The Way of Escape by F. S. Arthur

Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Battle Creek, Mich. · Jul 9, 1872

The Way of Escape.

By F. S. Arthur

My heart ached for the wretched man. His debauch was over; his nerves unstrung; the normal sensibilities of a fine moral nature, quickened, after a brief torpor, into most acute perceptions. Such a haggard face! Such hopeless eyes! I see the picture now, as a haunting specter.

“Let the memory of this hour, so burdened by pain and repentance, be as a wall of defense around you in all the future,” I said.

He looked at me drearily. Slowly shaking his head, he replied:

“Such memories are no defense.—My soul is full of them. When temptation assails, they fall away, and I am at the mercy of mine enemy, who rushes in, like a hungry wolf, to kill and to destroy.”

“Is there no help for you then?” I asked.

He shut his eyes and was very still. If an artist could have seen his face then, and faithfully caught its expression, those who looked upon the image must have felt such pity in their hearts as makes the eyes grow dim with tears.

“I fear not,” he answered, after a little while, in a hopeless kind of way.

“It cannot be.” I spoke confidently and reassuringly. “No man is given over to such utter ruin. There must be, and there is, a way of escape from every evil.”

“Except the evil of a bad and degrading habit—that vile second nature,” he answered, “the steady current of which is forever bearing him downward toward a storm-wrecked ocean. He may seize the oars in alarm, as I have done scores of times, and pull against the current, making for a little while. But human strength avails not there. The arms grow weary, the spirit flags—it is easier to drift than to row, and down the current bears him again. It is the history of thousands and tens of thousands, and I am no exception.”

“It cannot be,” I answered. “There is help for every man, no matter how weak, nor how beset by enemies; else God’s word must fail.”

“It does fail, I think,” he answered, in a gloomy, despairing kind of way.

“No! no! no!” Quickly and emphatically did I reject his conclusion.

“Have it as you will. I shall not argue the point.” He spoke almost listlessly.

“Then, I say, there is help for every man, no matter where he is or what he is. We cannot fall so low that the Everlasting arms are not still beneath us, ready to bear us upward to mountain heights of safety.”

“Oh, that those arms would bear me upward!” almost groaned my poor friend. “I have no strength in myself. I cannot climb. Unless lifted by another, I must perish.”

“So bad as that?” I said.

“Just so bad,” he answered, slowly and bitterly. “This second nature I have made for myself, is my ruler. Because conscience, the love of my wife and children, my good reputation, pride, manliness—all human powers and virtues, are its slaves. And such a bondage!”

There was not a ray of hope in his dreary eyes.

“You must try again,” I said, cheerily. “No man need be a slave.”

“Easily said!” was his impatient answer; “while yet all men are slaves to some habit from which they cannot break.”

“Say, rather, from which they will not break.”

“You mock me with idle words.”

“No; I speak only the words of truth and soberness. There is human strength, and there is divine strength. The everlasting arms are always beneath and ready to bear us up, if we will but lean upon and trust them. Human strength is but as a broken reed; divine strength is sure as God himself. It never fails.”

There came into his heavy eyes a feeble play of light. The stern rejection that sat upon his lips faded off.

“In our own strength, nothing,” and I said, “In God’s strength, all.”

I saw his hands moving in an uncertain way. Then they rested one against the other. Suddenly they were clasped together in a kind of spasm, while his eyes flew upward in a wild, half-despairing appeal to God, his lips groaning out the words—

“Save me, or I am lost!”

Even now, memory gives back the thrill that swept along my nerves as his cry penetrated my ears.

Never from any human soul went up, unheard, a prayer like that. He who once and forever took upon himself our nature, and who was in all points tempted as we are, yet without sin, and who is touched always with the feeling of our infirmity, stands close beside us, knocking at the door of our hearts, that he may come in and help and save us. All hell is powerless before him. Impure desires flee from his presence like night birds when the sun arises; and the cords of evil habits are broken, as the withes that bound the arms of Samson, at his lightest touch.

I waited for a little while without speaking, watching him closely, to see if he would rise into anything like confidence. Gradually, the hard, desponding look faded from his countenance, and I saw a calm resolve begin to show itself about his mouth.

“One effort more,” he said, at last, speaking slowly, but very firmly. “One effort more, but not in my own strength. I have tried that too often, and shall never try it again. I give up the struggle as hopeless. If God fails me, I am lost.”

What a fearful crisis! If God fail? He never fails—is never nearer to us, nor stronger to help us, than at the moment when despairing of our own strength, we turn to him. The only danger lies in our not trusting him fully.

“But how shall I trust him? How shall I get a transfer of his strength to my will? How is it that his power can supplement my weakness? I am away down in the valley of sin and shame; how am I to get upon the mountains of purity, peace, and safety? Will he bear me up as on the wings of an eagle? or must I climb and climb, from day to day, until I reach the summit?”

“You must climb,” I said.

“I cannot. I have no strength. I have tried it a hundred times, and failed.” He answered with returning doubt.

“And will fail again if you trust in your own strength. But, with God-given strength, used as your own, the ascent is sure.”

“Ah! I see!” Light broke all over his face. “I see! I see!” he repeated. “God does not lift us out of our sin and misery, but gives us divine strength, if we ask him in all sincerity, by which we lift ourselves.”

“Yes.”

“It is very simple and clear.” He drew a long breath of relief, like one who has a load taken from his mind.

“The law of our dependence on God for help,” I said.

“Yes. And now I see the meaning of this sentiment, in an old hymn I often heard sung when I was a boy, and which always struck me as a paradox:—

“‘When I am weak, then am I strong.’”

“The Christian poet,” I answered, “lifted into something of inspiration, often sees truth in clearer light than we who are down among the mists and shadows.”

“Ah, me!” he sighed; “your closing words remind me of the depth at which I lie, and the almost infinite distances above me to which I must rise ere out of danger. “And to which you may surely rise if you will,” I answered with cheerful assurance.

“By God-given strength only!” he spoke solemnly.

“Aye; never, never for an instant lose sight of that! Never, no matter how strong you may feel that you have grown, trust in yourself. In the hour of temptation, look upward, praying in the silence of your heart for strength to resist.”

“Best of friends!” he exclaimed, in deep emotion; “You must have been sent to me by God. Hope dawns on a night that has been starless. I see the way of safety—for me the only way. No one knows but myself how hard I have tried to reform, nor in how many ways I have sought to escape from a terrible thralldom. But all has been in vain. When this remorseless appetite that has enslaved me, asserted itself, my will became as nothing.”

Long time we talked, I saying all that I could to strengthen him.

On the next Sunday, much to my surprise and pleasure, I saw him at church with his wife. I could not remember when I had seen him there before. At the close of the services, as I moved down the aisle with the crowd, some one grasped my hand and gave it a strong pressure. I turned and looked into the face of the friend I had tried to save.

“Oh, Martin!” I said, as I received a glance full of meaning, and then returned his hand pressure.

We walked for a few moments side by side without speaking, and then were separated by the crowd.

On the Sunday following, he was at church again; and Sunday after Sunday found him in the family pew that for years had seen him so rarely.

Three or four months went by, and Martin’s feet were still in the paths that led upward. But one day I was shocked to hear that he had fallen again. On careful inquiry, I learned that he had been with his wife to an evening entertainment, given by a citizen of high worth and standing, whose name is on every lip as munificent in charity; but who, whatever may be his personal conviction, is not brave enough to banish wine from the generous board to which he invites his friends. And I learned still further, to my grief and pain, that the glass which broke down the good resolution of Martin, and let in upon him the fierce flood of repressed appetite, was proffered by the hand of this good citizen, as host.

I lost no time in going to my poor friend. I found him away down in the valley of humiliation, his soul in the gall of bitterness. Shame and sorrow were in his heavy eyes; but not despair. I took hopeful notice of this.

“It is very hard for us, all but God-forsaken wretches!” he said, bitterly, after the first formal sentences had passed between us. “Mr. —— is a man of generous feeling. He gives, in a princely way, to churches and to charities; is one of our best and most liberal citizens; and yet, after I have taken a few steps heavenward, he puts a stumbling-block in my way, and I fall back toward hell!”

“You could not have fallen over any stumbling-block man or devil might place in your way,” I answered, “if you had been walking in divine, instead of human, strength.”

“Well do I know that,” he replied.

“And so,” I said, “let this sad fall keep you in the more vivid remembrance of human weakness. Never for one instant trust in yourself. Stand perpetually on guard. The price of your liberty is eternal vigilance.”

“It is a hard fight,” he said, with a sigh, despondingly.

“Life is a warfare,” I replied. “We are all beset with enemies who know too well our vulnerable place,—enemies that never sleep; implacable, cruel, ever seeking our destruction. I, you, all men have them. Trusting only in human strength, no one gains a victory; but in divine strength the issue of battle is sure. And so, my friend, gird up your loins again, and be wary and valiant.”

Hope and courage came back into his heart.

“Beware of ambush,” I said, as I parted from him that day. “The enemy, coming on you unawares, is more to be dreaded than when he forms his line of attack to the sound of trumpets. Seek no conflicts; keep off his ground; but when he comes forth to meet you, giving challenge, do battle in the name of the Lord.”

A few weeks afterward I was present when a gentleman of large wealth and good standing, both in church and society, said to him—

“I didn’t see you at my house last evening.”

“No,” was the rather curt reply; “It is safer for me to keep off of the devil’s ground.”

“I don’t understand you, sir!” replied the gentleman, a flush of sudden anger in his eyes, for he felt the remark as a covert insult.

Martin’s face grew sober, and he answered with a calm impressiveness that caused the anger to go out of his listener’s eyes, and a thoughtful concern to take its place:

“I am fighting the devil,” he said, “and must not give him the smallest advantage. Just now I am the victor, and hold him at bay. He has his masked batteries, his enchanted grounds, his mines and pitfalls, his guns and miry sloughs; and I am learning to know the signs of hidden danger. If I fall into any of his snares, I am in peril of destruction; and though I struggle, or fight my way out, I am weak or wounded, and so the less able to meet the shock of battle when he rushes upon me as I stand on guard, ready, in God’s name, for the conflict.”},{

“His enchanted ground is a social company, where wine flows freely. I speak of what it is to me, and call it, so far as I am concerned, the devil’s ground. He caught me there not long ago, and had me at his own advantage. But I will not again set foot thereon. If you, good citizens, make of your homes, in mistaken hospitality, places where the young find temptation, and the weak, stumbling-blocks, men, such as I am, must shun them as the gates of hell.”

“His manner had grown more and more impressive.”

“Is it so bad as that?” remarked the gentleman, in a voice that showed both surprise and pain.

“Just so bad.” Martin answered, impressively; “I believe Riegart’s oldest son was at your house?”

“Yes.”

“It was on the devil’s ground for him? An hour or two ago I saw him coming out of a saloon so drunk that he could not walk straight. And only three days ago, his father told a friend that his son had certainly reformed, and that he now had more confidence in his future than he had felt for a long time.”

“You cannot mean what you say?” The gentleman exclaimed in visible agitation.

“I have told you only the sad and solemn truth,” was Martin’s answer; “and if I had accepted your invitation, I might now be lying at a depth of misery and degradation, the bare thought of which makes me shudder!”

The gentleman stood for a little while as if stunned.

“This is frightful to think of,” he said, and I saw him shiver.

“It is the last time,” he added after a pause—“the last time that any man shall go out of my house weaker and more degraded than when he came in. If my offering of wine causes my brother to offend, then I will not offer it again while the world stands.”

“Ah, sir!” answered Martin. “If many more of our good citizens would so resolve, hundreds of young men now drifting out into the current of intemperance, might be drawn back into safer waters; and hundreds of others, who are striving to make head against it, saved from destruction. I speak feelingly, for I am one of those who are struggling for life in this fatal current.”

The way of safety for a man like Martin, is very narrow and straight. If he steps aside into any of the pleasant paths that open on the right hand or on the left, he is in the midst of peril. If he grow confident in his own strength, and less dependent on that which is given from above, the danger of falling becomes imminent.

Martin fell again. Alas! that this should have to be told.

“Was that Martin who passed us?” asked a friend with whom I was walking.

“No;” I answered in a positive voice; and yet, as I said the word, my heart gave a throb of fear—the man was so like him.

“It was, I am sure. Poor wretch! He tries hard to reform; but that cursed appetite is too much for him. I’m afraid there is no help. He’ll die a drunkard.”

I turned back quickly and without a response, following the man we had passed. Just as I came up to him he had stopped at the door of a drinking saloon, and was holding a brief parley with awakened appetite.

“In God’s name, no!” I said, laying my hand upon him.

He started in a frightened kind of way, turning on me a haggard face and bloodshot eye. I drew my arm within his and led him away, passive as a child. Not a word was spoken by either until we were in his office, which was not far distant, and the door shut and locked. He dropped into a chair with a slight groan, his head sinking upon his chest. He was the picture of abject wretchedness.

“He leaveth the ninety and nine that are safely folded,” I said, speaking in a low, tender voice, “and goeth out into the wilderness to seek that which is astray.”

He did not answer.

“You have looked to the strong for strength, you have prayed to him for succor, and he has come very near to you and helped you. Because you again went out of the fold, His love has not failed. He has found you out in the wilderness, and brought you back to a place of safety. Only trust in Him and all will be well. He is the friend that sticketh closer than a brother. His is a love that never fails.”

I waited for him to reply, but he kept silence.

“It must have been no ordinary temptation,” I said.

Still he was silent.

“The enemy must have come on you unawares,” I added, after a brief pause. “The bolt must have fallen ere you saw the warning flash.”

“I was taken at a disadvantage; but I had time to know my enemy, and should have given battle in God’s name, instead of yielding like a craven.”

Such was his reply. It gave me hope.

“Tell me the whole story,” I said.

He raised himself to a firm attitude; and I saw swift lights beginning to flash in his dull eyes.

“Wounded again in the house of a friend,” he replied.

“One on whom God has laid the special duty of saving human souls—our minister!”

“Not Mr. L——!”

“Yes.”

I was confounded.

“I went to him for help,” continued Martin, “and instead of the counsel and support I then so much needed, for my old enemy, appetite, was gathering up his strength, and setting his host in battle array, I was tempted and betrayed! I should have gone to God, and not to man. With his divine word in my thought, and prayer in my heart, I should have opposed the awakening enticement of desire, as I have so often done, and prevailed.”

“Tell me how it happened,” I said.

“As I have just told you,” he replied, “I was not feeling very strong. That old restlessness of which I have spoken, had come back upon me, and I knew what it meant. So, I said to my wife, ‘I think, Mary, that I’ll step around and see Mr. L——. I’d like to talk with him.’ She looked at me with a slight shadow of concern in her face; for she has learned to know the signs of a coming hour of darkness, when the powers of hell renew their direful assaults upon my soul. ‘Do,’ she answered; and I went.”},{

“I found Mr. L—— in his library, but not alone. Mr. E——, the banker, had called in to have a talk with the minister about a college for theological students, in which both felt considerable interest. Funds were wanted in order to give the Institution the required efficiency; and the ways and means of getting funds were earnestly discussed by Mr. L—— and the capitalist. After an hour’s talk, and the arrangement of a plan for securing the object in view, Mr. L—— rang a bell. To the servant who came in he said something in a low voice, that I did not hear. The servant retired, but came back in a few minutes, bearing, to my surprise and momentary consternation, a tray with wine and glasses. I saw a pleased light in the banker’s eyes, as they rested on the amber-colored wine.

“Some fine old sherry,” said Mr. L——, “sent me by a friend abroad. I want you to taste it.” And he filled the three glasses that were on the tray, handed one to his guest, and another to me. In myself—my poor weak self!—I was not strong enough to refuse. If I had looked up to God, instantly, and prayed for strength to do the right, strength I know would have come. But I did not. I took the glass, not meaning to drink, but to gain time for thought. To have refused would have been, I then felt, to set myself up as a rebuker of these men; and that I had not the courage to do. No, I did not mean to taste the wine. But, as they lifted their glasses, drank and praised the fruity juice, I, in a kind of mesmeric lapse of rational self-control, raised my glass also, and sipped. A wild, fierce thirst possessed me instantly, and I drained the glass to the bottom!”},{

“A sudden terror and great darkness fell upon me. I saw the awful gulf on whose brink I stood. “I will go home,” I said to myself, rising. I bade the two men an abrupt good night and left them. But I did not go directly home, alas, for me! There were too many enticements by the way. Indeed, I don’t know how or when I got home.”

“Of the shame and anguish, the despair of this morning, I cannot speak. You don’t know what it means; I have no plummet by which to sound its depth of bitterness. I left home for my office, feebly resolved to keep away from temptation—how feebly you know. If the good Lord, who is trying to save me, had not sent you to my rescue, I would now be—oh, I cannot speak the frightful words.”

“He never leaves us nor forsakes us,” I answered. “He is always going out upon the bleak mountains, to the hot desert, and into the wilderness of wild beasts, seeking his lost and wandering sheep. If they hear his voice and follow him, he will bring them into his fold, where is peace and safety.”

“Good shepherd of souls,” my friend said, audibly, lifting upward his eyes that were full of tears, “save me from the wolves! They wait for me in all my paths; they spring upon me in all my ungrateful moments; they hide themselves in covert places, thirsting for my life; they steal upon me in sheep’s clothing; they beset me everywhere! Good Shepherd! I have no help but in thee.”

Breaking the deep, impressive silence that followed, I said:

“In him alone is safety. So long as you hear his voice and follow him, no wolf can touch you with his murderous teeth. But, if you go out of his sheep-fold, and trust in your own strength to overcome the wild beasts that crowd the wilderness of this world, destruction is sure.”

A few years have passed since then, and Martin still holds, in divine strength, the mastery of appetite. The vile second nature he had formed unto himself, and which bore him downward, for a time, in its steady current, grew weaker and weaker, as the new life, born from above, gained strength. In the degree that he resisted and denied the old desires, did they grow weaker; and in their place God gave him purer and healthier desires, so that he became, as it were, a new man.

“The wolves are not all dead,” I said to him one day, as we talked of the present and the past.

He looked a little sober as he replied—

“No, my friend. I often hear them howling in the distance; and I know full well that if I leave my Shepherd’s side, and stray off into the wilderness, vainly trusting in myself, that I shall be as powerless to stand against them as a helpless sheep. For me, I am not safe for a moment, except when I trust in God’s strength to supplement my weakness. When I do that, all hell cannot prevail against me!”—F. S. Arthur.