Thoughts for Complainers.
THERE are features in the military character of Frederick the Great, worthy of imitation. He had an object—a mean one, we grant—which he pursued with all energy and determination. Body, soul, and spirit, were concentrated and on the stretch for its attainment. So absorbed was he in gaining his point, that he did not seem to know when he was whipped. This favorable unconsciousness kept enervation from the right arm of his iron will. The aim of every true believer is to do the will of the Master. Loyalty, singleness of purpose, forgetfulness of self, trust; these are the promoters of the end desired, and a sovereign remedy for spiritual aches and pains. A sound, healthy Christian is active. And his activity is fruitful. "Seest thou a man diligent in his business? He shall stand before kings, he shall not stand before mean men." A robust faith keeps God's will in view, and having the inward witness of his never-failing ability to save, the trusty servant toils on, unmindful of disaster. He stops not to count over his misfortunes, to condole with his personal grievances, or even to pet his bruises; since he has the assurance that "all things work together for good to them that love God." My brother, have you stopped complaining and sighing long enough to consider the "weight of glory," the everlasting peace, laid up for those who endure patiently and joyfully, these "light afflictions?" And we do not have to bear our crosses as Jesus did—unchered and alone. There is no shadow even, to the cross when borne for the love of Jesus. It is not the cross, but our selfishness that crushes us down to the earth. There is a declaration somewhere in the Bible that reads thus: "Thou meetest him that worketh righteousness." And what good man, exerting himself against fearful odds for righteousness' sake, can doubt the loving assistance of the Father who meets him in his labor? What comforting assurances we do have all through the sacred word! "Call on me in the day of trouble, and I will deliver thee." "My God will hear me . . . . when I fall, I shall arise; when I sit in darkness, the Lord shall be a light unto me." The whole forty-third chapter of Isaiah rings in clarion tones with promises of perfect safety to the one who fights his way under the burden of the cross. Wherefore should a living man complain? We have too much water-gruel faith—too many debilitated Christians in the ranks now-a-days. The fault is, not that they are with us, but that their training has been neglected. They have been born, but have not been reared properly. And another class, more culpable, (because the wrong lies with themselves,) are those who call their imbecility by the false names of modesty and humility. What an ado to rouse them to activity! How much labor is expended on them, which rightfully belongs to the sinner! The inert element in the Church is its great hindrance. When the Lord comes, looking for fruit on his fig tree, behold! "nothing but leaves." Thou selfish Christian, "what shall the harvest be?" In the thirteenth chapter of St. John's Gospel, the inspired biographer shows us an exceeding sorrowful Son of Man, in the character of a silent sufferer. Unspoken anguish gnaws at his great, beneficent heart; but his serene endurance, and unshaken love for the world, exalt him to the heavens, while he condescends to the humblest office among his disciples. Well may Dr. Kitts remark, that "He was never more courageous than when he met with the vehement opposition and cruel treatment; nor more humble than when the sons of men worshipped at his feet. Calumny, threatenings, bad success, with many other evils . . . . only served to quicken his endeavor." Would that his heroic spirit might, in a measure, inspire all who name his ineffable name! In the chapter we have mentioned we see a spotless, sensitive nature, bearing the traitor's touch with calm, regal demeanor—a spirit that, knowing the horrors of the near future, could commune sweetly and tenderly with the children of his love. If ever a human being had a claim to the tears and sympathy of men and angels, it was Jesus, when he stooped to wash the feet of his friends. If the world could realize his feelings when he said, "One of you shall betray me," the world's heart, methinks, would melt with compassion. But oh, how he taught us in that dark hour, to bear our crosses! At the supper, the parting, in the garden, and at the judgment seat; with all his afflictions, he carried himself, not like a culprit, but a king. In every scene, he rises, self-possessed and majestic, above the storm. How profoundly self-forgetful in the supreme hour! How minutely and tenderly considerate of all who came near him, whether friend or foe. What possibilities he discovered to poor, cowardly, selfish humanity in these transcendant examples! No groans—no self-pity—no resentment—his wounded breast supported the disciple whom he loved, as if he himself had no need of support; his loving hand healed a foe, as if he had no cruel cuts to soothe; he, who was the weariest and most utterly abandoned of all men—forsaken by his Father, deserted by his friends, and hunted by his enemies—could find the readiest and kindest apologies for his sleeping disciples. "Oh Lamb of God! was ever pain,
Was ever love like thine?" His human nature glows and shines like the sun, from the manger to the crucifixion. Oh feeble, crying soul, let his noble manhood be deeply burned into thee by the fire of the Holy Ghost! And when thou art broken under tribulation, let his bearing under greater waves encourage thee. It is blessed to be afflicted. The soul, like the sea, is purified by storm and incessant tossing. Only stagnant pools breed croakers. The man, whose springs are all in God, has a source so lofty, that he moves on in resistless activity across the level continent of life. He is refreshment to the thirsty, health and beauty to his surroundings, and Christ's burden-bearer. He goes singing and rejoicing to "the place whence the rivers come." He is the Frederick of his church. One might as well attempt to dam the Amazon, as to stop the progress of such a spirit. He will move on, in spite of opposition, until, as he meets the incoming tide, from the boundless ocean of love, we hear him shouting like the voice of many waters, "Hallelujah! 'Tis done!"—Cal. Chris. Advocate.