I was with my old soldier-Mend a good deal during the last few weeks of his life. We were neighbors but had not been in the habit of meeting often. A short time before his death his legal adviser had called to see him; and when I asked after the sick man, he told me that he seemed very composed. He had just taken the sacrament. He seemed to regard this as a passport for heaven, for, added he: "I shall not go to see him again; better not disturb him after this.”
"Composed!" thought I as we parted. "I wish he were anything but that." I feared that he might be soothing his soul into a fatal and false peace, so I resolved to lose no time in seeing him. On reaching the house, I was assured by his family that all was well. He had been given the sacrament, and was very comfortable.
He received me quietly. Though breathing with difficulty, he said: "You will be glad to know I've settled all my affairs; now I have taken the sacrament and I have nothing more on my mind. I am comfortable." But his looks belied his words. There was anxiety in the eye that awaited my response. I saw his ease was superficial. I hesitated as to what to say. He repeated, with ill-assumed calmness, "Yes, I have done justice to everyone. I have arranged for my children's care and where they shall go after my death. I am quite comfortable.”
Deeply moved, I took his thin, transparent hand in mine, and asked earnestly, "And you, dear friend, what of yourself? Where are you going?”
A shadow crossed his face. I saw he was disturbed and disappointed; but he repeated with an effort, "My rector has given me the sacrament, and seems quite satisfied.”
What anguish I felt at that moment, that my poor friend should have fallen into the hands of a blind leader of the blind! It is an awful thing for a professed minister of Christ to say, "Peace, peace"—to direct the natural eye to a visible sacrament, instead of pointing the eye of the soul to the unseen but ever-present and only Savior.
I felt I dared not trifle thus with an immortal soul on the verge of eternity. "Dear friend," I said, "you know the life you have led. You know what the law of God requires. You know your sins have been more than the hairs of your head. You will pardon me for speaking plainly—I do so in love. You know, my dear friend, you have not been pure in heart, nor meek, nor a peacemaker, nor merciful, nor a God-fearing man. How can you feel comfortable? Remember the true and awful words of Scripture. You will soon have to appear before God, and have to give an account of the deeds done in the body.”
He listened eagerly and, to my surprise, quietly. I felt I must go on. I could not let him die in a dream of false peace. "You know you have never been born again, or changed in heart or life. Christ says that without that change you cannot see the kingdom of God.”
An expression of intense and painful dismay was on his countenance when I paused. But he repeated, with an anxious sigh, "Well, but I have taken the sacrament.”
"And what good can that do you, dear friend? You want pardon. You want salvation. Salvation comes only through faith in our Lord Jesus Christ, who gave Himself for our sins. He was sacrificed for us; but a sacrament is not a sacrifice. The sacrament is a sign of something which God has given us—a memorial of Christ's gift of Himself to purge our sins. A sacrifice is something rendered to God as an atonement for our sins. We take the bread and the wine in remembrance of Him who has saved us. But to trust in the sacrament instead of in the Savior whom it commemorates is a fearful mistake.
"My dear friend, what good has the sacrament done you? Has it atoned for the guilt of your past life? Has it changed your heart? You know it has not. It has neither merit to blot out your sin, nor power to renew your heart.”
A sorrowful shake of his head implied assent; so I continued: "Suppose that as a soldier in India you had risked your life to save a Sepoy from a tiger's grip, and that you had afterward shown him great kindness. Suppose that when you were leaving you gave him your own photograph and said: 'Look at it from time to time, and remember me!'
"That man joins the mutineers, and in every way proves himself a treacherous rebel. At last he is taken prisoner, brought before you, tried, and condemned. Hark! he is going to plead! What has he to say? 'Sir, it's all true; but you ought to pardon me! I looked last night at the token of your kindness. I did remember you.'
"Dear friend, will you urge a similar plea at the bar of God? Will you say, It is true. I have lived as a rebel against Him who died for me. True, I have despised, neglected, or injured many dear to Him. True, I have broken His laws, rejected His authority, and despised His love all my days. But, O God, on my deathbed I took the sacrament?”
The poor man felt the force of this and cried out, "Oh, no, no! But what more can I do?”
"Do? Do what the Sepoy might do. He might say, 'I own it all, sir. I've been a wicked, ungrateful wretch; I've no claim on your kindness; but you are good, you saved me once when I did not deserve it, you can save me now when I deserve it still less.' You can say this to God. You can plead that Christ died for the ungodly, and seek mercy for His sake.”
With a sorrowful look he answered me: "But I could not pardon the Sepoy even if he made such an appeal." And I gladly answered, "No, but God can pardon you! He pardoned the dying thief; He pardoned Saul of Tarsus; and it is written, 'Him that cometh to Me I will in no wise cast out.'" As I tried to lead him to think of Jesus, the all-sufficient Sacrifice, he was deeply attentive; but no light seemed to break in upon his mind before I left him.
A day or two later I received a telegram, begging me to go to him immediately. He had been groaning aloud, impatient for my arrival. As I entered he greeted me with, "Oh, how long you have been! You have made me miserable. I was so comfortable! Kneel down. Pray. You can; I can't. Get the Bible. Read—read something. Oh, I am so miserable, so wretched. You know what a sinner I've been—what a wicked life I've led! I never realized it till now. 'What shall I do? What shall I do?”
Taking the Word of God I slowly read some of its simplest statements. I tried to show the trembling soul that the Lord had laid upon Christ the iniquity of us all. I told him that to be safe for eternity he must find shelter at the cross of Calvary, where the blood of the sinless Sacrifice was shed to save sinful man. I read to him passage after passage; I lingered with him, prayed with him, but left him that night for a few hours' rest, still in darkness, and lost.
Early next morning I was summoned again to his bedside. His cry was still, "Read, please read." God gave me the Word, the story of the brazen serpent and of the life-receiving look of the bitten Israelites. Then slowly and emphatically I read our Lord's comment on it in John 3. Suddenly, as I read, my poor friend raised his emaciated hands, and clasped them convulsively together. With a cry of joy he exclaimed, "O God! I understand it now! Jesus. Savior, I look to Thee. Is that all? Wonderful! Everlasting life is mine! Lord, I believe! Lord, I praise Thee!”
At that instant the light had shone into his soul. Under the Spirit's teaching he had grasped the truth that he had nothing to do but to look in faith; that Jesus had done all the work of propitiation; that salvation was not of works, and not by sacraments, but by grace through faith in Christ.