04.06. Volume 3 contd
Sowing Seeds of Light
Psa 97:11 "Light is sown for the righteous; and gladness for the upright in heart."
LIGHT is one of the commonest words in the Bible. It means cheer, joy, life; whatever is bright and beautiful. Christ is light. We are to walk in the light of holiness. We are to shine as lights. Light is promised in all our darkness—if we follow Christ. Gladness, too, is a word we all understand. It is the absence of sorrow, it is satisfaction, it is pleasure, happiness.
There is nothing remarkable in the assurance of light and gladness for the righteous and the upright in heart. That is the teaching of the whole Bible. The ways of holiness—are the ways of peace. The remarkable thing in this promise is the way the light and gladness are said to come to us.
"Light is sown." The figure of sowing is striking—light coming in seeds planted like wheat, or like flower seeds. Our blessings are sown for us—to grow up in fields and gardens, and we gather them as we reap our harvests or pluck lovely flowers. That is, our good things do not come to us full-grown—but as seeds. The figure of seed is common in the Bible as applied in a spiritual way. God’s Words are seeds; sown in hearts’ soil, they grow up into plants of beauty. Acts are seeds. "Whatever a man sows—that shall he also reap." Here the figure seems natural. But it is remarkable to read of light being sown—that God sows light in the form of seeds in life’s furrows, and that we have to cultivate them and harvest them.
There is a deep meaning in the figure. We know what seed is. It contains only in germ the plant, the tree, or the flower which is to be. It is in this way—that all earthly life begins. When God wants to give an oak to the forest, He does not set out a great tree full-grown; He plants an acorn. When He would have a harvest of golden wheat waving on the field, He does not work a miracle and have it spring up over night—He puts into the farmer’s hand a bushel of wheat grains to scatter in his furrows. The same law holds in the moral and spiritual life. "The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed, which a man took and planted in his field. Though it is the smallest of all your seeds, yet when it grows, it is the largest of garden plants and becomes a tree." So a godly life—begins in a little seed, a mere point of life. It is at first only a thought, a suggestion, a desire, a holy purpose. "Being born again, not of corruptible seed—but of incorruptible, by the Word of God, which lives and abides." The picture here in Psalm 97, is of God sowing light and gladness for us. He gives us blessings as seeds which He buries in the furrows of our lives—so that they may grow in due time and develop into beauty and fruitfulness. When you look at a seed—you do not see all the splendor of life which will unfold from it at length. All you see, perhaps, is a little brown and unsightly hull, which gives no prophecy of the beauty that will spring from it when it is planted, and dies, and grows up.
Many of the seeds of life—came first as unwelcome things. They did not shine as beams of radiant light. They were not glad things. They may have been burdens, disappointments, sufferings, losses. But they were seeds, with life in them. God was sowing light and gladness for you—in these experiences which were so hard to endure.
Think of the way Christ sowed light and gladness for men—in His life on the earth. What was He doing in those beautiful years of His, in those days of sharp temptation, in those hours of suffering? "Behold, a sower went forth to sow." He was sowing seeds of light and gladness, the blessing of whose brightness and joy we are receiving now. The tears that fell at Bethany, and on Olivet’s brow; the blood-drops that trickled from the cross on Golgotha—these all were seeds of light sown to give peace, joy, comfort, and life—along these centuries of Christian faith. Or think of the promises of God in the Bible—as seeds of light sown in the fields of the Holy Word. Deserts are made to blossom as the rose, wherever the sower goes forth to sow. One of these seeds of promise falls into an unblessed home—and it is changed from hatred, bitterness, strife, jealousy—to a place of gentleness, love, kindness, song. Every divine promise is a seed of light. Take it into your heart and it shines there, changing everything into beauty. Or take another class of illustration. Every duty given to us is a seed of light, which God has sown for us. Many of us do not like duty. A good woman, speaking of something which someone was urging her to do and which she was trying to evade, said, "I suppose it must be my duty—but I hate it so." Ofttimes our duties at first seem distasteful, even repulsive. They have no attraction for us. But when we accept them and do them—they are transformed. We begin to see the good in them, the blessing to ourselves, the help to others. Seeds are sometimes dark and rough as we look at them—but when they are planted, there springs up a beautiful tree or a flower. Just so, disagreeable tasks when done—appear bright and glad.
One tells of a rustic picture in common life, which heartens humdrum lives. It shows a poor, discouraged-looking horse in a treadmill. Round and round he tramps in the hot, dusty ring—not weary so much of the toil—but more of its endlessness and its seeming fruitlessness. But there is more of the picture. The horse was harnessed to a beam from which a rope reached down the hill to the river’s edge, and there it was seen that the horse was hoisting stones, and helping to build a great bridge on which by and by trains would run, carrying freight of lives. This transformed the horse’s treadmill tramping into something worthwhile. There are people, men and women, in workshops, in homes, in trades, in the professions, who grow weary of the drudgery, the routine, the self-denial, with never a word of praise, of commendation. But if we could see what these unhonoured toils, struggles, and self-denials accomplish; the blessings they carry to others; the bridges they help to build, on which others cross to better things—the drudgery, the hard work, the self-sacrifice would appear in new light, and the picture would be transformed. It is in these commonplace tasks, these lowly services, that we find our life’s true beauty and glory.
Every duty, however unwelcome, is a seed of light. To evade it or neglect it—is to miss a blessing; to faithfully do it—is to have the rough seed burst into beauty, in the heart of the doer. We are continually coming up to stern and severe things, and often we are tempted to decline doing them. If we yield to such temptations, we shall reap no joy from God’s sowing of light for us; but if we take up the hard task, whatever it is, and do it—we shall find blessing. Every duty—is a seed of light.
Again, God sows His seeds of light and gladness in the providences of our lives. Sometimes, indeed, we cannot see anything beautiful in them, or anything good. Many of the providences in our lives—come to us first in forbidding form. They come to us as losses, sufferings, disappointments. Yet they are seeds of light, and in due time the light will break out. "No chastening for the present seems to be joyous—but grievous: nevertheless afterward it yields the peaceable fruit of righteousness." The light is hidden and at first does not shine out; yet in the end it is manifested. This is the key to life’s sorrows. They appear destructive at first—but afterwards light shines out in them. We dread adversity—but when its work is finished, we find that we are enriched in heart and life. We do not receive with confidence the hard things that come to us; afterwards we learn that there were blessings in them. So it is in all of life. God is ever bringing to us good, never evil. He is a sower. He goes before us and scatters the furrows full of seeds of light. It is not visible light that He sows—but dull seeds, carrying hidden in them the secret of light. Then at the right time—the light breaks forth and our way is made bright. There is not a single dark spot in our path, if only we are living righteously. There are places which seem dark as we approach them. We are afraid, and ask, "How can I get through this point of gloom?" But when we come to it, the light shines out and it is radiant as day.
According to the legend, our first parent was in great dread—as the first evening of his life approached. The sun was about to sink away below the horizon. He trembled at the thought of the disaster which would follow. But the sun went down silently, and lo! ten thousand stars flashed out! The darkness revealed far more than it hid. So for every darkness in our life, God has stars of light ready to shine. Everywhere guidance is ready—when we do not know the way; comfort—when we are in sorrow; strength—when we are weak and faint.
We need never dread hardness, for it is in the things that are hard—that the seeds of light are hidden. The best things never are the easiest things. The best men are not grown in luxury and self-indulgence. We dread crosses—but it is only in cross-bearing that we find life’s real treasures. He who saves his life—shall lose it; but he who loses his life for Christ—saves it. In every cross God hides the seeds of light; accept the cross, take it up, and the light will shine out. The darkest spot that earth ever saw—was about the cross of Christ the day that Jesus hung there. There were no stars to be seen. Not a gleam of light was visible. But today the cross is the brightest, most glorious place in all the world!
Take the picture into your heart—this world is a great field on which God has sown light and gladness. There is not anywhere, a path in which these seeds of light are not hidden, and where they will not grow up and pour out their brightness at the moment of need. God does not mean that we shall ever be in darkness.
Then, God wants us also to be sowers, everyone of us, every day, wherever we go. The question is, What kind of seeds do we sow? The Master in one of His little stories, tells us of an enemy, who, after the farmer had scattered good seed on his field—came stealthily and sowed tares among the wheat. What seed did you sow yesterday? Did you plant only pure thoughts, good thoughts, holy thoughts, gentle, loving thoughts—in the little gardens of people’s lives where you sowed? It is a fearful thing for anyone to put an evil thought into the mind of another. It is a fearful thing for anyone to let a debasing thought into his own heart. A sower went forth to sow. He sowed only good seed. We have seen how God sows seeds of light and seeds of gladness everywhere. That is what He wants every one of us also to do. He wants us to make the world brighter, happier. Some people do neither. Many sow gloom, shadow, discouragement, wherever they go. They sow sadness, pain, grief. If we are this sort of sower—we are missing our mission, and disappointing our Lord.
Think of one who, wherever he goes, sows seeds of light and gladness. His life is pure, for only clean hands can sow seeds of light. He is a friend of men—as his Master was. He does not love himself—he never thinks of himself. He never seeks his own ease. He never spares himself when any other one needs his service. He wishes only to do good to others, to make them better, to make them gladder. No matter how others treat him—he keeps on loving them. He will go miles to be kind to one who has been unkind to him, to show a favor to one who has treated him ungraciously. He is ever sowing seeds of light. The home he visits is brighter for months, just because he was there. The words he said that day never are forgotten. The little things he did are remembered and leave a fragrance that will never depart. Shall we not all go out every morning, to repeat our Master’s sowing everywhere? Let us be just, paying our debts of love; let us be more than just, giving more than we owe. Let us go two miles—when one would be enough. Let us be sowers of light and gladness. Thus shall we fill the world—with light and love. A Call to Praise
Psa 103:1 "Bless the LORD, O my soul: and all that is within me, bless his holy name!"
These is not a single sad note in all this Psalm—it is all joy. There is not a sentence of petition in the Psalm—it is all praise. And have you noticed that there are in the Bible very many more calls to praise—than to prayer? There is a great deal also about prayer—it is the very breath of spiritual life. By prayer we come in touch with God. The man who does not pray—cuts himself off from God. Prayer is essential. There are many words about prayer in the Bible. We are to pray without ceasing. A day without prayer—is a day of peril. Yet it is to be noticed—that praise is pressed as a duty even more repeatedly than prayer. The Book of Psalms is full of calls to praise. All creatures are called to praise God. Then the last word in the book sums up in one sentence, the theme of all the one hundred and fifty Psalms. "Let everything that has breath, praise the Lord!" And not only things that have breath—but things as well that do not breathe, "Praise the LORD from the earth, you creatures of the ocean depths, fire and hail, snow and storm, wind and weather that obey him, mountains and all hills, fruit trees and all cedars, wild animals and all livestock, reptiles and birds" Psa 148:7-10. Even animals which are not supposed to have souls, not to have a spiritual nature, seem to have in them a spirit of gratitude which leads them to remember favors and kindnesses and express their gratified feelings in unmistakable ways. The Psalm pictures a godly man, seeking to wake up his heart and life to praise. "All that is within me, bless his holy name." Think of all that is within you, all the powers of mind, the powers of heart, the powers of service. Think of all the bodily powers and functions, all the mental gifts and capacities, all the possibilities of love and of helpfulness. He calls upon his soul to awake and pour out all its song. Every power of his being—he would wake up to praise.
Praise is the highest function of life. The ancients said that the angel of praise, was the greatest of all the angels. We never can reach the best possibilities of our nature, until all that is within us unites in praising God. Think of the reasons why we ought to praise God. Some of the reasons are given in this Psalm: "Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits." How often we do forget God’s benefits! What benefits has God bestowed upon us? Here are some of them: "Who forgives all your iniquities; who heals all your diseases; who redeems your life from destruction; who crowns you with loving-kindness and tender mercies."
These are only a few of the benefits which God bestows. The New Testament brings a new revealing. Jesus was the first to tell us that God is our Father. This name shows us the divine heart. He is our Father—and we are His children. Can we but praise a God to whom we owe such blessings?
Yet listen any day—the fairest day of the year, the day when the sun shines brightest and the sky is the bluest—to the complainings, the murmurings, the repinings of the people you meet. Often those who have the most reasons for praise, complain the most. In the morning they complain about the night, its heat or its cold, its noise or its loneliness, its pain or its wakefulness. In the evening they complain of the day’s toil and their weariness, the annoyances, the disappointments, the frets, the unreasonable people they have had to meet. It seems that almost nothing goes well with them. The habit of discontent has grown so strong in them—that they are never altogether pleased with anything. In the most perfect circumstances, they can find some flaws. In the loveliest picture, they always see something to object to, to criticize, something to complain of. No matter what the weather is, there is always something disagreeable about it. The person you are commending is of unexceptional character. His life is beautiful. He has done great good in the community. But when his qualities are extolled and his noble service declared, the complainer brings up some "but" —something that seems to derogate from the nobleness, the excellence, the good reputation of your friend. The trouble with such people—is that they look always for flaws and specks. They do not wish to find the beautiful things, and of course they never do find them.
What these complaining people need, is not better circumstances, more good things, all things made different to suit their tastes—what they need, the only thing that will really cure them of their miserable habit of grumbling and unhappiness, is a new heart, being born again, with a contented spirit, ears that will bring the voice from heaven to them, not as thunder—but as the music of an angel. What they need is a thanksgiving spirit, a praising spirit. Then they will look for the good, and not the evil—in the things around them. The fact is, there are a thousand beautiful things in any outlook on life you may have—to one unpleasant thing. Find the loving things—and do not look at all on the bit of marring. Then you would easily forget the one little thorn—in the great mass of roses. The trouble is, however, with too many, that they think only of the thorn, the one small defect or flaw, or discomfort, and forget altogether the roses, the thousand rich and gracious and blessed favors. "Forget not all his benefits," runs the lesson—but this is the very thing they do—they forget all God’s wonderful mercies, the countless blessings that flood their days with sunshine and strew their nights with stars. An hour’s pain, even a moment’s twinge of suffering, blots out the memory of a whole year of health.
There is a legend of two particular angels that come out from heaven every morning and go on their errand all the day. One is the angel of prayer—and the other the angel of thanksgiving. Each carries a great basket. Everybody pours into it an armful of requests. But when the day is ended the angel of thanksgiving has only two or three little words of gratitude in his basket. This is not a caricature. Most of us do more or less praying—but it is nearly all the unloading of our burdens, our fears, our needs, our clamourous requests for favors—with only here and there a feeble word of thanks for blessings received. Watch the prayers you hear others make—is there much thanksgiving? Watch your own praying—what proportion of it is request, asking, beseeching, and what proportion praise?
Some ingenious gatherer of statistics tells us that in a certain year many thousands of letters reached the Dead Letter Office in Washington before Christmas, from children, addressed to Santa Claus—but that a whole month after Christmas—only one letter came to Santa Claus with a message of thanks. Ten lepers were cleansed, all receiving the same great blessing—but only one of them returned to thank the Healer. Where were the nine?
We need to think seriously of this matter. We are pitifully lacking in gratitude. Thanksgiving languishes on our lips. Some of us do little but complain. Nothing altogether pleases us. We have no eyes for the good things of divine love—which really flood our lives.
Take another line of this thought of praise. We will never grow to be very fine workmen in any department of life, to amount to much among men, or to reach much beauty of character, until we get this quality of praise into our heart and life. It is said of a great artist, that he always held a lyre in his hand while he painted. Music inspired his art. This was one of the secrets, of his superb work as an artist—his heart was glad and praising. No one can do his best work—with a sad heart. If you are in sorrow, another’s grief will not comfort you. He who would come to you as an uplifter must have joy to bring you. It would be well if all of us—if we would learn to hold a harp in one hand as we work with the other. Our work, whatever it is, would be better done. "The joy of the Lord is your strength," said Nehemiah to his people when he found them weeping and exhorted them to a better life. They must dry their tears—if they would reach anything noble and beautiful.
It is always so. No sad life ever reached its best possibilities. The men who have done the noblest and worthiest things, who have achieved the most, whose work shines as most beautiful and radiant—sang while they wrought. Pessimism has never done any lovely things; only he who works with a song adds to the brightness and beauty of the world. Gloomy people are perverting their powers, growing thorns instead of roses. The joyless man is a misanthrope. He makes it harder for other people to live, makes them less strong to bear their burdens. He chills the ardor—which he ought to kindle to a redder glow. He is a discourager of every man he meets. The hopeless pessimist is a traitor to his fellows—he is their enemy. He does them harm. On the other hand, he who lives with a song on his lips—is a blessing to everyone he meets. He does better work himself, paints more beautiful pictures, is a better teacher, a better lawyer, a better merchant, an infinitely better physician. No man should ever go into a sick room as a doctor—who has not music in his heart. No man ever can be fit to be a preacher—who is not a joyous man, a praising man. The word of the physician and the preacher is spoken among those who are suffering, those who have fears and anxieties, those who need cheer, courage, hope; and only those who know the joy of Christ can help others to overcome. The emblem of Christian life is light—and light means joy, praise. Some people used to think that gloom was an essential quality of religion. The man who smiled on Sunday, desecrated the holy day. He who was glad-hearted in worship, was irreverent. Laughter was thought to be a sin. It is said there was an ancient law which banished roses from Jerusalem. But there really is no piety in long-facedness. Christ did not wear a long face—but one that always shone. Jesus said He would have His joy fulfilled in His followers. If you would become a beautiful Christian, you must be a joyous Christian. Joy is always lovely. It shines. It is fragrant. It makes the air brighter and sweeter. It is a wondrous inspirer of life. You can do twice as much work when you are glad and praising—as when you are gloomy, downcast; and you can do it twice as well. The other day one told of starting out sad and heavy-hearted in the morning, with no song, no hope, no praise, not a thought of gladness in the heart. Everything dragged. There seemed nothing worth living for. Circumstances were most distressing. There appeared only blackness before the eyes. Then suddenly, unexpectedly, something happened which changed all the outlook. Light broke in upon the gloom. The friend said that if an angel of God had come into the dreadful tangle—with light and song—the effect could not have been more marvelous. It was joy that came, and the joy changed everything. Does all that is within us, bless the Lord? Is every chord of the heart full of music? Is the harp within us awake? Is the song rising continually from our lips? Let us take with us everywhere, the lesson of praise. A writer tells of a boy who was sunny and brave, as many boys are. This boy had met the ills of life, which too many people regard as almost tragedies, with nobleness and courage. But one day something serious happened. He and a playmate climbed a tree. Just when our little philosopher reached the top, his foot slipped and he fell to the ground. He lay there—but uttered no cry. It was his playmate that screamed. The doctor found his leg and hip badly broken. The boy bore the setting patiently, without a whimper. The mother slipped out of the room to hide her own tears; she couldn’t stand it as well as her boy did. She heard a faint sound from the room where he was lying, and hurried back, almost hoping to find him crying.
"My boy," she said, "do you want something? I thought I heard you call."
"Oh no, mother," he said, "I didn’t call; I just thought I’d try singing a bit." And he went on with the song. When you have pain, or struggle, or a heavy load, or a great anguish—don’t complain, don’t cry out, don’t sink down in despair, don’t be afraid—try singing a bit!
Forgetting His Benefits
Psa 103:2 "Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits!"
Every part of our being should join in praising God. The song of praise we sing—should not be a solo, a duet, or even a quartet—but a full chorus, the feelings, the affections, the mental powers, the tastes, the desires—all mingling in harmony and praise. There are some who praise with their voices—but not with their hearts. Others give intellectual worship, while their affections are not engaged. Others give emotional praise—but their wills and consciences do not join in the song; they have good feelings—but lack in practical obediences and in devotion to duty. Some sing missionary hymns with zest—but give nothing to missionary work Some sing consecration hymns—and then live selfishly and worldly. There is no heavenly music in such singing. The true way—is to arouse every faculty and energy and power and affection—to hearty, enthusiastic, practical praise.
"Forget not all his benefits." Many people have excellent memories for troubles, adversities, losses, and sorrows—but cannot remember the mercies and blessings of their lives. It is very unfortunate to have such defective memories. Suppose God would forget us for a time, and fail to provide for our daily needs, and fail to send us His ordinary gifts for a whole day, or even for an hour—how sore a misfortune it would be! Yet we forget continually that our blessings come from Him. We take them for granted, and never think of the Giver!
Sometimes we do not think of God for hours together. Yet there is never a moment when God is not thinking of us, and providing for us. Perhaps if there were some break in the flow of blessings—we would learn to be more thankful. The very unbroken continuity of God’s gifts makes us oblivious to them. Someone kept a book for a daily record of blessings. It would be a good thing for all of us to do. Surely this matter is important. We think others are very ungrateful, who forget our little kindnesses to them. Must we not judge ourselves by the same judgment, in relation to God’s goodness!
"Who forgives all your iniquities; who heals all your diseases." What an enumeration of divine blessings; and what blessings they are, too—in this and the following verses! They are all blessings, too, which the world cannot give. Any one of them is worth more than all earth’s treasures combined! If we are not forgiven—we must rest forever under the curse of sin, a weight greater than all the Alps; but God forgives, and forgives all our sins, and forgives fully and forever! If we are not healed—we must be sick forever, sick with the plague and leprosy of sin; but God heals, and heals all our diseases, heals completely. If we are not saved from the destructive dangers of this world—we never can reach heaven; but God keeps, rescues, redeems our life.
Earth’s crowns are made of thorns, and at the best, are only what the children call "play-crowns," for they are only made of leaves that wither, or of gold and gems that fire will destroy; but God crowns His people with crowns of loving-kindness and tender mercies, which are real and radiant, which shall never fade—but shall shine forever, becoming crowns of eternal life and glory in heaven. This world cannot satisfy a heart’s cravings! Its possessions only make the hunger more intense; but God satisfies the souls of His people, meets all their cravings and hungers. These are some of the things for which we have to praise God.
"The Lord is merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and plenteous in mercy." The prodigal’s father waited years in love—how slow to anger! and then ran to meet his returning son—how quick in mercy! Is this not a true picture of God’s treatment of us? He is slow to anger—but quick to show mercy.
"He will not always accuse, nor will he harbor his anger forever." These are wonderful pictures of the way God forgives. The best human forgiveness is very imperfect. Men forgive—but they often "chide" and "harbor resentment." They say that they "forgive, but cannot forget;" they keep the memory of the wrong always in their hearts, never forgetting, even while showing us favors, that once we injured them. The old memories of wrongs block up the channel of love—as old wrecks block up a river, arresting its flow. But God does not chide nor harbor anger. His heart is like the smooth lake which the driving keel cleaves—but which soon becomes calm and placid again, retaining no mark or trace of the crude furrowing. He puts away our sins—as far as the east is from the west, that is, infinitely. This was taught in the ancient ceremony of the scapegoat. One goat was killed and its blood sprinkled before God; this meant the atonement of Christ by which our forgiveness is procured. The other goat then, after the priest had confessed over its head the people’s sins, was led away out of sight, into the wilderness, and let loose, never to return again; thus bearing away sins to an infinite distance, so that they could never come back again to disturb those who had been forgiven. There is a wonderful passage in Jeremiah which reads: "In those days, at that time," declares the LORD, "search will be made for Israel’s guilt, but there will be none, and for the sins of Judah, but none will be found, for I will forgive the remnant I spare."
"Like as a father pities his children—so the Lord pities those who fear him." This is one of the most wonderful verses in the Bible. It brings God very near to us. It shows us His heart. He is not cold and far removed from us in feeling, indifferent to our sufferings, stern and severe in His judgment upon us. Rather, He is full of pity, like a human father in his pity toward his children. The best commentary on these words is Christ’s own life. See Him moved with compassion for the sick, the lepers, the sorrowing, the sinful, the fallen; weeping by a grave at Bethany, deeply touched at Nain as He saw the widowed mother following her only son to the grave; weeping again over Jerusalem because the people would not repent and receive Him. All this is commentary on this precious verse.
"For he knows our frame; he remembers that we are dust." God does not treat us as if we were strong and perfect and unfallen. He does not forget that we are weak, that it is hard for us in our fallen condition to live right, that we are easily tempted and overcome. Therefore, He is very patient and gentle with us when we have sinned—binding up the wounds, restoring the soul. We ought to get a great deal of comfort out of these words.
You say you are so weak—that you cannot resist temptation. Yes, and God knows all about it. You are weary and worn out through trouble or burden-bearing—but God knows all about it. You find your work very hard, and cannot see how you are ever to get through with it; but God knows. He knows your frailty; He remembers that you are only dust. He is pitiful and compassionate, and always gives needed help. There is immeasurable comfort in the knowledge that Christ lived through the whole gamut of human life and experience. He knows all about temptation, for He was tempted in all points like as we are. He knows all about sorrow, for He was acquainted with grief. He is touched with the feeling of our infirmities, for He was tried in every way in which we are tried.
"As for man, his days are like grass, he flourishes like a flower of the field; the wind blows over it and it is gone, and its place remembers it no more." A dear young friend has just brought to my table a cluster of beautiful flowers. They charm my eye, and their fragrance fills my room. But tomorrow they will be withered and dead, and I shall be compelled to put them out of my sight. So it is with human lives. They may be very lovely and sweet—but soon they are gone, and there is only a memory left behind. As we think of this we grow sad, and ask, "What is there that is abiding!"
Above our heads is the blue sky, and when night comes the brilliant stars look down and say, "We do not fade." We have shone upon all the passing generations of men, and still are bright as ever." There is comfort in that—there is something at least which does not pass away in a day. But here is something better still: "But from everlasting to everlasting the LORD’s love is with those who fear him!" The love of God is from everlasting to everlasting. Here is a bosom, then, on which we may lean and know that our repose shall never be disturbed. Would you be safe eternally! Rest your hopes on God’s everlasting love, and not on any frail thing of earth!
"To those who keep his covenant and remember to obey his precepts." All God’s promises and blessings have conditions. We have something to do—to get them. Here the condition is obedience. There is a covenant, and it has two sides. There is not the slightest doubt about God’s faithfulness. He will do His part. But we have a part to do, too. It is to those who obey His commandments, that the love of the Lord is from everlasting to everlasting. It is important to remember the commandments—but this is not enough. A great many people remember them and can repeat them verbatim—who do not obey them. The stress of emphasis is on the word "obey." So if we want to claim and secure the blessings here promised—we must be sure that we do our part and fulfill the conditions of God’s covenant of grace. If this Psalm is a palace of love, here in this verse is the beautiful gate by which all must enter in, who would enjoy its rich gladness and blessedness.
Speak out Your Message
Psa 107:2 "Let the redeemed of the LORD say so!"
There is a duly of keeping silent. There are times when we would better not say anything. There come thoughts and feelings into our hearts, which we would better not speak out. There are moments when silence is golden. But there is also a duty of speech. God has given us our tongues to be used. The world needs the true words that lie within our lips. There are times when silence would be ingratitude, even disloyalty. "Let the redeemed of the Lord say so!"
If God has redeemed us, how can we but "say so"? It is disloyal for us to hide in our heart, the wonderful story of what God has done for us. Our Lord was hurt by the action of the nine lepers who had been healed by Him and did not return to give praise to God. One came back—a Samaritan, and then Jesus asked, "Where are the other nine?" We ought to give God our gratitude, when He has blessed us. Rescue from danger, recovery from sickness, the restoration of a friend from death’s door, deliverance from trouble, prosperity in business, kindness shown at large cost which has brought great good—our lives are full of the goodness and loving-kindness of God. Surely there ought to be a great deal of praise in our life. "Let the redeemed of the Lord say so!" But to say it to God in the secrecy of our closet of prayer, is not enough. We ought to tell others that God has redeemed us. We owe it to Him to honor His name among men. Then we owe it to our fellows, also, to let them know what God has done for us. They have needs, trials, hungers—just like those in which God has comforted us; shall we not tell them where we were consoled in our sorrow, where we found companionship in our loneliness, friendship in our heart-hunger, deliverance in our temptation, guidance in our bewilderment and perplexity—that they may find the same in their like need? "Let the redeemed of the Lord say so!"
Then, God gives us messages to carry to others. He puts into the heart of every one of His creatures, something which He wants that creature to utter to the world. He puts into the star a message of light—you look up into the heavens at night and the star gives you its message. Who knows what a blessing the star may be to a weary traveler who finds his way by it, or to the sick man lying by his window, and in his sleeplessness looking up at the glimmering point of light in the calm, deep heaven. God gives to a flower a message of beauty and sweetness, and for its brief life it tells out its message to all who can read it. Who can count up the good that even a flower may do, as it blooms in the garden, or as it is carried into the sick room, or into the cheerless chamber of poverty?
Especially does God give to every human life a message to deliver. To one it is some new scientific revelation. To the poet God gives thoughts of beauty which he is to interpret to the world—and the world is richer, sweeter, and better for hearing his messages. Think what we owe to the men and women who along the centuries have given forth their songs of hope, cheer, comfort, and inspiration! To every one of us—God gives something that He wants us to say to others. We cannot all write poems, or books which shall bless men; but if we live near the heart of Christ, there is no one of us into whose ear He will not whisper some fragment of truth, some revealing of grace and love, or to whom He will not give some experience of comfort in sorrow, some new glimpse of glory.
God forms a personal friendship with each one of His faithful children, and each one learns something from Him, which no other one ever has learned. Your message is not the same as mine; it is God’s own word to you, and you are His prophet to foretell it to the world. "Let the redeemed of the Lord say so!"
If only one of the flowers that blooms in the summer days in the fields and gardens refused to bloom, hiding its gift of beauty—the world would be poorer and less lovely than it is. If but one of the myriad stars in the heavens refused to shine, keeping its beam of light locked in its breast, the nights will be a little darker than they are. And every human life that fails to hear its message, or fails to speak it out, keeping it hidden in the silence of the heart—leaves this earth poorer. But every life, even the lowliest, that learns of God and then speaks out its message—adds something to the world’s blessing and beauty.
Live near to God—that He may speak to you out of His own heart, the word He would have you tell again to others. Then be sure you speak it out. "What I tell you in the dark—speak in the daylight; what is whispered in your ear—proclaim from the roofs." "Let the redeemed of the Lord say so!"
Again, we ought to let the gladness of our heart utter itself. I say the gladness. There is something very strange in the tendency which seems so common in human lives—to hide the gladness, and tell out the misery. If you will, for one week, keep an account of what the people you meet say to you, even in their shortest greetings, I think you will find that a large proportion of them will not say anything that is cheerful and happy—but much that is dreary and disheartening. They will speak of the discouragements in their business, the hardships in their occupation, the troubles in their various duties, and all the manifold miseries, real and imagined, that have fallen to their lot. But they will have very little to say of their prosperities, their health, their mercies, favors, blessings.
Yet it is of this latter class of experiences, that the world ought to hear the most. In the first place, we do not have half so many woes—as some of us imagine we have. We have a hundred mercies—to one misery. God makes this world just a little rough for most of us—to keep us from settling down in it as a final home of perfect contentment. But He does not want us to complain forever about the roughness. That is neither loyal nor brave—and it is not beautiful. We have no right to add to the world’s burdens—by unloading our worries and frets into every ear we find open! There is no text that says, "Let the redeemed of the Lord tell everybody all their troubles, vexations, frets, and anxieties!"
It would be a far sweeter service to the world—if we were to speak only of our gladness, remembering the loving-kindness of the Lord, telling of the pleasant things of our life, and not uttering our woes. There is always a bright side. There is always something beautiful in the most painful or repulsive condition or circumstances; would it not be better for us to find that—and speak of it, keeping silent as to the painful or repulsive features?
Again, there is a large field of opportunities for saying so—when the words will do great good to others. This is true especially of the expression of kindly feelings, the utterance of encouragements, comforts, inspirations. Many of us are altogether too stingy with such words. We have the good thought in our heart—but we do not say it! Some people boast of their honesty, in saying what they think. That is very well—so long as they think only nobly, charitably, generously, lovingly. But saying what one thinks, means ofttimes speaking rashly, impulsively, cruelly, in the flashes of anger and bad temper—and then the words are not wise nor good. "As well say them—as think them," someone replies. No! thinking harsh or unkind things hurts you—but saying unkind things hurt others! A moment later you will repent, too, of the bitter thoughts, and if they have not been spoken—you will be most thankful that they were not.
One told of being very angry after enduring a bitter wrong, and then of writing a letter to the person who had done the wrong, into which all the anger was poured. The words were like fire. His conscience whispered, however, "Do not send the letter until morning." And it was never sent, and the friend has never ceased to thank God that it was not. It was all a terrible misunderstanding, and the two are the best of friends again. The redeemed of the Lord should not speak harsh, uncharitable, hurtful words, which will only give needless pain, break hearts, sunder friendships, and which can never be unsaid! But we should speak out our good thoughts and feelings on every occasion. Some people fail to do this. Some seem to have the impression that the utterance of kindly words, however well deserved, is a sort of weak and unworthy flattery. But it is not, if the words are sincere and true.
Thackeray says, "Never lose an opportunity of saying a kind word." Then he tells of an English nobleman who always carried his pocket full of acorns, and whenever he saw a bare or vacant place in his estate, he would plant one. Just so, whenever we see a person whose life is sad, or who is discouraged, we should drop a pleasant, loving word into his heart. It will grow into beauty. "An acorn costs nothing—but it may sprout into a prodigious bit of timber." Kind words cost nothing—but they may mean a great deal in the way of blessing and good. Your neighbor is in sorrow. The shutters are closed for days, as a loved one hovers between life and death; and then the death-crape on the door tells that death has conquered, and that the home is darkened. You want to help. Your heart is full of sympathy. But you do nothing; you say no word to give comfort. Is there no way by which your brotherly love might make your neighbor’s burden a little lighter or his heart a little stronger? You want to help him. Why not say so?
Here is one whose life is full of care. His business is not prosperous. There is sickness in his family. Many things appear to go against him. He battles on bravely—but the fight is hard, the load is heavy, the road is rough and steep! He has to meet it all alone, too, without that human sympathy which would mean so much to him. You stand by and see all this. Ofttimes your heart aches as you notice the man’s weariness, the discouragement in his sad face and bent form. You speak to other neighbors, with sincere feeling about his hard struggle and his defeated look. Yes, yes; but you never say anything to him to show him that you sympathize with him. Why not? A few loving, brotherly words—might make him strong to press on yet to victoriousness.
It is in our homes, perhaps, that the lesson is needed most. There is a great deal of love there that never finds expression. We keep sad silences ofttimes with those we love the best, even when their hearts are crying for words. A husband loves his wife and would give his life for her—but there are days and days when he never tells her so, nor reveals the sweet truth by any sign or token. The wife loves her husband with deep affection—but she has fallen into the habit of making no demonstration, saying nothing about her love, and going on through the daily home experiences, almost as if there were no love in her heart. No wonder husbands and wives drift apart in such homes! There are parents who make the same mistake with their children. A young man, referring to his home life, said: "My mother was a brilliant, busy person; but we never were close, and my home was a mere boardinghouse to me."
It is to the expression of the love in our hearts—that we are called today. "Let the redeemed of the Lord say so!" It is to the good things we leave undone, our sins of omission, that we owe attention, quite as much as to the wrong things we do, our sins of commission.
"Let the redeemed of the Lord say so!" We must say it, too, before it is too late. Some people wait until the need is past—and then come up with tardy kindness. When the neighbor is well again—then they call to say how sorry they are he has been sick. The time for showing friendship, is in the friend’s need or adversity—and not when the need is passed. There are many who say their first truly generous things of others—when the others lie in the coffin! Then they bring flowers, although they never gave a flower when their friends were alive!
Tell out your gratitude—God desires it. Speak your message—the world needs it. Pour out your love—hearts are breaking for it. "Let the redeemed of the Lord say so!" The Dew of Your Youth
"Your people shall be willing—on Your day of battle. Arrayed in the beauties of holiness, from the womb of the dawn, you have the dew of your youth."
"In that day of battle, your people will serve you willingly. Arrayed in holy garments, your vigor will be renewed each day like the morning dew." (NLT) The "Your day of battle" means the time when the king’s hosts are set in order for battle. It seems to be a picture of the Church of Christ, a great company of redeemed ones, with the Master at their head. The second part of the verse represents these soldier-priests as young, in the bloom of early manhood, having the dew of youth. The thought is, not that all Christians are young, for all ages are among the followers of Christ—but that all Christians have the gift of living youth, immortal life. Note some of the characteristics of Christ’s young warriors as they appear in this vision. The first thing is that they are in Christ’s army willingly. "Your people shall be willing—on Your day of battle." They have enlisted voluntarily. In the days of Deborah it is said the people "willingly offered themselves." They were not compelled to enter the army. We belong to Christ, because He is our rightful King, because He redeemed us. Then we must make ourselves His—by personal consecration. We must become His willingly. It must be glad, spontaneous service we give to Him. The second thing to note is the dress of these soldier-priests. They are clad "in the beauties of holiness," that is—in holy attire. Their garments are clean and white. Those who follow Christ should be clothed in the beauties of holiness. The third thing is the symbol of the dew. "You have the dew of your youth." It is a glorious thing to be young. Youth is strong. Its energies are unwasted. Its eye is undimmed. Its veins are full of rich, healthy life. It is not scarred by battles. It is not weakened and broken by defeats. Its strength is unimpaired.
Youth is pure—not sinless—but relatively unstained. Its innocence is unsullied. Its hands have not been blackened with deeds of evil. Its garments have not been soiled. Heaven yet lies about the pure young life.
Youth is full of hope. It has no past—but before it stretches a vista, bright with radiant visions—things to be attained, achievements to be accomplished, victories to be won. Call youth’s hopes daydreams, or air-castles, vision-fabrics, if you will; still they are realities to the heart of the young. They are the stirrings of immortality. Blessed is the heart of youth, that is filled with these hopes.
Youth has great possibilities. Do you ever sit down and think seriously about your life—what it is, what wondrous powers are sleeping in your brain, your heart, your hand; what you may make of your life even here—then what you may become in the endless years of your after-life?
Christian young life, young life given to Christ, touched by His hand and set apart for Him—who can paint its glory, its power, its possibilities! The church is a company of youth. In a sense, all Christians are young. The immortal life in them never ages. The growing old of the body is only temporary—the real life within is always young. In the Psalm the vast company of Christ’s youthful followers, are compared to the
Dew is beautiful. When you are in the country in the summer, you may behold a glorious sight every morning. In field and meadow and garden—every leaf, every grass blade, every flower is covered with dewdrops. There are millions of them, each one as brilliant as a diamond. They shine like diamonds amid earth’s dull things. Every young Christian owes it to his Master—to wear the beauties of holiness.
Dew is pure. It is never stained like the water that lies in gutters and wayside puddles. It is not filled with dirt and other particles, like the water that runs in brooks and streams. Dew is distilled from the air—and is perfectly pure. Christians should be pure and holy in their lives. In this world none are perfectly pure. There never was but one life without stain or trace of sin. Yet the crystal dewdrops glistening on leaf or blade of grass, or hiding in the bosom of a rose—are emblems of what every Christian should strive to be. "Pure and undefiled religion before God" is what the Bible paints as our ideal. To keep ourselves "unspotted from the world" is set down as the ideal of every Christian life. "Blessed are the pure in heart," is the Master’s beatitude for purity. The man of pure heart—shall see God.
There is a legend that in heaven at twilight, a great bell of marvelous sweetness softly swings, rung by angel hands, and that a man may listen and hear on earth the wonderful music, if he puts from his heart’s inner chamber—all the passion, pain, and strife, and all the heartaches and weary longings of his soul, if he thrusts out all hatred, bitterness, and envy, and all wicked thoughts and unholy feelings, this wondrous music may be heard by him. It is only a legend—but it enshrines a truth. The pure in heart shall see God; if we keep our inner life free from unholy thoughts and desires, we shall indeed hear the music of heaven’s evening bells. A writer tells of going with a group down into a coal mine. On the side of the gangway, grew a plant that was perfectly white. There in the midst of black flying coal dust it remained spotless and clean—as white as snow. A miner, accompanying the party, took a handful of the black dust and threw it upon the plant—but not a particle adhered. On the white folds of the plant there was a wonderful enamel to which nothing defiling would cling.
Such should be the life of every Christian in this evil world—unspotted and holy. Do you ask, "How is this possible?" God can keep you. If God can make a little plant so that no dust can stain its whiteness, can He not by His grace so enwrap your life in the beauties of holiness, that no defilement of sin can soil your purity? If He can keep a flower stainless amid clouds of floating coal-dust, can He not keep your heart in like purity in a sinful world?
Dewdrops are wonderful mirrors. In their crystal clearness, you may see reflected the whole blue sky that arches above you. Every Christian life should show to all who look upon it—a reflection of the glory of Christ. The world cannot see Christ in His spiritual revealings; it is your mission as Christians to show Christ mirrored in your own life. The likeness will be faulty and fragmentary—but the features should be there in unmistakable beauty. The wife of Sir Bartle Frere went to meet her husband at a railway station, on his return home from a long absence. She had with her a new servant who had never seen his master. "Go and look for Sir Bartle," bade the lady. "But how shall I know him?" asked the servant.
"Oh," said Lady Frere, "look for a tall gentleman, helping somebody." The servant found a tall man assisting an old lady out of the railway carriage, and from the description knew him at once. One mark of Christlikeness is love ministering, always helping somebody. Let this mind be in you.
Dew is refreshing. This is especially so in Eastern countries. There it seldom rains—but the dews are heavy, and the crystal drops creep down into the bosom of the flowers and to the roots of the grass blades—and all the beauty of field and forest and garden is revived. Drooping plants are fresh again, and fading flowers are as lovely as ever.
Here, again, the dew is a beautiful emblem of Christian lives, wearing the beauties of holiness. They carry cheer, joy, and brightness, wherever they go. They take into their own homes, when they gather at the close of day, a quiet yet persuasive and resistless life which touches all within with a new gladness. The home which has in it one or more happy Christian people, has in itself a happy secret of joy and blessing. The influence of their lives is full of power for good.
Christians do not know how much they can do to brighten the world, just by being sweet and beautiful—with love, quietness, and peace in their hearts, with gentleness, goodness, and helpfulness in all their lives. It is a great thing to have a refreshing influence, upon lives that one touches. Many people are discouraged, weary, or overwrought in life’s paths, or find it hard to keep up under their burdens; it is a great thing for you to be a comfort and a strength to such lives. Seek to be filled with God, and then go out to be joy-bearers, hope-inspirers, comfort-bearers, wherever you may go. In the way in which the DEW brings its blessings, there is also a suggestion of the manner in which Christians should seek to do good. The DEW comes in the night, while people sleep. It comes without noise. No ear hears it fall. It steals down noiselessly and does its beautiful work of refreshing; then, the moment daylight comes and the sun’s bright glare touches the earth—it vanishes. It loses itself, too, in doing good, for it sinks away into the heart of the rose, down among the roots of the grasses. It writes no record. It trumpets its name nowhere—to make sure of recognition and praise. Nothing shows that it has been at work—except the new life in all nature.
All this is suggestive of the way we should do our work for Christ. No grace shines more brightly in a Christian life—than humility. Like the dew, seek to do your Christian work noiselessly. Do not try to draw attention to yourself. Blow no trumpet in the streets when you are going out to do some work for your Master. Do not let your right hand know what your left hand does. Let your influence pour out like the fragrance of a flower, like the light of a star. Hide away from the world’s glare. Do not try to emblazon your name on every bit of work you do. Do not even think about men’s praise—God knows. Work for Christ’s eye—not for man’s. Pour out your richest love, your costliest service, your most precious gifts—to bless those who need blessing, and let all be lost in the lives you seek to help—not desiring any personal recognition or reward—but only that your ministry may do good. Be like a dewdrop, which finds a drooping rose and sinks down into its folds and loses itself—but revives the fainting flower! Be content to do good, and to bless the life that needs your blessing. Not a single dewdrop which sinks into a flower is lost. Not a word or a holy influence hides away in vain in any heart. Live and speak and work and be for God and bless the world, and care not for reward.
Another way in which the dew is an emblem of the true Christian life, is in its origin. It comes out of the sky. It is not born of earth’s springs—but from the "womb of the morning," from the bright, clear heavens. So the Christian life is not of earth. It is not merely natural. It is not something learned in schools. A Christian is one born of God, born of the Spirit, born from above. The spiritual life you have in your heart—came down out of the skies from Christ. God says, "I will be as the dew to Israel." Grace is simply God’s own Spirit coming down and touching our lives, entering into them as the dew enters the grasses and flowers.
It is a beautiful thought, that God Himself, and not any mere blessing from God—is the dew that enriches our lives and becomes beauty and brightness in us. We have but to open our heart to receive divine grace. The dew rests upon the flowers, not in the heat of noon-day—but when in the darkness and the silence—they grow quiet and cool. It is not in struggle and restless striving, that we get the blessing of God’s renewal—but in the stillness and coolness of humility and peace.
You can be dew to others—only as God is dew to you. You can give—only what you have received. You must live near the heart of Christ—if you would be a blessing in this world. You must keep your heart open to receive into it the life of God that is ever flowing close about you. If only you keep thus filled with the Holy Spirit—you will be fitted for being a blessing to every life you touch. The Rejected Stone
"The stone the builders rejected has become the capstone; the LORD has done this, and it is marvelous in our eyes."
There is a strange Jewish legend of a stone that was originally meant for an important place in the building, but was misunderstood and rejected. It is said that when Solomon’s temple was building, all the stones were brought from the quarry, cut and shaped ready for the place they were to fill. Among the stones, was a very curious one which seemed of no desirable shape. There appeared to be no place where it belonged. They tried it in one wall—but it would not fit there. They tried it in another wall—but it was not suitable for that. The builders were vexed and angry, and threw the stone aside among the rubbish. The temple was years in building, and this castaway block became covered with moss, and the grass grew around it. People passing by laughed at the stone of such peculiar shape that it would fit nowhere in the temple. Every other stone that came from the quarry found its place and fitted into it perfectly—but this one seemed useless—there must have been a blunder in the architect’s drawings.
Years passed and the temple arose into beauty—but still the poor stone lay unused, unwanted, despised. The great day came when the temple was to be finished, and throngs were present to witness the crowning event. There was excitement—something was lacking. "Where is the capstone?" the builders said. Nowhere could it be found. The ceremony waited while the workmen sought for the missing block. At last someone said, "Perhaps the stone the builders threw aside among the rubbish, is the one for this place of highest honor. They brought it and hoisted it to the top of the temple, and lo! it fit perfectly. It had been cut and hewn for this very place. Loud shouts rent the air as the stone which the builders had refused as unfit, became the capstone, filled the place of highest honor. The stone had been misunderstood. The master-architect knew the place for which it was hewn and shaped. But the builders did not understand it and thought the architect had blundered. At length, however, the architect was vindicated, and the stone, long despised, found its place of honor.
There seems to be a reference to this tradition in the words of the Psalm: "The stone the builders rejected has become the capstone." Several times the reference occurs in the Scriptures. In the story of the building, it was the architect’s plan or purpose that was misunderstood. The builder thought the master had made a mistake—but he had not. The stone was despised for a time—but at length found its place—the place of honor. Continually the same mistake is made in life. People think that God has blundered in His plans. But when we come to understand, we find that His purposes are right.
"The stone the builders rejected has become the capstone; the LORD has done this, and it is marvelous in our eyes." We see examples and illustrations of this continually.
There are people who at first do not seem to fit into any place in the world. They do not appear to have ability for anything worth while, to possess the qualities which will make them of value to the world. They are not brilliant or strong, nor do they seem likely to do anything to distinguish themselves; yet later, they develop ability, wisdom, even greatness, and fill important places in the world. There are many eminent men, of whom their early teachers predicted failure. They were dullards, not showing capacity. Yet afterwards, when they found themselves and found their place, they became distinguished in some particular line. Parents and teachers should never be discouraged when children seem unpromising. There may be hidden in their brain and heart special gifts, possibilities of power which will be brought out in certain circumstances, fitting them for particular duties. No other man has ever been a more remarkable illustration of this, than Lincoln. Reading only the narrative of his early years, no one would dream that he would fill a great place in human history. Even in his manhood, when he was beginning to disclose his powers, men did not think of him as fitted to be President of the nation, the leader of a great moral movement. He was not the stone the builders would have chosen as the capstone. He was clumsy and unattractive. Never was the hand of Providence more clearly visible in the bringing of any man to his place—than in the events which led to Mr. Lincoln’s election to the Presidency. The political leaders did not want him. He was the stone which the builders rejected.
Yet we know also the story of his wonderful life and work. His greatness was not fully known, even while he lived. Every year since his martyrdom has revealed new elements of noble character in him, and shown in clearer light the greatness of his work. The world thinks of Lincoln as the emancipator of slaves. He was that—but he was also the savior of his country. South as well as North knows now how he loved the Union. His greatness appears at every point. His oration at Gettysburg contains only a few sentences, less than three hundred words—but it is acknowledged everywhere to be a piece of matchless eloquence. From whatever side we look at this man—he is great. More and more, too, as the years pass, do we see the providential meaning of his life, what it meant to his own country, what it meant to Christianity, what it meant to the world. His tragic death did not end his life, nor put an end to his work. They buried him amid the tears of a nation—but his life was not hidden in the grave.
Thus Lincoln is an example of one who was misunderstood by men, a stone which the builders rejected—but which God made to be the capstone.
God knows what He is doing, when He is making men. He never makes one He has no place for. Even if it is a broken life, God has a place for it, something for it to do. There is a home where the only child is mentally handicapped. Has God a place for it? Yes—perhaps it will be the means of the preparation of the parents for sweeter life and higher glory.
We see examples of the same truth in life’s common relations. There are many who are misunderstood and unappreciated, and who do not get their proper quota of praise and commendation. It is so in some homes. A good many of us men do not half understand the worth of our wives—the fineness of their spirits, their devotion to our interests; nor appreciate their self-denials and self-sacrifices for us and our homes. We are not half thoughtful enough toward them, not gentle enough. It is not enough for a man to be true to his wife, to provide well for her, to supply her with physical comforts—her heart craves appreciation, cheer. A great many people everywhere—men as well as women—are not well understood. They may be tactless. They may have faults which mar their beauty. They may have peculiarities which neutralize some of their good qualities. They are uncouth and unattractive in some way. People do not see the good there is in them, do not set the true value upon them, misunderstand them.
Here is a man whom many of his neighbors do not like. Something in his manners offends them, excites in them unkindly feelings toward him. They say he is not sincere, that he does not mean what he says. Yet those who have had an opportunity to know this man’s inner life, learn that his neighbors are mistaken in their judgment concerning him. He has in him good qualities, he fills an important niche. He is only misunderstood.
Let us strive to see people—as God sees them. He sees our possibilities, not what we are today—but what we may become through love and patience and discipline. Some fruits are not sweet until late fall. Some people ripen slowly and it is a long time before they become sweet, beautiful, and helpful. Do not reject any life because it is not beautiful at present. Let God train it, and some day it may fill an important place. The stone which you builders would reject as unfit, God may want by and by for the finest ornament in His temple.
Let us be more patient with people we do not like, whose faults offend us, who seem unfit for anything worthy or noble. Perhaps their faults are only unripeness. Or perhaps they are not faults at all, only individualities which will be elements of strength when the people find their places. God has a plan for every man, and a work for every one to do. Let us leave people with faults and peculiarities, in God’s hands. He will have a place by and by, for the misunderstood life, and the stone which the builders despised—He will use to be the capstone somewhere.
Sometimes it is God Himself that is misunderstood. Yesterday a young woman came to ask counsel. A few years ago, she was married to a noble young man and went to the West. Her husband died and soon all the money he had gathered was embezzled by a professed friend, leaving the young widow with two little children, and penniless. Other losses and sorrows have come. The woman has returned to her childhood home to take up her life work. She is brave and cheerful. She is not doubting God—but she is questioning, "Is God always good? Does God really ever cease to be kind? How can I thus understand these years of my life—in which every flower of joy and hope has faded, and everything I had, has been taken from me?" She is in danger of misunderstanding God. What can one say to her?
Only this, that God’s work with her is not yet finished. You read a story, and at the end of a certain chapter, all seems wrong. If the book ended there, you might feel that God was not kind. But there are other chapters, and as you read on, you learn how good came out of all that seemed hard, even unjust.
Many times we think that our experiences in life, are anything but beautiful and kindly. We cannot see divine love in them. It does not seem to us possible that these rough and hard things, can be built into the temple of our lives, as stones of beauty. This may be the very stone which God has prepared for the holiest place in all the building, and that some day you will say of it, "The stone which I, the builder, would have rejected, has become the capstone! This is the Lord’s doing and it is marvelous in my eyes." This illustration of the misunderstood stone runs through the whole New Testament. It is used by our Lord in the Gospels as applying to Himself. He was the stone which the builders rejected—but which God made to be the capstone. Speaking to the rulers, He said: "Did you never read in the Scriptures, The stone which the builders rejected, the same is become the capstone! This is the Lord’s doing, and it is marvelous in our eyes!" The meaning is very clear. Jesus Himself was the stone which the builders had rejected. The rulers had a mistaken idea of the Messiah who was promised. They believed the Messiah was coming—but they thought He would be a great earthly king who would free them from their political condition, and would make them a great nation that should conquer the whole world. They had not learned the sacrificial character of the Messiah given in such prophecies as the fifty-third chapter of Isaiah. So when Jesus came, lowly, meek, loving, unresisting, they did not believe He was the Messiah promised. They misunderstood Him.
Peter in his defense before the Sanhedrin used the same illustration. The rulers demanded by what power the lame man at the Beautiful Gate had been made whole, and Peter answered, "Be it known unto you all, and to all the people of Israel, that by the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, whom you crucified, whom God raised from the dead—even by Him, does this man stand here before you whole." Then he added, "He is the stone you builders rejected, which has become the capstone." That is, the rulers had rejected Jesus of Nazareth, the stone God had provided—but God had taken the misunderstood and rejected stone, and made it the very keystone of the temple. The great building of Christianity rests on this stone—Christ the one foundation.
Yet there are some people who do not like Jesus Christ. They do not approve of His way of helping and saving. They do not think He is the friend they need. They do not approve of the life to which He invites men. They do not think He can lead them to the best things, the fairest beauty of character, the deepest joy, the largest usefulness. But the temple could not be completed without the misunderstood and rejected stone. This stone at once made it complete. Your life will always be incomplete, unfinished, until Christ is received to His supreme place. Christ came to give you life, fullness, abundance of life. Let His life enter your soul and possess you wholly. Christ came to give you rest of soul amid all strifes and cares. Take the rest He gives. Christ came to give you His own peace. Let His peace rule in you. Christ wants to take charge of all your affairs, to choose your way for you, to direct all your life. Lay all the tangles, all the frets, all the questions in His hands.
Christ came to change you into His own likeness, by teaching you the lesson of love, by giving you self-control, self-mastery. He does not want to destroy the temper, the appetite, the tendency in you which troubles you so much. He wants to teach you to be master of it, master of yourself, of all your being, and lead all your life into sweet devotion to Him. Christ wants to enter into your life so fully—that He will be your constant companion, that He and you shall live together, so that you will do nothing without Him—but that He and you will work together and do impossible things. Christ came to lead us thus into the fullest, richest, most blessed life of fellowship and service, giving us His joy, His peace, His life, His love, at last crowning you with glory! That is what it means for the misunderstood stone to be made the capstone for you. The most glorious thing possible, is to have Christ in His rightful place in our lives.
Looking unto the Mountains
"I lift up my eyes to the mountains; where does my help come from? My help comes from the LORD, the Maker of heaven and earth."
"I will lift up my eyes." We ought to train ourselves to look up. We grow in the direction, in which our eyes turn. We become like that on which we look much and intently. We were made to look up. Man’s upright form indicates this. The Greek word for man means upward-looking. An old writer says, "God gave man a face directed upward, and bade him look at the heavens, and raise his uplifted countenance toward the stars."
Yet there are those who never look upward at all. They never see anything but things that are on the earth. They never see the stars. They never look toward God. They do not pray. They have no place in their scheme of life for God. Christ taught that all the circumstances of our lives, are in the care of God who is our Father, whose very children we are. The hairs of our head are all numbered. Even the birds are fed and the flowers are clothed by our Father. We should continually look up to God. "I will lift up my eyes unto the mountains." The poet did not mean that the mountains themselves were a shelter for him. Nothing earthly is a sufficient refuge for an immortal being. To him the mountains were a shadow of eternal things. Mountains have always appealed strangely and powerfully, to noble minds. When the writer says he will lift up his eyes unto the mountains, he is thinking of God. "From where does my help come from?" he asks, and the answer is, "My help comes from the Lord."
Think a little what mountains mean to the world. Many blessings come down from them to the plains. Ruskin mentions three great offices which the mountains fulfill. They determine the courses and the channels of the rivers. They are the great ventilators of the earth, generating currents of air that bear health on their bosoms. Then they keep the valleys fertile by the soil they perpetually send down. The mountains make the valleys. Not many years ago, the land in certain western plains was desert. The soil was rich—but there was no water, and nothing would grow. Yet yonder, on the mountain sides, were streams flowing away from the melting snows. All that was needed was to bring the blessing of the mountains down, and the deserts would then be made to blossom as the rose. Men lifted up their eyes to the mountains, and today we have the orange groves and the gardens and all the marvelous luxuriance of Southern California. This is a parable of spiritual life. From the mountains of God—flow down heaven’s streams of grace, and the bare and empty lives they touch become rich in beauty and fruitfulness. Think what they miss—who never lift up their eyes to the mountains of prayer, who get nothing from God.
"The Lord is your keeper." This wonderful little Psalm describes the manner of God’s helping in a most striking way. Our keeper is the strong One, who made heaven and earth. The power that keeps you, that shelters you, that blesses you—is the power of omnipotence.
"The Lord is your keeper." Note some points. The guardianship is individual, "your keeper." You say, "Surely God does not think of me. He has such vast concerns in His hands—that one life so small as mine cannot have His personal thought and care." The answer is, "The Lord is your keeper." You are as really and as much the object of His interest—as if in all the universe He had only you to think of! When, in distress or need, you lift up your eyes unto the mountains, and ask, "Where shall my help come?" God turns to you as if He had nothing else to do—but attend to your cry.
Think, too, of the minuteness of His care. "He will not let your foot slip." On the mountain paths, great disasters may result from the slipping of a foot. Many a life has been lost, by a misstep among the crags. But the divine keeping extends even to the feet, "The steps of a good man are ordered of the Lord."
There is here another assurance of exquisite beauty. "He who keeps you will not slumber." No human love can watch without ceasing. The most devoted mother must fall asleep sometimes, beside her suffering child. But there is an Eye that never closes, that always watches.
"The Lord will preserve you from all evil." How do we account, then, for the troubles, the sufferings, the sorrows that befall good people? The poet does not say the Lord will keep you from pain, loss, sickness, and injury, from people’s unkindness, from calamity—but from "all evil." These are not "evils." There is only one evil—sin. You may suffer all manner of trials—but so long as you have not sinned—no harm has come to you; you have been kept from all evil.
Thus this whole Psalm shows the safety of those who lift up their eyes unto the mountains. They are guarded when they go out and when they come in. You never can get away from God’s keeping, if you live in the mountains. The mountain takes the storms and shelters the valleys. A tourist tells of coming upon a village which nestled at the foot of a great mountain. He asked the villagers if they had many storms there. "Yes," they replied, "if there is a storm anywhere in the whole region, it seems to find us." "How do you account for this?" asked the tourist. The answer was: "Those who seem to understand say it is because our mountain towers highest of all the mountains. If he sees a cloud anywhere in the horizon, he beckons to it and it comes and settles on his brow." The tourist asked further if they had many accidents from lightning. "None," was the answer. "We have seen the lightning strike the mountain countless times—but no one in the village is ever touched by it. We have the thunder, which shakes our homes, and then we have the rains, which fill our gardens with the beauty which everyone so much admires—but the lightning never touches us. The mountain takes all the bolts and shelters us."
This, too, is a parable of what Christ is to us and to all who believe on Him. He is the mountain on which the storms break. On Calvary the tempests of ages burst upon His head. But all who nestle in His love—are sheltered in Him. "In me," He said, "you shall have peace." He is our eternal keeper, because He took the storms on His own breast, that we might hide in quiet safety under the shadow of His love. We lift up our eyes unto the mountains, and rest in peace and confidence, because our help comes from the Lord who made heaven and earth. A mountain is the symbol of reality. The weakness of much Christians, is the unreality of their faith. God is real. Men laugh at you when you talk about your mountains of faith. They say you are a dreamer. But to you they are gloriously real. You go to them in your prayers—and come back with your hands full of heavenly blessings. Is your religious life real to you? Is Christ real? A young Christian friend wrote: "I read my New Testament a great deal—but somehow I find myself asking all the while, ’Are these things actually true? They certainly are very beautiful to read about—but are they true? How do we know they are true?’ " Are the things you read in the New Testament real to you? Is God real to you as your Friend? Two girls walking together one evening were engaged in earnest conversation. They stopped a moment before separating, and a gentleman waiting for a car overheard just a fragment of their conversation. One of them said to the other, "Yes—but why has nobody ever seen God?" That was all the gentleman heard—but the one sentence told of pain and question in a heart that longed for certainty. "Why has no one ever seen God?"
There are many good people who have the same longing. A disciple said once to the Master, "Lord, show us the Father." Jesus had been revealing the Father, not only in his miracles—but in all his sweet and gentle life, in his patience, his compassion, his kindness, his helpfulness. There was more of divine glory in any one common day of Christ’s beautiful life of love—than there was in a whole year of Sinai’s majesty.
There is mystery everywhere. There really are few things you understand. How can you lift your hand! How can you see the far-off mountains from the crags about us here! How can we talk by wireless telegraph with a friend on a ship half way across the ocean? You cannot see Christ, and you ask how you can know that He loves you. But you cannot see the love in the heart of your friend. Do you doubt it, because you cannot see it! You cannot see any form when you are praying, and you ask, "Is there really anyone who hears? Is there really anyone who sees me, knows me, loves me? Is there One who cares?"
If there were no assertions of God’s being and no assurances of His love and care in the Bible, daily Providence is so full of God—that we could not doubt His existence, or His thought for His children. Christ is to us, the most real Friend in all the world, though we never see Him with our eyes. We never think of doubting Him or asking if He is real. No human friend comes so close. We see Him in His interest, His care, His kindness, in people’s lives, all about us.
Some years ago, two men met on a vessel crossing the sea. They soon discovered that they had both been in the American Civil War, one with the North, the other with the South. They found, too, that they had taken part in the same battle. Then this incident came out as they talked together reminiscently. One night the Northern soldier was on watch-duty on one side of a little river, and the Southern soldier was a sharpshooter just across the stream, picking off soldiers on the other side. The Northern soldier was singing softly, "Jesus, Lover of my soul," as he paced his beat, and the words of the old hymn were heard in the stillness over the river. The sharpshooter was taking aim and was about to fire upon the Northern soldier as the song revealed his place. Just then he heard the words, "Cover my defenseless head with the shadow of Your wings." His rifle dropped—he dared not shoot a man praying that prayer. "I could as soon have shot my mother!" he said. Was not God in this strange incident? Was not the answering of the soldier’s prayer a reality! We need not ask why no one ever sees God? Lift up your eyes unto the mountains in every time of need—and you will see Him in the help, the blessing, the deliverance, the comfort, the grace that will come to you.
"I will lift up my eyes unto the mountains." Let us make our lives, lives of upward looking. There are people who look down always, watching for thorns. They never see anything but the unpleasant things. They are always finding troubles. They find them on the brightest days, in the loveliest places, when their circumstances are the happiest. But that is not the way to go through life. Lift up your eyes—and look for roses, not for thorns. Some people think the world is all bad, all wrong, with no love, no friends. They do not love anybody, nor trust anybody. They hear only discord—no music. They say that all men are liars. They tell you all Christians are hypocrites, all merchants dishonest, all homes bedlams, all marriages failures, that nobody is pure, that there is no unselfishness. Can you think of any other way of making one’s life wretched, miserable, and unhappy, that equals this? Lift up your eyes unto the mountains where the air is sweet, the light clear, the music like angels’ songs. This will change all the world for you. Of course there are discordant notes in the music of almost any neighborhood—but there are also beautiful harmonies, sweet symphonies, noble oratorios, and why should we listen only to the few discords—and shut our ears to the inspiring songs that fill the air? Let us hear the sweet songs—not the discords.
Lift up your eyes unto the mountains—when you think of your own circumstances. They may not seem bright or hopeful. Perhaps you have discouragements, difficulties, hardships. But why should you keep your eyes on these? There is always more white than black, more joy than sorrow, more love than hate, more encouragement than discouragement. Lift up your eyes when things are hard with you—and you will always find something to cheer you. Look for the one joyous, hopeful thing—and let that make you brave. There is always something good in your circumstances. Find that.
There is a story of a little dog lying on a parlor floor one chill and dreary day. Presently there came a small patch of sunshine on the floor, a ray of sunlight coming in through the shutter. The dog saw it, got up and went and lay down in it. That was good philosophy. If there is only one spot of cheer or encouragement in your circumstances, find it and set your chair down in it. So the Psalm calls us with a thousand voices—to look up, and to come up higher. Think of the love, the sweetness, the holiness, the truth, the serenity, the joy of God. If we would reach these excellences, these lofty things—we must lift up our eyes and our hearts—unto the mountains. We never can attain them by looking down. Goodness is always found above us, not in the depths below us—it keeps ever above us. We must look to the mountains. The heights call us. Let us leave the lowlands of selfishness, covetousness, resentment, envy, and all that is unworthy, and go up and live with Jesus Christ on the mountains of holiness, of victory, of purity! The mountains are places of strength. They are the emblems of perpetuity. We talk about the everlasting mountains. The higher our lives reach as they become filled with God, the stronger they are, the securer and safer. The power of temptation over them grows less and less. Our faults and vices, the base things, the groveling things, cannot live in the pure mountain air—they will choke and die there. The heights are refuges for our souls. Enemies of spiritual life are everywhere—but they cannot reach us—if we climb up into the mountains!
I saw the statement that someone, looking through a great telescope, detected birds flying five or six miles above the earth. How safe they are up there so high! No arrow can find them there. Just so, the soul that looks up into the mountains, that lives in the heights far above the earth—no fowler can trap it, no enemy can touch it. The mountains are places of safety. The mountains are places of peace. There is a point in the heavens, above the clouds, where no storm ever blows, where no tempest ever breaks, where nothing ever disturbs the perfect stillness. The mountains bring peace. With God we are above all fear. Let us rise above the strifes and confusions of earth—into the peace of God!
Joy in God’s House
"I rejoiced with those who said to me—Let us go to the house of the LORD! Our feet shall stand within your gates, O Jerusalem." The title of this Psalm is suggestive. It is called a Song of Ascents. Whatever the origin of the title may have been, it is pleasant to think of a true life—as a series of ascents. We are always going upward if we are walking with God—out of sin and debasement, toward holiness and brightness; out of the mists and shadows that lie in the valleys—to the sunlight that streams on the mountaintops. It is uphill all the way.
We think as we climb some rugged steep, and come at last to its crest, that we shall have no more such paths; but tomorrow find that we have only reached the top of one of the foothills, and that there are other hills—a stairway of them—leading up at last to the mountain summit, which we call heaven. If, therefore, we are living truly, our course is a continuous ascent, and our songs should be songs of ascents.
"I rejoiced with those who said to me—Let us go to the house of the LORD!" We can readily understand the gladness of the ancient Hebrews as they were summoned to the house of the Lord. They were dispersed over many countries. Their annual feast days were occasions of great joy for them, because they were then called to the holy city, the place of the temple, the most sacred spot in all the world to Hebrew hearts. No wonder they went up singing. They were going back to their old homeland. They would there meet friends they had not met for a long while. They would sing again the old songs and worship God in the old way.
Just so, it should always make us glad to be called to the house of the Lord. We go to church for two general reasons. One is, to worship God. He has been good to us, and we are called to return to Him love and worship. Another reason is, that in His house God meets us with His blessings—grace, strength, comfort, wisdom, light. We go to church not so much to give God something—our offerings of homage and praise; as to get something from Him, help for the journey, comfort for our sorrow, strength for our weakness. We should love to go to God’s house, because we need the help we cannot find elsewhere.
"Our feet shall stand within your gates, O Jerusalem." When at last, after the long journey, the pilgrim reached the gate of the holy city, his joy was unbounded. Perhaps he had come from afar, his heart all the way full of eager anticipation. Now he is climbing the last hill, now he is at the gate, now entering, now inside. What gladness is his!
Similar joy should be the true Christian’s—when he enters the presence of God. We get so used to the exercise of prayer, the privilege of communion, the blessedness of meeting God, that sometimes we fail to experience the rapture that our heart should find. The angels, as they look upon the worship of earth’s pilgrims, must wonder at its lack of warmth and fervor, its tameness, its triteness. If we would come into God’s presence only now and then, a few times in the year, as the Jews came to their temple—how hungry would we be for God, and what gladness the approach would give! Or if we could have a glimpse of the heavenly realities amid which we stand when we enter the presence of God—no words could express our gladness!
"Jerusalem is a well-built city, knit together as a single unit. All the people of Israel—the LORD’s people—make their pilgrimage here. They come to give thanks to the name of the LORD as the law requires." Two reasons are here given why the people went up to God’s house regularly. One was, as a testimony. Thus they showed to the world their love for God and testified of their own faithfulness and devotion. When their neighbors saw them wending their way to the temple—they knew that they were devout Israelites. Constant church-going is always a good witness for God. When every Lord’s day we drop our business, our worldly tasks, and turn away from ease and self-indulgence, and go to God’s house, we are honoring God before our neighbors. The man who is seen going to the church every Sunday, though he never says a word in public about his religion, is preaching a sermon to the indifferent—a sermon more eloquent and impressive than he could preach in words.
Another reason for church attendance, is to give thanks unto the Lord. After a week of gifts and favors received, we should go to the house of God and take there our offerings of praise. Yet is there really much thanksgiving in the worship of the average Christian congregation? We try to make our services very solemn. We should be reverent, for we are in the presence of the mighty God. But joy should be the keynote in all our worship, for we have always a thousand reasons for thanksgiving. Yet, do we always give thanks?
One man said in a meeting that he had been living at Grumble Corner for a long time—but had now moved up to Thanksgiving Street. He said that he found the air sweeter and purer, and everything brighter and better. Too many of us live in Grumble Row most of our life. We do little but complain. Even our prayers are made up of fears, anxieties, and requests, with scarcely a word of praise. If the angels can hear the prayers put up by most Christians, they must wonder how they can be so sad all the time. We should go to God’s house—to give thanks.
"Here stand the thrones where judgment is given, the thrones of the dynasty of David." The city of Jerusalem was the capital of the country. It was not only the place for worship—but also the place where the people came for their laws. It was the place to which they came with their inequities and injustices, their questions requiring settlement. All this Christ is to us, in our Christian life. The church is the divine refuge for us. That is the place, therefore, to bring all our wrongs. If others have injured us, sinned against us, done us harm—we may bring the matters to God’s house, sure that justice will be done, that our wrongs will be righted, and that evil shall be transmuted into good for us. This is a great teaching, and one which we should not fail to learn. Many of us allow ourselves to be sadly hurt in the fiber of our life—by the treatment we receive from others. We allow slights, injuries, unkindnesses, to be like thorns in our flesh, wounding us. Some of us grow bitter and resentful, trying to settle every injury for ourselves. This is not the Christian way. Rather we should take all such wrongs to God’s house, for there are thrones where judgment is given. This is what Christ Himself did. "When he was reviled, reviled not again; when he suffered, he threatened not; but committed himself to him who judges righteously."
"Pray for the peace of Jerusalem. May all who love this city prosper. O Jerusalem, may there be peace within your walls and prosperity in your palaces. For the sake of my family and friends, I will say, "Peace be with you." Again and again, in the closing verses of this Psalm, comes the prayer for peace. Peace is the sum of all spiritual blessing. Another part of our errand to God’s house is to pray for peace on the church and for the prosperity of all who love God. We should never go to church for ourselves alone. The Lord’s Prayer teaches us to pray always for others, mingling intercession with our supplication. It is not "My Father," but "Our Father," to whom we should come. We should pray for our brethren and companions. We should seek the good of the whole Church of Christ.
If the spirit of these verses, were the spirit of all our worship, there would be no strife in our churches, no divisions, no quarrels. Peace is the absence of all bitterness. The secret of peace lies in willingness to obliterate self, to suffer uncomplainingly, rather than to demand our "rights." Church quarrels come from the opposite spirit—someone is determined to have things his own way, even if the consequence is the breaking up of the church. If we say the words of this Psalm sincerely, we must be willing to be broken and crashed, to have our rights set aside, if only the Church of Christ prospers and is at peace.
God’s Thinking of us
"How precious also are your thoughts unto me, O God! how great is the sum of them! If I would count them, they are more in number than the sand; when I awake, I am still with you!"
We like to know that people are thinking about us. Even a postal card coming in the mail some morning from a friend far away, saying only, "I am thinking of you," brings you a strange uplift. You were sick for a time and could not see your friends, and one day a rose was sent up to your room with a card and a message of love. How it cheered you! Someone was thinking of you. You were in sorrow, and a little note came in with just a verse of Scripture, a word of sympathy, or a "God bless you!" and a name. It was almost as if an angel from heaven had visited you. Somebody was thinking of you. You have not forgotten how it helped you.
"How precious also are your thoughts unto me, O God!" This means God’s thoughts of us. They are precious. In one of the previous verses of the Psalm, the poet tells us that God knows all our thoughts. Here he tells us of God’s own thoughts—He thinks of us—thinks of us with love. The root of the word rendered "precious" is weighty. God’s thoughts are weighty, like gold. Then they are without number—that is, God does not think of us merely once in a lifetime, or now and then—but continually. "How great is the sum of them! If I would count them, they are more in number than the sand." God thinks about us.
"How precious are your thoughts unto me, O God!" The Bible teaches unmistakably, that God cares for us. A scientific writer not long ago declared that the greatest discovery of the twentieth century would be the discovery of God, and that then will it be known that God does not care. It would be terrible if this should prove to be true. If God never thinks about you, if you have no place in His heart, this would be a dark world for you. But we do not need to wait for a new discovery of God in this twentieth century. The discovery has been already made—and God does care! His name is Father. Can one be a father—and not care for his child! Jesus came to reveal God to us, and He tells us over and over—that God loves us, thinks about us, provides for us, hears our prayers. Not only are we in God’s thoughts—but He thinks about us as individuals, not merely as a race. The teaching of the whole Bible is that God knows us individually. There was only one sheep that had strayed from the fold—but the shepherd missed that one, thought about it, and sought it over the hills. The Psalms abound in expressions like these: "The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want." "He leads me." "I sought the Lord and he answered me." "When my father and my mother forsake me, then the Lord will take me up."
"When I awake—I am still with you." No matter where you awake, you will find God bending over you. This is the drift of the whole Bible. It is not God and the human family, not God and a nation—but God and the individual. The Good Shepherd calls His own sheep by name. The Father never forgets one of His own children. Though you are cast on a bare rock in the sea, and no friend in the world knows where you are—you are in God’s thought. He is watching and caring. Though you are carrying today some secret grief or trouble, of which no one on earth can know—He knows. He sympathizes. He is thinking of you. In one of the earlier verses of our Psalm, the poet says to God, "You understand my thoughts afar off." Your most secret thoughts are known in heaven. Jesus is touched even with the feeling of our infirmities. In all your afflictions, He is afflicted. It is just as if there were only one person in the world—and you were that one. He is thinking of you today—as if He had only you to think of, in all the world.
"How precious are your thoughts unto me, O God!" Could anything be more precious, more comforting, more strengthening, more uplifting; than to know that God really cares, that whatever your need or trouble, He is thinking about you? If you actually believe this, all your trouble will be light, and life’s meaning will all be changed for you.
Providence is full of illustrations of God’s special thought for His children. In an address made in Glasgow before an Insurance and Actuarial Society, James Byers Black told the story of the escape of the one man who survived the Tay Bridge disaster, some years ago. This man left the train when it stopped for a moment at Fort Street station, just before it started on its journey to death. His hat had blown off—and he followed his impulse to run after it. At that instant the train moved off—and the man was left standing alone at the little wayside station, on a dark and tempestuous night. Within a very few minutes, the train had crashed through the broken bridge and had carried seventy-four people—everyone on board—down to death in the remorseless waters of the Tay River. The man whose hat blew off—was the sole survivor of that night’s tragedy.
It would be interesting to know this man’s subsequent history. Why was he spared? What work was there for him to do? If we could understand the mystery of Divine Providence, no doubt we would learn the reason why God thought of this man and kept him off the ill-fated train. We call this a special providence.
Someone once asked George Macdonald if he believed in special providences. He said, "Yes—in the providences—but not in the special." He believed that we were always meeting providences. Not now and then, in some remarkable instances—but in every event and occurrence, there is a Divine Providence. God is always on the field. Our life is full of God. We do not usually see His hand—but He is never absent. There are no accidents, no chances—in life. God thinks of us continually, and watches over all our movements. We call it a providence when there is a disaster on the railway—and we are not hurt. Is it any less a providence when the train runs with no disaster, and we are uninjured?
One man asked thanks to be given in a meeting, because his horse stumbled on the edge of the precipice and he escaped being dashed to death. Another man asked to be included in the thanksgiving, because he passed on the same road and his horse did not even stumble. Not only does God deliver us in danger—but He guards from danger! Every man is immortal—until his work is done. "How precious are your thoughts unto me, O God." I am glad I do not have to plan and direct my own life. God thinks upon me!
God’s thoughts for our life, may not always be our thoughts—but they are always the right and the best thoughts. There is a verse in Isaiah which I always read with deep reverence. "My thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, says the Lord. For as the heavens are higher than the earth—so are my ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts than your thoughts." It is God’s thoughts we want for our life, rather than our own thoughts. Of course, God’s thought for us is higher than ours; that is, wiser, better, safer—than ours. He is infinite in knowledge, and sees the end from the beginning.
We will all assent to this as a truth, and also as a theory of life. But when we come to the acceptance of God’s thought, His way, His plan, instead of our own, sometimes we fail. We think that we could plan better than God has planned. We are not willing to accept His thought for our life. What just now, would you make different—if you were directing your life! You would leave out some disappointments, perhaps. You would not have this year’s pinching times, if you were changing things to your own mind. But would it be better that way! Perhaps the best things in your whole life—have come out of the things you would omit—if you were planning! When we say, "How precious are your thoughts unto me, O God!" we should be ready to accept these thoughts, to believe in them, to yield ourselves to them. Have you ever thought what a glorious thing it is to have God’s plan for your life, to know that He thought about you before you were made, and then made you according to His thought? It is a wonderful truth. No wonder that George Macdonald said he would rather be the being God made him to be—than the most glorious creature he could think of. No possible human plan for your life could be half so high, so noble, so beautiful—as God’s thought for you. This is true, not only for the plan of our life in general—but of each, detail of it. We are coming all the while to certain experiences which so break into our thought for our life, that we are startled and say, "Surely this cannot be God’s thought for me." Sometimes we have pleaded with God to withhold from us something—some sorrow, some loss, some pain—which seemed to be impending, and we did not get our request. That impending affliction came to us—in spite of our prayers. What really happened? God’s perfect thought for our life at that point went on, instead of our lower thought. And that was best! Our desire should always be—that God’s thought shall be realized, and not ours. This should be our prayer in the most intense moments of our life.
One tells of an unanswered prayer. There had been the most passionate pleading for something without which it seemed that the friend’s life would be most incomplete. It appeared that it would be nothing less than disaster to have the request not granted. But if it was God’s thought for the life, it would have been no disaster. The disaster, then, would have been the granting of the request! "My ways are higher than your ways; and my thoughts than your thoughts." When will we learn this?
God’s thoughts for us are always good, always right. Jeremiah, in comforting the exiles in captivity, said: "Thus says Jehovah, After seventy years are accomplished for Babylon, I will visit you, and perform my good word toward you, in causing you to return to this place. For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, says Jehovah, thoughts of peace and not of evil, to give you hope in the days to come." God’s thought for His people in the captivity was peace, good, blessing. When you are passing through some great sorrow, some overwhelming loss, some sore trial, God’s thought for you always is peace, good, blessing.
It seems to me that if we would only believe this, if we would only be sure of it, whatever the experiences may be, nothing ever could disturb us. Of course, we cannot understand things, and we cannot see how good can be in our Father’s thought for us—when all seems so destructive, so ruinous. But here is the divine word for it, "I know the thoughts that I think toward you, says Jehovah, thoughts of peace and not of evil." Then we have the experience of the past. Has it not been always so? God never had a thought toward any child of His—that was not a thought of peace.
He always means good, even in the most painful trials. The cross of Christ was a thought of God, and you know what infinite blessing the cross gave to the world. Every disappointment of yours is a thought of love, if you understood it.
Looking One’s Soul in the Face "The human heart is most deceitful and desperately wicked. Who really knows how bad it is?" Jer 17:9
"Search me, O God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts. See if there is any offensive way in me, and lead me in the everlasting way." Psa 139:23-24
It takes courage to pray this prayer, "Search me, O God, and know my heart!" Not all men can do it. Many people fear to look into their own heart. If by some divine revealing, we were made to see ourselves as we are—all the evil that is in us, our face would blanch into deathly paleness. It takes courage to ask God to search one’s inner life—and show one one’s sins.
It takes honesty, too, to pray this prayer. The poet meant that every wrong thing found in his heart, under the clear light of God’s Spirit, he would cast out. Some people do not want to find their own sins—because they do not want to give them up. They do not wish to discover their secret faults, because they love them and desire to keep them. We cannot pray this prayer—if we are not ready and willing and eager to have Christ save us from whatever evil way, whatever sinful habit, feeling, disposition, or temper—we may discover in ourselves. It takes honesty, therefore, and sincerity, to pray God to search us. The writer asks God to search him. He does not say he will search himself. An ancient maxim was, "Know yourself." But no man can really know himself, in the depths of his being—unless God holds the lamp to shine in the darkness. God is light. Christ is the world’s only light. None but God can truly search us—and show us to ourselves. The poet invites divine searching.
Neither does he ask his neighbors to search his ways and thoughts. Men are willing enough, ofttimes, to judge their fellow men, to find and expose their faults, to proclaim their sins. It is easier to confess other people’s sins—than one’s own. The Pharisee was quite free in searching the publican and declaring his wrongdoings, though he saw no faults and sins in himself! The poet might have found men who would be willing to search him and try him and point out his blemishes and his wicked ways. But this, he did not ask. Men’s judgments are imperfect. Sometimes they are uncharitable, even unjust. There are lives that go down under men’s condemnation, whom love would have saved. At the best, men are only ignorant or partial judges. They cannot see our motives—and ofttimes they condemn as evil—that which is noble and beautiful, and approved as right and praiseworthy, that which before God is unworthy and sinful. It is not enough for us to ask men to search us and try us, to say to a friend, "Tell me of my faults and blemishes, that I may put them away."
Dr. Stalker tells the story of a young composer whose work was being performed in a great music hall. A throng was listening and applauding. But the young man seemed to be indifferent to all these tokens of approval. All the while his eye was fixed on one man who sat at the center of the hall. This was his old master, and the musician cared more for his opinion—than for that of the thousands of other listeners; and was thrilled more by his faintest look or gesture of approval, than by all the thunderous cheers of the throng.
It matters very little to us what men may say—either in praise or in blame—of our conduct, or our deeds. But there is One who sits at the center of all things, who is perfect in wisdom, love, and righteousness, and whose judgments are unerring. We should want always to know what He thinks of our acts, words, dispositions, and thoughts. Though all the world applauds what we do, if on His face there is no pleasure, if we see there the shadow of disapprobation, what a mockery is men’s applause! On the other hand, if the world sneers, condemns, and blames; if men have for us only scorn, reproach, and persecution; and if, meanwhile, turning our eyes toward the heavenly throne, we see in the divine face—the smile of pleasure and approval, what need we care for either the favors or the frowns of men? It is to God we should turn—for the searching of our lives. No other judgment will avail.
It is better and safer always, to fall into the hands of God, than into the hands of men. God is kindlier and juster than men. Nobody understands you—as God does. Nobody knows your infirmities and has such patience with them—as God has. He knows our frame. He remembers that we are dust. He understands our weakness. He knows human life—this blessed Lord of ours—by actual human experience. He knows all the elements that enter into human struggle, and, therefore, is fitted for sympathy. We never need be afraid to open our heart to Him, for He will never be unjust with us. We never need be afraid to ask Him to search us, for if we truly want to give up our sins when we discover them—we shall find Him most merciful and gracious.
It will be worth our while to think seriously of the things in us—that only God can see. There are sins which are hidden from ourselves, of which our conscience is not aware—our unwitting, unknown errors—the evil in us which lies too deep to be discovered. There is a SELF in us, which even we ourselves do not see. There are depths of our being, into which our own eyes cannot pierce. Even our own knowledge of ourselves, is not final. You may say that you know of no sins, errors, or faults in yourself, and you may be sincere; still this is not evidence that you are sinless. In one of his epistles Paul says, "I know nothing against myself." He was not living in the practice of any sin, so far as he knew. He did no wrong thing willingly and knowingly. He cherished no secret sin. Every fault he discovered, he put away. He knew nothing against himself. But he added, "Yet am I not hereby justified; but he who judges me is the Lord." The bar of conscience in our own breast, is not the final court. It is not enough to have the approval of our own heart. There are errors and evils in the holiest life on earth—which only God’s eye can detect. We must ask God to search us, if we would be made absolutely clean. God knows all our past. We do not. There is much that we have forgotten. The memory of many of our deeds has faded out. But God has forgotten nothing. Our forgetting our sins—does not blot them out. The evil things we do not remember, are there yet.
We cannot see our own faults—even as our neighbors can see them. There is wisdom in the wish that we might see ourselves, as others see us—for it would free us from many a blunder and foolish notion. We are prejudiced in our own favor. We are disposed to be charitable toward our own shortcomings. We make all sorts of allowances for our own faults. We are wonderfully patient with our own weaknesses. We are blind to our own blemishes. We look at our own good qualities through magnifying glasses; and at our faults and errors with lenses reversed—making them appear very small. We see only the best of ourselves. If you were to meet yourself on the street some morning—that is, the person God sees you to be—you would probably not recognize yourself!
We remember the little story that the prophet Nathan told King David, about a rich man’s injustice toward a poor man, and how David’s anger flamed up. "This man must die!" cried the king. He did not recognize himself—in the man he so despised, until Nathan quietly said, "You are the man!"
We are all too much like David.
If the true chronicle of your life were written in a book, in the form of a story, and you were to read the chapters over—you probably would not identify the story as your own! We do not know our real self. We do not imagine there is so much about us that is morally ugly and foul, that is positively wicked. But God searches the innermost things of our life!
God sees into the future and knows where the subtle tendencies of our life are leading us. We do many things which to our own eyes, appear innocent and harmless—but which have in them a hidden evil tendency which some day will come to ripeness. We indulge ourselves in many things which may not appear sinful—but which leave on our soul a touch of blight, a soiling of purity. We permit ourselves to grow into a hundred little habits, in which we see no danger—but which meanwhile are weaving their fine gossamer threads into a net for our souls, or twisting their invisible filaments into a rope which some day will bind us hand and foot! We spare ourselves little self-denials, thinking there is no reason why we should make them, not aware that we are neglecting God-given duties, and refusing to take up crosses laid at our feet by the Master, thus failing in complete faithfulness. We form friendships which become very dear to us—but which insidiously harm us, weakening our life’s purpose or drawing us away from God. The peril in all these things, lies not so much in the mere acts or indulgences of the hour—as in the things to which they will lead. We have no eyes to see the hidden danger in these "no harms" in our life—but God detects the peril, and sees what the end will be. A popular writer tells the story of a dream which a man had. He had left his English home and was in India. He had done many things which would have pained his mother’s heart, if she had known of them. One night he dreamed that he saw a drunken man enter his room. As the moonlight fell on the man’s face, making every feature visible, a terror more terrible than mortal had ever known before seized upon the dreamer. He saw that the face was his own—but marked and scarred with the furrows of disease and much evil-doing—white, drawn, and grown old. It was a glimpse of what he was coming to, if he did not quickly change his wrong course.
There is another kind of hidden faults. There are things in many of us, no doubt, which we regard among our strong points, certainly fair and commendable traits or qualities—which in God’s eye are sore blemishes! Good and evil in certain qualities, lie not far apart. It is easy for devotion to principle—a good thing; to take the form of obstinacy—a very unlovely thing. It is not hard for zeal for orthodoxy, to pass into intolerance and bigotry. Self-respect, consciousness of ability, easily degenerate into prideful self-conceit. Gentleness readily becomes weakness. A man may be giving his life, in the larger sense, to the work of Christ, doing great things for the church—while in his own home, with those nearest to him, he is living like a beast! We see this kind of fault cropping out in our neighbor’s character and life, and we say, "What a pity so fine a character is so marred!" Yes, and our neighbour looks at us, and says, "What a pity that with so many excellences, he has these blemishes and faults!" Sin is deceitful. The substance of all this is, that besides the evil which others see in us, and which we see in ourselves; all of us have undiscovered errors and faults—which only God can see!
We ought never to shrink from learning our faults. He is a coward who does. Moreover, he is making a fearful mistake, who blinds himself to the faults in his own heart and life. He is refusing to see a danger which by and by, may work his ruin! Every true man should be glad always to learn of any hidden fault he has.
Ruskin says, "Count yourself richer—that day you discover a new fault in yourself; not richer because it is there—but richer because it is no longer a hidden fault! And if you have not found all your faults, pray to have them revealed to you, even if the revelation must come in a way that hurts your pride!"
Secret, undiscovered faults—are more perilous than discovered faults. Open sins are enemies in the field, undisguised, recognized as enemies. Hidden faults are enemies concealed, traitors in our camp, passing for friends! No godly, true, and brave man will permit a discovered sin or fault—to stay in his life. He will fight it to the death. But his undiscovered sin or fault, lurks and nests in his heart while he knows it not, and breeds its evil in his very soul! Before he is aware of its presence—it may eat out the very heart of his life—and poison the springs of his being! A fire broke out in a large storage building in the morning—but it had been smouldering all night, and, undiscovered, eating its way among the bales, so that when discovered the whole interior was a mass of fire, and there was only the shell of the building left. Just so, hidden faults destroy lives, and none but God knows the destruction that is going on—until the fatal ruin is wrought. We ought to pray God continually, to search us, and save us from undiscovered sins.
Hidden faults in us—will hinder our spiritual growth. They also make us unfit for God’s work. When Canova, the sculptor, was about to begin his statue of Napoleon, his keen eye saw a tiny reddish tinge in the upper part of the splendid block of marble out of which he was to hew the statue. The stone had been brought at great expense from Paris. Common eyes saw no flaw in the stone—but the sculptor saw it, and the stone was rejected. May it not be so ofttimes, with lives which face great opportunities? God’s eye detects in them some undiscovered flaw, or fault, some tiny tinge of marring color. God desires truth in the inward parts. The life must be pure and white throughout. He who cherishes a secret sin—is balking God’s purpose in himself. God cannot use him for the noble task or service. Because of the secret sin—he is rejected. Are we ready to make the prayer for divine searching? Are we willing to have God search us—and find every secret, hidden sin in us? Are we willing for Him to go down into our heart, among our thoughts and affections and desires, and find and reveal to us every way of wickedness He discovers? Then are we willing to give up, tear out, and cast away forever from us, everything that God finds that is not holy?
"Search me, O God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts. See if there is any offensive way in me, and lead me in the everlasting way!" A Morning Prayer
"Let the morning bring me word of your unfailing love, for I have put my trust in you. Show me the way I should go, for to you I lift up my soul. Rescue me from my enemies, O LORD, for I hide myself in you. Teach me to do your will, for you are my God; may your good Spirit lead me on level ground. For your name’s sake, O LORD, preserve my life; in your righteousness, bring me out of trouble."
Some people never pray. Others say that prayer cannot do anything for them. It is very pathetic when men thus cut themselves off from God—whom they need so deeply. No day starts well or safely—without its morning prayer. We need to get the touch of Christ’s hand upon us, to give us strength and courage for our day. Many of us have to rise early and hurry away to work that is hard and sometimes frets and irks us. Perhaps we are thrown among people who are not kindly and congenial, who try us and irritate us by their talk and behavior. The days bring their temptations, their allurements, their false paths, their burdens, their responsibilities, their struggles, possibly sudden sorrows. To push out into any new day without prayer, is perilous. However quiet and sweet the morning air is, we need God to lead us in the quiet and sweetness. If we are going into a day of storm and trouble, we certainly need the divine shelter and guidance. The morning prayer sets the day apart. We should begin each one with God. It is a great secret of beautiful and faithful living, to learn to live by the day. One day at a time, and then begin each day at God’s feet. In the morning prayer in this Psalm, there are six petitions:
"Let the morning bring me word of your unfailing love." This is a prayer that the first voice to break upon our ears at the opening of the day shall be the voice of God.
Henry Drummond says: "Five minutes spent in the companionship of Christ every morning—yes, two minutes, if it is face to face and heart to heart—will change your whole day, will make every thought and feeling different, will enable you to do things for His sake—that you would not have done for your own sake."
It is very sweet when one is living in constant fellowship with Christ, to look into His face in the first waking moment, to thank Him for His love, to receive His smile of forgiveness and peace, and His blessing for the day. "Those who wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength." After being with God—we are ready for anything that the day may bring.
We cannot go out to sing in the morning, unless we have first opened our hearts to hear the song of divine love. Fitting is the prayer, "Let the morning bring me word of your unfailing love, for I have put my trust in you." When we hear God’s voice of love in the morning, we are ready for anything. The second petition of this morning prayer is, "Cause me to know the way wherein I should walk." We cannot know the way ourselves. The path across one little day, seems a very short one—but we cannot find it ourselves. Each day is a hidden world to our eyes. We cannot see a single step before us. There is an impenetrable darkness that covers the sunniest day as with night’s sable robes. You know not, what the unspent hours of this very day may hold for you. They may have surprises of joy, or they may have surprises of sorrow for you. They may lead you into a garden of pleasure—or a garden of anguish. All you can do is to commit your way to God, praying, "Cause me to know the way wherein I should walk."
It brings rest and peace to us, as we look out upon a day’s hidden paths, not knowing where we ought to go, to remember that God knows all. Job speaks of the mystery of life, when one seeks the way and cannot find it: "I go east, but he is not there. I go west, but I cannot find him. I do not see him in the north, for he is hidden. I turn to the south, but I cannot find him. But he knows where I am going. When he has tried me, I shall come forth as gold."
God has many ways of answering this prayer and making us know the way. He puts His Word into our hands and says, "Take, and read."
Another of God’s voices speaks within. "The spirit of man is the candle of the Lord," says the Scripture. We call this candle conscience, and it burns in our breasts as a lamp burns in a room at night.
Then, God guides us through human friends. Someone advises young people always to seek to have an older friend to whom they can go for the wisdom learned from experience.
Sometimes the way amid the tangles is made plain, through some providence. One door is shut and another is opened. A friend was telling how when he was in much uncertainty about his duty on a certain occasion, when a great task was laid into his hands, and when he prayed to have the way made plain, he was led into a sick room. He did not think of that as the answer to his prayer—but in that place of pain he learned the very lesson he needed to learn, and found the very guidance he sought. When the oriental shepherd led his flock through some dark valley—it was because that was the way to a bit of green pasture on the other side. Or the answer to your prayer may be a keen disappointment. "O God, this cannot be the way!" you cry. If Joseph, the morning he left home to go to his brothers, had prayed, "Cause me to know the way wherein I should walk," he might have wondered as he was led to Egypt as a slave—if that were the answer to his prayer. It certainly did not seem as if God were directing him those days. But as the years went on, he learned that there had been no mistake in the guidance. If he had escaped from his brothers or from the caravan, he would have only spoiled one of God’s plans of love for his life. We need never be afraid to pray this prayer—and then to accept the answer, whatever it is. God will show us the way—if we will accept His guidance. The third petition in our morning prayer is, "Save me from my enemies, LORD; I run to you to hide me." The day is full of dangers. We do not know it; we see no danger. We go out, not dreaming of any possible peril. Yet everywhere there are enemies. Disease lurks in the air we breathe, hides in the water we drink, and is concealed in the food we eat. Along the street where we walk, on the railway on which we ride, there are perils. No African jungle is so full of wild beasts, savage and blood-thirsty, as are the common days with malignant spiritual enemies. We are aware of no danger and, therefore, cannot protect ourselves.
What can we do? As we go out in the morning we can offer this prayer, "Save me from my enemies, LORD; I run to you to hide me." Thus we can put our frail, imperilled lives each morning into the keeping of the Mighty God.
We have no promise that prayer will take the dangers out of our day. It is not in this way that God usually helps. Prayer brings God down about us, a heavenly protection, making us safe in the midst of most hurtful things. Not to pray as we go into the day—is to venture among life’s thousand perils—with our heads uncovered, with no armor about us. The problem of life is not to get an easy, safe way—but to go through the way, though beset with perils—unhurt; to be kept from harm—amid sorest dangers.
Every day’s experiences have their perils for us, which with prayer become helps and blessings—but without prayer can only harm and devastate our lives. We cannot help ourselves. We cannot compel the dangers to become our shelter. We cannot cover our own souls with any shield that will make us safe. The only safety for us any day—is in prayer. If we understood what perils there are for us, if our eyes were opened to give us a glimpse of the enemies that wait for us in cloud or sunshine—we would never dare to go forth from our door any morning—until we had first called upon God to deliver us from our enemies.
We cannot keep ourselves; God alone can keep us. We are safe nowhere but under the shadow of His wings. We should flee to Him to hide us. It is never safe to go forth any morning, without a prayer of committal of ourselves to God’s watchful care. The fourth petition of this morning prayer is: "Teach me to do your will, for you are my God. May your gracious Spirit lead me forward on a firm footing."
"Teach me to do your will." A little before the writer prayed, "Cause me to know the way wherein I should walk." But knowing the way is not enough: we must also walk in it. Mary Lyon said she feared nothing so much as that she would not know all her duty—and that she would not do it. Paul said, "The good which I would do—I do not do." When we ask God in the morning to show us the way, we must ask Him also to teach us to go in the right path. "Lead me on level ground." A great many people know their duty—better than they do it. It should be our aim in all things—to conform to God’s will. But we need God’s help to do this. Our hearts are inclined to disobedience. We do not naturally love to walk "on level ground." We need both to be taught and led. "Teach me ... Lead me" are the two prayers. We all need to pray these prayers together.
Sometimes the answer does not come in sweet, easy ways, with breath of fragrance and in summer sunshine. Sometimes the teaching comes in sore pain and loss, and the leading is over sharp stones, along a rough, steep path. Still our prayers should be, even amid tears and pain: "Lord, Teach me . . . Lead me." If in no other way we can be saved, it is better that we lose out of our life all the flowers and sunshine, and walk amid thorns and in darkness, reaching home at last, than that we walk in flowery paths and in the brightness, and never get home at all. So each morning let us continue to pray, "Teach me . . . Lead me." "Teach me to do your will. Lead me in your ways." The fifth petition in this morning prayer is, "Quicken me, O Lord." To quicken is to give life. We have no strength for the day’s duties and struggles. We feel ourselves weak and faint. Perhaps we are physically unable for the work before us. We certainly are spiritually weak. Our life’s fountains need refilling. This is a prayer for life, new life. Christ came that we might have life—and might have it in abundance. He is ready to give it to all who will take it. We need but to ask for it. In the morning as we go forth to the day’s toils, tasks, cares, and struggles, our prayer should be: "Quicken me, O Lord. Give me life and strength. Put Your Spirit into my heart. Breathe Your own breath into my soul. Shed abroad Your love in me. Quicken me with strength inwardly. Fill me with Yourself." If we pray such a prayer—we shall not fail through weakness. The power of Christ will then rest upon us, and when we are weak in ourselves—then shall we be strong in Christ. The last petition of this morning prayer is, "For your name’s sake, O LORD, preserve my life. In your righteousness, bring my soul out of trouble." The day may bring sorrow, or it may bring other trouble. We cannot guide our feet through the dark valley. Sorrow is meant to do us good and will do so—if we have God to lead us through it.
One writes: "Gardeners sometimes, when they would bring a rose to richer flowering, deprive it for a season of light and moisture. Silent and dark it stands, dropping one fading leaf after another, and seeming to go practically down to death. But when every leaf is dropped and the plant stands stripped to the uttermost, a new life is even then working in the buds, from which shall spring a tenderer foliage and a brighter wealth of flowers. So, after in celestial gardening, every leaf of earthly joy must drop, before a new and divine bloom visits the soul."
Thus it is that sorrow works blessing and good in the child of God—when the Holy Spirit guides the life through the experience. But our prayer must always be that God would bring our soul out of sorrow, for otherwise only harm and not good can come from it. Sorrow will wound and scar our life—unless the gentle hand of Christ be upon us to heal and comfort.
Then, there are other troubles besides sorrows—business troubles, home troubles, cares, disappointments, difficulties of a thousand kinds. We know not what any day may bring to us. We need God’s wisdom, God’s power, God’s guidance—or we shall never get through unharmed. Let us learn to lay all the tangled threads of our life in the hands of the Master. He can take them, disentangle them, and with them weave beauty and blessing. At the opening of each day, may our prayer be, "In your righteousness bring my soul out of trouble."
If we but learn to begin each busy day at God’s feet with such a morning prayer as this—we shall go forth with bright face, happy heart, strong hand, and firm step—to live loyally, faithfully, sweetly, and usefully all the day. The God of Those Who Fail
Psa 145:14 "The LORD upholds all those who fall—and lifts up all who are bowed down." The God of the Bible—is the God of the weak and the unfortunate. The Bible is a book of love and sympathy. It is like a mother’s bosom to lay one’s head upon, in the time of distress or pain. Its pages teem with cheer for those who are discouraged. It sets its lamps of hope to shine in darkened chambers. It reaches out its hands of help to the fainting and to those who have fallen. It is full of comfort for those who are in sorrow. It has its many special promises for the needy, the poor, the bereft. It is a book for those who have failed, for the disappointed, the defeated, the discouraged, the crushed, for the broken lives.
It is this quality in the Bible, that makes it so dear a book, to the universal heart of humanity. If it were a book only for the strong, the successful, the victorious, the unfallen, those who walk erect, those who have no sorrow, those who never fail, the whole, the happy—it would not find such a welcome as it does in this world, wherever it goes. So long as there are in this world, tears and sorrows, and broken hearts and crushed hopes, human failures and human sin, lives burdened and bowed down, and spirits sad and despairing—so long will the Bible be a welcome book; an inspired book and full of inspiration, light, help, and strength for earth’s weary ones!
"The LORD upholds all those who fall—and lifts up all who are bowed down." Wherever there is a weak, fainting, stumbling one, unable to walk alone, to him the heart of the God of heaven goes out in tender thought and sympathy, and the divine hand is extended to support him and keep him from falling altogether. Wherever one has fallen, and lies in defeat or failure, over him bends the Heavenly Father in gentle pity, to raise him up and to help him to begin again. In the East there was much cruel oppression of the poor. They were wronged by the rich and the strong. They could not get justice in the courts. But all through the Scriptures, we find stern condemnation of those who oppress the poor, who rob them of their rights. The bitterest thing about poverty is not the pain of privation and cold and hunger—but the feeling that no one cares, the sense of being forgotten, the absence of sympathy and love in human hearts, the cruelty of injustice, oppression, and wrong which are the portion of the poor—where the love of Christ is not known. But the Bible is full of divine commands against the oppression of the poor. God is ever the friend of the weak, the defender of the defenseless, the helper of those who have no human helper.
"The Lord hears the poor." "Whoever mocks the poor reproaches his Maker." "Whoever stops his ears at the cry of the poor, he also shall cry himself—but shall not be heard." Thus the God of the Bible puts Himself on the side of the wronged and oppressed. The widow and the orphan are, especially in Eastern lands, very desolate and defenseless. But God declares Himself their special helper and defender. Amid other laws found in the old Mosaic Code, we come upon this bit of divine gentleness: "You shall not afflict any widow or fatherless child. If you afflict them in any way, and they cry at all to me—I will surely hear their cry, and my wrath shall wax hot." Sheaves were to be left in the field, olives on the tree, grapes on the vine—for the fatherless and the widow.
There should be infinite comfort in these provisions of the ancient law for the widow and the fatherless in all times. The heart of God, which beat with such tenderness thousands of years ago—is unchanged today. The God of the Bible has a partiality of kindness for those who have lost the human guardians of their feebleness. Whereon there is weakness in anyone—the strength of God is specially revealed.
"The Lord preserves the simple." The "simple" are those who are innocent and childlike, without skill or cunning to care for themselves, those who are unsuspecting and trustful, who are not armed by their own wisdom against the evils of men. "The Lord preserves the simple;" He takes care of them; He keeps and guards them. Indeed, the safest people in this world—are those who have no power to take care of themselves. Their very defenselessness is their protection. Have you ever seen a blind child in a home? How weak and helpless it is! It is at the mercy of any cruelty which an evil heart may inspire. It is an open prey for all dangers. It cannot take care of itself. Yet how lovingly and safely it is sheltered! The mother-love seems tenderer for the blind child, than for any of the others. The father’s thought is not so gentle for any of the strong ones, as for this helpless one. "Those sealed eyes, those tottering feet, those outstretched hands, have a power to move those parents to labor and care and sacrifice, such as the strongest and most beautiful of the household does not possess."
Now this picture gives us a hint of the special, watchful care of God for His weak children. Their very helplessness is their strongest plea to the divine heart. The God of the Bible is the God of the weak, the unsheltered. Woe unto him, therefore, who touches the least of these! The God of the Bible is the God also of the broken-hearted. There is a verse in one of the Psalms which says, "The Lord is near unto those who are of a broken heart." Then another Psalm says, "He heals the broken in heart, and binds up their wounds." The world pays no regard to broken hearts. Indeed, men ofttimes break hearts by their cruelty, their falseness, their injustice, their coldness—and then move on as heedlessly as if they had trodden only on a worm! The world treads remorselessly upon bruised reeds. Like the Juggernaut, it rolls on, crushing and breaking, without pity, without feeling, never stopping to lift up, to heal, to restore those who are fallen in the way. But there is One who cares. "He heals the broken in heart, and binds up their wounds." Their broken-heartedness attracts God. The wail of human grief—draws Him down from heaven. Physicians in their rounds do not stop at the homes of the well—but of the sick. Surgeons on the battlefield pay no attention to the unhurt, the unwounded; they bend over those who have been torn by shot or shell, or pierced by sword or saber. So it is with God, in His movements through this world; it is not to the whole and well—but to the wounded and stricken that He comes. Jesus said of His own mission, "He has sent me to bind up the broken-hearted." Men look for the glad, the happy, when they seek friends; but God chooses the sorrowing for the sweetest revealings of His love.
We look upon trouble as misfortune and failure. We say the life is being destroyed that is passing through adversity. But the truth which we are finding in our search, does not so represent suffering. "The Lord raises up all those that be bowed down." "The Lord heals the broken in heart and binds up their wounds." He is a repairer and restorer of the hurt and ruined life. He takes the bruised reed, and by His gentle skill—makes it whole again, until it grows in fairer beauty than ever before. When a branch of a tree is injured in some way, hurt or bruised, all the tree begins at once to pour of its life into the wounded part, to restore it. When a violet is crushed by a passing foot—air, sun, cloud, and dew all at once begin their ministry of healing, giving of their life to bind up the wound in the little flower. So it is with God; when a human heart is wounded, all the love and pity and grace of God begin to pour forth their sweet blessing of comfort to restore that which is broken.
Then, we know that much of the most beautiful life in this world comes out of sorrow. As "fair flowers bloom upon rough stalks," so many of the fairest flowers of human life spring from the rough stalk of suffering. We stand with the beloved disciple on the other side, and we see that those who in heaven wear the whitest robes and sing the loudest songs of victory—are they who have come out of great tribulation. Heaven’s highest places are filling, not from earth’s homes of festivity and tearless joy—but from its chambers of pain, its valleys of struggle, where the battle is hard, and from its scenes of sorrow, where pale cheeks are wet with tears, and where hearts are broken. The God of the Bible is the God of the bowed down, whom He lifts up into strength. Earth’s failures are not failures—if God is in them.
Paul’s experience is very instructive. Christ said to him, in his discouragement: "My strength is made perfect in weakness." That is, we are not weakest when we think ourselves weakest; nor strongest when we think ourselves strong. God’s power is made perfect in our weakness. Human consciousness of weakness, gives God room to work. He cannot work with our strength, because in our self-conceit we make no room for Him. Before He can put His strength into us—we must confess that we have no strength of our own. Then, when conscious of our own insufficiency, we are ready to receive of the divine sufficiency.
Paul said, when he learned this blessed secret, "Most gladly therefore will I rather glory in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me." Then he added: "For when I am weak—then am I strong." The ones whom God upholds—are the ones who without His help would fall. Those whom He raises up—are those who but for His uplifting, would sink away into utter failure. The power of Christ rests upon those who are weak—and know themselves weak. You cannot struggle victoriously alone—but your very weakness draws to you the sympathy and the help of the Lord Jesus Christ. So it comes, that the feeblest are the strongest, if they but lean with all their feebleness on the arm of Christ! Your weakness is itself an element of strength, if you are truly following Christ. As it were, weakness is a nerveless arm that God nerves, an empty heart that God fills with His own life. You think your weakness unfits you for noble, beautiful living, or for sweet, gentle, helpful serving. You wish you could get clear of it. It seems an ugly deformity. But really, it is something which if you give it to Christ—He can transform into a source of power! The friend by your side, whom you almost envy because he seems so much stronger than you, does not get so much of Christ’s strength, as you do. You alone are weaker than he—but you and Christ are stronger than he.
Look at the life of Christ. He was God manifest in the flesh. What He did, therefore, was a revealing of God’s manner of dealing with men. To what class of people did His sympathy and help go out most richly? Did He ally Himself with the strong? Was He drawn to the successful, the prosperous, the victorious? No! It was just the reverse. So marked was His sympathy with the people who had failed, that the prosperous classes said, with a sneer, that He was "the friend of publicans and sinners." All the poor wrecks of humanity in Palestine seemed to be drawn to Him—the sick, the blind, the lame, the lepers, the outcast—and He never turned one of them away unhelped. His whole life was given up—to those who had failed. He lived amid human wreckage all His days. His heart turned to the sad, the troubled, the needy, the lost. His own parable told it all—He left the ninety-nine safe sheep in the fold, and went after the one that was lost. He explained it by saying, "Those who are whole have no need of the physician—but those who are sick. I came not to call the righteous—but sinners to repentance." He showed Himself the friend of those who had failed—not because they had failed—but because they were weak, and in danger, and needed Him—and because He would save them. As sickness draws the physician with all his skill and power to heal; so human failure draws the Christ with all His love and life and all His power—to lift up and save. So much for the truth—the God of the Bible is the God of the weak, of the stumbling, of the fainting, of the fallen, of the unsuccessful, of those who have failed. Who is there among us, to whom this precious truth brings no comfort? Some, perhaps, have not been successful in their earthly business. You have toiled hard—but have not got along well. Well, this world’s affairs are but the scaffolding of our real life. If they have, meanwhile, been true to God, and faithful in duty, there has been going up inside the rough scaffolding of earthly failure—the noble building of a godly character.
It is ofttimes only at the cost of worldly success, that we can reach spiritual beauty. Michaelangelo used to say, as the fragments of marble flew thick on the floor beneath the blows of his mallet, "While the marble wastes—the image grows." So, ofttimes we may say, as God cuts away the externals of our life, "While the outward wastes—the spiritual shines out in greater and greater beauty." You are sure at least always, that your failures and losses do not drive God from you—but draw Him nearer and nearer. "He raises up those who are bowed down."