
 11 Come, see a man that told me all that ever I did. Is not this the 
 Christ ?" — John iv, 29. 
 
 These words were spoken by one of the most 
 remarkable of all the converts of Jesus, one whose 
 sudden conversion is not so much explained as it is 
 illustrated and beautified by the fact that the con- 
 vert was a woman. But then she was a woman of 
 Samaria; and though a wonrvn, even if a Samaritan, 
 must carry the tender, sensitive, intuitive, quickly 
 responsive heart of a woman, yet I think the Sa- 
 maritan element must be a little more stubborn, a 
 little harder to be overcome in the heart of a wo- 
 man, than in that of a man. There seems to be this 
 difference between the prejudices of a woman and 
 those of a man, that her prejudices can be melted 
 out of her, while those of the man must be drilled 
 and chiselled out of him, with the steel bits and 
 wedges of logic ; and as logic is cheaper than love, I 
 think the hard-headed man a more hojDeful subject 
 than the hard hearted woman. And I believe this 
 woman of Samaria had gone to the ancient well of 
 Jacob a thoroughly hard-hearted woman. For she 
 not only had her heart overlaid with all the tenacious 
 
280 THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA. 
 
 prejudices of her race, but she had these prejudices 
 themselves overlaid and pressed down upon her by 
 the misfortunes and the guilt of her life. There is 
 nothing so narrowing and stifling as the sense of 
 wrong-doing. Give the soul a wrong bias at the 
 start, and every sin adds a little to the twist, till at 
 length the original vice is rolled and wound around 
 the heart like the coils of an anaconda. 
 
 The meeting of this woman and Je>us looks like a 
 mere accident. She certainly did not know whom 
 she was to find at the well, but are we permitted 
 to say Jesus did not know who was coming out of 
 Sychem to meet him there ? If it was an accident, 
 then it was one of those merciful accidents of which 
 life is full. For in our own hearts, when they are 
 stung by our follies, when they are cankered with our 
 sins or oppressed with our griefs and trials, there 
 does seem to lie an unconscious power of direction, 
 a power that insensibly drives us toward the help and 
 the hope which we need ; that seizes on the daily 
 habits and the common ways of our life, takes up 
 the most familiar offices and the most trivial drudger- 
 ies, and turns them into the instruments of its won- 
 der-working ; waylays us, if I may say so, in the path 
 that leads to the well, and sets our faces straight toward 
 the gracious Providence which is able to bless us and 
 to save us. The best thinsg in life often come to us 
 as surprises. The brightest visions, the dearest joys, 
 spring up where we had no thought to find them, 
 sometimes out of our bitterest cold and gloom, as 
 flowers out of the snow- crusts. We think we ar 
 
THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA. 281 
 
 only going to the well, when we are going to meet 
 Jesns, and a light service is turned at once into a 
 priceless memory and an immortal hope. 
 
 Whether we know it distinctly or not, our great 
 necessities are the envelopes of a power that urges 
 us Godward. The darker it is around us, the more 
 do we seek the light, and our troubles and sorrows 
 are like the stones that crush a young plant ; it can 
 escape from them only in one direction, and that is 
 towards the sun. And God watches these struggling 
 germs in us, and often, when we are almost ready to 
 despair, surpiises them into sudden release and 
 rapid development. So was Luther surprised out 
 of his soul-sickness of doubt and perplexity into the 
 vigorous health and energy of a christian manhood. 
 He was crushed in spirit, and went groping among 
 the cloisters of the old monastery until he found that 
 old convent Bible, and the imprisoned truth flashed, 
 like the morning beam, into his soul. 
 
 Jesus seems to have come upon men often with 
 just such surprises. He found his first disciples toil- 
 ing at their nets, and his greeting and his call were 
 mingled in the first words he spoke jto them, "Fol- 
 low me, " So he found Zaccheus, sitting among the 
 branches of the tree, and hoping, not for a gracious 
 word from the Master, but only for a passing view of 
 him, and his heart must have thrilled when Jesus said 
 to him, "Come down. This day is salvation come to 
 thy house." So did Jesus come upon Matthew, sit- 
 ting at the receipt of custom, and arouse him from 
 his money-changing with the simple but imperative 
 
282 THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA. 
 
 summons, " Follow me." Jesus was acting here upon 
 his knowledge of the hearts of men. There was a 
 chord here waiting to be struck by his master-hand. 
 There was a door here ready to open at his first 
 knocking. There was a willingness here which 
 needed but a word to awaken it out of unconscious- 
 ness and kindle it into ardent and earnest recogni- 
 iont and cheerful obedience. 
 
 But let us not forget that all these surprises find 
 us in the path of duty ; there only does Jesus meet 
 us. The duty may be one of the cheapest and most 
 trivial: that matters not, great or small, coarse or 
 graceful, duty always looks toward God, and if it be 
 no more, it is at least the path which leads to the 
 well, where we may find the Saviour. 
 
 Let us inquire now what it was which served to 
 reveal Christ to the woman. And here it is of some 
 importance to emphasize the fact that this revelation 
 of Jesus, as the Christ, was made to a woman. For 
 it seems to sustain a certain relation to the general 
 series of evidence and testimony recorded by the 
 evangelists. 
 
 How often you read of the profound impression 
 which was produced on men by the miracles of 
 Jesus. They seemed almost universally to look for 
 and to criticise narrowly the broadest and most pal- 
 pable marks of Jesus' divine character and mission. 
 The rulers were anxious to weigh his claims in the 
 balance against the hard, rough, iron weights of most 
 vulgar appreciation. They were used to deal with 
 visible facts, and to hew and square evidence by the 
 
THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA. 283 
 
 chalk-line of business rules. They cared little for 
 any hidden charm or grace, any interior divinity, 
 and were clamorous only for an imposing outside. 
 
 Herod was utterly blind to the matchless power 
 and beauty of Jesus' spirit ; and yet if he had had 
 his request granted, and seen some great miracle 
 wrought by Jesus, he might have interposed to save 
 him; and after the resurrection, Thomas himself, 
 one of Jesus' intimate twelve, seemed unable, stur- 
 dy, dull-headed sceptic that he was, to link the 
 risen Jesus with the Master he had followed by any 
 identities of the spirit, but insisted on the correspond- 
 ences of the flesh. You never find a woman making 
 any such demand as this. Out of that broad circle 
 of* womanly tenderness and devotion which glows, 
 like a belt of stars, around the figure and person of 
 the Master, there never came a suspicion of doubt or 
 even of hesitation. And to all the cavils of men 
 which historic fidelity has left in the pages of the 
 New Testament, we oppose the unanimous verdict, 
 the spontaneous acknowledgment, the unwavering 
 loyalty of the women, whose pride it was to love and 
 whose joy it was to serve their honored Lord. The 
 men may have felt more keenly the convincing power 
 of miracle ; but the women, with sharper insight, 
 with subtler, quicker perceptions, with delicate, high- 
 strung sensibility to charms for which flesh is too dense 
 a medium, and a spiritual magnetism too fine to be 
 tested by mere nerve and muscle, the women bowed 
 with half-divine instinctiveness to the spirit of the 
 Saviour. Not by the splendor of miracle were they 
 
284 THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA. 
 
 attracted, not by the outward and manifest wonders 
 of power were they subdued into faith ; but by the 
 deeper, purer, rarer, diviner potencies and graces 
 which, to their penetrating eyes, looked out from the 
 mighty yet gentle spirit of their Lord. We have the 
 testimony of the men ; add to it the testimony of the 
 women, and we have the convergence of two lines of 
 evidence, proceeding from both sides of Jesus' char- 
 acter. We have all that humanity can witness as to 
 the visible power and the indwelling spirit of our 
 Lord Jesus Christ; and it seems to me that the testi- 
 mony in our text is essentially the woman's testimony. 
 Look carefully at the words, "Come, and see — " 
 It is a perfectly inartificial and most emotional utter- 
 ance. You can almost catch the rush and nervdus 
 impetuosity of the woman's eagerness. You can 
 almost see her as she beckons to her listeners, with 
 half-imperious gesture, and w 7 ith one hot charge of 
 breath, tries, but only tries, to convey some intel- 
 ligible idea of the wonderful Jesus. She cannot stop 
 to analyze the process by which her faith has been 
 conquered ; she can oniy tell by what open steps 
 Jesus has won his way to her heart ; so she exclaims, 
 " Come and see a man that told me all that ever I 
 did " ; and here seems to pause as if she felt she was 
 telling, in fact, the poorest and least marvellous part 
 of the story; here she stops, as if she despaired of 
 giving any just conception of what she would fain 
 have every one experience for himself; and she can 
 only add, out of the confidence of her own couvic- 
 tion, and in the transport of a joyful discovery, "Is 
 not this the Christ? " 
 
THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA. 285 
 
 What, then, was the power which had constrained 
 the will and entranced the heart of this woman? Can 
 you believe it was the humau power of that self-con- 
 sciousness which Jesus had armed against her by his 
 revelation of the great facts of her life ? He told her 
 wh;it she was, but others could have told her that. 
 He sent a scorching flash of shame through the his- 
 tory of her life ; but she had lived that history, and 
 could she be confounded by a stranger's acquaintance 
 with it ? No, it was not that. Shamed she may have 
 been, but shame does not convince us; pained she 
 may have been, but she had a joy also which tri- 
 umphed over pain, and seized on it as martyrs clutch 
 the stake or the firebrand. Plainly the hand which 
 had bruised her, had healed her also. Jesus' words 
 had fallen like coals upon her heart ; but they would 
 only have seared ; but Jesus' spirit had followed his 
 words, quenching the coals and curing the smart. 
 In the harder and sharper revelation of her sins, 
 there was a revelation of love and power tenfold 
 more lustrous and constraining; it was that spirit 
 which won the hearts of heavy-laden sinners, and 
 dried the tears of suffering men and women, and 
 lifted publicans, in repentant humility, where Phari- 
 saic pride was helpless to climb. With her eyes 
 the woman saw only Jesus, but with her heart she 
 felt the Christ, she felt the Lord of love in the man 
 of sorrows, and the Master of life in the victim of 
 the cross, and in that great heart, which throbbed 
 with pity for sinners, she could see that fathomless 
 well of which Jesus spoke, whose waters spring up 
 12* 
 
286 THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA. 
 
 into everlasting life. And she goes home exel aim- 
 ing, "Come, and see," as if she would say, "It is 
 impossible for me to tell you the half of what I have 
 learned. ? He told me all that ever I did,' but that is 
 only one thing, that is the least of all ; you must see 
 for yourselves ; no one can explain it to you. Come, 
 come and see ! " 
 
 She had gone to the well filled with her Samaritan 
 prejudices, but that divine presence had scattered 
 them, how, she could not have told herself, not by 
 the force of reasoning, not by the terrors of rebuke, 
 not as the whirlwind tears up and scatters, not as the 
 thunderbolt cleaves through and crushes, but as the 
 sweet radiance of the sun melts its way into every 
 cleft and seam of the water-soaked and frost-shod- 
 den earth, and draws out of it and dissipates in the air 
 the cold moisture which oppresses it. She had gone 
 to the well, thinking that only "in this place," on 
 the top of Gerizim, " men ought to worship," but she 
 came back feeling that she, at least, could worship 
 anywhere with that Lord of worship and great Mas- 
 ter of assemblies. It was not what Jesus said, it 
 was the divine mystery of his spirit, love deeper than 
 Jacob's well, majesty higher than Mount Grerizim, 
 and a power that could cement Samaria and Jeru- 
 salem, weld heart to heart, wreathe hand with hand, 
 till the world had but one worship, and owned but 
 one prophet and Saviour. 
 
 And now I proceed to inquire if this wonderful 
 spirit of Jesus does not animate the gospel to-day, 
 if this same power does not, in fact, make the gos- 
 
THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA. 287 
 
 pel for us, what Jesus' language was to the woman, 
 a searcher of hearts, and if it is not to the still living 
 Jesus that the words of Jesus owe their incomparable 
 charm, and their world-compelling attraction. In 
 some less degree, but in a degree sensible even to the 
 coldest heart, we feel the presence of Jesus in the 
 teachings he has given us. The gospel is like that 
 curtain which hung before the Holy of Holies, and 
 the words of Jesus embroider and emblazon it. We 
 are in the tabernacle, and we feel as the Jews felt 
 on the great day of atonement. We can see that 
 curtain before us, we command all one side of it, but 
 we know there is another side, and on that side is 
 hidden the grandeur, and there are the secrets of the 
 power of our religion. There stands our High-Priest, 
 before the ark of the covenant ; we cannot see him, 
 we do not hear him, but at moments of rapt atten- 
 tion, in the deep silences of our hearts, and with the 
 sharpened eye of our faith, we can see the tremblings 
 of the curtain, we can catch the ripples of motion as 
 they break and rustle against it, and we have no 
 doubt there is life there ; there is a power there, both 
 human and divine, and behind that curtain the hands 
 of a man are laid on the wings of mighty cherubim, 
 and the head of the priest is crowned with the glory 
 of the Shekinah. This is the mystery which lies 
 behind and within the gospel, and when we stand 
 consciously before it, when through the great curtain of 
 the gospel we once hear the murmur and feel the power 
 of the great presence which it enfolds, we bow as 
 Nathaniel did, exclaiming, with ardor of conviction, 
 
288 THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA. 
 
 "Thou art the Son of God, thou art the King of 
 Israel ! " 
 
 I apprehend it was of the gospel Paul was mainly 
 thinking, when he said of God's word, that it is alive, 
 and sharper than any two-edged sword, and is a dis- 
 cerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart " ; 
 and for no sinful man, who has ever brought his heart 
 into that presence, would it be necessary to prove 
 that the gospel has a living energy, a startling close- 
 ness of aim, a piercing keenness, a stereoscopic, re- 
 volving splendor of revelation, from which the sinner 
 withdraws with a heartfelt confession like that of the 
 woman, " He told me all that ever I did." 
 
 I remember hearing a prisoner say once that he 
 never fully conceived his guilt till he was brought 
 into court, and then it seemed to his stricken con- 
 sciousness that every look went through and through 
 him, and that the judge's eye was kindling a match 
 among the dark secrets of his soul. But this was 
 fear shuddering before justice. The power of God's 
 truth is more than this. It is the power of justice, 
 with the power of the gospel added, condemning 
 power and saving power. 
 
 You know by how little the black coal differs 
 chemically from the brilliant diamond ; by how little 
 in mere statement, by how much to the possibilities 
 of science. There is just this difference between the 
 words of Jesus and any other words whatever ; there 
 is just this difference between a Christless religion 
 and the religion of Jesus. You can begin, as you 
 think, to turn a sinful soul into a spiritual diamond, 
 
THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA. 289 
 
 and you fancy you sometimes come very near to suc- 
 cess ; but you have only hardened it and carbonized 
 it, without making it one whit cleaner or more trans- 
 parent. But put it into the hands of the Master, let 
 his love melt it and his grace shape it, and all its 
 blackness is gone, and in every face and at every 
 turn it gives back to your eye the image of the 
 power which has transformed it. 
 
 And here is the secret of an earnest faith in the 
 gospel, that it takes hold on the living spirit of 
 Jesus. It is not like faith in human science or wis- 
 dom. That only finds a point of attachment. It is 
 like a short, single reach of telegraph wire, strung 
 only from one pole to another ; the wind may make 
 music with it, and the birds may sit upon it and sing 
 there, but it never thrills with a stream of electric 
 fire or throbs with a message of joy. But faith in 
 Christ is a circuit of divine life and power. Words 
 are only the keys, doctrines are but the symbols and 
 signs ; but by these and through these, there speaks 
 to us the undying spirit of Jesus himself, and while 
 our hearts are probed, and our weakness and guilt 
 come out of the depths where we tried to bury them 
 and forget them, we are compelled to repeat the 
 admiring cry of the multitudes, "Never man spake 
 like this man," and to ask, even out of the excess of 
 our conviction, " Is not this the Christ?" 
 
 When Jesus spoke to the woman of Samaria he 
 was in his mid-career, and how little she knew of 
 that life and those sufferings, through which the spirit 
 of Jesus was to ascend its throne of power and 
 glory ! 
 
290 THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA. 
 
 We see with what joyful promptness she acknowl- 
 edged the commanding spirit of Jesus : what, think 
 you, would have been her feeling and her faith, if 
 she had looked on Jesus in the shadow of Calvary, 
 if she had stood with the Marys, surveying through 
 their tears that rugged pass of pangs through which 
 the human in Jesus was lifted into the godlike $ and 
 the love of Jesus was baptized with atoning blood ? 
 
 There is one thing here to which I desire to ask 
 your attention. You know what efforts are now 
 being made to show that our Master, in many of 
 his richest discourses, his weightiest inculcations, his 
 most beautiful words, was himself but a disciple ; 
 that he was silently borrowing from that mass of 
 wisdom which was afterwards reposited, almost at 
 haphazard, in the Talmud. I do not believe this. I 
 believe any candid consideration of the facts refutes 
 this extreme opinion. But what if it were true, yea, 
 what if it were ten times true ? What can the most 
 radical interpretation of the Talmud do for the New 
 Testament, which the New Testament has not done for 
 the Old ? And do we reject the Old Testament because 
 so much of it reappears in the New? The Talmud is 
 but an exposition of the law ; it professes to be only 
 this. And Jesus has repealed the law; and do you 
 think he went to the lawyers to learn this lesson of 
 repeal, and imbibe from them the ideas which have 
 exploded their whole system and buried it under the 
 rubbish of eighteen centuries ? I trow not. 
 
 It is the gospel which has kept the Old Testament 
 itself alive to the present hour. They are christian 
 
THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA. 21)1 
 
 ligaments, tendons and nerves of christian doctrine, 
 that string together and hold up to-day that antique 
 skeleton of the old dispensation. And I could concede 
 all that infidels claim in this matter, I could admit 
 that our Master had learned of the doctors of the 
 Talmud, and I should still be lost in admiration of 
 that marvellous power which breathed life into these 
 dry bones, and clothed with flushes of animated 
 beauty and set quivering with pulses of irrepressible 
 vigor that defunct old Talmudic body. 
 
 I am reminded that there is shown in some French 
 museum, I believe in the Louvre, a bullet which 
 struck Napoleon and slightly wounded him. They 
 say to you, when they show it, "This bullet hit the 
 Emperor, and he took it up in his own hand, and 
 put it in his pocket." It looks like any old-fashioned 
 musket-ball, but you can look at it till you fancy you 
 almost see the face of Napoleon reflected in it ; yet 
 3 7 ou can but say, " This is only a rusty piece of 
 moulded lead, and it would never have been heard 
 of but for the fact that it wounded an emperor." 
 
 Now I do not doubt the time will come when men 
 will take up the Talmud, that rusty, well-oxidized 
 piece of antiquity, and they will show it and say, 
 " See, this is the bullet which was once shot at our 
 Master, and they say that he had picked it up formerly, 
 and shot it at the Pharisees." Men may believe this 
 if they please, but they will say, " This antiquated 
 relic would never have been heard of but for Jesus.'' 
 And that is the truth. The beauty of the Talmud 
 plays over the accepted religion of the old time like 
 the iris hues of sunset gilding the panes of a Gothic 
 
292 THE WOMAN OF SAMARIA. 
 
 window ; but the power of Jesus cuts into it and 
 flashes through it like lightning, and in these Mosaic 
 
 © © © ' 
 
 ruins, which are built up into the religion of the cross, 
 it is no longer the form,- mere words and husks of 
 teaching, which we wonder at, but the spirit which 
 breathes through them, and that is the spirit of the 
 undying Jesus. 
 
 Lord Bacon proposed, as one of the severest tests 
 of scientific truth, what he called the experiment of 
 the cross. We have also our test of the cross, our 
 crucial experiment, and it is, literally, for religion, 
 what Bacon's was, but by metaphor, for science. Our 
 religion sets up the cross before us, the sacrifice of 
 One who gave himself to death for us. If our faith 
 owns not the cross, it does not hold the spirit of 
 Jesus, for it is from the cross, and through its black 
 shadows, that spirit breaks and shines upon us like a 
 gleam of mercy from on high. Reject the cross, and 
 you still carry the sins which Jesus' word has touched 
 into tenfold enormity ; but own the cross, and own 
 the redeeming blood which falls from it, and the sins 
 you feel are washed away by mercy, and you become 
 new creatures in Christ Jesus. 
 
 We take up and repeat the words of the woman of 
 Samaria. We give her invitation, my friends, to 
 you. w Come and see ! " Come to the living spirit 
 of Jesus in the gospel. Shrink not from its revela- 
 tions. Let conscience respond to the searching scru- 
 tiny of the truth ; and we feel sure that you also will 
 take up the question, not as an inquiry, but as a 
 joyous assurance of irrefutable persuasion and tri- 
 umphant appeal, — "Is not this the Christ?" 
 
LOOKING ON CHRIST AT THE JUDGMENT. 
 
 " Behold, he cometh icith clouds ; and every eye shall see him, and 
 they also which pierced him; and all kindreds of the earth shall 
 wail because of him." — Revelation i, 7. 
 
 We have here a picture in prophetic colors of that 
 coming day which our mother speech has named, 
 with one of its shoit, marrowful words, the day of 
 doom. The picture is only outlined, hut it is drawn 
 with those quick, bold, strong strokes, which always 
 proclaim the hand of a master, and the master's hand 
 here is that of the spirit of Jesus himself. This is 
 the characteristic of every attempt which the Bible 
 makes to place before us its conception of the great 
 day of judgment ; that it seizes on a few salient fea- 
 tures, and leaves us to infer the rest from them. It 
 does not try to utter what is unutterable ; it does 
 not try to crowd, on the narrow canvas of human 
 speech, scenes and colors which demand the walls 
 of the universe for their adequate display. Hence 
 every effort to paint the last judgment is a theologi- 
 cal failure. Even the grandest of all these attempts, 
 that of Michael Angelo, which lends its dusky splen- 
 dors of art to the walls of the Sistine Chapel, fails 
 to add anything at all to the simple majesty of those 
 
294 LOOKING ON CHRIST AT THE JUDGMENT. 
 
 forms of light and masses of shadow, which come 
 out to every mind in the brief hints of Revelation. 
 
 Notice by what transition of thought John intro- 
 duces this great theme of his prophecies ; yon find 
 something abrupt in the change of subject : " Unto 
 him that hath loved us, and washed our sins in his 
 own blood, and hath made as kings and priests unto 
 God and his Father ; to him be glory and dominion 
 forever." He seems to remember here that this trib- 
 ute of the disciples to the love of Jesus is to be also 
 the great Te Deum of the saints in heaven. This is 
 the doxology of the redeemed. These strains will 
 burst from ascending millions on the morning of the 
 resurrection, hallowed dust will animate itself to this 
 song of praise, the graves of them that sleep in Jesus 
 will stir and open at this music, and when the arch- 
 angel's trump shall have ceased to be heard, the 
 heavens will continue to ring with this Gloria in Ex- 
 celsis, " Glory to him that hath loved us, and hath 
 washed our sins in his own blood !'' 
 
 But now John seems to pause as if under some 
 revulsion of feeling. He pauses, just as we do when- 
 ever we let our souls mount up on the eagle-wing of 
 such transporting anticipation, and then let them, as 
 we must let them, fall down and back to the sympa- 
 thies of earth. For our christian joy is now like a 
 bird confined with a cord ; however high it may soar, 
 it must drag after it the silken bond that restrains 
 it. Our bonds are the thought and the love of those 
 who are without Christ. We understand how John 
 felt when he set joy and wailing here in so sharp an 
 
LOOKING ON CHRIST AT THE JUDGMENT. 295 
 
 antithesis. For let the saint's doxology be as loud 
 as the cymbals of heaven, let it girdle the earth 
 and belt the skies with song, what shall we say of 
 those other sounds which must blend with the ter- 
 rors of that hour " when all the dead, small and 
 great, shall stand before God " ? 
 
 If there be few that are saved, what refrain can be 
 found for the myriads of voices that must proclaim, in 
 that appalling moment, the anguish of the lost soul, 
 when over the crash of dissolving worlds, above the 
 tumult of mustering nations and kingdoms, will resound 
 that cry of despair with which men shall call on the 
 rocks and mountains to fall on them, and to hide them 
 from the wrath of the Lamb ? And as we think, with 
 joy, in what goodly company we may take our flight 
 to the heavenly world, going up side by side with the 
 beloved of our own households and the honored of our 
 own brethren, feeling as the dying Calvin felt when 
 he said, " What brightness shines in my soul at the 
 thought that in a few hours I shall go to join the 
 society of the wisest and best that ever lived ; and 
 most delightful of all, I shall go to sit down at the 
 feet of Jesus," — as we think and feel this, does there 
 not come a sudden pang that dashes our joy, when 
 we change assurance into questioning, and ask our 
 hearts to give us, ask God to give us, some hope that 
 this and that dear friend, this and that child, or fa- 
 ther, or brother, or sister, shall not be left out from 
 the great chorus of rejoicing spirits ? if we could feel 
 gi-ief in heaven as keenly as we feel it here, how 
 should we sing one song after the divisions and sepa- 
 
296 LOOKING ON CHRIST AT THE JUDGMENT. 
 
 rations on the last clay? How we should balance our 
 rapture with agony ! " This one is here ! " we should 
 cry. " This one stands with me on the right hand of 
 the throne. Jesus has saved for me so much of my 
 love ; so much of my earthly happiness is blooming 
 here, but where is the rest ? There is a void in my 
 heart, that dear friend is lost to me, that brother 
 has made shipwreck, that companion of my years has 
 gone down to eternal night ! " 
 
 Oh, if these anxieties, these longings, these sor- 
 rows over unconverted men were carried into 
 heaven, every pleasure would be draped with a 
 pall and every song would be drowned in tears ! 
 
 These are the thoughts which came hard upon the 
 exulting flight of John's spirit, and flung their deep 
 shade upon the glimpses of the text: "For behold, 
 He cometh with clouds, and every eye shall see him, 
 and they also who pierced him ; and all kindreds .of 
 the earth shall wail because of him." 
 
 This passage at once connects itself with a simi- 
 lar text in Zechariah, — " They shall look upon Him 
 whom they have pierced." 
 
 He who was pierced is Jesus, it can be no other. 
 We must be satisfied of this. But who are they that 
 are here spoken of as having pierced him? What is 
 the meaning of the words " piercing Jesus " ? It is 
 evident that John does not intend here that act which 
 concluded the indignities and tortures inflicted on the 
 body of Jesus at his crucifixion ; for that was the act 
 of but one man in the multitude of Jesus' execution- 
 ers. "And a soldier took a spear and pierced his 
 
LOOKING ON CHRIST AT THE JUDGMENT. 297 
 
 side." They did not pierce him, but he did. And 
 this act of the soldier only suggested a term to ex- 
 press an idea similar to that which the word " crucify " 
 itself is used to convey, when the apostle speaks in 
 Hebrews of those who "have crucified the Lord 
 afresh." 
 
 Some one may say that those who stood around 
 the Roman soldier, as he plunged his spear into the 
 side of Jesus, were as guilty as he, because they 
 abetted the deed. That is true, but that is the very 
 argument which puts the sinner of to-day under the 
 same condemnation. Around the dying Saviour 
 were gathered two groups, as clearly and distinctly 
 defined and separated, as sunrise from midnight. 
 There were the Johns and the Marys, bowed to the 
 earth with unspeakable sorrow, and yearning with 
 love and desire, if only to touch those bleeding feet 
 or kiss that pallid and blood-stained brow. Jesus 
 was dying for them,, but they felt only that he was 
 dying from them, and every word he spoke, every 
 groan of pain, every look of tenderness they an- 
 swered with their tears and echoed with their hearts. 
 And there was that other group, far more numerous, 
 whose eyes were tearless, whose hearts were ribbed 
 with the cold iron of indifference, and whose tongues 
 moved only in raillery and scoffing. Where would 
 you have stood, impenitent sinner, if you had been 
 there ? We know what you would say. There is in 
 you a conflict of sentiment with motive. Sentiment 
 cries out in your heart, "I would have put myself 
 with the disciples, I would have knelt with the weep- 
 
298 LOOKING ON CHRIST AT THE JUDGMENT. 
 
 ing Johns and Marys." But sentiment is only sun- 
 light on the waters ; it gilds them, but it does not 
 raise a single wave of motion. You think you 
 never would have stood in the group of Pharisees 
 and soldiers. But in which group are you found 
 to-day? The cross of Jesus is lifted before you, at 
 the foot of that cross are gathered hearts as loving as 
 those of the first disciples, there fall tears, as sweet 
 to Jesus, as those which anointed his feet on earth ; 
 there lifts itself a faith as devoted and childlike as 
 that whiten shone in the eyes of the twelve. Are 
 you in that group? Do your tears start at the story 
 of Jesus' sufferings for you? Is your love strong 
 enough to make you cry, — 
 
 " Ashamed of Jesus, that dear friend, 
 On whom my hopes of heaven depend? " 
 
 If you are not in that group, then you have classi- 
 fied yourself, you have taken your place where Jesus 
 himself sorrows to see you, and that sorrow is the 
 wound of your spear. You are among those who 
 pierce the Saviour. He calls on you to confess him 
 before men, but you stand silent among the Phari- 
 sees. If you owned him, you would pass from that 
 group to the other, you would feel the love which 
 looks down on you from the cross, and } t ou would 
 say, "Jesus died for the world, and half the world 
 is against him. I will not stand with that Christ-dis- 
 owning half, I will bow my head where that atoning 
 blood may fall on me. It shall never be said of me 
 that I blocked up the channels by which Jesus' love 
 
LOOKING ON CHRIST AT THE JUDGMENT. 299 
 
 reaches the souls of the guilty, that my heart felt all 
 the mightiness of this love, and mv tongue refused 
 to acknowledge, it and my acts failed to show it." 
 
 But we come now to the pith and core of the truth 
 so solemnly announced in the text: "Every eye shall 
 see him, and they also who pierced him." 
 
 This is the promise of wonderful sweetness to every 
 disciple. He sees Jesus now by faith. He hears his 
 voice in the chambers of darkness and trouble. He 
 feels his hand on the pillow of his sickness and suf- 
 fering. He reaches out to him in the storms and 
 eclipses of life and lays hold on hope with the 
 assurance, "I am with you, let not your heart be 
 troubled." But this is only a dream compared with 
 the beautiful reality of that vision which is to bring 
 Jesus face to face with the disciple. The tears will 
 be all on our side then, but the joy will be divided 
 between us and cur Master. "There," w r e can say, 
 "is the head that wore the crown of thorns for us. 
 There are the feet that walked among the olives, and 
 the hands that were clasped in prayer and agony for 
 us. There is the face that was buffeted for us, and 
 there are the eyes that shone with love or were 
 dimmed with tears for us. That head is lifted to 
 welcome us. That face beams with affection. Those 
 hands are extended to embrace us. Those feet come 
 down from the throne to meet us on our way." Oh, 
 wdiat a day that will be to crown the toils and strug- 
 gles of this life ! Oh, what a meeting that must be 
 when John comes up from his bloody grave, saying, 
 " Master, I once leaned my head on thy breast, I am 
 
300 LOOKING ON CHRIST AT THE JUDGMENT. 
 
 come to lean it there forever " ; when Peter comes up 
 saying, " Master, thou knowest that I love thee. I 
 have sealed it on the cross by which I died. I am 
 come to sing it to the angels forever " ; when all the 
 martyrs come up, saying, " Master thou didst die to 
 bring thy love to us, we have died to bring our love 
 up to thee ! " 
 
 After these, after all the host of the sanctified, if 
 heaven can keep any place for you, my brother, and 
 for me, any vacancy in those illustrious ranks for us 
 to fill, what joy it is to know that Jesus will not 
 overlook us ! "These also," he will say, " have been 
 faithful in a few things ; they, too, shall sit down 
 with me in my kingdom." 
 
 We have felt the buoyancy of this prospect under 
 our troubles ; we have looked out of our sorrows to 
 the starry hope of this day ; we have so dissolved 
 care and pain, in the longing to see Jesus, that we 
 have felt able to walk over burning coals to reach 
 this blessed end, and we could sing, with a special 
 accent on every syllable, 
 
 " Life with trials hard may press me, 
 'Twill but drive me to thy breast." 
 
 I have seen a sailor, after years of sickness in 
 foreign lands, and perils by tempest on the sea, land- 
 ing on the piers of New York and rushing with a 
 child s tumult of eagerness and ecsta y into the arms 
 that were waiting there to fold him. What had the 
 sound of the billows done for him, but to make more 
 dear the voices of love ? What had his lonely vigils 
 
LOOKING ON CHRIST AT THE JUDGMENT. 301 
 
 and his unwatehed hammock done, but to give new 
 brightness and beauty to the faces that smiled on him 
 from the shore ? Christian, " tossed upon life's stormy 
 billows," the turmoil will soon cease to sound, the 
 vigils will soon be passed ; and when we hear the dear 
 voices that shall greet us on the shore, and see the 
 face in which is reflected all the love we have ever 
 known or felt on earth or in heaven, every sigh will 
 be turned into a gush of joy and " God shall wipe 
 away all tears from our eyes." 
 
 And now, if these words are so full of promise to 
 the faithful disciple, what are they to those who have 
 no hope in Christ? What will looking upon Jesus 
 be to those who have denied him ? " Every eye 
 shall see him, and they also who pierced him." 
 There will be no escape for any one. The sinner may 
 hide himself here from that vision of Jesus which 
 embodies his love to the faith of the disciples. He 
 may entrench himself within his excuses and his 
 reservations; but death will sweep all these away, 
 and at the last he must stand face to face with the 
 love he has rejected, and look upon the Saviour he 
 has slighted. 
 
 I do not wish to speak of the terrible compression 
 of meaning there is in the words, "look upon him 
 they have pierced." I do not wish to uncover the 
 thought which lies in the phrase, "The wrath of the 
 Lamb." There is no just anger like the anger of 
 love. If you had a loving father, when you w T ere a 
 child, you couid bear his severest strokes better than 
 you could the grief and pain you had written on his 
 
 13 
 
302 LOOKING ON CHRIST AT THE JUDGMENT. 
 
 face. I have heard a child exclaim, "Punish me, 
 father, but do not look at me so ! " And what is it 
 we all feel more acutely than anything else in our 
 remembrance of the fathers and mothers that have 
 gone from us? Not the chastisement we have suf- 
 fered, but the silent sorrow we have set upon the 
 brow and stamped on the quivering lip. 
 
 A young man who had been convicted of crime 
 was found one day weeping bitterly in his cell. 
 "Don't think," said he, "that I am not man enough 
 to bear up under my disgrace. I am, but I am too 
 much of a man to keep back my tears when I re- 
 member my mother. When you arrested me, I 
 looked up at the window, and there was the pale 
 face of my mother pressed against the glass. I can- 
 not forget that look. It haunts me in my sleep." 
 And what is it that so often plants a sting in the very 
 heart of the tender memories which the father or 
 mother cherishes of a beloved and departed child? 
 It is that look, as persistent as an accusing' con- 
 science, which betrayed on the innocent and tear- 
 stained little face the sense of unmerited rebuke and 
 punishment. 
 
 You must have read that touching confession of 
 Louis Gaylord Clark, in which he tells us how he 
 punished his little boy one night for going into the 
 water, not knowing that the child had saved one of 
 his companions by doing so. And at midnight he 
 was called up to witness the dying struggles of 
 the child he loved so well, and as he stooped over 
 the little body, vainly trying to call up to the face 
 
LOOKING ON CHRIST AT THE JUDGMENT. 303 
 
 one glance of recognition, he cried in his anguish, 
 " My punishment is greater than I can bear ! " and 
 years afterwards he exclaimed, " I would give any- 
 thing, anything, to banish from my sight that 
 patient, pleading, wronged, and suffering look of 
 my brave little boy." Yet these things which we 
 remember so well, what are they in comparison with 
 that remembrance which the unforgiven sinner must 
 carry into eternity with him? They are but the 
 smoking torches which we hold up to the high roof 
 of a cavern whose mysteries w T e are exploring. 
 These things are but the dark spots which we see 
 on the surface of our past life, but to the sinner, 
 all life must hereafter seem but one blotch of folly, 
 and one long blur of guilt. He does not see this 
 now, because he is on a level with his life, and lines 
 look like mere dots, and magnitudes are foreshort- 
 ened. Wait till his life shall rise up before him, like 
 a statue lifted on its pedestal, and how its real fea- 
 tures will start out, and the truth and meauing of its 
 aspect flash upou his eye in the blaze of those eternal 
 lamps which conscieuce will hang up in the great 
 hall of judgment. 
 
 He does not see Christ now, because he holds him 
 at the distance of blindness. There is a blind point 
 in the eye, where the rays of light produce no sensa- 
 tion, and give no picture whatever. Make two 
 marks on a sheet of paper, two inches from each 
 other, and then close one eye, and bring the paper up 
 gradually to the other, and you will soon discover 
 that your eye fails, at a certain point, to detect but 
 
304 LOOKING ON CHRIST AT THE JUDGMENT. 
 
 one of the marks ; it is impossible to discern the 
 other. There is a blind point in the sinner's soul. 
 The world and Christ are equally before it, but it fails 
 to see Jesus, because it has put him in the focus of 
 its blind spot. But there will be no blindness at the 
 last day; " every eye shall see him." And I ask you 
 to consider now, what this lookiug upon Jesus will 
 be, what it must mean for the sinner. 
 
 It seems to me that the most pungent significance 
 of the fact lies in the thought that it will be the look- 
 ing upon the object of our ingratitude. No man, 
 whose heart is not all crust, can look without emo- 
 tion upon the face of a friend whom he has deeply 
 wronged. Passion may stifle love, while we smite 
 those who have wooed us with kindness ; but when 
 the passion has cooled, and we look upon the face we 
 have seamed with the furrows of grief, how we 
 avenge the wrong we have done by laying the stripes 
 upon our own hearts ! Not long ago a man of repu- 
 table standing, but of violent and uncontrollable tem- 
 per, fiercely struck his wife, and then rushed from 
 the house. The wife was carried speechless to the 
 hospital. When she became able to talk, her sole 
 anxiety was to shield her husband, and she refused to 
 tell who had struck her. 
 
 The officers determined to bring the husband face 
 to face with her. They went for him, and told him 
 their design. " Oh," said he, " not now, not now ; any- 
 thing but that ! I will confess it all. I did the deed, 
 but how can I look upon my poor wife's face again ? '' 
 Do you not think Peter had this feeling when he 
 
LOOKING ON CHRIST AT THE JUDGMENT. 305 
 
 stood warming himself at the brazier of coals, and 
 denying the Master who was just ready to die for 
 him? There was no warmth in those coals. Peter 
 rubbed his hands in the excitement of that criminal 
 hour, and stole furtive glances at the door through 
 which he could just see his suffering Master. But 
 what is that which suddenly convulses the face of this 
 bold abjurer? What arrests his nervous movements 
 over the fire, brings those scalding tears into his eyes, 
 and makes him break, with the energy of despair, 
 through the throng in the hall, and rush out into the 
 darkness? He has caught the eye of Jesus. He has 
 just looked upon the face of his disowned Master. 
 That is all ; but what infinitude of power there is in 
 this ! 
 
 A German infidel was visited one day in a painful 
 sickness by an intimate friend who shared his own 
 belief. Said he to his friend, " I have had a most 
 wonderful dream : I saw Christ. I have, you know, 
 often seen .those matchless heads of Jesus drawn by 
 Guido ; but art never conceived such a face as I have 
 seen in my dream. What grief was in it, what love 
 was in it, what inexpressible pity was in it ! How it 
 accused me, how it melted me ! " And then raising 
 himself on his pillow, he added, with vehemence, 
 " O my friend, I have made up my mind. I cannot, 
 I will not, take the risk of going into eternity to look 
 upon such a face as that ! " 
 
 That dream, my friends, will be the reality for 
 every unconverted man. That face of Jesus, with 
 sorrow enough in it almost to quench the glory 
 
306 LOOKING ON CEIRIST AT THE JUDGMENT. 
 
 around his head, with the painful slight of love whose 
 eloquence needs no tongue and admits no answer, 
 that face of Jesus the sinner must look upon, and read 
 there the whole story of his life and the uncancelled 
 guilt of his ingratitude. And if tears are shed in 
 heaven, I could believe that when Jesus sees before 
 him a lost soul, he must renew, from the very an- 
 guish of baffled love, the tears he shed over the blind 
 and misguided people of Jerusalem. The soldier who 
 pierced Jesus will look upon him, and I can con- 
 ceive that, out of the overwhelming astonishment of 
 that hour, he may cast himself down at the feet of 
 Jesus, and exclaim, " O Jesus, I did it in my igno- 
 rance ! I helped nail those hands, I drove the spike 
 through those feet, I joined in the sneer and the jibe 
 at that bleeding brow, I thrust the lance into thy 
 side ; but I knew not who thou wast. I was a poor 
 hireling, only fit to do the bidding of my masters. O 
 Jesus, I remember thy prayer; I remember thou 
 saidst, ? They know not what they do.' Bring me 
 uucler the blessing of that prayer, and let that blood 
 I shed wash away my grievous sin ! " 
 
 But what can the sinner of our day find to excuse 
 himself when he looks upon Him he has pierced? 
 Must he not own, with the tenseness and keenness of 
 remorse, "I knew what I was doing; conscience told 
 me, God's word urged me, friends warned me, my 
 own heart prompted me. There is the love which 
 entreated me ; those are the hands which were 
 stretched out to save me ; those are the feet that 
 stood waiting at my door ; that is the Saviour who 
 
LOOKING ON CHRIST AT THE JUDGMENT. 307 
 
 called me a°:ain and airain. I know it now, I knew 
 it then. There is no excuse for me, no plea I can 
 make." 
 
 And if it were needful, heaven might break its 
 solemn silence and answer this mournful confession 
 with the old peal of rebuke which shook the proud 
 hearts of God's people : " I have called and ye have 
 refused ; I have stretched out my hand and no man 
 regarded. Ye have set at naught my counsel and 
 would none of my reproof. I also will laugh at your 
 calamity. I will mock when your fear cometh." Oh, 
 by the awful agitations of that coming day, I entreat 
 you, impenitent sinner and cold-hearted professor, to 
 lay to your hearts the momentous question, are you 
 ready to look upon Jesus ? Can you stand before 
 him your sins have pierced, with the joy of knowing 
 that your sins have been washed away by his blood? 
 While others, your friends, your wives, your hus- 
 bands, your fathers and mothers, are kneeling down 
 with the Johns and the Marys, will you, must you, 
 with shame and confusion, bury your faces in the 
 crowd of the Pharisees? O my friends, think of 
 that morning which must break upon our slumbers 
 and awaken us from the dreams of the grave ! Think 
 of that hour which will call us to judgment, and of 
 that Judge before whom we must stand ! " For 
 behold, He cometh, and every eye shall see him, and 
 they also who pierced him." 
 
WHERE ARE WE? 
 
 Is our Keligion the Christian Religion, as Christ taught 
 and his Apostles preached it ? 
 
 " Now the Spirit speaketh expressly, that in the latter times some 
 shall depart from the faith, giving heed to seducing spirits and 
 doctrines of devils." — 1 Tim. iv, 1. 
 
 We are not able to give an intelligent answer to 
 the question, " Where are we?" without passing un- 
 der careful review the notion we entertain of that 
 body of doctrine and practice which we take to be 
 substantially the christian religion, without asking 
 ourselves whether that notion does or does not faith- 
 fully represent the gospel as revealed by Jesus and 
 established by the apostles. We shall all agree that 
 the marks of time have made themselves visible here 
 as elsewhere ; that again and again the imperfections 
 of men, not to say their folly and wickedness, have 
 fearfully changed the original simplicity, and marred 
 the native beauty of the truth as taught by Christ. 
 We are all familiar with the great protest which the 
 purer heart of the church has delivered against the 
 corruptions accomplished or attempted in the past ; 
 and we know that the great reformations which have 
 resulted have been merely the honest struggles of the 
 better part of the church to revive the original spirit 
 
WHERE ARE WE? 309 
 
 and to bring back the apostolic model of teaching and 
 of practice. 
 
 But we know also that all the reformations the 
 church has had, all the efforts which have been made 
 through many centuries, have been but partial in 
 their scope, narrow in their aim, and but limited in 
 their results. That is generally the character, and 
 that the issue of the best-intentioned and most sincere 
 labors at reform. There seems to be a sort of law 
 that every good work should deduct a percentage as 
 toll or excise to the powers of darkness ; that every 
 fresh importation of truth, every new cargo or in- 
 voice of novel ideas, should be charged custom dues, 
 and these dues be subtracted from the full value of 
 the entered stock. We cannot, it would seem, get a 
 lodgment for a new truth without a special bargain 
 that does more or less injustice to the truth itself. 
 When we offer to our age a doctrine which we be- 
 lieve is the very thing it needs to set it right, and 
 redeem it from its wrongs, we have to make conces- 
 sions that rob our doctrine of half its efficacy. We 
 have to use the innocent craft of the physician and 
 gild our pill, although we know the gilding is not 
 only worthless, but it may absorb, neutralize, and 
 counteract the qualities of the medicine. The most 
 earnest reformers stand cooling themselves in the 
 lobby of wisdom, before they can get the ear of in- 
 fluence and command, and they find that even intelli- 
 gence and prudence have to be flattered and coaxed 
 before they will consent to favor the most salutary 
 counsels or give heed to the most heavenly mes- 
 13* 
 
310 WHERE ARE WE? 
 
 sages. There is a process through which every doc- 
 trine must pass on its way to the popular mind, 
 a mill in which it has to be ground, sifted, bolted, 
 ere the times will undertake to digest it. And the 
 great mischief is that in this mill truth is sure to lose, 
 like the finest flour, some of her most essential and 
 most nutritive elements, which the miller calls "bran " 
 or " shorts," and throws aside for inferior uses. And 
 what between tolling and bolting, between the infirm- 
 ities of the reformer and the infirmities of the age, 
 between the deductions he is tempted to make, that 
 his reform may seem pleasant and agreeable, and the 
 subtractions he is bribed or compelled to make, that 
 he may get men to adopt it, there is hardly ever a re- 
 form that accomplishes its object fully, hardly ever a 
 doctrine that hits the mark of popular favor and ac- 
 ceptance without a preliminary miss, hardly ever an 
 earnest advocate of right that does not again and 
 again lose faith in mankind, and almost conclude that 
 everything, even the salvation of human souls, suc- 
 ceeds best when it is made a matter of bargain. 
 
 But I leave all such excursive thoughts, and come 
 directly to the matter in hand. We know, then, how 
 terribly the religion of Christ came to be corrupted 
 very soon after its primal establishment ; and we 
 know also that all the efforts at reformation which 
 were made through many centuries, and by many 
 men in many places, were very partial in character 
 and in result. Naturally, then, every thinking man 
 will ask this question, How does our religion com- 
 pare with the primitive model? Have we among us, 
 
WHERE ARE WE? 311 
 
 in this nineteenth century, the Christianity of the first 
 age ? Have we got rid of all the corruptions which crept 
 into the church, and used to excite, age after age, the 
 godly indignation of the Waldos, Husses, Jeromes, 
 Wicklyffes, Luthers of the world ? And if such great 
 reformers really failed to make a clean sweep of the 
 corruptions which then lay, like the dirt and refuse 
 of generations, in the corners and over the aisles of 
 the sanctuary, are we sure that any subsequent re- 
 former, any later sexton or sacristan, has used his 
 broom upon these unsightly and nauseous heaps, and 
 swept them out of the church? I repeat, any 
 thoughtful man must ask himself the general question 
 which resolves itself into such queries as these, — and 
 it is a very serious and even solemn question for us 
 to ask, — Do we hold to-day, in the religion which we 
 profess, the veritable christian religion which the 
 Master taught, and which his disciples proclaimed to 
 the world ? We cannot evade this question by plead- 
 ing the necessity which has compelled us, as chris- 
 tians, to alter many things in practice and to give 
 way to the progress of civilization. I do not dispute 
 this necessity. 
 
 I do not deny the force of the argument which 
 shows that we could not keep up old observances in 
 this new time ; that many things enjoined then, and 
 which were quite consistent with current usage, such 
 as "washing feet," "the holy kiss," etc., and which 
 have grown wholly obsolete, could not be practised 
 now without calling down ridicule upon the church. I 
 only observe the fact that such changes have taken 
 
312 WHERE ARE WE? 
 
 place, and without speaking of the question of their 
 propriety, I call your attention to them as evidences 
 which may help us toward answering the main ques- 
 tion, how far our religion is the veritable christian 
 religion preached by the Lord Jesus. 
 
 There are those who stoutly deny that there is in 
 the gospel a principle of evolution, a law by which 
 it adapts itself to new circumstances, and' unfolds 
 new energies, new resources, new materials, to meet 
 always the new demands of the growing time. I 
 believe in such a law, and hence I am not disturbed 
 at all by the changes which* we are discussing. But 
 how can those who deny this law, and who contend 
 that all things should forever remain just as they 
 were established by the Great Founder and by his 
 commissioners, how can they pacify their consciences 
 to-day, when they look around and see the manifest 
 evidences that point to the fact and the character of 
 the great changes which have passed over the religion 
 of the gospel? In the gospel, we all know, the life 
 is everywhere held to be above the body ; spirit is 
 the main thing, and form is only secondary. Yet it 
 is interesting to look at the form also, and see how 
 unlike the christian church to-clay actually is to 
 that ideal which the Master had in his mind, and to 
 that simple embodiment which the apostles gave 
 to the brotherly spirit and the missionary zeal of 
 the early christians. I sometimes think, in the mus- 
 ings of my leisure hours, what would be the specula- 
 tions of the apostle Paul if he could visit New York 
 on some Sunday morning. Of course you know the 
 
WHERE ARE WE ? 313 
 
 christians of his day had do special houses of wor- 
 ship. The very thought of such an edifice as we now 
 call a "church" — as if the house, indeed, were the 
 fundamental idea in the conception of the church, 
 just reversing the apostolical conception — was un- 
 known to them. 
 
 In Palestine they could sometimes get the use of 
 a synagogue, but it was not till long after, that they 
 began to use those buildings which were devoted 
 to the business of the law, and were called " basil- 
 icas " ; hence that name was often given to churches ; 
 but for a long time the early christians could meet 
 only in private houses, or in out-of-the-way fields, 
 woods, vineyards, etc. So that Paul, of course, had 
 never seen a church, had never dreamed of such a 
 structure, and if he were suddenly set down before 
 Trinity Church, would be as utterly at a loss to guess 
 the character and purpose of that building as he 
 would be to divine, at the first sight, the use of a 
 printing-press. 
 
 I may go further. The Master himself held in his 
 mind and teaching, only that conception of the church 
 which he has so beautifully illustrated in those 
 passages which enforce and command the idea of a 
 christian brotherhood, a close, warm, faithful, lov- 
 ing companionship, shown in continual and sub- 
 stantial offices of charity and helpfulness, and with 
 no other outward display, no other sign of union, 
 than the daily life devoted to works of mutual good- 
 will, and distinguished from the world by the broth- 
 erly spirit, the very first grace, the most notable 
 
314 WHERE ARE WE? 
 
 grace, of this church of brothers. The word "church," 
 you know, means only " an assembly." The very 
 life and spirit of the bond which was to hold together 
 this church was "humility," humility in thought, 
 in character, in office, in action, everywhere and 
 every way humility. That certainly took in modesty, 
 decent temperance in living; and that certainly ex- 
 cluded pride in every shape and color and in every 
 place and manner, individual pride and corporation 
 pride, pride of the person or pride of the church. 
 If, then, standing before Trinity Church, Paul were 
 told the use of that magnificent building and made to 
 understand why aU that stone, with its costly carving 
 and ornamenting, was piled up in that conical form, 
 where it could do no good save to please the eye ; if 
 he were told what the whole fabric cost, and what is 
 the annual and dead loss of interest on that amount 
 in a city where thousands are starving and hundreds 
 of thousands never hear the gospel preached to 
 them, what do you imagine Paul would say? What 
 would be his feeling when he went in and heard some 
 of his words chanted by a choir of white-surpliced 
 boys, to the music of a grand organ pla} r ed by one 
 of the first aitists, to a congregation of twenty or 
 thirty hearers? I tell you honestly what I think 
 about it : I think Paul would, for about an hour, say 
 nothing at all. Astonishment would paralyze the 
 power of utterance. The disclosure of the facts 
 would be a shock greater than he ever suffered when 
 the Jews threw stones at him and knocked him down 
 in the streets. I have tried to imagine what Paul 
 
WHERE AHE WE? 315 
 
 would be likely to say when told of the hundreds of 
 millions of money invested by us in things which 
 were absolutely unknown in his clay, and of whose 
 future existence he could hardly even have had a 
 vision. Would he not have said, " Brethren, if so 
 I can call you, why do you waste this enormous 
 amount upon your pride ? What else is it that pro- 
 duces this rivalry between your various families, 
 which you call 'denominations'? There were no 
 1 denominations ' in my day, and we were only too 
 glad to get occasional shelter under some friendly 
 roof. What surplus we had, we used in relieving the 
 poor. You tell me 3'ou have millions of poor among 
 you, and you tell me you have systematic taxes to 
 help you defray the co-t of instructing the ignorant, 
 even in your own country, and teaching them the 
 rudiments of the gospel. 
 
 Brethren, let me ask you why you throw away 
 these superfluous millions upon your rival pride in 
 out-building, out-shining, out-decorating, out-spir- 
 ing, one another? Suppose you saved only half the 
 cost of your splendid churches ; that would be a 
 larger fund than you ever yet thought of raising for 
 any other christian purpose. Are you not putting 
 pride before utility? Do you not value your houses 
 more than people, and churches above souls? Where 
 is the old humility? I don't see it in these flar- 
 ing marbles, I don't hear it in these magnificent 
 organs, I don't see the net result in these enormous 
 millions of real estate, that pay nothing to the State, 
 and n >thing to the church save what you call "social 
 prestige." 
 
316 WHERE ARE WE? 
 
 But I will leave the mere form or outward sem- 
 blance and show of the church. I suppose that no intel- 
 ligent man would question that the form of the chris- 
 tian church, the outward mould or cast of the religion 
 of Jesus, has altered so much that it is by no means 
 improbable to suppose that any one of the primitive 
 disciples, wakened from his sleep, and brought face 
 to face with the outer aspect or the internal polity of 
 one of our fashionable modern churches, would find 
 himself at a perfect loss, and would need to ask as 
 many questions as any child has to ask when he is 
 first put through the old catechism ; and I apprehend 
 the answers he would get would shed about as much 
 li^ht on his mind as the answers the child filets from 
 an average teacher of the old school. 
 
 Leaving form, then, and coming to substance, com- 
 ing to spirit, I ask if we have to-day, in the religion 
 we profess, those characteristic graces of the chris- 
 tian spirit which the Master himself taught as the 
 essential and dominant traits of his disciples, and 
 which, as we learn even from the record of contempo- 
 rary heathen historians, were everywhere remarked, 
 commented on, and wondered at, as exhibitions of a 
 divine genius never seen elsewhere, and hardly to be 
 credited to men save upon ocular evidence. 
 
 First of all, we can take the testimony recorded 
 in the Acts of the Apostles as to the astonishing 
 brotherliness which united the early christians, their 
 self-denying love for one another, their perfect readi- 
 ness to die for one another, and, what may seem even 
 harder to some of us, their promptness in putting all 
 
WHEKE ARE WE? 317 
 
 their property into a common fund for the sustenance 
 and support of the community. 
 
 I will not comment upon this early picture of the 
 christian character, and ask you whether you think a 
 modern photograph repeals the same strong and sig- 
 nificant lines, but I will turn rather to a portrait 
 drawn in the first century by a pagan author, by the 
 hand of the younger Pliny, and I will ask you whether 
 you think you could set up that portrait to-day as 
 a true likeness of the average disciple of Christ. 
 Pliny, in reporting to the Emperor Trajan, gives 
 what he has found to be the most common, the most 
 striking, and the most clannish distinctions of the 
 christian sect, — those in which they most signally 
 and widely differed from the rest of mankind ; and 
 among these he specially notes the fact that they 
 bound themselves by a solemn oath " not to commit 
 fraud, or theft, or other immoral act, nor to break 
 their word, nor to betray a trust." 
 
 Let us remember that at that time the qualities 
 named were those by which christians were dis- 
 tinguished from their fellow-men, which they did 
 not share largely with them, and in the display of 
 which they rose above them as the eagle soars above 
 the swallow. Of course at that time the pagan 
 world was living in a morality of its own, while now 
 the whole world receives and professes the morality 
 of the then despised christians. But I ask you 
 whether you think this fact explains the whole 
 problem of the enormous difference you find between 
 the relative positions of the church then and now? 
 
318 ' WHERE ARE WE? 
 
 Is the difference due altogether to the moral educa- 
 tion of the world aud to its growing up to the church 
 in the virtues of the christian code ? Or has there 
 not been also a fearful lapse from that code on the 
 part of christians? You can # test the matter in one 
 way. You can tell whether christians have fallen 
 away by asking how they have kept up their old 
 reputation of strict companionship, how they have 
 preserved that old prestige of being the most loving 
 and brotherly of all societies on earth. Right under 
 the eaves of the church we have societies now formed 
 for the very purpose of doing what love and brother- 
 hood in the church would always have done, if they 
 had kept up the virtue of their names. It was once 
 enough for any man to say, "I am a christian ! " to 
 call forth responsive charity and sympathy from 
 every fellow-christian. Now the talisman has to be 
 sought in Freemasonry or some other compact of 
 that kind ; and I conclude that, with the wide spread 
 of our religion, there has been a weakening of its 
 central and cardinal virtues. We have need to de- 
 velop anew the principle of love, in the old apos- 
 tolic sense and manner, and to take from the world, 
 outside the church, all claim and all apology for try- 
 ing to make up what is fouud lacking in the church. 
 I have blushed to listen to the stories that are still 
 told, of the utter inadequacy of the name of Jesus 
 to bring help to a wounded soldier, while the grip or 
 sign of some secret society saved hundreds of ex- 
 posed lives, and soothed the pains and softened the 
 pillows of thousands of dying men. And it was the 
 
WHERE ARE WE? 319 
 
 sense of what was so nobly effected by the mere 
 passwords and hand-grips of these societies, that 
 gave spur to the activity of our Young Men's Chris- 
 tian Associations, and made the members and repre- 
 sentatives of these bodies at last the most honored 
 stewards of our charity, the kindest ministers in the 
 death-stricken hospital, and the most faithful and 
 welcome comforters that ever knelt on the bloody sod 
 of a battle-field, by the side of the wounded and 
 dying. 
 
 And I believe that it is in this practical way, by a 
 sensible and material incorporation of the christian 
 spirit in the living institutions and for the crying 
 needs of the time, it is in this solid and irresistible 
 way we are to gain back for the church of Jesus its 
 old repute as the highest commissioner of the divine 
 love, the best and purest example of generous hearts, 
 honest tongues, loving words, and helpful hands. 
 
 Certainly we need a reform, and one that shall 
 search deeper and cut more keenly than any the 
 church has known for long ages. Every shrewd ob- 
 server of the signs of the times, every sagacious stu- 
 dent of the laws of history, every earnest friend of a 
 humane religion and a christian humanity, can dis- 
 cern the necessity and see the materials crystallizing 
 for a great reform. The clash of controversial 
 weapons proclaims it. The fermenting germs of new 
 thought proclaim it. The common restlessness of the 
 age is a prophecy of its coming. The deepest feel- 
 ing of unbelief is almost an intuition of the solemn 
 truth, that in the ages to come Jesus will be the one 
 
320 WHERE ARE WE? 
 
 name of authority, or it will fall into the rank of 
 older and merely human teachers, like Confucius, 
 Plato, and Sakj^a Muni. The reform may not come 
 in your day or mine, but come it will and must. 
 God is throwing up, by all the silent forces of the 
 time, a new highway for his people to march upon ; 
 and the old gospel, rejuvenated and rebaptized from 
 heaven, will girdle the world with universal love, 
 peace, and brotherhood. 
 
I GO A FISHING. 
 
 "I go a fishing." — John xxi, 3. 
 
 You will not think I have been drawn to this text 
 by the apparent singularity of the proposition it con- 
 tains. When isolated from its context and enunciated 
 by itself, this feature might well deter us from the 
 choice, if it were not overlaid by the deep shadow of 
 an impressive meaning. And it must be owned it is 
 rather the shadow of a meaning, than the sense of the 
 words, which lends the text its significance ; for when 
 we read it, we project into it a coloring of thought 
 from the context ; we remark it only as a salient 
 angle in a long line of wall, and we think very little 
 of the words, as an inJepeudent statement, "I go 
 a fishing." We do not try to discover any important 
 sense in them, apart from their connection with the 
 general narrative. We may, indeed, feel pretty sure 
 that the narrative has not been thrown into this 
 dramatic form without an important reason. John 
 could have introduced the scene that follows, and 
 recorded the miracle, without the pains of changing 
 the third to the first person, for he could have told 
 us simply that the disciples had gone fishing. But 
 the careful manner in which the details are described 
 
322 "i go 
 
 shows us that John attached a special significance to 
 them, and that he evidently reproduced them just as 
 they occurred. It is plain that the conversation 
 which took place on this occasion was of extraordi- 
 nary interest, and left a deep and abiding impression 
 on the mind of the evangelist. And there is also a 
 distinct wish to give prominence to Peter in that con- 
 versation. There seems an intention to emphasize 
 his share in it, and to represent him as chiefly respon- 
 sible for the decision to which it led. Across the 
 field of the narrative there flit, to a careful and 
 scrutinizing eye, the thin, gauze-like vapors of a 
 doubtful sky, and the historian feels his way cau- 
 tiously, as if he were apprehensive of a coming 
 storm. Of course, when he wrote, he could have no 
 such feelings, for he wrote after the issue of the 
 decision he records ; but he appears to write with 
 the remembrance of the feeling he had at the time, 
 and that feeling gives its peculiar mould and hue 
 to the record. We can believe he would have 
 chosen just such a mode of introduction for the 
 episode. We can feel how entirely suitable the 
 present style would have been if the result of the 
 decision made by the apostles had been different ; 
 if the decision had led to some unhappy conclusion, 
 and compromised in any way the great mission of the 
 disciples, or jeoparded the interests and hopes of 
 the christian cause. In that case we can well un- 
 derstand that John would have taken pains to write 
 carefully, and to give every one his due measure of 
 responsibility, and to let the blame fall, if blame 
 
323 
 
 had been, on the head of the bold leader, so prompt 
 to decide, and so energetic to carry out his decision. 
 
 But if, in the event of misfortune, John would 
 have felt obliged to place Peter on the eminence 
 he had chosen for himself, he seems to have felt it 
 unjust, now that the resolution had beeu approved 
 by the event, not to give Peter the benefit of his 
 actual share in it and eager suasion of it. 
 
 These considerations may convince us that the 
 occasion was deemed one of great moment, and that 
 the minds of the disciples were agitated by conflict- 
 ing sentiments. It was evidently no casual conver- 
 sation, but a solemn deliberation on the part of those 
 met together, of which we have in the record only 
 the final resolve. 
 
 And if we look at the names of those who came 
 together, men who, both geographically and pro- 
 fessionally, lived by the sea, and then look at the 
 decision, we cannot doubt what practical question it 
 was which so deeply interested them ; it was, " to 
 fish, or not to fish." But they did not raise this 
 question as philosophers ; they had no fastidious 
 delicacy on the subject, such as, long before their 
 day, had entered into the religion and the customs 
 of the Brahmins. In any case, their Master's ex- 
 ample and approval would have satisfied their scru- 
 ples. Nor did they start the question as mere 
 amateurs, anxious only to get an excuse for indulg- 
 ing a favorite sport or pastime. 
 
 No man can contrive to turn his business into a 
 pastime, and fishing was the disciples' handicraft; 
 
324 "i GO A FISHING." 
 
 fish was bread to them, and they maintained them- 
 selves by the net profits of the sea. But why,. then, 
 should they treat the subject with such gravity ? If 
 they needed money, and fishing was their habitual 
 mode of obtaining it, why should they not go at 
 once, as they had been used to dj, go as a matter 
 of course, and without holding any argument upon 
 the propriety of their doing so? We say, the pro- 
 priety of doing so, for it seems inconsistent that 
 John should have recorded the deliberation, if it had 
 revolved around the point of necessity alone. If 
 these disciples had been pressed only by the natural 
 anxieties of an empty purse, why should they not 
 have sought relief, as, no doubt, they had often done, 
 and why should they have held a discussion of such 
 a tenor as provoked the short, incisive declaration of 
 Peter, "I go a fishing"? This declaration is per- 
 fectly characteristic of Peter ; it is full of his intense 
 personality, and sounds like a piece of harp-string, 
 strained almost to breaking. We know Peter so 
 well that, if we had not been told who it was that 
 spoke these words, we should have known it was 
 Peter, the sentence is so like his work, hammered 
 out with two or three rapid, muscular strokes, and 
 evidently while the metal is hot, for you can always 
 discover some cinders from the forge adhering to it 
 or beaten into it. What can it have been that 
 evoked this crisp, curt, emphatic avowal ? And what 
 is the precise temper which scintillates so briskly in 
 these words, throws off this seemingly sudden shower 
 of sparks, and then subsides into quietness? Is there 
 
"i GO A FISHING." 325 
 
 any of that old Adam, and a very ancient Adam it 
 was, which burst forth in Peter's passionate, "I 
 know not the man"? There was there more of the 
 fisherman than of the disciple. Does the text show 
 that the fisherman was again wrestling with the dis- 
 ciple in Peter, and getting a decided advantage over 
 him ? 
 
 And can it have been John's intention, in writing 
 the account so particularly, to show us that the Sea 
 of Galilee had not yet lost its savor in the great 
 apostle? How can we answer such questions? Of 
 course we can give no perfectly satisfactory answers ; 
 but I think that if we look carefully at the circum- 
 stances we shall be able to arrive at answers ex- 
 ceedingly probable and instructive. 
 
 The disciples were then in a condition which fully 
 justifies the adjuncts of embarrassment and per- 
 plexity. We must not judge that condition by our 
 own feelings, we must not throw back upon it the 
 clear light of after events; and especially, we must 
 not fail to remember how weak, spiritually, the dis- 
 ciples then were, weak in their apprehension of 
 christian teachings ; weak in faith, as Jesus had often 
 called them ; and weak and extremely confused in 
 their appreciation of the stupendous revolution which 
 was silently gathering force, and from the sepulchre 
 where Jesus had lain was soon to roll forth in an 
 overwhelming tide of moial life and power. 
 
 We must remember that the disciples had at that 
 time no substantive faith in the resurrection; that 
 they very seriously doubted the fact itself when first 
 
 14 
 
326 " I GO A FISHING." 
 
 reported to them, and thus showed how exceedingly 
 limited their hopes were in that direction, and how 
 intangible and indefinite was their expectation of the 
 immediate future. All their ignorance, their infir- 
 mity, their uncultured bias, and even their strong 
 christian feeling, must have been wrought upon by 
 their condition to an extraordinary degree of inten- 
 sity, and their condition was such as to bring out, 
 not the strong, but the w r eaker and more selfishly 
 human elements of character. For they had leaned on 
 Christ, if not with the docility, yet certainly with the 
 simplicity of little children ; and when they saw their 
 beloved Master struck down by the iron hand of 
 power, when they beheld their romantic visions of 
 empire dissipated by his death, unable to see 
 across the grave which had opened to receive their 
 Lord and their hopes, not yet sustained by the Com- 
 forter, and poor in everything save in a few tantaliz- 
 ing memories, they had not been human not to 
 have felt a crushing sense of loneliness, darkness, 
 and helplessness. What anxiety must have harassed 
 them, what fears must have beset them, what ter- 
 rible suspense, and how often they must have asked 
 one another, " What shall we do ? " 
 
 This is the question which Peter decides. We may 
 suppose that some were less hot and restless than he, 
 and were in favor of continuing their vigilant waiting 
 upon events. Naturally, Peter's fellow-craftsmen 
 would gather about him, and these seem to have 
 retired from the main body and discussed the subject 
 apart, and with reference to their own interest. The 
 
327 
 
 mere energy of Peter's words leads us to believe 
 that they were a reply to something said by the 
 others. Perhaps it was argued that duty demanded 
 of them a hopeful patience. Jesus might appear to 
 them, and set their doubts at rest forever. And that 
 was the place for them to keep up their guard on 
 events ; there they had lost, and there they should 
 expect to find their Master. Such may have been the 
 more cautious counsel. 
 
 But the soul of Peter, that fiery mass of melted 
 metal seething in a furnace full of rough ore and 
 charcoal, that compact, sea-going engine in a three- 
 decked river-craft, the soul of Peter had reached 
 the limits of patience. His anxieties and doubts had 
 fermented into a restlessness he could not control ; if 
 he could find a safety-valve, he meant to learn its use 
 and enjoy its benefit. He was not really disheart- 
 ened, he was terribly uneasy. He did not mean to 
 abandon a jot of hope, but he wanted a respite from 
 the wear and tear of thought and solicitude. He 
 was weary of waiting on events, and desired to give 
 events a chance to wait on him. He was gloomy in 
 the shadow of the awful scenes he had witnessed, 
 and he craved the broad, free sunshine out on the 
 lake. He could not pry into the future, and he was 
 tired of watching for it. Others might stay and 
 keep vigil if they pleased, but his purpose was taken : 
 "/go fishing." 
 
 We see no more, then, in this language than a 
 pretty liberal rendering of frail human nature, a 
 phase of character which, like the advertising side 
 
328 "i GO A FISHING." 
 
 of a newspaper, is exceedingly diversified in the 
 particulars, but excessively monotonous in the gen- 
 eral appearance; an underlying stratum of selfish 
 timidity and impatience, which crops out even in the 
 best christians, and, like a line of cliffs or a ridge of 
 clay, piles up a slope of unclean and treacherous de- 
 bris over some of the best and most fruitful christian 
 graces. Men that can stand up against the sever- 
 est shocks, are unable sometimes to stand alone, the 
 moment they are required to do nothing but stand. 
 The hardest thing a christian farmer could be asked 
 to do, is to see how his crops take care of themselves 
 in a time of drought, and how God takes care of him 
 in a time of famine. We can joyfully assist in the 
 salvation of God, we can believe in it, work for it, 
 and make ready for it ; but the difficulty arises when 
 we are commanded to " stand still and see " it. The 
 ark may be coming back in triumph, and we feel 
 sure no harm can befall it ; yet if the wheels encount- 
 er a stone, and the cart lean a little, and the ark 
 begin to tremble, up go our hands, and we wish to 
 loan a little strength to the arm of the Almighty. 
 Our faith is most needed just where God's work be- 
 gins, and there it oftenest fails. We preach, we 
 pray, we teach, we toil with unabated courage while 
 the Master is with us, but if the shadow of his tem- 
 porary absence fall upon us, if any cross of disap- 
 pointment or trial plant itself in our prosperous way, 
 if any clouds settle between us and the future, if 
 instead of the gold and silver of immediate reward, 
 we are asked to take for a time the word of promise, 
 
"I GO A FISHING." 329 
 
 that letter of unlimited credit on the riches of God's 
 power and goodness, how prone \ye are to impatience, 
 how mauy of us yield to doubt, grow tired of the 
 old path, and are anxious to strike out a new one. 
 Such are the times that try the faith of the church, 
 set all the feverish egotisms of our nature efferves- 
 cing, make us dissatisfied with the present, and uneasy 
 for the future, and always betray a large number of 
 whom the best record that can be made, will tell that, 
 like Peter, they went fishing. 
 
 It is a truth that our religion needs a firm root to 
 resist the incessant attacks of natural worry and im- 
 patience. It takes a strong man to overcome the 
 discourasrinsr effects of the conviction that he has 
 gone wrong, and especially if he thinks his convic- 
 tion is shared by others. Thousands are turned for- 
 ever from the paths of wisdom, because, being weak, 
 and no man helping them, they yield to the impulse 
 of the first little misstep ; and thousands of now 
 silent, idle, languishing christians have been made 
 such by their first fit of despondency, or their first 
 fever of impatience with their brethren. If we gave 
 way in our worldly callings as we do in our christian 
 duties to the petty irritations of disappointment, 
 fretfulness, and care, we should see our business 
 signs changed every week. Shall necessity make us 
 constant, and love be mastered by fickleness? Shall 
 we give thp w r orld an energy, a dauntless courage, a 
 hopeful perseverance, which we deny to the service 
 of our Master? Shall we overcome mountains for 
 Caesar, and stumble at mole-hills in the path of chris- 
 tian duty? 
 
330 
 
 There are seasons, indeed, when our condition as 
 christians becomes almost as trying as was that of 
 Peter and his brethren; and when, if the merciful 
 Saviour did not reveal himself to us, as he did to 
 Peter, we might lose sight of him forever. Those 
 are the times when, just as in his case, the most pow- 
 erful human instincts come into collision with our too 
 feeble christian graces, and the strife harasses us till 
 we seek for peace at the expense of our souls, and 
 by the sacrifice of that nobler and purer development 
 which God had sought for us in our trials. We 
 stand, like Peter, with sorrowful memories in our 
 hearts, bowed down by some heavy grief. A grave 
 has opened in the very centre of our joys, and we have 
 spoken a farewell which cost half our hearts. Around 
 that grave our thoughts linger like mourners ; back to 
 it we are drawn, by love and regret, in every respite 
 from our duties ; and there, where so much of life 
 went down out of our mortal sight, where we lost so 
 much of what made life sweet and gave beauty and 
 charm to its labors, and zest to its enjoyments, there, 
 too often we lose, with our dear earthly friends, the 
 presence of a dearer Friend, whose smile is hid by 
 our veil of tears and whose love is thrust aside by 
 our impetuous grief. We have not patience or cour- 
 age to sit down, like the patriarch, on the dead ashes 
 of our great loss, and school our hearts to the 
 brave fortitude of a faith that looks upward and on- 
 ward, waiting to catch the first gleam of returning 
 light, to hear the first footfall of the coming Mas- 
 ter. Let our hearts linger, as they love to linger, 
 
"i GO A FISHING," 331 
 
 like Mary, around the sepulchre where so many 
 precious trusts are confided to God ; let our love 
 :md our tears commingle, like the spices which Mary 
 brought, over the sacred dust we cherish ; but let 
 ns carry with us, as Mary did, the sense of a liv- 
 ing, not a dead, companionship; the feeling that 
 makes the grave a part of life, not the end of it, 
 and helps us turn from it always, as she did, to 
 find the Saviour with us, and lay down at his feet 
 and commit to his care and the power of his resur- 
 rection, the whole wealth of our memories, our af- 
 fections, our friendships, and our hopes. 
 
 Shall we follow the Saviour while he leads us in 
 his mercy along the pleasant ways of peace, and 
 turn aside when the path of trouble opens before 
 us? Shall we cling to him while we see him in 
 the clear splendors of our bright and happy days, 
 and desert him because he asks us to tread with 
 him: the vale of cypress and yew, or kneel with him 
 in the lonely garden of olives, or wait for him t 
 the door of the sepulchre? We can rejoice with 
 Christ, we can walk with Christ, we can work with 
 Christ ; can we not watch with him, and can we not 
 wait for him ? 
 
 I look over the ranks of our christian disciple- 
 ship in these days of interval between hope and 
 harvest, in this time of anxious forecast, and the 
 hollows show me that scores and hundreds have left, 
 to put themselves afloat, and many of them adrift, 
 upon the Tiberias of their own self-seeking; and 
 my hope for them is that, as they could not stay 
 
332 "I GO A FISHING." 
 
 for Christ, Christ may seek them once more, as he 
 did Peter, and win them from their entanglement 
 in their worldly nets, and call them back to their 
 higher and grander mission. Peter and his com- 
 panions toiled all night in vain ; and no wonder, 
 since they toiled consciously without Christ. And 
 deserting christians may take their failure as a warn- 
 ing. There are storms on that sea which may yet 
 call them to bewail the absence of Him who speaks 
 peace to the winds and waves. There are perils 
 there which may make them mourn the day when 
 they forsook Christ, in their hurry to get money, and 
 went without him to tempt the uncertain deep of 
 earthly fortunes. 
 
 Let them come back and tarry with their brethren. 
 Let us pray and wait together till our Lord come 
 
JOY OF CHRIST'S FELLOWSHIP. 
 
 " And blessed is he whosoever shall not be offended in me." — 
 Matt, xi, 6. 
 
 When we reflect who Jesus was, we can but admire 
 the self-re tent iou, the withdrawing of his own per- 
 son, which shows itself in his earlier miuistry. He 
 had many reasons for this, but one was, that he 
 might leave his character and mission to be judged 
 by his works. To these he makes his appeal, behind 
 these he takes his stand, and in the inextinguishable 
 splendor of these he leaves his friends and his ene- 
 mies to discover, for themselves, the divinity that 
 inspired his speech and wrought in his power. And 
 when John's disciples, depressed perhaps by the 
 evil fortunes of their master, and doubtful of the 
 end, came to Jesus with their painfully suggestive 
 question, "Art thou He that should come, or look we 
 for another?" — that is, Ought we to labor for 
 another? — Jesus made no dogmatic assertion of 
 his Messiahship, he entered into no argument on the 
 subject ; his goodness and his wisdom were too great 
 and patient and penetrating to take these short but 
 unsatisfying methods. He kept the disciples with 
 him that they might judge for themselves ; and when 
 they hid used their own eyes, and filled their own 
 
 14* 
 
334 joy of Christ's fellowship. 
 
 understandings with materials of a just opinion, he 
 sent them back to tell John, "The blind receive their 
 sight and the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed and 
 the deaf hear, the dead are raised up and the poor have 
 the gospel preached to them . . . and blessed is he 
 whosoever shall not be offended in me." No declara- 
 tion here of who or what he is, no category of divine 
 dignities and powers, no stern rebuke of the doubt that 
 impeached his own personal and sacred majesty, no 
 list of his wonderful offices, but a list of his matchless 
 deeds, no summary of doctrine, but a summary of 
 practice which dazzled the world. It was as much 
 as to say, You seek to know what I am. Look, then, 
 at my image. If I bear judgment of myself, my 
 judgment is not true : then take the judgment which 
 others have borne of me ; and if you desire to see 
 my godhead, look not at my person, but look where 
 it is reflected, by the gleams of ancient prophecy 
 and the lustre of unparalleled wonder-working, in 
 those around me. You want the testimony, perhaps, 
 of learned rabbis and doctors : but I call my wit- 
 nesses from no school and no synagogue. You would 
 ask, perhaps, like some others, Have any of the 
 rulers or the Pharisees believed on him? but I take 
 my converts from a very different class, and set on 
 them such au impress of my mastership that not 
 what they sa} r , but what they are, is enough to show 
 whether the world must look for a mightier than I. 
 The dumb are my witnesses, the lame are my cour- 
 iers, and the blind my messengers ; the deaf are my 
 scholars, and the lepers belong to my family ; the 
 
joy or Christ's fellowship. 335 
 
 dead listen to my voice, and the poor are my heirs. 
 If yon are proud, these things may shock your pride ; 
 if you are ambitious, they may humble your designs ; 
 if you are timid, they may make you afraid in view 
 of the consequences : but these are the signs of the 
 Messiah, and these are my works ; and blessed is he 
 who shall not be offended in me ! 
 
 What is the character of the offence here spoken 
 of? What is it to be offended in Christ? The lit- 
 eral translation would be, "shall not be scandalized 
 in me." The axavSalov, or scandal, originally meant 
 that one of the sticks used in a trap, which supports 
 the trap, and determines its spring or fall. Hence 
 it came to denote anything which occasioned one 
 to fall or stumble ; and thus generally, as applied 
 to the mind, "to be scandalized," or, as our ver 
 sion has rendered it, giving the precise Latin equiv- 
 alent, for offendo means to stumble at something. 
 To be offended in any one signified to be shocked, 
 grieved, displeased, at something in his person, 
 character, or deeds ; to make a scandal of it, or 
 stumble at it. The term has, then, a very wide 
 range, and is by no means restricted to any special 
 kind of dislike or disaffection, or to any oue degree 
 of disfavor or alienation. 
 
 Jesus evidently comprehended by it every class of 
 unfriendly feeling and every grade of cold, unsym- 
 pathizing, or active, disdainful aversion. Let us 
 now look at the form of the Saviour's declaration : 
 " Blessed is he whosoever shall not be offended in 
 me." Of course we must infer that this affirmative 
 
336 joy or Christ's fellowship. 
 
 condemns the negative ; this blessing of the innocent 
 implies the censure of the guilty ; if those are happy 
 who take care to avoid stumbling at Jesus, those 
 must be miserable who are offended in him. Notice 
 the peculiarity of the phrase "offended in me." Jesus 
 cares little for an ill-feeling which is aimed only at 
 him. We remember his merciful saying, " Whoso- 
 ever speaketh a word against the Son of man, it shall 
 be forgiven him, but whosoever speaketh against the 
 Holy Ghost, it shall not be forgiven him." His love 
 could pardon any slight to his own personal and pri- 
 vate dignity ; and where men feel most keenly, and 
 cherish deepest resentment, he felt only a tender 
 sorrow, and lost all thought of self in his concern 
 for the sinner's soul. Not what was his merely, but 
 what was in him; not the personal character which 
 stood before the world, but the divine, official majes- 
 ty which looked through him upon the world ; not 
 the Son of man, but the Son of God and the Re- 
 deemer of men, this was the aspect which accentu- 
 ated and ennobled Jesus' whole consideration of him- 
 self, and this gave its gravamen and deadliness to 
 the sin of being offended in him. 
 
 And it is a noteworthy fact that few, if any, ever 
 took offence at Jesus for what he was. Malice did 
 its utmost ; envy, with all the aids of persecuting 
 power, sought to rend that robe which it could not 
 defile, and which was stainless as it was seamless : 
 yet from the lips of enemies came praise, and the 
 poison of calumnious tongues was changed to honey. 
 It was not Jesus the Jews hated, but what they saw 
 
JOY OF CHRIST'S FELLOWSHIP. 337 
 
 in Jesus ; not the Saviour they feared and railed at, 
 but what he said and did. They would have hon- 
 ored such a mighty teacher, but then he preached 
 the gospel to the poor, and he " taught the people as 
 one having authority and not as the scribes." They 
 would have liked the companionship of so spotless 
 and godlike a man, but he kept company with publi- 
 caus, and was the friend of sinners. It was their 
 pride that took offence, their bigotry and their spirit 
 of caste ; and their fastidious and insolent pharisa- 
 ism ; and when Jesus looked round on these weak, 
 selfish, vainglorious stumblers, with what pertinence 
 he could turn to the multitude, and with what 
 overcharge of apt, allusive meaning he could say, 
 "Blessed are the poor in spirit." And when he saw 
 so many men, called great, learned, powerful, unable 
 to find their way to him, and stumbling at all that 
 was best auddivinest in him, with what point of con- 
 viction and what weight of demonstration he could 
 add, ff Verily, I say unto you, except ye become as 
 little children, ye shall in no case enter into the 
 kingdom of heaven." 
 
 We sometimes think that if we had lived in the 
 days of our Saviour, and had seen his works and 
 heard his teaching, we should have been among the 
 foremost of his disciples ; and men who pay but 
 little heed to the gospel are strenuous in their con- 
 demnation of the old scribes and Pharisees. So Dr. 
 Blair once exclaimed in one of his sermons, that if 
 men could only once see virtue embodied, they would 
 all fall in love with it, and do it swift reverence ; 
 
338 
 
 but a moie thoughtful teacher than Dr. Blair replied 
 that men had seen virtue embodied, they saw it 
 in the Lord Jesus ; and they despised it, and nailed 
 it to the cross. 
 
 We are doing the verv thing which looks so 
 shameful, so unreasonable, so cruel in those who 
 turned from Christ in the days of his flesh, and we 
 are doing it with less excuse and fewer grounds tor 
 palliation than they had. For them the question, 
 whether Jesus was the Christ, was, at least, an open 
 one, and they had someprima facie evidence in their 
 favor ; but for us it is a res adjudicata, a settled 
 question, and no man can raise it without lifting 
 the burden of eighteen centuries, and turning his 
 back on the sun to trim the little lamp of his own 
 self-sufficiency. Those old slighters and scoffers 
 knew Jesus by only a fraction of his life and a few 
 scraps of his doctrines : we know him by all that 
 the love of his disciples, and the care of Divine Prov- 
 idence have preserved for us. He stands before us 
 in the perfect glory of his doctrines and history, 
 in the immortality of his suffering and doings, and 
 in the full-grown ripeness of the institutions he 
 founded. He speaks to us by more voices than the 
 Jews ever heard, by more miracles than they ever 
 saw, by more witnesses than court ever gathered or 
 judge ever listened to. He pleads with men by an 
 agency unknown till his agonies invoked it, and his 
 blood baptized it, and over all human hearts he 
 weaves that secret net-work of celestial powers 
 through which his Holy Spirit seeks to arrest the 
 
JOY OF chetst's fellowship. 339 
 
 sinner, and win his heart aid bind it to the cross. 
 More fully, more constantly, more persuasively, if 
 possible, than he ever did to the Jews, does the 
 Saviour present himself to us, and " blessed is he 
 who is not offended in him." 
 
 Now this feeling of offence in Christ must exist in 
 the case of every impenitent man, and of every one 
 who does not accept the entire responsibility of the 
 christian life. And that we may be convinced of 
 this, let us observe that this feeling, which our 
 Master condemns, is not necessarily a feeling of 
 antagonism and hostility. There are many who 
 have no consciousness of opposition to Christ, and 
 who would indignantly disavow any indulgence of 
 a spirit of enmity or even unfriendliness. It would 
 be impossible to convince them that they are of- 
 fended, in the common sense of the word; but that 
 is not charged on them. They belong to the class 
 of aloof Pharisees, those who lifted no hand against 
 Jesus and entered no conclave of plotters to betray 
 him, who heurd him, perhaps gladly, and yet gave 
 no sign and kept their own counsel ; and these mod- 
 ern resemblers have need to ponder those words 
 which pronounced the Master's solemn judgment 
 on their ancient prototypes, "He that is not with us, 
 is against us." 
 
 I have said there are many such, but I ought to 
 have said, there are a few such, and not many. For 
 1 do not believe anv man's indifference can be brought 
 to such a state of stable equilibrium as to leave no 
 evident preponderance of motives. Why are these 
 
340 joy of Christ's fellowship. 
 
 men indifferent? If they see Christ so clearly and 
 approve his gospel so heartily, as they say, why 
 do they keep themselves aloof? What can make 
 one so heedless of a truth he believes ? What can 
 tempt one to bring upon his conscience the sin of 
 K knowing to do good and doing it not " ? Are not 
 such men, in fact, offended in Christ? and if they 
 looked narrowly into their hearts, would they not be 
 forced to discover there secret reasons for their pres- 
 ent attitude, and to own that they do find stumbling- 
 blocks in the way to Christ, and are making the 
 existence of these an excuse for their carelessness? 
 Would not some of them be compelled to admit, with 
 one of the brothers Haldane, "I used to think I was 
 entirely fair, impartial, and candid, and that I was 
 holding the scales with an even poise and justly weigh- 
 ing the claims of God's word upon me ; but I see now 
 that I was governed throughout by a vast pride of in- 
 tellect and a secret self-flattery that I was so inde- 
 pendent of the opinions of others and dared act 
 differently"? 
 
 And is it not astonishing that men will overturn so 
 much truth which they acknowledge and seem to feel, 
 for so trivial a cause ? They will erase a whole page 
 for one little blot. They will pluck the whole flower 
 to pieces, because a fly has walked over one of the 
 petals. Like those who heard Jesus' discourse on the 
 spiritual bread, they are ready to go back and walk 
 no more with him because of one hard saying, one in- 
 soluble mystery. 
 
 I confess there is but one way in which I can ac- 
 
JOY or chkist's fellowship. 341 
 
 count for this immense difficulty at trifles, this facility 
 of swallowing the camel, with this sensitive shrinking 
 from the gnat. I believe the trifles are seized on, 
 generally, by the latent enmities of the heart : the 
 gnat is welcomed as an excuse, and brought into a 
 prominence which its own insignificance would never 
 have given to it. I do not wish to discredit the per- 
 fect good faith of honest doubters in the minor things 
 of the gospel ; there are such among us ; but I ask 
 every man's heart if he does not find his doubts de- 
 termine their value and their influence according to 
 his moods of mind, and if he is not most careful in 
 tending them and keeping them warm and comfortable, 
 when the state of his conscience leads him to seek 
 refuge in the dark, because he cannot bear the light, 
 and he finds doubts and excuses very good company, 
 as they always are for a backslidden disciple or a 
 half-persuaded unbeliever. 
 
 But how can we reject the immense body of chris- 
 tian truth, because we stumble at some apparent 
 difficulty in one of its members? How can we dis- 
 own Christ in the greatness and power which we 
 understand, for some little word of his which we do 
 not understand ? How can we venture on the ship- 
 wreck of our whole faith and our own souls, because 
 we have a scruple at some small thing which is re- 
 quired of us? 
 
 For I will not speak of that notorious, active, and 
 malignant offence which is exhibited by those who 
 expressly disclaim belief in the gospel and the 
 Saviour. These are not stumblers, they are leapers 
 
342 joy of Christ's fellowship. 
 
 and precipitators. To stumble in a path implies that 
 one is willing to enter it, at least ; to stumble over 
 a difficulty necessitates that one shall have travelled 
 up to it ; and to be offended in Christ means that one 
 would heartily accept Christ but for some special 
 obstacles, over which he cannot make his way. 
 
 What is the nature of these special obstacles? 
 What are the stumbling-blocks which keep so many 
 from the open and fearless following of Christ ? Some 
 are stumbling, no doubt, at something in Christ's 
 teaching; nothing they can object to, nothing they 
 would presume to question as unworthy of the exalted 
 character of Jesus, or inconsistent with that discipline 
 of souls which fits them for the kingdom of God ; but it 
 is something which offends the inbred conceit of human 
 nature, that peculiar something which has made the 
 cross of Christ an offence to sinners even from the 
 beginning. They do not know just what it is, they 
 would be loath to attempt to explain what it is ; it is 
 the original viciousness of self-will, the high-headed- 
 ness of gay and thoughtless youth, the selfish mo- 
 nopoly of the world in the heart of middle age, the 
 stereotyped and deep-indented habits of age ; it is 
 the reckless ambition of one, the vain pride of 
 another, the animal joyousness of a third, the sheer 
 timidity of another, the dull, unreceptive, passive 
 stolidity of another; it is everything in the old 
 Adam of the human heart which protests against re- 
 pentance, because it is humbling ; hates the path of 
 close obedience, because it is self-denying ; prefers 
 the pleasures of sin for a season, because their season 
 
joy of Christ's fellowship. 343 
 
 is now, and they press an invitation that demands 
 no thought, no self-abasement, no disregard of estab- 
 lished habits to accept and to comply with. 
 
 Such stumblers as these hardly know at what they 
 stumble. They look at Jesus, not with disdainful or 
 defiant eye, but only with the vacant and unmeaning 
 regard of hearers whose hearts have no connection 
 with their ears, and listeners whose design is no deeper 
 than mere curiosity or habitual tolerance of an un- 
 avoidable duty. 
 
 I believe the great majority are of this class, pas- 
 sively, not actively offended in Christ, and only need- 
 ing that some urgent circumstance should drive them 
 to Jesus, or some bitter trial humble them enough 
 to make them feel how much better it would be to 
 have him with them, than all the opinions of the 
 world, with him far from them. 
 
 And is not Jesus, my friends, soliciting some of 
 you by trials? The methods of his love are infinite. 
 He will try every string that love or grief or pain 
 can stretch and sound in your hearts, ere he give you 
 up and over to your own blind choosing. This he 
 has taught you, and this he has shown, by the experi- 
 ence of thousands. If he is now speaking to you 
 out of a cloud of tribulation and through the dark- 
 ness of a season of grief, I beg you to hear him, 
 and to bow your heads in humble submission to his 
 teaching. Stumble not at the severity of your trial 
 or at the unknowable mystery of his providences ; but 
 draw near to him, and you shall see light spring up 
 in your darkness ; give your hearts to him, and you 
 
344 joy of Christ's fellowship. 
 
 shall find a treasure more precious than any which 
 God has taken from you, and you shall know the 
 blessedness of those who are not offended in Jesus. 
 But I believe there is a large number who are offended 
 in Christ because they dislike something which they 
 find in the ordinances and institutions of his church. 
 They do not stop to inquire whether their offence lies 
 against what Jesus enjoined or against the perversions 
 and abases of men. I think these have less excuse 
 than any other, and are more deeply guilty of that 
 sin against which Jesus warned us. These are such 
 as reject the commandments because those who are 
 christians disobey them, who will not enter the 
 church because they see how many unworthy members 
 the church entertains. If they had been the eleven 
 disciples, they would have left the Master because he 
 kept Judas Iscariot in his company ; and you may 
 give their self-justification its extremest weight, and 
 what does it amount to, more than the same self- 
 righteous reasoning, with the old Pharisees, who 
 would not own Jesus because he feasted with 
 publicans ? Is it worse for the disciples to be found 
 with delinquent, and even wicked and apostate 
 brethren, than it was for their Master? Is it a 
 greater reproach for the church to deal long and 
 tenderly and foibearingly with her negligent mem- 
 bers, than it was for Jesus to associate with the 
 outcasts and reprobates of society? Are not you, 
 my friends, who so hold up the blameworthiness 
 of the church which invites you, and into which 
 Jesus calls }^ou, in the same rank with the old, 
 
joy of Christ's fellowship. 345 
 
 supercilious Pharisees, who turued their backs on 
 Je^us because their exalted pride and scorn did not 
 like his surroundings, and held in contempt the com- 
 pany he kept? I think this occasion of stumbling, 
 this ground of offence, is the most unreasonable of 
 all. It asks of those who use it such enormous con- 
 cessions, it so boldly proclaims that we are never to 
 do good except in select positions and with irre- 
 proachable witnesses. It so plainly and stoutly insists 
 that we are not to do right save when right-doers are 
 plentiful, and there is less need of our particular 
 right-doing. It tells a man he ought to stay out in 
 the pelting storm because there is a leak in the 
 friendly roof that offers him shelter ; he is not bound 
 to be honest, because so many who professed to be 
 honest have proved to be rogues ; he is at liberty to 
 thrust a beggar from his door, because his neighbor 
 has just done the same thing ; he is at liberty to float 
 or drive his skiff over the fall, because a much more 
 competent and loud-boasting sailor than he has just 
 plunged over. There is no comparison, no example, 
 that can do full justice to the grievous wrong and 
 the fatal deceit of those who reject the high com- 
 mands of Jesus, and slight the first duties of the 
 christian life, for the reason that they deem the 
 church corrupt and christians inconsistent with their 
 profession. 
 
 I have preached on this theme, my friends, till 
 I hardly know what further I can say. It is only 
 the tumult of your active cares which prevents you 
 from discovering the error of your judgment. But 
 
346 joy or cheist's "fellowship. 
 
 I entreat you to think bow much better, wiser, and 
 safer it would be for you to snatch } r our hearts out 
 of the whirl of your present occupations, and give 
 this subject its due attention, than to wait till the 
 solemn ushering of death and the shades of the 
 eternal world shall still that tumult for you, and 
 leave you, in the loneliness of your hearts and the 
 bitterness of your convictions, to repent that you 
 have turned so often away from your Saviour and 
 slighted his compassionate and gentle entreaties, be- 
 cause you, in your pride or your folly, were " offended 
 in him." I repeat it, at him you cannot be offended. 
 Interpret the mercies of your lives as the persua- 
 sives of his love ; let memory recall to you all the 
 mediate, but not disguised, calls of his yearning 
 pity ; see how he still reaches to you that hand 
 which has saved millions of sinking souls and lifted 
 from the cross our perishing world to the hope of 
 immortality ; try to believe that the truth you now 
 hear, preached as he has commanded, is the message 
 which he sends you, the same message which has 
 given life and joy to all christian hearts, and may 
 God help you to judge wisely, and no longer defer 
 to join, with heart and life, the gracious Master you 
 have so long refused to own. 
 
THE FULNESS OF CHRIST. 
 
 " Christ is all and in all." — Col. iii, 11. 
 
 This is one of those brief, compact sentences, 
 abounding in the New Testament, which seem to col- 
 lect and condense the meaning of whole pages and 
 chapters, and to crystallize it in a few short, cubic 
 words. In these sentences, which the disciple of 
 Christ can never forget, because they fasten like 
 hooks of gold upon his memory, the very essence 
 of the gospel, the spirit which flows through and 
 baptizes all its teachings, seems to organize itself 
 in universal forms, in all-sided and all-comprehen- 
 sive modes of expression. The gospel ever and 
 anon sums itself up, sharpens its logic, and points its 
 application in these epigrammatic utterances. From 
 its spiritual armory we select them, and the Provi- 
 dence and Spirit of God often select them as the 
 slender but keen and piercing javelins with which to 
 slay the proud and wicked heart. We know how 
 mighty these weapons of truth have been when 
 wielded in the giant hand of a stern but merciful 
 Providence. 
 
 Or we may compare these sentences to lenses, that 
 not only reveal to us the fair expanses of divine 
 truth, but lengthen the range and widen the scope 
 
348 THE FULNESS OF CHRIST. 
 
 of vision, and enlarge the outlines of every object. 
 This telescopic and amplifying power belongs to 
 many of those endeared versicles that set before us 
 the Saviour and his mission of redemption, as when 
 it is said, "Behold the Lamb of God that taketh 
 away the sin of the world." And the same power of 
 enlargement lies in that emphatic saying of John, 
 " God is love." 
 
 The apostle, seeking to exalt the christian life into 
 a sovereign union with Christ, and reasoning and ex- 
 horting to this end, finally, like the great Master of 
 assemblies, drives the nail into a sure place by the 
 well-hammered conclusion, "But Christ is all and 
 in all"; a sentence that is like solid gold, which, 
 though its mass may be very small, can be beaten 
 out by the goldsmith into hundreds and thousands of 
 leaves for the use and service of art. 
 
 We may consider the text as a universal and as a 
 particular truth, for it is, both absolutely and rela- 
 tively, a truth. The apostle, without doubt, intended 
 by it to set forth Christ's position in the mind and 
 life of his disciples ; but equalty well these words set 
 forth his position in the mind and life of the world. 
 
 First of all, then, the text is an historical truth 
 in the histoiy of the human race, and to the wisest 
 and truest study of that history, " Christ is all in all." 
 I know that this is not the reading of the world's 
 chronicles to the vulgar eye. The records of the 
 race are commonly interpreted by the aid of a key 
 that has no power over any element in history but 
 the human and the earthly ; but in fact there are 
 spiritual and divine elements in it. 
 
THE FULNESS OF CHRIST. 349 
 
 There is a double life in nations and empires, 
 there is a pulse of eternity in the veins and arte- 
 ries of history. When we look at events from an 
 earthly point, we see them under a very small angle, 
 that excludes more than half their meaning. We 
 must take our post of observation on the heights of 
 the past or the coming eternity. " God ruleth in 
 the kingdom of men." We are reading the occur- 
 rences of life on the under side, and reading them in 
 the dark. Oh, how vast will be the difference of 
 their significance when God shall have lifted us 
 above them, and lighted all around us the myriad 
 torches of eternity ! The great purpose of the 
 world's history is human redemption, and it is set 
 forth in the very oldest and earliest records of our 
 race. The great hero of this history is Christ, aud 
 those earliest records sing to us the promise of his 
 appearing. For four thousand years the heart of 
 humanity was beating with the expectation of its Sa- 
 viour. The glory of those dark centuries rested on 
 the hills of Judaea, culminated in the cross, and gave 
 birth to all the splendor of the following time. The 
 world is now waiting for Christ. The springs of its 
 history are in him aud in his purpose to save it. All 
 things are preparing for his triumph. Death has 
 been vanquished, the grave has lost its prey, the 
 portals of life and immortality have been opened, 
 and the angel of grace has been sent forth, "flying 
 in the midst of heaven, having the everlasting gos- 
 pel to preach to every nation, and people, and kin- 
 dred, and tongue." The loudest voice, the highest 
 15 
 
350 THE FULNESS OF CHEIST. 
 
 thought, the greatest word in history is Christ. 
 w Christ is all and in all." 
 
 Secondly, — This is also a religious truth even 
 more obviously. Our intelligence rejects all the 
 historical religions but that of Moses and that of the 
 gospel ; and as Christ was the end of the one, he is 
 the life of the other. Our alternative is, a religion 
 that offers Christ as an atoner and Saviour, or a ne- 
 gation and rejection of all religion ; and the world is 
 fast shedding off from itself, like withered leaves, all 
 its old creeds and idolatries, and coming to the same 
 alternative. There are men who accept the gospel 
 in its records, while they depose the Saviour from 
 his throne, and even from his cross. They exalt his 
 personal character, but give it only the value of an 
 example. They glorify his deeds, but it is with only 
 the cheap and tinsel gilding of a martyr's crown. 
 They ignore the prime and greatest necessity of the 
 sinner, " Ye must be born again " ; and they take 
 from Calvary the divine majesty it wears as an altar 
 of sacrifice and a mount of expiation, and make it 
 what the Jews called it, nothing but a "place of 
 skulls." But the whole world is entering into a 
 deeper and more spiritual life. Science, philosophy, 
 art, are all lifting the human soul with purer and 
 nobler aspirations ; and every step of this progress, 
 every degree of this elevation, is a new verdict for 
 the truth as it is in Christ. There is nowhere a hand 
 that can so touch the shrinking spirit and quicken 
 it with life as the hand which is held out from the 
 cross of Jesus. There is no ointment so precious to 
 
THE FULNESS OF CHRIST. 351 
 
 the wounded conscience as the blood that was shed 
 on that cross. Paul would know nothing but " Christ 
 and him crucified" ; but he knew that whoever knows 
 this knows everything, for " Christ is all and in all." 
 Thirdly, — This is also a moral truth. It inspires 
 the system of morality which springs from the gospel, 
 and of this morality Christ is the central and domi- 
 nating thought. It is a vain belief that you can pre- 
 serve the christian morality complete, and yet banish 
 from it the idea of Christ with the necessity of his 
 offices and relations. This morality differs from any 
 other system of morals only or chiefly in the fact 
 that its very life-blood is drawn from the spirit of 
 Christ. It is a system whose basis is love, love 
 begotten in the heart by faith in Christ. It is the 
 morality of a regenerated life. The first relation it 
 establishes is the bond of fellowship with Christ. 
 None but a christian can be a true moralist. You 
 may keep outward forms and raise up the shell 
 of a moral character, but the vital principle, the soul 
 of morals, will be wanting. The very glory that 
 crowns the moral precepts of the gospel, their most 
 distinctive mark, that which places them so immeas- 
 urably beyond and above all the inspirations of 
 human wisdom, is the fact that they all grow from 
 the christian religion, they are its blossoms, its 
 leaves, its fruits. Remember, Christianity first de- 
 manded the heart in our moral actions. The great 
 question is of that ; and therefore if a man's heart 
 is not capable of the christian religion, it is not 
 capable of christian morality. Christ, the first in 
 
352 THE FULNESS OF CHRIST. 
 
 religion, is the first in morals. Here also he "is all 
 and in all." 
 
 But the immediate reference which the apostle 
 gives to the text is to the life of Christ's followers. 
 And we may divide it, in this application, and con- 
 sider separately, for a time, the two propositions it 
 contains. 
 
 1. "Christ is all." You remember that brief but 
 sublime title by which the Lord announced himself to 
 the Israelites, — "I AM." That title stood to them 
 as a promissory blank, to be filled up by them with 
 the name of whatever attributes or grace they de- 
 sired God to display in their behalf. It was as if God 
 had said to them, Behold, ye doubters and trem- 
 blers. See and adore the riches of my power, the 
 fulness of my nature. Whatever ye would seek in 
 me — I AM. Do ye need mercy? — I AM mercy. 
 Do ye desire goodness? — I AM goodness. Do ye 
 long for peace ? — that I AM. Do ye need forgive- 
 ness ?— I AM that. Would ye have life? — I AM 
 life. Whatever ye wish for or would expect in me 
 or from me, write it, by your faith, in this blank 
 deed of gift, and ye will find that whatever ye may 
 worthily ask — that I AM. 
 
 You will notice the same rich suggestiveness, and 
 implication of meaning, in the text, " Christ is all,'' 
 as if this too were a blank covenant of promise to 
 the faithful disciple, a blank which he might fill up 
 with any grace or any blessing, and presenting it, by 
 his prayer, in the chancery of heaven, be sure of its 
 acceptance by Christ. 
 
THE FULNESS OF CHRIST. 353 
 
 Is the christian in trouble, " Christ is " peace. 
 Is he tempted, " Christ is " strength. Is he af- 
 flicted, "Christ is " comfort. Is he perplexed, " Christ 
 is " wisdom. Is he beset with sin, " Christ is " 
 sanctification. Is he descending into the valley 
 of death, " Christ is " a Friend that sticketh closer 
 than a brother, a strong rod and beautiful staff, 
 and he need fear no evil. Whatever the soul may 
 desire, whatever its necessities may call for, it has 
 but to seize this accredited covenant in blank, and 
 write its prayer there, with perfect confidence of 
 assurance that " Christ is all," all that we need, all 
 that we could desire, all that we have the capacity 
 to receive or enjoy. 
 
 " Thou art all goodness, 
 
 Thou art all kindness, 
 Tenderly leading 
 
 Us in our blindness. 
 We are but weakness, 
 
 Thou art all power, 
 Feebly, yet trustingly, 
 
 Bide we the hour. 
 Under the cloud we, 
 
 Or under the sun, 
 Looking to thee, say — 
 
 ' Thy will be done! ' 
 
 " What though the thorns pierce 
 
 Our feet as they go? 
 Thou dost our path see, 
 
 Our sufferings know. 
 Never a sorrow 
 
 Nor ever a tear, 
 Thy eye seeth not — 
 
 Why then should we fear? 
 
354 THE FULNESS OF CHRIST. 
 
 " We who are living 
 
 Within thy caress, 
 Need not implore thee 
 
 To keep or to hless. 
 Evermore will we, 
 
 With look fixed above, 
 Trust in thy goodness 
 
 And rest in thy love. " 
 
 But more particularly we may give emphasis to 
 the fact that Christ is all to the faith of his disciples. 
 The old Greeks, iu the early days of Christianity, — 
 men that boasted of the subtilties of Platonic love, — - 
 saw in the humble followers of Jesus proofs of a love 
 that transcended their philosophical ideas as far as 
 these went beyond the selfish affections of common 
 humanity, and they could not repress an exclamation 
 of astonishment at the mighty magnetism which held 
 the christians fast, by all the bonds of reverence and 
 affection, to the name of their departed Lord. But 
 the old Greeks failed to guess the secret of this power 
 in the name of Jesus. They thought it the name 
 only of a dead man, whereas it is the name of the 
 living God. They looked upon Jesus as an absent 
 teacher, forever silenced by the interdict of death, 
 whereas he is a present and animating personality. 
 They thought his name only a beloved memory to his 
 disciples, but it is a cherished and inspiring presence 
 among them. Here lies the secret of the power which 
 displays itself in the affections and emotions of the 
 christian. Christ still lives and speaks, he still 
 teaches in his school, he still kuocks at the door of 
 his friends and enters " and sups with them and they 
 with him." • 
 
THE FULNESS OF CHRIST. 355 
 
 No wonder a faith that treats the Saviour as a 
 scholar treats the great names of learning, that 
 places him just where it places Socrates or Aristotle 
 or Plato, no wonder such faith makes no preten- 
 sion to regenerating power and denies the need of a 
 change of heart ; it is as helpless and useless in the 
 great tumults of a convicted soul as a skeleton would 
 be in the hour of battle. All the offices of religion 
 point to Christ ; all the necessities of man point to 
 him. He atones for our sin. He forgives sin. His 
 Spirit subdues sin in us and develops all the fruits of 
 sanctification. " He is the author and the finisher of 
 faith." He is the embodiment of all the forces of his 
 religion. He is the vital centre from which stream all 
 the rays of doctrine. In everything but sin, he is 
 all that we are and all that we can ever aspire to 
 become. 
 
 The objects of faith are concreted and realized in 
 his person and character. He is "the truth, the way, 
 and the life," — the truth we believe in, the way we 
 are travelling, the life into which we are growing. 
 He is our faith incarnated and personified. "Christ 
 is all." In the second place, Christ is all to the hope 
 of his disciples. Hope is begotton of faith and love, 
 it is faith and love translated from the past and pres- 
 ent to the future ; and Christ, who is all to faith, 
 which looks backward to the past, and to the love 
 which seizes and enjoys the present, is likewise all to 
 hope, which looks forward to the future, and antici- 
 pates the celestial kingdom of Grod. Our faith and 
 hope so articulate into each other, their natures so em- 
 
356 THE FULNESS OF CHRIST. 
 
 brace and interpenetrate, that they are true measures 
 and tests of each other, in degree and in character. 
 If our faith is weak and wayward and rambling, so 
 will be our hope. But if our faith is strong and 
 constant, and centred in Christ, our hope will be 
 clear and definite ; and it will point to Christ in the 
 future, as surely as the needle to the pole. No won- 
 der that a faith which rejects Christ begets a hope of 
 heaven as selfish as the covetous soul tempted and 
 lured by a bribe. The disciples of such a faith see 
 nothing in heaven but its rewards. They nourish a 
 spiritual ambition for the honors that are to be 
 worn and a spiritual avarice for the pleasures that are 
 to be enjoyed hereafter. They are working for hire, 
 they are impelled to duty by the hope of receiving 
 wages. Not the love of Christ, but the prospect of 
 happiness, this is the spur and goad that urges them 
 on. How unlike is the hope of the real christian, 
 a hope that throbs with the love and anticipation of 
 Christ, a hope that is only the natural and sponta- 
 neous efflorescence of faith in the Saviour ! The 
 apostle, every fibre of whose nature quivered with 
 love for his Master, gave voice to the unselfishness 
 of the christian's hope, crying, "For me to live is 
 Christ, and to die is gain." Wherefore was it gain 
 to him ? "I desire to be with Christ, which is far bet- 
 ter." Take the Saviour from his place among the 
 constellated glories of heaven, and to his disciples' 
 vision those glories would be extinguished in gloom. 
 Take him from that feast at which all the elect of 
 God will sit down to drink of the " new cup " which his 
 
THE FULNESS OF CHRIST. 357 
 
 hand is to fill with the wine of a heavenly and ever- 
 lasting vintage, take him away, and the pleasures of 
 that feast would be turned to grief and mourning. 
 He, he is the One our souls long to behold. Those 
 hands through which the spikes were driven, that 
 brow w 7 hich was lacerated with thorns and stained 
 with purple drops, which was stained with awful 
 drops of bloody sweat and agony, those eyes that 
 never looked on man but with tenderness and sympa- 
 thy, and that shed the tears of grieved mercy over 
 the fate of Jerusalem, I ask the heart of any chris- 
 tian if heaven offers, in all its wide domain, a more 
 blessed vision than this of the Son of God. Oh, if 
 the saints can shed tears, it seems to me the streets 
 of heaven must run rivers of tears, tears of ineffa- 
 ble and now inconceivable joy, when all who love 
 Jesus shall \>q summoned to his presence, and stand- 
 ing before him and thrilled with the sight of him, 
 shall hear his voice, " Come, ye blessed of my 
 Father ! » 
 
 We now hasten to consider the force of the last 
 clause, " Christ is all and in all." He is in all, first 
 as respects his purposes concerning us. This truth 
 presents and magnifies the tender and unsleeping 
 care which the Saviour exercises over his disciples. 
 It presents him as watching us, disciplining us, edu- 
 cating us, by all the circumstances and occurrences 
 of our lives. It shows us that there is no chance in 
 our history, and no real accidents. It reveals the 
 close bond of fellowship that connects us with Christ, 
 a fellowship that takes in every event, and assures 
 
 15* 
 
858 THE FULNESS OF CHRIST. 
 
 us of the presence of the divine hand in all our af- 
 fairs. Christ is in all that concerns us and all that 
 happens to us. He is in our joy and in our grief, in 
 our prosperity and in our adversity, in our health 
 and in our sickness, in our trials, in our labors, in 
 our afflictions, in our life, in our death ; Christ is in 
 all. If we can draw no joyous assurance from the 
 reflection that by this truth everything that enters 
 into our history, every event that affects our life, is 
 an expression of Christ's love for us ; that it shows 
 his hand, weaving with us the web of our destiny, — 
 if we be not comforted by this truth, which imprints 
 our whole life with the characters of Jesus' love, and 
 covers the world with the glowing symbols of his 
 presence, it must be because Christ is not all in our 
 faith, because we have not yet apprehended him as 
 the great worship of our hearts. And this leads us 
 finally to the truth that " Christ is in all," in the pur- 
 poses of his followers. This is the truth that fitly con- 
 cludes the other, a truth which Paul has expressed in 
 other language, " If ye then be risen with Christ, seek 
 those things which are above, where Christ sitteth at 
 the right hand of God," which is equivalent to say- 
 ing, M If ye have received a new life from Christ, let 
 that life perpetually grow and lead you toward Christ, 
 let that which has begun in Christ be finished in 
 him." To make Christ the object of all our desires, 
 to set him as the cynosure of our eyes, the scope of 
 all our labors, to make life one great testimony of 
 him and one enduring aspiration for him, — this is 
 to show that we have learned the meaning and the 
 
THE FULNESS OF CHRIST. 359 
 
 power of faith, that we have "comprehended the 
 length, and breadth, and height, and depth, and 
 known the love of Christ which passeth knowledge " ; 
 this is to show that we do "love him, because he 
 first loved us." Our life, my brethren, must and 
 will interpret oui* faith. If Jesus is to us but a name, 
 we shall be his disciples only in name. Oh, what a 
 feeble, sickly, inapprehensive faith prevails among us ! 
 We are christians ; but where is the Spirit of 
 Christ that ought to make our lives "living epis- 
 tles, known and read of all men"? We are chris- 
 tians ; but where is the power that makes a chris- 
 tian's arm a lever among men ? — a lever fit to move 
 the world, because the strength of Christ is in it. 
 Read our histories, they are written in the lan- 
 guage of the world, they tell enough of pride and 
 passion, and ambition and avarice, but how little 
 they tell of Christ ! Evidently Christ is not all to 
 us, and therefore he is not in all we do. There are 
 too many corners of our hearts into which Christ en- 
 ters not. There are too many chambers given up to 
 the entertainment of Mammon. We are walking in 
 ways where Christ does not and cannot walk with us. 
 The true christian even loves his brother because he 
 sees in him the marks of Jesus. He loves the chris- 
 tian church because Christ is in it. Yet we turn from 
 our brethren, not because Christ is not in them, we 
 leave the church, we neglect the table of the Lord, not 
 because Christ is not there, but because Christ is not 
 in us. I would adjure you, by the fearful thoughts 
 of that time when Christ will be all that can defend 
 
360 THE FULNESS OF CHRIST. 
 
 or save you, to make Christ all to you now, while 
 you may. Christian or unbeliever, no matter which 
 you be, you would give up your hold on the king- 
 doms of the universe to secure a hold on the mercy 
 of the Saviour ! 
 
PAUL AND SILAS PRAYING IN PRISON. 
 
 Acts xvi, 25, 26. 
 
 This narrative discloses some of the modes, some 
 of the conditions, and some of the wonderful effects 
 of the divine power. It must have seemed, in that 
 age, a very strange thing that men should carry the 
 spirit of song into a prison, and light up its murky 
 walls with the radiance of unabated cheerfulness ; and 
 still stranger that they should be enabled to do this, 
 not by any rare gift of temper, not by some gleam of 
 unexpected good fortune, but by the rich graces of 
 religion. 
 
 Philosophy might have kept the apostles in serene 
 patience and courageous fortitude ; but when did 
 philosophy ever leap from the brain to the tongue in 
 a spring of irrepressible thankfulness ? A mere sense 
 of innocence might have comforted itself with prayer ; 
 but when did suffering innocence ever add wing to 
 its panoply, and soar to heaven in a flight of praise ? 
 
 No wonder the prisoners in the wards of that Phi- 
 lippian gaol listened and heard the apostles. There 
 was something there worth more than sleep, and the 
 novelty alone was enough to keep every head from 
 the floor and every ear open. For consider the cir- 
 
362 PAUL AND SILAS PRAYING IN PRISON. 
 
 cumstances in which the apostles gave that testimony 
 to the spirit which was in them. They were smart- 
 ing from the stripes which had been laid upon them. 
 Their stiffened limbs were chafing against the stocks, 
 and aching with the load of rusty chains. They had 
 borne a day's brutal indignities, and they knew not 
 but these were the precursors and the foretaste of 
 worse sufferings to come. Yet they forgot their pains, 
 they did not look at the shadows of the future, they 
 did not feel the metal that clanked on their limbs ; 
 the body was straitened, but the soul was free, there 
 were no stocks for that, and the love of Jesus was an 
 anodyne even for bodily pangs, a sweet cordial, 
 which no prison-taint could poison, and their voices 
 went up as clearly and as resonantly as if they had 
 been still with Lydia on the bank of the river. This 
 is why we are told " the prisoners heard them." 
 
 Luke wishes us to understand that they did not pray 
 like men full of fear and apprehension, with whis- 
 pered accents and trembling voices. I believe myself 
 that when men pray with joyful vigor they speak out 
 in good, round, elastic tones, just as they talk when 
 they are in earnest. When we carry a petition up to 
 God, we like to do it in English, so that we may 
 understand it ourselves, not that God cannot under- 
 stand it in any other language, spoken or unspoken ; 
 and just so, when we have a real christian joy in our 
 hearts, our hearts like to hear it bursting like an 
 anthem from our lips, and spreading itself out in 
 energetic speech. A silent christian is nothing but 
 the title of a good song, all the music left out of it ; 
 
PAUL AND SILAS PRAYING IN PRISON. 3G3 
 
 and a christian who cannot pray so that others may 
 hear him, does but hum an air that rises from his 
 throat ; if it came from his heart it would pour itself 
 out, like the song of the lark soaring to heaven's 
 gate. 
 
 Religion has no power in us and exerts no power 
 through us if it is not a religion of joy. \\ hen the 
 tank is full, the water will overflow, and joy is the 
 overflow of the heart. You can turn the hands of a 
 watch with a watch-key, but you cannot keep time in 
 that way ; the watch wants a main- spring. 
 
 Now, conscience is only the watch-key of religion, 
 but the main-spring is- a hearty joy in the love and 
 service of Christ. Duties are only the branches of 
 our spiritual life, but joy is the green leaves. We must 
 have the branches, or we have nothing to hang the 
 leaves on, but the best evidence we can have that the 
 tree is alive is to see it putting on foliage ; and when 
 we behold a christian really enjoying his religion, we 
 have good evidence that his religion is full of sap and 
 vigor. And to enjoy religion, it must be growing 
 within us. We cannot carry the same quantity of it 
 through life, we must add to it, or we must take from 
 it. Trying to content ourselves with the same expe- 
 rience of God's grace w 7 hich we had when we entered 
 into the kingdom, is like living in a closed room, and 
 breathing over and over again the same old atmos- 
 phere. Christians grow consumptive by breathing 
 over the same old spiritual atmosphere. They need 
 more oxygen ; they want exhilarating ; they ought to 
 take their religion into the open air, and give it more 
 
364 PAUL AND SILAS PRAYING IN PRISON. 
 
 exercise, till its pulses beat with joy and its dry 
 bones fill themselves with the marrow of gladness. 
 Consider again, "They prayed and sang praises 
 unto God," literally, "praying, they hymned God." 
 The praise was in the praying, the hymn was a part 
 of the prayer. It was a joyful prayer, and a prayerful 
 hymn, a union which proclaims the true christian 
 chemistry ; for prayer without praise is meat without 
 drink, and praise without prayer is drink without 
 meat. A dry religion may go through life praying, 
 without a thrill of that joy which makes melody in 
 the heart ; a sense of our necessities may drive us to 
 prayer, while no sense of God's love stirs us to 
 thankfulness. Then we are like a reed instrument 
 without a mouthpiece, or a flute without stops ; our 
 religion has no expression, and it is little more than a 
 monotone. It is no high proof of our devotion that 
 we can pray in a time of great need. When suffer- 
 ings bear hard upon us and crosses are laid on our 
 shoulders till we sink to the ground ; when there is 
 no human help for us and all love is impotent but the 
 love of Jesus, then, if we are christians at all, we 
 must pray, we must throw ourselves at the foot of the 
 altar and cry for deliverance. We may have grace 
 enough to do that, grace enough to utter the prayer 
 of passive resignation, and yet we may not have 
 grace enough to dry our tears or turn our sighs into 
 a gush of thanksgiving. We may say, " I will bear 
 the indignation of the Lord, because I have sinned 
 against him," while our hearts are too cold to say, 
 "The Lord gave, the Lord hath taken away ; blessed be 
 
PAUL AND SILAS PRAYING IN PRISON. 365 
 
 the name of the Lord." The prodigal was glad to get 
 husks, though there was plenty of bread waiting for 
 him in his father's house ; and a christian may live 
 on husks, and just live, salting them with his tears 
 and growing leaner and gaunter day by day, till 
 he shivers in every blast of the storm, and wraps his 
 misery about him like a cloak. 
 
 w Why should the children of a king go mourning 
 all their days ? " They would not if they lived more 
 with their elder brother. It is the presence of Christ 
 that cheers the suffering disciple. Job put on sack- 
 cloth, and sat down in ashes, and bewailed himself. 
 Paul and Silas put on scars and bruises, and sat 
 down in chains ; but they sang praises unto God. 
 
 Prayer and praise are the two hands of the chris- 
 tian soul, and they ought to clasp each other before 
 God. If you cannot pray, you cannot sing, as a 
 christian ought to sing, with all the stops of his heart 
 open, and joy gushing out in a river of music. And 
 till a christian can sing the unwritten score of such 
 music as this, and his faith and hope rejoice and grow 
 glad within him, he can only half pray. He may 
 toil up the hillside, but he does not mount up with 
 wings as an eagle. Life is only a supplication for 
 him, it has no great hymn in it. He may know the 
 power of Jesus' love, but the joy of it is untasted. 
 Prayer only carries us to Jesus, but joy keeps us 
 with him, and in that company prayer and praise 
 flow together like dewdrops, sorrow grows bright, 
 suffering is comforted, and all things are gilded with 
 the glad beam of heavenly hope and promise. 
 
36P) PAUL AND SILAS PRAYING IN PRISON. 
 
 " I never hear good music," said an old worthy, " but 
 I wish to pray ; for I think of the music that the 
 saints are listening to in heaven, and I long to 
 join in it; and that sets me to praying." So it is 
 with every full-hearted disciple. Prayer is the stalk 
 that hears up the flower of his joy. Take the 
 juices out of that stalk and the flower withers and 
 drops ; but show me the flower, and I will tell you 
 whether there is much life in the stalk. 
 
 Look now at the time when the apostles prayed 
 and sang. It was "at midnight," an unusual time, 
 we should say, for such an office ; but then it was an 
 unusual place to pray in, and an unusual emergency 
 that called for prayer, and perhaps the most unusual 
 thing of all is that prayer should break out into 
 praise at such an hour as that. One would think the 
 apostles would have been weighed down with heavi- 
 ness, exhausted with suffering, and sunk in slumber; 
 but they had an antidote against weariness, and a 
 charm against suffering, and a joy that broke the 
 bands of sleep, and kept them awake to praise God 
 that they had been " accounted worthy to suffer for 
 the name of Jesus." 
 
 They are the unusual hours that test the faith of a 
 christian, and tell of what spirit he is. He may be 
 able to keep awake on ordinary occasions, and yet 
 fall asleep just when his opportunity and Grod's power 
 are ready to bless his watchfulness. The spiritual 
 life of many is like the tide that comes in only at 
 certain fixed hours. The love of Jesus and the 
 motive-power of religion seem to lie outside of them, 
 
PAUL AND SILAS PRAYING IN PRISON. 367 
 
 and to reach them and stir them into action, as water 
 from a mill-race turns the wheel, only when the gates 
 are np. 
 
 There are thousands of good day-christians whose 
 zeal goes out at night when the light is blown out, 
 and thousands who exult in the sunshine, but have no 
 heart to sing or pray at midnight. But when the 
 soul is full of love and joy, all seasons are alike to it 
 and all places are alike. The darkness is as the day, 
 the midnight glows like noon, a table is spread in 
 the wilderness, flowers spring up in the desert, sleep 
 is heralded with prayer and broken with praise ; and 
 though the body may be racked with pains and the 
 lips scorched with fever, faith looks up, like the pa- 
 triarch from his stony couch, and sees the shining 
 ladder and the ministering angels, and rejoices in the 
 wondrous love of Him who keeps watch over the 
 waker and "giveth his beloved sleep." 
 
 Let us observe now what power attended, and what 
 results followed, the praying and praising of the 
 apostles. In those days men could be convinced only 
 by sensible exhibitions of divine force. The soul 
 was so sluggish that it needed something more than 
 a spiritual jar to stir it into life, and all nature was 
 jarred to start it out of its lethargy. We do not 
 know just what the apostles prayed for, but we may 
 be sure that they did not pray so much for their own 
 deliverance as for the triumph of their cause in despite 
 of their perils and through them. That is the kind 
 of prayer God loves to answer. When a soul cries, 
 "Not my will, but thine, be done," it is sure to find 
 
368 PAUL AND SILAS PRAYING IN PRISON. 
 
 that God's will is the nearest and brightest road to its 
 own best desires. There is power in such a prayer, 
 for it is the spirit of Jesus himself praying and work- 
 ing in us ; and while we pray, God is making ready to 
 bear witness for us and to shake the moral elements 
 if need be, as he shook the earth for the apostles : 
 "For suddenly there was a great earthquake, so that 
 the foundations of the prison were shaken, and 
 immediately all the doors were opened and every 
 one's bands were loosed." But the apostles did not 
 try to escape. They knew the meaning of that 
 mighty disturbance, and they knew that it was only 
 a preparation for something greater and better. 
 They heard the rumbling of the chariot-wheels, and 
 they sat still and waited for the chariot itself. 
 
 Here is another sign of the devout and unselfish 
 spirit which had spoken in their prayer ; they did 
 not think first of themselves, they trusted them- 
 selves in God's hands and expected his mercy with- 
 out attempting to hasten it. Their voice had been 
 heard ; now they listened for God's voice in answer. 
 
 Brethren, here is a lesson for us. Such is the 
 bond between Jesus and his people, that their faith 
 and prayer are necessary to the display of his power 
 among men. It is not the wick that feeds the flame 
 of the lamp, but what could the oil do without it? 
 It is not the spark that blows the ball from the 
 cannon, but what could we do with the cartridge 
 if we had no means to fire it? 
 
 Now prayer is the wick, and zeal is the spark that 
 develops the light and the energy of God's truth. 
 
PAUL AND SILAS PRAYING IN PRISON. 369 
 
 Lot the church wait on God, and God will wait on 
 the church. The world may have put her in prison, 
 she m\y have put herself there, as she often does, 
 by her own sins, languishing in the chains of sloth, 
 and with her feet in the stocks. But in the midnight 
 of her distress, when half around her are asleep, let 
 her only awake, and send up an imploring cry, and 
 God will shake the walls of her prison, and strike off 
 her fetters, and make her honorable before men. We 
 must understand the fact that the all-conquering 
 energy of the church is only the surplus vitality of 
 the church, when she throws out in work the exuber- 
 ance of her own muscular strength and rejoicing youth- 
 fulness. It is not enough to sustain our own average 
 tone, and keep up the normal blood-heat. You may 
 make Avater boil at 212 degrees, but you cannot get 
 up much steam at that temperature ; and you may 
 keep the life of the church simmering and bubbling 
 with a decent show of heat, and not get up expansive 
 force enough to pass beyond the walls. And while 
 this is the case, we are always thinkiug of ourselves. 
 We are praying for our own deliverance, when we 
 ought to be praying for others. We are lavishing 
 sympathy on our needs, when our hearts should over- 
 flow towards the unbelieving. We are so intent upon 
 our own dangers that we forget past mercies, and 
 leave praise out of our praying. But let us forget 
 ourselves once, and think a little more of saving 
 others, till our prayers rise from our hearts like 
 smoke from burning incense ; let us make the prison 
 walls ring with our pleadings, and the midnight 
 
370 PAUL AND SILAS PRAYING IN PRISON. 
 
 sonorous with our songs, and we should find that 
 world-quakes have not ceased yet to testify to the 
 truth, though earthquakes have, and that when chris- 
 tians beseech God to save sinners, sinners come ask- 
 ing, "What shall we do to be saved?" 
 
 I ask christian fathers and mothers if they have not 
 sometimes been shaken out of their indolence by 
 their anxiety for their own children, and felt the 
 love of Jesus dearer to their own hearts, the more 
 they saw that that alone could save their sons and 
 daughters. They learned to pray better when they 
 yearned over their children, and warmth came back 
 to them as their souls struggled in prayer for those 
 they loved. Wonderful is the working of this un- 
 selfish thought for others, wonderful even in the 
 experience and history of unconverted men. God's 
 grace often opens a way to a man's heart through 
 this tenderness of his nature and this ardent sympa- 
 thy with the objects of his affection. There was a 
 lawyer in New York, high in his profession, but a 
 proud, somewhat cold, reserved, and cynical man, 
 and utterly indifferent to religion. He had a son of 
 fine promise, whom he had carefully educated, and 
 whom he hoped to make the partner of his busi- 
 ness. But in the circles which his father frequented 
 the son learned to drink wine, and rapidly passed 
 through all the degrees from a fashionable tippler to 
 a confirmed drunkard. 
 
 The father tried to save him by every means in his 
 power ; and pierced with the anguish of his father 
 and the shame of his friends, the son tried to save 
 
PAUL AND SILAS PRAYING IN PRISON. 371 
 
 himself, but utterly in vain. He would struggle 
 through a few months of soberness, and then fall 
 again in a single hour of temptation. His father sent 
 him to an institution for the cure of such unfortunates, 
 but he came back only to fall lower than before. 
 One night the son came home late, and found his 
 father sitting by the table and hiding his face in 
 his hands, as if afraid to look up and witness the 
 degradation of his child. But the young man said, 
 " Father, you need not be ashamed to look at me. I 
 am sober to-night. I came upon a little tract to-day 
 with this title, 'The Power of Jesus the only power 
 that can save.' Father, that is the power I want. 
 You have tried to save me, and I have tried to save 
 myself, and my friends have all tried, and I feel now 
 that I am lost, body and soul, if I do not find salva- 
 tion in Christ." In the joy of his heart, the father 
 exclaimed, "Oh, that I were a christian that I could 
 help you, my son ! " And within a year, when the 
 father saw his son, redeemed by the love of Christ, 
 standing in his old places of honor, unshaken by 
 temptation, and brave and stanch in his advocacy of 
 the Name which had become his shield,, the father 
 went to his son and said, " I see now that godliness 
 has the promise of the life that now is and of that 
 which is to come. I wish to claim that promise. 
 What saved you can save me. How shall I find 
 Jesus?" 
 
 If this is the healing and saving power of tenderness 
 for others in the hearts of the unconverted, how much 
 more active and energetic it must be in the hearts of 
 
372 PAUL AND SILAS PRAYING IN PRISON. 
 
 christians. The more love we give to others, the more 
 love Jesus will give to us. If we stop our sympa- 
 thies on the world-side, we stop them. on the side 
 of heaven. 
 
 But, my unconverted friends, do not believe that 
 there are no christians praying while you sleep. You, 
 like the jailer, may see nothing and know nothing of 
 the vigilant love that turns night into day with its 
 wakeful solicitude for you. Mothers may be praying 
 for you, children may breathe your names in every 
 petition they offer at the throne of grace, friends 
 are remembering you, and longing for the day when 
 they shall, with tearful and heartfelt gladness, hear 
 from your lips the sinner's first prayer, " What shall 
 I do to be saved ? " The moral air you live in is per- 
 vaded with these sympathies of christian love, and 
 you can but feel them. God grant they may become 
 too powerful for you to slight them, that you may be 
 shaken, like the jailer, by these tremblings of the 
 air, and awake out of sleep to find in Jesus that only 
 power which can save ! 
 
NOT BY MIGHT NOR BY POWER, BUT BY MY 
 SPIRIT." 
 
 1 ' The wall fell down flat, so that the people went up into the city, every 
 man straight before him, and they took the city. — Joshua vi, 20. 
 
 There is in this language a homely, straightforward 
 directness and simplicity that make it one of the 
 finest specimens of genuine old Saxon-English. So 
 our great great, and several times more great-great- 
 grandfathers and ancestors told the stories of their 
 famous deeds, and recited how their fathers had come 
 over from Dutchland and taken Britain and made it 
 Angle-land. There is also in this language a bound 
 of animation, a leaping spring of vigorous heartiness, 
 as if the speaker were telling his tale for the first 
 time to a crowd of eager listeners, and were anxious 
 and impatient to crown their curiosity and put the 
 climax to his own joy by coming to the triumphant 
 end. He talks here, he does not preach, like a man 
 who had just come out of the fight, and who stood 
 wiping the perspiration from his forehead, while his 
 tongue rattled out these small bullets of an evangel 
 of victory. And is it not just so, whether the her- 
 ald come with tidings of a material or of a moral con- 
 flict, whether he be a soldier of men or a soldier of 
 God, a captain of cohorts or a recruit .of the great 
 Captain of our salvation ? If he has been in the bat- 
 
 16 
 
374 "not by might nor by power, 
 
 tie, and has struck a blow there that helped on the 
 victory, does not the very spirit of the conflict rush 
 into his speech, and the joy of his heart make his 
 lips eloquent, and do we listen to any man more 
 willingly than to such a story-teller as that? I have 
 often wished I could have been in the assembly of 
 Sparta when that breathless runner from Thermop- 
 ylae told the memorable news of Spartan valor and de- 
 votion on that unequalled field of strife, " They fought 
 like heroes, they died like Spartans, they lie walled 
 in and roofed over with the heaps they have slain." 
 It would have been something to hear this tale from 
 that old Spartan soldier. But I have had a wish 
 tenfold stronger, and that is, that I could have heard 
 one of the disciples preach on the day of Pentecost, 
 or one of the first converts tell " what great things the 
 Lord had done for him." For in those days the gos- 
 pel was -tidings, glad tidings of great joy, and I have 
 the belief that the gladness came out in the telling, 
 and that the great joy of the news kindled up a rare 
 power of persuasion in the speaker, and spread around 
 a contagious enthusiasm in the listeners. The gospel 
 has ceased to be news to us in its message, but is it 
 not news to every converted sinner in its eflScacy, and 
 does its gladness ever grow stale, or the joy of its 
 experience wither under the tread of centuries? I 
 believe in the greatness of this joy as an influence on 
 impenitent men. I believe in the gladness of the 
 gospel as an element of its power and success. We 
 want this matchless story told by the tongues of men 
 who have come fresh from the capture of the city, 
 
BUT BY MY SPIRIT." 375 
 
 men whose hearts bear the record of what they affirm 
 with their lips, and whose living earnestness is a 
 pledge, as good as the scars of an old soldier, that 
 they are telling the truth, and a truth which they 
 hold the great pride and glory of their lives. 
 
 We want the gospel preached once more over the 
 land like a bulletin of victory, which the people 
 will not wait to hear read out to them like a Fast- 
 day proclamation, by some grave official, but once 
 possessed of it, draw it out of the pulpits and the 
 churches, take it up in their own mouths and publish 
 it at every street-corner, throw it exultantly at every 
 passer-by, and send it down every breeze and into 
 every house, till the very air is filtered by it, and 
 the daily food digested by it, and the merchant's pen 
 moves to the music of it, and the workman's hammer 
 rings with the joy of it, and it is absorbed into all 
 the arteries of our manifold life. Cannot this be 
 done for the gospel? Was there ever a grander 
 message, was there ever another victory, or can 
 there be, like that of the cross? The Spartans 
 died, but Greece was not saved. Jesus died, and 
 the whole world is ransomed. Do you furnish the 
 men to tell this news right from their own hearts, 
 and there are sin and misery enough to furnish them 
 with listeners. 
 
 But let us take up the text, and simply follow out 
 its several averments, and apply to ourselves, as chris- 
 tians, those points of apposite suggestion which we may 
 discover in them. In the first place, there was the city 
 to be taken. It was a strong city, with a good, mas- 
 
376 "not by might nor by power, 
 
 sive wall, well defended with towers and well manned 
 with a determined enemy. The people needed pretty 
 strong assurance, a pretty large faith, to undertake a 
 task such as the conquest of Jericho. They knew 
 nothing of the art of besieging a walled town ; they 
 had no artillery such as the Egyptians used, and no 
 means to provide any ; and without the aid of batter- 
 ing-rams and machines for throwing stones, what 
 could they hope to accomplish? A walled town in 
 those days could and did sometimes hold out, even 
 against a tolerably well-provided army, for years in 
 succession, and I suppose the inhabitants of Jeri- 
 cho fairly laughed at the attempt to capture their 
 strong city by a demonstration little better than a mere 
 show of hands, and I have no doubt that there were 
 men in the camp of Israel who shook their heads 
 sagely, and muttered their carping discussions at the 
 proposals of Joshua. They would have liked to go 
 round the city and neutralize it with a corps of ob- 
 servation. But there it lay, just where Joshua had 
 God's command to march, and he felt it necessary 
 to march right through it, or over it ; and he set his 
 foot down, and when he took it up, behold, he was in 
 Jericho ! 
 
 Now, my christian friends, there is just such a city 
 before us to-day, relatively as strong, and, to all hu- 
 man means, just as hard to conquer. That city is the 
 Christless world. It lies between us and the last tri- 
 umphs of our cause and Master. It is our business to 
 take it, by the help of God, and we shall take it, 
 with the same invisible artillery that overthrew Jeri- 
 
BUT BY MY SPIRIT." 377 
 
 cho. But does it not try our faith to look up at 
 those frowning walls and see that host of enemies, 
 and then feel how impotent our own efforts must 
 be without perfect confidence in God's invisible artil- 
 lery? "Not by might nor by strength, but by my 
 Spirit, saith the Lord." That is our hope, that is our 
 security. But have we not some who both feel and 
 use the language of discouragement because they 
 measure the difficulty by the paucity of human means 
 to overcome it? They stand, as some of the Israel- 
 'tes did, over against some particularly strong tower 
 of the walls, and they look so much and so exclusively 
 at that, that they come to think nothing can be done 
 so long as that tower stands there with its threatening 
 battlements. 
 
 Do we not all have these specialties of ours, — with 
 some, it may be, the conversion of a child or a friend 
 or a neighbor, — and do we not grow easily to believe 
 that while our particular tower remains unattached and 
 frowning down upon us, God cannot be doing very 
 much for us, and so we become distrustful and dispir- 
 ited? But God is doing something elsewhere. Other 
 towers are being stormed and battered down if ours 
 is not. The host is advancing, if we are stationary, 
 and the city will be taken, and over its tumbling walls 
 the faithful will march in " with gladness and ever- 
 lasting joy upon their heads." 
 
 But let us now consider how the people made ready 
 to take the city. The tactics are peculiar, and deserve 
 attention. Of course Joshua knew that the main 
 thing was to carry out orders ; he knew where the 
 
378 "not by might nor by power, 
 
 strength lay. This was to be au unanswerable demon- 
 stration of the power of God's presence with his 
 people and his people's trust in him. Yet see how 
 wisely and significantly Joshua blends prudence with 
 his faith. He sends forward the ark of the Lord, 
 the palladium of the host, with its attendant priests, 
 but he takes care to marshal before it the armed men 
 and to draw up behind it a rearward of chosen troops. 
 That is always the manner in which Almighty Power 
 consents to do its best and most for men. Let men 
 do the best they can for themselves first, and then call 
 on God to help them, and God will not fail them. It 
 is no sign of courage in a soldier to thrust himself 
 unarmed on an enemy ; it is a flagrant proof of folly. 
 God will not lift up a cowardly arm, or give strength 
 to a rash arm ; but let a man raise his arm to smite 
 in the name of the Lord, and let him wield the trust- 
 iest blade he can command, and his blow will come 
 down with a crash that mere unaided human sinews 
 never made, and his sword will cleave with a flash as 
 if the heaven had opened to give him light for his 
 work. The people of God want faith, but they want 
 also a good vanguard of armed men. They must 
 send on the ark before them, but they must follow it 
 up closely with a compact rearward ; and while their 
 hearts throb with expectation of what God is to do 
 for them, they must keep up a steady, unfaltering 
 march, close all gaps in the lines, and be ready to do 
 the mere man's part of the work with a man's cour- 
 age, patience, and persistence. 
 
 But there is one direction given by Joshua which 
 
BUT BY MY SPIRIT." 379 
 
 we ought not to pass lightly l>y. He tells them to 
 make no vociferous noise till he give them special 
 permission. He did not make this prohibition from 
 the desire of concealing the movement. That move- 
 ment was all open to the enemy, and besides, the 
 trumpets were to blow, and that was enough to betray 
 the advance. 
 
 But it was in keeping with the spirit of the un- 
 dertaking that the lips of the people should be 
 quiet, and that the solemn grandeur of the enter- 
 prise should be disturbed by no tumult of tongues. 
 Noise is costly ; it takes the sword out of the hand, 
 and twists the tongue into the hilt ; it uses up energy 
 which can be better displayed in some other way, and 
 it is impossible to superintend a good shout and a 
 good stroke at the same time. Brooks may babble, 
 but the Mle runs still ; and the busier the heart is, the 
 more sparing of speech is the tongue. Silently, save 
 for the trumpets, silently, but with firm and steady 
 tramp, for six days, the people marched round the 
 city, once a day ; and how the enemy, standing on 
 his walls, and looking down on that pageant of a 
 choral siege, on those files of sober-visaged and appar- 
 ently tongue-tied men, as they circled slowly around 
 day after day, how the enemy must have jibed and 
 sneered ! They did not come near enough to be shot 
 at ; but how he must have thrown at them his quiver- 
 fuls of taunts and railleries, and laughed at what he 
 regarded as the most stupendous folly in the whole 
 history of sieges ! In those days great account was 
 made of the gift of boasting and invective, and the 
 
380 
 
 old nations had educated these gifts to a pitch of per- 
 fection that would bear a comparison with our own 
 attainments in this department ; and how the enemy 
 must have amused himself at the silence of Israel, 
 and comforted his fears with the conclusion that there 
 was not much danger to be apprehended from a peo- 
 ple that had so little to say for themselves ! 
 
 My friends, do we not sometimes fall into this mis- 
 take, and grow sceptical concerning the silent majes- 
 ties and powers of God's truth and Christ's church ? 
 Are we not foolish enough to think that noise is sub- 
 stance, and that the most valor lies where the loudest 
 shouting is heard ? But it is not so ; there is power 
 in a sleeping volcano, and there is momentum in a 
 softly sliding avalanche, and you hear no great sound 
 from either, till it has gathered well up its immeas- 
 urable forces, and sent them hurtling into the sky 
 or down the slope of the mountain. This is all na- 
 ture, but human nature. The noise awakes when the 
 work is done; the air is rent with tremors and the 
 earth heaves with palpitations when the explosion 
 comes. And I believe that human nature does best 
 when she follows general nature. 
 
 Let me not be misunderstood. I am not entering 
 a caveat against the free ebullition of fine animal 
 spirits, swept, like the strings of a harp, by the half- 
 playful hand of a sudden joy. I am not protesting 
 against the spontaneous abandon with which the heart 
 throws itself upon the tongue, and asks it to help 
 it work off the surplus energy of an unbounded de- 
 light. It is a law of our nature that when we have 
 
BUT BY MY SPIRIT." 381 
 
 any great access of nervous force, the overflow is sure 
 to seek the most usual channels, and to pass off in 
 that way ; and as the tongue is apt to prove as busy 
 a vehicle for men or women as anv other or^an, it is 
 perfectly natural that a vigorous feeling should rush 
 out upon the tongue, and that any unusual happiness 
 should set into energetic action the organs of speech. 
 No, let us not barricade the gateway against a genu- 
 ine joy, even in religion. Let us not square our 
 faces because we are in church, and screw our muscles 
 into sanctimonious primness, and flatten our voices 
 down to a minor key, and go about God's service as 
 as if our religion were a sleeping invalid and we were 
 afraid to waken her. But it is noise we protest 
 against, in church or out of it ; sound that has no 
 sense in it, for noise is not expression, and so has 
 nothing to justify it; and in religion a mere noise 
 that goes no deeper than the throat, while it rises and 
 roars among the rafters, and threatens to turn the 
 vane on the church-steeple, as if it were a spiritual 
 northwester, that, I apprehend, is just the sort of 
 noise that Joshua forbade, and it is a sort that the 
 church can well afford to dispense with. I have heard 
 christians pray and talk with deafening loudness, so 
 that the very windows clattered, but I could bear it 
 right heartily, for I knew it was not noise but voice ; 
 it was an expression, and inside the tempest of sound, 
 there was an axis of living earnestness and vital sin- 
 cerity. That was the sound Dr. Chalmers used to 
 make when, as the Scotch said of him, he "gar'd the 
 roof roar, and set the lums shaking." But I have 
 
 16* 
 
382 "not by might nor by power, 
 
 heard the same stentorian notes when it seemed evi- 
 dent that they were the gist of the whole matter, and 
 that the man was doing his religion on the same prin- 
 ciple upon which some of the Buddhists do their 
 prayers, they tack them, all written out, on the cir- 
 cumference of a little water-wheel, and then fix the 
 wheel in the current of a stream and set it turning, 
 and the more noise it makes the better ; and I should 
 certainly hope that we might have as few of these 
 human praying-wheels in the church as possible. 
 But if your heart be full, then let it gush over. If 
 there actually be a Niagara of power in you, no one 
 will object to the sound of it. Have something to 
 base your utterance upon, and then let it rise, if you 
 please, to the top of the spire. 
 
 Do your work, and then shout ; spare your lungs 
 till you have something besides air to rest your 
 strength on ; seize the prize first, and then you may 
 turn your rejoicing powers to the acclamations of vic- 
 tory. This is what Joshua did. He was only hold- 
 ing the people back. It must have been a hard trial 
 for their faith, and no doubt it gave great opportuni- 
 ties to all the grumblers among them, and brought out 
 the sinister forebodings and cavilling ill-nature of all 
 the constitutional fault-finders in the camp ; and when 
 the sixth day had passed with no change in the situa- 
 tion, these captious spirits must have had great facil- 
 ity in making proselytes. 
 
 But the seventh day came, and on this day the work 
 
 was seven-fold hard, for the host marched seven times 
 
 ound the city, and then Joshua took the bridle from 
 
383 
 
 their tongues, he let loose the long-pent-up fervors of 
 anticipation, and, as if challenging faith to do its ut- 
 most, he gave the command to shout. And it was a 
 challenge to faith, and a very exacting demand upon 
 it. For what was there to shout for ? No doubt 
 some of the people raised their eyes towards the city 
 walls and asked this question in their own hearts, 
 " What shall we shout for ? What have we accom- 
 plished?" They had really accomplished a great 
 deal, and they were about to reap the fruit of it, only 
 they did not know it. And is it not just so now with 
 mo?t of our work? Do we not go through six days 
 of wearisome toil without a sign of success, and 
 almost despair, till, on the last hour of the seventh 
 day, God brings out into shining exhibition all the 
 results we have been unconsciously accumulating? 
 The great body of the people had faith. They had 
 kept silent through faith. They had plodded round 
 the city in faith. They believed that God was about 
 to do some great thing for them. And when the 
 order came to set up a shout, they did not doubt there 
 was something to shout for, and they lifted up their 
 voices with a will as resolute as that which had kept 
 them so steadfast to the drudgery of their daily march 
 about the city ; and there was so much heartiness in 
 that shout, it was such a relief to the suppressed feel- 
 ings of the last six days, it was such a joyful defiance 
 to their enemy, that I believe it was as sonorous a 
 shout as men ever gave, and the spirit of it so infec- 
 tious that even the grumblers and dissentients must 
 have joined in it. The enemy, hearing that shout, 
 
384 "not Br might nor by power, 
 
 must have been thunder-struck ; that silent people 
 had found their tongues at last. Those dull, sober 
 travellers in a circle must have caught a new inspira- 
 tion, a frenzy of confidence, an afflatus of divine 
 enthusiasm, and that shout boded no good to the 
 city ; and the enemy dropped his bow, ceased his 
 jesting, and grew pale and began to tremble. And 
 well he might. There was a power at work that no 
 walls could withstand, and the walls tottered and 
 cracked. Without engines, without artillery, that 
 encircling host were sapping the foundations of bas- 
 tion and curtain. That shout went through the stones 
 like the iron hail of a broadside. The mighty arm 
 that was greeted by that shout, and was seen by the 
 faith of the people, came down upon tower and but- 
 tress and crushed them to the earth ; and as that cry 
 swept like a volley of thunder over the doomed city 
 and rolled away over the plain, behold, "the wall fell 
 flat," and one lii.tle moment, the twinkling of an 
 eye, showed to exulting Israel the reward of seven 
 days of labor and fatigue. The unseen became the 
 visible, and they knew then that every step they had 
 taken had been leading towards this splendid con- 
 summation. 
 
 I wish, my brethren, we might have and hold the 
 same faith in the final success of every good work. 
 I wish w T e might cheerfully and patiently wait and 
 labor through the seven days of our preparation, 
 rather of God's preparation, without a doubt that in 
 the end the invisible will for us be made manifest, 
 and we shall see that every step has carried us toward 
 
385 
 
 victory, every circuit of duty has couutecl one in the 
 aggregate of achievements, and that we, too, if we 
 hold out with resolution, will have leave to raise our 
 shout and to strike up our choral song of triumph. 
 
 And now I will ask you to consider how the people 
 entered into the city, so that the people went up into 
 the city, " every man straight before him." What a 
 secret of success do these units of our tongue reveal, 
 " every man," etc. That is the way in which many 
 a great battle has been fought and won. That is the 
 way in which Dessaix, with his seasoned troops, 
 turned the tide of battle at Marengo, and drove back 
 the conquering Austrians. That is the way in which 
 Washington taught our fathers to beat the Hessians 
 at Trenton, and take the city, tr Fix bayonets, and 
 charge, every man straight before him!" That is 
 the spirit and that is the one irresistible manoeuvre of 
 a great army ; every man goes forward on his own 
 line, and under his own impulse, but all the lines 
 converge to the same point, and the impulse is uni- 
 versal. No wonder they took the city. They swept 
 over it as the concentric rings of the maelstrom close 
 over the devoted ship which has entered it. They 
 poured in from all quarters, like quicksand over a 
 sinking animal, and at every step their numbers 
 seemed to grow, because the circle was smaller, till 
 shoulder piopped shoulder, shield was locked with 
 shield, and blow seconded blow, and like a tornado 
 they wheeled upon the city and wrenched it from the 
 earth, and their shout of victory became the dirge of 
 a kingdom and a people. And this is the secret of 
 
386 
 
 christian success, "every man straight before him." 
 Let no christian hinge his movements on those of an- 
 other. Let no one turn out for a little uneven ness in 
 his path, or for some rugged obstruction. Let no 
 one look around indolently to see what his neighbor 
 is doing, or give up his own task because others are 
 forgetting their tasks, and sit down because they aie 
 lagging behind. God has drawn a straight line of 
 travel for every one of us, and it leads us into the 
 city. Our shout may have died away. The flush of 
 joyful eagerness may have faded out. But there 
 remain for us conquering faith, and its splendid re- 
 wards. Look down at your own feet, there lies your 
 next duty. Look directly before you, there God is 
 calling you, and marshalling the way. Take up the 
 very nearest duty. Let down the next step. Keep 
 your eye on the mark, and keep that mark enlarging 
 with every footfall. 
 
 O church of Christ, encompass the city ! O sol- 
 diers of Christ, march on to take it, " every man 
 straight before him " ! 
 
CHRISTIAN WARFARE. 
 
 " I have fought a good fight." — 2 Tim. iv, 7. 
 
 Here the apostle, I suppose with no distinct 
 intention to do so, draws the outlines of the best 
 and noblest character. By three rapid yet skilful 
 strokes he puts before us three of the highest vir- 
 tues, or rather three of the divinest constellations of 
 virtue, possible to man, while he combines these 
 three clusters or virtues in a single portrait. I once 
 saw a painting designed on some such plan ; it pre- 
 sented, to a near inspection, a great number of 
 portraits, said to be veritable likenesses, which all 
 blended, at a greater distance, in the likeness of 
 the distinguished man, whose aids, counsellors, and 
 friends were represented by the smaller portraits. 
 
 It generally requires many persons to make up a 
 masterly portrait. Not often does the artist find all 
 he wants in a single model ; he takes the nose of 
 one, the eyes of another, the arm and hand of a third, 
 and out of fragmentary perfections he makes a per- 
 fect whole. And still more rarely can you make up 
 a complete character from the virtues of any one 
 man, and that, not because we are so much wanting 
 in virtue, or in particular virtues, but because we 
 
388 CHRISTIAN WARFARE. 
 
 are so little harmonious, so ill-balanced, and often so 
 intemperate even in our best qualities. A fruit-tree 
 is good for little unless it bear fruit ; but a tree may 
 carry such a load of fruit that it can bring none of it 
 to mellow ripeness. There is a pathology of the 
 virtues, and a hygiene of the christian graces. Too 
 much heat tends to rottenness, and over-cultivation 
 gives you buTk at the expense of sweetness. 
 
 The same rule wdl not apply to our intellectual 
 and our moral powers. It may be wise in a man to 
 take most pains in educating those mental faculties 
 which he has in Highest degree ; but we do not train 
 our moral powers for the sake of utility, and there- 
 fore anything like partiality for special virtues is a 
 negative vice : it is pushing a part of yourself so near 
 the light that all the rest of you lies in shadow ; it is 
 an ungraceful moral obesity ; it is nothing more than 
 selfishness with the carnal stains washed off and the 
 wrinkles smoothed away with consecrated oil. 
 
 But the truth is, you cannot cultivate the virtues 
 in isolation, apart from and independently of one 
 another, and therefore you cannot raise a great 
 character from a single quality, any more than you 
 can make a wagon-wheel with only one spoke in it. 
 It takes a great many heads of wheat to make a 
 bushel of grain, and that farmer would be a fool who 
 should attempt or expect to get his bushel of grain 
 from one large head. The one true aim of culture is 
 virtue, not the virtues, grace, not the graces, the 
 central force that radiates to the very rim of your 
 life, the sound, vital heart-beat that creates a pulse in 
 
CHRISTIAN WARFARE. 389 
 
 every artery, and gives vigor to every function and 
 every motion. 
 
 We can see in Paul's character, as he has drawn it, 
 how the great qualities played into, ministered to, 
 and sustained one another, and by their union, pro- 
 duced that breadth and largeness, and that intensity 
 also, which make his character one of the ideals of the 
 christian church. 
 
 I have seen a comment on the text which asserted 
 that its metaphors are mixed; but this is incorrect. 
 The implied allusions are all of the same kind, and 
 the one in the first clause, "I have fought a good 
 fight," is not a military, but like the references in 
 the second and the third clauses, is a gymnastic or 
 agonistic metaphor, an allusion to the games so 
 common in the old world, and so familiar to Paul 
 and to all his correspondents and hearers. The 
 "fight "is not a battle, but an Olympic or athletic 
 contest, or perhaps a gladiatorial struggle in the 
 arena ; but the idea in the apostle's mind is made 
 perfectly definite and obvious by the epithet "good," 
 and by the use of the definite article ; for the trans- 
 lation should run, "I have fought the good fight." 
 
 There is not a doubt that the "good fis:ht " is Paul's 
 brave championship of the name and religion of the 
 Lord Jesus Christ; but in the text, Paul is not look- 
 ing upon this championship within its narrow limits 
 as a fact, or in its rigid limits as a history, but he is 
 regarding it rather as a development, as the outcome 
 and flowering in him of his nature and the grace of 
 God. And so we can, if we please, substitute for 
 
390 CHRISTIAN WARFARE. 
 
 every one of Paul's poetical and triumphant allusious 
 the name of that great quality which finds expression 
 in it. "I have fought a good fight," here we have 
 his courage and his devotion; "I have fini&hed my 
 course," this shows his constancy and his persever- 
 ance ; "I have kept the faith," here all his other qual- 
 ities are crowned with his fidelity. 
 
 Look first at the courage and devotion which are 
 implied in the first clause, always rare qualities, and 
 rarer still in that combination with other qualities 
 in which we find them here. What passes for cour- 
 age is not extremely rare, and there may be thou- 
 sands who can justly claim credit for those modified 
 self-sacrifices which we now commonly take to be the 
 legitimate and normal exhibitions of religious devo- 
 tiou. 
 
 But there is, under true moral courage, a temper 
 deeper, purer, rarer than its own, and without which 
 a man, though he make splendid sacrifices, and gild 
 his life with chivalrous deeds, and carry off the 
 wreath from many a contest, does, after all, but sim- 
 ulate courage, and carry devotion as he bears his 
 helmet, only on the outside of himself; and that is 
 what we call earnestness, the outspring of profound 
 conviction, and the upspriug of a serious, manly, 
 far-reaching purpose. Paul made his whole life a 
 fight, because faith in him was vision, hope was sub- 
 stance, and the palms of victory as real and as sure 
 as the Olympic laurel- wreaths. Who will fight for 
 what he does not believe in? or hold a rugged road, 
 trampling on thorns, buffeted with the scorns and 
 
CHRISTIAN WARFARE. 391 
 
 flings of malice, stung by the thousand wasps of 
 envy, slander, and contempt? Who will press along 
 this fearful road towards a goal he only dreams of, 
 or a mark he sees, only when feeling is rapt into 
 enthusiam, and faith fanned by the summer gales of 
 heaven ? 
 
 Nothing is more religious than earnestness, and a 
 religion without it is a holiday tree, set up before 
 your house, without a root, and as sure to die as the 
 honest sun is to shrivel it. The feeling that life 
 offers you a distinct problem, that it sets before you 
 a business worthy of your talents, that it holds up 
 an honorable prize, and points forward to a glorious 
 reward, that feeling alone will redeem you from lit- 
 tleness and purge you from meanness, and lift you, 
 in your thought and in your work, into an atmos- 
 phere of nobility and heroism. And then if you 
 season this quality with divine salt, if you top nature 
 with giace, and give your work here the scope of the 
 infinite hereafter, you have in you the best leaven 
 that ever fermented in human character. 
 
 It seems, if you scan carefully the marks of the 
 time, that no element is more wanted by us than this. 
 Our very faith is limp and jointless, because our 
 hearts have not earnest hold upon it. Our very 
 morality lacks manfulness and spinal vigor, because 
 we no longer feed it on a healthy, bone-making diet. 
 Our diplomacy, in this age, is growing more honest, 
 and our morality more diplomatic. The best men 
 we have, you will see bowing down at the feet of 
 immoral greatness, or picking their way among a 
 
392 CHRISTIAN WARFARE. 
 
 crowd of private vices, to burn their incense before 
 some accidental public virtue. We have one language 
 for the rich man, and another for the poor. If we 
 talk of a nabob's wickedness, we do it in the mildest 
 Greek ; but if we find that wickedness in some pour 
 wretch of a custom-house porter orgauger, we thun- 
 der at it in the halest old Saxon. 
 
 We preach against sin on Sunday, and vote for it 
 on Monday ; abuse the devil in church, and shake 
 hands with him in the market-place. Men destitute 
 of the very instincts of virtue, without the first prin- 
 ciple of morality, and living in brazen defiance of 
 the restraints of decent opinion, have won the high- 
 est prizes of the market and of the forum, and lev- 
 elled in luxury, and lorded it over our great cities, 
 and become dictators in society and in politics ; and 
 they could do this because we stood ready to sponge 
 out half the gospel, in our insane admiration of that 
 darling of the multitude, Success. Such careers 
 have shamed us over and over again, till honest men 
 and the moral feeling of the country have almost 
 despaired of our redemption ; till our politics have be- 
 come a putrid sea on which everything can hope to 
 float if it be light and empty enough, and in which 
 virtue, merit, ability, every well-ballasted thing, seem 
 to go to the bottom by sheer force of gravitation. 
 
 All honor to the men, few though they are, the 
 fewer, the greater honor, who stand like headlights 
 along this turbid sea of politics ; men who have 
 convictions and are true to them ; men of char- 
 acter, made strong by earnestness, and pure by 
 
CHRISTIAN WARFARE. 393 
 
 religion ; men who make office great, and need no 
 flattery to save them from the consciousness that they 
 are smaller than they look, and that their official 
 shadow is the only mark they are like to leave on 
 " the sands of time." 
 
 Earnestness, even in a bad cause, is better than 
 hollow pretension in a good one. And you find, 
 in individual instances, a bloom of heroic devotion, 
 a generous gallantry of spirit, an uncomplaining for- 
 titude, and a knightly loyalty that extort our ad- 
 miration, though we have to temper it with our 
 regrets. It is not long since we saw these quali- 
 ties conspicuous and blazing on the battle-fields of 
 our own country. That was when we were all 
 in earnest. Is there a reaction against the strain 
 of those deadly days? Even a New York paper, 
 that loves religion with the love a man has for his 
 enemy, gravely admits that the country stands in 
 need of a revival of religion. But if a revival only 
 go so far as to multiply christians, christians of 
 the common type, then we may doubt whether it 
 would or could lay the axe at the root of the evil 
 we are suffering from. Revive faith, revive moral 
 earnestness, revive conscience, revive the two tables 
 of the law, revive that apostolic honesty that made 
 the unseen world as real to a man's purpose as it 
 was to his judgment, and turned life into a fight 
 for it and a struggle to win it, revive these, and all 
 the rest will follow. 
 
THE CHRISTIAN EACE. 
 
 " I have finished my course." — 2 Tim. iv, 7. 
 
 As the first clause of this text is the declaration 
 and forcible expression of the apostle's courage and 
 devotion, so, as I have said, the second clause is a 
 poetic and figurative exhibition of his constancy and 
 perseverance. "I have finished my course." The word 
 "finished " is a technical word ; that is, it is the word 
 appropriated by the runners in a race, and used, in 
 the description of their athletic contests, to denote 
 the complete fulfilment of the race, to show that the 
 man who had undertaken to run for the prize had not 
 failed to reach the goal, and had not broken any of 
 the rules which every runner was bound to observe. 
 This is the technical meaning of the word. But Paul 
 evidently gives it a larger meaning, for he means 
 that he has not only run the course, keeping all the 
 rules, but that he has run it successfully ; he has won 
 the prize. "Henceforth," he cries, " there is a crown 
 laid up for me." He had shown his constancy by 
 adhering to the prescribed course and overcoming 
 all the difficulties in his way, and he had shown his 
 perseverance by continuing to do so to the end. For 
 perseverance is constancy prolonged ; it is the running 
 
THE CHRISTIAN RACE. 395 
 
 kept up till you touch the pillar that marks the goal. 
 Perseverance is the image of constancy, with the 
 wreath of laurels upon its head : that is all the differ- 
 ence there is between them ; constancy, is running ; 
 perseverance, is finishing the race. And this, as you 
 can see, serves to correct and readjust those notions 
 which are so often held respecting perseverance, as 
 if it were, in and of itself, a special virtue or an 
 independent grace, standing apart, within a partic- 
 ular theological enclosure, into which you could get 
 admission only by a peculiar wicket, with a double 
 lock on it, and a mysterious key to open it. Many 
 have talked, tautologically, of "final perseverance," 
 as if there could be any kind of perseverance that 
 should not be final. We might as well and consis- 
 tently speak of saline salt, or wet water, in fact, 
 more consistently, for salt loses its savor, and water 
 freezes into ice, but perseverance never ceases to 
 persevere, and if you do not find it coming in at the 
 end of the race, abreast of all competitors, you may 
 be perfectly sure it never entered the race, and never 
 ran at all. You can see, then, what an error there is 
 in that conception of perseverance which erects it 
 into a virtue by itself, and teaches us to pray for it as 
 if it were a policy of insurance. Such a prayer, if it 
 were not the outcome of innocent misapprehension, 
 would be blasphemous, for it would amount to 
 this: "Save me in the end, Lord, whatever may 
 become of me in the middle ! I doubt now whether 
 I am in the right path, but I pray that I may come 
 out right at last. I have not much perseverance 
 
396 THE CHRISTIAN RACE. 
 
 at present, but I want final perseverance. I don't 
 live exactly as I ought to, but I hope to die like a 
 good christian." Well, brethren, if we make this 
 mistake, and hope to retrieve ourselves by what we 
 call " final perseverance," it will take a great deal of 
 it to save us, there is no doubt about that. 
 
 But if perseverance expresses only the results of 
 constancy, so does constancy, in its turn, give us 
 only a definite aspect of our virtues, and not our 
 virtues themselves ; for it takes a great many graces, 
 virtues, and powers, to produce constancy, and more 
 in some men than in others. Every life, iu truth, 
 has its own moral assessment. We are taxed un- 
 equally. We do not all employ the same capital, and 
 we do not all carry the same dead- weight of mort- 
 gages. Differing in this way, as we do, constancy, 
 which means, in good, straightforward Saxon, stand-. 
 ing by and standing up to our undertaking, mikes 
 very unequal drafts upon us, and calls for very dif- 
 ferent faculties and virtues in different men. Take 
 a christian man who is engaged in a large business, 
 that involves him in tangles of difficulty with sharp 
 practicers upon his own forbearance, and sometimes 
 in lawsuits whose doubtful issues hang like storm- 
 clouds along the edges of his life, *and the graces 
 that man has need of are very different from those 
 which blossom, almost spontaneously, in the serene 
 and smiling security of the salaried clerk or book- 
 keeper who serves him. Or, take a pure, honest, 
 conscientious member of your political party, and set 
 him before the people as a candidate for office, aud 
 
THE CHHISTIAN KACE. 397 
 
 let the politicians begin to hatckel him, and the news- 
 papers shed ink on him, and the horns of calumny 
 blow upon him, and the scavengers of scandal, and the 
 mongers of that social old junk-shop known as " gos- 
 sip," begin to rake in his personal privacy and his fam- 
 ily histories, and if that candidate be a christian, and 
 mean to be constant to his faith, the graces he needs 
 would exhaust the alphabet in the spelling, and 
 make large demands on the et cetera. Religion comes 
 cheap to some men, because they have to pay out so 
 little ; but there are positions in life that use it up 
 about as fast as a man can take it in, and constancy 
 becomes a hand-to-hand struggle with the incarnate 
 evils that threaten to overthrow it, or make the 
 ground too slippery for it to stand upon. 
 
 Most men are held to a show of constancy by the 
 mere habits of life. They would have to fight to es- 
 cape from their places. They stand up in a frame- 
 work of custom and usage, which is like the iron 
 cage in which Louis XI used to shut up a political 
 enemy, and in which a cardinal languished for a 
 dozen years, so close fitting that the poor prisoner 
 could neither stand nor lie. 
 
 Good habits are certainly the choice fruit of good 
 principles ; but you can have the habits without the 
 principles, and in that case habit is a mere strait- 
 jacket. Is it a thing for me to boast of that I do 
 not steal? I have no temptation to steal. Is it any 
 credit to me that I lead a decorous life? Why, my 
 very profession helps me to that. But bring me 
 down to the stern choice of alternatives, put me 
 
 17 
 
398 THE CHRISTIAN RACE. 
 
 where I have under my eyes a starving family, where 
 my morning salutation comes from the pining child 
 I love as I do my life, and where, to my rankling 
 sense of injury, law mocks me as a fierce irony, and 
 charity stings me like a sarcasm upon the justice of 
 God, then lay your loaf of bread in my sight, and 
 you can see of what stuff I am made. 
 
 We stand so thick in society that we hold one 
 another up as long as we all lean or move in the 
 same direction; but let society go one way, while 
 your conscience and you go another, give practical 
 meaning to that old apostolic phrase, which to Paul, 
 and in Paul's day, had the significance of life and 
 death, "coming out from the world," and "being 
 separate," then constancy becomes a war-record, you 
 score your days by your scars, and you fight, like 
 Cromwell's old Ironsides, with one eye to your ene- 
 my and the other to your ammunition. 
 
 Poor Pope the poet — I call him poor only because 
 of his infirmities — was never equal to the day's duty 
 till his servants and nurses had cased him and laced 
 up his little body in a suit of very stiff buckram. 
 You can hide a great many infirmities under moral 
 buckram. Many a man walks straight who has no 
 backbone except his buckram suit. He seems to be 
 constant, but it is because there is so much starch in 
 him. It is not the moral laws that sustain him, but 
 his respectable and dignified social position. He 
 leans up against that, and when the tempter leers in 
 his face, or he is surprised, by some doubtful over- 
 ture, he asks, not, "What would God have me do?" 
 
THE CHRISTIAN RACE. 399 
 
 but simply, " What will men say ? " That is his read- 
 ing of the situation. It behooves every christian 
 man to ask, Why am I as I am ? Why am I virtuous, 
 honest, upright? For it is a branch of the eternal 
 truih, that a man may be a slave of his own virtues 
 as well as of his own vices , while God calls for free 
 men, and wants no servant who is not enfranchised 
 by the heart's choice. Natural religion is beautiful ; 
 but it is a weed, it grows indigenously, no thanks to 
 us. The religion of Christ is a flower of choice : 
 you must plant it, you must cultivate it, you must 
 grow it. 
 
 I ask you to consider the notable fact that, at root, 
 the two words " constancy " and " consistency " are the 
 same, that is, they both have the same etymology, and 
 represent, substantially, the same fundamental idea. 
 
 Now, actually, in the discriminative and specializ- 
 ing progress of language, they differ in this way, 
 that constancy regards life and character as a unit, 
 held up firmly to the object, whatever it may be ; 
 consistency analyzes life or character into parts, 
 and regards these parts as all-consenting, with a sin- 
 gle bias and a uniform direction, in the act or fact of 
 constancy. The constant man keeps himself true to 
 his purpose : the consistent man makes all the minor 
 streams and rivulets of his action converge toward 
 his purpose. A constant christian bends his life to 
 his profession : a consistent christian will admit into 
 his life nothing which contradicts his profession. It 
 would not do to say that there can be no constancy 
 without consistency, or where would be the persever- 
 
400 THE CHRISTIAN RACE. 
 
 ance of the average modern saint? but it is safe to 
 say that consistency is the very spine of constancy ; 
 more than that, it is the very brains of it. Life with 
 us is so complex, daily growing more and more so, 
 that you have to look twice before you can see how 
 to throw the shuttle. Constancy sits up aloft, like 
 the pattern in a Jacquard loom, and it needs consis- 
 tency down below to pick out the threads and assort 
 the colors. And the very complexity of life, which 
 makes consistency more necessary, also renders it 
 more difficult, and, I am afraid, more rare. We are 
 used to rapid changes in this country, and our poli- 
 tics demand peculiar dexterity on the part of public 
 men, and that dexterity is sorely tempted, sometimes, 
 to barter a little consistency for a commodity that 
 pays a larger dividend. And then it often happens, 
 per contra, that in order to be constant to one's great 
 principles, he is obliged to sacrifice the appearance of 
 consistency. It is a paradox with us, that we are 
 frequently obliged to give up our party that we may 
 be faithful to it ; and an honest statesman, who sets 
 principles above party, and thinks a sound policy 
 better than a popular platform, who prefers to serve 
 his country rather than be honored by it, such a man 
 finds himself forced to make his election between 
 constancy based on a solid consistency, and a delu- 
 sive consistency without an atom of constancy or 
 honesty in it. 
 
 Of course the same problem will sometimes con- 
 front us in religion, and the more earnest and honest 
 we may be, the more imperative it will become, that 
 
THE CHRISTIAN RACE. 401 
 
 if fidelity to conscience demand that we alter our 
 name, change our church, range ourselves under a 
 different banner, we hold constancy first, and consis- 
 tency, or the form of it, second. We may change 
 without changing front. 
 
 That is the typical idea of christian constancy : no 
 two steps in the same place, but every step onward. 
 A christian purpose will sweep everything into its 
 own main current. Strike right the daily balance, and 
 the year's last day will have no terror for you. Paul 
 rejoiced when he caught, through his prison-bars, 
 the light of his last day. He could hear the Master 
 coming in every step the jailer took as he came 
 down the stairs, into his cell. One more trial, and 
 the last pang of living would be over ; no more 
 scourgings, no more buffetings, no more hunger, and 
 thirst, and fever, and heart-ache. Paul did not 
 begin to know what he had done, what a magnificent 
 victory he had won, and what a crown the coming 
 ages of mankind would set upon his head. But he 
 was not thinking of that crown : he saw another, in 
 which he was content to be a sharer with the hum- 
 blest of Christ's followers. Does it seem possible, 
 brethren, that you and I can ever touch the level 
 from which Paul reached up to his martyr-triumph ; 
 much more, that you and I should ever, from any 
 level, be lifted to the glory of participation with him 
 in the crown of christian constancy? Let me do one 
 day's work of the thousand that flashed an earthly 
 immortality upon his name, let me live an hour of 
 the rapt assurance that filled his whole life with 
 
402 THE CHRISTIAN RACE. 
 
 the very presence of Jesus, and made the top of his 
 cross, as he hung on it and gazed upwards, the 
 very threshold of heaven's great gate. One day, one 
 hour, of such doing and such living, and I could live 
 or die with a faith strong enough to conquer an 
 empire. Yet it needs not that. Faith annihilates' 
 personalities, God calls no names, the great family of 
 the redeemed knows no cousins, the humblest child 
 is heir to a kingdom ; and who will tell us that even 
 an angel's eye does not see in us now the splendor of 
 victories as grand as Paul ever won, of heroic deeds 
 on which the merciful Father smiles as tenderly as 
 on the martyrdom of an apostle? Your hard trial 
 is a battle; your besetting cares, your daily worries, 
 your secret fears and harassments, these are your 
 crosses; and whether you carry them or they carry 
 you, whether ycu patiently live them down, or they 
 cruelly wear you out, the very worth of your soul 
 is in them, and a soul's inheritance hangs upon them. 
 Your sorrows shut within them this ineffable mystery 
 of future values. Not a tear falls that will not out- 
 last the diamond, and you may put in it the light and 
 sparkle of immortal victories. These thoughts make 
 life great, till every pulse thrills with the significance 
 of our origin, and every throb of the brain prophe- 
 sies the grandeur of our destiny ; the earth grows 
 small, man becomes immense, and we feel that to the 
 very weakest of us all, may become possible, by faith 
 in Jesus, that noblest psean of victorious joy, " I have 
 fought a good fight, I have finished my course." 
 
FAITH 
 
 " I have kept the faith." — 2 Tim. iv, 7. 
 
 When a man is thoroughly possessed with a great 
 purpose, so that he feels fairly lifted by it above all 
 his surroundings, it is surprising how much he can 
 bear aud suffer without giving sign or drawing groan. 
 A day or two before the battle of Borodino, it was 
 observed that Napoleon, while visiting the advanced 
 lines of his army, frequently dismounted from his 
 horse, and going to a gun would lean his head against 
 the cold metal, and remain so in an attitude of great 
 pain. It is against royal etiquette ever to ask a sov- 
 ereign about his health, and so Napoleon's aids were 
 prohibited from making any inquiries ; but as we know 
 of what disease he died, and how long it had been 
 growing upon him, and what terrible bodily pains 
 must have accompanied it, we can sympathize with 
 the great man's condition before Borodino even better 
 than could his own attendants at that time. And he, 
 not etiquette forbade him to groan or make sign, 
 but he was compelled to silence by the very work he 
 had in hand. Half the battle would be lost to him 
 before the striking of a blow w T ere it known that 
 he was not wholly himself, and that that splendid 
 
404 FAITH. 
 
 genius was wrestling with an enemy far more to be 
 dreaded than the Russians. But what was Napoleon's 
 grim silence when stung with bodily suffering, com- 
 pared with the heroic fortitude of Paul when he was 
 writing or dictating his letter to Timothy? Hardly 
 a word has Paul to say about his afflictions. 
 
 From his tone you might suppose he was never 
 more happily circumstanced in his life. Yet he was 
 shut up in a sub-cellar hewn out of the solid rock, 
 with no ray of sunlight possible, with fetters on his 
 feet, manacles on his wrists, and death expected at 
 every turn of the key in the door of the upper room 
 which communicated with his lower dungeon only 
 through a trap. His ration, I believe, was a little 
 raw wheat, possibly roasted for him sometimes by 
 his jailer ; and it is matter of wonder, as well as of 
 praise to God, that he was able to command the 
 means and materials for writing to his friends. 
 
 That was the cost at which he was keeping the 
 faith. The most divine part of every life is that of 
 silent endurance. It is infinitely harder to keep still 
 than it is to break out in clamorous indignation. It 
 takes more manliness to bow down in silence than to 
 strike a blow at the enemy. Oppression of others 
 incarnates the devil, but repression of one's self is an 
 epiphany of the angelic. Many a modern so-called 
 martyr would have complained through all the last 
 half of the New Testament, from Romans to He- 
 brews ; but Paul was so filled with his work that, from 
 all he left on record, you can hardly gather a score of 
 references to what he was suffering. Now this may 
 
FAITH. 405 
 
 help us to understand what Paul means by " keep- 
 ing" the faith. The original word is stronger than 
 our English term "keep," though we do sometimes 
 employ the word " keep," in a sense nearly the same 
 as that of the Greek word it here translates. We 
 keep different things in very different ways. A man 
 keeps a watch by simply wearing it. He keeps a 
 piece of property by recording his title « and paying 
 the taxes on it. He keeps a grudge by paying the 
 taxes on that, and pretty heavy taxes he often finds 
 them to be. He keeps a promise by doing what he 
 promised, and he keeps his character by simply 
 maintaining it as it was. But we have a use of the 
 word which implies the retention of a thing in despite 
 of adverse efforts to deprive us of it. A man keeps 
 his temper when his circumstances provoke him to 
 let it go. He keeps his ground when an assailant is 
 trying to push him to the wall, as a general keeps 
 the field when he has won a battle. And it is in 
 this sense of active, not passive, retention ; in that 
 sense which illustrates the virtues we have found in 
 the preceding clauses of the text ; in the sense of de- 
 votion, of constancy, of perseverance, that the word 
 tc keep " is here used. Rarely does it happen to any 
 man now, to keep his faith on such terms, and in such 
 conditions as gave such significance to the apostle's 
 declaration. It might rather be said of us that we 
 are kept by the faith, and not too well kept. What 
 seasoning we have, comes from our religion, and we 
 have not enough surplus to give back much to religion. 
 It is incontestable that in the early years of the 
 
 17* 
 
406 FAITH. 
 
 gospel the truth borrowed its most persuasive power 
 from the unimpeachable lives and characters of those 
 who professed it. Men said, "Look at these disci- 
 ples. They are a whole heaven above any other peo- 
 ple we know. Now there must be something extraor- 
 dinary in the faith that makes such men ! " That was 
 the argument then. 
 
 But what is it now? Do not look at these disci- 
 ples ! They are not by any means so good as the 
 soil they grow in ; the gospel can produce far better 
 specimens than they are. Look at that, and don't 
 mind these half-gospelled christians." We are not apt 
 to think much of what costs us nothing to keep, and 
 this is the reason why you always find so much vigor- 
 ous prosperity under the black shadows of persecu- 
 tion and in the white heats of fanaticism. A proselyte 
 is generally a pushing, enterprising, loud-tongued 
 partisan, because he is discussing questions which 
 have pumped his heart full. No man holds his creed 
 with so tight a grip as the man who has had to fight 
 for it ; and if I wanted to buy up a renegade, I would 
 spread my price or publish the wages of apostasy, 
 not before the face of a proselyte or a neophyte, but 
 before some man who got his doctrines as he got the 
 acres and the cattle of his patrimony, by inheritance 
 and succession. A man may hold a creed without 
 knowing why he holds it ; but when a man takes up 
 a new creed he must have a reason for it. You will 
 find a great deal of hard, tough logic in your Baptist 
 brethren ; and the explanation comes from the fact 
 that a Methodist or a Presbyterian cannot become a 
 
FAITH. 407 
 
 Baptist without a deal of sound, solid, argumentative 
 thinking ; and having once got the habit of planking 
 his platform with Bible syllogisms, he can never give 
 it up. But let me say just here, that of course, " keep- 
 ing" the faith does not mean that a man's intellectual 
 convictions, or his religious beliefs, are to remain for- 
 ever the same. Don't we make a mistake occasion- 
 ally at this point, and cry out about the old land- 
 marks as if it did not make so much difference where 
 they stood if one only stood by them ? 
 
 The old landmarks are fundamental principles, but 
 we treat them sometimes as if they were a set of an- 
 tiquarian mile-pobts, set up along the geographical 
 borders of the Lord's territory. Was not the relig- 
 ion of Jesus a larger and richer faith to Paul when he 
 wrote to Timothy than it was when he took his 
 biinded way to the house of Judas ? Who best kept 
 his lord's talents, the man who was so afraid of rust 
 and dust that he wrapped his talent delicately in a 
 napkin, or the man who turned his capital over and 
 over till he saw it doubled ? There is the error of 
 half of our lives, that we take religion in us to be 
 the harvest, which the Lord is reaping, instead of 
 the sowing, which we are to bring into the multipli- 
 cation and maturity of fruitage. There is nothing 
 arithmetical in faith. You can't help religion by the 
 multiplication-table. You are not a whit stronger be- 
 cause you hold thirty-nine articles rather than thirty- 
 eight. There is no more piety in five points than 
 there is in three. You can be just as evangelical in 
 one long paragraph as you can in six short ones, and it 
 
408 FAITH. 
 
 makes no sort of difference, provided you believe it, 
 whether you sign your confession at the top or at 
 the bottom. A convention of learned men in Eu- 
 rope were recently disputing about the dogma called 
 the " Procession of the Holy Ghost," a dispute that 
 hinges on one Latin word, filioque, whether that 
 should be in or out. It seemed like the Middle A^es 
 resurrected into the life and bustle of the nineteenth 
 century. Those venerable old heads most of them 
 Catholic priests, and thererbre with no wives to 
 remind them how the fashion of the world chau- 
 geth, had a musty scent of the cloister and the 
 sepulchre ; and they had no conception of the vast 
 extent of that plain physiological law, that when the 
 spirit is flown the body is dead, and you cannot bring 
 back the life by singing incautations over it. No ! 
 faith is a thing that grows, it lives by growing. 
 Paul grew and his faith grew, and the treasure he 
 was keeping when he sang his swan-song in the old 
 prison was every way larger than it was when he 
 picked it up on the mountains as he was going to 
 Damascus. 
 
 But I wish to ask your attention to the various 
 characters which Paul ascribed or accorded to the 
 faith which he kept, or the characters which we have 
 to give it in estimating the various relations in which 
 Paul stood to it, and the relations which we sustain 
 to it in our turn. For the keeping of the faith cer- 
 tainly comprehends the different attitudes which we 
 maintain toward it, aud which we find exemplified 
 most clearly and fully in the history of the apostle. 
 
FAITH. 409 
 
 Firstly, he kept the faith as a deposit. The gospel 
 had been intrusted to him, and he felt bound to pre- 
 serve it in its integrity and for its divinely appointed 
 uses. Now I have no time to enlarge this thought, but 
 I do wish to urge upon you the solemn tact that we all 
 hold this relation toward the christian faith as a body 
 of truth committed to us by Almighty God. It is 
 true, and I grant it, all truth is a trust from God. 
 God gave us the faculties to seek and to appropriate 
 it, and we are so constituted that the truth is as ne- 
 cessary to our intellectual and moral development, as 
 food is to our physical nurture. There is an ever- 
 lasting law that conditions all manhood and woman- 
 hood on the amount of truth we absorb. Not God 
 alone, but nature, abhors a lie, and the worst lie is 
 the moral vacuum, that condition in which a man 
 knows nothing, and takes pains to know it well. 
 When you hear any one boast of his indifference to 
 knowledge, you mingle pity with contempt for him, 
 because his indifference asperses our common human- 
 ity and is a fraud upon the noblest powers conferred 
 on man. Truth is sacred, and we owe it the very 
 same allegiance we owe our own nature ; and how 
 much more true, if possible, this must be of the only 
 knowledge we have, or can have, that vindicates our 
 nature itself, and cuts out for it a niche in the im- 
 mortal design of the universe, and throws us hisrh in 
 rank among the sphered intelligences of the divine 
 power ! Indifference to religion is disloyalty to our 
 own nature. The gospel is a trust to every human 
 being for which God and his own soul will hold every 
 
410 FAITH. 
 
 man responsible hereafter. Secondly, but I add that 
 Paul kept the faith, not only as a deposit, but as a 
 law. He saw the truth in it, and he honored it, as 
 every man ought to do, but beyond that he saw and 
 felt the supreme urgency with which that truth comes 
 to every man as the only redeeming and saving 
 power. Paul was made of such fiery stuff that com- 
 bustion in him was a necessity, and he knew the only 
 question was, should it be the fierce flame of a mis- 
 guided and bigoted zealot, or the steady and tem- 
 pered glow of the noblest passions, serving at length 
 to light up the " glory that shall be hereafter." There 
 are many such men, made to burn themselves out on 
 one track or the other, rushing through life in the 
 frenzied fever of a profligate's chase after pleasure 
 or a gambler's reckless toss for wealth or honors ; 
 or else, with a nobler ambition, kindling all their 
 powers, and fusing all their nature, in one generous 
 sacrifice on the altar of their country and their Lord. 
 Eeligion wakes in us the sleeping divinities.; but if 
 our powers, like Elijah's Baal, have gone on a jour- 
 ney, religion may never overtake them. To Paul, 
 life meant his religion. 
 
 "For me to live is Christ." There is all the poe- 
 try of heroism in that line. It is bad to be dead to 
 religion, but it is far worse to be dead in it. We 
 cannot live without breathing, but if we are under 
 water every breath is dangerous. If a man does not 
 keep his faith as a law to him, he turns it into an 
 element of deceit and hypocrisy, and every prayer 
 he makes carries with it the danger of choking him. 
 
FAITH. 411 
 
 Finally, let me say that Paul kept the faith as a 
 blessing to be diffused, and as a hope to be enjoyed 
 by him. But I suppose the two went together with 
 him, as they always do with us. If you have relig- 
 ion enough for your owm comfort, you can always 
 spare enough for your neighbors ; and on the other 
 hand, the more you distribute abroad, the more you 
 have at home. Show me man or woman going 
 about as a messenger of good cheer, bent on errands 
 of mercy and charity among the sick, the poor, the 
 afflicted, and I know where to find a house gladdened 
 with the sunshine of content. A religion that grum- 
 bles indoors w r raps itself in a thick shadow whenever 
 it goes out. A hard voice among the children at 
 home speaks no soft words by a sick-bed, and the 
 christian who frets and scolds at his own fireside' 
 teaches few lessons of content under the roofs of the 
 needy. Eeligion must first fill the man himself, or 
 how can you expect him to overflow in its kindly 
 offices and brotherly charities ? Paul was full of it, 
 and especially of that portion which we know the 
 least of. I mean its serene and contented spirit, and 
 its cheeiful, triumphant welcome of the future. Sit- 
 ting on the very edge of death, he saw all beyond 
 brighter and fairer than any poet's dream or proph- 
 et's vision. Tortured in body, his soul was as clear 
 as crystal, and shone with the image of his beloved 
 Master. At every blow that fell, at every chain 
 that galled, he asked only, "Is this all I can bear 
 for thee, thou honored Lord?" And when he had 
 crowded his life with deeds that might have sown 
 
41 FAITH. 
 
 an age with examples of self-denial and of tireless 
 energy, he seemed only to ask, "Is this all I can do 
 for thee, my blessed Lord?" It is all there, my 
 brethren, for us, if we will but take it, all the fervor, 
 all the courage, all the measureless content, all the 
 uplift and the outlook of triumphant hope ; all there 
 for any man who has the power so to measure the 
 height and breadth of God's truth, and to keep the 
 faith, in his heart and in his life, as a trust, as a law, 
 and as a hope. 
 
This fragment of a funeral discourse, in which occurs a 
 remarkable prophecy of Mr. Haughwout's own death, will 
 appropriately close the volume. 
 
 ''READY TO BE OFFERED. 5 
 
 "For lam now ready to be offered, and the time of my departure 
 is at hand.'" — 2 Tim. iv, 6. 
 
 A braver heart never beat in the breast of man 
 than that of the Apostle Paul. Mere human courage 
 never rose on the wings of faith and hope, as cour- 
 age rose in him, above all the ordinary fears and 
 interests of life, to the heights of a perfect indiffer- 
 ence to self and an absolute immergence in the 
 divine will ; nor can you find an example in history 
 which leaves you less to suspect in regard to the 
 sources and qualities of the courage displayed. 
 There had been a time when the apostle could lay 
 claim only to those nobler attributes of a brave man 
 which draw their sustenance from the native excel- 
 lence of the heart, and which, fired with the lofty 
 sentiments of humanity or duty or religious zeal, 
 expand into the character of the hero, and challenge 
 the undying remembrance of history. Such a hero 
 Paul might have become, if the grace of God had 
 
414 
 
 not elected him for a still greater and more glorious 
 career. Armed with the supreme power of his 
 nation, and girding his sword upon his thigh, Paul 
 would have rode over the land extirpating heresy 
 with as savage and reckless a fanaticism as that of 
 the boldest Crusader, and he would have rode down 
 his enemy, in that cause, with as grim an eagerness, 
 as unrelenting a purpose, as power, cased in mail, 
 ever showed a vanquished foe. If the success of 
 Pharisaism had depended on his right arm, he would 
 have drawn no rein and spared no blow, though he 
 had seen Death riding up to meet him, or the grave 
 gaping under his feet. But how changed was all this 
 after the persecuted Saviour had met him upon his 
 bloody raid to Damascus. Paul did not lose any of 
 his rich natural endowments, his manhood did not 
 shrink in that fiery revelation. Such as God had 
 made him he remained, a man, like the royal Saul of 
 old Israel, towering head and shoulders above all the 
 people ; a man whose sword might have carved out 
 kingdoms, but whose pen, under God, has proved 
 mightier than the sword of any hero who ever wrote 
 his name on the world in blood and tears. From 
 the day of his new birth he had no care, no fear, no 
 hope, no interest, but such as lay in his mission as 
 the apostle of Jesus. With his grasping and com- 
 prehensive faith, he brought eternity so uear him 
 that his own selfhood was lost and swallowed up, 
 and the world itself became but a portal thrDugh 
 which the soul might enter on its boundless inheri- 
 tance. He knew nothing but " Christ and him cruci- 
 
415 
 
 fied." Whether he stood on Mars' Hill, with the 
 fate of Socrates before him, or preached in the syna- 
 gogue, where his countrymen were only waiting to 
 stone him, or lay along the roadside, the half-lifeless 
 victim of their murderous brutality, or pined in dun- 
 geons from which his hope saw no way of exit but 
 by the hand of violence, it was all the same to him ; 
 his courage never drooped for an instant, his nerve 
 never trembled, and his serene confidence never for- 
 sook him. Dragged before kings and rulers, neither 
 their authority nor their state overcame or dazzled 
 him ; and, if possible, his heart swelled with a still 
 stronger resolution and his eye burned with a more 
 defiant boldness ; and he flung his words of daring 
 rebuke at the cowering Felix, and threw back the 
 sarcasm at the courtly Agrippa, with a steadiness 
 and firmness such only as find a precedent or a com- 
 parison in the example of his divine Master himself, 
 when he denounced to their faces the crimes and 
 hypocrisy of the Pharisees. 
 
 And when, at length, his career was well nigh run, 
 and he lay on the rocky floor of the Mamertine 
 Prison, cut off from air and sunlight, and expecting 
 in every approaching footstep the coming of the 
 executioner, what victor ever sent up such a note of 
 jubilant gladness, such a burst of eager and rejoi- 
 cing anticipation, as the word of our text? Who 
 would guess that the soul which here displays itself, 
 and "mounts up with wings as an eagle," was even 
 then struggling with the pains of the body, and 
 gathering up its energies to meet the tortures of a 
 martyr's doom? 
 
416 
 
 When we look at this picture, when we see this 
 wonderful self-absorption in the power of an earnest 
 purpose, we know that we are looking at the highest 
 achievements of a christian faith ; that there is but 
 one thing in the world, but one moral principle, but 
 one spiritual element which is capable of effecting 
 such marvels of conquest over the flesh and such 
 entire self-incorporation with the will and purpose of 
 God. We cannot now examine all the elements of 
 that pure and unselfish spirit which breathes in the 
 apostle's character ; but we may take one single ex- 
 hibition of this spirit, and we may ask, What are 
 the conditions of that unconcern which the apostle 
 manifests as to the time of his departure ? What are 
 the elements of the christian's readiness to die? We 
 must observe that there is a vast distinction between 
 the readiness of the true christian for death, and the 
 indifference of the sinful or the mere carelessness of 
 the dull and sluggish man. Paul gave proof that his 
 spirit was not an indifference to death, when he told 
 his brethren that, though he preferred to depart be- 
 cause it was " far better," yet he was glad he was to 
 continue with them because that seemed necessary 
 to them. 
 
 There is a great variety of tempers which can, in 
 the very presence of death, simulate and counterfeit 
 all the negative characteristics of a true christian 
 resignation ; but who would pronounce the death of 
 an ignorant heathen, who smiles in the security of 
 his deluded hopes, a triumph of resignation to God? 
 
 We feel that such an hour demands, that the dig- 
 
417 
 
 irity of the soul demands, some intelligent apprehen- 
 sion of man's condition and prospects, and that 
 without this intelligence the passive stoicism of 
 strong nerves or the unmoved fortitude of a firm 
 will is little above the tranquil stolidity of the 
 animal. No ! the readiness of the christian is not a 
 question of nerves. It does not borrow its forti- 
 tude from a strong will, nor owe its cheerfulness to 
 unbroken animal spirits. It is not mere resignation. 
 It does not yield to God's will because it cannot 
 escape from it : this would be a slavish spirit, 
 unworthy of a christian. But it takes its strength 
 from knowledge, the knowledge of Chiist; its power 
 is that of au overcoming faith ; its joy is the kind- 
 ling eagerness of anticipation and assurance ; and 
 it conquers, not by passive endurance, but by the 
 intense activity and overcoming energy of the soul. 
 Here is the diiference between the unchristian hero 
 and the christiau : the one bravely suffers death, the 
 other joyfully accepts it; the one is resigned to it, 
 the other prefers it because it is God's will ; the 
 one cries, " Thy will be done and my will submit !" 
 the other cries, " Thy will be done ! I have no will 
 but thine " ; and when death comes before him as a 
 duty, he takes it as a duty, and considers that of 
 all duties, this is followed by the. most glorious re- 
 ward. There are always certain preferences natural 
 to us, which make death harder at some times than 
 it would be at others. And perhaps there is none of 
 us who would not willingly make a covenant with 
 death and hold himself ready to answer at death's 
 
418 
 
 call, could he only be permitted to choose his own 
 time. And they are these lurking preferences which 
 even the christian finds it most difficult to overcome. 
 
 We cannot believe that God chooses best and most 
 wisely, both for us and for our friends, and we pro- 
 nounce his providence mysterious because he crosses 
 these natural preferences, violates them, and de- 
 ranges all the plans and hopes we had built up upon 
 them. We all think, and agree in thinking, that 
 death comes reasonably and seasonablyto the aged, 
 because we can see then that his coming brings the 
 fewest disappointments ; embraces, perhaps, the nar- 
 rowest circle of deep and poignant grief, and is 
 countervailed by large benefits and blessings both to 
 the living and the dead. The tears that fall upon 
 the ashes of the aged father and mother leave no 
 acrid bitterness behind them, and serve but as the 
 balm to anoint a loving remembrance in the hearts 
 of their children. 
 
 But oh, how immeasurably bitter are the tears that 
 are wrung from the hearts which yearn, and will not, 
 cannot cease to yearn, through long, aching years, 
 for the strong staff that was broken in the pride and 
 glory of its strength ; for the manly arm that was 
 withered, and the manly form that was laid low, 
 while yet the dew of their youth was upon them, 
 and their hopes had lost none of their bloom ! 
 This is the hardest lot, whether for ourselves or for 
 our friends, which the natural heart is constrained to 
 accept. Here our short-sighted folly arraigns the 
 wisdom of God, and we lay to his charge all the 
 
419 
 
 wrecks of our cherished contrivances and our far- 
 reaching hopes. But here, also, comes the test of 
 our faith as christians ; and if we are able to rise, 
 like the apostle, above and out of the entangle- 
 ments of self, if we are equal to the mastery over 
 our natural preferences, and the courageous choice 
 of God's will as our only wish, then we shall not 
 care when death comes, so it come only in God's 
 time, or how it comes, so it come in God's appointed 
 way. 
 
 But if there is one desire which we could be per- 
 mitted to have gratified, we should pray that death, 
 when it comes, might find us at our work, standing 
 at our allotted .post of duty and girded with all our 
 armor on. The true soldier covets his departure, 
 when the hour draws nigh, at the head of the charg- 
 ing column, in the shock of battle, in the clash of 
 arms, and in the moment of victory. And I have 
 heard one who has spent his life battling with the 
 clangers of the ocean, to whom the wild waste of 
 waters was as the land, and the deck of his ship 
 only less clear than his own fireside, utter the wish 
 that when God called him he might summon him 
 from the very helm of his ship, when he stood, as he 
 had so often stood, guiding her course through the 
 angry floods, and fighting with the elements to pre- 
 serve the lives of those who had been intrusted to 
 him Where should we be found, when God sum- 
 mons us, more fitly than just where he has stationed 
 us, and bidden us do our work in this world? Oh, 
 may my latest breath be drawn, so please God, while 
 
420 
 
 I stand preaching his blessed truth ! May my last 
 word be a plea with sinners for the gospel of Christ ! 
 May I fall just where I stand, in my humble place 
 as a watchman ou the battlements of Zion, and my 
 eyes close upon the world with these living witnesses 
 around me that I have tried to be faithful to my 
 mission, and done my duty up to the very last ! 
 
 THE EKD. 
 
?s* 
 

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