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Post by Admin on Jul 15, 2023 13:49:33 GMT -5
J.R.Miller
A Word about Temper
"Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you." Ephesians 4:32
More than half of us are bad-tempered—at least an English social scientist tells us so. He claims that this is no mere general statementand no bit of guesswork; he gives us the figures for it. He arranged to have about two thousand people put unconsciously under espionage as to their ordinary temper, and then had careful reports made of the results. The calculations of the returns has been announced, and is decidedly unflattering to the two thousand tempers that were thus put to the test. More than half of these people—to be entirely accurate, 52 percent of them—are set down as bad-tempered in various degrees.
The dictionary has been well-near exhausted of adjectives of this order, in giving the different shades of bad-temper: aggressive, angry, bickering, bitter, capricious, choleric, contentious, crotchety, despotic, domineering, easily offended, gloomy, grumpy, hasty, huffy, irritable, morose, obstinate, reproachful, peevish, sulky, surly, vindictive
—these are some of the qualifying words. There are employed, in all, 46 terms which describe a bad temper. We do not like to believe that the case is quite so serious—that many of us are unamiable in some offensive degree. It is easier to confess our neighbor's faults and infirmities, than our own. So, therefore, quietly taking refuge for ourselves among the 48 percent of goodtempered people—we are willing to admit that a great many of the people we know, have at times rather ungentle tempers. They are easily provoked; they fly into a passion on very slight occasion; they are haughty, domineering, peevish, fretful or vindictive!
What is even worse, most of them appear to make no effort to grow out of their infirmities of disposition! The sour fruit does not come to mellow ripeness in the passing years; the roughness is not polished off the diamond to reveal its lustrous hidden beauty. The same petulance, pride, vanity, selfishness and other disagreeable qualities are found in the life, year after year! Where there is a struggle to overcome one's faults and grow out of them, and where the progress toward better and more beautiful spiritual character is
perceptible, though ever so slow
—we should have sympathy. But where one appears unconscious of one's blemishes, and manifests no desire to conquer one's faults—there is little ground for encouragement.
It is man-like it is—to fall into sin.
It is fiend-like it is—to dwell therein.
It is saint-like it is—for sin to grieve.
It is God-like it is—for sin to leave.
Bad temper is such a disfigurement of character, and, besides, works such harm to one's self and to one's neighbors, that no one should spare any pains or cost to have it cured! The ideal Christian life is one of unbroken kindliness. It is dominated by love
—the love whose portrait is drawn for us in the immortal thirteenth chapter of First Corinthians. "Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs." That is the picture of the ideal Christian life!
We have but to turn to the gospel pages—to find the story of a life in which all this was realized. Jesus never lost his temper. He lived among people who tried him at every point—some by their dullness, others by their bitter enmity and persecution
—but he never failed in sweetness of disposition, in patience, in self-denying love. Like the flowers which give out their perfume only when crushed; like the odoriferous wood which bathes the axe which hews it with fragrance; the life of Christ yielded only the tenderer, sweeter love to the rough impact of men's harshness and wrong. That is the pattern on which we should strive to fashion our life and our character. Every outbreak of violent temper, every shade of ugliness in disposition, mars the radiant loveliness of the picture we are seeking to have fashioned in our souls! Whatever is not loving—is unlovely character.
There is another phase: bad-tempered people are continually hurting others, ofttimes their best and truest friends. Some people are sulky
—and one person's sulkiness casts a chilling shadow over a whole household!
Others are so sensitive, ever watching for slights and offended by the merest trifles
—that even their nearest friends have no freedom of fellowship with them!
Others are despotic, and will brook no kindly suggestion, nor listen to any expression of opinion!
Others are so quarrelsome that even the meekest and gentlest person cannot live peaceably with them! Whatever may be the special characteristic of the bad temper, it makes only pain and humiliation for the person's friends! A bad temper usually implies a sharp tongue. Sometimes, indeed, it makes one morose and glum. A brother and a sister living together are said often to have passed months without speaking to each other, though eating at the same table and sleeping under the same roof! A man recently died who for twelve years, it was said, had never spoken to his wife, though they continued to dwell together, and three times daily sat down together at the same table!
Bad temper sometimes runs to sullen silence. Such silence is not golden. Generally, however, a bad-tempered person has an unbridled tongue and speaks out his hateful feelings; and there is no limit to the pain and the harm which angry and ugly words can produce in gentle hearts!
It would be easy to extend this portrayal of the evils of bad temper— but it will be more profitable to inquire HOW a bad-tempered person may become good-tempered. There is no doubt that this happy change is possible in any case. There is no temper so obdurately bad—that it cannot be trained into sweetness. The grace of God can take the most unlovely life—and transform it into the image of Christ.
As in all moral changes, however, grace does not work independently of human volition and exertion. "I labor, struggling with all His energy, which so powerfully works in me!" Colossians 1:29. God always works helpfully—with those who strive to reach Christlikeness. We must resist the devil—or he will not flee from us.
We must struggle to obtain the victory over our own evil habits and dispositions, although it is only through Christ that we can be conquerors. He will not make us conquerors, unless we enter the battle. We have a share, and a large and necessary share, in the culture of our own character.
The bad-tempered man will never become good-tempered until he deliberately sets for himself the task, and enters resolutely and persistently upon its accomplishment. The transformation will never come of itself, even in a Christian! People do not grow out of ugly temper into sweet refinement—as a peach ripens from sourness into lusciousness.
Then the thing to be accomplished, is not the destroying of the temper; temper is a good quality in its place. The task is not destruction—but control. A man is very weak—who has
a strong temper without the power of self-control. Likewise is he weak—who has a weak temper. The truly strong man—is he who is strong in the element of temper—that is, has strong passions and feelings capable of great anger—and also has perfect self-control.
When Moses failed and broke down in temper—in self-control, he was not the man to lead the people into the Promised Land; therefore God at once prepared to relieve him. The task to be set, therefore, in self-discipline is the gaining of complete mastery over every feeling and emotion, so as to be able to restrain every impulse to speak or to act unadvisedly.
We represent Christ in this world. People cannot see Him; they must look at us
—to see a little of what He is like. Whatever great work we may do for Christ
—if we fail to live out His life of love, kindness and patience
—we fail in an essential part of our duty as Christians. Nor can we be greatly useful in our personal life, while our daily conduct is stained by frequent outbursts of anger, and other exhibitions of bad temper. In the old fable, the spider goes about doing mischief wherever it creeps, while the bee by its wax and its honey, makes "sweetness and light" wherever it flies. We should be bees—rather than be spiders; living to turn darkness into light—and to put a little more sweetness into the life of all who know us. But only as our own lives shine in the brightness of holy love, and our hearts and lips distill the sweetness of patience and gentleness, can we fulfill our mission in this world—as Christ's true messengers to men. Then there is need of a higher standard of character in this regard, than many people seem to set for themselves. We never rise higher than our ideals. The perfect beauty of Christ should ever be envisioned in our hearts—as that which we would attain for ourselves. The honor of our Master's name—should impel us to strive ever toward Christlikeness in spirit and in disposition. In striving to overcome our impatience with others, it will help us to remember that we and they have the common heritage of a sinful nature. The thing in them which irritates us—is, no doubt, balanced by something in us which looks just as unlovely in their eyes and just as sorely tries their forbearance toward us! Very likely, if we think our neighbors are hard to live peaceably with
—they think about the same of us! And who shall tell in whom lies the greater degree of fault? Certain it is, that a really good-tempered person can rarely ever be drawn into a quarrel with anyone. He is resolutely determined that he will not be a partner in any unChristian strife. He would rather suffer wrongfully, than offer any retaliation. He has learned to bear—and to forbear. Then, by his gentle tact—he is able to conciliate any who are angry. A fable relates that in the depth of a forest, there lived two foxes. One
of them said to the other one day, in the politest of fox-language, "Let's quarrel!" "Very well," said the other; "but how shall we go about it?"
They tried all sorts of ways—but in vain, for both would give way. At last, one fox brought two stones. "There!" said he. "Now you say they are yours—and I'll say they are
mine—and we will quarrel and fight and scratch! Now I'll begin. "Those stones are mine!" "All right!" answered the other fox, "you are welcome to them."
"But we shall never quarrel at this rate," replied the first. "No, indeed, you old simpleton! Don't you know, that it takes two to make a quarrel?"
So the foxes gave up trying to quarrel, and never played again at this silly game. The fable has its lesson for other creatures, besides foxes. "If it is
possible, as far as it depends on you," Paul tells us, "we should live peaceably with all men." A wise man says, "Every man takes care that his neighbors shall not cheat him—but a day comes when he begins to care—that he does not cheat his neighbors. Then all goes well." So long as a man sees only the quarrelsome temper of his neighbor—he is not far toward
holiness. But when he has learned to watch and to try to control his own temper, and to weep over his own infirmities—he is on the way to Christ-likeness, and will soon be conqueror over his own weakness!
Life is too short to spend even one day of it in bickering and strife! Love is too sacred to be forever lacerated and torn by the ugly briers of sharp temper! Surely we ought to learn to be loving and patient with others—since God has to show every day such infinite patience toward us! Is not the very essence of true love—the spirit that is not easily provoked, that bears all things?
Can we not, then, train our life to sweeter gentleness?
Can we not learn to be touched even a little roughly, without resenting it?
Can we not bear little injuries, and apparent injustices, without flying into a rage?
Can we not have in us something of the mind of Christ, which will enable us, like him, to endure all wrong and injury and give back no word or look of bitterness? The way over which we and our friend walk together, is too short to be spent in wrangling.
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Post by Admin on Jul 15, 2023 15:55:20 GMT -5
J.R. Miller
Forward, and Not Back
It is a good thing always to face forward. Even nature shows that men's eyes were designed to always look forward—for no man has eyes in the back of his head, as all men certainly would have—if it had been intended that they should spend much time in looking backward. We like to have Bible authority for our rules in life, and there is a very plain word of Scripture which says, "Let your eyes look straight ahead, fix your gaze directly before you!" Proverbs 4:25
There is also a striking scriptural illustration in the greatest of the apostles, who crystalized the central principle of his active life in the remarkable words, "This one thing I do, forgetting those things which are behind, and reaching forth unto those things which are ahead, I press toward the mark." The picture is of a man running in a race. He sees only one thing—the goal yonder. He does not trouble himself to look back to see how far he has come—or how far the other runners are behind him; he does not even look to the right hand or to the left—to catch glimpses of his friends who are watching him and cheering him. His eyes look right on to the goal, while he bends every energy to the race.
That is the picture which Paul drew of himself as a man, as a Christian; he forgot his past—and lived only for his future. We must remember, too, that he was an old man when he wrote these words.
Looking at him, we would say there was but little before him now to live for—but a little margin of life left to him. The young look forward naturally, because everything is before them—the long, bright future years, seem to stretch out for them almost inimitably; they live altogether in hope, and as yet have no memories to draw their eyes and their hearts backward and to chain their lives to the past.
But old people, who have spent most of their allotted years and have but a small and fast-crumbling edge of life remaining, are much prone to live almost entirely in the past. The richest treasures of their hearts are there, left behind and passed by, and so their eyes and their thoughts are drawn backward, rather than forward. Here, however, was one old man who cared nothing for what was past, and who lived altogether in hope, pressing on with quenchless enthusiasm into the future. What was gone was nothing to him—in comparison with what was yet to come. The best things in his life were still to be won; his noblest achievements were yet to be wrought; his soul was still full of unrealized visions—which would yet be realized. His eye pierced death's veil, for to him life meant immortality, and earth's horizon was not its boundary. The last glimpse we have of this old man—he is about going forth from his Roman, dungeon to martyrdom—but he is still reaching forth and pressing on into the Eternal Before. His keen eye is fixed on a glory which other men could not see, as with exultation he cried, "The time of my departure is at hand. . . . Henceforth there is laid up for me a crown!" There is something very sublime in such a life, and it ought to have its inspirations for us. We ought to train ourselves to live by the same rule. There is a tremendous waste in human energy and in all life's powers—resulting from the habit of ever turning to look backward.
While we stand thus, with arms folded, peering back into the mists and the shadows of the dead past—the great, resistless, never-resting tides of life are sweeping on, and we are simply left behind. And few things are sadder than this—men with their powers yet at their best, left behind in the race, and left alone—because they stop and stand and look backward—instead of keeping their eyes to the front and bravely pressing on to the things ahead!
It is every way better to look forward—than to look back. The life— follows the eye; we live—as we look. But what is there ever behind us to live for? There is no work to do; no tasks wait there for accomplishment; no opportunities for helpfulness or usefulness lie in the past. Opportunities, when once they have passed by, never linger—that tardy laggards may yet come up and seize them; passed once, they are gone forever!
We cannot impress ourselves in any way upon the past; the records which are written all over the pages of yesterday, were made when yesterday was the living present. We cannot make any change on the past; we can undo nothing there, correct nothing, erase nothing. We may get a measure of inspiration from other men's past—as we study their biographies and their achievements and grasp the secrets of their power. "Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime,And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time."
Then, we may get something, too, from our own past—in the lessons of experience which we have learned. He certainly lives very heedlessly, whose days yield no wisdom. Yesterday's mistakes and failures, should make the way plainer and straighter today. Past sorrows, too, should enrich our lives. All one's past is in the life of each new day—all its spirit, all its lessons, all its accumulated wisdom, all its power—lives in each present moment. Yet this benefit that comes from the things that are behind, avails only when it
becomes impulse and energy to send us forward the more resistlessly and wisdom to guide us the more safely.
Therefore we should never waste a moment in looking back at our past attainments.
Yet there are people who, especially in their later years, do little else.
They are accomplished egotists—yet they never have anything but very old heroisms and achievements to talk about.
They are talkative enough concerning the great things they have done—but it was always a long time ago, that they did them.
All the grand and noble things in their life—are little more than past traditions.
Their religious experiences, also, are of old date, and they seem never to have any new ones.
Their testimonies and their prayers in the conference-meeting are quite like the tunes of street organs
—the same always every time you hear them; they never get a new tune, not even a new and revised edition of the old one.
With mechanical invariableness and endless repetition, they relate the same experiences year after year.
They can tell a great deal about what they felt, and what they did—a long time ago
—but not a word about what they felt and what they did yesterday.
The utter inadequacy and the unworthiness of such living, are apparent at a glance. No past glory avails, for this living present. The radiance of last night, will not make the stars brilliant tonight; the beauty of last summer's flowers, will not do for the flowers of this summer; the industry of early manhood, will not achieve results in mid-life or in old age; the heroism of yesterday, will win no laurels for the brow today. What does it matter—that one did great things some time in the past? The question is—What is he doing now?
Suppose a man had ecstatic religious experiences ten or twenty years ago; ought he not to have had still more ecstatic experiences every year since? Suppose a man did a noble thing twenty-five years ago; why should he still sound the praises of that one lone deed after so long a lapse of time? Ought he not to have done just as noble things all along his life—as he did that particular day a quarter-century ago?\
The ideal life, is one that does its best every day—and sees ever in tomorrow, an opportunity for something better than today. It is sad when any one has to look back for his best achievements and highest attainments. However lofty the plane reached, the face should still be turned forward—and the heart should still be reaching onward for its best.
The true life has its image in the tree which drops its ripe fruits in the autumn and forgets them, leaving them to be food for the hungry; while it straightway begins to prepare for another year's fruits. What an abnormal thing it would be, for an apple tree to bear one abundant crop—and then never again produce anything each year,
but a few scattered apples hanging lonesome on the wide-spreading branches, while the tree continued to glory year after year in its superb yield of long ago!
Is such a life any more fitting for an immortal man—than for a soulless fruit tree? Immortality should never content itself, with any past. Not back—but forward, always should our eyes be bent.
The years should be ladder-steps upward, each lifting us higher. Even death should not intercept the onward look, for surely the best things are never on this side—but always on beyond death's mists. Death is not a wall cutting off the path and ending all progress: it is a gate—an open gate—through which the life sweeps on through eternity! Progress, therefore, is endless, and the goal is ever unreached!
Even the mistakes and the sins of the past—should not draw our eyes back. Sins should instantly be confessed, repented of and forsaken— and that should be the end of them! To brood over them—does no good; we can never undo them, and no tears can obliterate the fact of their commission. The way to show true sorrow for wrong-doing, is not to sit in sackcloth and ashes weeping over the ruin wrought—but to pour all the energy of our regret, into new obedience and better service! We cannot change the past—but the future, we can yet make
beautiful, if we will. It would be sad if in weeping over the sins of yesterday, we should lose today also! Not an instant, therefore, should be wasted in unavailing regret when we have failed; the only thing to do with mistakes—is not to repeat them; while, at the same time, we set about striving to get some gain or blessing from them.
Defeats in life should never detain us long, since only faith and courage are needed to change them into real victories.
For, after all, it is character we are building in this world; and if we use every experience to promote our growth, to make us better; if we emerge from it stronger, braver, truer, nobler—we have lost nothing—but have been the gainer. In reverses and misfortunes, then, we have but to keep our eyes fixed on Christ, caring only that no harm comes to our soul from the loss or the trial, and thus we shall be victorious. If we stop and look back with despairing heart, at the wreck of our hopes and plans—our defeat will be real and humiliating! Like Lot's wife, we shall be buried beneath the encrusting salt! But if we resolutely turn away from the failure or the ruin—and press on to brighter things—things that cannot perish—we shall get the victory and win blessedness and eternal gain!
Look forward—and not back! Live to make tomorrow beautiful, not to stain yesterday with tears of regret and grief thing to do with mistakes—is not to repeat them; while, at the same time, we set about striving to get some gain or blessing from them.
Defeats in life should never detain us long, since only faith and courage are needed to change them into real victories. For, after all, it is character we are building in this world; and if we use every experience to promote our growth, to make us better; if we emerge from it stronger, braver, truer, nobler—we have lost nothing—but have been the gainer. In reverses and misfortunes, then, we have but to keep our eyes fixed on Christ, caring only that no harm comes to our soul from the loss or the trial; and thus we shall be victorious. If we stop and look back with despairing heart, at the wreck of our hopes and plans—our defeat will be real and humiliating! Like Lot's wife, we shall be buried beneath the encrusting salt! But if we resolutely turn away from the failure or the ruin—and press on to brighter things—things that cannot perish—we shall get victory and
win blessedness and eternal gain! Look forward—and not back! Live to make tomorrow beautiful, not to stain yesterday with tears of regret and grief.
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Post by Admin on Jul 16, 2023 13:17:48 GMT -5
The Duty of Forgetting Sorrow
Sorrow makes deep scars; indeed, it writes its record ineffaceably on the heart which suffers. We really never get over our deep griefs; we are really never altogether the same after we have passed through them—as we were before. In one sense, sorrow can never be forgotten. The cares of a long busy life may supervene—but the memory of the first deep sorrows in early youth, lives on in perpetual freshness as the little flowers live on beneath the cold snowdrifts through all the long winter. The old woman of ninety, remembers her grief and sense of loss seventy years ago, when God took her first baby out of her bosom. We never can actually forget our sorrows, nor is it meant that we should do so.
There is a way of remembering grief—that is not wrong, that is not a mark of unsubmission, and that brings rich blessing to our hearts and lives. There is a humanizing and fertilizing influence in sorrow rightly accepted, and "the memory of things precious, keeps warm the heart that once enfolded them." Recollections of losses, if sweetened by faith, hope and love—are blessings to the lives they overshadow. Indeed, they are poor who have never suffered and have none of sorrow's marks upon them; they are poorer far who, having suffered, have forgotten their sufferings and bear in their lives no beautifying traces of the experiences of pain through which they have passed.
Yet there is a way of remembering sorrow, which brings no blessing,no enrichment—which does not soften the heart, nor add beauty to the life. There is an unsubmissive remembering which brings no joy, which keeps the heart bitter, which shuts out the sunshine, which broods over losses and trials. Only evil can result from such memory of grief. In this sense, we ought to forget our sorrow. We certainly ought not to stop in the midst of our duties and turn aside and sit down by the graves of our losses, staying there while the tides of busy life sweep on. We should leave our sorrows behind us—while we go on reverently, faithfully and quietly in our appointed way. There are many people, however, who have not learned this lesson; they live perpetually in the shadows of the griefs and losses of their bygone days. Nothing could be more unwholesome or more untrue to the spirit of Christian faith, than such a course. What would be said or thought of the man who should build a house for himself out of black stones, paint all the walls black, hang black curtains over the dark-stained windows, put black carpets on every floor, have only sad pictures on the walls and sad books on the shelves, and should have no lovely plants growing and no sweet flowers blooming anywhere about his home? Would we not look upon such a man with pity—as one into whose soul the outer darkness had crept, eclipsing all the beauty of life?
Yet that is just the way some people do live. They build for their souls houses just like that; they have memories that let all the bright and joyous things flow away—while they retain all the sad and bitter things! They forget the pleasant incidents and experiences, the happy hours, the days that came laden with gladness as ships come from distant shores with cargoes of spices; but there has been no painful event in all their life whose memory is not kept ever vivid. They will talk for hours of their griefs and bereavements in the past, dwelling with a strange morbid pleasure on each sad incident. They keep the old wounds ever unhealed in their hearts; they keep continually in sight pictures and reminiscences of all their lost joys—but none of the joys that are not lost; they forget all their ten thousand blessings
—in the abiding recollection of the two or three sorrows that have come amid the multitudinous and unremembered joys. These people live perpetually in the shadows and glooms of their own sorrows. The darkness creeps into their souls, and all the joyous brightness passes out of their lives, until their very vision becomes so stained that they can no more even discern the glad and lovely colors in God's universe! Few perversions of life, could be sadder than this dwelling ever in the glooms and the shadows of past griefs.
It is the will of God that we should turn our eyes away from our sorrows, that we should let the dead past bury its dead—while we go on with reverent earnestness to the new duties and the new joys that await us. By standing and weeping over the grave where it is buried—we cannot get back what we have lost. When David's child was dead, he dried his tears and went at once to God's house and worshiped, saying, "Now he is dead, why should I fast? Can I bring him back again?" Instead of weeping over the grave where his dead was not, he
turned all the pressure of his grief into the channels of holy living That is the way every believer in Christ should treat his sorrows.
Weeping inconsolably beside a grave, can never give back love's vanished treasure. Nor can any blessing come out of such sadness. It does not make the heart any softer; it develops no feature of Christlikeness in the life. It only embitters our present joys—and stunts the growth of all beautiful things. The graces of the heart are like flowers; they grow well only in the sunshine.
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Post by Admin on Jul 16, 2023 14:55:12 GMT -5
People Who Fail
There are many people who fail. Yet there are two standards by which success and failure may be measured: there is the world's standard, and there is God's standard. Many whom men set down as having failed—are successful in the higher sense; while many of earth's vaunted successes, are really complete and terrible failures.
If we are wise, we will seek to know life's realities, and will not be fooled by mere appearances. True success must be something which will not perish in earth's wreck or decay; something which will not be torn out of our hands in the hour of death; something which will last over into the eternal years. No folly can be so great as that which gives all life's energies to the building up of something, however beautiful it may be—which must soon be torn down, and which cannot possibly be carried beyond the grave!
The real failures in life—are not those which are registered in commercial agencies and reported as bankruptcies, nor those whose marks are the decay of earthly fortune, descent in the social scale, the breaking down of worldly prosperity, or any of those signs by which men rate one another. A man may fail in these ways, and, as God sees him—his path may be like the shining light, growing in brightness all the time. His heart may remain pure and his hands clean through all his earthly misfortunes. He may be growing all the while—in the elements of true manhood. In the autumn days, the stripping off of the leaves—uncovers the nests of the birds; and for many a man the stripping away of the leaves of earthly prosperity—is the disclosing to him of the soul's true nest and home in the bosom of God. We cannot call that life a failure which, though losing money and outward show, is itself growing every day nobler, stronger, Christlier. It matters little what becomes of one's circumstances, if meanwhile the man himself is prospering. Circumstances are but the scaffolding amid which the building rises. The real failures, are those whose marks are in the life itself—and in the character. A man prospers in the world. He grows rich. He gathers luxuries and wealth about him—instead of the plain circumstances amid which he spent his early days. The cottage is exchanged for a mansion; he is a millionaire; he has wide influence; men wait at his door to ask favors of him; he is sought and courted by the great; his name is everywhere known. But the heart which nestled in purity under the home-made jacket—has not retained its purity under rich broadcloth: it has become the home of pride, ambition, unrest, unholy schemes, and of much that is corrupt and evil; his knee bends no more in prayer, as in childhood it was taught to bend at a mother's knee; his life is stained with many sins; his character has lost its former innocence and loveliness. His circumstances have advanced from poverty to wealth—but the man himself dwelling within the circle of the circumstances has deteriorated.
There is a story of a man who built his enemy into the wall of the castle he was erecting—made a tomb for him there, and buried him alive in the heart of the magnificent castle he was setting up. That is what many men do with their souls in their earthly prosperity: they bury them in the heart of their successes. It is a splendid monument which they rear; but when it is finished it is the mausoleum of their manhood. Shall we call that true success— which erects a pile of earthly grandeur to dazzle men's eyes—while it strangles a man's spiritual life and forfeits him the divine favor and a home in heaven? There is no doubt that God creates every human soul for a high destiny; he has a plan for every life, and that plan in every case is noble and beautiful. There is no blind fate which predestines any soul to failure and perdition. No man is born in this world—who may not make his life a true success, and attain at last to coronation in heaven. Every soul is endowed at creation, for a noble career. It may not be for a brilliant career, with honor and fame and great power; but there is no one born who is not so gifted, that with his endowments he may fill his own place and do his allotted work. And there can be no nobleness higher than this. Then to everyone, come the opportunities by which he may achieve the success for which he was born. No man can ever say he had no chance to be noble; the trouble is with the man himself. Opportunities offer—but he does not embrace them, and while he delays—they pass on and away, to return no more; for "lost opportunity comes not again." Opportunities are doors opened to beauty and blessing—but they are not held open for laggards, and in a moment they are shut, never to be opened again.
Both in original endowments and in opportunities, every life is furnished for success. "But men are weak and sinful, and are unable to make their lives noble." True—but here comes in the blessed secret of divine help. No one ever need fail, for God is with men—with everyone who does not thrust him away—and he is ready to put his own strength under human infirmity, so that the weakest may overcome and rise into beauty and strength. No man is foredoomed to failure; there is no man who may not make his life a true success. Those who fail, fail because they will not build their life after the pattern shown them in the mount, because they do not use the endowments which God has bestowed upon them, because they reject the opportunities offered to them, or because they leave God out of their life and enter the battle only in their own strength. The saddest thing in this world—is the wreck of a life made for God and for immortality—but failing of all the high ends of its existence and lying in ruin at the last, when it is too late to begin anew.
To the readers of this book—this chapter is cautionary. The paths that lead to failure, begin far back and slope downwards, usually in very gradual and almost imperceptible decline, toward the fatal end.The work of the Christian teacher is not with those who have hopelessly failed, wrecked all, and gone down into the dark waters— these are beyond his warning voice and his helping hand—but he should seek in time—to save from failure those whose faces are just turning toward its sunless blackness. It may be, that these words shall come to one whose feet are already set in paths of peril. There are many such paths, and so disguised are they by the enemy of men's souls, that ofttimes to the unwary they appear harmless. They are flower-strewn. They begin at first in very slight and in only momentary deviations from the narrow path of duty and of safety. Young people should be honest with themselves in these matters. The question at first is not, "What are you doing now?" but, "Which way are you facing? What are the tendencies of your life?" If the compass registers falsely by but a hair's breadth when the ship puts out to sea, it will carry her a thousand miles out of her course a few days hence, and may wreck her. The slightest wrong tendency of life in early youth, unless corrected, will lead at length far away from God and from hope! We should always deal frankly with ourselves. We must not imagine that we are so different from other people, that what is perilous for them—is yet safe enough for us. It is a sacred and most momentous responsibility which is put into our hand when our life is entrusted to us. Life is God's most wonderful gift. Then, it is not our own, to do with as we please. It belongs to God and is but a trust in our hands— as when one puts into the hand of another, a precious gem or some other costly and valuable possession, to be carried amid dangers and delivered in safety at the end of the journey.
God has given us our life, and there are two things which he requires us to do with it. First, we are to keep it. Enemies will assail us and try to wrest from us the sacred jewel—but we are to guard and defend it at whatever cost. Then, mere keeping is not all of our obligation.
The man with the one talent seems to have kept the talent safely enough: he wrapped it up and laid it away in a secure place. It did not gather rust; no one robbed him of it. When his master returned he presented it to him, safe and unspotted. But he had done only part of his duty, and was condemned because he had not used his talent and thereby increased its value. The lesson is plain. It is not enough to guard our soul from stain and from robbery—we must also make such use of it as shall bless the world and develop our life itself into ripeness of beauty and of power. Our endowments come to us only as possibilities, powers folded up in buds or germs, which we must draw out by use and culture. We are responsible not merely for guarding and keeping the possibilities which God puts into our lives—but also for developing these possibilities until the talents multiply into many, until the little seeds grow into strong and fruitful plants or trees!
There are, then, two lines of possible failure. We may not guard our life from the world's corrupting influence, nor defend it from the enemies that would filch the precious jewel from us. All who yield to temptations and fall into sin's slavery, fail in this way. Then, we may neglect to make the most of our life, developing its possibilities, cultivating it to its highest capacities for beauty, and using it to its last degree of power, in doing good.
Thus indolence leads to failure. A young person who has good mental powers and is too slothful and inert to study and thus educate, or draw out, the possibilities of his endowment, is failing in life just so far as his indolence is leaving his talent buried in his brain.
The same is true of all the capacities of life. The lazy man is a failure. He may be richly gifted and may have the largest and best opportunities—but he has no energy to do the work that comes to his hand; then, while he lingers, indolent and self-indulgent, the opportunities pass on and pass away, to return no more—and the powers of his being meanwhile die within him. He comes to the end of his life without having left in the world any worthy record of his existence, anything to show that he ever lived—and with only a shriveled soul to carry up to God's judgment bar. No other curses in the Bible are more bitter—than those upon uselessness. A man made for a great mission, and magnificently endowed for it, who does nothing with his life, even though he does not yield to sin and turn the forces of his being into courses of evil—is still a terrible failure! Uselessness is failure! The penalty upon such malfeasance in duty—is loss of unused capacities, the wasting and shriveling of the powers which might have been
developed to such grandeur and trained to such efficiency and influence. The eye unused, loses its power to see; the tongue unused, becomes dumb; the heart unused, grows cold and hard; the brain unused, withers to imbecility. To save our lives, then, from at least some degree of failure, it is necessary that we not only keep ourselves unspotted from the world
—but also that we make the fullest possible use of all the powers God has given us! Hence every young person who would save his life from failure—must begin with the bright, golden days now passing, and make each one of them beautiful with the beauty of fidelity and earnestness. A wasted youth is a bad beginning for a successful life.
We have not a moment to lose, for the time allotted to us is not an instant too long—for the tasks and duties which God has set for us. We shall have no second chance—if we fail in our first. Some things we may do over if we fail in our first or second attempt—but we can live our life only once. To fail in our first probation, is to lose all.[/font][/b]
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Post by Admin on Jul 16, 2023 15:18:25 GMT -5
Helpful People
Usefulness is the true measure of living. Our Lord made fruit—the test of discipleship.
What is fruit? Is it not something which the tree bears to feed men's hunger?
In discipleship, then—fruit is something that grows upon our lives
—which others may take and feed upon. It is anything in us, or that we do
—which does good to others.
A fruitful Christian life is one, therefore, which is a blessing to men
— one that is useful and helpful.
No one cares for a tree to be covered with fruit, merely to make a fine appearance; the object of fruitfulness, is to feed hunger, to satisfy men's cravings. Our Lord does not ask us to have lives full of fruit
— merely to be looked at, merely to realize a certain standard of spiritual completeness. He does not want marble statues, however perfect in their cold whiteness. Moral excellence is not character merely, however faultless it may be. The stern old Puritan was right when, finding the silver images standing in dusty niches and learning that they were the twelve apostles, he directed that they should be taken down and coined and sent out to do good. Charles Kingsley said, "We become like God
—only as we become of use."Fruit, therefore, is usefulness. We are fruitful when our lives in some way feed others, when we are personally helpful. It may be by our words; the ministry of good words is very wonderful.
He who writes a BOOK full of living, helpful thoughts, which goes into the hands of the young, or of the hungry-hearted, carrying inspiration, cheer, comfort or light
—does a service whose value never can be estimated! He who uses his gift of common SPEECH, as he may use it, to utter brave, helpful, encouraging, stimulating words wherever he goes
—is an immeasurable blessing in the world. He who writes timely LETTERS to people who need sympathy, consolation, commendation, wise counsel or thoughtful word of any kind
—puts secret strength into many a spirit, feeds as with hidden manna—many a struggling soul.
He who little deeds of KINDNESS: sends a few flowers to a sickroom or a little fruit to a convalescent friend, or calls at the door to ask after a neighbor who is ill, or remembers the poor in some practical way, or is kind to a bereft one—is scattering blessings whose far-reaching influence for good–no eye can trace!
These are chiefly little ways of helpfulness, and are suggested because they are such as are possible to nearly everyone! Not only are these little helpfulnesses possible to all
—but they are the things that people need. Now and then a large thing must be done for another
—men have sacrificed all in trying to help others
—but, while at rare times very costly services are required, ordinarily it is the little kindnesses that are needed—and that do the greatest good. Then the ministry of helpfulness, as a rule, is one that the poor can render
—as well as the rich. People do not very often need money; at least a thousand times oftener
—they need love more than money. It is usually much better to put a new hope into a discouraged man's heart, than to put a coin into his pocket. Money is good alms in its way
—but, compared with the divine gifts of hope, courage, sympathy and affection
—it is paltry and poor. Ofttimes monetary aid hinders more than it helps. It may make life a little easier for a day—but it is almost sure to make the recipient less manly and noble, less courageous and independent. The best way to help people
—is not to lighten the burden for them
— but to put new strength into their hearts that they may be able to carry their own loads. That is the divine way. We are told to cast our burden upon the Lord
—but the promise is not that the Lord will carry the burden for us
—but that he will strengthen our hearts
—that we may be able to bear our own burden.The aim of the divine helpfulness, is not to make things easy for us—but to make something of us. We need to keep this divine principle in mind in our helping of others. It is usually easier to give relief
—than it is to help another to grow strong. Yet in many cases, relief is the poorest help we can give; the very best is inner help
—that which makes one stronger, purer, truer, braver, that which makes one able to overcome. Someone has said, "To help another is the divinest privilege one can have. There are many who help us in mechanical things; there are a few who help us in our outside duties; there are perhaps only two or three who can help us in our most sacred sphere of inner life." Yet it is the latter kind of help that is most valuable. The help that in a lifetime counts for most in real blessing—is an uninterrupted flow of little ministries of word, of act, of quiet influence
—kindness done to everyone according to the need of each at the moment. To live fifty years of such life, though not one conspicuous thing is wrought in all that time
—leaves an aggregate amount of good done, vastly greater than fifty years of selfish living with one great and notable public benevolence, reared like a monument of stone at the close of a man's days!
Of helpful people, the true Christian home presents the best illustrations. There each one lives for the others, not merely to minister in material ways and in services of affection, but to promote the growth of character into whatever things are pure, whatever things are lovely.
A true husband lives to be helpful in all ways to his wife, to make her happy, to brighten the path for her feet, to stimulate her spiritual life and to foster and encourage in her every noble aspiration.
A true wife is a helpmate to her husband, blessing him with her love and doing him good, and not evil, all the days of her life. Parents live for their children. In all this world there is no nearer approach to the divine helpfulness than is found in true parental love. The Jewish Rabbis said, "God could not be everywhere, and therefore he made mothers." Brothers and sisters, also, where they realize the Christian ideal of their relation to each other, are mutually helpful in all ways.
True brothers shield their sisters, protecting them from harm; they encourage them in their education and in all their culture of mind and heart. True sisters, in turn, are their brothers' guardian angels; many a young man owes to a sweet and gentle sister
—a debt he can never repay. Especially to older sisters, are the brothers in countless homes indebted. Many a man honored in the world and occupying a place of influence and power
—owes all that he is, to a sister perhaps too much forgotten or overlooked by him, worn and wrinkled now, her beauty faded, living lonely and solitary, unwedded, who in the days of his youth
—was a guardian angel to him. She freely poured out for him then, the best and richest of her life, giving the very blood of her veins—that he might have richer life, denying herself even needed comforts that he, her heart's pride, might have books and might be educated and fitted for noble and successful life. Such brothers can never honor enough, the sisters who have made such sacrifices for them.
There is a class of women in every community whom society flippantly and profanely denominates "old maids." The world ought to be told what uncrowned queens many of these women are, what undecorated heroines, what blessings to humanity, what builders of homes, what servants of others and of Christ. In thousands of instances, they voluntarily remain unmarried for the sake of their families. Many of them have refused brilliant offers of marriage
—that they might stay at home to toil for younger brothers or sisters, or that they might be the shelter and comfort of parents in the feebleness of their advancing years.
Then there are many more who have freely hidden away their own heart-hunger, that they might devote themselves to good deeds for Christ and for humanity. A glance over the pages of history
—will show many a woman's name which shines in the splendor of such self-sacrifice.
Then in every community and neighborhood is one whose hand has not felt the pressure of the wedding-ring, because home-loved ones, or the work of the Master, seemed to need her hallowed love and her gentle service. We should learn to honor these unmarried women, instead of decorating their names with unworthy epithets. Many of them are the true heroines of neighborhood, or of household, the real Sisters of Charity of the communities in which they live. Those who sometimes speak lightly or flippantly of them, who jest and sneer at their spinsterhood, ought to uncover their heads before them in reverence and kiss the hands—wrinkled now and shriveled
— which never have been clasped in marriage.
No ambition could be higher, than that which seeks to be worthy of a ministry of personal helpfulness. Every disclosure of heavenly existence that has been made to us in this world, shows a life devoted to unselfish serving of others. We have in the Scriptures, many glimpses of angels, and these radiant beings are presented to us as ministering spirits sent forth to do service for the sake of those who shall inherit salvation. Their holiness manifests itself in love and pity, and their adoration of God leads them to serve in behalf of fallen men.
Every disclosure of the character of God himself, reveals in him the same quality. His name is Love, and love is not love—which does not serve. Jesus was God manifest in the flesh, and he said of his own mission that he came, "not to be served—but to serve." Thus it is in serving and in helping others
—that we become most like angels, and most like God himself! No one has begun to live
—who has not begun to live for others. Life is never so rich and so beautiful, as when it is giving itself out the most lavishly in act and sacrifice of love. No one living in pampered self-indulgence, though wearing a jeweled crown—is half so royal in God's sight—as the lowly one, obscure and untitled among men, who is living to serve. There is an Oriental story of two brothers, Ahmed and Omar. Each wished to perform a deed whose memory should not fail—but which, as the years rolled on, might sound his name and praise far abroad. Omar with wedge and rope lifted a great piece of marble on its base, carving its form in beautiful devices and sculpturing many a wondrous inscription on its sides. He left it to stand in the hot desert and cope with its gales
—his monument. But Ahmed, with deeper wisdom and truer though sadder heart, dug a well to cheer the sandy waste, and planted about it tall date-palms to make cool shade for the thirsty pilgrim and to shake down fruits for his hunger.
These two deeds illustrate two ways in either of which we may live. We may think of SELF and worldly success and fame, living to gather a fortune or to make a splendid name
—as the tall sculptured marble
—but as cold and useless to the world. Or we may make our life like a well in the desert, with cool shade about it, to give drink to the thirsty and shelter and refreshment to the weary and faint!
Which of these two ways of living is the more Christlike, it is not hard to tell. Our Master went about doing good; his life was one of personal helpfulness wherever he went. If we have his spirit, we shall hold our lives and all our possessions not as our own
—but as means with which to serve and bless our fellow-men. We shall regard ourselves as debtors to all men, owing to the lowest
—the love that seeks not its own, that strives to do good to all. Then we shall consider our white hands as none too fine—to do the lowliest service, even for the most unworthy.
With this spirit in us, we shall not have to seek opportunities for helpfulness. Then every word we speak, every smallest thing we do, every influence we send forth, our mere shadow, as we pass by, falling on need and sorrow
—will prove sweet, blessed ministry of love and will impart strength and help! Such living is twice blessed: it blesses others; it enriches and gladdens one's own heart. Selfishness is a stagnant pool; loving service is a living stream that in doing good to others—blesses itself as well, and remains ever fresh and pure. "How many gentle, lovely lives, And fragrant deeds that earth has known, Were never writ in ink or stone, And yet their sweetness still survives."[/b]
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Post by Admin on Jul 28, 2023 21:04:52 GMT -5
On Growing Old Successfully
A great deal of advice is given to young people. Sermons are preached to them. Books are written for them, filled with counsels. No doubt the young need wise advice, solemn preaching, and paternal counsel. The world has many dangers for youth. Besides, character is formed into permanence, in the early days.
But youth is not the only stage of life which has perils; each period has its own. A great many men break down at mid-life. Many whose youth and early manhood gave brightest promise
—fail utterly in some crisis when at their very strongest. Not all the wrecks of life occur in the early days. A majestic tree fell at its prime
—fell on a calm evening, when there was scarcely a breath of air stirring. It had withstood a century of storms, and now was broken off by a zephyr. The secret was disclosed in its falling. A boy's hatchet had been struck into it when it was a tender sapling. The wound had been grown over and hidden away under exuberant life—but it had never healed.
There at the heart of the tree it stayed, a spot of decay, ever eating a little farther and deeper into the trunk, until at last the tree was rotted through, and fell of its own weight, when it seemed to be at its best. So do many lives fall—when they seem to be at their strongest, because some sin or fault of youth has left its wounding and its consequent weakness at the heart. For many years it is hidden, and life goes on in strength. At last, however, its sad work is done, and at his prime the man falls.
One might suppose, however, that good old age, at least, is safe from moral danger. It has weathered the storms of many long years. It has passed through the experimental stages. The passions of youth have been brought under masterful control. Life is sobered, quiet, steady, strong, with ripened character, tried and secure principles, and with rich experiences.
So we congratulate the old man on having gotten well through life, where he can at last enjoy the blessings of restful years. But really, old age has perils of its own, which are quite as grave in their own way, as those of youth.
Sometimes it does not fulfill the prophecy and the promise of the earlier years. Some men, who live nobly and richly until they have passed the meridian of their days— lose in the beauty and splendor of their character, and in the sweetness of their spirit, as they move toward the sunset.
Old age has its temptations and perils. It is hard to bear the honors of a good and worthy life, and not be spoiled by them, as they gather about the head when the years multiply.
Some old men grow vain when they hear their names mentioned with honor, and when their good deeds are applauded. It is hard to keep the heart humble, and the life simple and gentle—when one stands amid the successes, the achievements, the ripened fruits, of many years of struggle, toil, and sacrifice, in the days of a prosperous old age.
Some old men become self-conceited—quite too conscious of the good they have done, and the honor which gathers about their head. They grow talkative, especially about themselves and their own part in the achievements of the past. They like to tell the stories of the things they have done.
The ease and freedom from care which sometimes come as the fitting reward of a life of hardship, self-denial, struggle, and toil, do not always prove the most healthful conditions, or those in which the character appears at its best.
Some men who were splendid in incessant action, when carrying heavy loads, meeting large responsibilities, and enduring sore trials—are not nearly so noble when they have been compelled to lay down their burdens, drop their tasks out of their hands, and step out of the crowding, surging ranks —into the quiet ways of those whose great life-work is mainly finished.
They chafe at standing still.
Their peace is broken in the very days, when it ought to be the calmest and sweetest.
They are unwilling to confess that they are growing old,and to yield their places of responsibility and care to younger men.
Too often they make the mistake of overstaying their own greatest usefulness in positions which they have filled with fidelity and success in the past —but which, with their own waning powers, they can no longer fill acceptably and well as heretofore.
In this respect old age puts life to a severe test. It is the part of true wisdom in a man, as he advances in years, to recognize the fact that he can no longer continue to carry all the burdens that he bore in the days of his strength, nor do all the work that he did when he was in his life's prime.
Sometimes old age grows unhappy and discontented. We cannot wonder at this. It becomes lonely, as one by one its sweet friendships and close companionships fall off in the resistless desolation which death produces. The hands that have always been so busy are left well-near empty.
It is not easy to keep sweet and gentle-spirited when a man must stand aside and see others take up and do the things he used to do himself, and when he must walk alone where in former years his life was blessed with tender human companionships.
Broken health also comes in, oftentimes, as a burden of old age, which adds to the difficulty of the problem of beautiful living.
These are some of the reasons why old age is a truer and sorer testing-time of character than youth or mid-life. New perils come with this period. Many men, who live nobly and victoriously in the days of active struggle and hard toil, fail in the days of quiet and ease.
While busy, and under pressure of duty, they prove true and faithful; but they fail in the time of leisure, when the pressure is withdrawn.
We should set ourselves the task, however, of living nobly and victoriously to the very close of life. We should make the whole day of life beautiful, to its last moments. The late afternoon should be as lovely, with its deep, serious blue, and its holy, restful quiet, as the forenoon, with its stir and freshness, and its splendor and sunshine; and the sun-setting should be as glorious with is amber and gold as the sun-rising with its glow and radiance.
The old, and those who are growing old, should never feel for a moment that their work, even their best work, is done, when they can no longer march and keep in step in the columns with youth and strong manhood. The work of the later and riper years is just as important as that of the earlier years. It is not the same work—but it is no less essential in the world.
"Young men for action, old men for counsel," said the great philosopher. The life that one may live in the
quieter time, when the rush and the strife are left behind, may be even more lovely, more Christlike, and more helpful, than was the life of the more exciting, stirring time which is gone. It may mean more in results, in real fruitage, though lacking in stir and noise. Here is a parable of a beautiful old age—
The pathway of the righteous is compared to the shining light which shines more and more unto the perfect day. A good life ought to grow more and more beautiful every day. The task of sweet, useful living is no less a duty when one has gotten through the years of mid-life, into the borders of old age, than it was in the days of strength.
A man should not slacken his diligence, earnestness, faithfulness, prayerfulness, or his faith in Christ, until he has come to the very gate of eternity.
One of the perils of old age, is just at this point. A man feels that his work is done, his character is matured, his reputation is established; and he is tempted to grow careless, as if it could not now matter much what he does or what he leaves undone.
This is an error which sometimes proves very costly. There have been old men who in their very last years, for lack of the accustomed wisdom or restraint, have marred the beauty which through all their life their hands had been
diligently and painstakingly fashioning.
Sometimes the fabric of a whole life-work is torn down in a few days or months of foolishness, when the watch is taken off the life, and discipline is relaxed.
We are not done with life in this world—until the hands have been folded on the breast in their final repose; therefore we should not slacken our diligence for an instant.
We should make the last moments beautiful with trust and faith and sweet patience and quiet peace and earnest usefulness, dying beautifully.
How shall we live so that we shall be sure of a successful and beautiful old age? For one thing, all the life, from youth up, must be true and worthy. Old age is the harvest of all the years. It is the time when whatever we have sown—we shall also reap.
Wasted years, too, give a harvest—a harvest of regret and sorrow, of unhappy memories, and remorseful self-accusing. We are building the house, all along the years, in which we must live when we grow old.
The old man may change neighbors or change countries—but he cannot get away from himself.
To have a golden harvest—we must sow good seeds. To have sweet memories, we must live purely, unselfishly, thoughtfully, with reverence for God and love for man. We must fill our hearts with the harmonies of love and truth along the years, if in the silence of old age we would listen to songs of gladness and peace.
The old should never let duties drop out of their hands.
Duties may not be the same when years have brought feebleness
—but every day to the close brings something for the hands to do.
No old man has earned the right to be useless, even for a day.
The old should never cease to look forward for the best of life.
The year we are now living we should always make better than any year which is past.
It was an old man, with martyrdom imminent, who gave as his theory of life the forgetting of things that are past, and the stretching forth to things that are before.
Such a life never grows old. Even at four-score, it is "eighty years young," not eighty years old.
It is a beautiful fantasy, that in heaven the oldest are the youngest, since all life is toward immortal youth.
Why may it not be so of the good on earth?
We need not grow old.
We can keep our heart young—our feelings, affections, yearnings, and hopes young. Then old age will indeed be the best of life—life's ripeness, life's times of coronation.
"It is a favorite speculation of mine," said Dr. Chalmers, "That if spared to sixty years of age, we then enter the seventh decade of human life, and that this, if possible, should be turned into the Sabbath of our earthly pilgrimage, and spent sabbatically, as if on the shores of an eternal world, or, as it were, in the outer courts of the temple which is above, the tabernacle which is in heaven."
This is a beautiful thought, with a suggestion which must commend itself to many devout people drawing toward old age.
It does not imply a decade of idleness, or of selfish ease—but such a use of the life in its ripeness and richness of experience, as shall shed upon the world the holiest influence and blessings
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Post by Admin on Jan 13, 2024 16:40:27 GMT -5
Taking Cheerful Views
"I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances. I
know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have
plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and
every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in
plenty or in need!" Philippians 4:11-13
"A happy heart makes the face cheerful." Proverbs 15:13
"A cheerful heart has a continual feast." Proverbs 15:15
"A cheerful heart is good medicine; but a crushed spirit dries up
the bones." Proverbs 17:22
One of the divinest secrets of a happy life—is the art of
extracting comfort and sweetness from every circumstance. We must
develop the habit of looking on the bright side. It is a magic-wand
whose power exceeds that of any fabled magician's to change all
things into blessings. Those who take cheerful views, find happiness
everywhere; and yet how rare is the habit! The multitude prefer to
walk on the dark side of the paths of life.
There are those who take to gloom—as a bat to darkness, or as
a vulture to carrion! They would rather nurse a misery—than cherish
a joy. They always find the dark side of everything, if there is a dark
side to be found. They appear to be conscientious grumblers, as if it
were their duty to extract some essence of misery from every
circumstance. The weather is either too cold or too hot; too wet or
too dry. They never find anything to their taste. Nothing escapes
their criticism. They find fault with the food on the table, with
the bed in which they lie, with the railroad-train or steamboat on
which they travel, with the government and its officials, with
merchant and workman—in a word, with the world at large and in
detail.
They are chronic grumblers. Instead of being content in the state in
which they are—they have learned to be discontented, no matter how
happy their lot! If they had been placed in the Garden of Eden—they
would have discovered something with which to find fault!
Their wretched habit empties life of all possible joy—and turns
every cup to gall.
On the other hand, there are rare people who always take cheerful
views of life. They look at the bright side. They find some joy and
beauty everywhere. If the sky is covered with clouds—they will point
out to you the splendor of some great cloud-bank piled up like
mountains of glory. When the storm rages, instead of fears and
complaints—they find an exquisite pleasure in contemplating its
grandeur and majesty. In the most faulty picture—they see some bit
of beauty which charms them. In the most disagreeable person—they
discover some kindly trait or some bud of promise. In the most
disheartening circumstances, they find something for which to be
thankful, some gleam of cheer breaking in through the thick gloom.
When a ray of sunlight streamed through a crack in the shutter, and
made a bright patch on the floor in the darkened room—the little dog
rose from his dark corner, and went and lay down in the one sunny
spot; and these cheerful people live in the same philosophical way. If
there is one beam of cheer or hope anywhere in their lot—they will
find it! They have a genius for happiness. They always make the best
out of circumstances. They are happy as travelers. They are
contented as boarders. Their good nature never fails. They take a
cheerful view of every perplexity. Even in sorrow, their faces are
illumined, and songs come from the chambers where they weep.
Such people have a wondrous ministry in this world. They are like
apple trees when covered with blossoms, pouring a sweet fragrance
all around them.
It may be worth while to linger a little on the philosophy of
living which produces such results.
Some people are born with sunny dispositions, with large
hopefulness and joyfulness, and with eyes for the bright side of life.
Others are naturally disposed to gloom. Physical causes have, no
doubt, much to do with the discontent of many lives. Dyspepsia or a
disordered liver, is responsible for much bad temper, low spirits and
melancholy; and yet, while there is this predisposition in
temperament on the one hand toward hopefulness, and on the other
toward depression and gloom, it is still largely a matter of culture
and habit, for which we are individually responsible. Like the apostle
Paul, we can train ourselves to take cheerful views of life, and to
extract contentment and enjoyment from any circumstances.
"Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again—Rejoice!" Philippians
4:4. This is clearly a most important part of Christian culture.
Joyfulness is everywhere commended as a Christian duty. Discontent
is a most detestable fault. Morbidness is a sin. Fretfulness grieves
God. It tells of unbelief. It destroys the soul's peace. It disfigures the
beauty of Christian character. It not only makes us soured and
unhappy in our own hearts—but its influence on others is bad. We
have no right to project the gloom of our discontent—over any other
life. Our attitude is to be ever toward joy. There is nothing so
depressing in its effect upon others, as morbidness!
Also, for the sake of those among whom we live, and upon whose
lives we are forever unconsciously either casting
shadows, or pouring sunshine—we should seek to learn
this Christian art of contentment.
What are some of the elements of this divine philosophy of living?
One is patient submission to all the ills and hardships of life, which
are unavoidable. No person's lot is perfect. No mortal ever yet found
a set of circumstances without some unpleasant feature. Sometimes
it is in our power—to modify the discomforts. Our trouble is often of
our own making! Much of it needs only a little energetic activity on
our part, to remove it. We are fools, if we live on amid ills and
hardships, which a reasonable industry would change to comforts, or
even pleasures!
But if there are unavoidable ills or burdens, which we cannot by any
energy of our own remove or lighten—they must be submitted to
without murmuring. We have a saying that, "What cannot be cured—
must be endured." But the very phrasing tells of an unyielding heart!
There is submission to the inevitable—but no reconciliation to it!
True contentment does not chafe under disappointments and losses
—but accepts them, becomes reconciled to them, and at once looks
about to find something good in them. This is the secret of happy
living! And when we come to think of it—how senseless it is to
struggle against the inevitable! Discontent helps nothing. It never
removes a hardship, or makes a burden any lighter, or brings back a
vanished pleasure. One never feels better, for complaining. It only
makes him wretched!
A starling in a cage struggles against its fate, flies against the wire
walls, and beats upon them in efforts to be free—until its wings are
all bruised and bleeding! A canary is shut in another cage, accepts
the restraint, perches itself upon its bar and sings. Surely,
the canary is wiser than the starling!
We would also get far along toward contentment, if we ceased to
waste time dreaming over unattainable earthly good. Only a few
people can be great or rich; the mass must always remain in ordinary
circumstances. Suppose that each of the forty million people in the
world, were millionaires; who could be found to do the work that
must be done? Or suppose that all were great poets. Imagine the
forty million people in the world, all writing poetry! Who would write
the prose? A little serious reflection will show that the world needs
only a very few great and conspicuous lives—while it needs millions
for its varied industries, its plain duties, its hard toil.
Also, a large amount of our discontent arises from our envy of those
who have what we have not. There are many who lose all the comfort
of their own lives—in coveting the better things that some other one
possesses! How foolish!
There are several considerations which ought to modify this
miserable feeling of envy, which brings so much bitterness. If we
could know the secret history of the life that we envy for its splendor
and prosperity, perhaps we would not exchange for it our lowlier life,
with its plain circumstances. Certain it is, that contentment is not so
apt to dwell in palaces or on thrones—as in the homes of the humble.
The tall peaks rise nearer the skies—but the winds smite them more
fiercely!
Then why should I hide my one talent in the earth—because it is
not ten? Why should I make my life a failure in the place allotted to
me, while I sit down and dream over unattainable things? Why
should I miss my one golden opportunity, however small—while I
envy some other one—what seems his greater opportunity?
Countless people make themselves wretched—by vainly trying to
grasp far-away joys, while they leave untouched and despised—the
numberless little joys and bright bits of happiness, which lie close to
their hand.
As one has written, "Stretching out his hand to catch the stars—man
forgets the flowers at his feet—so beautiful, so fragrant, so
multitudinous and so various." The secret of happiness lies
in extracting pleasure from the things we have—while we enter no
mad, vain chase after impossible dreams!
Another way to train ourselves to cheerful views of life—is resolutely
to refuse to be frightened at shadows, or even to see trouble where
there is none. Half or more of the things that most worry us—have no
existence, but in a disordered imagination. Many things that in the
dim distance look like shapes of peril, when we draw near to them—
melt into harmless shadows, or even change into forms of
friendliness! Much of the gloomy tinge that many people see on
everything, is caused by the color of the glasses through which they
look. We look out through our blue-glasses, and then wonder what
makes everything blue! The greater part of our discontent, is caused
by some imaginary trouble which never really comes. We can do
much toward curing ourselves of fretting and worrying—by refusing
to be fooled by a foreboding imagination.
We also need to learn—ever to make the best of things. There will
always be cloudy days. No one can live without meeting discomforts,
disappointments and hardships. No wisdom, no industry of ours can
eliminate from our experience, all that is disagreeable or painful. But
shall we allow the one discordant note in the grand symphony—to
mar for us all the noble music? Shall we permit the one discomfort in
our home—to cast a cloud over all its pleasures and embitter all its
joys? Shall we not seek for the bright side? There is
really sunshine enough in the darkest day—to make any ordinary
mortal happy—if he only has eyes to see it!
It is marvelous what a trifling thing will give joy to a truly grateful
heart. Mr. Park in the bleak desert, found the greatest delight in
a single tuft of moss growing in the sand. It saved him from despair
and from death, and filled his soul with joy and hope. There is no lot
in life so dreary—that it has not at least its one little patch of beauty;
or its one wee flower looking up out of the dreariness, like a smile of
God.
Even if the natural eye can see no brightness in the cloud, the faith of
the Christian knows that there is good in everything, for the child of
God. There are reasons, no doubt, why no perfect happiness can be
found in this world. If there were no thorns in our pillow here on
earth—would we care to pillow our heads on the bosom of divine
love? Our Father makes our nest rough—to drive us to seek the
warmer, softer nest, prepared for us in his own love.
To each one who is truly in Christ, and who really loves God—there is
a promise of good out of all things. "We know that all things work
together for the good of those who love God; to those who are called
according to His purpose." Romans 8:28. There is a wondrous
chemistry in the divine providence, which out of the commingling
of life's strange elements—always produces blessing! Thus faith's
vision sees good in all things, however dark they may appear—
and ill in nothing! We need but living faith in God's love and care to
us—to enable us to take a cheerful view of any experience.
There is another purely Christian element in the culture of
contentment which must not be overlooked. The more the heart
becomes engaged with God, and its affections enchained about him—
the less is it disturbed by the little roughnesses and hardships of
earth. Things that fret childhood, have no power to break the peace
of manhood. As we grow into higher spiritual manhood, and become
more and more filled with Christ—we shall rise above the power
of earth's discontents! We shall be happy even amid trials and losses,
amid discomforts and disappointments, because our life is hid with
Christ in God—and we have food to eat of which the world knows
not!
Thus we may train ourselves away from all gloomy and despondent
habits and experiences, toward cheerfulness and hope. The lesson,
well learned, will repay our greatest efforts! It will bring some new
pleasure into every moment. It will paint beauty for us—on the
dreariest desert. It will plant flowers for us—along every step of the
rugged road. It will bring music for us—out of every sighing wind and
wailing storm. It will fill the darkest night with star-beams! It will
make us sunny-hearted Christians—pleasing God, and blessing the
world!
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Post by Admin on Jan 13, 2024 16:42:23 GMT -5
AMUSEMENTS
"So whether you eat or drink or whatever you do—do it all for
the glory of God." 1 Corinthians 10:31
"And whatever you do, whether in word or deed—do it all in the
name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through
him." Colossians 3:17
"Redeeming the time, because the days are evil." Ephesians 5:16
Any man is a cynic—who condemns all amusements as evil and
inconsistent with the truest Christian life. Such teaching might have
been accepted in the days of 'monkish' sternness and rigor,
when piety meant contempt for all the joys and pleasures of life,
when devotees attempted to merit salvation by macerating their
flesh, by breaking the chords of natural affection, and by spurning
every happy experience as sinful. To them, holiness—was
moroseness; and self-inflicted pain—was a sweet savor to God;
and pleasure—was sin. There are also phases of undoubted piety in
these days, in which similar abnormal developments of Christian
life have appeared either as the result of devotion to some stern
doctrine—or produced by the sore stress and strain of existence,
under which gladness died away and life became hard and colorless,
in its very intensity.
In many lives, misconceptions of the true ideal of Christian
character have tended to harsh views regarding 'pleasure'. The loyal
and earnest Christian, seeks ever to imitate Christ. Our conceptions
of his character and life reproduce themselves, therefore, in
our ethics and living. A somber Christ—makes a somber religion! A
joyous and joy-approving Christ—produces a sunny religion!
It has been said from time immemorial, that Jesus never smiled. The
prevalent misconception of him has been of a man clothed in deep
sorrow, grief-laden, tearful, on whose face—no ripple of
gladness ever played. Wherever this misconception has prevailed, it
has colored the lives of all who sought closely to follow Christ. The
result has often been a gloomy religious spirit which sought
to repress its natural joy. Mirth has seemed irreverent, and all
amusements have been regarded as incompatible with sincere piety.
But as men have read more deeply into the heart and spirit of the
gospel, this view of Christ has been found to be superficial. Amid all
his sorrows, under all the deep shadows that hung over his life,
Christ ever carried a heart of joy. Exteriorly, his life was hard and
full of grief—but the hardness did not crush his spirit. He did not
carry his griefs in his face. His heart was like one of those fresh-water
springs that burst up in the midst of the sea—ever sweet under all the
salt bitterness.
Wherever he moved there were joy and gladness. Not one harsh or
cynical word ever fell from his lips. He did not frown upon the
children's plays, upon the marriage festivities, or upon the sweet
pleasures of home. A gracious joyfulness plays over nearly every
chapter of his blessed life.
The true conception of Christ's character, is of a deeply serious man,
earnest, thoughtful, living an intense life—but never somber, gloomy
or cynical. The deep earnestness of his character, shined through to
his life—with a quiet joy, and the calm steady light of a holy peace.
Wherever this conception prevails—it gives its lovely color, its sunny
brightness, to the lives of those who love and worship Christ. It
unbinds the iron fetters of 'ascetic' piety. It does not make
men boisterous. It tames wild nature. It represses excessive levity. It
makes life earnest and serious, charging it with a deep consciousness
of responsibility. But it does not restrain the innocent play of nature.
It does not put out the light of joy.
There is no inconsistency between holiness—and sincere laughter. It
is no sin—to smile. Indeed, a somber religion is unnatural. Gloom is
morbidness. Our lives should be sunny and songful. The Christian
religion of the New Testament, is joyous even amid sorrows. There is
not a tinge of ascetic severity or misanthropic hardness in any of the
saints whose pictures are preserved. We hear songs in the night.
There is a flower that is most fragrant when the sun has set—and in
the darkness pours its richest aroma on the air. Just so does true
religion grow in sweetness—as shadows deepen.
He misrepresents Christianity and the likeness of the Master—whose
piety is cold, rigid, colorless, joyless—or who frowns upon innocent
gladness and pure pleasure.
True Christlike piety does not, therefore, condemn all amusements.
It does not look with disapproval upon the sports of the children or
call youth's glad-heartedness sinful. There are proper amusements,
in which the truest Christian may indulge, without grieving Christ—
even enjoying his gracious blessing and conscious of his presence! It
is not my intention to designate specifically, what amusements are
proper for a Christian. I will only attempt to lay down certain general
principles relating to the subject. This is all that the Scriptures do,
leaving the responsibility of discrimination, upon the individual
conscience.
The NECESSITY for amusement and recreation, is written in our
nature. No man or woman can endure the incessant strain of hard
and intense life, day after day, month after month—without
some relaxation. God ordained sleep, the Sabbath, and home—as
quiet resting-places in which we may pause and build up—
what toil and care and struggle have torn down. And we need,
not rest only—but pleasure also—to unbind for a little the stiff
harness of duty, to relax the strain of responsibility, and to lubricate
the joints of life. All work and no play—makes older people; as well
as 'Jack', dull. One who reads Luther's private and home life, and
sees how he could laugh and how he played with his children even
when carrying the greatest burdens, learns where he found much of
the inspiration for his gigantic toils, and stern and herculean tasks.
It is necessary for all earnest and busy people—to have seasons
of relaxation and diversion. But to what extent may we indulge? Life
has its duties and responsibilities, and these we must never neglect.
If we must give account for every idle word we speak—must we not
also for every idle moment—and for every wasted moment?
How far, then, are we at liberty to spend time in amusement or
relaxation? Clearly, only so far as it is needed to give us required rest
—and to fit us for the most efficient work. It is right to sleep; but
when we give more time to sleep than is necessary to restore tired
Nature, to "knit up the raveled sleeve of care," and to fit us for duty
—we become squanderers of precious time!
The same principle must be applied to time spent in any kind of
relaxing pleasure, however innocent. Life—is not play! Life—is
very serious. It has its responsibilities and duties, which press at
every point, and fill every day and hour. He who would succeed in
the exciting life of today, cannot afford to lose a moment.
Every hour must be made to count. And he who would fill up the
measure of responsibility implied in consecration to God—
must redeem the time—every moment! Amusements are lawful,
therefore, only so far as they are necessary to reinvigorate life's
wasted energies; or to put fresh buoyancy and elasticity into powers,
which are wearied or worn by the strain of physical or mental toil.
Amusement is not an end—but a means. It is not life's object—but
a help along the way. It is not the goal—but the cool bower, or
the bubbling spring—on the stiff, steep mountain-side. This
distinction is vital—and must not be overlooked by those who would
so live as to please God.
Then, as to the KIND of amusements in which we may lawfully
engage, there are several equally clear principles to be observed. At
the very outset, whatever is in itself sinful—carries its own
condemnation on its face!
A Christian is never to indulge in sin. No necessity of relaxation can
ever give license to anything that conflicts with the pure morals of
the gospel. A Christian is never off duty; he is never to do anything
inconsistent with the purity of Christian living. No combination of
circumstances can make him blameless, in violating the principles
and precepts of Christianity. These are just as binding on Tuesday or
Thursday evening—as on Sunday. Amusements, as well
as books, speech, business and all conduct—must be brought to the
bar of the highest Christian morality.
True religion and common life are not two different and distinct
things. We may not cut our existence in two parts and say, "Over this
Christ shall rule—but over that He shall have no control." True
religion knows no difference between Sunday and Monday, so far as
the ethics of life are concerned. Each day brings its own specific
duties—but there are not moral precepts for the one—which are
suspended when its sun sets—that for six days a mitigated or less
holy law may prevail. Holiness is to be the Christian's dress all the
week through—in every hour's conduct.
All pleasures and amusements must be tested by the unvarying rule
of right. The standard of perfect purity—cannot be lowered!
It is the fashion to laugh at criticisms upon certain forms of
amusements, made on moral grounds. But for a Christian, there is
nothing which must not be tested by the severest rules of purity.
All immodest exhibitions, all improprieties of attitude which would
in ordinary associations be condemned, all forms of pleasure in
which lurks even the suggestion of impurity—must by this principle
be excluded from the class of amusements which are proper for one
who would closely follow Christ.
A further test which seems just and reasonable—is a reference to
the spirit of Christ's own life. This is to be the Christian's guidance in
all things. The earthly life of Christ—is the copy set for us. It is a safe
and true thing to test every separate act, and to ascertain our duty in
every uncertain moment—by asking, "What would Jesus do—if He
were in our place?" All Christian living—is but following Him. Where
He will not lead us—we must not go! As we have seen, He does not
frown upon pure and innocent pleasures. He went Himself, when He
was on the earth, to places of enjoyment and festivity. He attended a
marriage-feast and contributed to the gladness of the guests. He
accepted invitations to family feasts. There is not a trace of
asceticism in all the story of His life. And He would do the same—if
He were here now! Pleasures that are pure, innocent and helpful, or
that contribute to the joy and good of others—He would enjoy. And
what He would do if He were in our place—we, as His followers, may
do!
But there are amusements in which we may be sure that He would
not indulge. A tender spiritual instinct will readily discriminate
between those in which He would—and those in which He would not
engage. This seems a reasonable and legitimate test for us, His
followers.
Then there is another test. The one great business of Christian living
—is godly character-building. The aspiration of every earnest
Christian, is to grow every day in holiness and spirituality.
This motive is to rule all life. Our business, our associations, our
friendships, are all to be chosen—with reference to this one object.
Anything that tarnishes the luster of our spirituality, or hinders the
development of our Christian graces, or breaks the inner peace of our
hearts, or interferes with our communion with God—is harmful and
must be excluded from among the circumstances of our lives!
The question as to which amusements are proper—and which are
improper for us—each one must answer for himself. Questions
continually asked of pastors and recognized Christian guides, are
such as these, "Is it right for a Christian to dance? Or may he attend
the theater or opera or circus, or play cards?" The true way to answer
such questions, is by an honest appeal to experience. What is
the influence of such amusements, on our spiritual life and
character? Is prayer as sweet, as welcome, as helpful—after we have
partaken in the specific amusement? Do we return to prayer, from
the hours passed in such pleasures—with the same eagerness, the
same desire, as before? Do we find our communion with God as
sweet, as restful, as uplifting? Do we retain the warmth and glow of
heart, that we felt before the amusement? Or do our
amusements mar our peace, and interrupt our enjoyment of the
divine presence? Do they unfit us for devotion? Do we find our hearts
made cold and distracted by them? Do they chill our ardor in
Christian work? At what times in our life do we care most—for such
pleasures? Is it when our piety is at its best, when love is most
fervent, and zeal most earnest? Does the young Christian, in the
warmth and glow of his first love—care for these things? Do they, in
our experience, promote our spirituality, and fit us for higher
spiritual usefulness?
This is the experimental test. All the circumstances about us,
are educating influences, and whatever is injurious to piety,
whatever lowers godly character—is not proper or right, as a means
of enjoyment or amusement.
True and rational amusements are a great force in educating and
building character. All pure joy is helpful. All pure art leaves its
touch of beauty. Pure music sings itself into our hearts, and becomes
thenceforward and forever—a new element of power in our life.
Pure laughter makes life sunnier. It sweeps the clouds from the sky,
shakes off many a care, smooths out many a wrinkle—and dries
many a tear. Pure pleasure sweetens many a bitter heart-fountain,
drives away many a gloomy thought and many a hobgoblin shape of
imagined terror, and saves many a darkened spirit from despair.
"A cheerful heart is good medicine; but a crushed spirit dries up the
bones." Proverbs 17:22. Not the least highly-gifted men—are those to
whom God has imparted the talent of pure humor—that they may
make others laugh. Sanctified wit has a blessed mission. Life is so
hard, so stern, with so many burdens and struggles, that there is
need for all the bright words we can speak.
The most wretched people in the world—are those who go about in
'sackcloth', carrying all their griefs in their faces—and
casting shadows everywhere! Every Christian should be a happinessmaker. We need a thousand times more joy in our lives—than most
of us get. We would be better men and women—if we were happier.
We need, most of us, to plan more pleasures, especially
more home pleasures. Busy men need them; weary,
worried women need them, glad-hearted children need them. There
are amusements and relaxations, which do not tarnish the soul's
purity—or chill the ardor of devotion—or break our fellowship with
heaven—but which refine, exalt, purify, enlarge and enrich life!
Much harm has been done in the past, by the indiscriminate
condemnation of all amusements; while nothing has been provided
to take the place of those amusements which are harmful.
The absolute necessity of relaxation of some kind—must be kept in
mind. God has made us—needing mirth. Men will have amusements
of some kind. And in this, as in all other reforms, the truest and
wisest method is not to condemn and cut off all amusements, leaving
nothing; but to provide true and holy pleasures—and let these win
hearts away from the impure, and the hurtful amusements.
It was a maxim of Napoleon's, "To replace is to conquer." Let
Christian parents and Christian people in a community, provide
pure, healthful, and profitable entertainments for the young—and
these will gradually and insensibly uproot and replace those which
are pernicious and injurious. There is no other true and effective
way! This is as much the duty of Christian leaders—as to preach
sermons and conduct Sunday-schools. Otherwise, while one
day's religious services bring help and purity to the lives of the
people and the children—six days of worldly pleasures will more
than undo all the good. Let Christian men and women quietly
institute in every community, such means of enjoyment as shall
combine pleasure and profit—and thus the harmful shall be
replaced.
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Post by Admin on Jan 13, 2024 16:44:14 GMT -5
On the Choice of Friends
Few objects are of such vital importance to young people—as
the character of their early friends. Tourists among the Alps climb
the mountains tied together with ropes, that they may help each
other. But sometimes one falls and drags the others down with him!
So the friends to whom the young attach themselves will either help
them upward to fairer beauty and sublimer excellence—or drag
them down to blemished character, and perhaps to sullied purity.
A friend should be one whom we can trust perfectly. It is the truest
test of friendship, that you can utter the most inviolable confidences,
living as it were a transparent life in the presence of your friend,
without dreading for a moment that he will betray or misuse the
privacies you have unveiled to him. Such confidence is impossible
without a background of integrity and sterling character.
If you have the least doubt of a man's truth and honor, if you believe
him capable of being disloyal even in thought, you cannot take him
into the sacred relation of friendship. The familiar story
of Alexander and his physician well illustrates the trust that
friendship should be able to give. The king was sick, and received a
note telling him that his physician intended to give him poison under
the guise of medicine. He read the note and put it under his pillow,
and when the physician came in—he took the offered cup, and,
looking him calmly in the face, drank the draught. He then drew out
the note and gave it to his friend. It is impossible to conceive of any
trust more perfect than this. Such confidence could never be
exercised in one of whose integrity we could have the faintest
suspicion. The first essential qualification in a friend is, therefore, a
soul of unblemished truth.
Then a friend must be one who will not weary of us—when he
discovers the faults and imperfections that are in us. We meet people
in society, and they see us in the glow of distance—which lends
enchantment, concealing our unlovely qualities or spreading over
them a deceptive coloring. Some faces which look very attractive
when veiled—disclose many blemishes when seen uncovered. There
are few characters that do not reveal unlovely traits on intimate
acquaintance, which were not apparent in the ordinary interaction of
social life. We walk before our closest friends—and they oftentimes
see much silliness, pride and vanity under the thin veneer of our
society manners. Even in the very best of us—there are unlovely
features which close intimacy discloses.
In choosing friends we want those who will not be driven away when
they learn our faults. True friendship must be armor against all such
discoveries. It must take us for better—or for worse. We do not want
friends in whose presence we must wear a mask of reserve—but
those who, seeing and knowing us as we are, shall love us in spite of
the blemishes, seeking wisely, though not meddlesomely, the
removal of our faults and the elevation of our character. Nothing but
great-heartedness is sufficient for this essential need.
Then we should choose friends who will be helpful to us. Every
friendship leaves its impression upon us. There are touches
that blight, and there are touches that are blessings. A young and
innocent heart is so delicate in its beauty—that a breath of evil leaves
it sullied. We cannot afford to take into our life, even for a little time
—an impure companionship. It will leave a memory that will give
pain—even in the holiest after years.
There is embraced in the thought of friendship, the element
of mutual helpfulness. There grows up between two friends, a sort
of holy communism. What one has—the other must share—whether
it be sorrow or joy. Whatever experience is passing over the chords of
one heart—is echoed also from the other. When there is a cup of
gladness, two hearts drink of it. When there is a burden, there are
two shoulders under it. Friendship knows no limit in giving. Its joy is
not in receiving—but in imparting. It is not, therefore, exacting in its
demands or quick to complain of seeming neglect. We want unselfish
friends, who shall care for us for our own sake. We want those who
will never tire of bearing our burdens. We may have sorrow and
adversity. We may become a great care in the future, unable to give
anything in return save grateful love. He who becomes our friend,
takes upon himself many possibilities of sacrifice and unselfish
service. It may cost him much. He must be one who will not grow
weary of these burdens, should they be imposed. He must be ready to
share our infirmities, and not tire of helping us.
There are friendships that do this. The holiest of them all—is
the parental. I have seen a child growing up deformed or blind or
deaf, or perhaps weak-minded, so as to be always a burden and a
care, never a pride or a joy. And yet through the years, the parental
hearts clung to it with most tender affection, never wearying of the
burden, ministering with almost divine patience and gentleness all
the while. Then I have seen invalids who could never be anything but
invalids, to be toiled for and to be watched over, year after year; to be
carried from room to room and up and down stairs like helpless
infants. There was not a shadow of a hope, that they could ever repay
the toil they cost, or even lighten the burden they exacted from those
who loved them.
Even outside of home and family ties I have seen friendships that
never faltered under burdens that were heavy, and could never grow
less.
We know not what may befall us in the undisclosed years, and we
need friends who will never tire of us, should even the worst come.
We want friends in prosperity and wealth, who will cleave to us even
more loyally, if misfortune and poverty should strip us bare. Such
friends are rare. Only purest unselfishness is equal to such tests.
Then, in choosing friends, we should take those only with whom we
can hope to walk with, beyond death. Why should we form close and
tender attachments here—to be severed forever at death? Why
should we be unequally yoked with unbelievers? Friendship reaches
its highest, truest meaning—only when it knits two lives together at
every point—not in the lower nature alone—but in the higher as well,
and with reference to the eternal future. We should seek for our close
friends, therefore, only those who are God's children. Then the web
which we weave in our love-years, shall never be rent or torn.
Having chosen a few such friends, we should never let them go out of
our lives if we can by any possibility retain them. True friendship is
too rare and sacred a treasure, lightly to be thrown away. And yet
many people are not careful to retain their friends. Some lose them
through inattention, failing to maintain those little amenities,
courtesies and kindnesses which cost so little, and yet are hooks of
steel to grasp and hold our friends. Some drop old friends for new
ones. Some take offence easily at imagined slights or neglects, and
ruthlessly cut the most sacred ties. Some become impatient of little
faults, and discard even truest friendship.
Some are incapable of any deep or permanent affection, and fly from
friendship to friendship like restless birds from bough to bough,
making a nest in their hearts in none. Then beautiful friendships are
often destroyed, not by any sharp, sudden quarrel—but by slowly and
imperceptibly drifting apart until there is a great chasm between
two lives that once were woven sacredly together.
There are a great many ways of losing friends. But when we have
once taken true souls into the grasp of our hearts, we should cherish
them as rarest jewels. There is no wealth in the world like a noble
friendship, and nothing should induce us to sacrifice such a treasure.
If slights are given—let them be overlooked. If misunderstandings
arise—let them quickly be set right. Let not pride or fiery temper or
cold selfishness, disdainfully toss away a friendship for any trivial
cause. It is not hard to lose a friend—but the loss is utterly
irreparable!
Let it never be overlooked, that we as friends must stand ready
to be and to do—all that we expect our friends to be and to do. If we
set a high standard for them, that standard must be ours also. It will
not do to give pebbles—and ask diamonds in return.
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Post by Admin on Jan 13, 2024 16:48:28 GMT -5
LOSSES
There is no other loss, in all the range of possible losses, that is so
great as the breaking of our communion with God. I know that this is
not the ordinary estimate. We speak with heavy hearts—of our
earthly sorrows. When bereavements come and our homes are
emptied and our tender joys are borne away—we think that there is
no grief like ours. Our lives are darkened, and very dreary does this
earth appear to us—as we walk its paths in loneliness. The shadow
that hangs about us, darkens all the world.
There are other losses—losses of friends by alienation or
misunderstanding; losses of property, of comforts, of health,
of reputation; the shattering of beautiful and brilliant hopes—but
there is not one of these that is such a calamity—as the loss of God's
smile or the interruption of fellowship with him.
Men sigh over those misfortunes which touch only their earthly
circumstances—but forget that the worst of all misfortunes is
the decay of spirituality in their hearts. It would be well if all of us
understood this. There are earthly misfortunes, under which hearts
remain all the while warm and tender, like the flower-roots beneath
the winter's snows, ready to burst into glorious bloom when the glad
springtime comes. Then there are worldly prosperities under which
spiritual life withers and dies. Adversity is ofttimes the richest of
blessings. But the loss of God's smile is always—the sorest of
calamities.
We do not know what God is to us—until we lose the sense of his
presence and the consciousness of his love.
This is true, indeed, of all blessings. We do not know their value to us
—until they are imperiled or lost! We do not prize health—until it is
shattered, and we begin to realize that we can never have it restored
again! We do not recognize the richness of youth—until it has fled,
with all its glorious opportunities, and worlds cannot buy it back! We
do not appreciate the comforts and blessings of Providence, until we
have been deprived of them and are driven out of warm homes into
the cold paths of a dreary world! We do not estimate the value of our
facilities for education and improvement, until the period of these
opportunities is gone and we must enter the battle of life imperfectly
equipped! We do not know how much our friends are to us—until
they lie before us silent and cold. Ofttimes the empty place or the
deep loneliness about us—is the first revealer of the worth of one we
failed duly to prize while by our side.
In like manner, we do not know the blessedness of fellowship with
God—until his face is darkened or he seems to have withdrawn
himself. Jesus was never so precious to the disciples—as when they
had him no more! Two of his friends, indeed, never openly confessed
their love for him—until his body hung on the cross. They had
secretly loved him all along—but now, as they saw that he was dead
and that they could never, as they supposed, do anything more for
him or enjoy his presence again—all their heart's silent love awoke in
them, and they came boldly out and begged his body, gently took it
down in the sight of the multitude, and bore it to loving burial. But
for his death—they would never have realized how much they loved
him or how much he was to them!
In like manner, David never knew what God and God's house were to
his soul—until he was driven away from his home and could no more
enter the sanctuary! As he fled away it seemed as it his very heart
would break; yet his deepest sorrow was not for the joys of home left
behind—for throne, crown, palace and honors—but for the house of
God, with its hallowed and blessed communion. All the other bitter
griefs and sorrows of the hour, were swallowed up in this greatest of
all his griefs—separation from the divine presence. Nor do I believe
that the privileges of divine fellowship had ever been so precious to
him before while he enjoyed them without hindrance or interruption,
as now when he looked from his exile toward the holy place and
could not return to it!
Does not the very commonness of our religious blessings conceal
from us, their inestimable value? Luther somewhere says, "If, in his
gifts and benefits, God were more sparing and close-handed, we
would learn to be more thankful." The very unbroken continuity of
God's favors, causes us to lose sight of the Giver, and to forget to
prize the gifts themselves. If there were gaps somewhere, we would
learn to appreciate the outflow of the divine goodness.
Who is there among us all, who values highly enough, the tender
summer of God's love, which broods over us with infinite warmth
evermore? Our church privileges, our open Bibles, our religious
liberty, our Sunday teachings and communings, our hours of prayer
—do we prize these blessings as we would if we were suddenly torn
away from them, by some cruel fortune and cast in a land where all
these are lacking? Do we appreciate our privileges of fellowship with
God—as we would if for an hour, his love should be withdrawn and
the light of his presence put out?
There is something very sad in the thought, that we not only fail to
value the rich blessings of God's love—but that we ofttimes thrust
them from us, and refuse to take them, thereby both wounding the
divine heart and impoverishing our own souls! It would be a very
bitter thing, if any of us should first be made truly aware of the
presence and grace of Christ—by his vanishing forever from our
sight, after having for long years stood with wondrous patience—at
our locked and bolted doors! It would be a bitter thing to learn the
blessedness of the things of the mercy and love of God, as we are
often only made aware of the value of earthly blessings—by seeing
them depart forever beyond our reach!
There is another phase of this subject which ought to bring
unspeakable comfort to God's children, who are called to suffer
earthly losses. If they have GOD left to them—no other loss is
irreparable!
A wealthy man came home one evening with a heavy heart, and said
that he had lost everything. Bankruptcy had overtaken him. "We are
utterly beggared!" he said. "All is gone; there is nothing left! We
must leave our home, and beg for tomorrow's bread!" His little five
year old girl crept up on his knee, and, looking earnestly into his
despairing face, said, "Why, papa, you have mamma and me left!"
What are temporal and worldly losses of the sorest kind—
while God remains? Yes, what is the loss of money, houses, costly
furniture, and other possessions, while God's love remains? There is
surely enough in Him—to compensate a thousand times for every
earthly loss! Our lives may be stripped bare—home, friends, riches,
comforts, gone; every sweet voice of love, every note of joy silenced—
and we may be driven out from brightness, tenderness and shelter—
into the cold ways of sorrow; yet if we have God Himself left—ought
it not to suffice? Is He not in Himself, infinitely more than all
His gifts? If we have Him—can we really need anything else?
"The Lord is my Shepherd—I have everything I need!" Psalm 23:1
"God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble.
Therefore we will not fear, though the earth give way and the
mountains fall into the heart of the sea, though its waters roar and
foam and the mountains quake with their surging." Psalm 46:1-3.
"Surely I am with you always—to the very end of the age!" Matthew
28:20.
"God Himself has said—Never will I leave you; never will I forsake
you." Hebrews 13:5
Therefore is it that so often we do not learn the depth and riches of
God's love, and the sweetness of his presence, until other joys vanish
out of our hands, and other loved presences fade away out of sight!
The loss of temporal things seems ofttimes to be necessary to empty
our hearts—that they may receive the things that
are unseen and eternal. Into many a life God is never permitted to
enter—until sorest earthly losses have made room for him. The door
is never opened to him—until the soul's dead joys are being brought
out; then, while it stands open, he enters bearing into it joys
immortal. How often is it true, that the sweeping away of our earthly
hopes—reveals the glory of our heart's refuge in God!
Someone has beautifully said, "Our refuges are like the nests of
birds: in summer—they are hidden among the green leaves; but
in winter—they are seen among the naked branches." Worldly losses
but strip off the foliage and disclose to us our heart's warm nest in
the bosom of God.
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Post by Admin on Jan 13, 2024 16:51:37 GMT -5
The Service of Consecration
The more deeply we read into the life and teachings of our Lord and
his apostles—the more clearly does it appear that the golden thought
of "loving others" comes out of the very heart of the gospel. It lies
embedded not only in John's Epistles—but in the teachings of the
Master himself. Love for God is only a vaporous sentiment, a misty
emotion—unless it manifest itself in love for men.
Our Lord gave us a picture of the last judgment which at first almost
startles us; for, instead of making faith in himself or love for God the
test of men's lives—he makes all turn, in that great final day, upon
the way they have treated others in this world! Those who have used
their gifts to feed the hungry, to clothe the naked, to relieve the
distress of the poor, the prisoner, the sick—are welcomed into eternal
joy. Those who have shut up their hands and hearts, allowing human
need and suffering to go unrelieved, are themselves shut out from
eternal blessedness!
Are men, then, after all, saved by good works? No! The meaning of
the picture, lies deeper than that. True love for Christ—always opens
men's hearts toward their fellows. There is another feature of the
picture, which presents this truth in still clearer light. Christ appears
accepting everything done to the needy—as done to himself in
person!
"Then the King will say to those on His right, ‘Come, you who are
blessed by My Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the
foundation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave Me
something to eat; I was thirsty and you gave Me something to drink;
I was a stranger and you took Me in; I was naked and you clothed
Me; I was sick and you took care of Me; I was in prison and you
visited Me.’"
Then, when the righteous say, in amazement, "Lord, when did we see
You hungry and feed You, or thirsty and give You something to
drink? When did we see You a stranger and take You in, or without
clothes and clothe You? When did we see You sick, or in prison, and
visit You?" "And the King will answer them, ‘I assure you: Whatever
you did for one of the least of these brothers of Mine, you did for
Me.’" Matthew 25:34-40.
You did not know it—but every time you fed a hungry neighbor, or
gave a cup of water to a thirsty pilgrim, or visited a sick man, or
clothed an orphan child, or wrought any ministry of kindness to one
in need—you did it to Me." That is, the way Jesus wants us to serve
him—is by serving those who need our ministry. The incense he loves
best—is that which is burned, not in a golden censer to waste its
perfume on the air—but in the homes of need to cheer some human
weariness or comfort some human sorrow.
The whole matter of practical consecration is oft times very
unsatisfactory. We say that we give ourselves to Christ, making an
unreserved consecration of all our gifts and powers to his service. We
are sincere—yet we are not conscious that in our actual living—we
utterly fail to make good our solemn covenants and honest
intentions! It may help us take our consecration out of the region of
the emotional and make it real—to remember that it is
a living sacrifice we are to make of ourselves to God—that is, it is not
merely hymn-singing, praying and love-rapture he wants—but
a living service in his name and for him—in this blighted world.
The old Catholic monks used to hide away in deserts and mountains
and in monastery cells, as far as possible from human sin and need,
and thought that was the kind of service Christ wanted. Sometimes
they would torture themselves, lacerate their bodies, fast, live in the
cold and storms. Some of them dwelt for years on tops of pillars and
monuments, exposed to rain and snow, to heat and tempest—
and thought that they were offering most acceptable sacrifices to
God.
But they were not. They were only wasting, in idle day-dreams,
useless sacrifice, unavailing suffering and hideous self-torture—the
glorious gifts which God had bestowed upon them to be used in
serving others. Only the living sacrifice is pleasing to God. We bring
our natural endowments, our acquired powers or gains, our gifts and
blessings, to his feet; and, touching them with his blessing, he gives
them back to us and says, "Take these back again—and use them for
me in bearing joy, help, comfort, cheer or inspiration—to those
around you and in life's paths—who need your ministries."
As we read still more deeply into the heart of this matter, we find
that God bestows no gift, power or blessing upon us—
for ourselves alone!
Take money. The mistake of the rich man in our Lord's parable in
Luke 16—was not that he was rich. He made his wealth honestly. God
gave it to him in abundant harvests. But his sin began, when he
asked, "What shall I do with all this wealth? Where shall I bestow all
my fast-increasing goods?" His decision showed that he was living
only for himself. He thought not of his relation to God above—or to
men about him.
"I will build larger barns, and there store my goods." Instead of using
his wealth to bless others—he would hoard it and keep it all in his
own hands. The man who fulfills his mission and illustrates his
consecration when money is given to him—is he who says, "This
money is not mine. I have received it through God's blessing. He has
greatly honored me in making me his agent to use it for him. It is a
sacred trust, granted to be employed in his name for the blessing of
men; I must do with it—just what Christ himself would do if he were
here in my place!"
Or take knowledge. Education, in a consecrated life, is not to be
sought for its own sake—but that we may thereby be made capable of
doing more for the good or the joy of others. Each new lesson in life,
each new accession to our knowledge, each new experience, is
legitimately employed—only when it is turned at once into some
channel of personal helpfulness to others. One has the gift of music,
and can sing or play well. The kind of consecration Christ wants of
this gift—is its use to do good to others, to make them happier or
better, to put songs into silent hearts, and joys into sad hearts. Of all
gifts, there is no one, perhaps, capable of a diviner ministry than is
the gift of song.
"God sent his singers upon earth,
With songs of sadness and of mirth,
That they might touch the hearts of men,
And bring them back to heaven again."
A young lady can read well. If she would carry out the spirit of her
consecration to Christ, she is to employ her gift of reading—in giving
happiness and profit to others. She can brighten many an evening
hour in her own home—by reading aloud to the loved ones that
cluster around the hearth-stone. Or she can do still more Christly
work by seeking out the aged with dim eyes, the poor who cannot
read, or the sick in their lonely chambers—and quietly and tenderly
reading to them words of comfort, instruction, and divine love.
Take the blessings of spiritual experience. There is a wonderful
sentence in one of Paul's letters. He is thanking God for the comfort
which he had given to him in some sorrow, and he says, "Blessed be
the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles—so that
we can comfort those in any trouble, with the comfort we ourselves
have received from God." That is, Paul praised God not merely
because he himself had been comforted—but because the comfort
which had been given to him in his sorrow—gave him added power
with which to comfort others.
It was a great thing to feel the warmth of God's love breaking into his
heart, the light of his face streaming upon his soul, and his blessed
peace stealing into his bosom. But Paul's personal experience of joy
in being thus comforted—was entirely buried away in the gladness of
the other thought, "Ah! now I can be a better preacher to the
troubled. I can bring more consolation to the sorrowing! I have
gotten a new power of helpfulness with which to serve my fellows! I
can do more hereafter to wipe away tears and to put songs into the
hearts of others!" It was for this, that he thanked God—not that the
comfort of God had been imparted to him, although that was a great
joy—but that he had something now which he never had before with
which to do good and scatter blessings to others! His greatest
gladness was not that God had lighted a new lamp in his soul—to
pour its heavenly beams upon his own sorrow, although that was
cause for deep praise—but that he had now a new lamp to carry into
other darkened homes. What a sublimity of usefulness! Yet that is
the true Christian way of receiving comfort and every spiritual gift
and blessing. That is the true idea of consecration.
"When you have repented," said the Master to Peter—"strengthen
and build up your brothers." His meaning was, that a new power of
personal helpfulness was to come to him through his sad experience,
which he should use in strengthening others to meet temptation.
Then, when he had passed through that terrible night, when he had
been lifted up again, when he had crept back to the feet of his risen
Lord and had been forgiven and reinstated, he had double cause for
gratitude—that he himself had been saved from hopeless wreck and
restored, and, still more, that he was new a better man, prepared, in
a higher sense than before, to be an apostle and a patient, helpful
friend to others in similar trial.
Then take the still more wonderful experience of our Lord's own
temptation. He certainly endured for his own sake that he might
become Conqueror and Lord of all, that he might be "made perfect
through suffering." But that which the Scriptures love to linger upon
as the chief reason why he was called to pass through temptation,
was that he might thereby be fitted, by his own experiences, to be to
his people a sympathizing and helpful Friend and Savior.
The meaning of all this, is that we are to receive even our spiritual
gifts and blessings, not only as mere tokens of the love and kindness
of God toward us—but also as new powers with which we are to serve
our fellow-men. It is easy to be selfish, even in the region of our most
sacred spiritual life. We may want comfort—only that we may be
comforted ourselves. We may desire high attainments in Christian
life for their own sake—with no wish to be made thereby greater
blessings to the world. But when we seek in this way, we may not
receive. Even in spiritual things, selfishness restrains the divine
outflow toward us.
God does not like to bestow his blessings, where they will
be hoarded or selfishly used. He loves to put his very best gifts, into
the hands of those who will not store them away in barns, or fold
them up in napkins and hide them away—but will scatter them
abroad. He puts his songs—into the hearts of those who will sing
them out again. This is the secret of that promise, that to him that
has—shall be given, and of that other little understood,
little believed, little practiced word of Christ, "It is more blessed to
give—than to receive."
Heaven's blessing comes, not upon the receiving—but upon
the dispensing. We are not blessed in the act of taking—but in the
act of giving out again. Things we take to keep for ourselves
alone, fade in our hands. Men are good and great before God, not as
they gather into their hands and hearts the abundant gifts of God,
whether temporal or spiritual—but as their gathering augments their
usefulness, and makes them greater blessings to others!
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Post by Admin on Jan 13, 2024 16:54:29 GMT -5
Beautiful Old Age
This may scarcely seem a fitting theme to introduce in a book meant
chiefly for the young, and yet a moment’s reflection will show its
appropriateness and practicalness.
Old age is the harvest of all the years that have gone before. It is the
barn into which all the sheaves are gathered. It is the sea into which
all the rills and rivers of life flow from their springs in the hills and
valleys of youth and manhood. We are each, in all our earlier years,
building the house in which we shall have to live when we grow old.
And we may make it a prison or a palace. We may make it very
beautiful, adorning it with taste and filling it with objects which shall
minister to our pleasure, comfort, and power. We may cover the
walls with lovely pictures. We may spread luxurious couches of ease
on which to rest. We may lay up in store great supplies of provision
upon which to feed in the days of hunger and feebleness. We may
gather and pile away large bundles of wood to keep the fires blazing
brightly in the long winter days and nights of old age.
Or we may make our house very gloomy. We may hang the chamberwalls with horrid pictures, covering them with ghastly spectres which
shall look down upon us and haunt us, filling our souls with terror
when we sit in the gathering darkness of life’s nightfall. We may
make beds of thorns to rest upon. We may lay up nothing to feed
upon in the hunger and craving of declining years. We may have no
fuel ready for the winter fires.
We may plant roses to bloom about our doors and fragrant gardens
to pour their perfumes about us, or we may sow weeds and briers to
flaunt themselves in our faces as we sit in our doorways in the
gloaming.
All old age is not beautiful. All old people are not happy. Some are
very wretched, with hollow, sepulchral lives. Many an ancient palace
was built over a dark dungeon. There were the marble walls that
shone with dazzling splendor in the sunlight. There were the wide
gilded chambers with their magnificent frescoes and their splendid
adornments, the gaiety, the music, and the revelry. But deep down
beneath all this luxurious splendor and dazzling display was the
dungeon filled with its unhappy victims, and up through the iron
gratings came the sad groans and moanings of despair, echoing and
reverberating through the gilded halls and ceiled chambers; and in
this I see a picture of many an old age. It may have abundant
comforts and much that tells of prosperity in an outward sense—
wealth, honors, friends, the pomp and circumstance of greatness—
but it is only a palace built over a gloomy dungeon of memory, up
from whose deep and dark recesses come evermore voices of remorse
and despair to sadden or embitter every hour and to cast shadows
over every lovely picture and every bright scene.
It is possible so to live as to make old age very sad, and then it is
possible so to live as to make it very beautiful. In going my rounds in
the crowded city I came one day to a door where my ears were
greeted with a great chorus of bird-songs. There were birds
everywhere—in parlour, in dining-room, in bedchamber, in hall—and
the whole house was filled with their joyful music. So may old age be.
So it is for those who have lived aright. It is full of music. Every
memory is a little snatch of song. The sweet bird-notes of heavenly
peace sing everywhere, and the last days of life are its happiest days
—
"Rich in experience that angels might covet,
Rich in a faith that has grown with the years."
The important practical question is, How can we so live that our old
age, when it comes, shall be beautiful and happy? It will not do to
adjourn this question until the evening shadows are upon us. It will
be too late then to consider it. Consciously or unconsciously, we are
every day helping to settle the question whether our old age shall be
sweet and peaceful or bitter and wretched. It is worth our while,
then, to think a little how to make sure of a happy old age.
We must live a useful life. Nothing good ever comes out of idleness or
out of selfishness. The standing water stagnates and breeds decay
and death. It is the running stream that keeps pure and sweet. The
fruit of an idle life is never joy and peace. Years lived selfishly never
become garden-spots in the field of memory. Happiness comes out of
self-denial for the good of others. Sweet always are the memories of
good deeds done and sacrifices made. Their incense, like heavenly
perfume, comes floating up from the fields of toil and fills old age
with holy fragrance. When one has lived to bless others, one has
many grateful, loving friends whose affection proves a wondrous
source of joy when the days of feebleness come. Bread cast upon the
waters is found again after many days.
I see some people who do not seem to want to make friends. They are
unsocial, unsympathetic, cold, distant, disobliging, selfish. Others,
again, make no effort to retain their friends. They cast them away for
the slightest cause. But they are robbing their later years of joys they
cannot afford to lose. If we would walk in the warmth of friendship’s
beams in the late evening-time, we must seek to make to ourselves
loyal and faithful friends in the busy hours that come before. This we
can do by a ministry of kindness and self-forgetfulness. This was part
at least of what our Lord meant in that counsel which falls so
strangely on our ears until we understand it: "Make to yourselves
friends of the mammon of unrighteousness, that when you fail, they
may receive you into everlasting habitations."
Again, we must live a pure and holy life. Every one carries in himself
the sources of his own happiness or wretchedness. Circumstances
have really very little to do with our inner experiences. It matters
little in the determination of one’s degree of enjoyment whether he
live in a cottage or a palace. It is self, after all, that in largest measure
gives the color to our skies and the tone to the music we hear. A
happy heart sees rainbows and brilliance everywhere, even in darkest
clouds, and hears sweet strains of song even amid the loudest
wailings of the storm; and a sad heart, unhappy and discontented,
sees spots in the sun, specks in the rarest fruits, and something with
which to find fault in the most perfect of God’s works, and hears
discords and jarring notes in the heavenliest music. So it comes
about that this whole question must be settled from within. The
fountains rise in the heart itself. The old man, like the snail, carries
his house on his back. He may change neighbors or homes or scenes
or companions, but he cannot get away from himself and his own
past. Sinful years put thorns in the pillow on which the head of old
age rests. Lives of passion and evil store away bitter fountains from
which the old man has to drink.
Sin may seem pleasant to us now, but we must not forget how it will
appear when we get past it and turn to look back upon it; especially
must we keep in mind how it will seem from a dying pillow. Nothing
brings such pure peace and quiet joy at the close as a well-lived past.
We are every day laying up the food on which we must feed in the
closing years. We are hanging up pictures about the walls of our
hearts that we shall have to look at when we sit in the shadows. How
important that we live pure and holy lives! Even forgiven sins will
mar the peace of old age, for the ugly scars will remain.
Summing all up in one word, only Christ can make any life, young or
old, truly beautiful or truly happy. Only He can cure the heart’s
restless fever and give quietness and calmness. Only He can purify
that sinful fountain within us, our corrupt nature, and make us holy.
To have a peaceful and blessed ending to life, we must live it with
Christ. Such a life grows brighter even to its close. Its last days are
the sunniest and the sweetest. The more earth’s joys fail, the nearer
and the more satisfying do the comforts become. The nests over
which the wing of God droops, which in the bright summer days of
prosperous strength lay hidden among the leaves, stand out
uncovered in the days of decay and feebleness when winter has
stripped the branches bare. And for such a life death has no terrors.
The tokens of its approach are but "the land-birds lighting on the
shrouds, telling the weary mariner that he is nearing the haven." The
end is but the touching of the weather-beaten keel on the shore of
glory!
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Post by Admin on Jan 13, 2024 16:57:11 GMT -5
Unconscious Farewells
Every hour there are partings, thought to be only for a little season—
which prove to be forever. One morning a young man bade his wife
and child 'good-bye' and went out to his work. He was in an accident
on the street, and before midday, his lifeless body was borne back to
his home. It was a terrible shock—but there was one sweet comfort
that came with wondrous power, to the crushed heart of the young
wife. The last hour they had spent together, had been one of peculiar
tenderness. Not a word had been spoken by either, that she could
wish had not been spoken. She had not dreamed at the time, that it
would be their last conversation, and yet there was nothing in it that
left one painful recollection now that she should meet her husband
no more. Through all these years of loneliness and widowhood,
the memory of that last parting has been an abiding joy in her life,
like a fragrant perfume or a bright lamp of holy peace.
Life is very precarious. Any word may be our last. Any farewell, even
amid glee and merriment, may be forever. If this truth were but
burned into our consciousness, if it ruled as a deep conviction and
real power in our lives, would it not give a new meaning to all our
human relationships? Would it not make us far more tender than we
sometimes are? Would it not oftentimes put a rein upon our rash and
impetuous speech? Would we carry in our hearts the miserable
suspicions and jealousies, that now so often embitter the fountains of
our loves? Would we be so impatient of the faults of others? Would
we allow trivial misunderstandings to build up strong walls between
us—and those whom we ought to hold very close to us? Would we
keep alive petty quarrels year after year, which a repenting word any
day would end? Would we pass neighbors or old friends on the street
without recognition, because of some real or fancied slight, some
wounding of pride or some supposed injury? Or would we be so
stingy of our kind words, our commendations, our sympathy, our
words of comfort—when weary hearts all about us are breaking for
just such expressions of interest or appreciation or helpfulness as we
have it in our power to give?
We all know how kindly it makes us feel toward anyone, to sit beside
his death-bed. We are spending his last hour with him. We would not
utter a harsh word or cherish a single grudge against him, for the
world. There will never be an opportunity to recall any word spoken
now, or to obliterate any painful impression made. We can never
again give joy to this heart that is so soon to stop its beatings. What
a softening influence this thought has! All our coldness melts down,
before the eyes that have death's far-away look in them. All the
long-frozen kindly sentiment in our hearts toward our friend, is
thawed out as we hold our last fellowship with him.
Then we all know, too, how slumbering love awakens, and cold
spirits warm, and all the chill of selfishness dissolves, beside
the coffin of one who is dead. Everyone feels kindly then. Not a trace
of grudging or bitterness lingers in any
heart. Slights and wrongs are forgiven and forgotten. Icy
winter changes to mellow summer. Loving words of gratitude or
appreciation flow from every tongue. Praise and commendation,
never spoken when the weary spirit needed them so much, find an
expression, when the heavy ear can hear them no more. Men feel
themselves awed in the presence of eternity, and heartily ashamed of
their wretched spites, and petty animosities, and cold, mechanical
friendship.
Now, how it would bless and beautify our lives, if we could carry that
same thoughtful, grateful, patient, forgiving, loving spirit—into our
every-day fellowship with each other; if we could treat men with the
same gentle consideration, with the same frank, manly sincerity—as
when we sit by their death-bed; if we could bring the postmortem appreciation, gratitude, charity and unselfish kindliness—
back into the vexed and overburdened years of actual, toilsome life!
It would be impossible to live otherwise, if we but realized that any
hour's fellowship with another, might indeed be the last! If
a man truly felt that he might be spending his last day with his
family, taking his last meal with them, enjoying the last evening with
them—would not his heart be cleansed of
all harshness, bitterness and selfishness? Would not his feelings, his
very tones, be charged with almost a divine tenderness? If
a mother felt that today might be the last that she would have her
child with her—would she be impatient by its endless questions, so
easily annoyed by its restless activities, so fretted and vexed by its
faults and thoughtless ways?
Would we be so exacting, so calculating, so cold and formal, so
unkind, so selfish, in our fellowship with our friends—if we truly felt
that today's sunset might be the last we would see; or that we would
never meet our friends again? Would not the realization of the
imminent possibility, act as a mighty restraint on all that is harsh or
unloving in us, and as a powerful inspiration to bring out all that is
kindly and tender?
With many a lonely heart, regret does indeed walk night and day,
because of the memory of unkind words spoken which can never be
unspoken, since the ears that heard them are deaf to every sound of
earth. Friends have separated with sharp words or in momentary
estrangement through some trivial difference, and have never met
again. Death has come suddenly to one of them—or life has set their
feet in paths divergent from that moment. Many
a bitter and unavailing tear—bitter because unavailing—is shed over
the grave of a departed one, by one who would give worlds for a
single moment in which to beg forgiveness or seek to make
reparation.
So uncertain is life and so manifold are the vicissitudes of human
experience, that any leave-taking may be forever. We are never sure
of an opportunity to unsay the angry word, or draw out the thorn we
left rankling in another's heart! The kindness which we felt prompted
to do today—but neglected or deferred—we may never be able to
perform. The only way therefore, to save ourselves from unavailing
sorrow and regret—is to let love always rule in our hearts, and
control our speech. If we should in a thoughtless moment, speak
unadvisedly, giving pain to another heart, let reparation be made
upon the spot. The sun should never go down upon our anger. We
should never leave anything over-night, that we would not be willing
to leave finally and forever, just in that shape, and which we would
blush to meet again in the great day of judgement.
Life's actions do not appear to us in the same colors—when viewed in
the noontide glare and in the evening's twilight. Little things in our
treatment of others, which at the time, under the crosslights of
emulation and rivalry, or in the excitement of business and social life
—do not seem wrong—when seen from the shadows of final
separation or great grief, fill us with shame and regret. This afterview is by far the truest. After-thoughts are the wiser thoughts. We
get the most faithful representation of life—in retrospect. The things
we regret in such an hour—are things we ought not to have done. The
things we wish then we had done—are things we ought to have done.
There could be no better test of life's actions than the question, "How
will this appear—when I look back upon it from the end? Will it give
me pleasure—or pain?"
We all want to have beautiful endings to our lives. We want to
leave sweet memories behind in the hearts of those who know and
love us. We want our names to be fragrant in the homes on whose
thresholds our footfalls are accustomed to be heard. We want
the memory of our last parting with our friends to live as a tender
joy with them as the days pass away. We want, if we should stand by
a friend's coffin tomorrow, to have the consciousness that we have
done nothing to embitter his life, to add to his burdens, or to tarnish
his soul, and that we have left nothing undone which it lay in our
power to do—to help him, or to minister to him comfort or cheer. We
can make sure of this, only by always so living—that any day would
make a tender and beautiful last day; that any hand-grasp would be a
fitting farewell; that any hour's fellowship with friend or neighbor
would leave a fragrant memory; and that no treatment of another
would leave a regret, or cause a pang—if death or space should divide
us forever.
For after any heart-throb, any sentence, any good-bye—God may
write, 'Finis
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Post by Admin on Jan 13, 2024 16:59:08 GMT -5
Practical Consecration
"I used to chafe and fret when interrupted in favorite pursuits—but I
have learned that my time all belongs to God, and I just leave it in his
hands. It is very sweet to use it for him when he has anything for me
to do—and pleasant to use it as I desire, when he has not." Elizabeth
Prentiss
A great deal of our talk about 'consecration' is very vague and
visionary. We are told that we should make an unreserved transfer of
ourselves to Christ—and we want to do it. We wish to keep nothing
back from him. We adopt the formula of consecration, when we
connect ourselves with the church. We use the liturgy of
consecration continually in our prayers, saying over and over again—
sincerely enough, too—that we give ourselves wholly to Christ. We
sing with glowing heart and flowing tears, the rapturous hymns of
consecration. And yet, somehow, we are not wholly consecrated to
Christ. Saying it, praying it, singing it, ever so honestly and with
ever so endless repetition, we are still painfully conscious of failure in
fact, and we become discouraged, sometimes even doubting
altogether the reality of our conversion, because we cannot
consciously keep ourselves on the altar.
One trouble is that the consecration we aim at—is emotional rather
than practical. Another trouble is, that we try to accomplish too
much at once. We attempt to make over all our life, in its endlessly
varied relations, and all our present and future, once for all in a
single offering, and then it seems to our limited experience, that that
should be final. The spirit and intention are right enough—but the
fact is that in actual life, such a 'one-time consecration' is quite
impracticable. Theoretically it is correct—but in experience it will
always be found vague and unsatisfactory. The only truly practical
consecration, is that consecration which seeks to cover the actual
present. However fully we may have given ourselves to Christ at
conversion, it will avail nothing—unless we renew it with each
separate act and duty as it presents itself to us.
Consecration may be greatly simplified, and may be made intensely
practical—if we bring it down to a daily matter, attempting to cover
no more than the one day; and if we each morning formally give the
day to the Lord, to be occupied as he may wish, surrendering all our
plans to him, to be set aside or affirmed by him—as he may choose.
For example, I seek in the morning to give myself to my Master for
that day, saying, "Take me, Lord, and use me today as you will. I lay
all my plans at your feet. Whatever work you have for me to do—give
it into my hands. If there are those you would have me help in any
way—send them to me or send me to them. Take my time and use it
just as you will." I think no farther on than today. I make no attempt
to give months and years to Christ. Why should I, before they are
mine? I have this one brief day only, and how can I consecrate that
which I have not yet received?
This formula of consecration is a transfer of one's plans and
ambitions into the hands of Christ. It is a solemn pledge, too, to
accept the plans of the Master for the occupation of the day, no
matter how much they may interfere with arrangements we have
already made, or how many pleasant things they may cut out of the
day's program. We will answer every call. We will patiently submit to
every interruption. We will accept every duty. We will go on with the
work which seems best to us—if the Master has nothing else for us to
do; but if he has, we will cheerfully drop our own plans, and take up
that which he clearly gives instead.
So, sometimes, the very first one to come to me in the golden hours
of the morning, which are so precious to every student, is a bookseller, or a man with fountain-pens or stove-polish; or perchance
only a pious idler who has no errand but to pass an hour; or it may
be one of those social news-venders who like to be the first to retail
all the freshest gossip. Interrupted thus in the midst of some
interesting and important work, my first impulse is to chafe and fret,
and perhaps to give my visitor a cold welcome, not hiding my
annoyance. But then I remember my morning consecration.
Did I not put my plans and my time—out of my own hands—and into
my Master's? Did I not ask him to send me any work he had for me
to do, and to make use of me in ministering to others as he would? If
I was sincere and would be loyal to my words, must I not accept
this early caller as sent to me for some help or some good which it is
in my power to impart to him? If I would carry out the spirit of my
consecration, I must neither chafe, nor fret, nor manifest any
annoyance at the interruption, nor do anything to give needless pain
to my visitor.
I have an errand to you, O man my brother! What it is I know not.
Perhaps here is a heavy heart that I can cheer by a few kindly words.
I cannot buy anything. I cannot give up an hour to hear my friend
recount, for the hundredth time, the story of his past exploits. I
cannot listen to the wretched gossip which my mischievous visitor
wants to empty into my ear; and yet—may I not have an errand to
each? It may be that I can send my book-selling friend away with a
little bit of song in his heart. He came from a very dreary home this
morning. He is poor. He has gone from house to house, only to have
door after door rudely shut in his face. He is heavy-hearted, almost
in despair. He greatly needs money, which perhaps I cannot give to
him—but he needs far more. Just now a brother's sympathy—which
I can give—and a kind, cordial reception, a few minutes' patient
interest shown in listening to his story, a few encouraging words, any
suggestion or help I may be able to give—will do him more good than
if I were to buy a book in the usual unchristian way in such cases.
Or may I not be able to drop some useful word into the ear of
the idler or of the gossip-monger, which may be remembered? I
must, at least, regard my visitor as sent to me with some need that I
can supply, or wanting some comfort or blessing which I can impart.
Or the errand may be the other way. He may have been sent to me
with a blessing. All duty is not giving; we need to receive as well. We
ought to get some good from everyone we meet. God can oftentimes
teach us more by interrupting our quiet hours and by setting all our
pet plans aside—than if he had left us to spend the time over our
book or in our work.
Let us at least beware that we do not send out of our door with
fretted frown—one whom God has sent to us either with a message or
a blessing for us. For even in these commonplace days, God sends
his angels, though they may come unawares, not wearing their
celestial robes—but disguised in unattractive garb.
Such a simple consecration is easily understood, and becomes
very practical as we carry it out in life. It deals with living in its
details—and not in the mass; in the concrete—and not merely in the
abstract. It is not theory alone—but practice also.
Also, it seems easier to give just one short day at a time—than to try
to span far-stretching years in our consecration. A day is a short
reach. We can bear almost any burden or interruption for so brief a
period. Then it gives a holy meaning to the common week-day
routine of work and contact with other lives—to live in this simple
way. All work is divinely allotted, and the voice of our loving Lord is
heard calling us at every turn. It imparts a sacredness to all our
meetings—even our most casual meetings with others. There is no
chance that the eternal God does not guide. You have an errand to
everyone who comes in your path—or he has an errand to you! You
may be very weary—but if there is a call for Christlike ministry—you
must obey it. You may have your robe and slippers on after a hard
day's work, and outside it may be dark and stormy. But that does not
matter; either you must withdraw your morning's consecration, or
you must follow the voice that calls you to deeds of mercy and love.
If we learn well this lesson—it takes the drudgery out of all duties. It
lifts up the commonest interactions of life—into blessed service at
Christ's feet. It makes us patient and gentle—when dealing with the
most disagreeable people. It imparts a high, a divine, motive to all
friendship and companionship. It teaches us patience amid the
interruptions and disarrangements of our plans. It disciplines our
wayward wills in little things—and brings them into subjection to
Christ. It takes the frivolity out of our conversation. It makes us ever
watchful of our influence over others—and of our treatment of them.
It makes us ever ready and eager both to receive and impart help
and blessing.
Also, it makes consecration to Christ not a dim, far-away,
merely theoretical thing—but a living, practical experience which
charges all life with meaning, and which takes hold of the most
commonplace things in our commonplace week-day routine,
transforming them into beautiful ministries around the feet of God!
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Post by Admin on Jan 13, 2024 17:00:40 GMT -5
How to Live a Beautiful Christian Life
"Whoever claims to live in Him—must walk as Jesus did." 1 John
2:6
"Leaving you an example—so that you should follow in His
steps." 1 Peter 2:21
We have only successfully acquired the art of living a Christian life—
when we have learned to apply the principles of true religion, and
enjoy its help and comfort in our daily life. It is easy to join in
devotional exercises, to quote Bible promises, to extol the beauty of
the Scriptures; but there are many who do these things—whose
religion utterly fails them in the very places and at the very times—
when it ought to prove their staff and stay!
All of us must go out from the sweet services of the Sunday—into a
week of very real and very commonplace life. We must mingle with
people who are not angels. We must pass through experiences that
will naturally worry and vex us. Those about us, either wittingly or
unwittingly, annoy and try us. We must mingle with those who do
not love Christ. We all meet many troubles and worries in ordinary
week-day life. There are continual irritations and annoyances.
The problem is to live a beautiful Christian life—in the face of all
these hindrances! How can we get through the tangled briers which
grow along our path—without having our hands and feet torn by
them? How can we live sweetly—amid the vexing and irritating
things and the multitude of little worries and frets which infest our
way, and which we cannot evade?
It is not enough merely to 'get along' in any sort of way, to drag to the
close of each long, wearisome day, happy when night comes to end
the strife. Life should be a joy—and not a burden. We should live
victoriously, ever master of our experiences, and not tossed by them
like a leaf on the dashing waves. Every earnest Christian wants to live
a truly beautiful life, whatever the circumstances may be.
A little child, when asked 'what it was to be a Christian,' replied,
"For me, to be a Christian is to live as Jesus would live—and behave
as Jesus would behave—if he were a little girl and lived at our house."
No better definition of the Christian life could be given. Each one of
us is to live just as Jesus would—if he were living out our little life in
the midst of its actual environment, standing all day just where we
stand, mingling with the same people with whom we must mingle,
and exposed to the very annoyances, trials and provocations to which
we are exposed. We want to live a life that will please God, and that
will bear witness on its face to the genuineness of our piety.
How can we do this? We must first recognize the fact that our life
must be lived just in its own circumstances. We cannot at present
change our surroundings. Whatever we are to make of our lives—
must be made in the midst of our actual experiences. Here we must
either win our victories—or suffer our defeats. We may think our lot
is especially hard—and may wish it were otherwise. We may wish
that we had a life of ease and luxury, amid softer scenes, with no
briers or thorns, no worries or provocations. Then we would be
always gentle, patient, serene, trustful, happy. How delightful it
would be—never to have a care, an irritation, a cross, a single vexing
thing!
But meanwhile this fact remains—that our aspiration cannot be
realized, and that whatever our life is to be made, beautiful or
marred, we must make it just where we are. No restless discontent
can change our lot. We cannot get into any 'paradise' merely by
longing for it. Other people may have other circumstances, possibly
more pleasant than ours—but here are ours. We may as well settle
this point at once, and accept the battle of life on this field—or else,
while we are vainly wishing for a better chance, the opportunity for
victory shall have passed.
The next thought is that the place in which we find ourselves is the
place in which the Master desires us to live our life.
There is no haphazard in this world. God leads every one of his
children by the right way. He knows where and under what
influences each particular life will ripen best. One tree grows best in
the sheltered valley, another by the water's edge, another on the
bleak mountain-top swept by storms. There is always adaptation in
nature. Every tree or plant is found in the locality where the
conditions of its growth exist, and does God give more thought to
trees and plants than to his own children? He places us amid the
circumstances and experiences in which our life will grow and ripen
the best. The peculiar discipline to which we are each subjected—is
the discipline we each need to bring out in us the beauties and graces
of true spiritual character. We are in the right school. We may think
that we would ripen more quickly—in a more easy and luxurious life
—but God knows what is best; he makes no mistakes.
There is a little fable which says that a primrose growing by itself in a
shady corner of the garden, became discontented as it saw the other
flowers in their mirthful beds in the sunshine, and begged to be
moved to a more conspicuous place. Its prayer was granted. The
gardener transplanted it to a more showy and sunny spot. It was
greatly pleased—but there came a change over it immediately. Its
blossoms lost much of their beauty and became pale and sickly. The
hot sun caused them to faint and wither. So it prayed again to be
taken back to its old place in the shade. The wise gardener knows
best where to plant each flower, and so God, the divine Gardener,
knows where His people will best grow into what he would have
them to be. Some require the fierce storms, some will only thrive
spiritually in the shadow of worldly adversity, and some come to
ripeness more sweetly under the soft and gentle influences of
prosperity, whose beauty, rough experiences would mar. He knows
what is best for each one.
The next thought, is that it is possible to live a beautiful life
anywhere. There is no position in this world in the allotment of
Providence, in which it is not possible to be a true Christian,
exemplifying all the virtues of Christianity. The grace of Christ has in
it, potency enough to enable us to live godly, wherever we are called
to dwell. When God chooses a home for us—he fits us for its peculiar
trials. There is a beautiful law of adaptation that runs through all
God's providence. Animals made to dwell amid Arctic snows are
covered with warm furs. The camel's home is the desert, and a
wondrous provision is made by which it can endure long journeys
across the hot sands without drink. Birds are fitted for their flights in
the air. Animals made to live among the mountain-crags, have feet
prepared for climbing over the steep rocks. In all nature this law
of special equipment and preparation for allotted places prevails.
And the same is true in spiritual life. God adapts his grace to the
peculiarities of each one's necessity. For rough, flinty paths—he
provides shoes of iron. He never sends any one to climb sharp,
rugged mountain-sides, wearing silken slippers. He always
gives sufficient grace. As the burdens grow heavier—the strength
increases. As the difficulties thicken—the angel draws closer. As the
trials become sorer—the trusting heart grows calmer. Jesus always
sees his disciples, when they are toiling in the waves—and at the
right moment comes to deliver them. Thus it becomes possible to live
a true and victorious life—in any circumstances. Christ can as easily
enable Joseph to remain pure and true, in heathen Egypt—as
Benjamin in the shelter of his father's love. The sharper the
temptations, the more of divine grace is granted. There is, therefore,
no environment of trial, or difficulty or hardship—in which we
cannot live beautiful lives of Christian fidelity and holy conduct.
Instead, then, of yielding to discouragement when trials multiply and
it becomes hard to live right, or of being satisfied with a broken
peace and a very faulty life—it should be the settled purpose of each
one to live, through the grace of God—a patient, gentle and
unspotted life—in the place and amid the circumstances He allots to
us. The true victory is not found in escaping or evading trials—but in
rightly meeting and enduring them. The questions should not be,
"How can I get out of these worries? How can I get into a place where
there shall be no irritations, nothing to try my temper or put my
patience to the test? How can I avoid the distractions that
continually harass me?" There is nothing noble in such living. The
soldier who flies to the rear when he smells the battle is no hero; he
is a coward.
The questions should rather be, "How can I pass through these trying
experiences—and not fail as a Christian? How can I endure these
struggles—and not suffer defeat? How can I live amid these
provocations, these reproaches and testings of my temper—and yet
live sweetly, not speaking unadvisedly, bearing injuries meekly,
returning gentle answers to insulting words?" This is the true
problem of Christian living.
We are at school here. This life is disciplinary. Processes are not
important: it is results we want. If a tree grow into majesty and
strength, it matters not whether it is in the deep valley or on the cold
peak, whether calm or storm nurtures it. If character develops into
Christlike symmetry, what does it matter whether it be in ease and
luxury—or through hardship? The important matter is not the
process—but the result; not the means—but the end; and the end of
all Christian nurture is spiritual loveliness. To be made truly noble
and godlike—we should be willing to submit to any discipline.
Every obstacle to true living should, then, only nerve us with fresh
determination to succeed. We should use each difficulty and
hardship, as a leverage to gain some new advantage. We should
compel our temptations to minister to us—instead of hindering us.
We should regard all our provocations, annoyances and trials, of
whatever sort—as practice-lessons in the application of the theories
of Christian life. It will be seen in the end—that the hardships and
difficulties are by no means the smallest blessings of our lives.
Someone compares them to the weights of a clock, without which
there could be no steady, orderly life.
The tree that grows where tempests toss its boughs and bend its
trunk, often almost to breaking—is more firmly rooted than the tree
which grows in the sequestered valley, where no storm ever brings
stress or strain. The same is true in life. The grandest character is
grown in hardship. Weakness of character, springs out of luxury.
The best men the world ever reared—have been brought up in
the school of adversity and hardship.
Besides, it is no heroism to live patiently—where there is no
provocation; bravely—where there is no danger; calmly—where there
is nothing to perturb. Not the hermit's cave—but the heart of busy
life—tests, as well as makes character. If we can live patiently,
lovingly and cheerfully, amid all our frets and irritations day after
day, year after year, that is grander heroism than the farthest famed
military exploits, for 'he who rules his own spirit—is better than he
who captures a city.'
This is our allotted task. It is no easy one. It can be accomplished
only by the most resolute decision, with unwavering purpose and
incessant watchfulness.
Nor can it be accomplished without the continual help of Christ.
Each one's battle must be a personal one. We may decline
the struggle—but it will be declining also the joy of victory. No one
can reach the summit—without climbing the steep mountain-path.
We cannot be borne up on any strong shoulder. God does not put
features of beauty into our lives—as the jeweler sets gems in clusters
in a coronet. The unlovely elements are not magically removed and
replaced by lovely ones. Each must win his way through struggles
and efforts—to all noble attainments. The help of God is given only in
cooperation with human aspiration and energy. While God works in
us—we are to work out our own salvation. He who overcomes, shall
be a pillar in the temple of God. We should accept the task with quiet
joy. We shall fail many times.
Many a night we shall retire to weep at Christ's feet—over the day's
defeat. In our efforts to follow the copy set for us by our Lord—we
shall write many a crooked line, and leave many a blotted
page blistered with tears of regret. Yet we must keep through all, a
brave heart, an unfaltering purpose, and a calm, joyful confidence in
God. Temporary defeat should only cause us to lean on Christ more
fully. God is on the side of everyone who is loyally struggling to obey
his divine will, and to grow into Christlikeness. And that means
assured victory, to everyone whose heart fails not.
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