The Victory of Faith by Bishop Simpson

International Tract and Missionary Society · Oakland, California · Jun 11, 1885

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 11, No. 23.

The Victory of Faith.

By Bishop Simpson

THE old men of this country were often called to pass swollen streams before bridges were built; mounted on the backs of strong horses, they plunged fearlessly in. If they looked upon the rapid flow of the waters, their brains grew unsteady; they seemed to be carried against the current, and were in danger of falling and being drowned; but if they raised their eyes and looked at some tree or hill-top beyond, or on some rock that jutted from the shore, they passed quietly and safely over. It was the view of the distant that steadied them against the whirl of the present. The sailor boy is sent, in a storm, up the mast, and amidst the swinging cordage, to perform some task; if he looks below upon the rolling deck or the furious waves, his head swims, he is dashed down, and is lost. How shall he be safe? The old sailor cries to him, “Look aloft, look aloft;” and if he can but see a star shining in the heavens, or the clouds, which are less unstable than the waters and the vessel, he grows steady and performs his work as calmly as the child upon its mother’s nursery floor. It is the view of the distant that steadies against the whirl of the present.

Is a man distinguished above his fellows for clearness of thought and comprehension of view, do we not say, he is a far-seeing man? The man who has a limited trade is engaged with those immediately about him, and the gossip and little rivalries and excitements of the town in which he lives powerfully affect him. The commercial trader sits at his desk, but he is arranging a cargo for China, though he never saw it, or is purchasing sugar from distant islands, or spices from the other side of the globe; the little circle of trade immediately about him scarcely disturbs him at all. His plans are far-reaching; he is looking for the return of his profits, not to-morrow, or next month, but next year or in a succession of years; and his wealth has accumulated through investments made with lands he never saw, and through the hands of men with whom he was never acquainted. It is faith that gives to him the knowledge and the confidence. The same lessons are taught us if we look at those who attain eminence in the various walks of life, If, then, through faith such excellence is given in every department of life, in every stage of society, why should it not be so in the realms of morals and religion? Why should not faith join us to the good and the pure of past ages? Why should we not listen to the precepts of virtue and religion as well as to the songs of the poet or the strains of the orator? Man, in his inner nature, feels that the stains of sin are on him. He is captured oftentimes by passion; he is led where he knows his feet should not go; he has said to himself a thousand times he would do better, and yet sins again. What shall he do? Where shall he go? Carried away by the force of passion, drawn by the influences of association, governed by the maxims of the evil world, he ever slides downward; but he looks into the past, stands at the foot of the mountain and hears the law of God, draws near to Calvary and beholds one dying for him, stands where the prophet Isaiah stood, and amidst the darkness which shrouds the cross he is able to say, “The chastisement of our peace was upon him, and with his stripes we are healed.” And there comes from Jesus a peace that cheers and strengthens, and the stain of his sin and the dominion of his passions fade away.

And this view of the distant restrains passion and overcomes fear. The young man who has left his father’s house on the farm, and has gone to the city to make his fortune, is often enticed to evil. The theater charms, the house that leads to the gates of death allures; but as he passes along the street and listens to the music, the memory of his sainted mother comes to him, and then that other thought of responsibility to God so fills his heart that he turns away from the enticements of sin. The thought of the distant delivers him from the power of passion. Is the soul in trouble? Does he despair of life? Does he give up all thought of friends on earth? Is he ready for suicide? It seems dark about him. But, when the distant is brought to his view, the star of Bethlehem breaks on his vision, the thought comes to him as to Hagar of old, “Thou God seest me.” I have often felt that the ordinary manner of quoting this verse, “Thou God seest me,” does not present it as Hagar said it. She knew that God saw Abraham and Sarah; she knew the divine care and protection were given to them; but when, in the wilderness and in danger of death, God’s providence was manifested to her, it affected her heart, and she cried out, “Thou God seest me;” me, the poor, the unworthy, the unregarded. It was the sense of divine compassion condescending so much as to look at her that soothed her heart. And when sickness comes, when strength declines, when death is near, when loved ones are carried away, how faith comes to our aid! We shall see our friends again. We can lay them in the grave; we know they are safe with God.

It is faith in the distant, inspires, cheers, strengthens. And yet there are those who tell us that the religion of Christ is fitted only for the poor, the aged, the weak; that it may do for women; it may do for ignorant men; but for man—strong, vigorous, educated man—there is something grander and higher. We are told that this religion is one of the things of the past, and that it is to fade away before the light of the present age. May I ask my skeptical friend what he will offer me in its place? What can he give me instead of my faith? I am willing to accord to him all he can desire, all he can claim. I give full credit to whatever unaided reason may prove, or scientific investigation may find. I delight in the refinements of literature, in the inventions of art; but what will be the substitute for faith?

The genius of infidelity comes near me and offers me her hand. I cheerfully take it. She leads me through this earth, shows me its blooming flowers, and calls them by name, takes me through the forests and shows me the gigantic trees, roams with me through the animal kingdom and points out to me the exquisite adaptations of every part of nature, and I learn it all with joy from her lips; passes with me through society, explains its customs, its history, teaches me its languages, and I learn them all. She digs into the earth and reveals to me the rocks in their order of superposition, what the fossils teach of old catastrophes, and of wonderful ages; mounts with me into the heavens, opens to me the solar system so harmoniously and beautifully arranged; carries me beyond that system to numberless other systems whose suns are but the fixed stars I see; I go with her to the nebulae and look at the vast worlds that compose them; away to the fleecy cloud where light just trembles on the verge of shade; away to the suburbs of the universe, and when I have reached the last star and have set me down, I still pant for more. I look up into the face of my guide, and say, “Is this all?” And she asks, “Is not this enough?” “Are there not beauties of earth and beauties of heaven enough to satisfy the longing soul? Is there not wisdom and power and skill so manifold, so conspicuous, everywhere as to occupy the thought and fill the heart?” Yet still, somehow, there is a void within.

The genius of infidelity leaves me and the genius of Christianity comes to my side. She too takes me by the hand, and I go with her through the same earth, past the same flowers, the same rocks and forests and hills; takes me over the seats of the nations of the earth and teaches me the same languages; takes me through the domain of the sciences and adds one more, the science of salvation; teaches me the languages of earth, and adds one more, the language of Heaven. She mounts with me to the skies; I drink in light from the same sun, pass to the same fixed stars, resolve the same nebulae, and away out again unto the last star where my former guide left me. And I gaze into the face of the genius of Christianity and ask, “Is this all?” What a look of pity and love she casts upon me as she says: “Is this all? This is but the portico; it is but the threshold; it is the entrance to the Father’s house.” And she puts the glass of faith in my hand, and I look through it, and away beyond the stars, away beyond the multiplied systems, I see the great center, the throne of God, about which all things move—the great central point of the universe. And as I look there is One upon the throne; he is my brother; and I look again, and my name is written on his hands; and I cry out with ecstasy:—

“Before the throne my Surety stands, My name is written on his hands.”

It is my title to a place in Heaven; and there, when earth shall have passed and its events shall have closed, I shall have a home forever.

What can infidelity do for me that Christianity does not do? The same great scenes, the same great facts, the same great creation, all its parts; but Christianity whispers, “Your Father made them all, and made them for you.” And a new light invests the world, and a new joy thrills through my heart. Oh, let others wrap themselves, if they may, in the chilly garb of doubt; let them, if they will, lose themselves in the mists of skepticism; but give me the faith that recognizes a duty, that shows me a Father, that points me to an elder Brother who cries out: “I am the resurrection and the life.”—Bishop Simpson.