Some time ago, I was asked to call and see a young man who was very ill with heart disease. He was a corporal in the dragoons, and had been seventy days in the hospital. On the occasion of my visit, he was rather better, and able to be out a little, so I walked with him up and down the barrack square. I soon found that he was in a very wretched state of mind. He had been about five years in the army, and, doubtless, he had, like most young men of his class, pursued a wild and reckless career. A barrack-room, as we know, is not favorable to morality or piety. It requires no ordinary measure of grace and moral power to be able to withstand the corrupting and demoralizing influences of such a scene, and where there happens to be nothing beyond mere nature, however well brought up, it soon yields to the overwhelming torrent of immorality and impiety which has, alas! in almost every case, to be encountered by those who enter on military life.
I was not surprised, therefore, at the tale which my young friend, Corporal D., had to tell me —a tale of wildness and folly — a tale which I had to tell of myself, though I was never in the army. I was quite prepared for it all, and only too thankful to find that the arrow had entered the young man’s soul — that the plowshare of conviction was doing its needed work, and turning up the furrows of the conscience to receive the incorruptible seed of the gospel. I delight in a deep work of conscience. I believe it often happens that those who reach the haven of true gospel peace, through the fiercest storms of conscience, and the wildest heavings and tossings of the entire moral being, prove the steadiest Christians afterward. We must not lay down an iron rule; but we may be allowed to express our deep sense of the value of a thorough, genuine work of the Spirit of God, in the conscience.
Such a work, I felt sure, was going on in the soul of the young soldier; and, inasmuch as the only balm for a wounded spirit — a stricken heart — a convicted conscience, is the precious blood of Jesus, I at once proceeded to point him to that divine, and all-sufficient remedy. I endeavored, especially, to press upon him a truth which had given my own soul peace, twenty-four years ago, namely, this, “It is the work wrought for you, and not the work wrought in you, that saves you.” It was perfectly plain there was a real work of God’s Spirit in the young man’s soul, and the present effect of this work was to make him feel the burden of his guilt. The Spirit of God raises the question of sin in the conscience, and this question can only be divinely settled by the application of the value and efficacy of the atonement of Christ. The question of sin, when divinely raised, can only be divinely settled. It will not do to cry, “peace, peace, when there is no peace.” It must be a real work of the Holy Ghost, bringing home to the troubled, anxious soul, the value of that atoning work which has forever put away sin, and perfectly satisfied all the claims of God and revealed His righteousness in the pardon and justification of every soul that simply believes in Jesus.
Now, I found that Corporal D. was looking at anything and everything but this perfect work of the Son of God. He was trying to get comfort and rest in his pious efforts, such as reading and prayer — things, as I told him, very right and very valuable in their place, but which, as a foundation for a guilty sinner’s peace, were altogether worthless as he himself was, at that moment, fully proving. I sought to show him, that it was impossible that he could ever be happy or ever find peace, while he was looking right away from the object at which God was looking. “God is looking at Christ; you are looking at your works. God says, ‘When I see the blood, I will pass over you;’ but God is satisfied with what He has done for you; you want to find satisfaction in what you are trying to do for Him. What a vast difference! God has under His eye, continually, a finished work; you have under your eye, continually, an unfinished work. Hence your misery. You must be miserable so long as you continue to gaze upon an unfinished work. If there is a work which must be done, and I am trying to do, but cannot succeed, I must be wretched. But if I find that this work has been done by another, even by Christ, for me, I am made happy.”
This is the substance of what I earnestly endeavored to press upon my young friend, Corporal D., as we paced the barrack-square together. He seemed to grasp it, and get comfort from it. I felt as though a ray of divine light had entered his precious soul, and, as my time was expired I took leave of him. He accompanied me to the gate, and as he shook me by the hand, he thanked me fervently for coming to see him, and promised to attend a gospel lecture, next evening, which he did.
Shortly after this, I left home for some weeks; and, on my return, almost the first thing I heard was that my poor friend, Corporal D., was very ill again, and not only ill in body, but also, alas! as miserable as ever in soul. I felt truly sorry for this, and lost no time in making my way to the military hospital. The moment I sat down beside him I saw, at a glance, that he was very ill and very unhappy. “Well, D.,” said I, “what has gone wrong with you? I thought you seemed quite happy six weeks ago, when we parted at the barrack-gate. Whatever has happened?” “Oh! sir,” he replied, “I am afraid I have not the right kind of faith. I fear I am not converted at all. I am very unhappy.”
I saw, at once, his spiritual whereabouts, and I said to him, “Now, D., look at this. Six weeks ago, I called to see you, and I found you occupied with your works, and, as a consequence, miserable. Today, I call to see you, and I find you occupied with your faith, and, as a consequence, miserable. The effect is the same in each case. And why? Simply because in looking at your faith, you take your eye off Christ just as much as when looking at your works. Faith never looks at itself to see if it be the right kind; but ever looks at Christ, assured that He is the right object. And, furthermore, let me ask you to bear in mind, that the ground of my peace is not that I was converted twenty-four years ago, but that Jesus bore my sins on the cross, 1830 years ago, and is up in heaven without them. I believe I was converted — I believe that a real change has taken place — that a real work of God’s Spirit has been wrought in me. But though this is true, and though all the saints on earth, and all the angels in heaven were to express themselves satisfied as to my conversion, that would not form the foundation of my peace. What gives me peace is the truth that God has been satisfied about my sins, by the finished work of Christ. You cannot be too simple in your apprehension of the true ground of your peace. It is not your being truly converted, or your having the right sort of faith, or the right sort of feelings, but simply, that Jesus died and rose again. True, the work of the Spirit, in conversion, must never be separated from the work of the Son in atonement, but neither must they be confounded. Thousands do confound them, and thus, like you my dear friend, get into darkness and misery.”
Thus I argued and reasoned with Corporal D., in whose spiritual condition I felt an intense interest. I had provided myself with a few oranges to refresh the poor invalid, and it occurred to me that I might use one of them in order to illustrate the point which I so much desired to unfold to him; so taking it up in my hand, I said to him, “D., do you see this orange? Now tell me this, when I hand you this orange, which is it, your hand or the orange, that will remove your thirst, and refresh you?” “The orange, of course,” said he. “Just so,” I replied, “you can quite see this — a child can see it. It is not the hand, but the orange that does you good. It is not the mode in which you take it, but the thing you take. True, they are not to be separated; but neither must they be confounded. Now thus it is precisely in reference to your faith and the object on which that faith lays hold. Your faith may be weak or it may be strong, but whether weak or strong, it is not your faith, but the object, Christ, that meets your need.”
“I see it, sir,” said the young soldier, with energy and warmth, “I see it, now, clearly. I have been looking away from Christ, and, in this way, have got into darkness. May I be enabled to keep my eye fixed on Him alone.” “Yes,” I said, “if you want to be wretched, look in; if you want to be distracted, look round; if you want to be happy, look up.”
After some further conversation, I again took leave of my friend, and in a few days, as I was going to preach in the neighborhood of his barracks, who should accost me in the street, but Corporal D., dressed in colored clothes and looking so happy. His countenance was radiant, and he did not look like the same man. He had been pronounced by the medical authorities to be unfit for further military duty, and was waiting for his discharge. On my expressing my joy at seeing him, and my hope that he was now quite clear, “Oh! yes, sir,” said he. “I am quite happy, and I am now determined to carry the blood-stained banner of the cross through the length and breadth of the land.” All this was spoken with much ardor and enthusiasm. I did not, in the least, doubt its sincerity; but I feared he was in danger of falling into another snare of the enemy, and I therefore said to him, “D., you must take care. About two months ago, I saw you for the first time, and you were looking at your works, and you were miserable. I saw you six weeks afterward, and you were occupied with your faith, and you were miserable. Today, I find you are occupied with your service, and I greatly fear it will take your eye off Christ, just as effectually as if you were occupied with your faith or your works. It is not that I value faith or service less, but I value Christ more.” I have met many young converts who have fallen into the snare of getting more occupied with service than with Christ. They have allowed their work to get between their hearts and the Master, and, in this way, they have fallen into darkness and depression. Keep your eye on the Master — cling to Christ — abide in Him, and then you will be found in service of the right kind. It is only as we abide in the vine, that we bring forth fruit. We do not get to Christ by being in service, but we get to service by abiding in Christ. “If any man thirst, let him come unto me” For what? Is it to draw for others? Nay, but to “drink” for himself. And what then? “Out of his belly shall flow rivers of living water.” This is the true principle — this is service in its right place — testimony flowing out of communion. If you make service your object, you will break down; but if you make Christ your object, your service will be of the right stamp.
The foregoing is the substance of my three conversations with Corporal D., so far as my memory serves; and I am induced to put it on paper for the benefit of others, by the consideration that the snares and difficulties which beset the path of one young convert may beset the path of thousands; and I do most earnestly desire to be helpful, in any way, to such. May the Lord, in His exceeding goodness, be pleased to use what I have written for the establishment of souls in His own eternal truth, and His name shall have all the praise.