Publishing Committee · Battle Creek, Mich. · Sep 2, 1858
The Nature and Forms of Self-Deception
By Flavel
Self-deception may be distinguished from hypocrisy. The former consists in a wrong judgment of our character; the latter, in assuming one which we are conscious we do not possess, with the view of imposing upon our fellow-men, and accomplishing some sinister design. With such gross dissimulation the reader may not be chargeable. The very name of hypocrite may be regarded by him with abhorrence. All his professions may be characterized by the utmost sincerity.
But though he may not intentionally deceive others, he may fatally deceive himself. "There is a way which seemeth right unto a man; but the end thereof are the ways of death." Prov. xiv, 12. Sincerity affords no conclusive evidence of piety. A man may be sincere in the belief of error, as well as in the belief of truth—sincere in doing wrong, as well as in doing right. Paul "verily thought that he ought to do many things contrary to the name of Jesus of Nazareth."
In the church of God there have ever been two classes of false professors. The one includes those who, in the common acceptation of the term, are hypocrites—those who, while they profess piety, are conscious they do not possess it; the other, those who view themselves in a state of grace, when in fact they are in a state of nature—of sin and condemnation.
Nothing is more common, and certainly nothing more fatal than self-deception. The number who are ruined by false views of religion is doubtless great, even when compared with those who perish in avowed infidelity or careless indifference. And as it is an act of kindness not less than an imperious duty to expose the delusions into which our fellow-men are liable to fall, we shall here endeavor to point out some of the modes in which the soul may be deceived in the judgment it forms of its spiritual state and eternal prospects.
1. Many are deceived by mistaking the mere dictates of the understanding for the gracious affections of the heart.
This class of persons may be distinguished by the correctness of their sentiments and their opposition to error. Early instructed in the principles of christianity, their minds have become stored with evangelical truth, and they will, perhaps, even "contend earnestly for the faith once delivered to the saints."
The doctrines of entire depravity, of a vicarious atonement, of justification by faith, of regeneration by the Holy Spirit, and of an eternal state of retribution, have their unqualified assent, and constitute most essential articles in their creed. It may be that their speculative acquaintance with these doctrines is superior to that of many humble believers, and instances are not wanting in which unsanctified men have written in defence of these doctrines with great ability and effect.
Now it is easy to conceive how such persons may mistake a mere intellectual conviction of the truth for holiness of heart, especially if with an orthodox creed there be connected morality of life and a strict attention to the forms of godliness. The truth, however, may be seen, and yet not loved. The head may be filled with light, while the heart remains chilled with spiritual death. Such is the case with the fallen angels. They both know and believe the truth.
There may be also an intellectual approbation of the truth where its sanctifying power is wholly unknown. The manifestation which God has made of himself in creation has sometimes called forth expressions of the highest admiration, while the heart has shown itself to be in a state of decided enmity against his character. It is related of a lecturer on philosophy that, in discoursing on the wisdom and power of God as displayed in the immensity of creation, he with his audience was wrought up into a rapture of apparent devotion, and yet in less than an hour's time after leaving the room, he was heard to curse and swear, as was his usual manner of conversation.
Another common defect in that class of persons whose delusion we are now exposing, is, that while they see the truth they are not affected by it. It is contemplated simply in the abstract, without any reference to its bearing upon themselves. Theology is studied as a science, and the head becomes filled with ideas, while the affections remain cold and unmoved. They know that God is a being of infinite perfection, but do not love him; that sin is an infinite evil, but do not hate it; that Christ is supremely glorious, but do not esteem him; that there is a heaven, but are not allured by it—a hell, but do not fear it. True religion respects not simply the understanding, but the heart; it requires love as well as light; feeling, deep, ardent feeling. "John the Baptist was a 'burning and shining light.' To shine is not enough, a glow-worm will do so; to burn is not enough, a fire-brand will do so. Light without heat will do but little good; and heat without light does much harm. Give me those christians who are burning lamps as well as shining lights."
Further, the truth may be known and yet not obeyed. It is one thing to know that repentance is a duty, another, to exercise repentance; one thing to know that faith in Christ is indispensable, another, actually to confide in him as the hope of the lost; one thing to know that "men ought always to pray," another, to "stir up ourselves to take hold on God." Religion is not mere speculation; it is obedience. "If ye know these things, happy are ye, if ye do them." "To him that knoweth to do good, and doeth it not, to him it is sin."
2. Humanity is often mistaken for christian benevolence.
Total as is the apostasy of man, there still remain in him certain feelings of kindness and sympathy, which may attach to him a high degree of amiableness, and which answer important purposes in the present state of existence. To be "without natural affection" is represented by the Apostle as the very climax of human depravity. Destitute as man is of love to God, there is notwithstanding a strong tendency in his nature "to weep with those that weep, and rejoice with those that rejoice"—to pity the miserable, and to relieve the needy. This sympathetic feeling is often regarded as proof of moral goodness, when, in fact, it may exist where there is an entire alienation from God. The feeling is simply constitutional or instinctive. It exists in irrational animals as well as in man. The former, it is well known, are often deeply affected in view of their suffering offspring, and to preserve them will even sacrifice themselves.
Nothing is more common than for persons to commiserate the temporal calamities of others, while they manifest the most reckless disregard to their spiritual interests. We have seen the fond mother excited with intense emotion at the sight of an afflicted child, while that mother had no heart to feel for the soul of her offspring, exposed to eternal death, or to offer up one prayer to God for its redemption. We have seen men denominated philanthropists, prompt in lending their aid for the amelioration of human suffering, and yet not merely indifferent to the spiritual condition of the world, but actually hostile to that very gospel which constitutes the only balm for the woes which sin has entailed upon our race. Even "the tender mercies of the wicked are cruel."122
3. Others are deceived by substituting mere animal excitement for holy emotion.
All our mental exercises produce more or less effect upon the body or the natural affections. It is not to be wondered at therefore that high religious emotions should sometimes overpower the animal frame. When Daniel had a view of the glory of Christ, there remained no strength in him. And John, speaking of a similar manifestation, says, "when I saw him I fell at his feet as dead." Such affections, however, afford no evidence either of the genuineness or the spuriousness of our religion. They are merely natural effects, evincing indeed a high degree of mental excitement without determining whether that excitement be produced by the agency of the Spirit, or whether it be a fire of our own kindling. No dependence, therefore, can be placed upon such appearances themselves as a test of our own piety or the piety of others. Men may be melted to tears, groan in anguish, tremble with fear, or be transported with joy, while the natural sympathies merely are excited, and the heart remains unchanged.
4. Remorse is often mistaken for repentance.
Remorse is that mental pain or anguish which is produced by a sense of guilt. This is widely different from true repentance; nor is there any necessary connection between the two. Cain, Pharaoh, Belshazzar, Judas, and thousands more whose sins found them out, and who were made to tremble in view of their consequences, remained entire strangers to the tenderness of contrition.
Perhaps the time was when the reader, like Gallio, "cared for none of these things." The subject of religion, if not treated with open contempt, was at least treated with criminal indifference. Instead of asking, "What must I do to be saved?" your incessant inquiry was, "What shall I eat, what shall I drink, or wherewithal shall I be clothed?" It is not so now. Your slumber has been broken. Light has been reflected upon your path; sin has revived; the world has lost its charms; and the salvation of the soul appears as "the one thing needful."
This change is certainly desirable. The sinner must be convicted before he can be converted; and yet no degree of conviction is evidence of conversion. The understanding may be enlightened and yet the heart maintain its rebellion. Conscience may be aroused, and yet not pacified by "the blood of sprinkling." Sin may be revealed, and yet not renounced. Obligation may be felt, and yet resisted. Conviction produces no change of character. It is light, but not holiness. It makes the sinner feel that he is lost, but does not necessarily secure his salvation. In the judgment of the great day, men will be overwhelmed with conviction, but there will be no repentance, no pardon—no hope.
5. Many confound selfish with holy affections.
It is not enough that the affections be moved on the subject of religion; they must be moved aright. It is not the degree of feeling we possess that determines our character, but the nature of that feeling. Under a conviction of the immense value of the soul and the fearful consequences of impenitence, the mind may be burdened with solicitude while sin still maintains its sway. "Let me die," said Balaam, "the death of the righteous, and let my last end be like his."
Unregenerate men may be as much excited on the subject of religion as true christians, but the nature of the excitement differs essentially. The Israelites at the Red Sea appeared greatly affected with gratitude to God for their deliverance, but they soon "forgot his works" and rebelled against his dispensations. While the Saviour was upon earth, going about doing good, many followed him for a time, not from a regard to his person and doctrine, but "for the loaves and fishes."
We are far from intimating that men should have no "respect to the recompense of reward;" but we maintain that God must be the supreme object of our affection, and that he must be loved not simply for the favors he has conferred upon us, but for his own intrinsic excellency. "If ye love them which love you, what reward have ye? do not even publicans the same?" An important distinction has been made between self-love and selfishness. The former consists in a proper regard to our own happiness. This principle is implanted in man by the Creator himself, and its operation is consistent with the highest degree of holiness. Selfishness is the inordinate love of our personal happiness, regardless both of the glory of God and the interests of our fellow-beings. This constitutes the very essence of sin, and, of course, no degree in which it is exercised, nor any modification it may assume, can afford evidence of a holy character. Men may be as supremely selfish in religion as they are in the world.
6. Others are deceived by taking reformation for regeneration.
A good man out of the good treasure of his heart will indeed bring forth good things. His character will be determined by his conduct. The heart is no better than the life. If the fountain be pure, the streams will be so too. In vain however do we attempt to cleanse the streams while the fountain remains corrupt. Such was the case with the Pharisees. Our Saviour appropriately compares them with "whited sepulchres," which, however beautiful they may be without, are "within full of all uncleanness."
It is no uncommon thing for one form of sin to be exchanged for another. A man may abandon a course of open profligacy only to settle down upon a system of self-righteousness. We read of those who "turn to the Lord feignedly, but not with their whole heart."
Nothing short of a radical change can constitute us christians. Man by nature is not partially, but entirely depraved. It is not enough therefore to do better. This would suppose the existence of some previous goodness; whereas regeneration is the beginning of holiness. The change, moreover, respects not merely the life, but the heart. It does not consist in improving any principle of holiness already existing, but in exercising the first holy affection.
In the present day of reforms, peculiar caution is necessary lest a mere renunciation of certain vices be substituted for the "renewing of the Holy Ghost." The temperance cause has done much to modify human conduct as well as to ameliorate human misery. It has often too, proved a pioneer to religion. We can heartily bid it "God speed," and can most earnestly pray for its final triumph; and yet it must not be concealed that to become sober is no proof that we have become christians.
7. The form of godliness is often assumed where its power is absent.
By the form, we understand the observance of the mere externals of religion; by the power, the practical influence of religion upon the heart and the life—dominion over sin, a sense of pardon, communion with God, the spirit of prayer, patience under suffering, victory over death, and the joyful hope of a blessed immortality. Now, though the power of religion can hardly exist without the form, the form may, and often does exist without the power. Profession is not possession. The picture of a man is not a man. It may have a strong resemblance, but it wants the most essential part—vitality. We may have "a name to live," and yet be spiritually dead—may call Jesus "Lord," and yet practically disregard his authority—may sing with the lip, and yet make no "melody in the heart"—may bow the knee to God in prayer, and yet never prostrate ourselves before him in spirit—may appear among the guests at the Lord's supper, and yet, instead of being clad with the "wedding garment," come with a dress of our own.
No class of men were ever more regular in their observance of the rites and ceremonies of religion than the Pharisees. They fasted twice in the week, and gave tithes of all that they possessed—they made broad their phylacteries, and enlarged the borders of their garments; and yet all their external sanctity was but a cloak to hide the deep depravity of the heart.
Other motives than those derived from the influence of the gospel may secure attention to the forms of religion. Early education, a regard to their standing in society, or the goadings of an awakened conscience, have induced multitudes to abound in such observances when the heart has been far from God. "Mr. Whitefield, in speaking of his state previous to his conversion, remarks: 'When I was sixteen years of age I began to fast twice a week for thirty-six hours together, prayed many times a day, received the sacrament every Lord's day, fasting myself almost to death all the forty days of Lent, during which I made it a point of duty never to go less than three times a day to public worship, besides seven times a day to my private prayers, yet I knew no more that I was to be born again in God, born a new creature in Christ Jesus, than if I had never been born at all.'"
8. Gifts are often mistaken for grace.
Many have regarded themselves as eminent christians from the circumstance of their being fluent in prayer, talented in conversation, eloquent in address, or distinguished for their attainments in biblical knowledge. The most splendid talents, however, may be connected with an unsanctified heart. Saul had a spirit of prophecy, and Judas probably wrought miracles. The language of the Apostle clearly implies that a man may speak with the tongues of men and angels, may have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, may have all faith, so that he could remove mountains, may bestow all his goods to feed the poor and give his body to be burned, and yet be destitute of that charity without which all our attainments and performances are but "as sounding brass and a tinkling cymbal." 1 Cor. xii, 1-3.
Men may be endowed with talents by which they may be rendered highly useful to others, while they become cast-aways themselves. They may preach the gospel with discrimination, and even with success, while that gospel exerts no sanctifying influence upon their own hearts. They may guide others to heaven, and in the end be excluded themselves. "There were builders of the ark whose floating corpses were sunk beneath it when it rose upon the bosom of the flood. There were donors of the tabernacle who were as lepers thrust beyond the camp, or as blasphemers stoned without relief. There were artificers of the temple who never there left their offerings, and never there worshiped God."
9. Sectarian attachment and party zeal are often mistaken for Christian devotedness.
The Pharisees, with all their aversion to true piety, "compassed sea and land to make one proselyte." The zeal of Papists in the propagation of error has often exceeded that of Protestants in the propagation of truth. There are sects noted for their fanaticism and delusion, whose efforts to gain converts could hardly be surpassed by the most devoted and self-denying christians. Those who are strangers to piety may no doubt be as full of zeal as those who are under its influence, while the motives by which they are governed may differ essentially. It is possible for men to preach, to write, to pray, and to suffer for what they deem the cause of truth, when in fact they are influenced by no higher aim than a desire to promote the interests of a party. With all their apparent devotedness they may look with indifference upon the evident good effected in other branches of Zion. Instead of rejoicing in the success of other evangelical denominations, it may give them pain. While a revival of religion among themselves may be extolled as a wonderful work of God, the same favorable appearances exhibited among christians of a different name may beget feelings of envy and jealousy.
Will the reader here pause, and carefully inquire on what ground he is resting his hope of future happiness? Beware of trusting to a "refuge of lies." Dig deep, and lay the foundation low. The day of trial is hastening on, and every fabric not built upon the Rock must totter and fall. "All is not gold that glitters." There may be the appearance of piety where there is not the reality. Rest, then, upon nothing that will not bear examination, and that will not endure the coming storm. It is not enough that you have a hope; see that you have "a good hope, through grace."—Flavel.
I'M NOT AFRAID TO DIE.
I AM not afraid of dying;
Where the sainted dead are lying,
I could love in peace to slumber, till the trumpet rends the skies;
And when the morn had risen,
Which shall pierce their gloomy prison,
I would join their song of triumph, as they mount the upper skies.
Earth with charms I cannot number,
Woos me to a placid slumber,
Dreamless, deep and all unbroken 'neath the summer turf so green;
Roses everywhere are blowing;
Will a better time for going
To the land of sleep and silence come life's morn and eve between?
I am not afraid of dying;
In such holy, quiet lying
There would come no weary waking with a weight upon my breast;
Were the mornings gray or golden,
By a sweet enchantment holden
I should slumber till the angels bore me up to heavenly rest.
But, O God! 'tis fearful living,
When we know each hour is giving
Radiance or shadows to the soul's eternal years!
All my heart grows faint with sorrow,
Will it come, the dim to-morrow,
Bringing gladness or the burden of to-day's o'erhanging fears!
Though we yearn with strong endeavor
Good from evil still to sever,
'Tis an oft-unlighted pathway to the fair celestial land:
And the moments upward stealing
With a pitiless revealing,
Waiting, waiting for our entrance, by the stainless Father stand.
Mine's a short and simple story;
O thou tender Lord of Glory!
Bear me gently in thy bosom when I'm weary of the way!
Only let me see thee clearer,
Only whisper, "Child, come nearer."
So my living shall be blessed as my welcome dying day!
Make Jesus Your All
Make Jesus your all, or in a measure you turn your back upon him.
An Angel Caught Me.
SOME years ago I had occasion to preach in the beautiful city of B—. I had selected as a theme the mysteries by which the dispensations of divine providence are often shrouded in this world, and the clear light, which shall, in another state, dispel our doubts and darkness—choosing, as the basis of my remarks, the words of inspiration, spoken by the apostle Paul: “Now we see through a glass darkly, but then face to face; now I know in part, but then shall I know even as I also am known.” I had not proceeded far before I found my heart deeply interested in the subject; while a fellow feeling was soon visible through the entire congregation, and very shortly both preacher and people seemed lost to earthly things, and absorbed in the grandeur of the theme.
In the course of my remarks I referred, for illustration, to the celebrated dream of Dr. Doddridge, in which he thought he was carried up to heaven. There, by the direction of his angel-guide, he was waiting for the master of the place, in a magnificent chamber of a palace, the walls of which were lined with the most glowing imagery, which, upon a close inspection, he found to be a panoramic history of his own life. As he proceeded to examine it, his mind was lost in wonder, love and praise; for the mysteries which, in untold instances, had shrouded his pathway, and rendered all about him dark and doubtful, were now solved, and he no longer looked through a glass darkly—no longer knew in part; but the whole of the divine plan was now fully revealed—wonderful plan, thought he—how marked with wisdom! how baptized with love! He now felt the force of Cowper’s lines:
“Behind a frowning providence,
He hides a smiling face.”
Proceeding in his investigations of this wonderful picture, upon which the full-orbed light of heaven was shining, he beheld himself upon a journey—which journey he instantly remembered as having taken place in time. The horse he rode had stumbled in a dangerous pass, and fell; he was thrown from the saddle with great violence, but sustained no injury. This had always been a matter of surprise to him, and he never knew by what means he had escaped an instant and awful death. Now, on this bright panorama, in the mansions of the blest, it was all explained, fully painted out—AN ANGEL CAUGHT ME IN HIS ARMS, broke the force of the fall, and he was saved. He now saw it all—saw it face to face. My own heart was deeply affected while passing through the narrative, and so were many others; while a deep stillness prevailed, allied,
“To all that silent heaven of love,”
for which we so much sigh.
The sermon ended, the hymn was sung, the prayer was offered, the benediction pronounced, and, as the congregation was slowly retiring, I descended from the pulpit, while there came rushing down the aisle to meet me, a tall, portly man, with a dignified and manly bearing. He had been for many years the captain of a vessel, doing business on the mighty deep. He was now a retired gentleman, and at the same time, a consistent follower of the meek and lowly Jesus, living upon his hard-earned, but honest fortune.
He stood before me with both hands extended, ready to grasp my own, while the big tears chased each other in gushing torrents down his manly cheeks. “O,” said he, “God be praised, my brother; I see it all now—an angel caught me in his arms; yes, it must have been so; nothing else could have saved me. ‘Look here,’ said he, and another flood of tears gushed from his eyes, ‘look here,’” and he pointed to his noble brow, now partly bald. On looking up, I saw where, years ago, had been cut a deep, heavy gash of several inches long, the scar of which was yet distinctly visible. Said he, “I was out upon the rough, high seas, the storm was fearful; but a sailor must know no fear—duty required that I should mount to the top of the highest mast. I did so, lost my footing and fell—fell to the vessel’s deck. Unheard of mercy, I was taken up alive; while this scar is the proof of that fall, and the evidence of my deliverance. I have wondered a thousand times that I was not destroyed. I have long been looking for the cause of my deliverance; but I have been looking through a glass darkly. Now I see, yes now I see—‘an angel caught me in his arms.’ It was this that saved me; nothing less could have done it. An angel caught me! an angel caught me! Yes, I see, I see.” And all these utterances were baptized, nay, deluged with his warm, heart-gushing tears of gratitude and love.
An angel caught me! Blessed thought! Dear reader, how often in thy life-pilgrimage has an angel caught thee in his arms, and saved thee, and thou knewest it not? Look at the numerous dangers which throng our pathway through life’s toilsome journey, and ask, How are we saved? And the answer will come up, “An angel (God’s ministering spirit) caught me.”
Mother, dost thou remember the fearful fall of thy infant, when death was looked for as the sad result, but, instead of death, that infant smiled and lived? Ah, yes; that accident is well and painfully remembered; but why did the little one live? An angel caught it, and softly gave it back to life and thee.
Youth, dost thou remember, when in thy thoughtless mirth, far from a parent’s eye, led on by rude companions, the danger to which thy waywardness exposed thee? Yes, and the memory of thy peril causes quick throbs to shoot through all thy frame. What was it saved thee? Was it strength, or skill, or nimbleness of limbs, or self-possession? An angel caught thee, and gently led thee back to friends and home.
Reader, you may tremble, perhaps, in view of life’s numerous dangers; but there is a God whose angels have charge of those who trust in him; and although this may seem, in the hours of your distrust, a dim and uncertain truth, yet the time will come when you, face to face, shall see it, and know this fact with as much clearness as ye are known of God.—Cor. Sunday School Advocate.
Prayer.
PRAYER is the communion of spirit with spirit—the intercessions of a weaker with a higher power for aid, for strength, for deliverance from evil. It is the connecting link between earth and heaven. It lifts the vail and exposes to view the things of eternity. It is a divine command, too, lest through a sense of unworthiness, the guilty sinner should despair. When the soul is weary and forsaken, here is a medium through which help may be obtained; for with the command is coupled a promise of infinite value—a promise of being heard and answered. There is one restriction; we must leave behind things corporeal, and approach God only “in spirit and in truth.”
The sordid things of earth, however esteemed, can have no place where spirits meet, while the gates of joy are opened wide to the humble, contrite soul. There may he bask in the smiles of God’s approval, forgetting the trifling annoyances that depraved human nature throws about him. When the storms of adversity, or the rough waves of temptation threaten to engulf him in ruin, then may he anchor all on Jehovah by prayer, and feel safe,—safe from the tiny foes that in vain attempt to hurl him from that sure foundation, from that all-confiding trust in an arm omnipotent.
There are numerous examples on record of the great efficacy of prayer, which show at once the goodness, power and mercy of God. It has been called “the christian’s vital breath,” and is indeed his breast-plate and armor of righteousness. A fortress of strength is found in earnest pleading at the throne of grace, unknown to him who never bows the knee, or lifts the thoughts in fervent supplication. An assurance of peace is there realized, which has stilled the fears of multitudes as they have passed through flames and torture, and which always tranquilizes the pillow of the dying saint. Prayer is a source of unending comfort to the Christian, however humble his lot, or however much he may buffet the winds of adversity.
“Oh when the heart is full—when bitter thoughts
Come crowding thickly up for utterance,
And the poor common words of courtesy
Are such a very mockery, how much
The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer?”
While the efficacy of this soul-elevating exercise is felt by those who indulge it, they may feel too, that selfishness is not one of its characteristics, but that while they plead for themselves, they may also remember their friends, and are commanded to pray for their enemies.
God often hears prayer for others in as signal a manner as when offered for ourselves. The pastor feels strong in the Lord when his flock remember him often and fervently at the throne of grace; the word in his hand is as “a fire and hammer,” for he comes before his people “clad in a panoply divine.” When the great reformer, Luther, was arraigned before the Cardinal legate of Augsburg, that he might if possible, be induced to retract his propositions and sermons, he wrote to a friend thus: “I doubt not that in answer to the prayers of pious souls, God will send me deliverance,” and adds emphatically, “I seem to feel that prayer is being made for me.” God did indeed hear and answer, and its wonder-working effects are felt even at this period, aye, and will be till the end of time.
The voice of prayer is not uncongenial to any rank or condition in life, from the little child who lisps forth feeble accents, to the man of power and strength, from the humble peasant by his hearthstone, to the noble prince, who, like Solomon and David, may pour out his sweet breathings in melodious numbers and moving words, that stir the soul’s great deep. Prayer is not always answered at the hour of presentation, for God knoweth his own time, and knoweth also what it is meet for us to obtain. The works of the dead follow them, and the prayer of faith is often answered when the voice that uttered it is hushed in the grave.
“I heard the voice of prayer—a mother’s prayer,—
A dying mother for her son,
Young was his brow and fair,
Her hand was on his head,
Her words of love were said,
Her work was done.”
But the wayward child, may be, mingles in sins and follies till sick and weary of the world, he listens to the voice of conscience, and listening, hears those tones again—those tones of prayer—those sighs and tears. He turns! he lives! Then is the mother’s earnest petition answered.
The prayers of David are beautifully touching and sublime, and the lover of literature even, cannot fail to admire them, while the Christian feels that he speaks the language of the truly pious heart. But in the petitions of our Saviour, there is so much meekness and submission, so much fervor and agony, so much strength and conciseness, that we marvel. God manifest in the flesh! The weakness of human nature is not exhibited in the groans and sweat of the garden, or that last blessing on his enemies, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” The former is truthfully portrayed by one of our poets:
“In the depth of that hushed silentness,
Alone with God, he fell upon his face,
And as his heart was broken with the rush
Of his surpassing agony, and death
Wrung from him from a dying Universe
Was mightier than the Son of Man could bear,
He gave his sorrows way, and in the deep
Prostration of his soul, breathed out a prayer,
‘Father if it be possible with Thee,
Let this cup pass from me.’ O, how a word
Like the forced drop before the fountain breaks,
Stilleth the press of agony!
The Saviour felt the quiet in his soul,
And though his strength was weakness, and the light
Which led him on till now, was surely dim,
He breathed a new submission,—Not my will,
But thine be done, Oh Father.”—
A Wise Use of Time
Those who save up their money or their honors for the time when, without strength or desires, they can no longer use them, seem to me like people who, having but an hour to sleep, take fifty minutes to make themselves a nice, soft bed, instead of sleeping their whole hour on the grass or the hard ground.—Sel.
Do Good Without Boasting
Do all the good you can in the world, and make as little noise about it as possible.
WHAT WE MAY BE.
It is not with any design to contradict the declaration of the Apostle, "It doth not yet appear what we shall be," that we attempt to offer a few thoughts on the above heading; but rather to point out in this world of faded hopes and disappointed ambition, the position to which all may attain—a position which should be the object of our highest ambition, and our most strenuous efforts, and to attain which is the greatest blessing which the present state offers to our enjoyment;—a position before which the distinctions of worldly station and honor, sink into one common and insignificant level.
How many there are whose hearts are absorbed with the idea of being great; who design to obtain a great name, to amass wealth, to become the recipients of honors, the sons of fame; yet how often is their ambition disappointed, their schemes subverted, the path of honor which they had marked before them, barred to their steps, and their brightest hopes obscured in gloom.
But there is a way which is always open. To this we would invite the attention of all, since to all it is accessible. 'Twill lead all through the same green pastures and by the same still waters; 'twill conduct all to the same lofty and noble eminence. This way is the way of piety: the position it proposes to its followers, the throne and scepter of the christian.
We may be christians. We may not all have riches; they may elude our grasp; and even if for a while we seem to have secured them, they may suddenly take to themselves wings; but we may be christians. We may not all be learned. Insuperable obstacles in the way of health, means or opportunity, may hedge up our way; but we may be christians. We may not all be great. Those eminences which the world call lofty and noble, we may not attain; but yet we may be christians. The exercise of faith, the reception of God's blessing, the performance of religion, the keeping of the commandments of God and the faith of Jesus, by which we gain an entrance through the gates into the city, do not lean upon the external supports of hard earned riches, or the toilsome acquirements of study and education. "With the heart man believeth unto righteousness, and with the mouth confession is made unto salvation."
But what if I am a christian? Then you are as far in advance of worldlings, as heaven is higher than earth. You are more honorable than they inasmuch as the honor of God is greater than the honor of men. You are richer than they, inasmuch as the riches of heaven are more valuable than the wealth of earth; for to all the wealth and glory of heaven, the christian is the happy and certain heir.
The ancient Roman gloried in the fact that he was a Roman citizen. The majesty and glory of the Roman name, he considered as belonging in a measure to himself: it was his safeguard and protection. At the present day the subjects of a powerful kingdom, glory in their citizenship; and how are the particular friends of the king, honored and reverenced by their fellow-men. But what is all this in comparison with the christian's boast? He is joint heir with Christ; he is the friend of the King of glory: and so much higher honor is this than to be the favorite of a worldly monarch, as Christ is greater than mortal man; as the glory and grandeur of the kingdom of heaven, exceeds the fading, fluctuating dominions of an earthly potentate.
The world realizes this not; for the world looks at the things which are seen and to them only. But let not us brethren, forget the things which are not seen, let us not forget that we walk by faith; and let us not forget the faith by which we walk. To be a child of God, a soldier of the King of glory, an heir according to the promise—this is an object worthy our ambition and our toil. Be this the motto, therefore, of every heart, whatever else I have thought or wished to be, over all, above all, regardless of all, I will be at peace with heaven—I will be christian.