Three Weathervanes and Other Illustrations of Truth
Harold Primrose Barker
Table of Contents
Christ, a Living Reality
DO you want to know how you may have Christ a living reality to your soul? Let your thoughts travel for a moment round the whole circle of your Christian friends. Then fix them upon the one whom you esteem more than all the rest. Perhaps this will be some dear servant of Christ who was used of God for your conversion. Maybe it will be one who has been a great help to you in your Christian life; or possibly a godly parent who has many a time prayed for you and with you.
Imagine that you are staying for a time under the same roof as that honored friend of yours. One night, after he has retired to his room, you hear a sound as if he were talking to someone; and so he is. It is his voice in prayer that you hear; he is talking to God. You cannot but hear what he says, and your attention is riveted when you catch the mention of your own name. Your friend is praying about you!
And how he pours out his heart in earnest supplication on your behalf! He seems to know all about you, your daily trials and struggles, your temptations and failures, the pressure that at times seems almost too great to bear, and your lack of strength to carry life's burden. He speaks, too, of unknown and unsuspected dangers that surround you, and of snares that Satan sets for your feet. And he mentions your earnest longings after the things that are true and good, your desires for closer communion with God, and your feeble endeavors to serve Christ.
In connection with all these things your friend prays for you, fervently, beseechingly, importunately, mentioning your name again and again. What you hear fills you with comfort. You say, "I am sure God will answer the prayers of His dear servant," and you realize the immense blessing of having someone to offer "the effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man" on your behalf.
But now transfer your thoughts from your friend to your Savior.
Your ears cannot hear Him, but He is interceding for you as really as if they could. He mentions your name; He knows all about you. He has watched your faltering footsteps, and has encircled you with His protecting care. He loves you more than tongue can tell. He died once for love of you, and would be willing to do so again if it were necessary. Day and night He thinks of you. He is nearer to you than any earthly friend can be, and His intercession is mightier than any that such can offer. Does not the thought of this cheer and encourage you?
Sit down quietly for a few minutes and think. Close your eyes, and say to yourself: "My Savior is thinking of me; He is interceding for me in heaven; He never takes His eyes off me; He loves me tenderly, faithfully, and forever.”
Then, on your knees, talk to Him as if your eyes could see Him; He hears every word that you say. When you rise from your knees, I venture to think you will know what it is to have Christ as a living reality to your soul.
Christ or Creed?
DURING the Moorish persecution of Christians in the kingdom of Cordova in the ninth century, there were scores of faithful men and women who laid down their lives rather than deny their faith. Yet, if their historians do not do them injustice, they seem not to have experienced that joy amid their sufferings which characterized the martyrs of the earlier centuries, or those who, later on, fell victims to Romish cruelty and intolerance. They ended their lives denouncing the errors of Mohammed, and defending the doctrines of Christianity, but they appear to have had little to say of Christ Himself. They were martyrs of the Christian religion rather than "martyrs of Jesus," though it may well be that in the day that is coming their Savior will put a higher interpretation upon their sufferings and testimonies than the records of those bygone times enable us to do. From what we read of them we cannot but conclude that what they so bravely contended for at the cost of their lives was their creed rather than the Christ who would fain enshrine Himself in His people's hearts.
We will not depreciate those faithful men and women, however. Their names ring down the centuries for their heroism and fidelity. The historians (themselves strangers to the love of Christ, and knowing nothing of that holy and blessed intimacy with Himself which is the portion of His loved ones) may not have done them full justice.
Considering our own ways, we may raise the question: What does our Christianity mean for us? Is it merely a question of creed and zeal for true and scriptural doctrine? or does it mean for us a living Christ, permeating our lives, dwelling in our hearts, filling us with joy, moving, working, speaking in and through us?
An intimate friend of a great poet was on one occasion walking through his grounds with him. Anxious to know, after all the beautiful things he had written of Christ, how far he knew the Savior personally, he asked: "What is the Lord Jesus to you?" The poet stooped and picked a daisy from the lawn, and said, "All that the sun is to that flower, giving it life and strength, and beauty and fragrance, the Lord Jesus is to me.”
Happy they who can say the same. For this is what the Lord would be to all His people—the mainspring of their lives, the source of their joys, the fountain of their strength. But the Christ who is all this is not to be sought in creeds, however true and orthodox such creeds may be. He is not to be sought in books, though the books may bear faithful testimony to Him. He is the theme of the Scriptures, and speaks to our hearts through His Word; but it is possible to search the Scriptures, even to study them attentively, and yet miss the living risen Christ.
"That I may know HIM!" This was the cherished ambition of the apostle's heart, though he had known Him as his Savior for many a year. Like the Shunammite woman who so appreciated Elisha's company that she wanted more of it, and prepared a chamber for him, so Paul was so attracted by the Lord Jesus that he longed increasingly for that knowledge as his greatest gain.
What the Lord was to Paul, He may surely be to us. We speak and hear sometimes of what He is to God, of the delight which the Father finds in His beloved Son. But are we in a position to appreciate this unless we have proved what Christ is to us? Think that He wants to walk with us, and cheer us by His love all our earthly days! That He would be the Companion of our brighter seasons as well as of our times of sorrow and discouragement! That He would draw near to us in our griefs, and turn our nights of weeping into moments of inexpressible bliss, a joy too deep for words!
Can a mere creed do this for its adherents? Does a belief in the "Christian religion" of itself produce such results? Nay, they can only be ours through personal acquaintance with the living, loving Savior who never ceases to think of us, who helps and succors us in a thousand unsuspected ways, and whose cup of joy will never be full till He has us with Himself in His home of eternal love.
Patrick's prayer, when he was going to preach at Tara and expected to be persecuted, if not slain, may well be ours, not only in times of stress and difficulty, but at all times and under all circumstances. It was this: "May Christ be with me, Christ before me, Christ after me, Christ under me, Christ over me, Christ on my right hand, Christ on my left hand, Christ on this side, Christ on that side, Christ on my back... Christ in the eye of every person who looks upon me, Christ in the ear of everyone who hears me at Tara to-day.”
The Cloud and the Student
A WELL-KNOWN professor was lecturing one day before a large audience of medical students-some eighteen hundred men who pressed in to hear him. He took from his desk a letter, and holding it up before him, said something to this effect: "Gentlemen, I have here a letter from one of your number in which he tells the story of his life—a record of shame, of sinful indulgence—that makes me shudder even to look at the letter. At the close of this fearful confession, he asks, Can your God save such an one as I am?”
Stopping for a moment, and surveying his audience, the speaker said: "When I came to the city this afternoon there was a beautiful, fleecy cloud spreading itself like a thing of glory in the upper sky, and I said, ‘O cloud, where do you come from?' And the cloud answered me and said, 'I come from the slums and the low, vile places of the city. The sun of heaven reached down and lifted me up, and transfigured me with his shining.'”
Looking about upon the now deeply impressed throng, the speaker, after a solemn pause, said: “I do not know whether this young man is here or not, but if he is, I can say to him that my Savior and my Master, Jesus Christ, He who is our great God and Savior, can reach down from the highest heaven to the lowest depths into which a human soul can sink, and can lift you, lift you up till He shines in you and through you, and transfigures you with the light of His love and glory.”
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This story serves to illustrate how the Lord Jesus Christ saves a degraded sinner. And what sinner is there that is not degraded? For SIN is always degrading. Let none imagine, therefore, that he does not need a Savior because he may not have sunk so low in his own estimation as the student of our narrative.
Notice now two things in the professor's illustration of the fleecy cloud that was formed from the dirty water of the slums:—
1. A new position. The water, no longer lying in filthy puddles, was floating in the sky.
2. A new nature. Instead of being foul and dirty, it had become fair and "fleecy," an object to be admired.
Let us see how these two things help us to understand how the Savior blesses the sinner.
1. He gives us a new position with regard to God. Instead of standing as condemned criminals before Him, we are pardoned, justified, and made His children. We are brought from the place of banishment and distance, and "made nigh by the blood of Christ." We are rescued from the danger to which our sins exposed us, and saved, "not by works of righteousness which we have done, but according to His mercy.”
All this is true of the sinner who puts his faith in the Savior. Such an one need have no misgivings in his mind as to whether God can righteously treat him so mercifully. He need not argue that God's intolerance of sin would be a bar to such kindness and grace.
The argument would be a forcible one were it not for the fact that it has already been taken into account, and that all the requirements of God's righteousness have been met by the atoning sacrifice of Christ.
God cares for His own character, and by and by He will intervene in unsparing judgment, so that none may impute carelessness or indifference to Him in connection with His government of the world. "So that a man shall say, Verily, there is a reward for the righteous: verily He is a God that judgeth in the earth!" (Psa. 58:11).
But when Christ stood surety for us upon the cross, the stroke of judgment due to us fell upon Him. God's intolerance of sin was manifested, and the way cleared for His grace to pardon the sinner who accepts it, who takes refuge in Christ for salvation.
2. Not only is the sinner who believes in Christ brought into a new position with regard to God (and this in complete accord with His righteousness), but he receives a new nature. He is born again, as John 3:3 puts it: born anew by the sovereign operation of the Holy Spirit, using as His instrument the Word of God. This new nature implanted in the believer is in accord with the holiness of God, just as his new position is in accord with the righteousness of God. The new nature hates sin and loves what is of God. And the Holy Spirit, who indwells the believer, acts upon it, producing growth, and thus conforms him more and more to the likeness of Christ, so that others can take note of him that he is indeed born of God.
In saying this I do not for a moment suggest that no evil desires and no unholy thoughts ever find a place in the Christian's heart. To make such an assertion would be to contradict both Scripture and experience. While a new nature is given, the old remains incapable of improvement. It will be a source of continual trouble, ever ready as it is to re-assert itself, unless the Christian walks in the Spirit (Gal. 5:16). Walking in the Spirit means attending to the things which are the subject of the Spirit's testimony—the things of Christ. While these things exercise power over our souls, while they hold us captivated by their charm, "the flesh" (the old corrupt nature) has little power to act.
Thank God, in the day for which we look, the day of Christ's coming again, we shall be rid forever of the presence of "the flesh." Never again will our joy be disturbed by its intrusion. Then, indeed, we shall be like the fleecy cloud that won the professor's admiration.
Meanwhile let us gratefully remember:
1. That we have been brought to God, from the gutter of our sins, in a way that accords with perfect righteousness, by Him who "raiseth up the poor out of the dust, and lifteth up the beggar from the dunghill, to set them among princes, and to make them inherit the throne of glory" (1 Sam. 2:8).
2. That we have received a new nature, being born of God, and predestinated to be ultimately "conformed to the image of His Son" (Rom. 8:29).
What abundant cause for praise and rejoicing!
The Crowning Day That's Coming
MANY Christians are uncommonly fond of singing about themselves. When the hymn, "Our Lord is now rejected" is given out, they join gladly and vociferously in the chorus:
"Oh, the crowning day is coming!
Is coming by-and-by!”
Ask them whose crowning day is coming, and with a look of surprise they will say, as if no other answer were conceivable, "Why, our crowning, of course!”
No one doubts that a crowning day is coming for the Christian. The day of reward and honor will surely follow the present time of reproach and suffering. A crown of righteousness awaits all who love the Lord's appearing. The persecuted saints at Smyrna were cheered with the promise: "Be thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee a crown of life" (Rev. 2:10). The four-and-twenty elders of Rev. 4, representing, no doubt, the saints in heaven after their translation from earth, are described as wearing crowns of gold. Yes, the Christian's crowning day is most certainly coming.
Is it not good, however, to give Christ a place in our thoughts in this connection, and to sing the afore-mentioned hymn with reference to Him?
Does it not gladden our hearts to known that His crowning day is coming by-and-by?
It is true, of course, that He is already crowned with glory and honor in heaven. Heb. 2:9 tells us so. But it is not to this that I refer. The Scriptures affirm that the day will come when the One who was rejected and despised shall reign in triumph, and that the government of the world shall be upon His shoulder. Creation's crown shall deck His thorn-pierced brow. His pierced hand shall wield the scepter of the universe. He whose words of grace were once slighted and disbelieved shall give law to the nations.
Since God is righteous, this must be so. Could He allow the holy, devoted life of the One who, in infinite grace, took up a path of dependence and obedience, to pass unrequited and unacknowledged? If King Ahasuerus delighted to honor the man who had faithfully served him, will not the God of glory delight to heap honor upon Him whose meat was to do His will?
Think for a moment of what the earthly life of Christ must have been to the heart of God.
The engineer of the great Brooklyn Bridge was confined to his bed when it was in process of construction. Day by day, looking from his window, he saw its massive piers rise, and the network of cables skillfully formed. When it was finished, being asked what he thought of it, he replied, "It is exactly what I wanted it to be.”
May we not say that this is just how God regarded the devoted life of obedience and untiring service of His beloved Son upon earth? All that His heart desired that man should be, Christ was. Perfection was found in Him. Well might the heavens open, that God might proclaim His delight in His beloved Son. Who can tell what it must have been for Him to look down and see, for the first time in the world's history, a Man whose every desire was to do His will, who lived altogether for His pleasure?
Shall He not vindicate that holy life, so ruthlessly "taken from the earth?" Shall He not exalt, in the very scene of His rejection and humiliation, the One who so perfectly glorified His name? Assuredly He will do so. The crown will be bestowed upon Him "whose right it is" (Ezek. 21:27). Might and dominion shall be His. And He is worthy!
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What will that day, the "crowning day," mean for those who have shared the reproach and rejection of Christ? Let the answer be given in the very words of Scripture: "Joint-heirs with Christ; if so be that we suffer with Him, that we may be also glorified together" (Rom. 8:17). "If we suffer, we shall also reign with Him" (2 Tim. 2:12). "To him that overcometh will I grant to sit with Me in my throne" (Rev. 3:21).
When Agrippa, the grandson of Herod the Great, expressed a hope that Caligula might someday sit upon the imperial throne, the Emperor Tiberius, in his anger, threw him into a loathsome dungeon. There he languished as the weeks and months rolled slowly by. But when, in course of time, Caligula ascended the throne, he went in person to set the prisoner free. He robed Agrippa in royal purple and gave him a palace for his residence. He took the heavy chains which he had worn, and for every link of iron he gave him one of gold, of equal weight.
Even so will it be in the crowning day. When the King comes into His kingdom, not one who has borne loss and reproach for His sake will be forgotten. Rich will be the rewards that He will heap upon them.
“What a day will that be when the Savior appears!
How welcome to those who have shared in His cross!
A crown incorruptible then will be theirs,
A rich compensation for suffering and loss.”
The thought of this should lead us, in true loyalty to our rejected Lord, to refrain from seeking honor and popularity in the world.
At the coronation of a British king, the nobles in attendance wait till the crown is placed upon the monarch's head. Then, and not till then, do they place their coronets upon their own heads. It was a reproach to the Christians at Corinth that they were ante-dating the crowning day. They were already "reigning as kings" (1 Cor. 4:8). The apostles, on the contrary, were "made as the filth of the world," and "the offscouring of all things” (ver. 13). Surely, theirs was the better and truer portion. And theirs will be the brighter crown in the coming day of glory.
Godfrey de Bouillon, the Crusader, when named the first Christian king of Jerusalem, refused to wear a crown of gold in the place where his Say four had been crowned with thorns. God grant us more of this spirit.
What honor can possibly compare with the honor of sharing the triumph of Christ, and being mentioned by Him as having been faithful during the day of His rejection?
General Howard, one of the heroes of the American Civil War, said: "There was one proud day of my life, and that was when a vote of thanks was moved to me on the floor of Congress' for my stand at Gettysburg." And what will it be for the believer, now scorned and looked down upon as his Master was before him, to have his name mentioned in the presence of the assembled universe, and be acknowledged as Christ's in the crowning day? The Lord Himself has said: "Whosoever shall confess Me before men, him shall the Son of Man also confess before the angels of God" (Luke 12:8). Again, "He that overcometh. I will confess his name before My Father, and before His angels" (Rev. 3:5).
Who would not seek grace from God, then, to be an overcomer and to share in the glory of "the crowning day that's coming by-and-by?”
Dare to Be a Shammah!
“And the Philistines were gathered together into a troop, where was a piece of ground full of lentiles: and the people fled from the Philistines. But he stood in the midst of the ground, and defended it, and slew the Philistines: and the Lord wrought a great victory.”
(2 Sam. 23:11, 12)
DANIEL stood alone, prayed alone, and suffered alone. Great is the company of those who have been emboldened by his example and encouraged by his faithfulness. How often, like a fresh ozone—laden breeze from the ocean, the stirring words have come as a heaven-born tonic to a flagging and discouraged soul:
“Dare to be a Daniel,
Dare to stand alone,
Dare to have a purpose firm,
Dare to make it known.”
But God has given us more examples of devoted zeal and unflinching fortitude than that of Daniel. Have we not in the brief story of Shammah a fine incentive to courage and faithfulness? It cost Daniel much to pray and suffer; did it cost Shammah less to stand and fight?
The circumstances were these. The Philistines seemed to be having it very much their own way in the land of Israel. The position was similar to that which existed in Belgium under German occupation. The inhabitants of the country toiled, and the invaders reaped the fruit of their labors. They were on this occasion gathered in force to seize a crop of lentils—food for cattle in normal times, but now, no doubt, grown by the downtrodden Israelites for their own sustenance.
This was the opportunity for Shammah to stand forth as a man who had had enough of defeat! Others fled; he fought. Others took for granted that the yoke of Palestine oppression could not be thrown off; he determined to make a stand. A patch of lentils may not have been much to fight for, but it was part of the heritage of the sons of Israel, and the Philistines had no right to it. Shammah, trusting in the help of Israel's God, "stood in the midst of the ground, and defended it, and slew the Philistines; and the Lord wrought a great victory.”
Are there any among my readers whose life has been one long story of repeated defeat? You remember the earnest desires with which you started on your Christian course. How faithful and devoted you intended to be! How constant you were going to be in prayer; how watchful against temptation! What progress you were going to make! What victories you meant to win!
And the reality? Oh, how different from the bright anticipation! Failure seems to have dogged your footsteps almost from the start. Your fine intentions look now rather like a heap of ruins; your lofty plans have been dashed into fragments. The Philistines have found you an easy prey. Instead of singing the song of victory the dirge of defeat has been your frequent wail, until at last you have almost come to acquiesce in it, and to accept defeat as if nothing else were to be hoped for this side of heaven. What is left of your life is but "a patch of lentils," a sorry remnant of days which glowed with great expectations.
But, my brother, have you forgotten GOD? Does HE acquiesce in your discomfiture? Is there nothing better for you than this? Cannot He bring brighter and better days? With a strong cry for help to Him, leap to your feet! Dare to be a Shammah! Stand in the midst of the patch of lentils, sword in hand. Defend the remnant of your days from the defiling foot of the Philistine. Let the Lord of hosts work a great victory for you!
After the great fire which destroyed the larger part of Chicago, a man whose store had been burned down went to the place where the foundations still stood, marked now only by a heap of smoking ruins. Among these he cleared a space; on this he placed a table. He then fixed up a board on which he had painted these words: "Everything gone—except wife, children, and energy. Business resumed as usual to-morrow morning.”
Am I addressing any reader who feels as he contemplates his life, since he became a Christian, that he is standing amid a pile of ruins? His testimony, his home-life (regarded from the standpoint of what a Christian should be), a failure; his heart filled with bitter reflections? I have no doubt that many who read these lines may be thus described.
Brother! sister! All is not lost. Something may yet be saved from the wreckage, if only "a patch of lentils." Christ stands ready to come to your aid, and the remnant of your days may yet become the occasion for one of His great victories!
One of Napoleon's greatest victories was won on a field where the battle had been well-nigh lost. His troops had again and again been driven back, and it was late in the afternoon when Napoleon himself arrived upon the scene. Looking at the sun, already sinking towards the western horizon, he said: "There is just time to recover the day." And giving his orders with characteristic energy, he turned defeat into victory.
Dear aged brother or sister! you feel perhaps that your sun is near to setting; life's little day will soon be ended, leaving behind it a record of failure. Stay! there is time to recover the field! Be a Shammah! Stand in the midst of the lentil-patch of life that remains. Cry mightily to the Lord for aid, and let Him win one of His great victories in you. He will do it. The God of Shammah still lives. He who at Cana kept the best wine to the last can fill the closing days of His tried and way-worn saints with the brightest of cheer. The joy of the Lord shall be your strength. Satan, discomfited, will flee from you. And having proved the power of your Savior, enabling you to triumph over the Philistine even in the midst of a mere patch of lentils, you shall pass into the serene calm of His presence, to go no more out. From the lentil-patch to the Father's house! Lord, grant that it may be so with every one of us that has tasted the bitterness of defeat!
Foreword
In these pages the reader will find certain truths set forth in an illustrative manner. The illustrations are drawn from history, from travel, and every-day life. They are employed, not like plums in a pudding to please the palate, but like windows in a house, to let the light in, and to make clear what otherwise may be to some difficult to understand. May He who taught in parables graciously add His blessing.
The God of the Valleys
“The Syrians have said, The Lord is God of the hills, but He is not God of the valleys" (1 Kings 20:28).
OUR lives are made up of hills and valleys. We are not always standing upon the lofty summits of spiritual delight, nor always in the cloudless enjoyment of the presence of God. There are depths as well as heights, valleys as well as hill-tops in the Christian's life.
I do not refer to the changing experiences which seem to be the lot of many of God's children. Some days they feel happy, and their hearts are full of song and praise. But these bright seasons give place to dreary hours of depression when everything seems wrong. They have made fresh discoveries of the badness of their hearts; they have again suffered defeat in the conflict with the foe, and they are at a loss to know what the matter with them is. Will things ever be different? Are their steps to be always dogged by failure aid sin? And questions like these perhaps beget doubts as to God's love and goodness, or at all events, as to their relationship with Him.
But experiences of this kind are not really Christian experiences at all, though they are the experiences of many who are undoubtedly Christians. Under the Israelitish economy there was a special order of priests whose privilege it was to draw near to God, and minister to Him in connection with holy things. These, and the Levites, were set apart for Jehovah's service. The rest of the tribes consisted of just ordinary people who had their everyday avocations to attend to: "common people," as they were called (Lev. 4:27), in contrast to the priests.
The Christian combines in himself the functions of both these classes, for every believer now is a priest (Rev. 1:6), and as such may with boldness enter the place of God's presence (Heb. 10:19). But he is also one of the "common people" in that he has to do with secular things as well as with what is more distinctly the service of God.
My readers will, I think, understand what I mean. There are seasons when we are able to leave earthly things behind, and be entirely occupied with the things of God. We dwell in thought upon the love of Christ, and all that His love has wrought in order to make us His very own, and we turn to God as the Source and Spring of all our blessing, the One whose deep love moved Him to give His Son for us, and we worship Him. By the Spirit of His Son sent forth into our hearts, we cry, "Abba, Father." We know He has made us His sons, and that He loves us with a love that can only be measured by His love to Jesus (John 17:23). In the joy of that blessed relationship we draw near to Him. Our hearts range through the length and breadth of all that He has purposed for us, and we delight to think that we are destined to be conformed to the image of His Son, to be co-heirs with Christ, to dwell with Him forever.
These are sunny hill-tops indeed. These are the "high places" where our souls delight to walk. But we cannot always be there. There are the daily tasks to be performed, the daily bread to be won in shop or office, factory or field. Then there are the duties of the home, family responsibilities to be attended to, a thousand things that claim our care.
As God's "priests" we have to do with the holy things of the mountaintops; as "common people" we have to do with the ordinary affairs of life. These latter are what I refer to as the valleys of the Christian's pathway.
Now arises a question of supreme importance. Is our God the God of the valleys as well as of the hills? The Syrians of 901 B. C. said He was not. The enemy of A. D. 1919 says He is not. We are told that "business is business, and Christianity is Christianity," by which is meant that the two things must be kept entirely separate, as if our lives were built up in two water-tight compartments, and as if the God whom we know as the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, and in whose purposes of eternal love we rejoice, has nothing to do with our business, nor with the way we conduct it.
But is this so? Let us turn to the scripture cited at the beginning of this paper. The Israelites had just won a great victory over the Syrians. The latter could not understand why their vastly superior force should have met with such a defeat. The only explanation they could think of was that Israel's God was God of the hills. "Let us fight against them in the plain," said they, "and surely we shall be stronger than they" (ver. 23).
Now, of course, it is true that our God is the God of the hills, and maybe He has given us many a wonderful victory, as such. One of Satan's great objects is to deprive God's people of the enjoyment of their spiritual and heavenly blessings. He would occupy our minds exclusively with the earthly things. Many Christians, it is to be feared, know little of God as the God of the hills. They know something of His goodness and providential care in connection with the things of this life, but to speak to them of His holy love, His eternal counsels, all that He has purposed for Christ's glory, and for us, in and through Him, is a strange, unfamiliar language. The enemy has succeeded in blinding them to the highest and best of what is theirs to enjoy. They have never really won the victory over the Syrians on the hills.
There are those, however, who by God's grace have done so. They have appropriated in the energy of faith that heavenly land, and now they seek help of God that by means of the whole armor described in Eph. 6:13-17, they may in nowise be deprived of the fruits of the victory.
But is there not for such a very real danger in an opposite direction? What says the enemy, the Syrian of the twentieth century? If he has failed to gain the victory in connection with the high and holy things of God, he will attack us on the plains, in connection with ordinary affairs. "The Lord is God of the hills," he says, "but He is not God of the valleys." And the awful fact is that some Christians are ready to believe this saying of the Syrian foe!
He would persuade us to shut God out of our business life! "Business is business," he declares. Of course. But is business for the Christian the same thing as business for the worldling? Are his aims the same? Are his principles identical? Will not his methods be affected by his Christianity? Because a thing is "generally done," is the Christian to do it? Because certain questionable transactions are "usual," is the Christian to sanction them? What must be the condition of soul of him who would hesitate for a moment to give a wholehearted reply in the negative to these questions?
Yet there are Christian men who seem to be quite at home on the hill-tops amid the wonderful things of God, and can talk quite intelligently as to His purposes and counsels, yet excuse themselves for lack of strict integrity in commercial life with the plea that "business is business!" It is the Syrian lie: the Lord is "not God of the valleys.”
But He is, and He expects that we should acknowledge Him as such, and transact our affairs in His fear, and glorify Him in connection with our everyday lives, by shunning every method, every practice that His holy eye cannot approve.
What an unspeakable comfort it is to know that God is the God of the valleys as well as of the hills, and that we may speak freely to Him not only about His great and wonderful things, but about our own little, ordinary matters. What a relief to be able to consult Him in difficulty, to be supported by the assurance of His gracious care in times of stress, to put everything into His wise and loving hands when the burden seems greater than we can bear. Oh, how great a blessing is missed by those who do not walk with Him in their everyday business life!
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But there are deeper and darker valleys than those of our everyday life. Is God the God of these valleys too?
There is the valley of failing health. Things which we used to do with ease become a heavy burden. The hours of the day pass wearily by, only to be followed by nights of wakefulness and pain. Can God give us the victory in a valley like that? He can. He can make us feel the tenderness of the everlasting arms underneath us. He can turn days of weariness into seasons of unspeakable joy. Like a mother hushing her child to sleep with fond, loving words, He can soothe our chafed and murmuring spirits, and whisper words of wonderful comfort in our ears. With all the suffering He can give grace, not only to bear, but to glorify Him in it.
Then there is the still deeper, darker valley of bereavement. Is God the `God of that valley? Can He illumine that dark place with the light of His love?
Aye, that He can. He can draw near to us in such a way that we know the reality of His presence as never before. He can fill our sorrowing hearts with sweetest comfort.
How terrible the grief, in time of bereavement, of those who do not know God as the God of the valleys. The enemy takes occasion by their loss to sow seeds of distrust and rebellion in their hearts. And their sorrow remains without comfort. Some object of their love is torn from their embrace by the hand of death, and they stand in the presence of their loss—alone! No knowledge of divine love to lift their hearts above their sorrow; no sustaining grace to help them bear it. They know not the God of the valleys.
Be it ours, then, Christian reader, not only to walk with God upon our high places, as did Habakkuk of old (chap. 3:19), but to walk with Him also in the valleys. Some of the greatest victories recorded in Scripture were valley victories. The valley of Ajalon was the scene of Joshua's conquest of the five kings of the Amorites. The valley of Elah was the scene of David's triumph over the Philistine champion. And what valley can compare with that in which our Lord descended to deliver us from our sins and make us His own!
The greatest victories are to be won in connection with the valleys of our lives. God is there to help us win them, for, praise His name, He is the God of the valleys as well as of the hills!
in Remembrance of Me
WE naturally like to be remembered. It would pain us to know that our friends never think of us when we are absent from them. "My people no longer remember me," said a late Queen of the Belgians; "it is time to go." The words were the last she ever uttered. Her heart was broken by the forgetfulness of those who were dear to her. What sorrowful and pathetic words are those which close the narrative of the "little city" and its 'deliverer, in Eccles., chap. 9: "No man remembered that same poor man." The city had been in great danger. A mighty monarch had laid siege to it and had built fortifications round about it. There were no forces in the city that could withstand the besieging armies. But a certain man, poor and despised, wrought deliverance by his wisdom. The city was saved. No doubt the joy-bells clanged upon the Eastern air; no doubt there were ringing shouts of triumph. But what of the poor, wise man? Nobody thought of him. They owed their all to him, but he was completely forgotten. "No man remembered" him.
There is a parallel to this in the story of Joseph.
He had been able to render a great service to one of his fellow-prisoners. This man, Pharaoh's chief butler, was subsequently released, and restored to the royal favor. Before he left the precincts of the prison Joseph made a very simple request of him: "Think on me," he said, "when it shall be well with thee, and show kindness, I pray thee, unto me, and make mention of me." We should have thought that the chief butler would have been eager to grant this request. Evidently, however, other things took possession of his mind. It was well with him, and once again he moved in the high circles of the Egyptian court. "Yet did not the chief butler remember Joseph, but forgat him." Sad words, telling once again the story of human forgetfulness and ingratitude.
Has it ever struck you, Christian reader, that your Lord and Savior has made of you a request similar to that of Joseph? He does not want His people to forget Him. Why? Surely because He loves us so deeply! If we were not ever in His thoughts He might be indifferent as to our remembrance of Him. But the fact that He has expressed the desire that we should remember Him speaks volumes. It is an overwhelming proof of His love.
It is well that we should note the exact terms of His request. It was on the night when His familiar friend had lifted up his heel against Him and betrayed Him into the hands of those who sought His life. Gathering His loved disciples around Him, He partook with them of the Passover supper. This being finished, instead of rising at once from the table, He took bread, gave thanks, broke it, and handed it to the disciples, saying: "Take, eat... in remembrance of Me.”
Observe, that He does not say "in celebration of your blessing," or "in remembrance of the benefits conferred upon you," but "in remembrance of ME" (1 Cor. 11:24). He counts upon our grateful and loving remembrance of Himself.
How can we explain the indifference of many Christians to this touching request of their Lord? I can understand anyone saying, "There are so many sects and companies with divergent views, that I am puzzled where to go to join in the remembrance of the Lord Jesus." But it is difficult to understand that one who owes his all to Christ should be content to let the years slip by without being concerned as to partaking of the Lord's Supper at all! Does such an one understand that it is the way He Himself has appointed for His people to show that they do not forget Him, but cherish His memory and desire His company?
At a certain place, in the northern regions of Canada, where everything is frozen for the greater part of the year, some Christians had arranged to meet on one of the rare occasions when such a, meeting was possible. Their purpose was to partake of the Lord's Supper together. One aged Christian, from a place 275 miles distant, was present. He had trudged all those miles, absolutely alone, dependent upon his gun for food, in order to join in the remembrance of his Lord and Savior. He was not able to return by land; he had to strike right out onto the solid ice of Hudson's Bay. He went on; during the first day, and when night fell, wrapped himself in his deerskin cloak and lay down on the ice. The second night he did the same, and then got ashore and reached his home. That dear man had tramped 550 miles for the one purpose of remembering the Lord in His own appointed way in company with others like-minded. Should not such earnestness and love serve as a stimulus to our less zealous souls? Can we not look up into the face of our blessed Lord, and find a new meaning in the prophet's words, as we say: "O Lord... the desire of our soul is to thy name, and to the remembrance of Thee" (Isa. 26:8).
There is nothing that can so touch the heart anti renew the affections as this remembrance of the Lord Himself, in His undying love, proved at the cost of so much suffering. No wonder that those who most deeply value the privilege of gathering with others of "His own" for this remembrance, are often melted to tears as their thoughts are led afresh to the way He has expressed His love amid the darkness and woe of Calvary. A friend of the late Colonel Gardiner says: "Often have I had the pleasure to see that manly countenance softened... and to discern, in spite of all his efforts to conceal them, a stream of tears flowing down from his eyes, while directing them to those memorials of his Redeemer's love.”
And thus it may be with us. Our cold, forgetful hearts may be warmed; our affections renewed and fixed afresh on Christ, as we are gathered, even if only two or three in number, for the remembrance of Him. I do not in this paper refer to the order or method of it, or to anything connected with the subject save the object of the Supper, and the effect it should have upon the hearts of those who partake.
Miss Edgeworth relates, in one of her books, an anecdote of a Spanish artist who was engaged to depict on his canvas the never-to-be-forgotten scene of "The Last Supper." He put forth the utmost of his skill into every detail of the picture, and he placed in the foreground some chased cups of exquisite workmanship. When his friends came to see the painting, everyone said: "What beautiful cups!”
“Ah!" said the artist, "I have made a mistake; these cups divert the gaze from the Master!" And, his brush, he effaced them from the canvas.
So let it be with this paper: let it recall your thoughts, Christian reader, to your Lord and Savior. Let it appeal to you in His name. Let it awaken, or re-awaken, within you the desire to show, in this world, where He has been betrayed and set at naught, that you do not forget Him, but that you' prize His name, and cherish the remembrance of Himself.
The Name Underneath
LONG ago there lived in the land of Egypt an architect named Cnidius. He was employed by the Pharaoh of that day to build a watch-tower to warn mariners from certain dangerous rocks upon the coast. When the tower was nearly finished, Cnidius had his own name engraved on a stone in the wall, and then covered it with plaster. On the outside of the plaster he inscribed in golden letters the name of Pharaoh.
The cunning architect knew very well that as the years rolled by the waves would wash away the plaster, and that then his own name would stand out before the eyes of men, and be handed down to successive generations. His motive is apparent. Self-love and the desire for fame were uppermost in his heart, though carefully veiled under disguise of service to his king.
In the balances of the sanctuary motives weigh very heavily. Words and deeds are weighed, but motives, secret desires and intentions, the designs of the heart, outweigh them all; and at the judgment seat of Christ, when our lives are passed in review under His searching eye, motives will be of much account. “The fire shall try every man's work," and the Lord will take up the question with His servants as to "how much every man had gained by trading." But the question will not only be, "How much?" but, "Of what sort?" (1 Cor. 3:13.) The valuation in that day will be made according to quality as well as quantity. And the quality depends on the motives.
It is easy to be zealous of works that are called good," and to cover our activities with a coat of plaster whereon the name of "Christ" is inscribed in large letters that all may see. But what when the plaster covering is washed off? Whose name will then be seen? Will our own names appear engraved upon the stone that is behind the plaster? In other words, will our actions, our works, our deeds of service be found, "in that day," to have sprung from motives that will obtain the commendation of Christ, or from motives that have self as their object?
These are searching questions, and we shall do well to give them a place in our thoughts.
The Penknife, the Sack and the Egg
HOW many are deterred from coming to the Savior, or, at all events, from confessing Him as their Savior through fear of their inability to stand. Knowing something of their inherent weakness, and of the awful power with which the enemy can present his temptations, they hesitate to take upon them the holy name of Christ, lest by their subsequent conduct they should bring dishonor upon it.
While respecting such conscientiousness, I venture to suggest that it arises from ignorance as to two great facts. First, our own utter and absolute weakness; second, God's power and willingness to uphold us in the day of temptation. For if some little knowledge of our frailty leads us to regard the future as bristling with difficulties, the discovery of our complete lack of strength would cause us to regard it rather as full of impossibilities. We should then conclude that power to sustain us must come from outside ourselves altogether, that if we are to continue for a moment to stand, in the face of all the forces which Satan will marshal against us, it must be by the power of God.
See, I have a penknife, which I will try to stand on its end. The end is rounded and smooth, and I have set myself a—what kind of task? A difficult one? "No," you reply, "an impossible task. You can never make that penknife stand up on its end." Behold, then, the impossible task actually accomplished! The penknife is standing!
“But," you remark, "you are holding it!”
Of course I am. Did you think I was foolish enough to imagine that I could make it stand in any other way? That were indeed an impossibility. But to make it stand by holding it up is neither impossible nor difficult.
Let me now read you a line from Romans 14th chapter, containing a magnificent promise. You will find it in the fourth verse: "He shall be holden up; for God is able to make him stand." Of whom are such glorious words predicated? Look at the preceding verse, and you will see. It says, "God hath received him." Then of every one whom God has received (as the father in the parable received his repenting and returning son) it is stated that God is able to make him stand.
Can you find room for those misgivings which have tortured you, in the face of such words as these?
But we are not mere machines, nor does God treat us as such. If we are "kept by the power of God," it is through the exercise of faith on our part. We are told this in 1 Peter 1:5. And we need to know how God holds us up.
Come with me to yonder flour-mill. Do you see that heap of empty sacks in the corner? Take hold of one and try to make it stand up. What! You cannot. You say I am asking you to do an impossibility! No, no; ask the miller to make it stand, and to show you how he does it.
The miller takes the sack with a smile and holds it under the chute down which the white, newly ground flour is falling. Soon the sack is full. Now is there any difficulty in making it stand? No indeed, it stands by the weight of what it contains.
Learn then thereby, that in order to make us stand God feeds us and fills us with what will strengthen our souls. Christ is the food of His people. As we appropriate, by faith, His death in its far-reaching significance—a significance in which we are ever finding fresh depths—as we feast on His love and enter by the grace of the Holy Spirit into the enjoyment of those things which will be our everlasting portion, our souls are made strong. The joy of the Lord is our strength. The fullness of God's blessing satisfies our hearts. We look up to Christ with grateful and adoring eyes, and as we walk with Him, study Him, listen to His words, feed upon all that He is, we are "kept by the power of God" and can sing:
“Temptations lose their power
When THOU art nigh!”
But there is yet another means by which God holds us up. Do you see this egg? What will you say if I propose to make it stand on its end without my holding it? You may not say now that it is impossible, but is it not what you think?
See! I take it and give it a hard knock upon the table. The shell cracks and splinters. There is a dent at the end of the egg. On that dent I set it, and lo, it stands!
What a lesson lies here for us! It is by means of the hard knocks, the trials under which we groan, the times of adversity and sorrow, that God sometimes holds us up and makes us stand. Prone to be self-reliant, we have to learn that, like Mephibosheth, we are not only cripples when grace first reaches us, but cripples to the end of life's story. And of this God has to remind us again and again. His gracious hand is laid upon us in sore affliction: Why? Not because He is angry and is punishing us, but in order to break our self-reliance and stubborn wills; in order to save us from the fall that follows pride, through saving us from the pride that goes before the fall. Who would not then take these blows, these trials of faith, these infirmities and sorrows, with sincere thanksgiving, when we remember that thereby God fulfills His faithful promise: "He shall be holden up?”
Ramoth-Gilead, or Appropriation
And the king of Israel said unto his servants, Know ye that Bamoth in Gilead is ours, and we be still, and take it not out of the hand of the king of Syria?” (1 Kings 22:3.)
HOW much spiritual wealth there is that really belongs to us, but which we do not really possess." What a large extent of our inheritance we allow to remain un-appropriated. How many a Ramoth is truly ours, as far as title goes, but which is by no means ours when it is a question of enjoyment!
Spain, in the days of old, inscribed upon her coinage the motto, "Ne plus ultra," which means "Nothing beyond." She imagined that finality had been reached, and that no more territory remained to be explored and appropriated. Then came the discovery of America, and Spain lifted up her eyes and perceived her mistake. The motto on her coinage was changed to "Plus ultra"—"More beyond.”
Does any Christian reader of this book imagine that in being saved through faith in the Lord Jesus Christ he has reached the ultima thule of spiritual blessing? Is there no more territory to be possessed? Is the assurance of our eternal salvation the consummation of every hope, as far as present realization is concerned? Must we adopt Spain's ancient motto, and say, "There is nothing beyond,” or can we perceive, rising before us, heights of blessing yet to be possessed and enjoyed?
Ramoth-Gilead belonged to the children of Israel by a two-fold title.
Firstly, it was theirs by the gift of God. It was part of that goodly land which God had promised to their fathers, and which He bestowed upon them in the days of Joshua.
Secondly, it was theirs by conquest of Moses. He it was that took it out of the hand of the Amorites, and won it for the people of God's choice.
In the same way, every Christian blessing is ours by a twofold title. First, by the gift of God. He has "blessed us with all spiritual blessings in heavenly places in Christ" (Eph. 1:3). "His divine power hath given unto us all things that pertain unto life and godliness" (2 Peter 1:3).
But these things are also ours by the work of Christ. He laid the broad foundation of our blessing by His atoning sufferings upon the cross. By His death He opened the floodgates, that the stream of eternal love might reach us. By His finished work He won for us our everlasting inheritance.
It remains, however, for us to appropriate the wonderful and infinite blessings that are ours by the gift of God and the victory of Christ. When I speak in this way of "appropriation," I do not merely mean that we have to believe that all is ours. The Israelites, in Joshua's day, believed that the land of Canaan was theirs; they had no doubt that it all belonged to them. But it remained for them to go in and possess it, for it was only theirs in actual possession so far as the soles of their feet trod upon its soil (Josh. 1:3).
In order that we might appropriate, possess, and enjoy all the wealth of what is given to us by God, He has sent the Holy Spirit to dwell within us. The Spirit of God alone knows the things of God, and we have received Him that we might know (in the sense of conscious knowledge and enjoyed possession) the things that are freely given to us of God (1 Cor. 2:12).
Of course there are some things that we have no title to. These we cannot appropriate, any more than a visitor to the Tower of London could appropriate the Crown jewels. For instance, we have no title to deity. We shall never partake in that, nor share the Godhead glory of the Lord Jesus, though it will be our ineffable delight to behold it. Nor have we any title to the place and condition of angels. A man may sing as loudly as he pleases:
“I want to be an angel,
And with the angels stand;”
but it is impossible. It is not one of the things to which we have title, and which are for us to take possession of. There is much that is ours, however. We know it, but our knowledge does us little good, because we do not appropriate.
An Indian spy, who rendered valuable service to the United States Government during the Civil War, was rewarded by a certificate which entitled him to a yearly pension. When he received the certificate, he regarded it as a kind of charm, put a string through it, and wore it round his neck as long as he lived. But he never drew a dollar of his pension!
Do we not very often treat our spiritual blessings in this manner? We sing:
“Count your blessings, name them one by one,”
and we are able to make quite a long list of the things contained in our eternal inheritance: we know they are all ours, and yet they are of no more present use to us than the Indian's pension certificate was to him.
One may object that in our case it is not a certificate, not a promise of blessings, but the blessings themselves that are given. Very true; but suppose that the Indian, instead of having the certificate given to him, had been presented with the actual dollars. If, instead of using the money and getting present benefit from it, he had hidden it in a cupboard, and boasted of being the possessor of so much gold, his action would have strikingly resembled that of many Christians to-day. They read in the Scriptures that such and such a blessing belongs to the children of God. They are sure then that it is theirs. They look down, perhaps, on any of their fellow-believers who are not aware that so much wealth is theirs. They affirm to all and sundry that to them this great blessing belongs. And their words are true. It is all theirs. But this is not appropriation or conscious enjoyment.
In the scripture before us, the king of Israel could truly say, "Ramoth is ours." It was no doubt on the list of the cities that belonged to Israel; but the fact was, they were allowing the enemy to rob them of the present good of it. "Ramoth is ours," says the king, "and we be still and take it not.”
“Ramoth," be it remarked, means "Heights." In studying the meaning of names in Scripture, we must be careful not to give rein to our fancies, however. But without attaching undue importance to names, we may remark that the meaning of "Ramoth" suggests that there are heights of blessings and heights of privileges for us to consciously possess. By "blessings," we mean those things that are ours in connection with Christ—Forgiveness of sins, Deliverance from the power of Satan, Justification, Eternal Life, Membership of the body of Christ, Co-heirship with Him, Acceptance in Him as our place before God— all these are our blessings.
"Privileges" are things that are ours while on earth, but which do not necessarily continue forever, though some of them undoubtedly do. It is a great privilege to serve the Lord, and to be connected with the testimony of the gospel; a great privilege to have access to God in prayer, and to be able to enjoy sweet communion with Him. Are there not "heights" yet to be possessed in connection with such privileges as these? Are there not possibilities with regard to communion with God that make our hearts throb with intense longing as we contemplate them?
As we think of our many ineffectual and powerless prayers, do not heights stand out before our souls' vision yet to be scaled? How little we know practically of the effectual, fervent prayer that avails much! How far we oftentimes are from having "power with God" in our supplications! Then, as to service and testimony, do we not often resemble the toiling disciples who had nothing to show for their long night's fishing? Young Samuel, whose every word was as a well-directed shaft, seems to have reached a Ramoth " that lies far beyond us (1 Sam. 3:19). Alas, our words often resemble India-rubber balls flung against a wall, rather than arrows guided to their mark by the Holy Ghost.
But why should these Ramoths be un-appropriated and un-possessed?—Why? Our scripture suggests a reason. "We be still!" Lack of spiritual energy is often the cause. Love of ease and fear of hardship make us say, Oh, it is a day of small things, we must not expect too much. And so we go on our way apathetically, and we "take not" the heights of privilege that are ours in title, and might be ours in actual possession. Earthly pursuits and the cares of this life come in to hinder. Ah, how these days of rush and bustle hinder the Christian! There is difficulty in finding time to be alone with God, and like Samson, we lose our Nazariteship and get shorn of our power.
The University of Upsala, Sweden, has lately built a sound-proof room. Absolute freedom from outside noises is secured by a thick foundation of read and cement, and walls of felt, cork, and asbestos. The room is so quiet that one can hear the beating of one's heart and the creaking of one's muscles. In a spiritual sense, we need to get into room like that, away from the sounds that are falling upon our ears all day, away from the strife and turmoil of the world, away from the incessant babbling of tongues. With the hush of God's presence upon our souls, we need to get low before Him, search our hearts, humble ourselves, that we may gather spiritual energy for the taking of the Ramoths" that are ours.
That Terrible I
“I DON'T know what can be the matter with me; my heart seems as hard as a stone, and such wicked thoughts come into my mind sometimes. I can't help wondering whether I am really a child of God or not. And yet I am sure that I have trusted in Christ as my Savior. I well remember the day when I first rejoiced in knowing that my sins were forgiven.
“But something has come over me that I do not understand; it is all so different from what I expected. Have I made a mistake? Is it possible that I have not been truly converted at all?
“I hear people speak of being occupied with Christ.' I have tried to be occupied with Christ, but I cannot. It is of no use to try. I know what is right, but I seem always to be doing what is wrong. When I am in the company of Christian friends I feel as if I were a hypocrite. I hate myself for it all; but all my endeavors to be different end in failure.”
Does the language of your heart find an echo in this disconsolate plaint? Has an experience akin to that described been yours? Then you will welcome any help in getting to the root of the difficulty. The aim of this paper is to afford such help.
It is indeed true that the sinner who trusts in Christ may rejoice that his sins are forgiven, and this, not because of anything found in him, but for what Christ is for him. Nor has he merely his own feeling to rest upon. God's sure Word is the ground of his assurance, for that Word declares that "God, for Christ's sake, hath forgiven you," and that "all that believe are justified from all things." You will find these peace-giving words in Eph. 4:32 and Acts 13:39. They are true, no matter what you feel, and they apply in all their force to all who trust in the Savior.
But your difficulty lies elsewhere. You have been discovering that you yourself are hopelessly bad. Like David, your soul dwells with "him that hateth peace." You are for peace, but something within you is for war (Psa. 120:6, 7). With David, however, it was somebody else that was the plague of his life, but in your case it is yourself, your own treacherous heart.
Now in Scripture there is a special name given to this enemy, it is called "the flesh." Do not confound this with your body. Your body is one of flesh and blood, but the word is used in quite a different sense when referring to that of which we now speak. Your body belongs to the Lord; it is the temple of the Holy Ghost, and one day it will be changed and fashioned in the likeness of Christ's glorious body. "The flesh," on the contrary, is incurably bad. There is no blessing for it, nor can it ever be brought into subjection to God.
In the Old Testament there is a striking type of this evil thing; I mean Amalek, the first foe that came against Israel after their redemption from Egypt. God declared that He would have perpetual war with this wicked nation, and eventually all remembrance of it would be blotted out (Ex. 17:14, 16).
King Saul, however, in his day was of the opinion that some good thing might be found in Amalek, something that he might even offer as a sacrifice to God. Everything that was manifestly "vile and refuse" Saul and his servants utterly destroyed, but they spared "all that was good." It brought about Saul's utter overthrow. He spared a part of that which God had utterly condemned, and it was his ruin (1 Sam. 15).
Here lies a lesson of extreme importance. Nothing pertaining to "the flesh" is good in God's sight. Its manifestly evil works, such as those named in Gal. 5:19-21, we are ready enough to condemn, but there are other things towards which we are more tolerant. We say, "Oh, that does not matter;" or, "There is no harm in that." In this way we often do as King Saul so foolishly did, and spare "the flesh.”
It was formerly the fashion to leave in large gardens an uncultivated corner, in which wild plants might grow. Now-a- days the custom is not so general, for gardeners have found that the neglected patch becomes a breeding-place for creatures whose ravages do damage to the whole garden. In the same way, any tolerance of "the flesh" is disastrous. If, while refusing it in its grosser forms, we allow it in some plausible shape, we do but prepare a harvest of sorrow for ourselves.
Now it is not always easy to discern what is of the flesh "and what is not." The flesh," when clothed with the advantages of education, refinement, and natural ability, is often mistaken for that which is really good in the sight of God.
In bygone days it was extremely difficult to detect well-made imitation jewels. But since the Rontgen rays have been brought into general use the difficulty has been effectually overcome. A sensitized plate, encased in an envelope of orange color, and covered by three folds of heavy black paper, is the means employed. On one occasion, various kinds of precious stones, including diamonds, pearls, rubies, sapphires, and amethysts were mixed with the best imitation stones that could be procured. In the resulting photograph there was hardly a trace of the genuine jewels, while the false ones all came out dense black.
How valuable a test like this must prove to those who have the handling of such articles. We, too, have an infallible test whereby all that is of "the flesh" is exposed in its black and deadly character. The Word of God, we are told, is "a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart" (Heb. 4:12). That Word teaches us what is according to the nature of God, so that as we study it, and prayerfully meditate upon the truths that it proclaims, our spiritual perceptions become keener, and we are enabled to recognize "the flesh" in the conceit, the selfishness, and the love of praise which are natural to us, as well as in that which is more manifestly evil.
It is often a surprise and a shock to us to discover that what we took credit for, and prided ourselves epee, is nothing, after all, but a " work of the flesh.”
A lady traveler in Japan relates that as she and her companions stood one evening on the steps of their hotel, they heard a sound as if some bird was calling, "Me! me! me!" Not being acquainted with the Japanese name for this creature, they spoke of it as the "Me-bird." (Is there not a "me-bird" in the heart of many a Christian, always calling, "Me! me! me!" and longing for someone to caress it—a "me-bird" that never likes to see anyone else in front of it?)
The next day, on inquiry, they found that what they took to be a bird was only an insect which made that curious sound—"me! me! Me!"—with its wings. Perhaps some reader of these lines has been living a life of self-occupation and self-cultivation, thinking of it as of a bird with melodious song and rainbow-colored plumage, when in reality it is nothing but "the flesh.”
We find an illustration of this in connection with Amalek, the Old Testament type of "the flesh.”
A young man —AN AMALEKITE— fresh from the fatal field of Gilboa, where King Saul and the flower of Israel had fallen in battle, came running in breathless haste to David. Imagining that nothing would give David greater pleasure than to hear of the death of Saul, he boastfully claimed credit for having slain him.
Mark the description that he gives of the scene: "When he looked behind him, he saw ME, and called unto ME. And I answered, Here am I" (margin, Behold ME O. "SO I stood upon him, and slew him, because I was sure that he could not live after that he was fallen; and I took the crown that was upon his head" (2 Sam. 1:7-10).
The veracity of this young Amalekite is open to question. It seems that he claimed credit for doing more than he actually did. We know how "the flesh" loves to exaggerate any circumstance that will reflect glory upon oneself. But supposing his story to be strictly true, how different David's reception of it from that which the young man had anticipated. That which in his eyes was a thing to be boasted of, was in David's sight a thing to be utterly condemned, and for which the young man had to die.
The New Testament plainly declares that "the minding of the flesh" (Rom. 8:7, margin) "is enmity against God; for it is not subject to the law of God, neither indeed can be." "The flesh" is of no use whatever in the service of God. It is of no possible help to the Christian. It may thrust itself into God's service and assert itself in connection with Christianity, but there is nothing but judgment and doom for it. These, then, are the two great lessons we have to learn as to "the flesh":
To recognize its workings as of "the flesh," by the help of the Word of God.
To refuse all thought of its being of any use in God's service, or of any help to us in our Christian life and testimony.
Do you groan over the incorrigibleness of "the flesh"? Have you ever determined—perhaps by earnest prayer and fasting, accompanied by a diligent watch upon your actions—to put an end forever to the trouble it gives you? Have you tried this—and with what success? I know your answer—the only possible one that an honest soul can give—all your efforts have ended in failure and disappointment!
“Then," you ask, "is my life to be one long, weary, disappointing struggle? Is there no deliverance for me?”
Indeed there is, but it must be in God's way, not in yours. Your way would be to get rid of "the flesh" at one stroke, so that there would be no traitor within you, nothing to plague you with its incorrigible evil. But God's way is to put within you something else, and to give you, in connection with that new thing, a wonderful Power that is far greater than the power that energizes "the flesh.”
What He imparts is a new life and nature, of which He Himself is the blessed source; and the Power that He gives to dwell within you is nothing less than the Holy Spirit Himself.
The new life and nature is yours as born of God. No taint of sin can ever attach thereto, and no evil desire can ever spring therefrom. The Holy Spirit within you is the power by which you enjoy the things of God. He carries you, in thought, away from yourself and your failures, and fixes your mind upon Christ. By His divine aid you discover the matchless worth and perfection of that blessed One, and your heart is enchanted. Your joy, your occupation, your very life, is now wrapped up with Him.
So long as you keep your eye on Him, all is well. But "the flesh" has undergone no change. The fact of your having a new nature has not improved the old. Nor can there be any peace between the Spirit and the flesh. Just as God declared perpetual war with Amalek, so "the flesh lusteth against the Spirit, and the Spirit against the flesh: and these are contrary the one to the other" (Gal. 5:17).
The way of practical deliverance from the domination of the flesh is to "walk in the Spirit." "This I say then, walk in the Spirit, and ye shall not fulfill the lust of the flesh." There is no other way of practical deliverance than this. But, thank God, it is a way open to every Christian until the moment that the Lord comes, and we are forever rid of "the flesh" and all its crooked ways. May He hasten the day!
The Three Weathervanes; or, Faith, Hope, and Love
AGAIN and again in Scripture, particularly in the epistles of Paul, we find the three Christian graces, as they are sometimes called, in close companionship. Instances of this may be found in Corinthians, Colossians, Thessalonians, and the epistles to Timothy. But we need not go further for the purpose than the opening verses of that grand evangelic chapter, the fifth of Romans. Here we read of the FAITH that justifies and brings us into the present favor of God; the HOPE which fills us with joy and with bright anticipations; and the LOVE, commended to us in the fact that Christ died on our behalf, and is now shed abroad in our hears by the Holy Ghost.
In these pages we shall examine some of the reasons why the faith of Christians to-day is not more constant; why hope does not gaze with a more steadfast and unwavering eye upon the future, and why love, divine, infinite as it is, is not better understood and appreciated.
1. Faith
During a recent visit to the city of Seville, Spain, our attention was directed to the famous cathedral tower, surmounted at the height of 350 feet by the gigantic figure of a woman. This figure, chough weighing nearly three tons, is yet so finely balanced that it turns at the slightest breeze, and thus serves the purpose of a weathervane. Upon inquiry we were informed that the statue is supposed to represent Faith, and that many a jest is current in other parts of Spain at the expense of the good people of Seville for having chosen a weathervane to represent a virtue which should be, above all things, constant.
The tower, upon the summit of which the figure revolves, was built hundreds of years ago, and was then surmounted, not by a weathervane, but by an immense iron globe plated with burnished gold, which is said to have reflected the sun's beams so brilliantly as almost to rival the sun itself!
Surely the burnished globe is a far more fitting symbol of faith than the weathervane. For the globe, in receiving the rays that fell upon it, was transformed into the likeness of the sun. Faith receives the revelation that God has been pleased to give of His grace, the shining of His glory in the face of Jesus Christ; she sets her seal to it, and thus the sinner is transformed into a Christian—the child of wrath into a child of God.
But however aptly the globe with its cover of burnished gold may symbolize true faith, it is to be feared that the faith of many rather resembles the fickle weathervane.
A woman and her little daughter attended a gospel meeting one Sunday evening. The preacher dwelt upon the fact that assurance of salvation is the privilege of the believer, and that it comes by a simple reliance upon the Word of God. He read the thirty-ninth verse of Acts 13: "By Him all that believe are justified from all things," and observed that this was not Paul's opinion but the Word of God. Whether it be felt or realized is not the question. The point is, what God says. Our hearts may say, "If you were truly justified you would feel different, and because you don't feel different, therefore you are not justified." But "God is greater than our heart and knoweth all things," and He says that believers "are justified." He that trusteth his heart is a fool; but he that stakes his confidence upon a plain statement of the Word of God is a true child of wisdom.
All this fell like gracious balm from heaven upon the distressed, repentant soul of the poor woman. For she had claimed the Savior as her own; she had knelt by her bedside and with tearful eye had confessed that she was a sinner indeed, with no hope but Christ and the precious blood He had shed for her. She, then, was one of the "all that believe," and to her those glorious words applied, "are justified from all things.”
No wonder the words framed themselves into song in her happy heart; no wonder joy and peace expressed themselves upon her face, so much so that the little girl trotting home from the meeting by her mother's side remarked: "Mamma, you do look glad to-night.”
“Yes, dearie, your poor mamma is very, very glad.”
“What are you so glad about?" said the child.
“Why, because I'm ‘justified from all things.' Didn't you hear how the preacher explained it?”
“But how do you know?" continued the little questioner.
“It says so in the Bible. And the Bible is God's Word. It says, 'All that believe are justified,' and your mamma is one that believes in Jesus. So, you see, it's quite true.”
With childlike faith and simplicity the little girl believed what her mother told her. She believed her mother's word, as her mother had believed God's Word, and rejoiced also. The humble cottage was a home of joy that night, as mother and child read over the golden words together, "All that believe are justified from all things.”
Monday came, with its cares and toil. And this particular Monday seemed to be a day of special worry. Everything went wrong. The poor woman, burdened and weary, felt altogether upset. A feeling of despondency crept over her. "Surely, I should not be feeling like this if I were really justified from all things," she thought. "I wonder if, after all, I made a mistake last night." And her faith, like the statue on the cathedral tower of Seville, swung round to the north as the bleak wind of trial and disappointment came sweeping upon her.
And thus her little daughter found her as she came bouncing in from school. Astonished at the sad look upon her mother's face, she asked: "Mamma, what is the matter? Why aren't you glad? Aren't you ‘justified from all things'?”
“Oh, I don't know; I don't know what to think. I don't feel to-day as I did yesterday.”
The child said nothing, but went to the side-table where a Bible lay, and opened it. The place where "the beautiful text" was, had a marker between its leaves. The text itself was marked by a pencil line, and on the page were some watermarks—marks made by the falling of tears of joy and thankfulness.
Eagerly the little girl looked at the now familiar passage. Then, Bible in hand, she ran back to her mother.
“Mamma," she said, "Don't cry. Look! Here it is in the Bible, as it was on Sunday. So you're still `justified from all things.' Aren't you, mamma?”
The child had taught her mother a lesson. God's Word was as true amid the cares of Monday as amid the bright privileges of Sunday; as true when the heart is burdened and oppressed as when it raises a song of grateful praise; as true when we feel despondent as when our feelings are everything we could wish. Blessed be God for this!
Let not our faith, then, be like the weathervane on the tower, swinging round in response to every wind that blows. Rather let it resemble the burnished gold that received the sunbeams and reflected them, so that all who looked upon it could see that it dwelt in the sunshine.
2. Hope
On a certain village steeple there is a weathervane which, though it has nothing remarkable about it, became an object of profound interest to a little boy. His father had promised to take him to the seaside on the following day, if the weather should be fine. And, he added, "It will probably be fine if the wind keeps in the south.”
From that moment Charlie's mind was on which way the wind was blowing. He lost his interest in games and books, and sat by the window watching the weathervane on the old steeple. If it swung to the east or the west, or veered round towards the north, Charlie felt despondent and ready to cry. If it steadied itself towards the south, he was in great delight, for that, according to his father's word, would probably mean a fine day to-morrow, and an early start for the coast.
That was the little lad's hope. We, too, who belong to Christ, have a hope, "that blessed hope," as it is called in Titus 2:13. Given to us in greater detail in other passages (notably 1 Thess. 4:13-18 and 1 Cor. 15:51-54), this hope may be briefly stated as the expectation of the Christian that the Lord Jesus Christ will come again—first into the air, to gather to Himself all who are His, whether alive or dead, and subsequently to reign with His saints over the earth for a thousand years.
In apostolic times, the weathervane of expectation pointed steadily in the direction of the promised advent. Converted pagans flung their idols on the rubbish-heap. Not only did they serve the living and true God, but they also waited for His Son from heaven (1 Thess. 1:10). And, this, as we might expect, produced a marked effect in their life and conduct, for "every man that hath this hope in Him purifieth himself, even as He is pure" (1 John 3:3).
Years passed, and the weathervane began to oscillate. It no longer pointed steadily and constantly in the direction of the Church's wonderful and unique hope. "Evil servants" arose, who said, "My Lord delayeth His coming," and Christians began to have their minds more and more in the affairs of earth, until the "bishops" of the Church vied with the princes of the empire in wealth and pomp and pageantry. Even godly, earnest men forgot that the Christian's immediate hope is, or should be, the joyful anticipation of being absent from the body, present with the Lord. Thinking of the grave was more characteristic than looking up to heaven.
Centuries rolled by, and the weathervane swung round once more to its original direction. With astonished hearts men began again to use the watchword of the early Church, "Maranatha!"—
"The Lord is coming!" They searched the Scriptures with wonder at their own short-sightedness in having overlooked or misread the passages, emphatic in their declarations and unmistakable in their meaning, which speak of the Lord's coming. On all sides the "midnight cry" was heard, and to thousands of rejoicing souls the forgotten hope became once more a real and living hope.
But, sad to say, men have deliberately attempted to tamper with the weathervane. They have, as it were, furtively laid their hand upon it and turned it in various directions.
There are some who turn it round to face the past, and tell us that the Lord has already come; that He came at the destruction of Jerusalem in the first century, and that no other coming is to be looked for.
Others turn the weathervane in the direction of certain events which, say they, must take place before the Lord comes; such events as the preaching of the gospel of the kingdom to all nations, the re-gathering of Israel to the land of promise, etc. Some would have us believe that Antichrist will first come, and that the Church must pass through that great tribulation, from which the Lord has declared that He will save her (Rev. 3:10).
But when the Scriptures alone are our guide, and they are read with some understanding of the remarkable and unique place that the Church has in the purpose of God, the weathervane of its hope steadfastly turns in the direction of the Lord's coming for His people, and leads us to live from day to day in the hope of "meeting Him in the air.”
3. Love
It may seem a strange thing to say, but I say it after considerable thought, and some years of experience in talking to people of all kinds, that there is hardly anything so little understood by Christians generally as the love of God.
When I say "the love of God," I do not mean His love to the world, His love for those who have sinned against Him with hard hearts and a high hand. That love is beyond all comprehension—too great, too utterly stupendous for mere words to set it forth. I refer rather to that special love which God has to us as His children, the Father's love to those who belong to His dear Son.
Would it be too sweeping an assertion if I were to say that ninety-nine Christians out of every hundred connect the love of God with His goodness toward them, His daily care for them, the many mercies He has showered upon them? Do you doubt it? Then put the matter to the test. Take a bundle of gospel booklets, and when you have a holiday, visit some of the streets in your neighborhood. Go from door to door with your gospel papers, and wherever you find a Christian, ask him how he knows that God loves him.
If he replies, "God loves everybody," point out the distinction to which I have already referred, between God's love to the world and His love to His own people, and ask again, How do you know that God loves you? If I am not much mistaken, in a large proportion of cases you will receive a reply something like this: "Well, God has been very good to me: He has brought me through many a trial, and though I have had many ups and downs, yet here I am to-day, still trusting and still following.”
Perhaps some reader of these lines is rather astonished that one should regard such a reply as anything but very right and good. Well, we do not find fault with it: we thank God for all the causes He gives us to speak of His delivering mercies in times of trial, and of His abundant goodness and constant care. But, I ask, what about those who have not been delivered in the hour of their trouble?
A Christian, who intended to go from Europe to America by the ill-fated Titanic, but prevented by some unforeseen event, took it as a great proof of God's love that He allowed that event to hinder him from taking that vessel. But what about the Christians who were not thus providentially hindered, who did take that vessel, and who went down with her in mid-ocean? Were not they equally the objects of God's love?
God has mercifully and providentially intervened in times of persecution and distress on behalf of one and another of His poor troubled people. The readers of such a book as A Thousand Miles of Miracle, will be at no loss to quote instances of this. On the other hand, numbers were not delivered; no miracle “of providential mercy was wrought on their behalf. They were left to be cruelly slaughtered by their savage persecutors. Did not God love them as much as those that He was pleased to succor and deliver?
The mercies which we enjoy every day, and which we are accustomed sometimes to speak of as "our common mercies," were often denied to the apostle Paul. He knew what it was to lack food and clothing, to have no roof over his head, and to go from day to day in danger of his life (1 Cor. 4:11). Did not God love Paul?
Let me go further. Let me speak for a moment of Him who came from eternal riches to be poor from love for us. He was acquainted with grief; worse off than the foxes with their forest lairs and the birds with their roosting-places. He had not where to lay His head. Others could go to their own homes, while He spent the night on the lone mountain side (John 7:53; 8:1). Mercies which you and I take as matters of course were withheld from Him. Why? Was He not ever the worthy object of His Father's infinite and everlasting love? Ay, that He was. Then why the poverty, suffering, grief, during His lifetime on earth, when it was no question of making atonement?
Mark the answer: Because the Father's love does not express itself in the form of earthly and temporal mercies, or, at least, is not to be measured by them, though He may give us many, and we may rightly take them all from His gracious, loving hand. God is good to all His creatures. He bestows His mercies on the unconverted as well as upon those who belong to Christ (Matt. 5:45).
And this brings me to our third weathervane. It is the well-known story of Charles H. Spurgeon's visit to a Christian farmer. I was relating it to a God-fearing widow by whose fireside I was sitting. She had been passing through sore and bitter trial, and the enemy had taken advantage of this to sow in her heart the seeds of distrust and doubt. She felt that God had forgotten her; that, at all events, His love was not such a reality towards her as towards others.
So I told her of Mr. Spurgeon's visit to the farmer, and of his inquiry when he noticed that in the place of the usual bird, or fish, or arrow, a text, "God is love," had been placed upon the old barn as a weathervane.
“Do you mean to suggest by that," he asked, "that God's love is as changeable as the wind?”
“Nay, nay," replied the farmer, "my meaning is that GOD IS LOVE, whichever way the wind blows!”
This is the lesson we need to lay to heart. We must in no wise measure God's love by our circumstances. The gentle breezes from the south may blow upon us, bringing ease and prosperity; or the biting blasts may sweep down from the frozen north, bringing trials, grief, suffering, and disappointment. But nothing changes the love of God. The grand truth is that He loves us as He loves His Son. Wonderful words! and they are true; for read the precious words for yourself in John 17:23. It is the Son of God, our Lord Jesus Christ who says them.
Thou... hast loved them, as Thou hast loved Me!”
How did the Father express His love to His Son when here on earth? He expresses His love to you and me in the same way. His face always shines with radiant delight upon His beloved Son; and His face always shines with the same delight upon us!
Let us pause and worship! It is not because of anything in us, but because we are Christ's—we in Him and He in us—that we are the objects of such love.
Lying before me on the table is a picture cut from an illustrated paper. It is the photo of a small hotel in Arizona. Stretched across the full width of the building, above the door, is a long board bearing the words:
"FREE BOARD EVERY DAY THE SUN DOESN'T SHINE.”
If an unwary traveler should enter the hotel on some gloomy day and demand a meal, free of charge, on the strength of this inscription, he would, of course, be blandly asked by the proprietor: "Why, sir, do you imagine that the sun has ceased to shine? It may be gloomy here, but the sun is shining in all its glorious brightness!”
And so with us. We might make the most extravagant promises for the day upon which the sun of God's love does not shine. For such a day will never be. In winter as in summer, on dark days as on bright ones, the Father's love to us abides in its infinite greatness, because His love to His Son remains the same.
Twentieth Century Jethros
IF this book does not fall into the hands of some twentieth century Jethro, it will be very surprising. For, in almost every city and village throughout Christendom, such are to be found.
Speaking of them after the manner of men, they are generally excellent folks, courteous, liberal, of good repute among their neighbors, well disposed towards all. There is much to be said in their favor. But they are Jethros. Let me explain what I mean.
In the account of Jethro, in Ex. 18, we find that:
1. Jethro was sincerely glad to hear of a good work going on among other people. Moses told him the story of God's gracious dealings with the people of Israel; how He had delivered them from the cruel bondage of Egypt, and had marvelously provided for their need in the wilderness. "And Jethro rejoiced for all the goodness which the Lord had done to Israel.”
2. Jethro could give very wise counsel as to how God's work should be done. He saw that Moses was bearing too heavy a burden, and suggested to him that he should share it with others. Able, God-fearing, truth-loving men were to be selected, who should share the judicial responsibilities of the great law-giver, and relieve him of all concern as to the minor matters that might call for a decision.
3: Jethro was kind and hospitable to his relatives. It is uncertain whether he was the father-in-law or the brother-in-law of Moses. The Hebrew word "khothen," in verse 1, may mean either. But whether Zipporah was his daughter or his sister, Jethro kindly took charge of her and her two sons under his hospitable roof while Moses was away in Egypt, seeking the deliverance of Israel.
While all this was true of Jethro, it was also true that he refrained from fully identifying himself with the people of God. He took no part in their conflicts with their enemies, nor in their wilderness exercises. He acknowledged the greatness and supremacy of the true God (ver. 11), but never rose to the height of His glorious purpose for the people of His choice.
It was not for want of opportunity. Probably Jethro was the brother of Hobab, of whom we read in Num. 10. Some think that Hobab and Jethro were two names of the same man. In any case, he is likely to have received the same urgent invitation from Moses: "We are journeying unto the place of which the Lord said, I will give it you, come thou with us and we will do these good." Hobab's reply was a deliberate negative: "I will not go; but I will depart to mine own land, and to my kindred" (Num. 10:29, 30).
If Jethro, in Ex. 18, did not so emphatically refuse to accompany the people of God, his action spoke loudly enough that he had no desire to be a participator with them in the prospect God set before them. "He went his way into his own land" (ver. 27).
It is to be feared that there are many to-day who bear a striking resemblance to Jethro. In spite of their many excellent qualities, they fail to rise to the height of God's purpose for His people. They apprehend but feebly the nature of the calling wherewith they are called. Their appreciation of the heavenly relationships in which Christians are set is small indeed, and they give a very secondary place to the wonderful portion that belongs to the Church, the body and bride of Christ. They may rejoice to hear of the prosperity of the Lord's work in their own locality, or in regions beyond the seas, but when one speaks to them of God's wonderful purpose for us, and of our heavenly calling, there is little response. They are not practically "strangers and pilgrims" on earth. They do not throw themselves whole-heartedly into the wilderness conflicts which are the experience of those who seek to appropriate, in the energy of the Spirit of God, the heavenly portion of the Church. As a result, they know little of that priceless treasure, with the reproach of Christ which, in Moses' reckoning, was "greater riches" than all the wealth of Egypt.
Dear Christian reader, are these things of which I speak great in your eyes? or are they of secondary importance? Do you apprehend anything of the purpose of God to have us "conformed to the image of His Son," and that we should be His dwelling-place, for His own pleasure, for all eternity? How much greater is this than merely “going to heaven.”
Do you lay it to heart that the calling of the people of God is a heavenly one, and that we are not left in the world for a while in order to throw ourselves into the current of its ambitions and pursuits (even with the best of motives), but that we may be altogether apart from it in spirit, while serving the interests of Christ as His ambassadors in it?
Are you prepared, by the help of the Lord, to take up the pathway suitable to one whose calling is heavenly, and whose citizenship is in heaven (Phil. 3:20)? Do you value the place that is yours as a member of the body of Christ, united to Him, our glorious Head, by the indwelling of the Holy Spirit? Do you appreciate the prospect before you as part of the bride of Christ—that "pearl of great price" for which He sold His all to make it His own? Carry these questions into the presence of God, and seek grace from Him to keep you from being a Twentieth Century Jethro.
Why?
Why is it that God does not always intervene for His people when they are in trouble?
IT may help us to answer this question if we recall what is said to have happened at the battle of Crtcy. Edward, the Black Prince, a youth of eighteen years, led the van of the English army. The king, his father, stood with a strong force upon a hill at some little distance from the field of conflict, in readiness to send relief when needed.
The young prince, being sharply charged by the enemy's cavalry, and finding himself in some danger, sent to his father for help. As the king delayed to send it, another messenger was dispatched to crave immediate assistance.
The king bade the messenger return with this message: "Go, tell my son that I am not so inexperienced a commander as not to know when help is wanted, nor so careless a father as not to send it." He intended that the honor of the day should be his son's, and therefore left him in a situation where his courage could be displayed, though ever ready to send help if real necessity arose.
In the light of this incident, consider the watchful; care of God over His children amid the struggles of their lives. With His Word to guide us, with our Savior interceding on our behalf in heaven, with the Holy Spirit's abiding presence with us, we are by no means resource-less. Are we surrounded by seas of trouble? Does danger threaten on the right hand and on the left? Is our way hedged in so that we can discern no path to follow? Are we tempted to despair? Let us remember that God our Father is looking on. He never withdraws His eyes from us. He waits to see what we shall do; He gives us the opportunity to overcome. He would have us Make use of the vast resources He has placed at our disposal.
Would we not rather have it so than have our difficulties removed by divine power? Would not direct intervention by God oft-times rob us of true blessing Let the thought of His constant care and Watchfulness brace us up to quit ourselves like men, and to be "strong in the Lord, and in the power of His might" Victory will then be ours, whether our ever-gracious God and Father sees well to intervene directly on our behalf or not.