“And, lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world” (Matt. 28:2020Teaching them to observe all things whatsoever I have commanded you: and, lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world. Amen. (Matthew 28:20)). There are some plants which grow right up—erect in their own sturdy self-sufficiency, and there are some, feeble ones which take hold with their hands and clasp and climb. The soul of man is like these last. Even in his best estate he was not meant to grow insulated and stand alone. He is not strong enough for that. He has not within himself resources sufficient to fill himself. He is not fit to be his own all-in-all. The make of his mind is an out-going, exploring, petitionary make. The soul of man is a clasping, clinging soul, seeking to something over which it can spread itself, and by means of which it can support itself. And just as in a neglected garden you may see the poor creepers making shift to sustain themselves as best they can; one convolvolus twisting round another, and both draggling on the ground; a clematis leaning on the door which will by and by open and let the whole mass fall down; a vine or a passionflower wreathing round a prop which all the while chafes and cuts it; so in this fallen world it is mournful to see the effects which human souls are making to get some efficient object to lean upon and twine around. One clasps a glittering prop, and it scathes him. The love of money blasts his soul, and it hangs round its self-chosen stay a blighted, withered thing. Another spreads himself more amply over a broad surface of creature-comfort, a snug dwelling, and a well-furnished library, and a pleasant neighborhood, with the command of everything that heart can wish, or fortune buy—but death opens the door, and, with nothing but vacancy to lean upon, he falls over on the other side a helpless and dejected being. And a still greater number, groping about along the ground, cleave to one another, and intertwine their tendrils mutually, and by forming friendships and congenial intimacies, and close relations, try to satisfy their leaning, loving nature in this way. But it answers little end. The make of man's soul is upward, and one climber cannot lift another off the ground. And the growth of man's soul is luxuriant, and that growth must be stifled, checked and scanty, if he have no larger space over which to diffuse his aspirations, his affections, and his efforts, than the surface of a fellow-creature's soul. But, weedy as this world-garden is, the Tree of Life still grows in the midst of it—erect in his own omnipotent self-sufficiency, and inviting every weary straggling soul to lay hold of His everlasting strength, and expatiate upwards along the infinite ramifications of His endless excellencies and all-inviting love.
God has formed the soul of man of a leaning, dependent make; and for the healthy growth and joyful development of that soul, it is essential that he should have some object far higher and nobler than himself to dispread his desires and delights upon. That object is revealed in the gospel. That object is Immanuel. His divinity is the Almighty prop—able to sustain the adhering soul, so that it shall never perish nor come into condemnation—the omnipotent support which bears the clinging spirit loftily and securely, so that the whirling temptations which vex, it cannot rend it from the Tree of Life, and that the muddy splash, which soils and beats into the earth its sprawling neighbors, cannot tarnish the verdant serenity and limpid glories of its flowering head. And just as His divine strength is the omnipotent prop of the adhering soul, so His divine resources and His human sympathy make Him the all-sufficient object, over which each emotion and each desire of regenerate humanity may boundlessly diffuse itself. And however delicate your feelings, however multitudinous the necessities of your intricate nature, there is that in this heavenly Friend which meets them every one. There are in His unimaginable compassions, and in His benignant fellow-feelings, holds sufficient for every craving tendril and eager clasper of the human heart, to fix upon and wreathe around.
This is what the gospel does. It just offers you a Friend, who can both save and satisfy your soul. Jesus, the Son of God, God manifest in flesh, Immanuel: the gospel offers this Friend to you—not more tender than He is holy, not more divine than He is human. Instead of clutching to props which cannot elevate you, or if they do bear you up for a moment, must soon be withdrawn again—the gospel bids you grow against the Tree of Life: and just as you grow up into Christ, you will grow up into holiness and into happiness. And if you have not yet found an object to your heart's content—if you feel that there is still something wrong with you, that you are neither leading the life which you would like to lead, nor enjoying the comfort which you think might be somehow got; be advised. Take the Lord Jesus for your friend. He is one in whom you will find no flaw. He is one of whom—if you really get acquainted with Him—you will never weary; and one, who, if once you really go to Him, will never weary of you. He is a friend of whom no one had ever reason to complain: a friend who, having done so much for you already, deigns to do for His people a great deal more; a friend who is singularly kind and considerate, for “He sticketh closer than a brother"; a friend who does not vary, “for He is the same yesterday, to-day, and forever"; and, best of all, a friend who is never far away, for “Lo, I am with you alway.”
There are many reasons why men do not love the Lord Jesus. Some feel no need of Him. They understand that He is a Savior; but a Savior is what they do not desire. Others have no congeniality with Him. They understand that his character is divine—that His love of holiness is as intense as His hatred of iniquity, and as they love the world, and love their own way, and love the pleasures of sin, they feel that they cannot love the Lord Jesus.
But the hearts of some towards Christ are cold for other reasons. Their conceptions regarding Him are sufficiently vague and dim; but so far as they can be reduced to anything definite, we might say that they do not love the Lord Jesus, because they habitually think of Him as a dead Savior, or a Savior different from what He was, or a distant Savior—a Savior far away.
Some look on the Lord Jesus as dead. They read His history as of one who lived long ago, but who is not living now. They read Matthew's narrative, or John's, and they are interested—for the moment moved. They feel that these words are very beautiful—that this stroke of kindness or tenderness was very touching—that that interposition was very surprising. They feel that the whole history of Jesus of Nazareth is very affecting; and, just as they may have wept at the death of Socrates, or when they read the martyrdom of the saints at Lyons, so they may have felt for him who had not the fox's hole—they may have wept when they saw the son of Mary hanging on the tree. And, if they were visiting Palestine, they might linger over many a silent spot with a solemn impression. “Is this the grassy mount where He preached that sermon? You lake, rippling round its pebbly margin, is it the one He so often crossed? And are these the very rocks which echoed the strong crying of His midnight prayers?” But there they feel as if it ended. They look on it all as a tale that is past. They take for granted that it all closed on Calvary—that the cross was the conclusion of that life-the most wonderful life that the world ever saw—but still its conclusion.
To them Christ is dead, not living; and therefore no wonder that they do not love Him. You may revere the character of those long ago departed; but love is an affection reserved for the living. You will only love the Lord Jesus when you come to believe in Him as a living Savior—one who once was dead, but who, once dead, dieth no more. Jesus lives. He was not more alive when He sat at Jacob's well than He is alive this moment. He was not more alive when He poured the water into the basin and washed the disciples' feet—not more alive when He took the cup and made a beginning of the Remembrance-feast— not more alive when He rose from table and sang the parting hymn, and went out before them to the Mount of Olives, than He is living now. The Lord Jesus lives. He is alive for evermore.
Some, again, do not love the Lord Jesus because they look on Him as an altered Savior as different now from what He once was. Earthly friends are apt to change, and if they do not change, they die: When a visitor comes from a foreign land where you once sojourned, you ask eagerly about the different acquaintances you once had there. “And did you see such a one?” “Yes; but you would not know him, he is so greatly altered.” “Did he remember me?” “Well, I rather think he was asking for you, but I cannot be very sure. He has got other things to occupy his thoughts since you and he were wont to meet.” “And what of such another?” “Ah, times are sadly changed with him. You would be sorry to see him now. I believe he has the same kind heart as ever; but he has not in his power to show it as he used to do.” “And our old neighbor, who lived next door?” “Your old neighbor! Dear good man, he is safe in 'Abraham's bosom.' I found his house shut up, and all his family gone away.” And it is very seldom, after years of absence, that you hear of one whose outward circumstances are nowise different from what they were, and rarer still to hear of one whose dispositions are quite unchanged.
However, One there is who wears not indeed our fallen nature, yet nevertheless our nature, but is not liable to the variations of mortality. “Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, to-day, and forever.” The concurring testimony of those who have seen Him from time to time, along a reach of some thousand years, goes to prove that the Alpha and Omega, the Friend of sinners, cannot change. He who talked with our first parents in the cool of the day is the same holy yet condescending one that He ever was, and loveth righteousness, and hateth iniquity, as much as when the first sinners ran away from His pure and sin-repelling presence. The heavenly High Priest is still as accessible to prayer, and as ready to yield to His people's entreaty, as when He six times conceded to Abraham's intercession. The God of Bethel is still the faithful keeper of His people and their families, as when He heard Jacob in the day of his distress, and was with him in the way which he went. And anything which has been heard of Him since He went back to His glory, goes to prove that He is the same Savior now as during the continuous years He sojourned with us.
It is true, there are some circumstantial differences, but no intrinsic change. There is more of the oil of gladness on Him than when the Father first anointed Him, and crowns are on His head which have been planted there since the work given Him to do was finished. His satisfactions are fuller, as He continues to see the travail of His soul; and, doubtless, there are outbursts of His glory yet to come, more dazzling than any which have yet astonished heaven.
To be continued
J. H.