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As it is recorded that David, in the heat of battle, waxed
faint, so may it be written of all
the servants of the Lord. Fits of
depression come over the most of us. Usually cheerful
as we may be, we must
at intervals be cast down. The strong are not always vigorous, the
wise not
always ready, the brave not always courageous, and the joyous not always
happy.
There maybe here and there men of iron, to whom wear and tear work no
perceptible
detriment, but surely the rust frets even these; and as for
ordinary men, the Lord knows,
and makes them to know, that they are but dust.
Knowing by most painful experience what
deep depression of spirit means,
being visited therewith at seasons by no means few or far
between, I thought
it might be consolatory to some of my brethren if I gave my thoughts
thereon,
that younger men might not fancy that some strange thing had happened to them
when they became for a season possessed by melancholy; and that sadder men
might know
that one upon whom the sun has shone right joyously did not always
walk in the light.
It is not necessary by quotations from the biographies of
eminent ministers to prove that
seasons of fearful prostration have fallen to
the lot of most, if not all of them. The life of
Luther might suffice to give
a thousand instances, and he was by no means of the weaker
sort. His great
spirit was often in the seventh heaven of exultation, and as frequently on
the
borders of despair. His very death-bed was not free from tempests, and he
sobbed himself
into his last sleep like a great wearied child. Instead of multiplying Gases, let us dwell upon
the reasons why these things are
permitted why it is that the children of light sometimes
walk in the thick darkness;
why the heralds of the daybreak find themselves at times in
tenfold night.
Is it not first that they are men? Being
men, they are compassed with infirmity, and heirs of
sorrow. Well said the
wise man in the Apocrypha, (Ecclus xl. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5-8) "Great travail
is
created for all men, and a heavy yoke on the sons of Adam, from the day
that they go out of
their mother's womb unto that day that they return to the
mother of all things—namely, their
thoughts and fear of their hearts, and
their imagination of things that they wail for, and the
day of death. From
him that sitteth in the glorious throne, to him that sitteth beneath in the
earth and ashes; from him that is clothed in blue silk, and weareth a crown,
to him that is
clothed in simple linen—wrath, envy, trouble, and unquietness,
and fear of death and rigour,
and such things come to both man and beast, but
sevenfold to the ungodly." Grace guards us
from much of this, but
because we have not more of grace we still suffer even from ills
preventible.
Even under the economy of redemption it is most clear that we are to endure
infirmities, otherwise there were no need of the promised Spirit to help us
in them. It is of
need be that we are sometimes in heaviness. Good men are
promised tribulation in this
world, and ministers may expect a larger share
than others, that they may learn sympathy
with the Lord's suffering people, and so may be fitting shepherds of an ailing flock.
Disembodied spirits might
have been sent to proclaim the word, but they could not have
entered into the feelings of those who, being in this body, do groan, being burdened; angels
might have been ordained evangelists, but their celestial attributes would
have disqualified
them from having compassion on the ignorant; men of marble might have been fashioned,
but their impassive natures would have been a
sarcasm upon our feebleness, and a mockery
of our wants. Men, and men subject
to human passions, the all-wise God has chosen to be
his vessels of grace; hence these tears, hence these perplexities and castings down.
Moreover, most of us are in some way or other
unsound physically. Here and there we meet
with an old man who could
not remember that ever he was laid aside for a day; but the great
mass of us
labour under some form or other of infirmity, either in body or mind. Certain
bodily maladies, especially those connected with the digestive organs, the
liver, and the
spleen, are time fruitful fountains of despondency; and, let a
man strive as he may against
their influence, there will be hours and circumstances in which they will for awhile
overcome him. As to mental
maladies, is any man altogether sane? Are we not all a little
off the
balance? Some minds appear to have a gloomy tinge essential to their very
individuality; of them it may be said, "Melancholy marked them for her
own;" fine minds
withal, and ruled by noblest principles, but yet most
prone to forget the silver lining, and to
remember only the cloud. Such men
may sing with the old poet (Thomas Washbourne.)
"Our
hearts are broke, our harps unstringed be,
Our only music's sighs and groans,
Our songs are to the tune of lachrymœ,
We're fretted all to skin and bones."
These infirmities may be no detriment to a man's career of
special usefulness; they may
even have been imposed upon him by divine wisdom
as necessary qualifications for his
peculiar course of service. Some plants
owe their medicinal qualities to the marsh in
which they grow; others to the shades in which alone they flourish. There are precious
fruits put forth by
the moon as well as by the sun. Boats need ballast as well as sail; a
drag on
the carriage-wheel is no hindrance when the road runs downhill. Pain has,
probably, in some cases developed genius; hunting out the soul which otherwise might
have slept like a lion in its den. Had it not been for the
broken wing, some might have
lost themselves in the clouds, some even of
those choice doves who now bear the
olive-branch in their mouths and show the
way to the ark. But where in body and mind
there are predisposing causes to
lowness of spirit, it is no marvel if in dark moments the
heart succumbs to
them; the wonder in many cases is—and if inner lives could be written,
men
would see it so—how some ministers keep at their work at all, and still wear
a smile
upon their countenances. Grace has its triumphs still, and patience
has its martyrs;
martyrs none the less to be honoured because the flames
kindle about their spirits rather
than their bodies, and their burning is
unseen of human eyes. The ministries of Jeremiahs
are as acceptable as those
of Isaiahs, and even the sullen Jonah is a true prophet of the
Lord, as Nineveh felt full well. Despise not the lame, for it is written that they
take the prey;
but honour those who, being faint, are yet pursuing. The
tender-eyed Leah was more
fruitful than the beautiful Rachel, and the griefs
of Hannah were more divine than the
boastings of Peninnah. "Blessed are
they that mourn," said the Man of Sorrows, and let
none account them
otherwise when their tears are salted with grace. We have the treasure
of the
gospel in earthen vessels, and if there be a flaw in the vessel here and
there, let none
wonder.
Our work, when earnestly undertaken, lays us open to
attacks in the direction of depression.
Who can bear the weight of souls without sometimes sinking
to the dust? Passionate
longings after men's conversion, if not fully
satisfied (and when are they?), consume the soul
with anxiety and disappointment. To see the hopeful turn aside, the godly grow cold,
professors abusing their privileges, and sinners waxing more bold in sin—are
not these
sights enough to crush us to the earth? The kingdom comes not as we
would, the reverend
name is not hallowed as we desire, and for this we must
weep. How can we be otherwise
than sorrowful, while men believe not our
report, and the divine arm is not revealed? All
mental work tends to weary
and to depress, for much study is a weariness of the flesh; but
ours is more
than mental work—it is heart work, the labour of our inmost soul. How often,
on Lord's-day evenings, do we feel as if life were completely washed out of
us! After
pouring out our souls over our congregations, we feel like empty
earthen pitchers which a
child might break. Probably, if we were more like
Paul, and watched for souls at a nobler
rate, we should know more of what it
is to be eaten up by the zeal of the Lord's house. It is
our duty and our
privilege to exhaust our lives for Jesus. We are not to be living specimens
of men in fine preservation, but living sacrifices, whose
lot is to be consumed; we are to
spend and to be spent, not to lay ourselves
up in lavender, and nurse our flesh. Such
soul-travail as that of a faithful
minister will bring on occasional seasons of exhaustion,
when heart and flesh
will fail. Moses' hands grew heavy in intercession, and Paul cried out,
"Who is sufficient for these things?" Even John the Baptist is
thought to have had his
fainting fits, and the apostles were once amazed, and
were sore afraid.
Our position in the church will also conduce to
this. A minister fully equipped for his
work,
will usually be a spirit by himself, above, beyond, and apart from
others. The most loving
of his people cannot enter into his peculiar
thoughts, cares, and temptations. In the ranks,
men walk shoulder to shoulder, with many comrades, but as the officer rises in rank, men
of his
standing are fewer in number. There are many soldiers, few captains, fewer
colonels,
but only one commander-in-chief. So, in our churches, the man whom
the Lord raises as a
leader becomes, in the same degree in which he is a
superior man, a solitary man. The
mountain-tops stand solemnly apart, and
talk only with God as he visits their terrible
solitudes. Men of God who rise
above their fellows into nearer communion with heavenly
things, in their
weaker moments feel the lack of human sympathy. Like their Lord in
Gethsemane, they look in vain for comfort to the disciples sleeping around
them; they are
shocked at the apathy of their little band of brethren, and
return to their secret agony with
all the heavier burden pressing upon them,
because they have found their dearest
companions slumbering. No one knows, but he who has endured it, the solitude of a soul
which has outstripped its
fellows in zeal for the Lord of hosts: it dares not reveal itself,
lest men count
it mad; it cannot conceal itself, for a fire burns within its bones: only
before
the Lord does it find rest. Our Lord's sending out his disciples by
two and two manifested
that he knew what was in men; but for such a man as
Paul, it seems to me that no helpmeet
was found; Barnabas, or Silas, or Luke,
were hills too low to hold high converse with such
a Himalayan summit as the
apostle of the Gentiles. This loneliness, which if I mistake not
is felt by many of my brethren, is a fertile source of depression; and our ministers,
fraternal
meetings, and the cultivation of holy intercourse with kindred
minds will, with God's
blessing, help us greatly to escape the snare.
There can be little doubt that sedentary
habits have a tendency to create despondency in
some constitutions.
Burton, in his "Anatomy of Melancholy," has a chapter upon this
cause
of sadness; and, quoting from one of the myriad authors whom he lays
under contribution,
he says—"Students are negligent of their bodies.
Other men look to their tools; a painter
will wash his pencils; a smith will look to his hammer, anvil, forge; a husbandman will
mend his plough-irons,
and grind his hatchet if it be dull; a falconer or huntsman will have
an
especial care of his hawks, hounds, horses, dogs, &c.; a musician will
string and unstring
his lute; only scholars neglect that instrument (their
brain and spirits I mean) which they
daily use. Well saith Lucan, "See
thou twist not the rope so hard that it break." To sit long
in one
posture, poring over a book, or driving a quill, is in itself a taxing of
nature; but add
to this a badly-ventilated chamber, a body which has long
been without muscular exercise,
and a heart burdened with many cares, and we
have all the elements for preparing a
seething cauldron of despair, especially in the dim months of fog—
"When a
blanket wraps the day,
When the rotten woodland drips,
And the leaf is stamped in clay."
Let a man be naturally as blithe as a bird, he will hardly
be able to bear up year after year
against such a suicidal process; he will
make his study a prison and his books the warders
of a gaol, while nature lies outside his window calling him to health and beckoning him to
joy. He
who forgets the humming of the bees among the heather, the cooing of the
wood-pigeons in the forest, the song of birds in the woods, the rippling of
rills among the
rushes, and the sighing of the wind among the pines, needs
not wonder if his heart forgets
to sing and his soul grows heavy. A day's
breathing of fresh air upon the hills, or a few
hours, ramble in the beech
woods? umbrageous calm, would sweep the cobwebs out of
the brain of scores of
our toiling ministers who are now but half alive. A mouthful of sea
air, or a
stiff walk in the wind's face, would not give grace to the soul, but it would
yield
oxygen to the body, which is next best.
"Heaviest
the heart is in a heavy air,
Ev'ry wind that rises blows away despair."
The ferns and the rabbits, the streams and the trouts, the
fir trees and the squirrels, the
primroses and the violets, the farm-yard,
the new-mown hay, and the fragrant hops—these
are the best medicine for hypochondriacs, the surest tonics for the declining, the best
refreshments
for the weary. For lack of opportunity, or inclination, these great remedies
are
neglected, and the student becomes a self-immolated victim.
The times most favourable to fits of depression, so far as
I have experienced, may be
summed up in a brief catalogue. First among them I
must mention the hour of great success.
When at last a long-cherished desire is fulfilled, when God has been glorified greatly by
our means, and a great triumph achieved, then we are apt to faint. It might
be imagined
that amid special favours our soul would soar to heights of
ecstacy, and rejoice with joy
unspeakable, but it is generally the reverse.
The Lord seldom exposes his warriors to the
perils of exultation over
victory; he knows that few of them can endure such a test, and
therefore
dashes their cup with bitterness. See Elias after the fire has fallen from
heaven,
after Baal's priests have been slaughtered and the rain has deluged
the barren land For him
no notes of self-complacent music, no strutting like
a conqueror in robes of triumph; he flees
from Jezebel, and feeling the
revulsion of his intense excitement, he prays that he may die,
lie who must
never see death, yearns after the rest of the grave, even as Caesar, the
world's
monarch, in his moments of pain cried like a sick girl. Poor human
nature cannot bear such
strains as heavenly triumphs bring to it; there must
come a reaction. Excess of joy or
excitement must be paid for by subsequent
depressions. While the trial lasts, the strength is
equal to the emergency;
but when it is over, natural weakness claims the right to show itself.
Secretly sustained, Jacob can wrestle all night, but he must limp in the
morning when the
contest is over, lest he boast himself beyond measure. Paul may be caught up to the third
heaven, and hear unspeakable things, but a
thorn in time flesh, a messenger of Satan to
buffet him, must be the
inevitable sequel. Men cannot bear unalloyed happiness; even good
men are not
yet fit to have "their brows with laurel and with myrtle bound," without
enduring secret humiliation to keep them in their proper place.
Whirled from off our feet by
a revival, carried aloft by popularity, exalted
by success in soul-winning, we should be as
the chaff which the wind driveth
away, were it not that the gracious discipline of mercy
breaks the ships of
our vainglory with a strong east wind, and casts us shipwrecked, naked
and
forlorn, upon the Rock of Ages.
Before any great achievement, some measure of the same depression is very usual.
Surveying the difficulties before us, our hearts sink within us. The sons of
Anak stalk
before us, and we are as grasshoppers in our own sight in their
presence. The cities of
Canaan are walled up to heaven, and who are we that
we should hope to capture them?
We are ready to cast down our weapons and
take to our heels. Nineveh is a great city,
and we would flee unto Tarshish
sooner than encounter its noisy crowds. Already we
look for a ship which may
bear us quietly away from the terrible scene, and only a dread
of tempest
restrains our recreant footsteps. Such was my experience when I first became
a pastor in London. My success appalled me; and the thought of the career
which it
seemed to open up, so far from elating me, cast me into the lowest
depth, out of which I
uttered my miserere and found no room
for a gloria in excelsis. Who was I that I
should
continue to lead so great a multitude? I would betake me to my village
obscurity, or
emigrate to America, and find a solitary nest in the backwoods,
where I might be sufficient
for the things which would be demanded of me. It
was just then that the curtain was rising
upon my life-work, and I dreaded
what it might reveal. I hope I was not faithless, but I
was timorous and
filled with a sense of my own unfitness. I dreaded the work which a
gracious
providence had prepared for me. I felt myself a mere child, and trembled as I
heard the voice which said, "Arise, and thresh the mountains, and make
them as chaff."
This depression comes over me whenever the Lord is
preparing a larger blessing for my
ministry; the cloud is black before it
breaks, and overshadows before it yields its deluge
of mercy. Depression has
now become to me as a prophet in rough clothing, a John the
Baptist,
heralding the nearer coming of my Lord's richer benison. So have far better
men
found it. The scouring of the vessel has fitted it for the Master's use. Immersion in
suffering has preceded the baptism of the Holy Ghost. Fasting
gives an appetite for the
banquet. The Lord is revealed in the backside of
the desert, while his servant keepeth
the sheep and waits in solitary awe.
The wilderness is the way to Canaan. The low valley
leads to the towering mountain. Defeat prepares for victory. The raven is sent forth
before the
dove. The darkest hour of the night precedes the day-dawn. The mariners go
down to the depths, but the next wave makes them mount to the heaven: their
soul is
melted because of trouble before he bringeth them to their desired haven.
In the midst of a long stretch of unbroken labour, the
same affliction may be
looked for.
The bow cannot be always bent without fear of breaking. Repose is
as needful to the mind
as sleep to the body. Our Sabbaths are our days of
toil, and if we do not rest upon some
other day we shall break down. Even the
earth must lie fallow and have her Sabbaths, and
so must we. Hence the wisdom
and compassion of our Lord, when he said to his disciples,
"Let us go
into the desert and rest awhile." What! when the people are fainting?
When the
multitudes are like sheep upon the mountains without a shepherd?
Does Jesus talk of rest?
When Scribes and Pharisees, like grievous wolves,
are rending the flock, does he take his
followers on an excursion into a
quiet resting place? Does some red-hot zealot denounce
such atrocious
forgetfulness of present and pressing demands? Let him rave in his folly.
The
Master knows better than to exhaust his servants and quench the light of
Israel. Rest
time is not waste time. It is economy to gather fresh strength.
Look at the mower in the
summer a day, with so much to cut down ere the sun
sets. He pauses in his labour, is he
a sluggard? He looks for his stone, and
begins to draw it up and down his scythe, with
"rink-a-tink—rink-a-tink—rink-a-tink." Is that idle music? is he
wasting precious
moments? How much he might have mown while he has been ringing out those notes
on his scythe! But he is sharpening his tool, and he
will do far more when once again he
gives his strength to those long sweeps
which lay the grass prostrate in rows before him.
Even thus a little pause
prepares the mind for greater service in the good cause.
Fishermen must mend
their nets, and we must every now and then repair our mental
waste and set
our machinery in order for future service. To tug the oar from day to day,
hike a galley-slave who knows no holidays, suits not mortal men. Mill-streams
go on
and on for ever, but we must have our pauses and our intervals. Who can
help being out
of breath when the race is continued without intermission?
Even beasts of burden must
be turned out to grass occasionally; the very sea
pauses at ebb and flood; earth keeps the
Sabbath of the wintry months; and
man, even when exalted to be God's ambassador, must
rest or faint; must trim
his lamp or let it burn low; must recruit his vigour or grow
prematurely old.
It is wisdom to take occasional furlough. In the long run, we shall do
more
by sometimes doing less. On, on, on for ever, without recreation, may suit
spirits
emancipated from this "heavy clay," but while we are in
this tabernacle, we must every
now and then cry halt, and serve the Lord by
holy inaction and consecrated leisure. Let
no tender conscience doubt the
lawfulness of going out of harness for awhile, but learn
from the experience
of others the necessity and duty of taking timely rest.
One crushing stroke has sometimes laid the minister very
low. The brother most relied upon
becomes a traitor. Judas lifts up his heel against the man who trusted him, and the
preacher's heart for the moment fails him. We are all too apt to look to an
arm of flesh, and
from that propensity many of our sorrows arise. Equally overwhelming
is the blow when
an honoured and beloved member yields to temptation, and
disgraces the holy name with
which lie was named. Anything is better than
this. This makes the preacher long for a lodge
in some vast wilderness, where
he may hide his head for ever, and hear no more the
blasphemous jeers of the
ungodly. Ten years of toil do not take so much life out of us as we
lose in a
few hours by Ahithophel the traitor, or Demas the apostate. Strife, also, and
division, and slander, and foolish censures, have often laid holy men
prostrate, and made
them go "as with a sword in their bones." Hard
words wound some delicate minds very
keenly. Many of the best of ministers,
from the very spirituality of their character, are
exceedingly sensitive—too
sensitive for such a world as this. "A kick that scarce would
move a
horse would kill a sound divine." By experience the soul is hardened to
the rough
blows which are inevitable in our warfare; but at first these
things utterly stagger us, and
send us to our homes wrapped in a horror of
great darkness. The trials of a true minister are
not few, and such as are
caused by ungrateful professors are harder to bear than the coarsest
attacks
of avowed enemies. Let no man who looks for ease of mind and seeks the quietude
of life enter the ministry; if he does so he will flee from it in
disgust.
To the lot of few does it fall to pass through such a
horror of great darkness as that which
fell upon me after the deplorable
accident at the Surrey Music Hall. I was pressed beyond
measure and out of bounds with an enormous weight of misery. The tumult, the panic, the
deaths,
were day and night before me, anti made life a burden. Then I sang in my
sorrow—
"The tumult
of my thoughts
Doth but increase my woe,
My spirit languisheth, my heart
Is desolate and low."
From that dream of horror I was awakened in a moment by
the gracious application to
my soul of the text, "Him hath God the
Father exalted." The fact that Jesus is still great,
let his servants
suffer as they may, piloted me back to calm reason and peace. Should so
terrible a calamity overtake any of my brethren, let them both patiently hope
and quietly
wait for the salvation of God.
When troubles multiply, and discouragements follow each other in long succession,
like
Job's messengers, then, too, amid the perturbation of soul occasioned by
evil tidings,
despondency despoils the heart of all its peace. Constant
dropping wears away stones,
and the bravest minds feel the fret of repeated
afflictions. If a scanty cupboard is rendered
a severer trial by the sickness
of a wife or the loss of a child, and if ungenerous remarks
of hearers are
followed by the opposition of deacons and the coolness of members, then,
like
Jacob, we are apt to cry, "All these things are against me." When David returned to
Ziklag and found the city burned, goods stolen, wives
carried off, and his troops ready
to stone him, we read, "he encouraged
himself in his God;" and well was it for him that
he could do so, for he
would then have fainted if he had not believed to see the goodness
of the
Lord in the land of the living. Accumulated distresses increase each other's
weight;
they play into each other's hands, and, like bands of robbers,
ruthlessly destroy our comfort.
Wave upon wave is severe work for the strongest
swimmer. The place where two seas
meet strains the most seaworthy keel. If
there were a regulated pause between the
buffetings of adversity, the spirit
would stand prepared; but when they come suddenly and
heavily, like the
battering of great hailstones, the pilgrim may well be amazed. The last
ounce
breaks the camel's back, and when that last ounce is laid upon us, what
wonder if
we for awhile are ready to give up the ghost!
This evil will also come upon us, we know not why, and then it is all the more difficult to
drive it away.
Causeless depression is not to he reasoned with, nor can David's harp
charm
it away by sweet discoursings. As well fight with the mist as with this
shapeless,
undefinable, yet all-beclouding hopelessness. One affords himself
no pity when in this
case, because it seems so unreasonable, and even sinful
to be troubled without manifest
cause; and yet troubled the man is, even in
the very depths of his spirit. If those who
laugh at such melancholy did but
feel the grief of it for one hour, their laughter would be
sobered into
compassion. Resolution might, perhaps, shake it off, but where are we to find
the resolution when the whole man is unstrung? The physician and the divine
may unite
their skill in such cases, and both find their hands full, and more
than full. The iron bolt
which so mysteriously fastens the door of hope and
holds our spirits in gloomy prison,
needs a heavenly hand to push it back;
and when that hand is seen we cry with the apostle,
"Blessed be God,
even the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies, and the
God
of all comfort; who comforteth us in all our tribulation, that we may be able
to
comfort them which are in any trouble, by the comfort wherewith we
ourselves are
comforted of God." 2 Cor. i. 3, 4. It is the God of all
consolation who can—
"With
sweet oblivious antidote
Cleanse our poor bosoms of that perilous stuff
Which weighs upon the heart."
Simon sinks till Jesus takes him by the hand. The devil
within rends and tears the poor
child till time word of authority commands
him to come out of him. When we are ridden
with horrible fears, and weighed
down with an intolerable incubus, we need but the Sun
of Righteousness to
rise, and the evils generated of our darkness are driven away; but
nothing short
of this will chase away time nightmare of the soul. Timothy Rogers, the
author of a treatise on Melancholy, and Simon Browne, the writer of some
remarkably
sweet hymns, proved in their own cases how unavailing is the help
of man if the Lord
withdraw the light from the soul.
If it be enquired why the Valley of the Shadow of Death
must so often be traversed by the
servants of King Jesus, the answer is not
far to find. All this is promotive of the Lord's
mode of working, which is
summed up in these words—"Not by might nor by power, but
by my Spirit,
saith the Lord." Instruments shall be used, but their intrinsic weakness
shall
be clearly manifested; there shall be no division of the glory, no
diminishing the honour
due to the Great Worker. The man shall be emptied of
self, and then filled with the Holy
Ghost. In his own apprehension he shall
be like a sere leaf driven of the tempest, and then
shall be strengthened
into a brazen wall against the enemies of truth. To hide pride from
the
worker is the great difficulty. Uninterrupted success and unfading joy in it
would be
more than our weak heads could bear. Our wine must needs be mixed
with water, lest it
turn our brains. My witness is, that those who are
honoured of their Lord in public, have
usually to endure a secret chastening,
or to carry a peculiar cross, lest by any means they
exalt themselves, and
fall into the snare of the devil. How constantly the Lord calls
Ezekiel
"Son of man"! Amid his soarings into the superlative splendours,
just when with
eye undimmed he is strengthened to gaze into the excellent glory, the word "Son of man"
falls on his ears, sobering the heart
which else might have been intoxicated with the
honour conferred upon it.
Such humbling but salutary messages our depressions whisper
in our ears; they
tell us in a manner not to be mistaken that we are but men, frail, feeble,
apt to faint.
By all the castings down of his servants God is glorified,
for they are led to magnify him
when again he sets them on their feet, and
even while prostrate in the dust their faith yields
him praise. They speak
all time more sweetly of his faithfulness, and are the more firmly
established in his love. Such mature men as sonic elderly preachers are,
could scarcely
have been produced if they had not been emptied from vessel to
vessel, and made to see
their own emptiness and the vanity of all things
round about them. Glory be to God for
the furnace, the hammer, and the file.
Heaven shall be all the fuller of bliss because we
have been filled with
anguish here below, and earth shall be better tilled because of our
training
in the school of adversity.
The lesson of wisdom is, be not dismayed by
soul-trouble. Count it no strange thing, but a
part of ordinary
ministerial experience. Should the power of depression be more than
ordinary,
think not that all is over with your usefulness. Cast not away your
confidence,
for it hath great recompense of reward. Even if the enemy's foot
be on your neck, expect
to rise amid overthrow him. Cast the burden of the
present, along with the sin of the past
and the fear of the future, upon the
Lord, who forsaketh not his saints. Live by the day—
ay, by the hour. Put no
trust in frames and feelings. Care more for a grain of faith than a
ton of
excitement. Trust in God alone, and lean not on the reeds of human help. Be
not
surprised when friends fail you: it is a failing world. Never count upon
immutability in
man: inconstancy you may reckon upon without fear of
disappointment. The disciples of
Jesus forsook him; be not amazed if your adherents
wander away to other teachers: as they
were not your all when with you, all
is not gone from you with their departure. Serve God
with all your might
while the candle is burning, and then when it goes out for a season,
you will
have the less to regret. Be content to be nothing, for that is what you are.
When
your own emptiness is painfully forced upon your consciousness, chide
yourself that you
ever dreamed of being full, except in the Lord. Set small
store by present rewards; be
grateful for earnests by the way, but look for
the recompensing joy hereafter. Continue,
with double earnestness to serve
your Lord when no visible result is before you. Any
simpleton can follow the
narrow path in the light: faith?s rare wisdom enables us to march
on in the dark
with infallible accuracy, since she places her hand in that of her Great
Guide.
Between this and heaven there may be rougher weather yet, but it is
all provided for by our
covenant Head. In nothing let us be turned aside from
the path which the divine call has
urged us to pursue. Come fair or come foul, the pulpit is our watch-tower, and the ministry
our warfare; be it
ours, when we cannot see the face of our God, to trust under
THE SHADOW OF
HIS WINGS.
Charles Haddon Spurgeon (1834 - 1892) was a noted English
Baptist minister who
preached to throngs of people in the Metropolitan
Tabernacle in London, which seated six
thousand people. His success and
popularity were due in a large measure to his natural gift
of oratory and his thoroughly Biblical expository sermons.
This article is taken from Spurgeon's marvelous
book, Lectures to My Students which is a
compilation of his
addresses delivered to the students of The Pastors' College, Metropolitan
Tabernacle from 1856.
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