CHRISTIANITY UNIVERSAL IN ITS REQUISITIONS.
By Hannah More
It is not unusual to see people get rid of some of the most awful injunctions, and emancipate themselves from some of the most solemn requisitions of Scripture, by affecting to believe that they do not apply to them. They consider them as belonging exclusively to the first age of the Gospel, and to the individuals to whom they were immediately addressed; consequently the necessity to observe them does not extend to persons under an established Christianity, to hereditary Christians. These exceptions are particularly applied to some of the leading doctrines, so forcibly and repeatedly pressed in the Epistles. The reasoners endeavor to persuade themselves that it was only the Ephesians “who were dead in trespasses and sins”—that it was only the Galatians, who were enjoined “not to fulfil the lusts of the flesh”—that it was only the Philippians who were “enemies to the Cross of Christ.” They shelter themselves under the comfortable assurance of a geographical security. As they know that they are neither Ephesians, Galatians, nor Philippians, they have of course little or nothing to do with the reproofs, exhortations, or threatenings which were originally directed to the converts among those people. They console themselves with the belief that it was only these Pagans who “walked according to the course of this world”—who were “strangers from the covenants of promise”—“and who were without God in the world.” But these self-satisfied critics would do well to learn that not only “circumcision nor uncircumcision,” but baptism or no baptism “availeth nothing” (I mean as a mere form) “but a new creature.” An irreligious professor of Christianity is as much “a stranger and foreigner,” as a heathen; he is no more “a fellow citizen of the saints,” and of the household of God “than a Colossian or Galatian was, before the Christian dispensation had reached them.” But if the persons to whom the Apostles preached, had, before their conversion, no vices to which we are not liable, they had certainly difficulties afterwards, from which we are happily exempt. There were indeed differences between them and us in external situations, in local circumstances, references to which we ought certainly to take into the account in perusing the Epistles. We allow that they were immediately, but we do not allow that they were exclusively, applicable to them. It would have been too limited an object for inspiration to have confined its instructions to any one period, when its purpose was the instruction of the whole unborn world. That these converts were miraculously “called out of darkness into the marvellous light of the Gospel”—that they were changed from gross blindness to a rapid illumination—that the embracing the new faith exposed them to persecution, reproach and ignominy—that the few had to struggle against the world—that laws, principalities and powers which support our faith opposed theirs—these are distinctions of which we ought not to lose sight: nor should we forget that not only all the disadvantages lay on their side in their antecedent condition, but that also all the superiority lies on ours in that which is subsequent. But however the condition of the external state of the Church might differ, there can be no necessity for any difference in the interior state of the individual Christian. On whatever high principles of devotedness to God and love to man, they were called to act, we are called to act on precisely the same. If their faith was called to more painful exertions, if their self-denial to harder sacrifices, if their renunciation of earthly things to severer trials, let us thankfully remember this would naturally be the case, at the first introduction of a religion which had to combat with the pride, prejudices, and enmity of corrupt nature, invested with temporal power:—That the hostile party would not fail to perceive how much the new religion opposed itself to their corruptions, and that it was introducing a spirit which was in direct and avowed hostility to the spirit of the world. But while we are deeply thankful for the diminished difficulties of an established faith, let us never forget that Christianity allows of no diminution in the temper, of no abatement in the Spirit, which constituted a Christian in the first ages of the church. Christianity is precisely the same religion now as it was when our Saviour was upon earth. The spirit of the world is exactly the same now as it was then. And if the most eminent of the Apostles, under the immediate guidance of inspiration, were driven to lament their conflicts with their own corrupt natures, the power of temptation combining with their natural propensities to evil, how can we expect that a lower faith, a slackened zeal, an abated diligence, and an inferior holiness, will be accepted in us? Believers then, were not called to higher degrees of purity, to a more elevated devotion, to a deeper humility, to greater rectitude, patience and sincerity than they are called to in the age in which we live. The promises are not limited to the period in which they were made, the aid of the Spirit is not confined to those on whom it was first poured out. It was expressly declared, by St. Peter, on its first effusion, to be promised not only “to them and to their children, but to all who were afar off, even to as many as the Lord their God should call.” If then the same salvation be now offered as was offered at first, is it not obvious, that it must be worked out in the same way? And as the same Gospel retains the same authority in all ages, so does it maintain the same universality among all ranks. Christianity has no bye laws, no particular exemptions, no individual immunities. That there is no appropriate way of attaining salvation for a prince or a philosopher, is probably one reason why greatness and wisdom have so often rejected it. But if rank cannot plead its privileges, genius cannot claim its distinctions. That Christianity does not owe its success to the arts of rhetoric or the sophistry of the schools, but that God intended by it “to make foolish the wisdom of this world,” actually explains why “the disputers of this world” have always been its enemies. It would have been unworthy of the infinite God to have imparted a partial religion. There is but one “gate,” and that a “strait” one; but one “way,” and that a “narrow” one; there is but one salvation, and that a common one. The Gospel enjoins the same principles of love and obedience on all of every condition; offers the same aids under the same exigencies; the same supports under all trials; the same pardon to all penitents; the same Saviour to all believers; the same rewards to all who “endure to the end.” The temptations of one condition and the trials of another may call for the exercise of different qualities, for the performance of different duties, but the same personal holiness is enjoined on all. External acts of virtue may be promoted by some circumstances, and impeded by others, but the graces of inward piety are of universal force, are of eternal obligation. The universality of its requisitions is one of its most distinguishing characteristics. In the Pagan world it seemed sufficient that a few exalted spirits, a few fine geniuses should soar to a vast superiority above the mass; but it was never expected that the mob of Rome or Athens, should aspire to any religious sentiments or feelings in common with Socrates or Epictetus. I say religious sentiments, because in matters of taste the distinctions were less striking, for the mob of Athens were competent critics in the dramatic art, while they were sunk in the most stupid and degrading idolatry. As to those of a higher class, while no subject in science, arts, or learning was too lofty or too abstruse for their acquisition, no object in nature was too low, no conception of a depraved imagination was too impure for their worship. While the civil and political wisdom of the Romans was carried to such perfection that their code of laws has still a place in the most enlightened countries, their deplorably gross superstitions rank them in point of religion with the savages of Africa. It shows how little a way that reason which manifested itself with such unrivalled vigor in their poets, orators, and historians, as to make them still models to ours, could go in what related to religion, when these polished people in the objects of their worship are only on a par with the inhabitants of Otaheite. It furnishes the most incontrovertible proof that the world by wisdom knew not God, that it was at the very time, and in the very country, in which knowledge and taste had attained their utmost perfection, when the Porch and the Academy had given laws to human intellect, that Atheism first assumed a shape, and established itself into a school of Philosophy. It was at the moment when the mental powers were carried to the highest pitch in Greece, that it was settled as an infallible truth in this Philosophy that the senses were the highest natural light of mankind. It was in the most enlightened age of Rome that this Atheistical Philosophy was transplanted thither, and that one of her most elegant poets adopted it, and rendered it popular by the bewitching graces of his verse. It seems as if the most accomplished nations stood in the most pressing need of the light of revelation; for it was not to the dark and stupid corners of the earth that the Apostles had their earliest missions. One of St. Paul’s first and noblest expositions of Christian truth was made before the most august, deliberative assembly in the world, though, by the way, it does not appear that more than one member of the Areopagus was converted. In Rome some of the Apostle’s earliest converts belonged to the Imperial Palace.—It was to the metropolis of cultivated Italy, it was to the “regions of Achaia,” to the opulent and luxurious city of Corinth, in preference to the barbarous countries of the uncivilized world, that some of the first Epistles were addressed.115 Even natural religion was little understood by those who professed it; it was full of obscurity till viewed by the clear light of the Gospel. Not only natural religion remained to be clearly comprehended, but reason itself remained to be carried to its highest pitch in the countries where revelation is professed. Natural religion could not see itself by its own light, reason could not extricate itself from the labyrinth of error and ignorance in which false religion had involved the world. Grace has raised nature. Revelation has given a lift to reason, and taught her to despise the follies and corruptions which obscured her brightness. If nature is now delivered from darkness, it was the helping hand of revelation which raised her from the rubbish in which she lay buried. Christianity has not only given us right conceptions of God, of his holiness, of the way in which he will be worshipped: it has not only given us principles to promote our happiness here, and to insure it hereafter; but it has really taught us what a proud philosophy arrogates to itself, the right use of reason. It has given us those principles of examining and judging, by which we are enabled to determine on the absurdity of false religions. “For to what else can it be ascribed,” says the sagacious Bishop Sherlock, “that in every Nation that names the name of Christ, even Reason and Nature see and condemn the follies, to which others are still, for want of the same help, held in subjection?” Allowing, however, that Plato and Antoninus seemed to have been taught of heaven, yet the object for which we contend is, that no provision was made for the vulgar. While a faint ray fell on the page of Philosophy, the people were involved in darkness which might be felt. The million were left to live without knowledge and to die without hope. For what knowledge or what hope would be acquired from the preposterous though amusing, and in many respects, elegant Mythology which they might pick up in their poets, the belief of which seemed to be confined to the populace. But there was no common principle of hope or fear, of faith or practice, no motive of consolation, no bond of charity, no communion of everlasting interests, no reversionary equality between the wise and the ignorant, the master and the slave, the Greek and the Barbarian. A religion was wanted which should be of general application. Christianity happily accommodated itself to the common exigence. It furnished an adequate supply to the universal want. Instead of perpetual but unexpiating sacrifices to appease imaginary deities, Gods such as guilt makes welcome, it presents “one oblation once offered, a full, perfect, and sufficient sacrifice, oblation, and satisfaction for the sins of the whole world.” It presents one consistent scheme of morals growing out of one uniform system of doctrines; one perfect rule of practice depending on one principle of faith; it offers grace to direct the one and to assist the other. It encircles the whole sphere of duty with the broad and golden zone of coalescing charity, stamped with the inscription, “a new Commandment give I unto you, that you love one another.” Christianity, instead of destroying the distinctions of rank, or breaking in on the regulations of society, by this universal precept, furnishes new fences to its order, additional security to its repose, and fresh strength to its subordinations. Were this command, so inevitably productive of that peculiarly Christian injunction of “doing to others as we would they should do unto us,” uniformly observed, the whole frame of society would be cemented and consolidated into one indissoluble bond of universal brotherhood. This divinely enacted law is the seminal principle of justice, charity, patience, forbearance, in short, of all social virtue. That it does not produce these excellent effects, is not owing to any defect in the principle, but in our corrupt nature, which so reluctantly, so imperfectly obeys it. If it were conscientiously adopted, and substantially acted upon, received in its very spirit, and obeyed from the ground of the heart, human laws might be abrogated, courts of justice abolished, and treaties of morality burnt; war would be no longer an art, nor military tactics a science. We should suffer long and be kind, and so far from “seeking that which is another’s,” we should not even “seek our own.” But let not the soldier or the lawyer be alarmed. Their craft is in no danger. The world does not intend to act upon the divine principle which would injure their professions; and till this only revolution which good men desire actually takes place, our fortunes will not be secure without the exertions of the one, nor our lives without the protection of the other. All the virtues have their appropriate place and rank in the Scripture. They are introduced as individually beautiful, and as reciprocally connected, like the graces in the mythologic dance. But perhaps no Christian grace ever sat to the hand of a more consummate master, than charity. Her incomparable painter, St. Paul, has drawn her at full length in all her fair proportions. Every attitude is full of grace, every lineament, of beauty. The whole delineation is perfect and entire, wanting nothing. Who can look at this finished piece, without blushing at his own want of likeness to it? Yet if this conscious dissimilitude induce a cordial desire of resemblance, the humiliation will be salutary. Perhaps a more frequent contemplation of this exquisite figure, accompanied with earnest endeavors for a growing resemblance, would gradually lead us, not barely to admire the portrait, but would at length assimilate us to the divine original.—Hannah More.