Tale Bearers—or Ministerial Indiscretion
THE following extract of a letter is from an old number of the London Evangelical Magazine. It is very natural for children to tell tales of each other; God's children frequently do so. I remember in a congregation where I once labored, one of my hearers told me a story of another, but begged I would say nothing about it. This, by the way, is a vile way. I gave full credit to the report; this, by the way, was wrong. I felt very much hurt on the occasion, and expressed myself with some degree of asperity. This was soon carried to the offender, and lost nothing of the asperity in its passage. Reports which tend to mischief are like snow balls, the farther they roll the more they gather. The offender was in his turn, offended: he spake also with asperity; said, "he would not be so treated, he would be no man's slave, he was not accountable to any one, he would go no more to the meeting, &c., &c."—Soon, very soon, was all he said communicated to me. I was assuredly right, and would let him see I would not be his slave; nay, I would not be his servant; I would call no man master on earth; I had but one master. This gentleman was one of the first characters in the meeting; he was not at meeting the next Sunday; I was not sorry; I secretly hoped he never would be there again. The storm began to thicken, the parties began to form; some affirmed that he was very censurable others thought I was as much so: I should have gone to him, in the first instance and talked to him, not of him. I soon found I was wrong, but the difficulty was how to get right. Observe, not to know, what was right, but to bring myself to do what was. You must know, when I first set out in my present mode of life, my gracious Master provided me with a tutor who was to accompany me as a mentor. I could not see him, but I could very sensibly feel his reproofs and understand his admonitions. He advised me to retire with him a while, I felt my face glow at the motion, I knew what it was for; I dreaded the severe account I was going to be brought to; but there was no avoiding it with trembling dread I retired. "Come," said my mentor, "sit down." I began; he certainly was wrong—"stop," said my mentor, "it is you I have now to deal with; you have done wrong; you, who by precept and example, ought to lead in the way of peace." But I ought to exhort, and reprove, and rebuke. "Stop, Sir," said my mentor, and call to mind that the snuffers on the altar should be pure gold. Reproofs and rebukes come with a very ill grace from an offender. An offender! "Yes, an offender; and of the worst cast; an offense in you, and of this nature, is peculiarly offensive." Suppose any of your hearers in like circumstances, what advice would you give them? Suppose them offended by a brother, you would advise them to be calm, to suspend their judgment, to seek an opportunity alone with the supposed offender, address him in the language of love, of charity, hope it was not so bad as was expected; at least you would hope the invention was not bad, &c. &c. Thus you would have advised your hearer,—thus you have not done; you have by your conduct, in this instance, injured your cause—injured your83Master's cause, and, perhaps, made wounds that may never be healed. You know not, at this moment, what this kind friend is suffering; what his dear wife, his venerable parents, each of whom having a regard for both, can say nothing, but must suffer in silence. O! you have done very wrong.' The tears gushed in my eyes, I thought of praying. 'No,' said my mentor, 'not yet; you should first do right. Go and acknowledge your fault.' 'I cannot.' 'You must, indeed you must.' 'But he will treat me roughly.' 'You deserve it, you must bear it; you will at least have the pleasure of knowing you did all you could in your present circumstances, to repair the wrong you have done. When thus you have done, should you not meet forgiveness and reconciliation from him, you may apply to your offended master; and, peradventure, you may find forgiveness and reconciliation from Him.' I went out with an aching heart, experiencing the full force of the truth as I went along—'The way of the transgressor is hard.' I arrived at the dwelling; I entered his doors; but O! with what different sensations when unconscious of offense! Oh! how painful is a guilty conscience! I found him reading; he did not lift up his head, he did not speak: I could not. His dear companion blushed, she trembled, she spoke. However, he read on. I attempted once and again to bring out what my mentor charged me to do—I failed. At length, for I must come to it, I said, with a faltering voice,—you are justified, Sir, in your conduct on this occasion; I deserve it all; and all this, yea more, I can bear, with much more ease than I can the reproaches of my own heart. I am come to give this troubled heart some ease, Sir, by acknowledging my error; I have done wrong, Sir, in taking up a report of you, or saying any thing about you to any but yourself; I beseech you forgive me—and was going to add; but he got up, his countenance suffused with tears, and would have spoken, but could not; he gave me his hand, however, and it was filled with as warm a heart as ever beat in a friend's bosom; it has never cooled since, though this was many years ago. On my return I was congratulated by my kind mentor, and then poured out my soul to my heavenly Father, whose consoling language was, 'Neither do I condemn thee; go and sin no more.'