THE HAND OF GOD TO BE ACKNOWLEDGED BY THE DAILY CIRCUMSTANCES OF LIFE.
By Hannah More
If we would indeed love God, let us "acquaint ourselves with him." The word of inspiration has assured us that there is no other way to "be at peace." As we cannot love an unknown God, so neither can we know him, or even approach toward that knowledge, but on the terms which he himself holds out to us; neither will he save us but in the method which he has himself prescribed. His very perfections the just objects of our adoration, all stand in the way of creatures so guilty. His justice is the flaming sword which excludes us from the Paradise we have forfeited. His purity is so opposed to our corruptions, his omnipotence to our infirmity, his wisdom to our folly, that had we not to plead the great propitiation, those very attributes which are now our trust would be our terror. The most opposite images of human conception, the widest extremes of human language are used for the purpose of showing what God is to us, in our natural state, and what he is under the Christian dispensation. The "consuming fire" is transformed into essential love. But as we cannot find out the Almighty to perfection, so we cannot love him with that pure flame which animates glorified spirits. But there is a preliminary acquaintance with him, an initial love of him for which he has furnished us with means by his works, by his word, and by his Spirit. Even in this weak and barren soil some germs will shoot, some blossoms will open, of that celestial plant, which, watered by the dews of heaven, and ripened by the sun of righteousness, will, in a more genial clime, expand into the fullness of perfection, and bear immortal fruits in the Paradise of God. A person of a cold, phlegmatic temper, who laments that he wants that fervor in his love of the supreme Being which is apparent in more ardent characters, may take comfort if he find the same indifference respecting his worldly attachments. But if his affections are intense towards the perishable things of earth, while they are dead to such a state, it does not prove that he is destitute of passions, but only that they are not directed to the proper object. If however he love God with that measure of feeling with which God has endowed him, he will not be punished or rewarded because the stock is greater or smaller than that of some other of his fellow creatures. In those intervals when our sense of divine things is weak and low, we must not give way to distrust, but warm our hearts with the recollection of our best moments. Our motives to love and gratitude are not now diminished, but our spiritual frame is lower, our natural spirits are weaker. Where there is languor there will be discouragements. But we must not desist. "Faint yet pursuing," must be the Christian's motto. There is more merit (if ever we dare apply so arrogant a word to our worthless efforts) in persevering under depression and discomfort than in the happiest flow of devotion, when the tide of health and spirits runs high. Where there is less gratification there is more disinterestedness. We ought to consider it as a cheering evidence, that our love may be equally pure though it is not equally fervent, when we persist in serving our heavenly Father with the same constancy, though it may please him to withdraw from us the same consolations. Perseverance may bring us to the very dispositions the absence of which we are lamenting.—"O tarry thou the Lord's leisure, be strong and he shall comfort thy heart." We are too ready to imagine that we are religious because we know something of religion. We appropriate to ourselves the pious sentiments we read, and we talk as if the thoughts of other men's heads were really the feelings of our own hearts. But piety has not its seat in the memory, but in the affections, for which however the memory is an excellent purveyor, though a bad substitute. Instead of an undue elation of heart when we peruse some of the Psalmist's beautiful effusions, we should feel a deep self-abasement at the reflection, that however our case may sometimes resemble his, yet how inexplicable to our hearts are the ardent expressions of his repentance, the overflowing of his gratitude, the depth of his submission, the entireness of his self-dedication, the fervor of his love. But he who indeed can once say with him, "Thou art my portion," will, like him, surrender himself unreservedly to his service. It is important that we never suffer our faith, any more than our love, to be depressed or elevated, by mistaking for its own operations the ramblings of a busy imagination. The steady principle of faith must not look for its character to the vagaries of a mutable and fantastic fancy—La folle de la Maison, as she has been well denominated. Faith which has once fixed her foot on the immutable rock of ages, fastened her firm eye on the cross, and stretched out her triumphant hand to seize the promised crown, will not suffer her stability to depend on this ever shifting faculty; she will not be driven to despair by the blackest shades of its pencil, nor be betrayed into a careless security, by its most flattering and vivid colors. One cause of the fluctuations of our faith is, that we are too ready to judge the Almighty by our own low standard. We judge him not by his own declarations of what he is, and what he will do, but by our own feelings and practices. We ourselves are too little disposed to forgive those who have offended us. We therefore conclude that God cannot pardon our offences. We suspect him to be implacable because we are apt to be so, and we are unwilling to believe that he can pass by injuries because we find it so hard to do it. When we forgive it is grudgingly and superficially; we therefore infer that God cannot forgive freely and fully. We make a hypocritical distinction between forgiving and forgetting injuries. God clears away the score when he grants the pardon. He does not only say, "thy sins and thy iniquities will I forgive, but 'I will remember no more.'" We are disposed to urge the smallness of our offences, as a plea for their forgiveness; whereas God, to exhibit the boundlessness of his own mercy, has taught us to allege a plea directly contrary, "Lord pardon mine iniquity for it is great." To natural reason this argument of David is most extraordinary. But while he felt that the greatness of his own iniquity left him no resource but in the mercy of his God, he felt that God's mercy was greater even than his own sin. What a large, what a magnificent idea does it give us of the divine power and goodness, that the believer, instead of pleading the smallness of his own offences as a motive for pardon, pleads only the abundance of the divine compassion? We are told that it is the duty of the Christian to "seek God." We assent to the truth of the proposition. Yet it would be less irksome to corrupt nature in pursuit of this knowledge, to go a pilgrimage to distant lands, than to seek him within our own hearts. Our own heart is the true terra incognita; a land more foreign and unknown to us than the regions of the polar circle. Yet that heart is the place in which an acquaintance with God must be sought. It is there we must worship him, if we would worship him in spirit and in truth. But alas! the heart is not the home of a worldly man, it is scarcely the home of a Christian. If business and pleasure are the natural element of the generality; a dreary vacuity, sloth, and insensibility, too often worse than both, disincline, disqualify too many Christians for the pursuit. I have observed, and I think I have heard others observe, that a common beggar had rather screen himself under the wall of a churchyard, if overtaken by a shower of rain, though the church doors stand invitingly open, than take shelter within it while divine service is performing. It is a less annoyance to him to be drenched with the storm, than to enjoy the convenience of a shelter and a seat if he must enjoy them at the heavy price of listening to the sermon. While we condemn the beggar, let us look into our own hearts;74happy if we cannot there detect somewhat of the same indolence, indisposedness, and distaste to serious things! Happy if we do not find that we prefer not only our pleasures and enjoyments, but, I had almost said, our very pains and vexations, and inconveniences, to communing with our Maker! Happy if we had not rather be absorbed in our petty cares, and little disturbances, provided we can contrive to make them the means of occupying our thoughts, filling up our minds, and drawing them away from that devout intercourse, which demands the liviest exercise of our rational powers, the highest elevation of our spiritual affections! Is it not to be apprehended that the dread of being driven to this sacred intercourse is one grand cause of that activity and restlessness which sets the world in perpetual motion? Though we are ready to express a general sense of our confidence in Almighty goodness, yet what definite meaning do we annex to the expression? What practical evidences have we to produce that we really do trust him? Does this trust deliver us from worldly anxiety? Does it exonerate us from the same perturbation of spirits which those endure who make no such profession? Does it relieve the mind from doubt and distrust? Does it tranquilize the troubled heart? Does it regulate its disorders and compose its fluctuations? Does it soothe us under irritation? Does it support us under trials? Does it fortify us against temptations? Does it lead us to repose a full confidence in that being whom we profess to trust? Does it produce in us “that work of righteousness which is peace;” that effect of righteousness which is “quietness and assurance forever?” Do we commit ourselves and our concerns to God in word, or in reality? Does this implicit reliance simplify our desires? Does it induce us to credit the testimony of his word and the promises of his gospel? Do we not even entertain some secret suspicions of his faithfulness and truth in our hearts, when we persuade others and try to persuade ourselves that we unreservedly trust in him? In the preceding chapter we endeavored to illustrate our want of love to God by our not being as forward to vindicate the divine conduct as to justify that of an acquaintance. The same illustration may express our reluctance to trust in God. If a tried friend engage to do us a kindness, though he may not think it necessary to explain the particular manner in which he intends to do it, we repose on his word. Assured of the result, we are neither very inquisitive about the mode nor the detail. But do we treat our Almighty Friend with the same liberal confidence? Are we not murmuring because we cannot see all the process of his administration, and follow his movements step by step? Do we wait the development of his plan, in full assurance that the issue will be ultimately good? Do we trust that he is as abundantly willing as able to do more for us than we can ask or think, if by our suspicions we do not offend him, if by our infidelity we do not provoke him? In short, do we not think ourselves utterly undone, when we have only but Providence to trust to? We are perhaps ready enough to acknowledge God in our mercies, nay, we confess him in the ordinary enjoyments of life. In some of these common mercies, as in a bright day, a refreshing shower, delightful scenery, a kind of sensitive pleasure, an hilarity of spirits, a sort of animal enjoyment, though of a refined nature, mixes itself with our devotional feelings, and though we confess and adore the bountiful Giver, we do it with a little mixture of self-complacency, and of human gratification, which he pardons and accepts. But we must look for him in scenes less animating, we must acknowledge him on occasions less exhilarating, less sensibly gratifying. It is not only in his promises that God manifests his mercy. His threatenings are proofs of the same compassionate love. He threatens, not to punish, but by the warning, to snatch from the punishment. We may also trace marks of his hand not only in the awful visitations of life, not only in the severer dispensation of his providence, but in vexations so trivial that we should hesitate to suspect that they are providential appointments, did we not know that our daily life is made up of unimportant circumstances, rather than of great events. As they are however of sufficient importance to exercise the Christian tempers and affections, we may trace the hand of our heavenly Father in those daily little disappointments, and hourly vexations which occur even in the most prosperous state, and which are inseparable from the condition of humanity. We must trace that same beneficent hand, secretly at work for our purification, our correction, our weaning from life, in the imperfections and disagreeableness of those who may be about us, in the perverseness of those with whom we transact business, and in those interruptions which break in on our favorite engagements. We are perhaps too much addicted to our innocent delights, or we are too fond of our leisure, of our learned, even of our religious leisure. But while we say it is good for us to be here, the divine vision is withdrawn, and we are compelled to come down from the mount. Or, perhaps we do not improve our retirement to the purposes for which it was granted, and to which we had resolved to devote it, and our time is broken in upon to make us more sensible of its value. Or we feel a complacency in our leisure, a pride in our books; perhaps we feel proud of the good things we are intending to say, or meditating to write, or preparing to do. A check is necessary, yet it is given in a way almost imperceptible. The hand that gives it is unseen, is unsuspected, yet it is the same gracious hand which directs the more important events of life. An important application, a disqualifying, though not severe indisposition, a family avocation, a letter important to the writer, but unseasonable to us, breaks in on our projected privacy; calls us to a sacrifice of our inclination, to a renunciation of our own will. These incessant trials of temper, if well improved may be more salutary to the mind than the finest passage we had intended to read, or the sublimest sentiment we had fancied we should write. Instead then of going in search of great mortifications, as a certain class of pious writers recommend, let us cheerfully bear, and diligently improve these inferior trials which God prepares for us. Submission to a cross which he inflicts, to a disappointment which he sends, to a contradiction of our self-love, which he appoints, is a far better exercise than great penances of our own choosing. Perpetual conquests over impatience, ill temper and self-will indicate a better spirit than any self-imposed mortifications. We may traverse oceans, and scale mountains on uncommanded pilgrimages without pleasing God; we may please him without any other exertion than crossing our own will. Perhaps you had been busying your imagination with some projected scheme, not only lawful, but laudable. The design was radically good, but the supposed value of your own agency, might too much interfere, might a little taint the purity of your best intentions. The motives were so fixed that it was difficult to separate them. Sudden sickness obstructed the design. You naturally lament the failure, not perceiving that, however good the work might be for others, the sickness was better for yourself. An act of charity was in your intention, but God saw that your soul required the exercise of a more difficult virtue; that humility and resignation, that the patience, acquiescence, and contrition of a sick bed were more necessary for you. He accepts the undiluted work as far as it was designed for his glory, but he calls his servant to other duties which were more salutary for him, and of which the Master was the better judge. He sets aside his work and orders him to wait; the more difficult part of his task. As far as your motive was pure you will receive the reward of your unperformed charity, though not the gratification of the performance. If it was not pure you are rescued from the danger attending a right action performed on a worldly principle. You may be the better Christian, though one good deed is subtracted from your catalogue. By a life of activity and usefulness, you had perhaps attracted the public esteem. An animal activity had partly stimulated your exertions. The love of reputation begins to mix itself with your better motives. You do not, it is presumed, act entirely or chiefly for human applause, but you are too sensible to it. It is a delicious poison which begins to infuse itself into your purest cup. You acknowledge indeed the sublimity of higher motives, but do you ever feel that, separated from this accompaniment of self, they would be too abstracted, too speculative, and might become too little productive both of activity and sensible gratification? You begin to feel the human incentive necessary, and your spirits would flag if it were withdrawn. This sensibility to praise would gradually tarnish the purity of your best actions. He who sees your heart as well as your works, mercifully snatches you from the perils of prosperity. Malice is awakened. Your most meritorious actions are ascribed to the most corrupt motives. You are attacked just where your character is least vulnerable. The enemies whom your success raised up, are raised up by God, less to punish than to save you. We are far from meaning that he can ever be the Author of evil; he does not excite or approve the calumny, but he uses your calumniators as instruments of your purification. Your fame was too dear to you. It is a costly sacrifice, but God requires it. It must be offered up. You would gladly compound for any, for every other offering, but this is the offering he chooses; and while he graciously continues to employ you for his glory, he thus teaches you to renounce your own. He sends this trial as a test by which you are to try yourself. He thus instructs you not to abandon your Christian exertions, but to elevate the principle which inspired them, to defecate it from all impure admixtures. By thus stripping the most engaging employments of this dangerous delight, by infusing some drops of salutary bitterness into your sweetest draught by some of these ill-tasted but wholesome mercies, he graciously compels us to return to himself. By taking away the stays by which we are perpetually propping up our frail delights, they fall to the ground. We are, as it were, driven back to him, who condescends to receive us after we have tried everything else, and after everything else has failed us, and though he knows we should not have returned to him if everything else had not failed us. He makes us feel our weakness that we may have recourse to his strength, he makes us sensible of our hitherto unperceived sins, that we may take refuge in his everlasting compassion.—Hannah More.