Human Sympathies by Rev. Geo. E. Horr, Jr.

Seventh-day Adventist Missionary Society · Oakland, California · Feb 8, 1883

Human Sympathies.

By Rev. Geo. E. Horr, Jr.

WHEN we speak of “saints” we are apt to think of those who were never touched by the little circumstances that make up so much of our lives. But we think of them so because we know so little about them. How they were offended and touched by a harsh word or a causeless rebuke; what a joy the companionship of their friends gave them; how they were down-hearted when fatigued or unwell, and how, when refreshed and in good spirits, the aspect of everything changed for them, their biographers do not notice. Of course it would be too much to expect any biographer to give an account of all these little details. But it is the mixture of discouragements and brightnesses that really makes up the greater part of life, and knowledge of them and their causes that brings us to the truest knowledge of the men themselves. We are fortunate in having in the New Testament many hints that show us that Christ himself had to a remarkable degree the sympathies of human nature, and that he was encouraged or cast down by the same circumstances that act upon us. We know that he loved birds, and flowers, and children; that he loved to sit with his disciples talking over the events of the day—or with them in the consciousness of companionship without conversation—upon the hills about Jerusalem. We know that he loved the lonely grandeur of the mountains, and that he chose such surroundings as best for prayer and meditation. We know that it was an added burden to the weight of agony in Gethsemane that his disciples could not watch with him one hour. And what a human touch it is, when Luke tells us that he could steal upon his disciples as they were walking to Damascus, play the stranger, and hesitate at the door to draw out a more cordial welcome! These little touches, and many more, show the sympathetic mind of Christ, responsive to outward impressions—to the aspect of nature—to the love of his friends, and to the needs and feelings of those whom he met.

We are fortunate, too, in having so many hints that show us what Paul’s feelings underlaid. He was a man responsive to impressions from his surroundings (as some are not), in whose sermons there is scarce an allusion to the beauty of earth or sky; there is not a single appreciative reference to the works of Greek art, or the cities with which he must have been very familiar in Athens and Ephesus and Rome. But he was especially responsive to human sympathy and dependent upon it. In the second chapter of Second Corinthians and the thirteenth verse, we find Paul saying that though he had preached in Troas and had some measure of success there, as implied by the phrase “a door was opened unto me in the Lord,”

“I had no relief for my spirit because I found not Titus my brother.” Also in the seventh chapter and fifth verse of the same letter he says, speaking of his work in Macedonia, “our flesh had no relief, but we were afflicted on every side; without were fightings, within were fears. Nevertheless, God, that comforteth the lowly, comforted us by the coming of Titus.”

It had been a great sorrow to him in his joy to be deprived of the companionship of his dear friend. It was a great comfort to him when discouraged to have Titus with him. There is, too, an undertone of deep sorrow vibrating in the words he writes in his last letter to Timothy: “Demas forsook me, having loved this present world.” And in the twenty-eighth chapter of the Acts, and the fifteenth verse, there is another striking evidence of this great apostle’s dependence upon human sympathy. He was journeying to Rome, despondent, dispirited, after the unusual perils of shipwreck he had undergone, and doubtful what the result of his appeal to the Emperor would be. But we find him becoming suddenly encouraged, full of hope and thankfulness, because some thoughtful Christian brethren had come down from Rome forty miles, to the Market of Appius, to meet him and give him a warm Christian welcome, whom, when Paul saw, he thanked God and took courage.

A good many people, good Christians, too, wonder if they are not wrong in being as dependent as they are upon outward circumstances—upon the aspect of nature, upon their own health, upon their friends—for their enjoyment of life, and for the brightness with which they look into the future. They feel as if they ought to rise above these influences and be independent of them. Undoubtedly we make too much of the world, we are too dependent upon secular circumstances for our religious enjoyment. We ought to have more of the spirit of Paul who “rejoiced in bonds,” was “more than conqueror” in a prison. But when we remember that this man who could say so proudly, “I have learned in whatsoever state I am, therein to be content . . . I have learned the secret both to be filled and to be hungry, to abound and to be in want,” also had this singular dependence upon human sympathy and friendship, the believer may well appropriate a lesson from him, and neither be surprised nor doubt his own Christian life if at times he shall crave human sympathy, and cry with Paul, “Demas forsook me, having loved this present world,” or even give utterance to the reproach of the Master himself, “Could ye not watch with me one hour?”—Rev. Geo. E. Horr, Jr., in Christian at Work.