Men Think God Like Themselves; Slavery to Sin.
“PAPA,” said Maria one day, “what strange gods the Greeks had; they seemed to be just like men!”
“They were like very wicked men. But when did you learn anything about them?”
“Oh, papa, the other day at Mrs. C.’s, I found a volume of Homer’s Iliad, and I read a good deal of it.”
“Well, what do you think of their gods?”
“I do not like them at all, papa. They did not seem to have any idea of justice at all; one would take sides with one party, and another with the opposite, and then they would quarrel and try to cheat each other; and they ate and drank too. I don’t see but they were just like men, only stronger.”
“Yes, such a heaven as theirs would be a perfect hell, for all sorts of evil passions were at work there. It is said that the character of a people may be known by the character of their gods.”
“Can it? Do you think that is true, papa?”
“Yes, in general it is. In those parts of the world which are destitute of the Bible, men imagine gods like themselves—subject to the same infirmities and passions as mortals, and superior to them only in strength or cunning.”
“But, papa, do you suppose that, if we had never seen the Bible, we should imagine God to be like ourselves?”
“Certainly we should; and not only so, many people who have seen the Bible, and read it all their lives, do now imagine God to be like themselves.”
“Oh, papa: what! any born in this country think God is like a man?”
“Not in every respect: nobody here supposes that God has a body, and eats, drinks, and sleeps like a man, or that he is not infinitely superior to man in wisdom and power. It is in his moral attributes, which constitute his greatest glory, that they think God resembles them.”
Maria reflected for a moment. “Well, papa, I can’t find out what you mean; I am not conscious of ever having thought God was like me.”
“I think I shall convince you that you and all other sinners are guilty of this error. Only remember, I do not say that you ever had this thought distinctly pass through your mind, ‘God is like me,’ or any such thing. I mean to say that you act in such a manner as to show that you take it for granted that God will feel and act pretty much as you would do in similar circumstances.”
“Oh, papa, you can prove anything if you set out in that way.”
“Set out in that way! What way can be more reasonable? It is the way we always use in judging of another person’s opinions and belief. If a man were told that his house was on fire, and should use no means to preserve it, we should conclude that he did not believe the information, or that he wished his house to burn down. And this conclusion would be as certain as if we could look into the man’s heart and see. Don’t you see that it would be so?”
“Yes, papa, I suppose it would.”
“Well, let us go on to the proof. You know that men are changeable in their opinions and feelings. One hour they admire, the next they condemn; they are easily irritated, and as easily appeased. Now, men evidently suppose that God resembles them in this respect, and that his feelings towards them vary with every variation in their conduct. When they are pleased with themselves, they imagine that he is pleased with them; and when conscience accuses them of having neglected their duty, they suppose that he frowns upon them.”
“But it is not so, papa?” said Maria, surprised.
“Does God regard us with the same feelings when our characters are changed?”
“Not when our characters are changed; that is, when, by faith in Christ, we are turned from the love and practice of sin, to find our delight in holiness and God. Because God is unchangeable, he then regards us with complacency, though he had before viewed us with displeasure. But I refer to those occasional and short-lived changes which often take place in a man’s conduct and feelings. You, for instance, are sometimes amiable and obliging; at other times, you are vexed and discontented. Now, have you not supposed that God regarded you with different feelings at these different times?”
“Yes, papa, certainly.”
“Well, my dear, you are entirely mistaken. As God sees your heart, he does not need to wait for the development of your character; he sees at once all you have done, and all you will do, and all that you would do, in any circumstances. Of course, as his judgment of you depends upon the state of your heart, and not on your outward behavior, it never changes.”
“Yes, I see, papa; but it seems very strange.”
“That only shows how accustomed you have become to wrong thoughts of God. Again, when we feel displeased, we always show it immediately, therefore we expect God to do the same; and, when we see men going on in sin for a long time unpunished, we conclude that he is not displeased. Many thus encourage themselves in sin, and imagine that, because they never have felt God’s vengeance, they never shall. So the Jews did, as God tells them, ‘These things hast thou done, and I kept silence; thou thoughtest that I was altogether such an one as thyself!’”
“I never knew what that verse meant before.”
“You know, too, we often make virtues compensate for defects, both in us and others; that is, we set off our good qualities against our bad ones, and excuse the latter by the former. In this, too, we suppose that God resembles ourselves, and, therefore, we hope to bribe him to overlook our faults by our imaginary virtues. We acknowledge that we do some things wrong, to be sure; we get angry now and then, perhaps, and we love ourselves supremely; but we do not steal, nor lie, nor swear; so, in consideration of these virtues, we expect to be pardoned for the other sins. But God requires perfect obedience, and it will not do to plead exemption from one fault as an excuse for another. Well, have I not proved that men think God like themselves?”
“Yes, papa.”
“And now I will tell you how you may find out your own character. If you love God because he is just, pure, and holy, as he is described in the Bible, then you love holiness and purity, and shall possess it. But, if you would rather that God would indulge you in sin, let you live as you please, and then take you to heaven—a God without justice or truth—then you have no love to holiness, but you are a slave to sin.”
“Papa, it does not seem to me that I should like such gods as the Greeks had; but yet I cannot see why God would not be just as glorious if he were more merciful.”
“More merciful, Maria! What would you have? Can he be more than infinitely merciful? God is love! Can he be more? No, my dear child, what you wish is, not that he should be more merciful, but less just; in fact, that he should be like some weak foolish parents that you have seen, who love their children too well to restrain them, and so let them do as they please, and go on to ruin. Or, you would wish him to act as a king would do, who should treat all his subjects alike—traitors, robbers, murderers, no matter what, all must be treated alike, while his faithful subjects would be in constant dread of losing their property and lives. Under such a king, traitors and rebels would be best off, for they only would be safe, while the good would become their prey. This is what you would like, is it?”
“Oh no, papa.”
“Why, that would just be the result, if sinners were admitted into heaven unchanged, and that is what you mean by God being more merciful. Heaven would thus become hell, happiness would be banished from the universe, and, while sinners would still be as miserable as they now will be, their only consolation would be that of destroying the happiness of their fellow-creatures. My dear Maria, God cannot be less holy than he is. Did he spare his own Son when he stood in the sinner’s place? If you have any, the least, hope that you will be admitted into heaven with your heart unchanged, look at the cross of Christ, and despair.
“I believe, Maria,” her father continued, “I once related to you the story of a lawgiver who had decreed that a certain offense should be punished by putting out the eyes of the offender. His own son was the first criminal, and the father put out one of his own eyes, and one of his son’s. What do you think of his conduct?”
“Oh, papa, I admire him very much; I remember the story.”
“Suppose that he had simply pardoned his son, without inflicting punishment on any one, would you not have admired him as much then?”
“No, indeed, papa; there would be nothing to admire then.”
“Nothing to admire! why he would have been just such a person as you like; it would have shown that he loved his son too well to punish him.”
Maria looked confused, and did not seem to know what to say.
“You see that what you admire in this man was not simply his love for his son, which prompted him to wish to pardon him, for then you would have admired him as much in the second case which I suppose. It was the union of inflexible justice with paternal tenderness which awakened your admiration. Now, just tell me why you should not admire such perfections in God?”
Maria could not tell.
“Besides, God has given a much greater proof of his love to sinners than this father did to the son, even setting aside the infinite difference between the Creator and his creatures. The father only took half of his son’s punishment, and you love and reverence him for that; but Christ takes all our punishment, and God offers to pardon us freely, and then you wish that he were a little more merciful! I don’t know which is most wonderful—such infinite amazing goodness on his part, or such awful ingratitude on ours!”
Her father left the room hastily, quite overcome by his feelings; and Maria sat thinking over the conversation, with a mixed feeling of shame and half-repentance on the one hand, and of pride and reluctance to submit on the other.
One day about this time Maria commenced a conversation with her father by asking him the meaning of Jeremiah 13:23: “Can the Ethiopian change his skin, or the leopard his spots? then may ye also learn to do good, that are accustomed to do evil.”
“It is a strong mode of expressing the power of long-continued habit,” replied her father. “You know something of this yourself in little things. Don’t you recollect how much difficulty you had in breaking yourself of the foolish habit you had some years ago of sucking your thumb?”
“Yes, papa, I remember it well enough. Though I was ashamed, and wanted to cure myself of it, I could not; and I don’t believe I ever should, if you had not made me wear a glove.”
“Well, my dear, if in such trifles habit is so hard to be overcome, just think how much greater the difficulty must be in the case of the sinner. He never had any inclination to good, but only to evil; and, if he found this inclination too strong to be resisted at first, how shall he overcome it when the force of habit has made it still stronger? How shall one who has all his life been accustomed to regard God, his Son, and his will, with feelings of aversion, begin to love them? How shall one who has always worshipped and loved himself supremely, begin to worship and love his Creator? How shall one who has lived for years with a heart full of pride and selfishness, and envy, and revenge, become lowly and benevolent, gentle and patient, kind and forgiving?”
“How, indeed!” thought Maria, as she applied every word to herself. “I see there is no hope for me.” Then hard thoughts of God, and of his will, began to rise in her mind. Why had he created her with such a heart, or why created her at all? Why did he require what her utmost efforts could not enable her to perform She scarcely dared again propose these objections to her father; but at length she ventured to say that, if sinners were so unable to change their hearts, she could not see how they were to blame.
Her father sighed. “They are to blame; because their very inability, consisting simply in unwillingness, constitutes their guilt. They have all the faculties that are exercised when any one receives Christ, and there is nothing wanting but a disposition. And if the want of disposition constitutes an excuse, then there is not only no such thing as guilt in the universe, but the more a man sins, the less guilty he is. Why will you offer to your Creator an excuse which you would blush to present to a fellow-creature, and which you know would not be received at any human tribunal?” It was now Maria’s turn to sigh.
“I know what you think, my dear,” resumed her father; “you think that you are a poor unfortunate creature to be punished for having a wicked heart, which you cannot help, and for not fulfilling a requirement which it is impossible you should fulfill. It seems to you that you have been doing everything you possibly could to obtain salvation, and as if it would be very unjust and cruel in God to leave you to perish, after all your prayers, and tears, and efforts. Is it not so?”
Maria hesitated.
“I do not mean that you have just these thoughts distinctly arranged, but you have such feelings.”
“Yes, papa, it does seem to me that I am trying to do all I can to be saved.”
“Well, my dear, all I can say to you is, that before you can ever be saved, you must feel that you have never done anything towards your salvation, but everything to prevent it; that it would be perfectly just in God to leave you to perish; and, in short, that God is all right, and you all wrong; for—
“‘Christ will sooner abdicate his own,
Than stoop from heaven to give the proud a throne.’”