A woman, who had been “Head Pew-opener” in a church in London for forty years, was remarkable for her Pharisaism. She had never missed “church” during all that lengthy period; on saint-days and Sundays she was regularly at her post. The vestments, the wine; the bread, the alms-boxes were all under her care and supervision, nor would she, for the world, allow things so “holy” to be touched by other hands, if she could help it.
The cleaning, sweeping, lighting were done by others; her charge was the “holy things”—to cut the bread into cubes of equal size, to decant the wine into the chalice, to see that the vestments were properly prepared, and conveniently hung, for the incumbent, on one hook, and for the curate, on the other, in the vestry; to usher the “better class” of pew-holders into their seats, and those only; to supervise the operations of the other pew-openers, and scold the old beadle occasionally, were her duties, and privileges too.
Always there, and joining in all the prayers and responses, listening to the reading of the Bible, and to some thousands of sermons, exact in all her duties, moral in her life, and without a stain upon her character, surely she was fit, if ever woman was, for heaven, “when it should please God that her time was come.” Do not you think so, my reader? Forty years of regular attendance on public worship—week-days, saint-days, and Sundays—think of that!
Well, she did think of it, and it gave her profound satisfaction.
If it be true that
“Tis religion that must give
Sweetest pleasures while we live;
Tis religion must supply
Solid comfort when we die,”
she had enough “religion” for half-a-dozen ordinary people, and it would seem she thought so. As to the Bible, she had heard it read so often in church, that she knew it pretty well by heart, and the Prayer-book too, of course.
Besides the regular religious services called public worship, she, as “Head Pew-opener” was always present at baptisms, marriages, and funerals, and had attended them so often, that she was an authority on the whole subject to every new curate just from college, and could have gone through all the ceremonies without any book at all.
In short, she was a living, moving, breathing epitome of religiousness, and her very manner savored of a full consciousness of the fact. No Pharisee that ever lived, no devotee, nun, monk, friar, or hermit could possibly lay claim to more of it than she had, and if religiousness could save anyone, she was entitled to be saved out-and-out.
But one day trouble came upon her, and sorely disturbed “the even tenor of her way,” as it will do even with the most religious; and a christian visitor, on calling upon her one morning, as he had occasionally done before to little purpose, found her in considerable distress of mind. She was a widow, her grown-up children were scattered here and there, some in one place, and some in another, and she had that morning heard of something, as to one of her sons, which gave her much concern. What it was, the writer now forgets; but he well remembers how greatly her Pharisaical heart was softened by the calamity that had come upon her so unexpectedly, and how much more ready than ever before she seemed to be to listen to what he had to say.
In course of conversation she remarked, with tears in her eyes, “We must expect these things, you know, sir, as a punishment for our sins.” Now, the visitor must confess that he was at first quite taken aback to hear so excellent a woman (in her own judgment) acknowledge to any “sins” at all. Had she not been cleared every Sunday morning, for forty years, when the Absolution was read, and “declared and pronounced” forgiven? Had she not been as regular in her “attendance on divine service” as the two clergymen put together? Could any one of her ungodly neighbors (with whom she had as little association as a clean surplice with a sweep’s frock) point the finger at her?
Ah! but, my reader, God had come in, and, for the first time since she was born, she had begun to question her position before Him. Have you ever done so? You will have to do with God at some time or other—it must come to that, either before the grave, or after it; why not now? “As I live, saith the Lord, every knee shall bow to me, and every tongue confess to God;” better now than before the great white throne, for, “behold, now is the accepted time; behold, now is the day of salvation:” then is “the day of judgment,” and no Savior for the lost!
Recovering from his momentary surprise, the visitor remarked, “God does not punish sin in that way, and if He did, it could not put sin away. Moreover, the sinner could not bear the judgment due to one sin, much less to all he has committed. Nothing less than everlasting wrath is the due reward of sin.”
“Very true, sir,” said the pew-opener, who, after forty years of regular attendance at church, of course knew, or affected to know, all about these things. “Very true, sir; still, God chastens His children!”
“Those that are His children, yes; but not to put away their sins. The blood of Jesus Christ, His Son, can alone do that, and ‘He cleanseth us from all sin,’ so that there are none left to punish us for.” And, so saying, the visitor took his departure, little supposing that remarks so few and simple would have any more effect than many that had been made before in vain. No; it is not in the force or wisdom of man’s words, much less in that religious excitement which is now all but universal, that “the power of God unto salvation” is found. It is neither in the wind, the earthquake, nor the fire, that the Lord is known, but in “the still small voice.”
Have you, my reader, ever heard that voice? Has God ever spoken to you in His word? If not, you are yet in your sins, however frequently you may have heard or read the Bible, repeated prayers, or attended on religious ordinances.
This woman was; but God was pleased, in His infinite grace and love, to speak to her conscience, in that short sentence, “Nothing less than everlasting wrath is the due reward of sin and, in a moment, forty years of Pharisaism and self-righteousness were swept away forever. Convicted of sin before God, she saw that “all our righteousnesses are as filthy rags;” like Bartimaeus of old, “she cast away her garment, and rose” out of the condition of religion apathy in which she had so long been, “and came to Jesus.”
Often had she heard, and long had she known, that word, “the blood of Jesus Christ, his Son, cleanseth us from all sin.” She knew it was in the Bible, and in the Prayer-book too, and to count the number of times it had been repeated in her hearing, would have been almost as difficult as to count the number of the stars. Her very familiarity with the phrase, as a phrase, had deprived it of all point and meaning to her conscience.
How is it with my reader? Let him ask his own soul the question, for, as some waters are said to petrify wood to stone, so a religious familiarity with scripture phraseology, if it be not received as God speaking to the soul of the hearer or reader, only encrusts the heart with a coating more impenetrable than the stoutest plates of steel on an English ironclad.
But God had stripped off the adamantine veil from this woman’s heart and conscience, that it was “naked and open unto the eyes of him with whom she had to do;” she had, as I have said, fled to Jesus, who declares, “Him that cometh unto me, I will in nowise cast out.” There, in His presence, she learned the full and blessed import of words so often heard before, “The blood of Jesus Christ, his Son, cleanseth us from all sin,” and, believing them as spoken to her of God Himself, she got peace at once.
If the visitor was surprised to hear her acknowledge to “sins,” in the last interview, his surprise was great indeed when, on calling again, he witnessed the change which grace had wrought in some two or three short weeks. She was so altered, that, except in features, she was hardly the same woman, and even over them had passed an indescribable something that spoke of a complete revolution within. Yes, she was verily “a new creature in Christ Jesus.”
“What you said, sir, as to the judgment due to sin, and that God does not punish us for it in this world, set me thinking. Sin seemed an awful thing to me, for it is against God, and not against our neighbor. “Against thee, thee only, have I sinned, and done evil in thy sight.” But, thank God, His blessed Son bore the judgment which we could never have borne, and His blood ‘cleanseth us from all sin.’”
She had sought to be justified on the ground of religious works, she now found herself justified on the ground of faith, which is simply taking God at His word; and hence she had “peace with God, through our Lord Jesus Christ.” The consciousness of this shed a halo of life and peace around her, so that all who had so long known her in the church she attended, marked and commented on the humble, happy, altered deportment she unconsciously manifested.
She has, doubtless, long since gone home. The old church bell will never more summon her to duties she had once prized as a part of her religious life: the formal services, the organ’s peal, the solemn chant, the pulpit orations, all once trusted in as forming together a part of her justification before God, are gone forever, and in their stead the glory of God, the ceaseless harmony of the golden harps, the hallelujahs of the redeemed, “unto him that loved us, and washed us from our sins in his own blood, and hath made us kings and priests unto God and his Father,” now surround her; she gazes, with undimmed eyes, upon that face, once “ so marred” for us, and knows, as she could not know it here, the wondrous depths of the love that snatched her from the very brink of the abyss on which she had stood so unconsciously for forty years, blinded by the false peace of “religious exercises,” in the room of Christ.
May my reader learn a solemn lesson from “The Head Pew-opener.”
J. L. K.