THE TOLERATION OF LOVE "Love bears all things." "Love believes all things." "Love hopes all things." 1. "Love BEARS all things." Some writers consider this seventh verse as an amplification of the foregoing one, and explain it, in reference to the truth, in the following manner– "Love bears all things," reported in the truths of Scripture—however opposed to the corruption of human nature, and counts none of them hard sayings or unfit to be borne. "Love believes all things" imported in the truths of Scripture—or all the inferences which the apostles have deduced from it—as being well attached to the source from whence it flows. "Love hopes for all things" promised in the truths of Scripture. "Love endures all things," or patiently suffers all the afflictions that can attend a steady attachment to truths of Scripture. This gives a very good sense of the words, and admits the full force of these universal expressions. Yet it certainly agrees better with the scope of the apostle to understand the verse with reference to the brethren as the objects of this love. If we render the first expression, "Love bears all things"—as our translators have done, it may signify our bearing one another's burdens and weaknesses, which is to fulfill the law of Christ—and it must be confessed this is strictly true; for whoever is under the influence of the principle of love, will possess a spirit of tender sympathy. In this world we all groan, being burdened. Each has his own load of care, or grief, or imperfection. This world is not the state where we find perfect rest. How wide is the scope, how frequent the opportunity, how numerous the occasions, for the 'sympathy of love'! And who that is possessed of benevolence, can allow himself to pass a brother upon the road, laboring under a heavier burden than his own, without offering to bear a part? We are not to be audaciously intrusive and intermeddling, nor to pry into the secrets of our neighbors with an inquisitive curiosity; but to inquire into the cause which gives them so much concern or so much grief—is the duty of those who are the witnesses of their careworn countenance and downcast look. What an unfeeling heart must that man have, who can see a very sorrowful person before him, and never kindly ask the reason of its existence! It is but little that sympathy can do for the sufferer—but that little should be most cheerfully afforded. To be unnoticed and unpitied in our griefs, adds greatly to their weight. For what purpose are Christians collected into churches? not merely to eat the Lord's Supper together—this could be done without any such distinct recognition of a mutual relationship, as that which takes place in the fellowship of believers. The end and design of this bond is, that being united as one body, the members might cherish a general sympathy for each other, and exercise their benevolence in the way of mutual assistance. The rich, by their munificence, should help their poorer brethren to bear the burden of poverty; the strong should aid the weak to bear the burden of their fears and apprehensions; those who are in health and ease should, by seasonable visits, and soothing words, and kind offices, bear the burden of the sick; counsel should always be given, when it is sought by those who are in difficulty; and a disposition should pervade the whole body, to render its varied resources, talents, and energies, available for the benefit of the whole. But though this also gives a beautiful meaning, and enjoins a necessary duty, it is not the right view of the passage. The word translated "bears "all things, signifies also, "to contain, to conceal, to cover." The idea of "bearing," is parallel in meaning to that of "enduring," of which the apostle speaks in the latter part of the verse; and it is not probable that it was his intention to express the same thought twice. Adopting the idea of "concealment "as the sentiment he intended to express, and the "failings of others" as the object to which it refers, I shall go on to show in what way it is practiced. To do this with still greater effect, we shall exhibit a general view of those sins to which this view of Christian love stands exposed; and these are—slander, detraction, and rash judging, or censoriousness. Perhaps there are no sins which are more frequently alluded to, or more severely rebuked, in Scripture, than those of the TONGUE; and for this reason—because there are none to which we are so frequently tempted—none we are so prone to indulge, or so bold to excuse—none which are so productive of disorder and discomfort to society. Besides swearing, falsehood, obscenity, and blasphemy—the Scripture speaks of bearing false witness, railing, talebearing, whispering, backbiting, slander, and reproach—a dismal enumeration of vices belonging to that member which was intended to be the glory of our bodily frame. By SLANDER, we understand the circulation of a false report with the intention of injuring a neighbor's reputation. Its most vicious excess is the invention and construction of a story which is absolutely false from beginning to end. Its next lower grade, though little inferior in criminality, is to become the extender of the tale, knowing it to be false. "This," says Barrow, "is to become the hucksters of counterfeit wares, or partners in this vile trade. There is no coiner who has not emissaries and accomplices ready to take from his hand and pass on his money; and such 'second hand slanderers' are scarcely less guilty than the first authors. He who brews lies may have more wit and skill—but the 'spreader of the slander' shows similar malice and wickedness. In this there is no great difference between the vile devil who frames scandalous reports—and the little imps who run about and disperse them." The next operation of slander, is to receive and spread, without examining into the truth of them, false and injurious reports. It is a part of a good man's character, that "He takes not up a reproach against his neighbor," that is, he does not easily entertain it, much less propagate it; he does not receive it but upon the most convincing evidence. But slander founds reproachful tales upon 'mere conjecture or suspicion'—and raises an injurious representation upon a mere assumption. Sometimes it withers the reputation of a neighbor by rash speaking, or vehemently affirming things which it has no reason to believe, and no motive for affirming—except for the hope of exciting ill-will towards the one slandered. Slander is sinful, because forbidden in every part of Scripture. Slander is cruel, because it is robbing our neighbor of that which is dearer to him than life. Slander is foolish, because it subjects the calumniator himself to all kinds of trouble—for it not only exposes him to the wrath of God, the loss of his soul, and the miseries of hell in the world to come—but it makes him odious in the present life, causes him to be shunned and discredited, arms his conscience against his own peace, brings upon himself the most reproachful accusations, and not infrequently the vengeance of that public justice, which is rightly appointed to be the guardian not only of property and life—but of reputation also. DETRACTION, or backbiting, differs a little from slander, though in its general nature and constitution it closely resembles it. Slander involves an imputation of falsehood—but detraction may clothe itself with truth! Backbiting is sweetened poison—served from a golden cup—by the hand of hypocrisy. A detractor's aim is the same as the slanderer's—to injure the reputation of another—but he avails himself of means that are a little different. He represents people and their actions under the most disadvantageous circumstances he can—setting forth those which may make them 'appear' guilty or ridiculous—while ignoring the commendable qualities and actions of those it backbites. "When he cannot deny the metal to be good, and the stamp to be true, he clips it, and so rejects it from being current—he misconstrues doubtful actions unfavorably, and throws over the very 'virtues' of his neighbors, the name of 'faults'—calling the sober sour, the conscientious morose, the devout superstitious, the frugal sordid, the cheerful frivolous, and the reserved crafty! He diminishes from the excellence of good actions, by showing how much better they might have been done; and attempts to destroy all confidence in long established character, and all respect for it—by focusing on some single act of imprudence, and expanding it into a magnitude—thus painting the whole character with darkness—which truth and justice forbid. Such is the backbiter—whose crime is compounded with the ingredients of—vileness, pride, selfishness, envy, malice, falsehood, cowardice, and folly." Backbiting must be peculiarly hateful to God—"He is the God of truth, and therefore detests lying, of which detraction ever has a spice. He is the God of justice, and therefore does especially abhor wronging the best people and actions. He is the God of love, and therefore cannot but loathe this primary violation of love. He is jealous of his glory, and therefore cannot endure it to be abused, by slurring his good gifts and graces. He cannot but hate the offense which approaches to that most heinous and unpardonable sin, which consists in defaming the excellent works performed by Divine power and goodness—and ascribing them to bad causes." The same writer, in speaking of the mischief of detraction, as discouraging others from the performance of that goodness which is thus vilified and defamed, has the following beautiful remarks. "Many, seeing the best men thus disparaged, and the best actions vilified, are disheartened and deterred from practicing virtue, especially in a conspicuous and eminent degree—'Why,' will many a man say, 'shall I be strictly good, seeing goodness is so liable to be misused? Had I not better be contented with a mediocrity and obscurity of goodness, than by a glaring luster thereof to draw the envious eye, and kindle raging ridicule upon me?' And when the honor of virtue is blasted in its practices, many will be diverted from it. So will virtue grow out of fashion—and the world be corrupted by these agents of the EVIL ONE. It were advisable, upon this consideration, not to seem ever to detract, even not then when we are assured, that by speaking evil—we shall not really do it. If we should discover any man who was reputed to be worthy; whom we discover, by standing in a nearer light, not to be truly such—yet wisdom would commonly dictate, and goodness dispose, not to mar his reputation. If we should observe, without danger of mistake, any beneficent action to be performed out of bad motives, principles, or designs; yet ordinarily, in discretion and honesty, we should let it pass with such condemnation as its appearance may procure, rather than slur it by venting our negative apprehensions about it; for it is no great harm that any man should enjoy undeserved commendation. Our granting its claims is but being over-just, which if it ever be a fault, can hardly be so in this case—wherein we do not personally expend any cost or suffer any damage. But it may do mischief to blemish any appearance of virtue. It may be a wrong thereto, to deface its very image—the very disclosing of hypocrisy does inflict a wound on goodness, and exposes it to scandal, for bad men will then be prone to infer that all virtue does proceed from the like bad principles; so the disgrace cast on that which is spurious, will redound to the prejudice of that which is most genuine. And if it is good to forbear detracting from that which is certainly false, much more so in regard to that which is possibly true; and far more still is it so in respect to that which is clear and sure." CENSORIOUSNESS is another sin of the same class—another child of the same family—varying, however, from those we have already considered by acting not so much in the way of 'reporting' faults as in 'condemning' them too severely. It is different from slander, inasmuch as it assumes that what it condemns is true; and from detraction, inasmuch as it is not exercised with an intention to injure another in public estimation—but only to reprove him for what is wrong. It assumes the character, not of a witness—but of a judge—hence the injunction, "Judge not." Censoriousness, then, means a disposition to scrutinize men's motives—to pass sentence upon their conduct—to reproach their faults—accompanied by an unwillingness to make all reasonable allowances for their mistakes, and a tendency to the side of severity, rather than to that of leniency. We are not to suppose that all inspection and condemnation of the conduct of others is sin; nor that all reproof of offenders is a violation of the law of love; nor imagine that we are to think well of our neighbors—in opposition to the plainest evidence; nor that we are to entertain such a credulous opinion of the excellence of mankind, as unsuspectingly to confide in every man's claims. But what is wrong in this particular of censoriousness—is needlessly inquiring into the conduct and motives of other men; examining and arraigning them at our personal bar of judgement, when we stand in no relation to them that requires such a scrutiny; delivering our opinion when it is not called for; pronouncing sentence with undue severity; and heaping the heaviest degree of reproach upon an offender which we can find language to express. "The world has become so extremely critical and censorious that in many places the chief employment of men, and the main body of conversation is, if we mark it, taken up in judging; every company is a court of justice, every seat becomes a tribunal, at every table stands a bar, whereunto all men are cited—whereat every man is arraigned and sentenced. Where no sublimity or sacredness of dignity—no integrity or innocence of life—no prudence or circumspection of demeanor—can exempt any person from it. Not one escapes being taxed under some odious name, or scandalous character or other. Not only the outward actions and visible practices of men are judged—but their secret sentiments are brought under review—their inward dispositions have a verdict passed upon them—and their final states are determined. Whole bodies of men are thus judged at once! And it is easy in one breath—to damn whole churches—at one push to throw down whole nations into the bottomless pit! Yes, God himself is hardly spared, his providence coming under the bold ridicule of those who—as the Psalmist speaks of some in his time, whose race does yet survive—"speak loftily, and set their mouth against the heavens." Barrow, in order to denounce this censoriousness temper, gives the following QUALIFICATIONS OF A JUDGE. He should be appointed by competent authority, and not intrude himself into office. To how many censors may we say, "Who made you a judge?" He should be free from all prejudice and partiality. Is this the case with the censorious? He should never proceed to judgment, without a careful examination of the case, so as well to understand it. Let the private self-appointed judges remember this, and act upon the principle of Solomon—"He who answers a matter before he hears it—it is a folly and a shame to him." He should never pronounce sentence but upon good grounds—after certain proof and full conviction. If this rule were observed, how many censures would be prevented. He will not meddle with causes beyond the jurisdiction of his court. If this were recollected and acted upon, the voice of unlawful censure would die away in silence! For who are we, that we should try the hearts and search the thoughts of men, or judge another's servant? He never proceeds against any man, without citing him to appear, either in person or by his representative, and giving him an opportunity to defend himself. When anyone is censured in company, there should always be found some generous mind, who would propose that the accused should be sent for—and the trial put off until he appeared. He must pronounce, not according to private imagination—but to public and established laws. Is this the rule of the censorious? Is it not rather their custom to make their own private opinion the law? He should be a person of great knowledge and ability. What is the usual character of the private censors of human conduct? Are they not people of great ignorance and few ideas, who, for lack of something else to say, or ability to say it, talk of their neighbors' faults—a topic on which a child, or a fool, can be fluent? He is not an accuser; and moreover is, by virtue of his office, counsel for the accused. On the contrary, the censorious are generally not only judges but accusers, and counsel against the culprits whom they have brought to the bar. He should lean, as far as the public good will allow, to the side of mercy. But mercy has no place in the bosom of the censorious, and their very justice is cruelty and oppression. He must himself be innocent. Why is there not a voice heard in every company, when the prisoner is arraigned, and the process of judgment begins, saying, "He who is without sin, let him cast the first stone?" He proceeds with solemnity, and grief, and slowness, to pass the sentence. But what indecent haste and levity, not excepting joy, do we witness in those who are given to the practice of censuring their neighbors' conduct. Now, to all these sinful practices, Christian love stands directly opposed. It is a long time before Christian love allows itself to perceive the faults of others. Not more quick is instinct in the bird, or beast, or fish of prey, to discover its victim, than the detractor and the censorious are to observe imperfections as soon as they appear in the conduct of those around them. Their vision is quite telescopic, to see objects of this kind at a distance! And they have a microscopic power of inspection, to examine those that are small and near—and, when looking at faults, they always employ the highest magnifying power which their instrument admits of. They are always looking at those 'small defects' which to the naked eye, would be lost amid the surrounding virtue. They do not want to see virtues—No! All that is virtuous, and good, and lovely—is passed over in quest of deformity and evil. But all this is utterly abhorrent to the nature of love, which, intent upon the well-being of mankind, and anxious for their happiness—is ever looking to notice the virtues of others. The eye of the Christian philanthropist is so busily employed in searching for excellence, and so fixed and so ravished by it when it is found, that it is sure to pass over many things of a contrary nature, as not included in the object of its inquiry—just as he who is searching for gems is likely to pass by many common stones unheeded; or as he who is looking for a particular star or constellation in the heavens, is not likely to see the candles which are near him upon earth. Good men are his delight; and to find these, very many of the evil generation are passed by. And there is also a singular power of abstraction in his benevolence, to separate, when looking at a mixed character, the good from the evil, and, losing sight of the evil, to concentrate its observation in the good. And when Christian love is obliged to admit the existence of imperfections, it diminishes as much as possible their magnitude, and hides them as much as is lawful from its own notice. It takes no delight in looking at them, finds no pleasure in keeping them before its attention, and poring into them; but turns away from them as an unpleasant object, as a delicate sense would from whatever is offensive. If we find an affinity between our thoughts and the sins of which we are the spectators, it is a plain proof that our benevolence is of a very doubtful nature, or in a feeble state. On the contrary, if we involuntarily turn away our eyes from beholding evil, and are conscious to ourselves of a strong revulsion, and an acute distress, when we cannot altogether retire from the view of it, we possess an evidence that we know much of that virtue which covers all things. If we are properly, as we ought to be, under the influence of Christian love—we shall make all reasonable allowances for those things which are wrong in the conduct of our neighbor; we shall, as we have already considered, not be forward to suspect evil; but shall do everything to lessen the heinousness of the action. This is what is meant, when it is said that "Love covers a multitude of sins." "Hatred stirs up strifes—but love covers all sins." It is the wish and the act of love to conceal from the public all the faults which the good of the offender, and the ends of public justice, do not require to be disclosed. There are cases, in which to conceal offenses, whatever kindness it may be to one, would be unkindness to many. If a person living in sin, has so far imposed upon a minister, as to induce him to propose him for admission to the fellowship of the church, it is the bounden duty of any individual who knows the real character of the candidate, to make it known to the pastor; and the same disclosure should be made in reference to a person already in communion, who is actually living in sin—concealment in these cases is an injury to the whole body of Christians. If a person is likely to be injured in his temporal concerns by reposing confidence in one who is utterly unworthy of it, it is the duty of those who are acquainted with the snare to warn the destined victim of his danger. If any are so far regardless of the peace of society and the laws of the country, as to be engaged in great crimes against both, concealment on the part of those who are aware of the existence of such practices, is a participation in the crime. As our love is to be universal, as well as particular—it must never be exercised towards individuals in a way that is really opposed to the interests of the community. But where no other interest is concerned—where no claims demand a disclosure—where no injury is done by concealment, and no benefit is conferred by giving publicity to a fault—there our duty is to cover it over with the veil of secrecy—and maintain an unbroken silence upon the subject. Instead of this friendly and amiable reserve, how different is the way in which many act! No sooner have they heard of the commission of a fault, than they set off with the spicy news—as glad as if they bore the tidings of a victory—proclaiming the melancholy fact with strange delight in every company, and almost to every individual they meet. And as there is a greedy appetite in some people for scandal, they find many ears as open to listen to the tale, as their lips are to tell it. Or perhaps they relate the matter as a 'secret', extorting a promise from those to whom they communicate it that they will never mention it again. But if it be not proper to publish it to the world, why do they speak of it at all? If it be proper for publicity, why lock it up in silence? Sometimes the act of telling faults in secret is a pitiable kind of weakness, an utter impossibility of keeping anything in the mind, accompanied by an intention of publishing it only to a single person; but in other people it is a wish to have the gratification of being the first to communicate the report to a large number; each is made to promise that he will not disclose it, that the original reporter may not be anticipated as he pursues his round, and thus have his delight diminished, in being every where the first to tell the bad news. Then there are some, who publish the faults of others under the hypocritical pretense of lamenting over them—and producing in others a caution against the same thing. You will see them in company putting on a grave countenance, and hear them asking the person who sits near them—but with a voice loud enough to reach every corner of the room, whether he has heard the report of Mr. Such-a-one's conduct; and when every ear is caught, every tongue silent, and every eye fixed, he will proceed in a strain of deep lamentation, and tender commiseration—to bewail the misconduct of the delinquent, seasoning the narration of the offense, as he goes through all its circumstances and all its aggravations—with many expressions of pity for the offender, and many words of caution to the company. Thus, under the hypocritical guise of pity and the abhorrence of sin—he has indulged in this mischievous yet too common propensity—to publish the failings of some erring brother. Has he mentioned the subject to the individual himself? probably not. And he has withheld this mode of expressing his pity, what avails his public commiseration? What possible sympathy with the offender can it be—to placard him in public, and blazon his faults in company? Some there are, who suppose that there is little harm in talking, in their own particular circles, of the failings of their neighbors—they would not speak of these things before strangers, or society in general; but they feel no scruple in making them matter of conversation among their select friends. But these friends may not all be prudent—and if it be desirable that the fact should not be known outside the circle, the best way is, that it be not known within it. Where there is no benefit likely to be obtained by publicity, it is best, in reference to character, to lock up the secret in our own mind, and literally to observe the injunction of the prophet—"Do not trust a neighbor; put no confidence in a friend. Even with her who lies in your embrace be careful of your words." Micah 7:5. Love not only will not originate—but will not help to circulate an evil report. When the tale comes to her, there, at least in that direction, it stops. There are gossips, who, though they would shudder at slander, and, perhaps, would not be the first to give publicity to an idle report of another, yet feel no scruple in telling what many already know. "It is no secret," they say, "else I would not mention it." But we should not do even this—we should neither invent, nor originate, nor propagate an evil report. While every tongue is voluble in spreading bad tidings, 'love' will be silent; while all seem anxious to enjoy communion in backbiting and censoriousness, and to sip the cup of detraction as it passes around the company, 'love' says to the person who has told the story, "I have no ears for defamation, or even for the tale of another's faults. Go, and affectionately speak with the individual of his failings—but do not talk of them in public." If all men acted on these principles, slander would die upon the lips which gave it birth; talebearers would cease for lack of customers, to carry on their trade as 'peddlers in detraction'; backbiting would go out of fashion; and the love of scandal be starved for the lack of food. The evils then to which Christian love is opposed, are— Calumny, which invents a slanderous report to injure the reputation of another. Detraction, which magnifies a fault. Censoriousness, which is too meddling and too rigid in condemning a fault. Tale-bearing, which propagates a fault. Curiosity, which desires to know a fault. Malignity, which takes delight in a fault. Of this list of vices; calumny is of course the worst; but a 'tattling disposition', though it may have little of the malignity of slander, is a servant to do its work, and a tool to perpetrate its mischief. People of this description are far too numerous! They are to be found in every town, in every village, yes, and in every church! They are not the authors of libels—but they are the publishers; they do not draw up the placard—but only paste it up in all parts of the town; and are responsible, not for the malice which invented the defamatory lie—but for the damage of circulating it. Their minds are a kind of common sewer, into which all the filthy streams of scandal are perpetually flowing; a receptacle for whatever is offensive and noxious! Such gossips might be pitied for their weakness, if they were not still more to be dreaded for the damage they do. They are not malignants—but they are mischief makers; and, as such, should be shunned and dreaded. Every door should be closed against them, or at least, every ear. They should be made to feel that, if silence be a penance to them, their idle and injurious tales are a much more afflictive penance to their neighbors. Now, such people would not only be rendered more safe—but more dignified by 'love'—this heavenly virtue, by destroying their propensity to gossiping, would rescue them from reproach, and confer upon them an elevation of character to which they were strangers before. It would turn their activity into a new channel, and make then as anxious to promote the peace of society, as they were before to disturb it by the din of their idle and talkative tongue. They would perceive that no man's happiness can be promoted by the publication of his faults; for if he is penitent, to have his failings made the butt of ridicule, is like pouring vinegar upon the deep wounds of a troubled mind; or if he is not penitent, this exposure will do harm, by producing irritation, and by thus placing him farther off from true contrition. If it is essential to Christian love, to feel a disposition to cover the faults which we witness, and to treat with tenderness and delicacy the offender, it is quite distressing to consider how little Christian love there is in the world. How much need have we to labor for an increase of it ourselves, and to diffuse it both by our influence and example, that the harmony of society may not be so frequently interrupted by the lies of the slanderer; the exaggerations of the detractor; the harsh judgments of the censorious; or the idle gossip of the tale-bearer.
2. "Love BELIEVES all things." Nearly allied to the property we have just considered, and an essential part of toleration, is that which follows—"Love believes all things"—that is, not all things contained in the Word of God—for faith in divine testimony is not here the subject treated of. But love believes all things which are testified concerning our brethren—not, however, such as are testified to their disadvantage—but in their favor. This property or operation of love is so involved, and has been to such an extent illustrated, in what we have already considered, that it cannot be necessary to enlarge upon the subject again. As love regards with benevolent desire the well-being of all, it must feel naturally disposed to believe whatever can be stated in their favor. Tell a fond mother of the faults of her child; does she immediately and entirely believe the testimony? No! You will perceive an aspect of unbelief on her countenance—you will hear inquiries and doubtful insinuations from her lips—and after the clearest evidence has been adduced in support of the testimony, you will still discern that she doubts you. But, on the contrary, carry to her a report of her child's good conduct—tell her of his achievements in wisdom or in virtue, and you see at once the look of assent, the smile of approbation, hear the language of sureness, and in some cases witness a degree of confidence which amounts to weakness. How can we account for this? On the principle of the apostle, that "love believes all things." The mother loves her child; she is sincerely anxious for his well-being; and as our wishes have an influence upon our convictions, she is forward to believe what is said to her child's honor, and as backward to believe what is said to his discredit. Here, then, is one of the brightest displays of love, as exhibited in the man who believes all things which are related to the advantage of others. He hears the report with sincere pleasure, listens with the smile of approbation, the nod of assent; he does try to find ground and reason for discrediting the fact, nor does he search with inquisitive eye for some flaw in the evidence, to impeach the veracity of the testimony; he does not cautiously hold his judgment in abeyance, as if afraid of believing too well of his neighbor; but if the evidence amounts to probability, he is ready to believe the account, and delights to find another instance of human excellence, by which he may be more reconciled and attached to mankind, and by which he discovers that there is more goodness and happiness on earth, than he knew of before. The strongest proof and power of love—in this mode of its operation—is its disposition to believe all good reports of an enemy or a rival. Many people can believe nothing good—but everything bad, of those whom they consider as their enemies or a rivals. Let them have once conceived a prejudice of dislike—let them only have been injured or offended, opposed or humbled, by anyone—and from that moment their ears are closed against every word to his credit, and open to every tale that may tend to his disgrace. Prejudice has neither eyes nor ears for good; but is all eye and ear for evil. Its influence on the judgment is immense—its bewildering operations upon our convictions is really most surprising and frightful. In many cases, it disbelieves evidence as bright, clear, and steady as the meridian splendor of the sun—to follow that which is dim and delusive as the feeble candle-light. How tremblingly anxious should we be to keep the mind free from the misleading influence of prejudice! How careful to obtain that candid, impartial, discriminating judgment, which can distinguish between things that differ, and approve of things that are excellent—even in reference to people that are in some respects opposed to us! This is Christian toleration; and a more important disposition of the kind we can scarcely imagine. Through that great law of our nature, which we call the association of ideas, we are too apt, when we have discovered one thing wrong in the character or conduct of another—to unite it with nothing but wrong, and that continually. We scarcely ever think of him or repeat his name—but under the malign influence of this unhappy association. What we need is more of the power of objectivity, by which we can separate 'the occasional act' from 'the permanent character'—the bad qualities from the good ones—and still be left at liberty to believe what is good, notwithstanding what we know of the bad. If, in accordance with the principles of Scriptural revelation, with the testimony of our senses, and the evidence of experience, we believe that in God's sight, there is none so perfect as to be destitute of all flaws; we should at the same time believe that, so far as mere general excellence goes, there are few so bad as to be destitute of all approvable traits. It is the business of Christian love to examine, to report, to believe with impartiality—and toleration is one of the operations of love. This heavenly disposition forbids the prejudice which is generated by differences on the subject of religion, and enables its possessor to discredit the evil, and to believe the favorable testimony which is borne to those of other denominations, and of other congregations. All excellence belongs not to our church or denomination; all evil is not to be found in other churches or denominations! Yet how prepared are many people to believe nothing good, or everything bad, of other churches or denominations. Away, away, with this detestable spirit! cast it out of the church of the living God! Like the demon spirit which possessed the man who dwelt among the tombs, and made him a torment to himself, and a terror to others—this 'demon of prejudice' has too long possessed, and torn, and infuriated, even the body of the church. "Spirit of love! descend and expel the infernal usurper. Cast out this spoiler of our beauty; this disturber of our peace; this opponent of our communion; this destroyer of our honor. Before your powerful, yet gentle sway, let prejudice retire and prepare us to believe all things that are reported to us to the credit of others—be they of our group or not—whether they have offended us or not—and whether in past times they have done evil or good."
3. "Love HOPES all things." Hope has the same reference here, as the faith just considered; it relates not to what God has promised in his word, to those who love him. But love hopes to the good, of that which is reported to exist in our neighbors. In a report of a doubtful matter, where the evidence is apparently against an individual, love will still hope that something may yet turn up to his advantage—that some light will yet be thrown on the darker features of the case, which will set the matter in a more favorable point of view. Love will not give full credit to present appearances, however indicative they may seem to be of evil—but will hope, even against hope, for the best. If the action itself cannot be defended, then love will hope that the motive was not bad—that the intention in the mind of the actor was not so evil as the deed appeared to the eye of the spectator—that ignorance, not malice, was the cause of the transaction—and that the time will come when this will be apparent. Love does not speedily abandon an offender in despondency. Love does not immediately give him up as incorrigible, nor soon cease to employ the means necessary for his reformation; but is willing to expect that he may yet repent and improve, however discouraging present appearances may be. Hope is the main-spring of exertion; and as love means a desire for the well-being of others, it will not soon let go of that hope, in the absence of which all its efforts must be paralyzed. There are reasons which make it wise, as well as kind—to believe and hope all things for the best. Presumptive evidence, however strong—is often fallacious. Many circumstances in the case may look very suspicious; and yet the after-discovery of some little event may alter the aspect of the whole affair, and make the innocence of the accused far more apparent than even his guilt seemed before. The various instances in which we have ourselves been deceived by appearances, and have been led by defective evidence, though at the same time, convincing evidence, should certainly teach us caution in listening to evil reports, and dispose us to believe and hope all things. When we consider, also, how common is slander, detraction, and tale-bearing, we should not be hasty in forming an opinion; nor should we forget the concern which is often manifested by each party engaged in a contention to gain our alliance to their cause—by being first to report the matter, and to produce an impression favorable to themselves. Solomon has given us a proverb, the truth of which we have seen proved in a thousand instances, and which, notwithstanding, we are continually forgetting—"The first to present his case seems right, until another comes forward and questions him." Proverbs 18:17 It is a proof of great weakness, so to give our ear to the first reporter, as to close it against the other party—and yet we are all prone to do this! A plausible tale produces an impression, which no subsequent opposing testimony, though attended with far clearer evidence of truth than the first statement, can effectually obliterate. We know that every case has two sides—we have all been experimentally acquainted with the folly of deciding until we have heard both sides; and yet, in opposition to our reason and to our experience, we are apt to take up a prejudice from a one-sided or partisan point of view. Another circumstance, by which we are in danger of being misled in our opinion of our neighbor's conduct, is the mischievous propensity of many people to exaggerate everything they relate. Whatever be the philosophical cause into which a 'fondness for the marvelous', and a 'delight in exciting surprise', may be resolved—its existence and its prevalence are unquestionable. Perhaps we all like to relate what is new, and strange, and interesting; not excepting even bad news. To such a pitch is this carried, by those who are deeply infected with the propensity to exaggerate, that they never tell anything as they heard it—every fact is embellished or magnified. If a neighbor has displayed a little anger, they saw him 'raging like a fury!' If he was a little cheerful after dinner, he was 'perhaps drunk!' If he was evasive, they protest that he committed falsehood, if not perjury. If he had not been so generous in his transactions as could be wished, he was an extortioner, and devoid of common honesty. Nothing is moderate and sober in the hands of such people; everything is extravagant or extraordinary! All they meet with is in the form of adventure. Out of the least incident they can construct a tale; and on a small basis of truth, raise a mighty superstructure of fiction—to interest and impress every company into which they come! Undeterred by the presence of the individual from whom they received the original fact, they will not scruple to go on magnifying and embellishing, until the author of the statement can scarcely recognize his own narrative. How strange it seems, that such people should either not know, or not remember, that all this while they are telling falsehoods! They do not seem to understand, that if we relate a circumstance in such a manner as is calculated to give an impression which, either in nature or degree, does not accord with reality—we are guilty of the sin of lying. Where another person's character is concerned, the sin is still greater, since it adds slander to falsehood. Many a man's reputation has been frittered away by this wicked and mischievous propensity. Every narrator of an instance of misconduct, an instance not, perhaps, heinous in the first instance, has added something to the original fact, until the offense has stood before the public eye, so blackened by this 'accumulated defamation', that for a while he has lost his character, and only partially recovered it in the end, and this with extreme difficulty. Remembering the existence of such an evil, we should be backward to take up an unfavorable opinion upon first appearance; and where we cannot believe all things, be willing to HOPE. Such is the dictate of love—and such the conduct of those who yield their hearts to its influence. "Love bears all things." "Love believes all things." "Love hopes all things." THE SELF-DENIAL OF LOVE "Love endures all things." Christian love is not fickle, unsteady, or easily discouraged. Love is not soon disheartened, or induced to relinquish its object. Love is persevering, patient, and self-denying in the pursuance of its design to relieve the needs, assuage the sorrows, reform the vices, and allay the animosities—of those whose good it seeks. Love is as patient in bearing—as it is active in doing. Christian love unites the uncomplaining submission of the lamb, the plodding perseverance of the ox, with the courage of the lion! Christian love is no frivolous and capricious affection, relinquishing its object from a mere love of change. Nor is love a feeble virtue, which weakly lets go its purpose in the prospect of difficulty. Nor is love a cowardly grace, which drops its scheme, and flees from the face of danger. No, Christian love is the union of benevolence with strength, patience, courage, and perseverance. It has feminine beauty—gentleness, and sweetness—united with masculine energy, and power, and heroism. To do good, it will meekly bear with the infirmities of the lowest, or will brave the scorn and fury of the mightiest. But let us survey the opposition, the difficulties, the discouragements, the provocations—which Christian love has to bear—and which, with enduring patience, it can resist. Sacrifices of ease, of time, of feeling, and of property, must all be endured—for it is impossible to exercise Christian love without making these. He who would do good to others without practicing self-denial, does but dream. The way of philanthropy is ever up hill, and not infrequently over rugged rocks, and through thorny paths. If we would promote the happiness of our fellow-creatures, it must be by parting with something or other that is dear to us. If we would lay aside revenge when they have injured us, and exercise forgiveness, we must often mortify our own feelings. If we would reconcile the differences of those who are at variance, we must give up our time, and sometimes our comfort. If we would assuage their griefs, we must expend our property. If we would reform their wickedness, we must part with our ease. If we would, in short, do good of any kind, we must be willing to deny ourselves, and bear labor of body and pain of mind. And love is willing to do this—it braces itself for labor, arms itself for conflict, prepares itself for suffering—it looks difficulties in the face, counts the cost, and heroically exclaims, "None of these things move me, so that I may diminish the evils, and promote the happiness of others." It will rise before the break of day, linger on the field of labor until midnight, toil amid the sultry heat of summer, brave the northern blasts of winter, submit to derision, give the energies of body and the comfort of mind—all to do good. Misconstruction is another thing that love endures. Some men's minds are ignorant, and cannot understand love's schemes; others are contracted, and cannot comprehend them; others are selfish, and cannot approve them; others are envious, and cannot applaud them; and all these will unite, either to suspect or to condemn—but this virtue of love, "like the eagle, pursues its noble, lofty, heaven-bound course, regardless of the flock of little pecking, caviling birds, which, unable to follow, amuse themselves by twittering their objections and ill-will in the hedges below." Or to borrow a Scriptural allusion, love, like its great Pattern when he was upon the earth, goes about doing good, notwithstanding the malignant perversion of its motives and actions on the part of its enemies. "I must do good," she exclaims—"if you cannot understand my plans, I pity your ignorance; if you misconstrue my motives, I forgive your malignity; but the clouds that are exhaled from the earth may as well attempt to arrest the career of the sun, as for your dulness or malevolence to stop my attempts to do good. I must go on, without your approbation, and against your opposition." Envy often tries the endurance of love, and is another of the ills which it bears, without being turned aside by it. There are men who would enjoy the praise of benevolence, without enduring its labors; that is, they would wear the laurel of victory without exposing themselves to the peril of war—they are sure to envy the braver, nobler spirits, whose generous conquests having been preceded by labor, are followed by praise. To be good and to do good, are alike the objects of envy with many people. "A man of great merit," says a French author, "is a kind of public enemy. By engrossing a multitude of applauses, which would serve to gratify a great many others, he cannot but be envied—men naturally hate what they highly esteem, yet cannot love." The feeling of the countryman at Athens, who upon being asked why he gave his vote for the banishment of Aristides, replied, "Because he is everywhere called the just"—is by no means uncommon. The Ephesians expelled the best of their citizens, with the public announcement of this reason, "If any are determined to excel their neighbors, let them find another place to do it." Envy is that which love hates and prohibits; and in revenge, envy hates and persecutes love in return. But the terror of envy does not intimidate love, nor its malignity disgust it; it can bear even the perversions, misrepresentations, and opposition of this fiend-like passion—and pursues its course, simply saying, "Get behind me, Satan." Ingratitude is often the hard usage which love has to sustain, and which it patiently endures. Into such a state of turpitude is man fallen, that he would bear any weight rather than that of obligation. Men will acknowledge small obligations—but often return malice for such as are extraordinary; and some will sooner forgive great injuries than great services. Many people do not know their benefactors, many more will not acknowledge them, and others will not reward them, even with the cheap offering of thanks. These things are enough to make us sick of the world. Yes—but they ought not to make us weary of trying to mend it; for the more ungrateful it is, the more it needs our benevolence. Here is the noble, the lofty, the godlike temper of love; it pursues its course like the providence of Jehovah, which continues to cause its sun to rise, and its rain to descend, not only upon the irrational creatures, who have no capacity to know their benefactor—but upon the rational ones, many of whom have no disposition to acknowledge him. Derision is often employed to oppose the efforts of love, by all the artillery of scorn. Spiritual religion, and especially that view of it which this subject exhibits, has ever been an object of contempt to ungodly men. Banter and ridicule are brought to stop its progress—the greatest profaneness and buffoonery are sometimes employed to laugh it out of acceptance—but it has learned to treat with indifference even the cruel mockings of irony, and to receive upon its shield-arm, all the arrows of the most envenomed wit. Opposition does not disgust, nor persevering obstinacy weary true Christian love. It can endure to have its schemes examined and sifted by those who cannot understand them, caviled at by those who cannot mend them, and resisted by those who have nothing to offer in their place. It does not throw all up in a fit of passion, nor allow the tongue of petulance, nor the clamor of envy, to stop its efforts. Lack of success, that most discouraging consideration to activity—is not sufficient to drive it from the field; but in the expectation of the future harvest, it continues to plough and to sow in hope. Its object is too important to be relinquished for a few failures; and nothing but the demonstration of absolute impossibility can induce it to give up its benevolent purpose. If instances of this view of Christian love be necessary to illustrate and enforce it by the power of example, many and striking ones are at hand. Let the history of Paul be studied, and his suffering career be traced, and his declarations heard concerning his varied and heavy tribulations. "Our dedication to Christ makes us look like fools, but you are so wise! We are weak, but you are so powerful! You are well thought of, but we are laughed at. To this very hour we go hungry and thirsty, without enough clothes to keep us warm. We have endured many beatings, and we have no homes of our own. We have worked wearily with our own hands to earn our living. We bless those who curse us. We are patient with those who abuse us. We respond gently when evil things are said about us. Yet we are treated like the world's garbage, like everybody's trash—right up to the present moment." 1 Cor. 4:10-13. "They say they serve Christ? I know I sound like a madman, but I have served him far more! I have worked harder, been put in jail more often, been whipped times without number, and faced death again and again. Five different times the Jews gave me thirty-nine lashes. Three times I was beaten with rods. Once I was stoned. Three times I was shipwrecked. Once I spent a whole night and a day adrift at sea. I have traveled many weary miles. I have faced danger from flooded rivers and from robbers. I have faced danger from my own people, the Jews, as well as from the Gentiles. I have faced danger in the cities, in the deserts, and on the stormy seas. And I have faced danger from men who claim to be Christians but are not. I have lived with weariness and pain and sleepless nights. Often I have been hungry and thirsty and have gone without food. Often I have shivered with cold, without enough clothing to keep me warm. Then, besides all this, I have the daily burden of how the churches are getting along." 2 Cor. 11:23-28. Nor did these sufferings come upon him without his being previously apprized of them, for the Holy Spirit had witnessed to him that bonds and afflictions awaited him. Yet neither the prospect of his varied tribulations, nor the full weight of them, made him for a moment think of relinquishing his benevolent exertions for the welfare of mankind. His was the love that "endures all things." And a greater, far greater, than even the great apostle of the Gentiles, might be also introduced, as affording by his conduct a most striking illustration of this property of Christian love. Who can conceive of what the Son of God endured while he sojourned in this world? Who can imagine the magnitude of his sufferings, and the extent of that opposition, ingratitude, and hard usage, amid which those sufferings were sustained, and by which they were so greatly increased? Never was so much mercy treated with so much cruelty—the constant labor he sustained, and the many privations to which he submitted, were little, compared with the malignant contradiction, resistance, and persecution, he received from those who were the objects of his mercy. The work of man's redemption was not accomplished, as was the work of creation, by a mere fiat delivered froth the throne, on which Omnipotence reigned in the calm repose of infinite majesty. No! The Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us, as a man of sorrow and acquainted with grief. The wrath of God, the fury of devils, the rage of man, the malignity of enemies, the wayward follies and fickleness of friends, the baseness of treachery, the scorn of official rank, and the many stings of ingratitude, calumny, and fickleness—all poured their venom into that heart which glowed with affection to mankind. Nothing turned him from his purpose—nothing abated his ardor in the work of our salvation. His, above all others, was indeed a love which "endures all things." Such is the model we are to copy. In doing good we must prepare ourselves for opposition, and all its attendant train of evils. Whether our object be the conversion of souls, or the well-being of man's bodily nature—whether we are seeking to build up the temporal, or to establish the eternal interests of mankind, we must remember that we have undertaken a task which will call for patient, self-denying, and persevering effort. In the midst of difficulties, we must not utter the vain and cowardly wish that we had not set our hand to the plough; but press onward in humble dependence upon the grace of the Holy Spirit, and animated by the hope of either being rewarded by success, or by the consciousness that we did everything to obtain it. And we shall do this, if we possess much of the power of love; for its ardor is such, that many waters cannot quench it. Its energies increase with the difficulty that requires them; and like a well constructed arch, it becomes more firm and consolidated by the weight it has to sustain. In short, it is "steadfast, immovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, forasmuch as it knows that its labor shall not be in vain in the Lord."
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THE PERMANENCE OF LOVE "Love never fails." Permanence is the climax of excellence. How often has the sigh been heaved, and the tear been shed, over the perishable nature of earthly possessions. Their transient duration presented a painful contrast to their great worth, and extorted the sorrowful exclamation, 'Alas! that such excellence should be mortal!' The charm of beauty soon fades, the force of genius is at length exhausted, the monuments of art decay; an incurable taint of corruption has infected everything earthly, and even true religion itself does not confer immortality upon everything that belongs to its sacred economy. One thing there is, which shall remain forever, for "love never fails," and its permanence is the crown and glory of all its other noble qualities. It is a truly immortal virtue—bearing no exclusive relation to earth or to time—but destined to pass away from the world with the souls in which it exists, to dwell in heaven, and flourish through eternity! When it is said that it never fails, we are not merely to understand, that being once planted in the soul, it remains there as the center and support of all the other practical virtues—that it will so remain, is unquestionable; for its continuance is essential to the existence of personal and social religion. A man may change his opinions on some subjects—he may give up some sentiments once believed by him to be truth; but he cannot give up love, without ceasing to be a Christian. Nor does the apostle mean that it remains as the spirit of Christianity until the end of time, amid every change of external administration—that it shall so abide is unquestionable. The genius of piety is unchangeable. This was the temper obligatory upon the primitive Christian; it is obligatory upon us; and it will be no less so upon every future generation. A holier and happier age is in reserve for the church of Christ, "compared with which, invisible though it be at present, and hidden behind the clouds which envelope this dark and troubled scene, the brightest day that has yet shone upon the world is midnight, and the highest splendors that have invested it, the shadow of death," but this glory shall consist in a more perfect and conspicuous manifestation of the grace of love. The apostle's reference is evidently to another world—his eye was upon heaven, and he was looking at the things unseen and eternal, when he said that "love never fails." He was then soaring on the wing of faith, and exploring the scenes of eternity, among which he saw this celestial plant surviving the dissolution of the universe, outliving the earthly state of the church, transplanted into the paradise of God, and flourishing in the spirits of just men made perfect, near the fountain of light and love! To give still greater emphasis to what he says of its continuance, he contrasts it with some things, which, however highly valued by the Corinthian believers, were of a transient duration, and therefore of greatly inferior value to this. "Whether there be prophecies, they shall fail." By prophecies here, we are to understand the giving of the inspired Scriptures; all new revelations from God, by oral or written communication, for the instruction and edification of the saints. These, so far from belonging to the heavenly state of the church, did not survive its primitive ages. The gift of inspiration was soon withdrawn, the oracle of prophecy was hushed, and all further responses from heaven were denied. "Whether there be tongues, they shall cease." This, of course, refers to the miraculous power of speaking any language without previous study. This gift also ceased with the other extraordinary endowments of the primitive ages, and bears no relation to the heavenly world. Whether the communication of ideas in the celestial state will be carried on by speech, is at present unknown to us; if it be so, what the language will be is beyond conjecture. "Whether there be knowledge, it shall vanish away." This expression most probably refers to what is called, in the preceding chapter, "the word of knowledge," and of which the apostle speaks in the beginning of this chapter—"Though I understand all mysteries, and all knowledge, and have not love, I am nothing." It means an inspired knowledge of the types, predictions, and mysteries of the Old Testament, and of their accomplishment by the facts of the Christian economy. This, also, was among the signs and wonders which were to vanish away; which, having been granted as attestations to the divine authority of the Word of God, and for the edification of the church, were discontinued when the canon of Scripture was completed and settled. Some extend the apostle's reasoning so far as to include every kind of our present knowledge; which, as to its imperfect attainments, and inadequate mediums, and present modes of communication, shall be removed, and give place to a more easy and perfect method of acquiring truth, and a more entire comprehension of its nature and relations. As to the knowledge of the arts, of the practical sciences, and of literature, this shall be lost and forgotten, as utterly useless, and as bearing no relation whatever to the celestial state. You master spirits, you commanding geniuses, you magnificent minds, who exhaust the force of your intellect, and lavish its reasoning upon themes of mere earthly interest—see here the termination of all your labors. Scholars, poets, painters, sculptors, warriors—you who assemble in the temple of fame, amid the mightiest productions of human skill, to pay homage to each other, to receive the admiration of the world, and to immortalize your names—giving to your mighty works the full measure of their value, in reference to earth and to time—admitting that, in this view, they are bright scenes in the history of man; yet still in reference to heaven and to eternity, they are nothing—less than nothing, and vanity. Not an angel would turn to gaze upon the noblest production of human imagination, nor will a plea be put in by a single inhabitant of heaven, to exempt from the destruction of the last fire, the most sublime specimens of human skill. Myriads of volumes have been already lost and forgotten; myriads more are on their way to oblivion; myriads still shall rise—but only to vanish—and of all the accumulations that shall have been made, and which shall have been going on through the longest and the purest age of reason—not one shall be saved from the general conflagration, as worthy to be borne to the heavenly world. "Knowledge shall vanish away." But not only shall the knowledge contained in the scientific, and literary, and imaginative productions of men vanish, together with the volumes by which it was circulated—but all theological works—our creeds, our catechisms, our articles of faith, our bodies of divinity, our works of Biblical criticism; our valued, and justly valued, commentaries; our sermons, and our treatises—all shall vanish. The imperfect knowledge we gain from these sources is not that which will attend us to the skies, and be sufficient for us when we have arrived at the region of cloudless splendor, the element of wisdom, the native land and dwelling-place of truth. The introduction of this idea by the apostle has given occasion for one of the most striking digressions from his track of thought which he ever made. His argument only required him to state that love is better than the gift of knowledge, because the latter shall cease; but he proceeds to show why it shall cease, and ascribes its discontinuance to its imperfection—he then takes an opportunity to draw one of the most sublime contrasts to be found in the Word of God, between our knowledge in the present world, and our more perfect comprehension of truth in the world that is to come. And why shall knowledge vanish away? "Because we know in part, and we prophesy in part." A part only of truth is made known, and therefore a part only is received by us. This may imply that there are many things we do not know at all. Who can doubt this? Upon the supposition that we were perfectly acquainted with all that is proper to be known—all that could be acquired by the aid of reason and the discoveries of revelation—still we would hear a voice saying to us, "Lo, these are a part of his ways—but the thunder of his power who can understand?" There are, doubtless, truths of vast importance and of deep interest, which have never yet approached, and in the present world never will approach, the horizon of the human understanding. There are paths in the region of truth, which the vulture's eye has not seen, and which are hidden from the view of all living. When on his death-bed, the great Newton was congratulated upon the discoveries he had made, he replied, with the modesty usually attendant on vast attainments, "I have been only walking as a boy on the shores of truth, and have, perhaps, picked up a pebble or two of greater value than others; but the vast ocean itself lies all before me! My profoundest knowledge on the laws of nature may very possibly appear to the Almighty as the merest trifles of a infantile imagination." This is strictly correct in reference to the material universe, to which the remark was intended to apply. Of natural truth, the ocean, with its depths, its islands, and the continents and kingdoms to which it leads, is all before us. We have only looked upon the surface, and seen merely some of the objects passing upon it; we have only seen a few landmarks, on one part of one of its shores; but the infinitude of its extensive space, and the innumerable objects which that space contains, are yet to be explored. And with respect to the spiritual world, although we possess in the volume of inspiration a revelation of the most sublime, important, and interesting objects of knowledge; yet, probably, there are truths of which, after all that divines and philosophers have written, we can form no more conception than we can of the objects of a sixth sense, or than a blind man can of colors. "We know only in part." It is implied also, that what we do know, we know but imperfectly. In some cases, our knowledge is uncertainty, and amounts only to opinion; faith is weak and mixed with many doubts. We cannot exultingly exclaim, "I know," we can scarcely say, "I believe." The object sometimes presents itself to our mind, like the sun seen dimly through a mist, now appearing, and then lost again, in the density of the fog—now a truth comes upon us, in a thin and shadowy form; we think we see it—but it is again obscured. We only see 'glimmerings'. We perceive appearances, rather than realities—dark outlines, not perfect pictures. And where no doubts undermine the certainty of our knowledge, what narrow limits bound its extent! We walk as through a valley shut in on each side by lofty mountains, whose tops are lost amid the clouds, whose shadows add to the obscurity of our situation, and whose mighty masses stand between us and the prospect which lies beyond. How imperfect and limited is our knowledge of the great God—of the spirituality of his nature—of his necessary self-existence from eternity—of his triune essence! How feeble are our conceptions of the complex person of Christ, the God-man Mediator; of the scheme of providence, embracing the history of our world, and of all other worlds; and of the connection between providence and redemption! How have divines and philosophers been perplexed on the subject of the entrance of moral evil; on the agreement between divine predestination—and the freedom of the human will; between moral inability—and human accountability! How much obscurity hangs, in our view, over many of the operations of nature! How soon do we arrive at ultimate laws, which for anything we can tell, may be only effects of causes that are hidden from our observation! In what ignorance do we live of many of the most common occurrences around us! Who has perfect ideas of the essences of things, separate and apart from their qualities—of matter, for instance, or spirit? Who can perfectly conceive how the idea of motion results from that of body, or how the idea of sensation results from that of spirit? On what theme shall we meditate, and not be mortified to find how little progress we can make before we are arrested by insurmountable difficulties? On what eminence shall we take our stand, and to what part of the horizon direct our eye—and not see 'clouds and shadows' resting like a veil upon the prospect? How truly it is said, "We know but in part." Angels must wonder at the limitation of our ideas; and glorified spirits must be astonished at the mighty bound they make, by that one step which conducts them across the threshold of eternity! The apostle illustrates the present imperfection of our knowledge, compared with its future advancement, by TWO SIMILITUDES. The first is, the difference between the ideas of a child and those of a man. "When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child; but when I became a man, I put away childish things." The meaning of Paul in this verse is—that our knowledge in the heavenly state will be as different from, and as superior to, anything we gain on earth, as the ideas of an adult in the maturity of his intellectual powers, are to those which he entertained when he was a child. Our knowledge at present is that of children; we are not only in the childhood—but in the infancy, of our minds. Our notions are the opinions of children; our discourses are the lispings of children; our controversies the reasonings of children. The prodigious scientific attainments of those luminaries, Bacon, Milton, Boyle, Locke, Newton; and in the science of theology, of those great divines, Owen, Howe, Charnock, Baxter, Bates, Butler, Hooker—all these are but productions of children, written for the instruction of others less taught than themselves! Yes, the apostle includes himself and his writings in the description. "We know in part, and we prophesy in part. When I was a child, I spoke as a child; but when I became a man, I put away childish things." He alludes to his own childish conceits, and infantile simplicity, which had given way to the matured knowledge of his riper years; and, by implication, declares his expectation that the knowledge which he should gain in the celestial state, would be as much above his present views, as they were beyond those which he entertained when he was a child! Yes—that greatest of mere men—that illustrious individual who had been in the third heaven—who had explored, as we imagine, some of the secrets of the unseen world—who had fathomed so much of the depth, measured so much of the height, of truth; even he tells us that his knowledge was but in its infancy! What an idea does it give us of the infinitude of knowledge yet to be obtained, when we are informed that the Bible itself, even the New Testament—that book of books, the work of which it is said, that it had God for its author, truth without any mixture of error for its contents, and salvation for its end—is but a book for children, a work for Christians in their infancy; a mere elementary treatise on the subject of eternal truth, written by the finger of God, for his family, during their beginning education on earth! The second similitude by which the present imperfection of our knowledge is set forth, is that very partial acquaintance which we gain with material objects by looking at them through a glass. "Now we see through a glass darkly." Considerable diversity of opinion prevails as to the precise object of the apostle's allusion in the expression which he here employs. It is admitted that the word in the original literally signifies a mirror, and hence most expositors consider that the comparison is to a mirror; and that his meaning is that our knowledge of divine truth in this world, is only of that partial kind which we gain by seeing objects reflected from a mirror. But does this accord with his design, which is to represent the obscurity of our present ideas, compared with what we shall know hereafter, when that which is perfect has come? The knowledge we gain of an object that is reflected from a highly polished surface is too accurate to furnish such a comparison. Hence some are of opinion, and this is the view I take, that the allusion is to those semi-transparent stones, which were used in windows before glass was known, and through which objects would be but very dimly seen. Nothing could better accord with the apostle's purpose than this. How dim and shadowy do those forms appear, which we discover through such a medium; we discern only the mere outline; everything is seen imperfectly, and many things connected with the object are not seen at all. "We see it through a glass darkly." The term rendered "darkly," signifies an enigma, a riddle, a form of speech in which one thing is put for another—which, though in some respects like it, is but an obscure representation, and calculated to puzzle those who are required to find out the thing which is thus darkly shadowed forth. Here it may be proper to inquire WHY divine truth is at present involved in so much comparative darkness and obscurity. It is designed to accord with the analogy of faith. We are to walk by 'faith', which is not only opposed to the testimony of 'sense'—but is distinguished also from the clearness and certainty of perfect knowledge. It comports also with the purpose of divine revelation. There is no doubt but that some of the clouds which envelope the subjects of revealed truth, could have been dissipated, and many things put in a still clearer light. A studied caution, a designed reserve, is maintained in some places; for as the Bible is given to be a test of moral disposition, the evidence should be sufficient to demand belief, without being enough to compel it. The Bible affords us light enough to assist us in discharging the duties of this world, and to guide us to glory, honor, immortality, and eternal life; but it concedes nothing to idle curiosity—nothing to a spirit of restless inquiry. It stands like a way-mark on the high road to eternity, and is intended simply to announce what is truth, and the way to its dwelling place—but not to make known to the traveler all the details of the city to which he is journeying. And in another view, this obscurity is absolutely necessary. If the disclosure were more obscure, it would be beyond our apprehension; we could know nothing—and in that case true religion could have no existence, or exist only as the blind offspring of ignorance. If it were more cloudy and shadowy, it would have no power to arrest attention, or interest the heart—it might indeed point to a brighter state, where it would throw off the dense covering in which it had enwrapped itself on earth; but too little of the beauty of truth would be seen, to captivate our affections, and to allure us to follow her to that world where she displays her unveiled glories. But as revelation is now given to us, enough of the beauty of truth is revealed to inspire us with a pure affection—enough is concealed to make us long to see her face to face. And were all the knowledge that it is possible for us to receive, actually communicated to us, who amid such acquisitions could attend to the low pursuits of ordinary affairs? The immediate effect of such a disclosure would be to produce, so far as real Christians are concerned, a total stagnation of the affairs of this life. All the studies and pursuits, the arts and the labors, which now employ the activity of man—which support order or promote happiness—would lie neglected and abandoned. It is necessary that something of the 'magnitude of truth' should be concealed; something of its effulgence softened; something of its beauty veiled—or the holy mind of the Christian, absorbed in such a vision, would find all that is important in earthly life would seem utterly insignificant; and all that is attractive in this world would become tasteless and insipid. Disturbed in his lofty meditations, and interrupted in his ecstasies, by the din of business, and the obtrusion of low, groveling cares; and judging that scenes of secular activity unfitted him for communion with this heavenly visitant—he would retire from the social haunts of men, to converse with truth in the solitude of the hermitage, or the silence of the desert. So necessary is it to hang a veil on the too dazzling brightness of divine subjects. This partial obscurity is also necessary, on account of the feebleness and limited extent of our faculties. Our minds could no more bear to look upon the unmitigated glory of divine truth, than the eye of an infant could sustain the unsoftened effulgence of the mid-day sun. Our minds cannot grasp in its full extent one single subject out of all the mighty Scriptural subjects. Some 'vague idea' may be formed of the almost illimitable range of the gospel plan of redemption, when we recollect that its development is to employ our understanding in the highest state of intellectual perfection—and to employ it, not for a measured term—but through the countless ages of an endless existence! The study, the discovery, the enjoyment of truth, will form one of the chief felicities of the heavenly state; but what must that knowledge be, which is to afford something new and interesting through eternity? How can this be obtained by man in the infancy of his existence upon earth? There are subjects yet to be known, which would have no less surpassed the understanding of Newton, than his profound discoveries in science would the mind of a child. No wonder, then, that we walk at present amid 'mere shadows and glimmerings'. But how humbling is this view of the subject to the pride of intellect! "The breath of the Almighty, that gives him understanding." Job 32:8. The thinking mind is the glory of our nature; it is the candle of the Lord shining "in the earthly house of our tabernacle," and giving light to all the faculties of our soul, to guide their operations, and to direct them in their appropriate business. To what an immeasurable elevation does the thinking mind raise man above the brute creation! What wonders it has achieved—what stupendous monuments of wisdom and power it has raised! Who can mention the names of the giants of the 'world of mind'—and especially who can survey the productions of their genius, without having high notions of the capacities of the human understanding? But what are all the works of the greatest theologians, the profoundest philosophers, when compared with the knowledge of the eternal world—but as the ideas of one who "thought as a child, and spoke as a child? "Shall any man—shall the greatest of men—be proud of their 'crumb of knowledge', their vain of 'childish notions', puffed up with their 'poor scantling' of information? Were the lowest and least of all the glorified men, to come down and teach a synod of the greatest divines on earth—how soon would he baffle and confound them—amid their most sagacious discoveries and most celebrated works! What infantile conceptions, what childish compositions, would be found out in their most finished productions! So little reason has man for 'the pride of his knowledge'—so much cause to clothe himself with the 'garment of humility'!
HEAVEN A STATE OF PERFECT KNOWLEDGE
"But when that which is perfect has come, then that which is in part shall be done away. NOW we see through a glass darkly—but THEN face to face. NOW I know but in part—but THEN shall I know, even as I am known." All these expressions refer to the celestial world, and unite to teach us that heaven is a state of perfect knowledge. Here on earth, we know only part of truth—then we shall know the whole. Here on earth, we know everything in a partial manner; there we shall know everything completely. Here on earth, we see truth only as we perceive a dark shadow through a dense medium; there we shall behold truth as clearly as when we see face to face. There we shall know truth with certainty and comprehension. This last expression has been sometimes explained, as conveying the intimation that we shall recognize each other in the celestial state. "We shall know 'others', even as we are known by them." Many reasons concur to produce the expectation of this mutual recognition. We suppose that we shall somewhat maintain our earthly identity, not only of person but of character, and also the reminiscence of our earthly existence and history. We also suppose that we shall again be mutually known to each other in the heavenly world. This is one of the sentiments which the sacred writers rather take for granted, than stop to prove. But certainly this is not the meaning of the passage now under consideration. The apostle here speaks of our knowledge of things, not of people. The felicity of the celestial state will, doubtless, include everything that can yield delight to a sensible, social, intellectual, and moral creature. It is eternal life—everlasting existence, attended by everything that can render existence a blessing. It is LIFE in the fullest sense of the term—life in the highest degree of perfection. The glorified body will probably retain the organs of sound and sight—the purest of the senses, which will become the inlet of the most pleasurable sensations; while it will be forever free from the cravings of appetite, the languors of sickness, the distress of pain, the weariness of labor. The social impulse will be gratified by the sublime converse of the "innumerable company of angels, and the spirits of just men made perfect." The moral feelings will all combine in the most unsullied purity; while the intellect will be irradiated by the light of eternal truth. The heart will thus repose in the enjoyment of the chief good—beyond which nothing remains to be enjoyed. And the mind will repose in the contemplation of the truth—beyond which nothing remains to be known. But we are now considering heaven under the representation of a state of knowledge, and as an intellectual condition. In this viewpoint the Scriptures frequently speak of the glory to be revealed. They call it an inheritance "in light," they describe it as a world where there is NO NIGHT. There "we shall see him as he is," "behold his glory," "see him face to face," expressions which relate more to the "eyes of the mind" than to those of the body. Perhaps we do not sufficiently contemplate heaven in this view of it. The greater part of mankind are taken up with mere sensations, and are but little acquainted with the pure enjoyment connected with the perception and the apprehension of truth. The rapturous exclamation, "I have found it!" is rarely uttered by the multitude over anything but the acquisition of wealth—or the gratification of appetite. But those who have been engaged in any measure in intellectual pursuits, will be able to appreciate 'the pleasures of knowledge'. Knowledge is to the mind, like light to the eye—and the perception of truth, like water to the thirsty. Even the comparatively barren science of mathematics, which presents nothing to exercise the passions or gratify the imagination—the truths of which derive all their interest from the objective evidence by which they are supported—yes; even these are a source of high and pure enjoyment to the human mind, which is ever seeking to arrive at infallible certainty, and can repose no where else. What exquisite delight has been experienced by some men, when, after a long process of reasoning, or a fatiguing course of experiments, they have at length arrived at a conclusion. If, then, in the present world, where the subjects of our research are often so insignificant, where our knowledge is obtained with such labor, is limited by so much ignorance, and blended with so much error; if amid such circumstances the pleasure of knowledge is so great—what will it be in the heavenly state? Let us consider what will be the OBJECTS of our knowledge. If we may be allowed the expression, we shall know all things that are knowable, so far as an acquaintance with them will contribute to our felicity. We shall know everything that is essential to the right performance of duty, or to the most perfect gratification of our intellect—all that lies within our proper sphere or compass as glorified creatures. We shall perfectly comprehend all the laws which govern the material world. The discovery of these is presently considered to be among the most dignified and gratifying employments of the human understanding. It was his discoveries in natural philosophy which gave to our great Newton his notoriety. What a high station in the records of fame is assigned to those who have explored the secrets, and explained the laws, of nature! They are ranked among the illustrious members and most valuable benefactors of their race. They are looked up to with a kind of semi-idolatry, and their praises are continually chanted for their vast attainments, not only in adding to the stock of knowledge—but in accumulating fresh honors upon human nature. What sublime and astonishing facts are included in the sciences of astronomy, medicine and chemistry! How much of the power, wisdom, and goodness of the Divine Architect is displayed in the works of creation! Yet these earthly discoveries are now hidden from a great portion of the redeemed, who by the disadvantages of their education are shut out from these sources of knowledge. But they will be admitted to them in heaven. Creation will not be destroyed at the judgment day—but only purified. The 'vast and splendid machine' will not then be thrown aside, broken up, and consigned to oblivion. Nothing which the hand of the Creator has framed shall be forgotten. The brilliant scenes which are now passing before our eyes—but on which many even of regenerated minds look without understanding them—are not a 'mere passing pageant'. Beautiful was the remark of the eminently pious Bishop Hall, who, on being told in his old age that his views of astronomy were not quite correct, replied—"Well, it may be so—but I am going to heaven, and as I shall then perfectly understand the stars—I must leave the subject until then, when every mistake will be rectified." So completely will all the disadvantages of our earthly condition be removed in heaven, whether those disadvantages arise from the Christian being born in an age when knowledge is in its infancy, or amid those privations of poverty which deny him access to the sources of information. In the hour of death, the pious but illiterate tenant of the cottage, on whose mind the orb of science never rose—though the Sun of Righteousness poured upon it the light of a spiritual illumination—ascends above the disadvantages of education, makes a glorious transition from the shadows of ignorance, in which he dwelt upon earth, into the cloudless transparency of the skies on high. His natural faculties, compressed and enfeebled now by the circumstances of his birth, shall then expand to a comprehension, and attain to a vigor, which is unsurpassed by the loftiest intellect of the human race! And he, too, shall know in heaven, the works of the God of nature—as he knew below, and shall still better know above, the works of the God of grace. PROVIDENCE will form another mighty range of inquiry, and another source of delightful knowledge in heaven. By providence, we mean God's moral government of the universe—the course of the divine administration towards rational and moral creatures—that mighty scheme, which commenced its application before time was born, or the foundations of the earth were laid; which embraces the annals of other worlds besides ours; which includes the history of angels, men, and devils. Providence comprises the whole range of events which have taken place from the formation of the first creature, to the last moment of time, with all the tendencies, reasons, connections, and results of things; the separate existence of each individual, with the continuation and influence of the whole, in one harmonious scheme. Providence is now full of mysteries. We are puzzled at almost every step. Innumerable are the events over which, after having in vain endeavored to sound their depth with the line of our reason, we must exclaim, "O the depth!" But we shall know all—why sin was permitted, and how it entered, with all the attendant train of now incomprehensible results which followed its introduction into the moral universe. It will then be made apparent to us, why so long a period elapsed between the first promise of a Savior, and his incarnation, sufferings, and death—why, for so many ages, the world was left in ignorance, sin, and misery—why such errors were permitted to enter the church, and so soon and so extensively to corrupt the simplicity and deform the beauty of the Christian profession—why the Man of Sin was allowed to establish his seat in the temple of Christ; to exalt himself above all that is called God; to utter his blasphemy; to shed the blood of the saints; and so long to spread the clouds of superstition, and the shades of death, over Christendom—why the impostor of Mecca was allowed to arise, and for so many ages to render a large portion of the earth inaccessible to the rays of the Sun of Righteousness—why idolatry, with all its murderous deities, and all its bloody and obscene rites, was left so long to insult the heavens, to pollute the earth, and to curse mankind. What deep, unfathomable mysteries are these! How confounding to our reason, and how utterly beyond our research! What astonishment and delight, what inconceivable emotions, will be produced by the gradual unfolding of the mighty scheme, by the progressive discoveries of the connections and outcomes of things, and the wondrous display of divine glory which will be made by the whole. How shall we be enraptured to find that those events which now so confound us, were dark only by excess of wisdom, and that those facts which so often distressed us upon earth, were but the more somber shades of the perfect picture! What manifestations of Deity will then be made, when God shall admit us to his cabinet, and lay open to us the mysteries of his government! And, doubtless, we shall not only see the harmony and wisdom of Providence in its general aspect and its more comprehensive combinations and arrangements—but in its particular bearing on our own private and personal history. The most important and interesting chapter in the volume of universal history is, to us, that which contains the record of our life. What clouds and shadows still rest, and in the present state ever must rest, upon our obscure and humble annals! How often is Jehovah, in his dealings with us, a God who hides himself! How often does he wrap himself in clouds, and pursue his path upon the waters, where we can neither see his goings, nor trace his footsteps! How many of his dispensations are inexplicable, and of his judgments how many are unfathomable by the short line of our reason! But whatever we don't know now, we shall know hereafter—the crooked will be made straight, the clouds of darkness will be scattered, and all his conduct towards us placed in the broad day-light of eternity. We shall see the connection which our individual history bears with the general scheme of providence; and perceive how, notwithstanding our personal insignificance—our existence was no less necessary to the perfection of the whole plan than that of the great ones of the earth. We shall see how all the varying, and numerous, and seemingly opposite events of our history, were combined into one gracious purpose of mercy, which was most perfectly wise in all its combinations. Now we believe that "all things work together for good," then we shall see how this end was accomplished by events, which at the time put us to so much grief, and involved us in so much surprise. Delightful, most delightful, will it be to retrace our winding and often gloomy course, and discern at each change and turning, the reason of the occurrence and the wisdom of God—delightful will it be to discern the influence which all our temporal circumstances, all our disappointments, losses, and perplexities, had upon our permanent and celestial happiness. How much of divine wisdom, power, goodness, and faithfulness, will our short and simple history present; and what rapturous fervor will the discovery give to the song of praise which we shall utter before the throne of God and the Lamb! REVELATION, as containing the scheme of human redemption by Jesus Christ, will be another object of our study and source of knowledge. The Bible is given to make God known; and one page of the Bible, yes, one verse, makes known more of God than all the volume of nature. But, after all, how little do we know of God, of his essence, of his triune mode of subsistence, of his natural perfections, of his moral attributes! What an unfathomable mystery is Deity! In what a pavilion of darkness does Jehovah dwell! Who by searching can find out God? In heaven we shall know him, for we shall see him face to face—we shall behold his glory, and see him as he is. We shall have as perfect an acquaintance with the divine character, as a finite mind can attain to; and in this one object, shall find employment and bliss through eternity. We shall never exhaust this theme. Eternity is necessary to study that which is infinite. We shall there comprehend, so far as it can be done by a finite mind, the complex person of Jesus Christ. We cannot now understand this "great is the mystery of godliness—God manifest in the flesh," but what we know not now, we shall know hereafter. Then will the cross be seen as the central point of the divine administration, bright with ten thousand glories, and sending out its beams to the extremity of the moral system. The ruin of the world by its federal connection with Adam; the election of the Jews, and the long abandonment of the Gentiles; the slow advance of Christianity to its millennial reign and triumph; the bearing of redemption upon other orders of beings besides man; the difficulties which hang like impenetrable clouds upon the doctrines of personal election, regeneration, perseverance, the freedom of the will viewed in connection with divine prescience and predestination—all, all, will be laid open to the view of glorified saints in heaven. Everything in the Scripture which is now dark, shall be made light. A reconciling point shall be found for every seeming contradiction, and the faith and patience of the saints be rewarded, for having received the truth on the credit of him who spoke it, without demanding to see before they believed. Such shall be the sources of knowledge in heaven. O the bliss of eternally drinking in knowledge from such fountains! We may now consider THE ADVANTAGES which the heavenly state will possess, for the acquisition of knowledge. The soul will there be perfect in holiness, and thus the understanding will be delivered from the disturbing and bewildering influence of sin. In our present state of imperfection, the depravity of our nature contracts and misdirects our judgment—the corruptions of the heart send up a mist which veils the luster of truth, and conceals its extent and glory from the mind. The judgment cannot now see spiritual objects in all their range, and order, and beauty, because of sin. But in heaven this contracting and darkening influence will cease forever. No evil bias, no sinful prejudice, will ever warp the judgment—no disease of the soul will dim its eye, or enfeeble its power. With eagle pinion it will soar to the fountain of radiance, and with eagle vision bear the full blaze of its glory. The natural faculty of the mind will then attain to its full maturity of strength. The mind is here in its infancy, there it will come to its maturity. Even the intellects of the greatest geniuses, while on earth, are but human minds in childhood, as we have already considered, and their most prodigious efforts but as infantile exercises. Here they only tried their powers—but in heaven the mind will put forth, to their full extent, all those wondrous faculties which are now shut up and compressed in our nature, for lack of room and opportunity to expand. In heaven, we shall not be diverted and called off from the pursuit of truth, by the inferior interests of the body. The soul will not be prevented from making excursions into the regions of light—by the cares, needs, and anxieties which abound in this state of being—but will be left at leisure to pursue her sublime researches. She will have nothing to hinder the acquirement and enjoyment of knowledge. To crown all, heaven is an eternal state, and everlasting ages will be afforded through which the glorified mind will carry on its pursuits. Were the term of human life again protracted to the antediluvian age, what vast attainments would be made by us all in the discovery of truth! What, then, must it be to have eternity through which to grow in knowledge. We might notice the CHARACTER of our knowledge. It will be PERFECT—by which we are not to understand that it will be as complete as the nature of things admits of, for we should then possess a comprehension equal to that of God. We cannot perfectly know everything as it may be known—our ideas of many things must be limited, especially those which relate to the divine nature. By perfection, we mean freedom from error—our knowledge will be free from all admixture of doubt, suspense, and fallacy; our attainments will be bounded only by our capacity; there will, perhaps, be a gradation of mind in heaven, no less obviously marked than that which exists on earth—but all capacities will be filled. Our knowledge will doubtless be PROGRESSIVE. Increase of ideas is, perhaps, in the case of a creature essential to felicity. We now find more pleasure in receiving a new and important truth, than we experience in all we before possessed. A state in which there remains nothing more to be known, conveys not an idea of happiness so vividly as that where the delight of discovering something new is ever added to the joy of contemplating so much that is old. What a view of heaven!—An eternal advance in the most important knowledge; an everlasting accumulation of ideas; an interminable progression in truth. "In the march of the mind through intellectual and moral perfection, there is no period set—this perfection of the just is forever carrying on—is carrying on—but shall never come to a close. God shall behold his creation forever beautifying in his eyes, and forever drawing near to himself, yet still infinitely distant from him the fountain of all goodness. There is not in true religion a more joyful and triumphant consideration than this perpetual progress which the soul makes in the perfection of its nature, without ever arriving at its ultimate end. Here truth has the advantage of fable. No fiction, however bold, presents to us a conception so elevating and astonishing as this interminable line of heavenly excellence. To look upon the glorified spirit as going on from strength to strength, adding virtue to virtue, and knowledge to knowledge; making approaches to goodness, which is infinite; forever adorning the heavens with new beauties, and brightening in the splendor of moral glory, through the ages of eternity, has something in it so transcendent, as to satisfy the most unbounded ambition of an immortal spirit. Christian! does not your heart glow at the thought that there is a time marked out in the annals of heaven, when you shall be what the angels now are; when you shall shine with that glory; and when, in full communion with the Most High, you shall see him as he is?" How our knowledge in heaven will be acquired, whether by testimony, by immediate revelation, or by some method of mental application, it would be idle to speculate. We know that whatever mode is determined upon by God, will promote, and not interrupt our felicity; we shall have nothing of the weariness of study—nothing of the concern of doubt—nothing of the torture of suspense. Ideas will flow into the soul with the same ease and pleasure on our part, as rays of light come to the bodily eye. Whatever knowledge we gain in heaven will be TRANSFORMING—it will not be 'mere opinion' or 'uninfluential speculations'. All our ideas will be as fuel to feed the flame of love, which will then burn upon the altar of the soul; all will be quickening, penetrating, influential. Our opinions will be principles of action. Everything will lead us to see more of God, to love him with a more intense glow of holy affection, and to be more conformed to him. The light of truth will ever be associated with the warmth of love. "We shall be like God, for we shall see him as he is!" It is difficult to find in the volume of revelation a stronger internal evidence of its divine original, than the view it gives of the celestial state, combining as it does the perfection of knowledge and of purity. Every other representation which has been given of heaven, bears the mark of an earthly source—the proof of being a human device. As in seeking for a Deity, man found the prototype in his own passions, when he had abandoned the one living and true God; so, in forming a heaven, he collected all the materials from the objects of his own fleshly delights. The Elysium of the Greeks and the Romans; the Hall of the Scandinavians; the sensual Paradise of the Mohammedans; the fantastic abodes of the departed Hindus—are all adapted to their depraved appetites, and were suggested by their corrupt imaginations. A heaven made up of perfect knowledge, and of perfect love, is a vision entirely and exclusively divine, and which never beamed upon the human understanding, until the splendid image came upon it from the Word of God. How worthy of God is such a representation of celestial bliss! It is an emanation from his own nature, as thus described, "God is light—God is love." The glorious reality is evidently the provision of his own wisdom and grace; and the sublime description of it in the Scriptures, is as evidently the delineation of his own finger.
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THE PRE-EMINENCE OF LOVE "Now abide these three, Faith, Hope, Love;
but the greatest of these is Love." Such is the triune nature of true religion, as described by an inspired penman; of that religion about which myriads of volumes have been written, and so many controversies have been agitated. How short and how simple an account; within how narrow a compass does it lie; and how easily understood, might one have expected, would have been a subject expressed in terms so familiar as these. This beautiful verse has furnished the arts with one of their most exquisite subjects—poets have sung the praises of faith, hope, and love; the painter has exhibited the holy three in all the glowing colors of his brush; and the sculptor has given them in the pure and almost breathing forms of his marble; while the orator has employed them as the ornaments of his eloquence. But our orators, poets, sculptors, and painters have strangely misunderstood them, and too often proved that they knew nothing of them but as the mere abstractions of their minds—what they presented to the eye were mere earthly forms, which bore no resemblance to these divine and spiritual graces—and multitudes have gazed with admiration kindling into rapture, on the productions of the artist, who at the same time had no taste for the virtues described by the apostle. True religion is a thing essentially different from a regard to classic elegance; not indeed that it is opposed to it. For as piety refines the heart, it exerts a favorable influence on the understanding, and by correcting the moral taste, it gives a still clearer perception of the sublime and the beautiful. It is greatly to be questioned, however, whether true religion has not received more injury than benefit from the fine arts; whether men have not become carelessly familiar with the more dreadful realities of truth by the exhibitions of the poet, the painter, and the engraver; and whether they have not mistaken those sensibilities which have been awakened by a contemplation of the more tender and touching scenes of revelation, as described upon the canvass or the marble, for the emotions of true piety. Perhaps the "Paradise Lost" has done very little to produce any serious concern to avoid everlasting misery; and "The Descent from the Cross," by Rubens, or "The Transfiguration," by Raphael, as little to draw the heart to the great objects of Christianity. Innumerable representations, and many of them very splendid productions too, have been given of faith, hope, and love—and doubtless by these means many kindly emotions have been called temporarily into exercise, which after all were nothing but a transient effect of the imagination upon the feelings. It is of vast consequence that we should recollect that no affections are entitled to the character of true religion—but such as are excited by a distinct perception of revealed truth. It is not the emotion awakened by a picture presented to the eye, nor by a sound addressed to the ear—but by the contemplation of a fact, or a statement laid before the mind, that constitutes piety. We now proceed to the subject of this chapter. It will be perceived, that although these three graces are in some respects very different, yet there are others in which they have points of strong resemblance. Faith has something of the expectation of hope, and hope something of the desire of love. Hope touches faith at the point of expectation—love touches hope at the point of desire—and thus, like the colors of the rainbow, they maintain their distinction, while, at the same time, they soften down into each other by almost insensible degrees. But how are we to understand the apostle, when he says, "there remain these three?" He here alludes to the miraculous operations of the primitive church, and contrasts with their transient existence the permanent continuance in the Christian church of these cardinal virtues. Miracles were introduced to establish the credibility of the gospel testimony, and having delivered their evidence, retired forever; but faith, and hope, and love, are to remain as the very essentials of true religion. Particular forms of church government are only the attire which piety wears, or the habitation in which it dwells—but these graces are the body, soul, and spirit of vital religion. When these are no longer to be found upon earth, godliness may be said to be retired and gone. But are these the only Christian virtues which have outlived the age of miracles, and which are destined still to live and flourish on the earth? Certainly not. Penitence, temperance; yes, whatever things are true; whatever things are honest; whatever things are just; whatever things are lovely; whatever things are of good report—are as permanent and as strong in their obligations, as faith, and hope, and love—but these three cardinal virtues either represent, or imply, or excel all others. They are the main trunk, from which all others issue as the branches, and by which they are supported. "Now abides faith, hope, love; but the greatest of these is love!" Love among the Christian virtues is, as poets have described Gabriel among archangels—a seraph loftier than all the seraph entourage. But we are not to suppose that it was the apostle's intention to depreciate the value and importance of the other two. What can be more important and necessary than the FAITH by which we are united to Christ, and justified in the sight of God; by which we purify our hearts, and overcome the world? Turn to the eleventh chapter to the Hebrews, where the sacred writer seems to conduct you into the temple of Christianity; and after exhibiting the names, and the statues, and the recorded deeds of the heroes of the church, and displayed before you the spoils they have won in the battles of the Lord, says to you, "Behold the triumphs of faith!" Faith is the means of love—hence said the apostle, "Faith, which works by love." Nor could it be his intention to depreciate HOPE, which is called "the anchor of the soul, both sure and steadfast, which enters within the veil," of which it is said, "We are saved by hope," and every man who has this hope, "purifies himself, even as He is pure." Much less are we warranted, from this expression, to select love as the exclusive object of our pursuit, and to cultivate it to the neglect of the other two. Separate from them, it can have no existence. Any attempt to build it up without them, is like the effort to raise a superstructure without a foundation. "Add to your faith, brotherly kindness and love," says the apostle. It is only as we believe the testimony of God's love to us, which is contained in the gospel, that we can possess Christian love to our fellow men. What the apostle means is, that there are some views of love, in which it must be allowed to possess a higher degree of moral excellence than either faith or hope. 1. Love is the END, which faith and hope are the MEANS of producing. Love is what might be called an ultimate virtue; but faith and hope subordinate ones. Justification itself is but part of the divine means for bringing the soul of man into a state of moral perfection. The ultimate end to be obtained by redemption is the restoration of the image of God to the human spirit; and pardon is the introductory and subsidiary means. Hence faith, by which we are justified, is an exercise of mind, which produces, and is intended to produce, in us a conformity to the divine character. It is not a grace which terminates in itself, without being calculated or designed to originate and support anything else, which is the case with love. Sanctity is the end of truth—so our Lord teaches us "Sanctify them by your truth." The truth is received into the mind by faith that it may impart sanctity, which includes love. Similar remarks will apply to hope, of which it is said, "Every man who has this hope in him, purifies himself." Christian love, then, attains its eminence by being the ultimate virtue which the other two produce. Love is that moral condition of the soul which it is the aim and purpose of faith and hope to produce. 2. Love is a SOCIAL grace, while faith and hope are exercised in reference to ourselves. We believe and hope with an immediate regard to our own happiness; but in the exercise of love, we regard the happiness of mankind. Christian love is a constant efflux of benevolent feeling, from the pure fountain of a heart devoted to the well-being of our race. Faith and hope are the channels by which we receive the streams of peace and joy, from the fullness of God. By the latter, we are recipients of happiness; by the former, we are its distributors—by believing, we rejoice; by loving, we awaken the joys of others—by one, we become the heirs of salvation, who are ministered to by angels; by the other, we become ministering angels in our turn. What a philanthropist must that man be who cultivates, and carries even to a tolerable perfection, the disposition of love—so beautifully described in this chapter, and who displays all its properties in his communion with society. How must such an individual bless all with whom he has to do. As he pursues his holy career, sorrow is alleviated, care is mitigated, need supplied, wickedness reformed by his efforts; the groans of creation are hushed, and the tears of humanity wiped away, by his divine love—and he becomes in his measure, like that heavenly visitant in our world, of whom it is said, "He went about doing good." Survey, with admiration and delight, the mighty operations and the splendid achievements of love—this powerful and benevolent principle—as they are to be seen within, and only within, the hallowed pale of Christianity. What are all the numerous and diversified institutions in our own land, where houseless poverty has found a home; craving hunger, a supply; forsaken infancy, a protector; helpless old-age, a refuge; ignorance, an instructor; penitence, a comforter; virtue, a defense—but the triumphs and glories of Christian love? What are all those sublime combinations of human energies, property, and influence, which have been formed for the illumination, reformation, and salvation of the human race? What are Bible Societies, Missionary Societies, Tract Societies, Peace Societies—but the mighty monuments of that love, "which seeks not her own, and is kind?" What are the tears of commiseration, which flow for human sorrows—but the drops which fall from the eye of love? What the joy that is excited by the sight of happiness—but the smiles of love? What was it that made the great apostle of the Gentiles willing not only to bear any accumulation of suffering, indignity, and reproach—but to pour out his blood as a offering for others, and even to be accursed from Christ, and from mankind in general, for his kinsmen?—love! What is it that renders the modern missionary willing to go into perpetual exile from the land of his fathers and of his birth, to spend the future years of his life, and find at last a grave amid the sands of Africa, or the snows of Greenland; willing to exchange the society and polished communion of Europeans, for savages, whose minds are brutishly ignorant, and whose manners are disgustingly offensive—willing to leave the land of Sabbaths, and of Bibles, and of churches, for regions over which the 'demon of superstition' has extended his horrid sway, and beneath whose yoke nothing is to be seen—but orgies in which lust and cruelty struggle for pre-eminence? Love! What was it that breathed into the heart of Howard that spirit which so filled and fired his mind with visions of human misery, and which brought from so many dungeons the plaintive cry, "Come over and help us!" that he could no longer rest in his own house, or in his own country—but traveled, again and again, across the breadth of Europe, in quest of wretchedness; descending into the captive's cell, that he might weigh his fetters, and measure his narrow apartment, and examine his food, to ascertain whether there was not more of misery in his hapless and forgotten lot, than justice demanded for the punishment of his crime; who inhaled the infected atmosphere of the lazaretto, to grapple with the plague, that fell destroyer of the human race, to approach which seemed to be courting death? It was love that formed the character of that illustrious man, and presented him to the notice and admiration of the civilized world. What was it that gave courage, confidence, and self-denial to that extraordinary woman, who ventured among the furies of Newgate; where, if she had not cause to fear that assassins would attempt her life, she must have calculated upon finding a sort of demons, whose malignity, excited by the purity and virtue which seemed to set in stronger light, by the power of contrast, their own vices, would vent its rage on the angel form which had disturbed them? If ever the shape and the beauty of love were seen in one of our race, it was in Mrs. Fry when she entered the cells of our metropolitan prisons, and called their vicious and loathsome inhabitants around her, to be instructed and reformed. And what is it that makes ten thousand holy men and women employ themselves continually in all kinds of self-denying exertions, to instruct the ignorant, to relieve the miserable, to reform the wicked? These, O heavenly love, are your works, the displays of your excellences, and the proofs of your pre-eminence! 3. It is a distinguished excellence of love, that it is A LIKENESS TO GOD. We are not at all surprised that the philosopher to whom the question was proposed, "What is God?" should have requested a day to prepare his answer; and when that was expired, should have asked a second, and a third, and should have at length confessed to the reproving monarch who proposed the query, that the more he examined the more he was confounded; and the farther he penetrated, the deeper and deeper he seemed plunging into darkness and mystery. Revelation has come to the aid of feeble reason, and compared with the latter, has thrown a blaze of radiance on the all-important subject—and yet, with the light of truth shining around us, so little do we understand of God, that he may be said, as it respects us, to "make darkness his pavilion," for "who by searching can find out God—who can find out the Almighty unto perfection?" Of his essence we know nothing—of his eternity, omniscience, and omnipotence next to nothing. His moral perfections are, it is true, more easily understood by us—but as these are all infinite, it is but little even of these we can understand, "He is a rock, his way is perfect, without iniquity, just and right is he." Inflexible justice, immaculate purity, inviolable truth, unimpeachable fidelity, belong to him; but if this were all the view the Scripture gave us of his attributes, if the delineation of the divine character stopped here, how much would be lacking to the sinner's comfort! Can the trembling and condemned criminal take much pleasure in contemplating the power, the justice, and the truth of the judge, who holds his destiny in his hand—at least until he knows whether that judge has mercy also in his heart, and in his prerogative? and as little would it comfort us to know all the other attributes of Deity, if we could not exultingly exclaim, in the language of the apostle, "GOD IS LOVE!" Sublime and heart-reviving declaration! never was anything uttered more calculated to delight the soul of man. Such a view of Deity is peculiar to revelation. Idolatry, in all her strange devices, in all her image-making processes, never conceived of such a God—power, wisdom, justice, truth, have all received their appropriate symbols of divinity, and have been worshiped under material forms; but benevolence had no statue, no temple, no priest. It was too pure a conception for the human heart, and too elevated an idea for human reason. "God is love!" This refers not, of course, to his essence—but to his character. It means that benevolence is his whole moral character—not only that his nature is one sum of infinite excellence—but that his conduct is one mighty impulse to that which is good; in other words, that the divine disposition is an infinite propensity to delight in happiness, as already existing, or to produce it, where it does not exist. But be it recollected that the benevolence of God is the love of a governor or ruler, and not merely that of a philanthropist or a father; and who, in the exercise of his good-will to any particular part, cannot sacrifice the welfare of the whole; and, consequently, whose benevolence is not only compatible with the exercise of retributive justice—but requires it. Such is the disposition of that divine mind, to which, by Christian love, we are conformed—that benevolence of the Deity, which, in its propensity to delight in happiness, and to create it, makes him infinite in patience, to bear with the millions of crimes which daily insult and provoke him; infinite in mercy, to pardon the most aggravated transgressions; infinite in kindness, to provide for the needs and comfort of his creatures. The highest pre-eminence in Christian love, the richest gem in its crown of honor, is its resemblance to God. There is nothing even remotely analogous to faith, or hope, in the divine nature. He who is omniscient cannot be said to believe; nor he who is infinitely blessed, and possessed of a divine fullness, be said to hope; but he can and does love! Resemblance to God is the highest glory of man. We should esteem it an honor to bear a faint impress of some of the more distinguished of the human race. It would be thought a high compliment to have it said that our genius resembled that of Milton, and our benevolence that of Howard; that our faith was like Abraham's, or our meekness akin to that of Moses. But how much greater is the distinction to bear, by love, the image of God! 4. Love is ETERNAL in its duration—it ascends with us to the skies, to live in our hearts, as the temper of our souls, forever and ever. It is questioned by some whether the two other graces will cease in the celestial state. It has been contended that as the glories of the divine nature are illimitable and innumerable, and the glorified mind will not attain to a perfect knowledge of these at once—but be continually receiving fresh communications on this vast theme, there must be both faith and hope in heaven; for as we successively receive these, we must believe in the assurance of those which are to come, and must perpetually look forward with expectation and desire. But does not this assume what cannot be proved, that our knowledge of God and divine things will be communicated in heaven by testimony, and not be acquired by intuition? It is not at all necessary that our growing knowledge, our eternally accumulating ideas, should be thus conveyed to us; for they may, for anything we know, be the reward of pleasant study, or they may flow into the mind, as the ideas of sensation do into the soul, without any effort, and may also come with all the certainty of that intuition, by which we perceive the truth of axioms. To say that this is belief, is to confound two things essentially distinct—knowledge and faith. So that it does not appear plain that faith, in any sense of the term, will exist in heaven. But though it could be proved that, in some modification of the term, it would be exercised in the celestial state, such a belief would differ so materially from that which we now possess, and by which we are justified and saved, that it may with propriety be said, faith will cease in heaven. All the great objects to which faith now refers are 'absent'—we believe in their existence, through the report which is made of them in the Word of God; but in heaven they will be immediately present to the senses of our glorified body, or the perceptive faculty of our spirit made perfect. Nor as it respects hope, is it by any means certain that this will exist in the heavenly state; for although it is difficult to conceive how there can be otherwise than a futurity, even in eternity, and how there can be a state of mind otherwise than the desire and expectation of future good—yet, as in hope there is usually some degree of doubt and uncertainty, the state of mind with which glorified spirits contemplate and anticipate future good, may be an indubitable certainty which excludes the restlessness of desire, and the incertitude of expectation. In the hour of death, the believer closes the conflict with his spiritual enemies, enters a world where no foe shall ever exist, and where, of course, he no longer needs either defensive or aggressive weapons. He takes off the helmet of salvation, for hope is not needed when he is brought to full possession—he lays aside the shield of faith, for seeing and knowing have succeeded to believing, and he will be beyond the fiery darts of the wicked one—the breastplate of sincerity he retains, not as a weapon—but as an ornament—not as a means of defense—but as a memorial of victory—his feet are no longer shod with the preparation of the gospel of peace, for he will no more have to tread on the snares of the destroyer, nor be exposed to his missiles—the sword of the Spirit, which is the Word of God, shall be sheathed, and hung with the trumpet in the hall—praying will cease, where there is no need to be supplied, no care to be alleviated, no sin to be forgiven, no sorrow to be soothed—watchfulness will no more be necessary, where no enemy is found, no danger arises—the means of grace will all be useless, where grace is swallowed up in glory—submission will never be called for, where there are no trials—and even many of the properties of love itself will seem to be absorbed in its general principle—many of its modifications and operations will cease, amid its eternal delight in perfect excellence and happiness—for there can be no forgiveness of injuries where none will be inflicted; no patience where there is nothing to suffer; no concealment of faults where none can be committed; no self-denial where there will be nothing to try us. Nothing of love will remain, nothing be exercised—but a pure and unmixed delight in happiness! How should it stimulate us to the exercise of mutual forbearance and commiseration now—to consider that it is the only state where these virtues can be indulged!
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INSTRUCTION
Adopting the method pursued by the old divines, I shall take up this part of the subject in the way of INSTRUCTION. 1. May we not infer from it, the divine origin of those Scriptures which give such a pre-eminence to the duty of love. The contents of the Word of God have ever been considered, and very justly, as an evidence for its divine authority. The Bible is its own witness—the sublimity of its doctrines, surpassing alike the invention and the comprehension of the human understanding; the harmony of its writers; the grandeur of its style, the more remarkable if we consider the illiterate character of many of those who wrote it; the elevation and purity of its morality, especially when contrasted with the condition of the whole world; the view it gives us of the nature and attributes of the Deity, of the character of Jesus Christ, and the state of human nature, of the scheme of redemption, of the elements of evangelical piety, of the certainty and glory of immortality—are all the hand-writing of Jehovah, and together form this illustrious inscription—"THE WORD OF GOD!" Where is anything like this among the works of men? Could ignorance have devised a system so sublime, or depravity a scheme so holy? But to go no farther than the subject we are now considering, and which may be regarded as not only a single precept of morality—but the spirit of the whole, is it conceivable that such a generous and self-denying system of duty could have sprung from the selfishness of human nature? Would man, had he been left to the mere exercise of his reason, and the impulses of his own heart, ever have summed up all morality and social obligation in that one word, LOVE, and have represented this as the essence of virtue? Is there anything analogous to this in any human system with which we are acquainted? Examine PAGANISM, both ancient and modern; and what of this spirit do you find in its multiform varieties? Was benevolence, as has been already asked, ever embodied in an idol? Was a temple, a statue, or an altar ever raised to its honor? Abstractions of wisdom and power, and some few of the sterner virtues of human nature, together with many of its sinful passions, obtained a niche in the Pantheon; but such a virtue as that enjoined by Paul, not only was not worshiped—but would have been despised, by all classes of ancient idolaters, as diametrically opposed to those qualities in which they considered human greatness to consist. To say nothing of that spirit of cruelty which, like a demon legion, possessed, and tortured, and convulsed the worshipers of Moloch; even the milder and classic mythology of the Greeks and the Romans breathed into its votaries no spirit of universal philanthropy. The patriotism of these nations, the chivalrous self-devotedness, which is blazoned with such splendor on the page of history, and which kindles such enthusiasm in the youthful imagination—what is it but the light of a consuming fire? The patriotism of Rome and of Greece, in their best and purest days, was but a selfishness of the most destructive kind, which trampled down pure philanthropy with indignant scorn, as a base and cowardly spirit—a traitor against the absorbing glory of Athens; or of the Roman commonwealth. Those proud and haughty patriots thought that the world was made for them, and cared not what rights of other nations they invaded, so as they could strengthen their own power; nor what misery they inflicted, so as they could extend their own fame. Selfishness the most engrossing, was the soul of their system—every man considered himself as represented by his country; and, in contending for the honor of the latter, was fighting for his own aggrandizement. Had love been in the ascendant in those ages, the world would never have been made to lie prostrate at the feet of Alexander or of Caesar. And who among the poets sang the praises of universal benevolence—who among the legislators made it the basis of their morals—who among the philosophers expatiated on the glory of human kindness—or laid the obligation to cultivate it upon the consciences of their disciples? The highest virtue of paganism was martial prowess. So heavenly a glory never shone upon it, as is contained in that one sentence, "You shall love your neighbor as yourself," or if any theory, distantly analogous to it, was found there, it was a borrowed light, the dim reflection of the distant brightness of divine truth. And as to modern paganism, we need not say how vain it is to seek for universal love amid the ferocities of the American Indians, the murderous cruelties of the South Sea Islanders, the disgusting selfishness and ridiculous vanity of the Chinese, or the insulting and degrading oppression of the Hindus. Next turn your attention to MOHAMMEDANISM; and in what page of the Koran will you find—we will not say, such a description, and such an enforcement, of philanthropy as we have in this chapter; but where do you find a recognition of this principle? In all those pretended revelations from heaven, of which Gabriel is said to have been the bearer, where is there such a description of Deity as this—"God is love!" or such a sentiment as that which arises out of it, "he who dwells in love, dwells in God, and God in him?" So far from recognizing this principle, Islamism condemns and forbids it. It enjoins almsgiving, it is true, and gives it a high place among its virtues—but this is not the same as love, and may be often carried to a great extent without a particle of the nature of love. This system of imposture, abounding as it does with minute and ridiculous ceremonies, and a slavish regard to absurd ritual observances; enforces, by the authority of its founder, the most ferocious and blood-thirsty hatred, to all who do not receive it in the exercise of implicit faith. Wars against all infidels are not only enjoined in many passages of the Koran—but are declared to be in a high degree meritorious in the sight of God. How completely Islamism has filled its votaries with the most ferocious bigotry and the most merciless intolerance, is known by universal testimony. They everywhere pour insulting contempt upon all who are not Muslims, and feel a savage delight in adding cruelty to insult. "The infidel dogs," is a common appellation applied to Christians. The spirit of the system is everywhere visible in the absolute despotism of the governments of those countries in which it prevails. Where it is found, the arts and the sciences do not flourish, and liberty withers in its shade. The flaming scimitar of the Sultan is its patron and defense; it was propagated by the sword—it is supported by the bow-string, and it is essentially and unalterably cruel. Such is Islamism—a curse to the world, a mystery in the divine government, a dreadful obstacle to the spread of Christianity, and the reverse of all that is holy and beneficent in the glorious gospel of the blessed God. INFIDELITY, it is true, has attempted an imitation of this virtue—but infidels have had the Bible to copy from; and even with this model before their eyes, have produced a caricature, instead of a facsimile. The 'universal benevolence' of this school is at war with the private affections and individual tenderness. The 'universal benevolence' of Christianity springs out of private affections and individual tenderness, and is founded upon them. We contend, therefore, that this noble, and generous, and useful disposition is one of the peculiarities of revealed truth; and whence—but from heaven, could it have proceeded, and who—but Jehovah, either could or would have given it the authority of a law? Whoever will reflect for a moment, will be struck with the singularity of the fact that the Bible resolves the whole of devotional piety into love to God, and the whole of morality into love to man. Is this, we ask again, the work of human invention, or does it look like the production of imposture? Would the selfishness of man have devised such a system; for where, among all his handiwork, do we find anything like it? O no! It is a part of the superscription of heaven—it is the impress of divinity—it is the seal of truth! 2. We learn, that the spirit of true religion is not only unlike—but opposed to the characters most admired by the people of the world. In NATIONAL affairs. The character which the historian loves to delineate, on which he delights to exhaust the stores of his genius, and to lavish the richest coloring of his pencil; which he is most pleased to exhibit to the admiration of his readers; and in which, with an eager sympathy, those readers take as much delight as did the author, perusing it again and again; until the soul glows with enthusiasm—is not the meek and virtuous prince, who is intent only on the arts of peace, and the internal welfare of his kingdom. No—but the ambitious hero, who fills the world with the fame of his victories, and by the aid of dauntless courage, consummate skill, and inordinate lust of dominion, goes on from conquering to conquer. This is the man for whom the admiration of posterity is claimed; whose crimes are lost sight of, in the splendor of his military genius; and whose cruelty is forgotten, in the success with which it is followed. Thus it is that under the power of evil fascination, these demon-men are idolized in the sight of the miseries they have inflicted, and within hearing of the groans they have extorted—merely on account of the vast military talents they possess, and of their power to torment others. But the New Testament lavishes no eulogies on such men—bestows no praise on their deeds—but treats them as the bitterest enemies of human happiness. The 'sword of conflict' and the 'laurel of victory' are not among the objects that it commends to our veneration—but which it devotes to our detestation. The peacemaker is the character on which it bestows all its praises, and which it invests with its richest honors. If we descend from national affairs to the more confined range of SOCIAL spheres, we shall find the same perversion of judgment, the same misconception of true excellence, and the same misplaced admiration. What is the character which is usually most applauded in fashionable circles, and also by the generality of mankind, whether rich or poor? Is it not the high-spirited individual who is quick to discern offense, and bold to resent it; who will allow no one with impunity to tread upon the skirt of his dignity, or his right; who is, perhaps, in some things, frank, generous, and affable; but under this exterior conceals a proud, vindictive spirit, which can brook neither a superior nor a rival—but is ever aspiring to distinction; who is courteous—but ambitious for fame; who would not willingly and intentionally give offense—but having given it, would feel himself forever disgraced by putting on the garment of humility, and asking forgiveness; who would give alms to the needy—but not honor the godly. Is not this the most admired of the world's favorites? Is not revenge dignified by the name of honor—and pride called courage? In short, are not the qualities generally admired by men, of the active, irascible, and ambitious kind? And are not the meek, and gentle, and passive virtues looked upon with disesteem, and treated with contempt? Is poverty of spirit, is humility, is self-abasement, is the forgiveness of insults, is patience under provocation; admired, applauded, imitated? Is it to the character formed of these graces, that the silent homage of the heart, and the loud praises of the tongue, are paid? Quite the contrary. The men who would practice the Christian graces, must make up their minds to endure the world's scorn, and to be treated as poor weak-spirited creatures, who deserve all the ridicule they receive, because of their forbearance in submitting to it. And yet this is the spirit of true religion—for this is the temperament of Jesus! When Jesus Christ came into the world, he found it full of the notion that human glory consisted in ambition, pride, and revenge. The Jew and the Gentile participated in the sentiment, and hence he took particular pains to correct this notion, giving, in his sermon on the mount, a delineation of character the very opposite of this. Indeed, the design of that sermon was to rectify the mistakes then universally prevalent on the subject of 'true piety' and of happiness, and to teach the world that his disciples were to be pre-eminently distinguished by humility, penitence, meekness, purity, peaceableness, forgiveness, thirsting after righteousness. These are the qualities of a true Christian, and everyone who bears the character, must sedulously cultivate its appropriate dispositions, and be willing to bear the ridicule to which they will expose him. He must never seek to conciliate the favor of the unconverted, by imitating their spirit, or disguising his own; but bear their scorn, and wait with patience for a world where humility and meekness will be honored and rewarded, and love, their parent disposition, be crowned with glory! 3. This subject plainly shows us that true religion is exceedingly DIFFICULT. It is a very common supposition that it is an easy thing to be a Christian. And if to be a Christian were nothing more than going to a place of worship, indulging in pious emotions, subscribing to religious institutions, and professing certain religious opinions—the supposition would be correct—for nothing is more easy than all this. But if the spirit of true religion be the disposition described in this chapter, then must it be obvious to everyone who knows his own heart, that to be a true Christian is the most difficult thing in the world! The Scriptures everywhere represent true piety by terms, allusions, and figures which imply the greatest effort, and the most persevering labor. Hence we are commanded to "strive to enter in at the strait gate;" to "lay aside every weight, and the sin which most easily besets us, and to run with perseverance the race that is set before us;" to "labor for the food which endures unto eternal life;" to "fight the good fight of faith;" to "mortify the deeds of the body;" to "crucify the flesh." What terms! what ideas! what metaphors! Can anything that is easily accomplished require or justify the use of such language? If it were a light thing to be a Christian, could the sacred writers with any propriety have employed such strong and very expressive figures? Nothing, surely, can more impressively teach us the absolute and indispensable necessity of incessant as well as vigorous effort. The course of a sinner is down-hill. "Easy is the descent to hell." A transgressor has nothing to do but to give himself up to the indulgence of his corruptions, and he will slide without effort to perdition! Not so the true Christian. Heaven, by an appropriate figure of speech, is represented as on a high eminence, which cannot be reached without constant and laborious climbing. Not that all this is necessary to merit heaven—but to reach it—we are justified by faith without works, and become entitled to eternal life, exclusively by the righteousness of Christ; nor are we to conceive of the faith by which we receive this righteousness, as consisting of any violent strivings of our minds—but as a simple dependence on the Lord Jesus Christ, for acceptance with God—but we are speaking of the Christian temper, of practical religion, of sanctification, of going on through all the trials and temptations of life, to the possession of that crown of glory which Christ has merited for us; and if this be easy work, there is nothing difficult! 4. True religion is a comparatively RARE thing among men. This is indeed a melancholy and a painful reflection; for it is saying in other words, there are but few that are saved. It is applying to our own times the awful language employed by our Lord as descriptive of the state of things in his days upon earth, "Enter through the narrow gate. For wide is the gate and broad is the road that leads to destruction, and many enter through it. But small is the gate and narrow the road that leads to life, and only a few find it." Tremendous, and truly dreadful is the idea, that the greatest part of mankind are moving towards the bottomless pit, and sinking daily in crowds to the miseries of eternal perdition! Such a sentiment ought not to be admitted to the mind, except upon the clearest evidence; neither ought it to be uttered by the lip, much less be recorded by the pen, except with a view to lessen the havoc which it describes, by disturbing the delusion which is the cause of this extensive ruin! It is evident—at least if the Word of God is true—that no man can be saved without true religion; and that the religion which does not include Christian love, is, in fact, no true religion at all. The only enquiry, then, to be answered, is—Does Christian love abound, or is it comparatively rare? Is the great mass of human beings around us actuated by a spirit of universal benevolence—a benevolence which is the fruit of regeneration, and the effect of faith; which springs from love to God, and is cherished by a sense of redeeming grace; which is exercised in obedience to the divine authority, and with a view to the divine glory; which, in its operations, is full of forbearance and meekness, kindness, toleration, sympathy, humility and unselfishness? Is this the prevailing disposition of the bulk of mankind? Do we see it manifested in society? Alas! alas! instead of this, do we not still see those passions in operation which the apostle mentions as descriptive of the conduct of mankind to each other in his day. "Once we, too, were foolish and disobedient. We were misled by others and became slaves to many wicked desires and evil pleasures. Our lives were full of evil and envy. We hated others, and they hated us." Titus 3:3. Are not anger, malice, revenge, selfishness, envy, pride, and censoriousness—the predominant dispositions in the generality of mankind? Who can deny this, or who will attempt to deny it? And if this be the case, true religion must be comparatively rare. Few, indeed, are living in the exemplification of Christian love. Dreadful, alarming idea! I tremble as I write! My soul is distressed—and groans with anguish over my own statements. I would disbelieve them, if I could; and, even believing them, I would shut them up in my own bosom, if it were not necessary to promulgate them, in order to detect that delusion which, by leading men to think that it is an uncommon thing for souls to be lost, makes it a still rarer occurrence for them to be saved. I must come to the conclusion—for I cannot help it, without becoming an infidel—that there are, in our time, many more who perish, than are saved. "Hell has enlarged its appetite and opens its mouth without limit; into it will descend their nobles and masses." Isaiah 5:14. Reader! Let the dreadful announcement, that it is a rare thing to be saved, startle you like thunder from your slumbers, and lead you to institute the most serious, and solemn, and impartial examination of your heart! Do not rest satisfied with a 'mere vague idea of religion', or a mere general, careless assumption that you are a Christian. Without such a disposition as that we have considered, you have no true religion; and without true religion, you must perish eternally! You have, perhaps, been a professor of religion, and have approved a gospel ministry, and have enjoyed the light and advantages of gospel ordinances; but this will only aggravate your guilt, and condemnation, and misery! If you are not living under the influence of Christian love, you are living without true religion, and must have your doom with those of whom it is said, "The wicked shall be turned into hell, and all those who forget God!" 5. We learn the great criminality of many things still remaining, and in some degree approved of, among professors of religion. National antipathies are too often found in considerable strength in the minds of Christians, especially in a time of warfare. Mistaking the nature of patriotism, and thinking, as did the ancient Greeks and Romans, that love for our country implies hatred of every rival nation—we are too apt to imbibe the spirit of the times and places in which we live, and to cherish a feeling of ill-will towards our national competitors. The religion of the New Testament is by no means hostile to a spirit of pure and sublime patriotism; that patriotism which seeks to exalt a nation by all the arts of peace, the discoveries of science, the inventions of imagination, the diffusion of knowledge, morality, and true religion. But the thirst of conquest, the love of aggrandizement, the lust of domination, which would make us dislike a nation because it limits our power and resists our aggressions—is an unchristian feeling, and an offense against the law of love! From everything which would flatter the pride, or excite the ambition, or exasperate the anger, or increase the irritability of a nation—from everything that would swell the current of prejudice against another country, we should carefully abstain. As Christians, we should have no national enemies, no enmities and aversions excited by the geographical divisions of the globe. We should remember that God has made from one man, all the nations which dwell upon the earth—and therefore, that all men are our brothers, and should be loved as brothers. A Christian is, in one sense, a 'citizen of the world'; and although he was born in England, should abhor the thought of an 'national dislike' to any person of any other country. When national passions are roused and incensed, he is to bear no part in the widely circulating hatred; and amid much that he may regret and condemn, is still to remember that he is not to be "easily provoked." Allied to this, is the passion for war. Whether the abstract principle of the unjustifiableness of war in every case, be tenable, we will not now discuss. But that war, as it is usually maintained, is utterly indefensible on Christian principles, can admit of no question. It is but too evident that great numbers of real Christians are not duly impressed with the deep criminality and great heinousness of the 'warlike spirit'. Instead of bearing their testimony, by all proper means, and on every suitable occasion, against it, they partake of the general and murderous enthusiasm. They cherish the same antipathies; are actuated by the same 'revengeful, proud, ambitious spirit'—as the people of the world. They defend by argument the wars that arise, as just and necessary. They read with as much avidity the details of battles. They boast with as much exultation of the victories which are obtained. They enter as deeply into all the ardor of the warlike passion, as though they were the worshipers of 'Mars'—the god of war; instead of Jehovah—the God of love! Ought these things to be? Are they not a manifest and flagrant violation of all their principles and professions? The whole substance, genius, and tendency of Christianity—is towards peacefulness. The God whom we worship delights in mercy, and is infinitely benevolent. The character of Jesus, who is our example, is formed of all the meek and gentle virtues—in the greatest perfection. The scheme of salvation is a plan of grace. All the doctrines of Scriptural revelation unite in their tendency to soften and sweeten the temper. The precepts of Christian morality forbid wrath, anger, malice, revenge of every kind or degree—and enjoin us, in no case to render evil for evil—but always to return good for evil. The whole tenor New Testament is directly opposed to that rage and resentment to which the world has given the delusive names of 'courage' and 'a sense of honor'—and from which wars and contentions proceed. To these proud, harmful and evil fervors—which are but an imitation of the passions that rage in full force in the natures of brute animals—the religion of Jesus Christ offers all the opposition of divine authority. Let any man think of the crimes committed, and the miseries inflicted by a single battle—and surely if he has ever read only one of the Gospels, or one of the Epistles, he must be convinced that 'hatred of war' is an essential feature of practical religion. But we need go no further than this chapter to prove that the warlike passion, even in the least degree, is opposed to Christianity. For if love were universally prevalent, swords would be beaten into plough-shares, and spears into pruning-hooks! It is high time for the followers of the meek and lowly Jesus, in every part of the world, to study the bent of their religion, since in the knowledge of this, many of them are still lamentably deficient! It is a shame upon what is called 'the Christian world', that it has not long since borne universal, impassioned, and indignant testimony against that enormous evil which still rages, not only among the savages of Africa, or of the back settlements of America—but among the scholars, the philosophers, the Christians, the ministers, of Europe. In vain, so far as regards the diffusion of a peaceable spirit, has science enlightened the mind; in vain has learning softened the manners, and cultivated the taste; in vain has art multiplied the comforts; in vain has even religion established the faith, and in some measure sanctified the minds of the inhabitants of Christendom; for war—horrid, destructive, bloody war—is as much practiced, and as much patronized, as ever! Whatever men have learned, they have not learned to love one another; whatever attainments they have made in knowledge, they have made scarcely any in love; however high they may have soared above the savage into the heights of science, they are still nearly upon a level in a taste for war. But real Christians should come out, and be separate, and touch not the unclean thing—let them act upon their own principles, and become not only the friends—but the advocates of peace—let them echo back in their several spheres the angel's description of Christianity, "Peace on earth, good will to men," let ministers, from the pulpit; writers, from the press; private Christians, in their communion with each other and with the world—inculcate a fixed and irreconcilable abhorrence to war! Let the church of God be a society for the diffusion of the principles of universal peace. Christian love forbids the indulgence of SECTARIAN prejudice among churches. God has for wise ends, no doubt, permitted the existence of various and conflicting opinions among real Christians—but, unhappily, instead of making these differences merely the occasion of mutual forbearance, and opportunities for showing through what interposing minor differences of opinion Christians can press to recognize and embrace each other; instead of converting them into tests of the sincerity, and proofs of the strength of our attachment—we have permitted them to rise up into separating walls, which divide and alienate our hearts from each other. Perhaps, even towards those whose errors are too fundamental to allow us to acknowledge them as fellow-Christians, much less to hold communion with them in the bond of church-fellowship, there is not enough of genuine love. For is there not something of bitterness and contempt, of wrath and ill-will—instead of that deep compassion and tender pity with which their situation should ever be viewed? But as to those that agree with us in all the fundamental doctrines of the gospel, and differ from us only on the forms of church government, on the mode and subject of a sacrament, or on some of the minor points of doctrine, surely, surely, towards them we should maintain the full force of brotherly affection, without allowing our differences to interrupt for a moment the exercise of the most entire good-will. We would indulge a hope that in this age there is a nearer approximation than there was, of the various denominations of Christians to each other; that the spirit of intolerance is dying away; that there is a greater disposition to recognize each other, in the fullest sense of the term, as members of the same body, and brethren in the same family. But even yet, there is too much contempt to those who differ on minor points, remaining among ministers. There is too much of the sectarian spirit among laymen. There is too much of the feeling of rivalry and suspicion. There is too much disposition to misconstrue actions, to arraign motives. There is too much inclination to envy and jealousy. It is too common for the ministers and members of the Church of England to look with haughty contempt, and to speak as they feel, towards those who secede from the church; and to revile them as troublesome schismatics, as rebels against established authority, who are actuated by a love of change, an impatience of restraint, a trend for democratic principles, a disaffection to the constitution of their country. But is this love? Does this accord with the spirit of Paul in the chapter we are now considering? May it not be that the reasons for separation from the Church of England, appear in our eyes to have all the force of a divine law? May not those things which appear to be matters of indifference to our accusers, appear to be matters of great importance to us? Can it not be supposed that as moral questions are differently discerned by good men, there may not be all that error in our views, which is sometimes ascribed to them? Let the greater names of our denomination be read over, and especially let their immortal productions be perused; and then let it be said, whether they have not minds as capacious, learning as profound, piety as ardent, insight as acute—as can be found among those from whom they have seceded; and whether this array of names, supported and adorned as it is by all that can give sanctity or dignity to human nature, should not be enough to secure for us the exercise of Christian toleration. May we not be Christians? And if so, ought we not to be loved as Christians? On the other hand, let the members of evangelical dissenting communities exercise a spirit of holy liberality towards their brethren in the Church of England. Let them cease from resolving their motives of the ministers of the Church of England into a mere love of wealth and power. Let them believe it possible that these 'churchmen' may have a conscience as tender, a desire as fervent, as their own, to know and do the will of God. Let them not conclude that 'churchmen' are necessarily the willing slaves of politicians. Let them suppose that love to Christ, and zeal for God, and benevolence for man—may burn as brightly and as purely upon the altar of these 'churchmen', as upon their own. Let them not cease, openly, manfully, and on all suitable occasions, to state and enforce their principles—but cease to state them with a spirit of bitterness and wrath. Let not the ashes of the martyrs be gathered up, to blacken the descendants in office. Let them not visit the sins of the bigots of a past age, upon the ecclesiastical rulers of the present. Let them in all their statements, since they believe they have the truth on their side, throw over it the lovely and attractive charm of meekness. Let them read the names and the works of the authors belonging to the English Church, and realize that genuine Christian kindness should be cherished towards such men. Love throws herself between the two parties, and calls for a truce to prejudice, and for the return of the sword to its scabbard. Let us consider how many, and how important, are the points on which we unite. "There is one body, and one Spirit, even as you are called in one hope of your calling; one Lord, one faith, one baptism, one God and Father of all, who is above all, and through all, and in you all." We may certainly find, in these 'seven unities' a sufficient bond of union, a sufficient ground of love, and a sufficient scope for our sympathy, whatever varieties on other subjects may distinguish us from each other. Let it not be thought from what has been said that it is only by Churchmen and Dissenters, in their opposition to each other, that the law of love is violated. For it must be confessed and regretted that the law of love is not always observed as it should be, by the various sections of the latter body. Baptists, Paedobaptists, and Methodists, are all too often actuated by a degree of envy, jealousy, and selfishness, utterly unworthy of the great cause of true religion, and altogether at variance with their common principles. What attempts are sometimes made by the Wesleyans to raise a prejudice against Calvinism and its adherents, by deformed, horrid, and ferocious-looking caricatures of that system. And, on the other hand, how often are the whole body of Methodists condemned by Calvinists, as upholding all the errors of Pelagius! Baptists pour unmeasured contempt on infant baptism—and are repaid by their opponents in ridicule on adult immersion. Statements are often given of the sentiments of a sect, which that sect would deny—and consequences deduced from them, which they would abhor! And then, what clashing of interests frequently takes place when a new church or denomination is introduced into a town or village! Sometimes this new church comes without occasion for it—there is really no need for another similar body of Christians—as the existing means of public instruction are already sufficient, both as to quantity and quality—and, in this case, to be animated by such a zeal for our church or denomination, as to set it up at the certain hazard, and especially with the very hope, of dividing a prevailing and hitherto peaceful body of Christians, is in the last degree a hateful effusion of party spirit. Men may call it zeal for the glory of God; but call it what they will, it is, when exhibited in its own deformity, nothing but envy, or the selfishness which seeks its own. In other cases, what jealousy and ill-will have been stirred up in the minds of an existing church, by an attempt made by another church to establish itself in the same local area! It signified nothing how large was the place, how great the population, how inadequate the means of religious instruction—all this was left out of view—and the new church, though they preached the gospel in its purity—was opposed and disliked, because it came into a field were there was already an evangelical body, though that body could not be said to have occupied more than one little nook or corner of the uncultivated land. It would be injurious to name any denomination as having manifested most of this evil envious spirit—no one denomination, perhaps, is altogether free from it; but we have known, in some instances, such wretched, paltry and wicked means resorted to. Such attempts to oppose the new comers, by defaming their principles, by insinuating charges against their ministers, by throwing suspicions even over the purposes of their private meetings. Such a system of espionage, by sending 'spies' to gather something to cavil at from the discourses of their opponents; such a series of tricks to draw away the young and unwary from the other church—that we have felt it somewhat difficult, in witnessing this absence of Christian love in others, to retain it in exercise in our own hearts towards them. Instead of indulging such envy, jealousy, and ill-will—all denominations who agree in the fundamental truths of the Gospel, should regard and hail each other as only so many companies in the same gospel army—or so many laborers in the same field—or so many workmen in the same building—having one common object, and serving under one common head. But alas! alas! Some congregations of professing Christians are exceedingly jealous and envious of each other! This remark does not apply so much to the larger bodies, which are to be found in our great towns and cities, as to the smaller ones, which exist in our less populous places. But we have all too much prejudice, and too little Christian affection for each other. We all need more of the mind of Christ. We do not wish to see a spirit of indifference to our distinctive opinions—this would be a sin in the other extreme—but we desire to behold a more cordial good-will and confidence towards those who differ from us, and far, far less of the malicious envious spirit of sects and parties! Christian Love would soften the harshness, and remove the bitterness, of CONTROVERSY. We are not enemies to well-conducted controversy. As long as the truth is attacked—it must be defended; and as long as error exists—it must be assailed. To give up the truth for the sake of peace, is a conspiracy against the Bible, and establishing a covenant with the enemies of the Lord. Not an iota of God's Word must be surrendered to error and infidelity. We must "contend earnestly for the faith once delivered to the saints," and resist, if need be—unto imprisonment, torture, and death. A hollow, fawning, indulgent spirit—which would conciliate the friendship of men who are in rebellion to the Scriptures—by giving up, or treating lightly, any of their contents, has the curse of heaven upon it. "Christian controversy is the safety valve of theological zeal. The 'party-spirit' of is opposed to it, being too intolerant for discussion. Truth has always triumphed by means of controversy—she has grown powerless only when the sleep of lethargy has stolen upon the church. What is Christianity itself—but a standing controversy with the infidel, the sensualist, and the formalist—the men of the world? We admit that the spirit of controversy, or, to speak more properly, the controversial spirit, is not, in itself, very conducive to the cultivation of personal piety. The angry controversialist and fierce arguer is not always a devout believer or an amiable member of society. The church has been sometimes as much disgraced by her advocates, as annoyed by her assailants; and there are internal debates and disputes, which, as friends to true religion, as well as friends to peace—we would wish to have terminated forever. But alive, as we trust we are, to the dangers of controversy, we must, nevertheless, protest against that timid, trimming, self-indulgent, ultra-liberal dread of religious debate, which would give up truth, to keep peace with error, and consign those celestial weapons of the spiritual armory—reason and Scripture—to the ark of the church, as useless regalia." (Eclectic Review) It is highly probable that all controversy will never cease, until truth stands revealed amid the light of eternity. But there will come a period, when men will discuss their differences in the spirit of brotherly affection; when perhaps, there will be fewer points unsettled, and those few will be debated with toleration and mutual esteem. Too many, in their disputations about religion, contend for truth, until they have destroyed love; and even, in reference to the former, present it in so mutilated a form, as to deprive it of much of its own engaging beauty. Luther's prayer should be presented by all—"From frivolous, fruitless controversies, good Lord, deliver us!" It is well observed by an old writer, that "Disputations in religion are sometimes necessary—but always dangerous; drawing the best spirits into the head from the heart, and either leaving it empty of all, or too full of fleshly zeal and passion, if extraordinary care be not taken still to supply and fill it anew with pious affection towards God, and love towards man." There is no case in which good men are more under the power of the deceitfulness of the heart, than when engaged in religious controversy; and when, under the idea that they are only "contending earnestly for the faith," they indulge in all kinds of unhallowed tempers, dip their pens in gall, deliberately write, as deliberately print, and no less deliberately justify, the bitterest sarcasms—the severest irony—the most railing accusations—the grossest misrepresentations—the most uncharitable surmises. In short, when, as the controversy is about religion—a circumstance which ought to produce a spirit directly the reverse—there is no degree of abuse, reviling, and defamation, to which they do not have recourse. Such has been too often the tone of religious controversy, and by which it would seem as if the graces were mere heathen courtesans, in whose company a Christian should blush to be found; while 'the furies' were so many personifications of holy zeal, whose assistance is to be solicited in the support of truth. Oh, what a handle has the spirit of angry controversy given to infidels against the whole system of Christianity! They have fought against Christianity with poisoned arrows, and the gall of furious church squabbles has supplied the venom in which they have dipped their sarcasms, ironies, and jests. It is high time that the apostle's exhortation should be practically remembered—"Get rid of all bitterness, rage, anger, harsh words, and slander, as well as all types of malicious behavior." All who contend for the faith should remember Paul's advice to Timothy—"And the Lord's servant must not quarrel; instead, he must be kind to everyone, able to teach, not resentful. Those who oppose him he must gently instruct, in the hope that God will grant them repentance leading them to a knowledge of the truth." 2 Tim. 2:24-25. "For man's anger does not bring about the righteous life that God desires." James 1:20 Let any one read this chapter, and say if it be possible to justify the spirit in which contentions for the truth are generally carried on. Let it not be pleaded that we are commanded to 'rebuke sharply', as if this furnished an apology for uncharitableness; for duties cannot be in opposition to each other, and therefore even this must be performed in a manner that is compatible with meekness and love. Unfortunately, the spirit of harsh embittered controversy is as popular as it is sinful—those pugnacious disputers, by whom it is carried on, are generally the leaders of a party, which thinks itself happy in a representative who with his shield can defend them, and with his tremendous sword can vanquish their enemies—and thus lead them on to victory and supremacy. It would be amusing, if it were not too serious a matter for entertainment, to hear how these people exult in the exploits of their 'formidable Hercules'; and to see how securely they repose under the protection of his fearsome and far-reaching club. What deep disgrace is it upon the professors and teachers of the religion of the lowly Savior, to suppose that his doctrines and his precepts require the aid of sinful and unhallowed passions to give them effect. We may next exhibit the criminality which attaches to the sin of SCHISM, and deplore its prevalence. It will be necessary to explain here what I mean by 'schism'. No term has been more employed, or more abused than this—it has furnished to bigots of all parties, a theme of angry declamation, and a subject of bitter accusation and reproach, against all who differ from them in opinion; upon whatever ground, or in whatever spirit, that difference is maintained. Papists charge this sin upon Protestants; while the Church of England, in its turn, attempts to fasten the guilt of it upon all who secede from her denomination. It is circulated with eagerness from one denomination to another as a term of ignominy, and is continually calling into exercise some of the worst passions of human nature. Papal bulls, Episcopal charges, clerical sermons, angry party-spirited journals—are continually harping upon it. And multitudes, who have no other means of blackening an opponent, think that they cannot more effectually succeed in rendering him both odious and guilty, than by calling him a 'schismatic'. I will at once confess, that schism is, indeed, when properly understood, a sin of so enormous a kind, that too much cannot be said for its condemnation. But it is not properly understood. In its etymological signification, it means a split, a division, a separation of that which was originally one. (Matthew 9:16, John 7:43) Campbell's remarks are so clear and convincing on this subject, that they may with great propriety be referred to. As breach, or rupture, is the literal import of the term, in our language, whenever these words may be figuratively applied, the term schism seems likewise capable of an application. It invariably supposes, that among those things whereof it is affirmed, there subsisted an union formerly, and as invariably denotes that the union exists no longer. In this manner the apostle Paul uses the word, applying it to a particular church, or Christian congregation. Thus he adjures the Corinthians, by the name of the Lord Jesus, that there be no divisions, or schisms, among them—and in another place of the same Epistle, "I hear that there are divisions," or schisms. In order to obtain a proper idea of what is meant by a breach, or schism, we must form a just notion of that which constituted the union whereof the schism was a violation. Now the great and powerful cement which united the souls of Christians, was their mutual love. Their hearts, in the emphatic language of Holy Writ, were knit together in love. This had been declared by their Master, to be the distinguishing badge of their profession "By this shall all men know that you are my disciples, if you have love one to another." Their partaking the same baptism, their professing the same faith, their enjoying the same promises, and their joining in the same religious services—formed a connection merely external, and of little significance, unless, agreeably to the apostle's expression, it was rooted and grounded in love. As this, therefore, is the great criterion of the Christian character, and the foundation of Christian unity, whatever alienates the affections of Christians from one another, is manifestly subversive of both, and may, consequently, with the greatest truth and energy, be denominated schism. It is not so much what makes an outward distinction, or separation (though this also may, in a lower degree, be so denominated), as what produces an alienation of the heart, which constitutes schism in the sense of the apostle; for this strikes directly at the vitals of Christianity. Indeed, both the evil and the danger of the former—that is, an external separation—is principally to be estimated from its influence upon the latter—that is, in producing an alienation of heart; for it is in the union of affection among Christians, that the spirit, the life, and the power of true religion are principally placed. Wherever an 'alienation of heart' takes place, and whatever be the occasion of it, whether there be an external separation or not, there is a schism. It may arise in the Church of England, and has, perhaps, arisen in the divisions characterized by the terms evangelical and anti-evangelical. Or it may arise—as, alas! we know to our shame and distress, it does too often arise—in our Independent churches; so that without any actual and visible separation, this dreadful evil may be in full and mischievous operation. On the contrary, there may be a diversity of opinion in the same society, as in those Baptist churches that admit of mixed communion, without any schism. And provided there is no alienation of heart, no interruption to mutual esteem and good will—there may be even an external separation, without schism. This sin of schism can have no existence except in those cases where the unity of the spirit is disturbed, and the bond of peace is severed. As long as sincere love remains, there is, in the full sense of the term, no schism. Consequently, whatever tends to alienate the hearts of Christians from each other, whatever tends to produce discord, whatever tends to stir up strife—no matter who may be guilty of such conduct—is the very essence of this hateful vice of schism. If men will attempt to coerce the conscience, by legislating for others in such matters as those of religion, and interfere, by human authority, in affairs which should be transacted through the medium of the Bible, between God and the soul—they must be answerable for those divisions which arise from the conscientious objections of people who cannot submit to such enactments. If to separate peaceably from the Church of England, be the sin of schism, how will the Church of England justify itself from the same charge brought against her by the Church of Rome? The schismatic is not he who peaceably secedes; but he who renders secession necessary, by setting up requirements with which the separatist cannot comply, without violating his conscience. Not that I mean to say Episcopalians, or even the supporters of any established religion whatever, are schismatical, except where their conduct is such as is calculated to produce mutual disaffection; so neither, on the other hand, are dissenters justly chargeable with this sin, unless their conduct can be fairly proved to be founded on a factious spirit of ill-will towards the religious establishment of the country. It is nothing to say that their dissent proceeds on insufficient grounds, and their objections to the Church, as by law established, are to things that are indifferent in themselves, and therefore frivolous and vexatious. If they are indifferent matters, why then impose them? but of their indifference or importance, dissenters themselves must judge, as did the reformed churches of Christendom, of the corruptions of Popery. If a dissenter employs himself in stirring up ill-will towards the members of the Church of England, by arraigning the motives of its ministers, and charging them with sordid avarice, or a mere love of worldly pomp and domination; or by questioning the piety of its members; or by exciting animosity; or producing alienation of heart in the minds of his own party—or if he so states, defends, and enforces his own principles, as that the natural result in those who hear him shall be an interruption to all communion of heart, and to the exercise of all mutual good will between the two denominations—if he employ himself in widening the breach between them, and repelling them further from each other—he is indeed a schismatic, and deserves all the reproach which such conduct can bring upon him. But then it should be recollected that no less guilty of the sin of schism, is he who, as a minister of the Church of England, employs his talents in holding up dissenters to public ridicule as a factious, troublesome, dangerous body, seceding upon no grounds but such as are frivolous, entitled to reproach for what they have done, and to suspicion of what they may do. But leaving names and parties, schism is the sin of doing anything to alienate men's hearts from each other, whatever be the occasion or the means of the estrangement. And it is a sin of a magnitude and enormity, which few can estimate. It is the very opposite of love; and in saying this, we arraign it upon the most solemn and the most capital charge which any indictment can prefer. We all have, perhaps, something of this schismatic spirit. But little does it occur to some men, when they are advancing their charges, and fulminating their anathemas against others for the sin of schism, that, while in the eye of God, the objects of their anger are innocent of the crime that is laid to their charge—they themselves are regarded by Him whose judgment is according to truth, as the greatest schismatics upon earth. The temptation cannot be resisted of introducing here a long—but no one who has a taste for literary or moral beauty will deem it too long—extract from the writings of Mr. Hall– "The Roman Catholic church no doubt looked upon it as a signal triumph, when she prevailed on France's King Louis, to suppress the Protestant religion. But what was the consequence? Where shall we look, after this period, for her Fenelons and her Pascals—where for the distinguished monuments of piety and learning, which were the glory of her better days? As for piety, she perceived she had no occasion for it, when there was no luster of Christian holiness surrounding her—nor for learning, when she had no longer any opponents to confute, or any controversies to maintain. She felt herself at liberty to become as ignorant, as secular, as irreligious, as she pleased; and amid the silence and darkness she had created around her, she drew the curtains, and retired to rest. The accession of numbers she gained by suppressing her opponents, was like the small extension of length a body acquires by death—the feeble remains of life were extinguished, and she lay a putrid corpse—a public nuisance, filling the air with pestilential exhalations. "Such, there is every reason to believe, would be the effect of similar measures in England. That union among Christians which it is so desirable to recover, must, we are persuaded, be the result of something more heavenly and divine than legal restraints or angry controversies. Unless an angel were to descend for that purpose, the spirit of division is a disease which will never be healed by troubling the waters. We must expect the cure from the increasing prevalence of true religion, and from a copious communication of the Spirit to produce that event. A more extensive diffusion of piety, among all sects and parties, will be the best and only preparation for a cordial union. Christians will then be disposed to appreciate their differences more equitably, to turn their chief attention to points on which they agree, and, in consequence of loving each other more, to make every concession consistent with a good conscience. Instead of wishing to vanquish others, everyone will be desirous of being vanquished by the truth. A filial fear of God, and an exclusive desire of discovering his mind, will hold a torch before them in their inquiries, which will illuminate the path in which they are to tread. Instead of being repelled by mutual antipathy, they will be insensibly drawn nearer to each other by the ties of mutual attachment. A larger measure of the spirit of Christ would prevent them from condemning every legitimate difference which others might have. "The general prevalence of piety in different communities would inspire that mutual respect, that heart-felt homage for the virtues conspicuous in the character of their respective members, which would urge us to ask with astonishment and regret—Why cannot we be one? what is it which obstructs our union? Instead of maintaining the barrier which separates us from each other, and employing ourselves in fortifying the frontiers of hostile communities, we should be anxiously devising the means of narrowing the grounds of dispute, by drawing the attention of all parties to those fundamental Biblical principles in which they concur. "To this we may add, that a more perfect subjection to the authority of the great Head of the church, would restrain men from inventing new terms of fellowship, from lording it over conscience, or from exacting a scrupulous compliance with things which the Word of God has left indifferent. That sense of our own imperfect knowledge, should incline us to be looking up for a superior light, and make us think it not improbable that, in the long night which has befallen us, we have all more or less mistaken our way—and have much to learn, and much of our own deficient knowledge to correct. The very idea of identifying a particular party as the 'true church' would be exploded—the foolish clamor about schism, hushed—and no one, however poor his knowledge, should be expected to surrender his conscience to the claims of ecclesiastical dominion. "The New Testament is surely not so obscure a book that, were its contents to fall into the hands of a hundred serious, impartial men, it would produce such opposite conclusions as must necessarily issue in their forming two or more separate communions. It is remarkable, indeed, that the chief points about which real Christians are divided, are points on which the Scripture is silent—mere human fabrications which the presumption of men has attached to the Christian system. A larger communication of the Spirit of truth would insensibly lead Christians into a similar train of thinking; and being more under the guidance of that infallible Teacher, they would gradually tend to the same point, and settle in the same conclusions. Without such an influence as this, the coalescing into one community would probably be productive of much mischief; it certainly would do no sort of good, since it would be the mere result of 'intolerance and pride' acting upon 'indolence and fear'. "During the present disjointed state of things, then, nothing remains but for everyone to whom the care of any part of the church of Christ is entrusted, to exert himself to the utmost in the promotion of vital religion, in cementing the friendship of the good, and repressing with a firm and steady hand the heats and eruptions of harsh, intolerant party spirit. He will find sufficient employment for his time and his talents, in inculcating the great truths of the gospel, and endeavoring to 'form Christ' in his hearers, without blowing the 'flames of contention', or widening that breach which is already the disgrace and calamity of the Christian name. Were our efforts uniformly to take this direction, there would be an identity in the impression made by religious instruction; the distortion of party features would gradually disappear; and Christians would everywhere approach toward that ideal beauty spoken of by painters, which is composed of the finest lines and traits conspicuous in individual forms. Since they have all drank into the same spirit, it is manifest nothing is lacking—but a larger portion of that spirit, to lay the foundation of a solid, cordial union. It is to the immoderate attachment to secular interests—the love of power—and not the lack of evidence for truth—not to the obscurities of revelation, we must impute the unhappy contentions among Christians—maladies which nothing can correct—but deep and genuine piety. The real schismatic is not so properly the person who declines a compliance with what he judges to be wrong, though he may be mistaken in that judgment—so much as the man who sedulously employs every artifice to alienate the affections of good men from each other." How desirable it is that true religion should prevail more than it does. If the spirit of true religion is love, then who can avoid longing for its universal dominion? How much is it to be coveted for the peace of our churches! It must be confessed, and that with grief and shame, that Zion is not yet a "peaceful habitation," nor do all her assemblies present the good and the pleasant sight of brethren dwelling together in unity. Contentions about one thing and another abound. The seeds of discord are plentifully sown, and bear an exuberant crop of the fruits of contention. How many religious communities are shattered by discord—to their own injury, to the exultation of their enemies, and to the discredit of true religion! Many are the causes which produce this unhappy state of things; but that which gives force to them all, is the absence, or the weakness—of love. Here is the grand defect, and all other circumstances are but subsidiary. It is most melancholy and humiliating to discover, when some trifling disagreement occurs, what small attainments in piety and love these churches have made; how insignificant is the subject over which two parties will engage with all the eagerness of contention; and how bitter the spirit with which the contention is carried on. It has been said that quarrels about religion have been usually maintained with more malevolence than any other. This we deny; but, at the same time, we must admit that they are often sustained with a measure of bitterness that is a disgrace to all concerned. The usual occasion of disagreement is either the 'dismissal' or the 'choice' of a minister. And not infrequently do believers wrangle about him who is to teach them, until they have lost the very spirit of piety itself. But whatever may be the occasion, lack of love is the cause of all feuds and strifes! Oh! what churches we would have, if Christian love had its full scope! The PASTOR would labor with the most earnest, indefatigable, and unselfish zeal for the eternal welfare of the flock; and make it evident that compassion for souls, and not filthy lucre, was the impulse of all his conduct. Affection would beam in his eyes, and breathe in his spirit, while "the law of kindness" would dwell on his lips. He would preside over the people in the meekness of wisdom; and, instead of proudly lording it over God's heritage, he would rule them in love. He would be gentle among them, "as a mother feeding and caring for her own children." Instead of being provoked by any little unintentional infringement on his rights, or disrespect to his dignity, he would bear with that which is the result of ignorance, and wisely and meekly reason with those who wronged him. Over all his talents, however brilliant, he would put the 'garment of humility'. And, with respect to all his success, however great, he would speak in the language of modesty. He would neither envy his more gifted or successful brethren, nor proudly vaunt over his inferiors. To all under his pastoral care, even the most illiterate and poor, he would conduct himself with the humility and love of true benevolence, put the most favorable construction on the actions of his people, repose in them an honorable confidence, labor to correct their errors, whether doctrinal or practical, and have no greater joy than to see them walking in the truth! Christian love would also dictate to the PEOPLE towards their minister, a line of conduct no less pious than amiable. It would lead them to attach themselves decidedly and warmly to his person and ministry; to demonstrate in every possible way their sincere and cordial wish to promote his comfort; to abstain from everything that would grieve his mind, and by every means in their power to promote his usefulness. It would not allow them to be offended by his faithful rebukes—but cause them to submit, with Christian frankness and humility, to his cautious admonitions and reproofs. Christian love would lead them to interpret, in a favorable manner, any little neglects, or unintentional offenses—and would make willing and reasonable excuses for his seeming inattention. Christian love would cover, and not expose—his minor shortcomings, faults and foibles. Christian love would lead them to manifest a fitting respect for his office and opinion—and, while it would leave them in full possession of entire freedom of thought, and manly dignity of conduct, would still prescribe that humility and respect, which the Scriptures claim for those who are set over them in the Lord. In the conduct of the people towards EACH OTHER, Christian love would check all that irritability which is excited by a word—all that anger which is cherished until it ripens into malice or revenge. How much is the peace of our churches disturbed by such hot or sullen people! But did this heavenly virtue prevail, care would be taken not to give offense; and equal care would be in exercise not to take offense. One man would bridle his tongue, lest he should utter words that would grieve; another would control in his temper, lest he should be provoked when he ought not; and all would be watchful against whatever would destroy the unity of the Spirit and the bond of peace. If any action has been done, or any word spoken, of a doubtful kind, no one would suspect an evil motive—but rather be ready to conclude in favor of a good intention; suspicion would be displaced by mutual confidence; and hasty imputations of what is wrong, would be displaced by the belief or hope of what is right. Instead of circulating ill reports of each other, or believing them when circulated, all would entertain too much good-will, and too high an opinion of their brethren, to listen to an insinuation against them. Universal kindness would reign throughout the society—each would feel an interest in the whole, and by "whatever things are lovely," would promote their comfort, and bear their burdens. There would be no struggle for pre-eminence, no grasping at power—such pride would be abhorred, and all would be subject one to another—the rich would not be puffed up, nor vaunt themselves against the poor, nor would the poor envy the rich. In a time of difficulty, such as the choice of a minister, there would be a giving up as far as possible, of individual feeling, and all would consider the general good; no one would selfishly wish to have his taste alone consulted—or his opinion alone attended to. No one would obtrude his views upon the rest in an unseemly manner—but each would consult all. We may again remark, what churches we would have, if love were the ruling principle which governed them. "Then would each of them present a peaceful haven, inviting men to retire from the tossing and perils of this unquiet ocean to a sacred enclosure, a sequestered spot, which the storms and tempests of the world were not permitted to invade." Then would the prayer of Christ be answered, and his people be one, and show by their unity a demonstration of the divinity of his mission, which the most impious could not resist—then would the church on earth present a calm, unruffled surface; which would reflect, as from a mirror, a bright resemblance of the church in heaven. Let us, then, for the honor of our principles, for the credit of our common Christianity, for our own peace and comfort in relation to the body of the people—seek that more of this heavenly spirit of Christian love, may be diffused among all who are called by the name of Christ. How desirable is it that such a religion as this, should be spread over the face of the whole earth! In what a miserable condition is our globe. The whole world lies in the wicked one—is entangled in the coils, and bitten by the fangs, and tortured by the venom of the old serpent—the devil. Justly has the apostle said, that "the whole creation groans and travails in pain together until now." Nearly eighteen centuries have passed since Paul saw this bleeding victim of Satan's cruelty, and heard its groans—and it is bleeding and groaning still. Wherever we go, either in reality or in imagination, we find ourselves in a valley of tears, where forms of misery, indefinitely varied, and almost innumerably multiplied, rise before our eyes, and utter nothing but, "Woe, woe, woe!" Who can wonder that our world should thus be little else but a region of misery? Think upon the evil passions which predominate in human affairs. Think of the vile affections, which, like furies, tyrannize over the minds of men—wrath, malice, revenge, envy, pride, suspicion, selfishness, cruelty, slander—these are the tyrants of diabolical government, which usurp the dominion of the world in the name of Satan, and which with something of his power and his fury, torment the miserable children of men. How much of cruel slavery, bloody warfare, remorseless oppression, deadly revenge, operative mischief, crafty subtlety, insulting pride—is perpetually at work in the destruction of human happiness! The prevalence of Christian love would put a stop to all this—it would beat the 'sword of war' into the 'ploughshare of peace'. Christian love would break the galling fetter of slavery, and bid the captive go free. Christian love would change the tyrant into a kind father. Christian love would convert the venom of malice into the milk of human kindness. Christian love would transform the crafty serpent into the innocent dove. Christian love would tame the ferocity of the implacable assassin into mercifulness. Christian love would teach him to pronounce forgiveness, who now breathes out nothing but slaughter. Christian love would teach pride, to put on humility as a garment. Christian love would give to the vigilant eye of intelligence, the expression of toleration, instead of the glance of suspicion. Christian love would substitute, for the torment of envy—the exquisite delight of that sympathy which can rejoice with those who rejoice. What an argument for Christian missions! And what a motive to their zealous support! We have already proved that both Paganism and Mohammadanism are hostile to a spirit of universal benevolence. If, therefore, the world is ever to be subjugated to the mild and beneficial dominion of love, the conquest must be made by Christianity. And to this honor is Christianity destined—it was to this theme that the evangelical prophet struck his lyre, when he said "Many nations will come and say—Come, let us go up to the mountain of the Lord, to the Temple of the God of Israel. There he will teach us his ways, so that we may obey him. For in those days the Lord's teaching and his word will go out from Jerusalem. The Lord will settle international disputes. All the nations will beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks. All wars will stop, and military training will come to an end. Everyone will live quietly in their own homes in peace and prosperity, for there will be nothing to fear. The Lord Almighty has promised this!" "And there shall come forth a rod out of the stem of Jesse, and a branch shall grow out of his roots. Righteousness will be his belt and faithfulness the sash around his waist. In that day the wolf and the lamb will live together; the leopard and the goat will be at peace. Calves and yearlings will be safe among lions, and a little child will lead them all. The cattle will graze among bears. Cubs and calves will lie down together. And lions will eat grass as the livestock do. Babies will crawl safely among poisonous snakes. Yes, a little child will put its hand in a nest of deadly snakes and pull it out unharmed. Nothing will hurt or destroy in all my holy mountain. And as the waters fill the sea, so the earth will be filled with people who know the Lord." Such is the poetic and beautiful description which is given by the prophet, of the harmonizing and benevolent tendency of the Gospel, as well as of its effect wherever its influence is entirely submitted to. How exceedingly is it to be desired that such a system should be universally prevalent! The awful description which the apostle gives us of the idolatry of his times, and of its demoralizing effects—deeply as it is colored, and darkly as it is shaded—is not less justly applicable to the Pagan nations of the present day, than it was to those of antiquity. "They exchanged the truth of God for a lie, and worshiped and served created things rather than the Creator--who is forever praised. Amen. Because of this, God gave them over to shameful lusts. Even their women exchanged natural relations for unnatural ones. In the same way the men also abandoned natural relations with women and were inflamed with lust for one another. Men committed indecent acts with other men, and received in themselves the due penalty for their perversion. Furthermore, since they did not think it worthwhile to retain the knowledge of God, he gave them over to a depraved mind, to do what ought not to be done. They have become filled with every kind of wickedness, evil, greed and depravity. They are full of envy, murder, strife, deceit and malice. They are gossips, slanderers, God-haters, insolent, arrogant and boastful; they invent ways of doing evil; they disobey their parents; they are senseless, faithless, heartless, ruthless." Romans 1:25-31 What a picture!! Who can contemplate it without horror? Yet such is the state of society—such the aspect of the moral world—such are the crimes that deform, and pollute, and torment the human race under the reign of Paganism, which, wherever it exists, converts earth into the vestibule of hell, a den of wild beasts, a range of malignant demons—which educates men for fiends amid the worst of excesses of depravity—and tortures its victims in this world, preparatory to their execution in the next. Who that pretends to carry in his bosom the heart of a man, much more who that professes to have the spirit of a Christian, which is the mind of Christ—but must mourn in bitterness of soul over this frightful wilderness, and long to bring these habitations of cruelty under the reign of Christian love? Let it be recollected that whenever the religion of Jesus Christ is felt in its proper influence—whenever it changes the heart, and sanctifies the life—it does not merely turn men away from dumb idols—but causes them also to deny ungodliness and worldly lusts, and to live soberly, righteously, and godly, in this present evil world. It does not merely lead to a change of names, a substitution of one set of religious rites for another; but while it removes all that is impious in idolatry—it displaces all that is odious and abominable in vice. It presents the first table of the law, and says, "You shall love God with all your soul," and then holds up the second, and commands us to love our neighbors as ourselves. Wherever the Gospel of Christ is permitted to govern society, it banishes all that can afflict—and introduces whatever can comfort the human race. All the crimes and the curses of society flee before it, while all the blessings of earth follow in its train. It not only brings learning, and arts, and sciences, with all that can adorn the mind and embellish life—but, as its chief benefit, it establishes the reign of love. This it has done to a considerable extent in many places already; and even its enemies have acknowledged it. And he who would see what true religion can do, has done, and will yet do—in exalting benevolence on the ruins of cruelty, and in establishing the reign of mercy—let him contemplate, as he may do, through the medium of missionary reports, the once wild and savage Eskimos—now converted into peaceful, harmless, and benevolent followers of the meek and lowly Jesus! Or the once murderous Tahitians, who reveled in the blood of human sacrifices, and slaughtered without remorse their own children, now exhibiting a character remarkable for its mercifulness and gentleness. Or the once marauding tribes of South Africa, casting away their poisoned arrows and their spears, and exhibiting a moral transformation as great and striking—as if lions were changed into lambs. And these are the triumphs of that true religion, of which the many branches, and the multiplied duties, are summed up in that one word—LOVE! Friends of humanity! by all the love you bear to God or man, I implore you to labor to the uttermost in extending the true piety you profess. Estimate, if you can, the deep guilt of neglecting the cause of Christian missions. None of you have done what you could have done, or what you ought to do, in this most sacred, most important cause. I ask, what proportion of your property ought to be put in requisition for promoting the universal reign of love? Is a tenth, or a fifth, or a third, enough for that cause, the object of which is to teach all men that dwell on the earth to love God supremely, and each other as themselves? Enough to be given for the purpose of cementing the whole human family together in a union of affection? Enough to give to a cause, which, when it is completely victorious—and completely victorious it will be—will banish pride, and malice, and envy, and revenge, from the abodes of man? How can you live in splendor—how can you enjoy your luxuries—how can you dwell with delight upon your accumulating hoards of wealth—while all this is needed to extend the influence of true religion? Alas! alas! because you have so little true Christian love in your own soul. Christian benevolence, were it felt in its full force, would lead to self-denial, to thriftiness, to simple habits, to personal sacrifices—in order that you may have more to spare for the great object of Christian missions! But in addition to your money, and your influence, give to the cause of missions your private, sincere, fervent, believing, and constant prayers. It is only by the power of the Divine, Omnipotent Spirit, that the kingdom of Christ can be established in this selfish world. Read the chapter which we have considered (Romans 1), compare with it the present state of mankind—and then say if anything but the same power which called the chaos out of nothing, and raised this fair and beautiful world out of chaos—can effect a transformation so astonishing and sublime as would be effected, if this region of dark and vengeful passions were converted into an abode of holy, and mild, and benevolent affections. Beseech Jehovah daily, that he would arise and plead his own cause; for surely love must be eminently the cause of him who is infinite in goodness, and delights in mercy. Give him no rest until, in answer to believing and earnest prayer, he shall say, "Look! I am creating new heavens and a new earth—so wonderful that no one will even think about the old ones anymore. Be glad; rejoice forever in my creation! And look! I will create Jerusalem as a place of happiness. Her people will be a source of joy. I will rejoice in Jerusalem and delight in my people. And the sound of weeping and crying will be heard no more. The wolf and lamb will feed together. The lion will eat straw like the ox. Poisonous snakes will strike no more. In those days, no one will be hurt or destroyed on my holy mountain. I, the Lord, have spoken!"
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EXAMINATION & HUMILIATION SELF-EXAMINATION is the duty of every Christian, not merely that he may ascertain whether his faith be genuine—but whether it be sufficiently 'operative'. It ought not to be a frequent and undecided question with anyone, "Am I in reality a child of God?" But it should be a constantly recurring inquiry, "Is there any one branch of pious obligation, which, through the deceitfulness of the human heart, I do not feel? or through a criminal heedlessness, I habitually neglect?" The object of self-examination, with a believer, is to supply those defects in his graces, and to put away those remains of his corruptions, which, though they may not prove that he has no piety, prove that he has less than he ought to have. For this purpose, he should often bring his actions and his motives to the standard, and try his whole profession; what he does—which he should not do; as well as what he does not do—which he should do. If we are to exhort one another daily, lest any of us be hardened through the deceitfulness of sin, we surely ought to examine ourselves daily for the same reason. Our guilty self-love is perpetually attempting to throw a veil over our sinful infirmities—to hide their criminality from our view; and thus to keep us in a state of false peace by keeping us in ignorance. Against this deceitfulness of our heart, we can only be guarded by a frequent and close examination of our whole selves. A frequent examination of our hearts and conduct is necessary, because of the multitude of our daily sins—which are often so minute as to escape the observation of a careless and superficial glance—and so numerous as to be forgotten from one day to another; and so, they either do not come into our notice—or pass out of recollection. And therefore they should be summed up every evening, and repented of, and forgiven, before we compose ourselves to 'sleep'—that nightly returning harbinger, and monitor, and image, of approaching death. The advantages of frequent examination are so many and so great, as to recommend the practice strongly to all who are deeply concerned about the welfare of their souls—by this means, we shall not only detect many lesser sins which would otherwise be lost in our attention to greater ones; but we shall more easily destroy them, and more speedily revive our languishing graces; just as a wound may with greater facility be cured while it is yet fresh and bleeding. "Sins are apt to cluster and combine, when either we are in love with small sins, or when they proceed, from a careless and unconcerned spirit, into frequency and continuance. But we may easily keep them asunder by our daily prayers, and our nightly examinations, and our severe sentences; for he who despises little things, shall perish little by little." A frequent examination of our actions will tend to keep the conscience clear, so that the least dirty spot will be more easily seen; and so tender that the least new pressure will be felt—for that which comes upon an already blotted page is scarcely discerned—and that which is added to an already great accumulation is hardly seen or felt. This, also, is the best way to make our repentance pungent and particular. But on this subject we shall have more to say shortly. If self-examination be neglected for lack of opportunity, it is plain that those, at least, who have their time at their own command and disposal, are far too deeply involved in the business of the world, and the labyrinths of care—no man ought to allow himself to be so taken up in looking into his secular pursuits, as to have no time to look into the state of his soul; and to be so greedy after gain, or so intent upon the objects of an earthly ambition—as to be careless about examining whether we are growing in grace, and increasing in the riches of faith and love—reveals a mind which either has no true religion at all, or has reason to fear that it has none. But besides that 'general review' of the conduct of the day, which we should take every evening; a portion of time should be frequently set apart for the purpose of instituting a more minute and exacting inquiry into the state of our personal piety; when, taking in our hand the Word of God, we should descend with this 'candle of the Lord' into the dark and deep recesses of the heart, enter every secret chamber, and pry into every corner, to ascertain if anything is hiding itself there, which is contrary to the mind and will of God. Many standards will be found in the Scriptures, all concurring with each other in general purpose and principles, by which this investigation of our spirits should be conducted. We now propose 'the law of love'. On these occasions of introspection, we should inquire how far our faith is working by love. I will conceive of a professing Christian who has set apart a portion of time, say on a Saturday evening, before he is to partake of the Lord's supper on the next day; or on a Sabbath evening, when he has received the sacramental memorials of the Savior's love—to examine into the state, not only of his conduct—but the frame and temper of his spirit. He is anxious to know how far he is living so as to please God. We can imagine him, after having read the Scriptures, presenting his fervent supplications to God, in the language of the Psalmist, and saying, "Search me, O God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts. Point out anything in me that offends you, and lead me along the path of everlasting life." Psalm 139:23-24 He now enters upon the business of self-examination; and the subject of inquiry that evening is the frame of his heart towards his fellow creatures, the state of his mind in reference to the law of love, the measure of his love, and the infirmities of his temper. Hear his holy colloquies with himself—"I have no just reason, thanks be to sovereign grace! to question whether I have received the fundamental doctrines of the Gospel. I believe my creed is sound, nor have I any serious ground for suspecting the sincerity of my faith, or the reality of my conversion—my conduct, too, so far as the estimate of man goes, has, through the help of God, been free from open immorality. And though I may without presumption say that I love God, yet I am covered with confusion that my love is so weak and lukewarm. But my solemn business at this time is to examine into the state and measure of my Christian love; for I am persuaded that whatever knowledge, or faith, or seeming raptures, or supposed communion with God, I may lay claim to—I am but a very imperfect Christian, if I am considerably deficient in love. Taking the apostolic description of this lovely virtue, I will bring my heart to the test. "Do I, then, love, in the biblical sense of the word? Is my heart a partaker of this disposition? Is the selfishness of my corrupt nature subdued, and made to give way to a spirit of universal benevolence; so that I can truly say, I rejoice in the happiness of others, and am conscious of a continual benevolent sympathy with all others, and of a perpetual flowing of good-will to all creatures? Do I feel as if my own happiness were receiving constant accessions from the happiness of others; and that my soul, instead of living in her own little world within—an alien from the commonwealth of mankind, indifferent to all but herself—is in union and communion with my race? In short, do I know the meaning of the apostle's emphatic expression, 'He who dwells in love, dwells in God, and God in him?' But let me descend to particulars. "What do I know of the PATIENCE of love? Can I suffer long, or am I easily provoked? Am I patient under provocation; restraining my anger; keeping my wrath in subjection under the most provoking insults, amid the basest ingratitude, and the most irritating scorn? In my communion with my brethren in Christ, am I quick to take offense by any real or supposed slight or impertinence? Am I so jealous of my own dignity, so sensitive and irritable, as to be roused to anger by any little offense, and transported to wrath by more serious provocation? Am I revengeful under injuries; brooding over them in silence, cherishing the remembrance, and reviving the recollection of them, waiting for an opportunity to retaliate—and rejoicing in the sufferings which come upon those that injure me? Or am I easily conciliated, most forward to forgive, and ever ready to return good for evil? How have I acted since my last season of self-examination in these particulars? Let me call to recollection my conduct, that I may see how far I have practiced the duty, and exhibited the excellence of Christian meekness. "Love is KIND." Is kindness—universal, constant, operative kindness—characteristic of my conduct? Is the law of kindness on my lips, its smile upon my countenance, and its activity in my life? Or am I uncivil and uncourteous in speech, frowning and repulsive in my demeanor, grudging and unfrequent in acts of generosity? Have I the character among my neighbors and acquaintance, of a man who can be always depended upon for a favor, when it is needed? Or, on the contrary, am I by general report a very unlikely person to lend a helping hand to a person in necessity? Are there any instances of unkindness which I can now call to remembrance, which have brought dishonor upon my reputation, guilt upon my conscience, reproach upon the cause of true religion, and for which, therefore, I ought to seek the pardon of God through Christ? "Love does not ENVY." Am I subject to the tormenting influence of that truly diabolical temper by which a person is made miserable in himself, and to hate his neighbor or rival on account of that neighbor's or rival's eminence? Am I so truly infernal in my disposition as to sicken and pine at the sight of the success or happiness of others—and to cherish ill-will on that account towards them? When I hear another praised and commended, do I feel a burning of heart within, and an inclination to detract from their fame, and to lower them in the estimation of those who applaud them? And do I secretly rejoice when anything occurs to lessen and lower them in public opinion, or to strip them of those distinctions which render them the objects of public dislike? Or do I possess that true spirit of love, which constrains me to rejoice with those who rejoice, to feel pleased with their prosperity, and to consider their happiness as an accession to my own? Have I indeed, that benevolence which delights so truly in felicity, as to make me glad at seeing it in the possession of an enemy or a rival? "Love does not BOAST. Love is not PROUD." Is this descriptive of my spirit, in reference to my own attainments and achievements? Am I lowly in my own eyes, clothed with humility, modest in the estimate I form of myself, and all that belongs to me? or am I proud, vain, or ostentatious? valuing and admiring myself on the ground of any personal, civil, ecclesiastical, or spiritual eminence? Am I fond of exciting the admiration of others towards myself—and obtaining their applause? Or am I content with the approbation of my own conscience, and the smile of God? Do I wish to make others feel their inferiority, and to suffer under a mortifying sense of it? Or do I, from the most tender regard to their comfort, conceal, as much as possible, any superiority I may have over them; and make them easy and happy in my company? Do I indulge in haughty airs—or maintain a kind affability and an amiable humility? "Love does not behave UNSEEMLY." Is it my study not to give uneasiness and offense, by anything unsuitable to my age, sex, rank, station, and circumstances; anything crude, rough, impertinent, or improper? Or am I continually disturbing the comfort of those around me, by inappropriate and unsuitable behavior? "Love is not SELF-SEEKING." Am I habitually selfish—anxious only for my own gratification, and building up my own comfort—to the annoyance or neglect of others? Am I indulging a stingy, covetous disposition—feasting upon luxuries, and refusing to minister to the relief of human misery, according to the proportion in which God has blessed me? Or am I diffusing abroad my substance, considering that I am only a 'steward' of what I hold, and must account for it all? Am I overbearing and intolerant in discussion and debate—wanting others to sacrifice their views, in order that I may have everything my own way? Or am I willing to concede and yield, and disposed to give up my own will to the general opinion, and for the general good? "Love thinks no evil." Am I suspicious, and apt to impute bad motives to men's conduct? Or am I generous and trusting—prone to think the best that truth will allow? Am I censorious and critical? Do I feel more in haste to condemn than to excuse—and more eager to blame than to exonerate? "Love does not rejoice in iniquity—but rejoices in the truth." What is my disposition towards those who are my opponents? Do I delight in, or mourn over their faults? Do I so love them, as to be glad when by their regard to truth and righteousness, they raise themselves in public esteem; and to be sorry when they injure their own cause, and give me an advantage over them by their errors and sins? Have I made that high attainment in virtue and piety, which leads me to delight in the righteousness of a rival, even when it exalts him? Or am I still so destitute of love as to say, in reference to his faults, 'Ah! so would I have it?' "Love BEARS all things." Am I prone and anxious to conceal the failings of others—or to expose them? "Love BELIEVES all things." Am I credulous of whatever is to the advantage of a brother? "Love HOPES all things." Where the evidence is not enough to warrant belief, do I indulge an expectation and desire that further knowledge may explain the matter favorably? "Love ENDURES all things." Am I willing to make any exertion, to bear any hardship, to sustain any reasonable loss—for the peace and welfare of others? Or am I so fond of ease, so indolent, so selfish, as to give nothing but mere ineffectual wishes for their comfort and well-being? "What measure of holy love have I, of that love which puts forth its energies in such operations as these? Do I so love God, and feel such a sense of his love to me, as to have my soul transformed into this divine disposition? Does the love of Christ thus constrain me? Am I so absorbed in the contemplation of that stupendous display of divine benevolence, that unparalleled manifestation of infinite mercy, which was made in the cross of the Son of God, as to find the selfishness of my nature melted, and all its enmities subdued, by this most amazing and transporting scene? I feel that without love, I cannot have entered into the meaning and design, the moral force and beauty, of the great atonement; that I can have no disposition which properly corresponds to that magnificent and interesting spectacle. I see that knowledge is not enough, that belief is not enough, that ecstasy is not enough, that hope is not enough; that, in fact, nothing can come up to the demands, to the spirit, to the design, of a religion which has the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ for its central object, and grand support, and distinguishing glory—but a temper of universal and practical benevolence. Have I this? If so, how much of it?" Such should be the subject of diligent and frequent examination to every professing Christian. HUMILIATION should follow examination. The act of humbling and abasing ourselves before God, is a part of the duty—not only of sinners, when they make their first application to the mercy-seat for pardon—but of believers through every successive stage of their Christian career. As long as we are the subjects of sin—we ought also to be the subjects of contrition. We may, through sovereign grace, have been justified by faith, and have been brought into a state of peace with God—but this does not render a very humbling sense and confession of our sins, an exercise inappropriate to our state—any more than it is inconsistent with the relationship of a child to humble himself before his father for those defects in his obedience, which, though they do not set aside his sonship, are unworthy of it. "If we say we have no sin," says the apostle, "we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us." This language applies to believers, and not merely to unconverted sinners; and so does that which follows—"If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness." The most perfect assurance of hope does not release us from the duty of abasing ourselves before God; and if an angel were sent to assure us that we are in a state of acceptance with heaven, we would still lie under obligation to cultivate a contrite and penitential frame of mind. Sin, and not merely punishment, is the ground of humiliation. It is the most detestable selfishness to imagine that because we are freed from the penal consequences of sin, we are under no obligation to lie low in the dust. With what unutterable disgust we should look upon the individual, who, because his life had been spared by royal clemency, when it might have been taken by national justice, acted after his pardon as if that very pardon had entitled him to forget his crime, and live as carelessly and as confidently as he would have done had he never sinned. A pardoned sinner—and no believer is anything more—should ever be a humble and self-abased creature in the sight of God. The subject we are now upon shows us what cause there is for humiliation before God. This frame of mind should not be founded upon, or produced by, mere general views of our depraved nature—but by particular apprehensions in reference to sinful practice—as long as our confessions are confined to mere acknowledgments of a depraved nature, our convictions of sin are not likely to be very deep, nor our sorrow for it very pungent. Such confessions will usually sink into mere formal and sorrowless acknowledgments of transgression. It is by descending to details—it is the lively view and deep conviction of specific 'acts of transgression', or specific 'defects in virtue', that awaken and sharpen the conscience, and bring the soul to feel that godly sorrow which works repentance. One distinctly ascertained 'act of transgression', or 'defect in virtue'—especially if it be much dwelt upon in its extent, and influence, and aggravations—will do more to humble the soul, than hours spent in mere general confessions of a depraved nature. There are many things, on the ground of which no self-abasement can be felt by the Christian who is walking in any degree of pious consistency. He cannot confess that which he really has not been guilty of—he cannot be humbled on account of any act of open immorality, for he has committed none. In reference to actual vice, he is to be thankful, not humble. He is to be humble, indeed, that he has a nature capable of it, if left by God; but he is to be thankful that he has not been permitted thus to disgrace himself. It is sometimes to be regretted that good people, in their public confessions of sin, are not more definite than they are, and that they do not express the particular sins for which they seek forgiveness of God. Without using language that seems applicable to adultery, and robbery, and drunkenness—our defects in all Christian graces are so numerous and so great, that there is no degree of humiliation which is too deep for those defects and omissions, of which the holiest man is guilty before God. And we have no need to go beyond the subject of this treatise, to find how exceedingly sinful and vile we must all be in the sight of God. Let us only call to remembrance the truly sublime description which the apostle has given us of the divine nature, and to which, of necessity, we have so often referred, "God is love"—infinite, pure, and operative love; let us only recollect his wonderful patience, his diffusive kindness, his astonishing mercy even to his enemies—and then consider that it is our duty to be like him—to have a disposition which in pure, patient, and operative benevolence, ought to resemble his; that this was once our nature, and will be again, if we reach the celestial state; and surely, in such a recollection, we shall find a convincing proof of our present exceeding sinfulness. Let it not be replied that this is subjecting us to too severe a test. By what test can we try our hearts—but the law of God? What a proof is it of sin, when we find that the instances in which we have committed it are so numerous, that we want to get rid of the law by which it is proved and detected! O, what a fallen nature is ours, and how low has it sunk! We are not now examining it in its worst state, as it is seen among Pagans and savages, or even the best of the heathen; nor as it is seen in the worst parts of Christendom; nor as it appears in the best of the unrenewed portions of mankind—no! but as it is exhibited in the church of Christ—in the enlightened and sanctified portions of the family of man. Must we not, after this survey, exclaim with the Psalmist, "Who can understand his errors? cleanse me from secret faults!" Who can carry in his bosom a proud heart, or on his brow a lofty demeanor? Who can look with delight upon his poor, starveling graces, and doat with fond and pharisaic eyes upon his own righteousness? Who is not stripped at once, in his own view, of all pride in his imperfect virtues, and presented to his own contemplation in the naked deformity of a poor, sinful, and imperfect creature, who has no ground for pride—but most ample and abundant cause for the deepest humiliation? Let the men who value themselves so highly on the ground of their moral dignity, and who are regarded by others as almost sinless characters, and who feel as if they had little or no occasion for the exercises of a penitential frame of mind; who pity as fanaticism, or scorn as hypocrisy, those humble confessions which Christians make at the footstool of the divine throne; let them come to this ordeal, and try themselves by this standard, that they may learn how ill-grounded is their pride, and how little occasion they have to boast of their virtue! Would they like that any human eye should be able to trace all the movements of their hearts, and see all the workings of envy, and jealousy, and wrath, and selfishness—which the eye of Deity so often sees there? Say not that these are only the infirmities of our nature, to which the wisest and the best of the human race are ever subject in this world of imperfection; because this is confessing how deeply depraved is mankind, even in their best state. Can envy, and pride, and selfishness, and jealousy, and revenge—be looked upon as mere peccadilloes, which call for neither humiliation nor grief? Are they not the seeds of all those crimes which have deluged the earth with blood, filled it with misery, and caused the whole creation to groan together until how? Murders, treasons, wars, massacres—with all the lighter crimes of robberies, extortions, and oppressions—have all sprung up from these vile passions. What need, then, have we all of that great sacrifice which takes away our sin! And what need of a perpetually recurring application, by faith and repentance, to that blood which speaks better things than the blood of Abel, and which cleanses from all sin! What cause have we to repair nightly to the throne of grace, that we may obtain mercy; and daily, that we may find grace to help in time of need! With the eye of faith upon the sin-atoning offering that was presented to Divine justice by the Son of God upon the cross, let us continually approach the awful majesty of heaven and earth, saying "God be merciful to me a sinner!"
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EXHORTATION We may be exhorted to Christian love, by a consideration of– 1. Our own peace and comfort. We are not to be indifferent to our own happiness; we cannot be. Man can no more will his own misery, or be careless about his own comfort, than he can cease to exist. To seek for happiness and enjoyment is the first law of our existence—an inherent and inseparable propensity of our nature. In this respect, the angels, and the spirits of the just above, agree with man upon earth. There is no sin, therefore, in desiring to be happy; we could not do otherwise if we would. Ever since the entrance of sin, however, the heart is corrupted in its taste, so as to put evil for good; and, mistaking the nature of happiness, man of course mistakes the way to obtain it. All the pursuits of the world, however varying, and however unlawful, are the operations of the human mind, of its propensity to seek for enjoyment—they are all but so many efforts to obtain happiness. To this feeling of the human bosom, many of the most comprehensive, beautiful, and encouraging invitations of the Gospel of Christ are addressed; and it is at once the glory and the peculiarity of the Gospel, that it addresses itself first, not to our moral—but to our natural needs. It meets us, not as 'craving after holiness', for of this an unenlightened, unconverted sinner knows nothing; but as 'craving after happiness'—a desire common to every human bosom—this is the meaning of that exquisite language with which the apostle almost closes the Word of God—"The Spirit and the bride say, Come. And let him that hears say, Come. And let him that is thirsty come. And whoever will, let him take the water of life freely." The same view appertains to the language of the Prophet—"Ho, everyone who thirsts, come to the waters!" The thirst here mentioned is not, as has been frequently but erroneously stated, the strong desire of a convinced sinner after the blessings of the Gospel; but that of a miserable creature, after happiness. The people addressed by the Prophet are such as were spending their money for that which was not bread, and their labor for that which satisfies not; expressions which will not apply to those who are desiring Christ, and the blessings of his Gospel—but to those who are endeavoring to be happy without them—to all these the Lord Jesus is represented as saying, "Hearken diligently unto me. Come unto me—I will give you the sure mercies of David; then shall you eat that which is good, and your soul shall delight itself in fatness. I am the way to happiness. Men shall be blessed in me." The blessing of the Gospel, by which men are made happy, is not only justification through the righteousness of Christ—but also sanctification by his Spirit. An unrenewed heart can no more be happy in any place or circumstances, than a diseased body can be rendered easy and comfortable by situation and external advantages. Until the carnal mind, which is enmity against God, be regenerated and brought to love God supremely, there can be no peace; as long as the heart is under the dominion of predominant selfishness, and all those lusts and passions to which it gives rise, it must be miserable. In the absence of Christian love, the human bosom must be the seat of uneasiness and distress. Happiness does not arise from possessions, so much as from dispositions—it is not what a man has, or where he dwells—but what he is. Whatever be the great source of felicity, the springs of it must be seated in our nature. There are certain dispositions, the absence of which would render heaven a place of torment to us; and others, which would raise for us an Eden in the midst of the dreariest wilderness on earth. Love is essential to the happiness of a moral agent. Love was the original rectitude of our nature. Man was made for love; to love God supremely, and to love whatever is like God or related to him. This loving disposition was not only his temper in Paradise—but it was the very paradise of his soul, in which he held the sweetest communion with God and universal being. This tuned his heart to harmony with his Maker and his fellow-creatures. Every movement of his heart was a movement of love; and all his desires so many aspirations of love—this constituted at once his honor and his happiness. Hence the implantation of this grace of love in his soul, is the bringing back of man again to his original state, to his "divinely natural condition," and, therefore, it is the restoration of him to true delight and satisfaction. It is true that many, in the absence of Christian love, pretend to some kind of enjoyment, and have it too; for there are pleasures of sin, such as they are; but as to solid happiness—that which befits and satisfies a rational, moral, and immortal creature—it may with the greatest truth be affirmed, that the wicked are like the troubled sea which cannot rest—but is continually churning up mire and dirt. Let any one consider the vile passions which love expels from the bosom, or which it keeps in subjection where it does not eradicate them—and ask if that heart can be the seat of comfort, or the region of peace, where these vile passions predominate. As well may we expect quietude and comfort in a den of wild beasts, or in a field of battle—as in a heart where anger, wrath, malice, envy, pride, and revenge, have taken up their abode! On the other hand, how calm, and composed, and cheerful, is that heart, where meekness is the presiding spirit; where love to God has introduced benevolence to man—a temper which follows it as closely as its shadow, and has subjugated the temper to the dominion of love! Let anyone consult his own experience, and enquire if there be not an ineffable delight in the feelings of benevolent regard; whether such a state does not resemble one of those calm and glowing summer evenings, when nature seems to be quietly reclining on the bosom of peace. But how demon-like is the feeling when the turbulent evil passions gain the ascendancy; what agitation and what torment are the result! Love is the very element which is congenial to the Holy Spirit; and renders the heart the abode of his delight. "The evil petulant passions," says Mr. Hall, in his beautiful tract on the Work of the Spirit, "surround the soul with a sort of troubled atmosphere, than which nothing is more contrary to the calm and holy light in which the Spirit loves to dwell." "Let all bitterness, and wrath, and clamor, and evil-speaking, be put away from you, with all malice; and grieve not the Spirit of God,"—an expression, as we have already considered, which, from its context, intimates that the Spirit of God is susceptible of offense; and peculiarly so, by any neglect or violation of the law of love. Everything connected with our spiritual well-being depends on the indwelling of the Holy Spirit in our hearts—when this divine guest retires from our souls, and withdraws his gracious influence, he gives utterance at the same time to the solemn denunciation, "Woe be unto you, if I depart from you." The heart of the believer assumes then the character and appearance of a temple forsaken by its deity; all is ruin and desolation; the sacrifice ceases, the altar is overthrown, the fire is extinguished. We have all much need to present with the utmost fervor the supplication of the Psalmist—"Cast me not away from your presence, and take not your Holy Spirit from me." No witness to our sonship, no consolations, no faith, no hope, no growth in grace, no joy and peace in believing—can then be enjoyed; instead of this, we shall be abandoned to worldly-mindedness, unbelief, despondency, gloomy apprehensions, and foreboding anticipations. Now the Spirit will retire from that heart which is destitute of love, and which is perpetually indulging in tempers of an opposite description. If, then, you would retain this divine visitant—this illustrious guest; if you would indeed continue to be the temples of the Holy Spirit; if you would have God abiding in you—cultivate the grace of love—invite him to your souls for this very purpose—yield yourselves to his tender solicitations and gracious drawings—open your minds to his gentle wooings—and when at any time you feel an unusual softening of mind, follow up the impression, and resign your whole selves to the benevolent power, of which you are at that time the happy subjects. Love will promote your own peace and comfort, by conciliating the good-will and kindness of others. In all the interactions of life, we are generally paid back in the same kind of conduct which we maintain towards others. Ill-will, and pride, and envy, and selfishness, are sure to excite and to array against us the bad passions of mankind. Under such circumstances, many will take delight in annoying us; all our unkindness will come back upon us in innumerable acts of retaliation. But Christian love brings the esteem of others. "The meek shall inherit the earth"—their quiet, and inoffensive, and benevolent demeanor subdues, by a mild but irresistibly power, the most violent and injurious tempers of others. Christian love has often led the lion, the tiger, and the serpent, by its soft and silken cord. It was thus that Jacob subdued the rage of Esau, who was marching against him with purposes of revenge; so that, instead of exciting his wrath, "he ran to meet him, and embraced him, and fell upon his neck, and kissed him." It was thus that David softened the heart of Saul, and disarmed his malignity of its murderous intention. "Is this the voice of my son David?" said the royal persecutor; and he lifted up his voice, and wept, saying to David, "You are more righteous than I, for you have rewarded me good, whereas I have rewarded you evil." "Who is he who will harm you," said the apostle, "if you are followers of that which is good?" Who can be the enemy of love? Who will subject himself to the odium and reproach of being unkind to a loving heart? In all these ways, do we promote our own peace by the cultivation of this temper. And can we be indifferent to our own comfort? Is it a matter of no importance to us, whether our bosom be the seat of quietude or agitation? Oh no! it is not, it cannot be. But we have had our attention too much drawn off from ourselves. We have forgotten that it is said, "The good man shall be satisfied from himself." We have thought—or acted too much as if we thought—that the sources of peace were without us and beyond us. We are not yet cured of the disease of earthly-mindedness. We still labor under the delusion that happiness is something unconnected with moral disposition; that happiness is a matter foreign from ourselves, and arising from the advantageous circumstances of wealth, and rank, and fame. It is time to take another course, to try another scheme, and to adopt other means. Let us seek God's grace to open springs of pleasure in ourselves. Not that we are to seek in ourselves for joy and peace, when suffering under a consciousness of sin; not that, as sinners, we are to seek relief from the burden of guilt, in our own virtues or graces; not that we are in any sense to look to our own works, as constituting our justifying righteousness; in all these views of our case, we must rejoice only in the Lord! But as those who are justified, and at peace with God, through Christ, we are to do the work of righteousness, which is peace, and enjoy the effect of righteousness, which is quietness and assurance forever; we are to covet the rejoicing which Paul speaks of as arising from the "Our conscience testifies that we have conducted ourselves in the world, and especially in our relations with you, in the holiness and sincerity that are from God. We have done so not according to worldly wisdom but according to God's grace." 2 Cor. 1:12 There is the joy of justification, and the joy of sanctification—one, the delight of being restored to God's favor by the work of Christ; and the other, the joy of being restored to God's image by the work of the Spirit. Many seem afraid of the joys of a life of holiness, and count all delight but that of faith, to be a mere effervescence of self-righteousness, which only intoxicates the soul with pride. Why, then, has our Lord pronounced his sevenfold beatitude on the graces of a renewed mind? Why has he thus so emphatically and solemnly connected happiness with holiness? The angels are happy, because they are holy; and the heavenly felicity is the perfection of sanctity. In proportion, therefore, as we give ourselves up to the influence of the government of love, we approach to the blessedness of the spirits of just men made perfect. He who lives in love shall drink of the waters of his own cistern, and be satisfied; he shall, every morning, find this heavenly manna lying upon the surface of his soul, and be fed with it to eternal life; and finding himself united by faith to the truth, he shall find peace within, though in the world he should have tribulation. True religion is no sullen stoicism, or gloomy melancholy; it is not an enthralling tyranny exercised over the noble and generous sentiments of love and delight, as those who are strangers to it imagine. True piety is full of a vigorous and palpable felicity, such as ennobles instead of degrading the soul—such as invigorates, instead of enervating its powers—such as does not dispirit and sadden the mind afterwards, when the season of enjoyment is gone by—as do earthly and sensual pleasures. But true piety elevates the soul's views and purposes, and strengthens it for lofty enterprise and heroic deeds, by giving it to drink of the river of life, clear as crystal, which flows out of the throne of God and of the Lamb, and refreshing it with what, in a true and a holy sense, may be called the 'nectar of immortality'! True piety does not consist in mere airy notions, in cold and heartless orthodoxy, in pharisaic forms and ceremonies—but in faith working by love—love to God, to Christ, to the brethren, and to the world. This true piety does sometimes in its higher elevations, lead the soul into a Mount of Transfiguration, where it glows amid the splendor that falls on it from the excellent glory; or takes it to the top of Pisgah, where it sees the distant prospect of the promised land; thus placing it in the 'porch of heaven', and on the 'borders of eternity'! 2. Christian Love prepares the soul for making greater attainment in all other parts of true religion. Love is produced by knowledge and faith; but, by a reaction, it increases the power of its own cause. Love is just that state of heart which is adapted to the growth of all the plants of true piety, that without it are soon spoiled by the impure droppings of our own corrupt and selfish affections. How much will our growth in KNOWLEDGE be aided by this state of soul! "If anyone chooses to do God's will, he will find out whether my teaching comes from God or whether I speak on my own." A loving disposition prepares for the reception of experimental Christian knowledge. When Zoroaster's scholars asked him what they should do to get winged souls, such as might soar aloft in the bright beams of truth, he bade them bathe in the waters of life; and upon being required to state what they were, replied, "The four cardinal virtues, which are the four rivers of Paradise." The reason why truth prevails so little with us—is because we have so little love! Our 'views of divine truth' are contracted and dim, not because of their narrowness, or the lack of a sun to enlighten them—but because both the luminary and the scene are enshrouded by those mists which our corruptions send up from our hearts to becloud our understandings. The holier we are, the clearer will the truth appear to our intellect, and the better able shall we be to bear the brightness of its glory; even as our Lord declares, that it is purity of heart which must prepare us to sustain the beatific vision. The pagan sages also prescribed to their pupils a certain moral disposition, as essential to advancement in knowledge; and does Christianity. Plato taught that he who, by universal love and holy affection, is raised above the dominion of selfishness, comes into the nearest union with God, and attains to the highest intellectual life. It is by the unction of the Holy One, mentioned by the apostle, whereby we know all things. Our souls are too clouded and too agitated by the bad feelings of our hearts, to make great attainments in holy life. The moral excellence of the truth is hidden from us; it passes before us in dark outline, a dreadful and majestic form—we see its back parts—but we discover not the brightness and the beauty of its countenance, on account of our lack of holy conformity to its nature, and of fitness for its fellowship. Let us, then, grow in love—that we may grow in knowledge. And with respect to FAITH, the more we are brought to feel the influence of the great scheme of redeeming love, in transforming us into its own image, and causing us to love others, as God for Christ's sake has loved us—the more firm will be our conviction of the divine origin of the plan which has thus wrought so marvelous a change upon us. He who believes has the witness in himself, in the revolution of feeling, of motive, and of aim, which has been produced in his soul. To him the experimental evidence of the truth of the Gospel appears with a brightness which none of the rest possess. He is himself an evidence of the divine power which accompanies the truth. No subtle argumentation can reason him out of the consciousness of that change and deliverance from predominant selfishness, which he has experienced. If all Christians acted fully up to their principles, and drank as deeply as they might do, and should do—of the spirit of love—the impress of heaven would be so clearly enstamped upon the church, that the divinity of the Gospel could no longer remain a matter of question with any. Who can doubt the heavenly origin of that system which has raised him not only to a heavenly hope—but to a heavenly temper? 3. The credit and honor of true religion require that we should seek after higher attainments in love. It is well known by all who possess only the most superficial acquaintance with the Word of God, that the end and design of the great scheme of revealed truth—a scheme which occupied the councils of heaven from eternity, and was accomplished by an incarnation of God himself; that the end for which the Son of God was crucified—a mystery which angels desire to look into—was not merely to bring a 'set of new theories' into the world, and to induce men to change one class of 'opinions' and 'religious forms' for another—still leaving the heart of man as impure and selfish as ever. On the contrary, it is known that God has come down to our nature, to raise us to his! The whole plan of salvation terminates in the renewal and perfection of the human race in the principles of purity and benevolence. It has been declared, wherever Christianity has traveled, that the essence of true religion is love. Hence expectations, which, though rising high, are well founded, have been indulged in reference to the benevolent and holy temper of the followers of the Lamb. Men have said, "Let us see how those Christians conduct themselves." What disgust and disappointment have been, in many cases, and to a wide extent, the result! Has the Church of God yet answered to its own professions, or to the expectations of its spectators and enemies? Has true religion derived all the advantage, in the way of attestation and recommendation, which it should—from the conduct of its adherents? Are they seen everywhere—so meek, so just, so kind, so patient, so benevolent, so humble—as to excite admiration, and to extort the concession that the principles which could produce such conduct must be from heaven? On the contrary, have not multitudes who judge of Christianity, not as they should do, by itself—but by the conduct of its professors, received, from the offensive exhibitions of pride, and selfishness, and malice, which they are doomed to witness sometimes in the church—an unutterable disgust, an invincible prejudice against Christianity? Where is the spirit of love which was exhibited in the great Author of Christianity, and which is enjoined in his precepts, and contained in his system?—is a question a thousand times asked, even by those who live in a Christian land—but who see little there of universal love. Creeds and catechisms, forms and ceremonies, devotional seasons and religious observances, will be thought of little worth, and will do little to ensure the esteem and to engage the imitation of mankind—in the absence of that loving disposition which all these things are adapted and intended to produce. The world's demand of the church is for love. "We have had," say they, "enough of religious opinions; let us now have actions! We have had more than enough of articles of faith; let us now see more of the fruits of love." And how shall we meet that demand? Not by exhibiting less of truth—but by exhibiting more of love; not by giving up our creeds, or our forms—but by carrying them out into all the beautiful effects of benevolence and purity. Christians, the character of true religion is entrusted to our keeping, and we are continually defaming it—or raising its reputation; and are either betraying it into the hands of its enemies—or conciliating their esteem towards it. It is high time for us to be more aware of our responsibility—high time for us to consider that we are perpetually employed in increasing or diminishing the ignominy of the cross. The good conduct of professors is a converting ordinance, and an edifying one too. "Let your light so shine before men, that they, seeing your good works, may glorify God, your heavenly Father." "Shine as lights of the world, holding forth the word of life." How? Not by attachment to doctrine merely—no! the light of TRUTH will do nothing without the light of LOVE. A fiery zeal for truth, unaccompanied by love—is the meteor which misleads—or the lightning which kills, or the eruption which overwhelms and consumes—all of which men are afraid of, and retire from. But a zeal for the truth, which is accompanied by benevolence, and produces it, is like the orb of day—men come to its light, and flock to the brightness of its rising. O that my feeble voice could be heard, and my counsel followed, when I call the followers of Christ to a serious consideration of the necessity—for the sake of the credit of true religion—of being like their great Savior and Leader! O that my words could have weight, when I entreat them, as they regard the reputation of that Gospel which is all their salvation and all their desire—to covet earnestly, and to pursue constantly, this "more excellent way!" O that I could prevail, when I implore them—yes, implore them—to study the essence of their religion in its facts, doctrines, duties, and examples—to see if it be not love! O that I could succeed in my wishes and my efforts, that they may no longer, by the indulgence of their passions, strengthen the bands of iniquity which bind men to their sins, and raise an enmity against true religion which shall aid and accelerate the work of damnation! O that a new era would commence in the history of the church, when finding what a dark cloud had been brought upon the truth—by the bigotry, intolerance, and enormous cruelties of corrupt and persecuting professing Christian communities—by the intolerant party-spirit which has more or less, infected all sects—by the bitter passions of controversy—by the pride of pharisaism—by the schism of the brethren—by the envy, covetousness, and malice of professors—that all true Christians would be baptized afresh unto repentance in the pure and peaceful waters of the sanctuary, confessing their sins of uncharitableness and ill-will. Then might it be expected that, as in the case of the Divine Head, so in that of the mystical body, the Holy Spirit, in his dove-like form, would descend to "rest upon it," and by an unearthly glory, prove and display its heavenly origin. 4. By the means of Christian love, we shall be enabled in a very eminent degree, to glorify God. For a man to live for himself, as the ultimate end of his existence, is no less base, and sordid, and little—than it is wicked. Selfishness of this kind not only pollutes the soul—but degrades it—it limits its desires within a very narrow compass—imprisons its hopes in a poor contemptible hovel—and drags down its ambition, from the glory of the infinite and eternal God, to the paltry and insignificant interest of a finite and unworthy creature. The heart of the real Christian is too large to be compassed within such selfish boundaries; understanding that God is the author of his existence, he makes him the end of it; that as he came from God, he may be continually returning to him. Everything, in point of dignity and elevation, is to be estimated by the end it seeks. Its aims give it whatever value it possesses, and fashion it into their own likeness. Nothing can make that great—which only aims at what is little. While a sublime nature is imparted to that which seeks a sublime end. Now, a higher end, no creature in any world, however exalted, can propose to itself, than the glory of God; and a lower one, the humblest believer in all God's family on earth, should never seek. This, indeed, ennobles the soul, and enlarges it into a universal and comprehensive capacity of enjoying that one unbounded goodness, which is God himself; it makes it spread out and expand itself in the infinite sphere of the Divine Being and blessedness, and makes it live in the fullness of him who fills all in all. "We glorify God, by partaking of the impression of his glory upon us, and not by communicating any kind of glory to him. Then does a good man become the tabernacle of God, wherein the Divine Shechinah does rest, and which the Divine glory fills, when the frame of his mind and life is wholly according to that idea and pattern which he receives from the mount. We best glorify God, when we grow most like him; and we then act most for his glory, when a true spirit of holiness, justice, and meekness, runs through all our actions. When we so live as befits those who converse—with the great mind and wisdom of the whole world—with that Almighty Spirit that made, supports, and governs all things—with that Being from whence all good flows, and in which there is no spot, stain, or shadow of evil—and so, being captivated and overcome by the sense of Divine loveliness and goodness, endeavor to be like him, and to conform ourselves as much as may be, to him. As God's seeking his own glory in respect of us is most properly the flowing forth of his goodness upon us; so our seeking the glory of God is most properly our endeavoring a participation of his goodness, and an earnest, incessant pursuing after the Divine perfections. When God becomes so great in our eyes, and all created things so little—that we reckon nothing as worthy of our aims and ambition—but a serious participation of the Divine nature, and the exercises of Divine virtues—love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, and the like—when the soul, beholding the infinite beauty and loveliness of the Divinity, and then looking down and beholding all created perfection mantled over with darkness, is ravished into love and admiration of that never-setting brightness, and endeavors after the greatest resemblance of God, in justice, love, and goodness—when conversing with him by a secret feeling of the virtue, sweetness, and power of his goodness, we endeavor to assimilate ourselves to him—then we may be said to glorify him indeed." ("Select Discourses," by John Smith; a book, which for its combination of learning, genius, and piety, has scarcely its parallel in the English language.) These fine sentiments should be engraved on our hearts, that they may be constantly reduced by us to practice. O, who that would have his nature exalted to the highest pitch of honor and happiness, ought not to cultivate that loving disposition which is the brightest representation contained in our world of its Divine Creator. To be the instrument of giving publicity to human excellence, of fixing the attention of others upon those qualities which, although eminently praiseworthy, were but little known, and exciting admiration on their behalf, is no small or uninteresting employment; but to exhibit a temper, which is the likeness of God; to manifest a virtue, in reference to which it may be said that it is an image of Deity—what an unspeakable dignity and delight! This is, in the highest sense of the term, to be raised into fellowship with God—a word that signifies not only an act of communion—but a state of communion; a communion of ends and aims, a kind of partnership in purpose and pursuit. God is ever seeking his own glory, as his ultimate aim in all his works. His perfection prevents him from seeking a lower end, and a higher he cannot seek. To manifest himself is his supreme purpose; and we can easily imagine that the manifestation of love is the end to which all the other displays of his attributes are made subservient. Have we any hallowed ambition in our nature—here is scope for its gratification—here is an object towards which we may let forth all its energies—to hold communion with God in the manifestation of his glory! What can angels do more, except it be to do it more perfectly? Christians! see your high vocation—you are set apart not only by God—but for him—constituted a people to show forth his praise—appointed not only to receive his grace—but to reflect his beauty. Your highest glory is to manifest His glory. His image is the richest ornament of your moral nature—and to manifest His glory to the world, is your great business upon earth. The lowest Christian shows forth more of God than the heavens which declare his glory, and the skies which shows his handy-work. Such a man is a brighter object in the universe, and teaches more of its infinite Author, than the sun in his mid-day splendor, or the moon in her beauty, attended by her starry train, that glitter upon the vault of night. But to rise to this eminence, we must excel in love; we must put forth all the excellencies of Christian love—and put them forth in all their vigor, and fullness, and harmony—each in its time, and its place, and its occasion. For then shall we be like God—and to be like him is, in the highest sense, to glorify him; and to glorify him, by being made partakers of a divine nature, is to receive, so far as a creature can receive it, a kind of relative perfection, and to live up to the very height of our being, our honor, and our bliss. 5. Another motive, and it is the last we shall advance, for the cultivation of love, is—that love is the state of mind which carries the soul on to its ultimate perfection in the celestial state, fits it for that state, and gives it a foretaste of its felicity. It has been observed by the learned Cudsworth, who appears to have borrowed the idea from Plutarch, that Divine Wisdom has so ordered the frame of the whole universe, that everything should have its own appropriate receptacle, to which it shall be drawn by all the mighty force of an irresistible affinity. And as all heavenly bodies press towards the common center of gravity—so is all sin, by a kind of strong sympathy, and magnetic influence, drawn towards hell. While, on the other hand, all holiness is continually drawn upwards to heaven, to embosom itself in glory. Hell is nothing else but that orb in which all evil moves. While heaven is the opposite hemisphere of light, where holiness, which is perfect love, eternally revolves. Remove sin and disobedience out of hell, it will immediately lose its darkness, and shine out in all the serenity and beauty of heaven. Remove love from heaven, and its sun will set amid the darkness and the storms of everlasting night. Heaven is not merely a thing to come; it is in one sense a present possession; for "he who believes in the Son has everlasting life." It is rather a state than a place—a state within us, rather than a thing outside us. Heaven is the likeness, and the enjoyment, and the service, of God. Heaven is that which every true Christian carries in his bosom now, and into which he will fully enter hereafter, when he shall be made perfect in love. To this state, all true religion is ever tending—the spirit of love is the motion and progress of the soul towards its eternal rest in the presence of God. No man can be prepared for the celestial felicity, while his heart is destitute of love. And whoever has the most love, knows most of the unseen and ineffable joys of the righteous. He lives in the vestibule of the heavenly temple; and is ready, whenever its doors shall be opened, to enter into the dwelling-place of God. The image of God is upon him, and the likeness of Deity is always attended with something of the happiness of the Deity. O, the bliss of that state, where the faculties of the mind, inconceivably expanded, shall let in the full streams of the Divine beneficence, and open themselves to the uttermost to comprehend the breadth and length, the depth and height, of that love which passes knowledge—where Divine goodness will so act directly upon the soul, as to raise it to a state of holy enjoyment, surpassing all our present imaginations! What a motive to go on in the pursuit of love! Who does not wish to become better acquainted with his eternal state? Who does not wish to have a more correct knowledge of that condition in which he is to remain for ever? To attain to this, we cannot turn aside the veil which conceals the holy of holies from our view—we cannot look upon the throne of God—we cannot be rapt like Paul into the third heaven. No—but we may, like John, see the new Jerusalem coming down out of heaven, and feel it taking possession of our hearts in the spirit of love. Rarely, indeed, do Christians attain, in the present state, in this unquiet world, to that calm repose of mind, that serene enjoyment, attendant upon the subjugation of the passions to the gentle dominion of benevolence, which conveys to them any very high notion of the supreme felicity which must be connected with the consummation of such a loving temper. Happy seasons do occur—but, alas, how seldom!—when they are so far released from the influence of every selfish and angry affection—when they so far feel the transforming influence of that Divine beneficence which they contemplate—as to be conscious of the perfect felicity which must arise from their being filled with all the fullness of love. Let us seek more and more after those anticipations of our eternal state! We have not already attained, neither are we already perfect; but forgetting the things which are behind, let us reach onward, that we may apprehend that for which also we are apprehended in Christ Jesus. Heaven is not only above us, before us, beyond us—but may be within us—we may all know more of it than we do. Let us become more and more anxious to accumulate, not the perishing riches of silver and gold—but the imperishable wealth of a holy and heavenly temper. Let us aspire to immortality beyond the grave, and to the spirit of it upon earth—ever remembering that a Christian is one who professes to be born from heaven and to be bound to it—one who has more of heaven than of earth in his disposition—one who already dwells in heaven by dwelling in God—one who is fitted for converse with the innumerable company of angels, with the spirits of just men made perfect, with God the Judge of all, and with Jesus, the Mediator of the new covenant—one who bears the impress of eternity, and is irradiated with some beams of the celestial glory! And how can he give meaning, or consistency, or truth—to professions so high and so holy—except it be by that love which is the fruit of regeneration, the effect of faith, the necessary operation of love to God; and which, being cherished in the soul by the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, comprehends in its embraces the whole universe, and in the exercise of its good-will towards those who come under its influence!
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1Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal. 2And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge; and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not charity, I am nothing. 3And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing. 4Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not; charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up, 5Doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil; 6Rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth; 7Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things. 8Charity never faileth: but whether there be prophecies, they shall fail; whether there be tongues, they shall cease; whether there be knowledge, it shall vanish away. 9For we know in part, and we prophesy in part. 10But when that which is perfect is come, then that which is in part shall be done away. 11When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things. 12For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known. 13And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity. |
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