was slow of heart to believe all that the prophets had spoken. The

was slow of heart to believe all that the prophets had spoken. The

her and the Lord himself. She was attaching too much value to his mere corporeal frame; here was a rebuke to her for so doing. She was so much occupied with the thought of his body, that the real Christ was hidden, the Christ himself, so that, when he appeared, she knew not that it was Jesus. Let us not allow anything pertaining to the outward form of Jesus,—in which sentimentalism may indulge,—to hinder our beholding the real, the living Saviour. Let us beware lest some particular aspect in which we expect to see him, be just the very thing that hinders us from seeing him at all. If we have made up our minds only to see him in one form, under one aspect, and in one way, it may be we shall not see him at all; or when he does stand before us, we shall be, like Mary, not knowing that it is Jesus.

3. Thirdly, She was blinded by her overmuch sorrow. Sorrow had filled her heart and absorbed her soul on one object; her dead Master. This blinded her to the living one. Sorrow dimmed her eye with tears, and she failed to recognise through those tears the very Christ whom she was seeking, the very being over whom she was weeping. Her excessive grief raised up a thick mist between her and her Lord. Let us beware of being blinded by overmuch sorrow. In the world we shall have tribulation; we may reckon upon that as our lot; yet, let us not be blinded by overmuch sorrow; or have our eyes so dimmed with tears as to be unable to recognise or to realise a present Lord. Sorrow should produce a very different result. It should not veil, it should unveil Christ. It should not throw you to a distance from him, or bring in some mountain of separation between you and him; it should increase your nearness; it should bring you nearer to him and him to you. It should make him to be felt as more precious, more desirable, more entirely suitable, more indispensable. It should make you more quick-sighted in your love; instead of being, like Mary, less quick-sighted, so that you may know that it is Jesus when he appears.

4. Fourthly, She was hindered by her unbelief. Like the disciples, she was slow of heart to believe all that the prophets had spoken. The rising from the dead was a thing which she but darkly understood.

Like the others, she could not believe that the Messiah would die, and now that he is dead, she does not believe that he can rise again. Her faith did indeed cling to his person; that person was precious to her, but all her need of him she did not know. Her need of his dying, her need of his rising she knew not. She knew enough of him for faith and love to rest upon; but not enough to keep her from falling into error or unbelief. It was unbelief that hindered her from prompt and full recognition of her beloved Lord. Is it not in our case still the same as in Mary's? Is it not unbelief still that comes between us and the Lord? He draws near to us; he stands before us, yet we know him not. Perhaps we seek him, seek him earnestly, and he comes, yet, when he comes, we recognise him not; we know not that very Jesus whom we were seeking, if he comes not in the way that we expect. Unbelief has suggested that it is not thus that we are to expect him to appear, that it is not in this place, or in this way, or in this form, that we may expect to find him and to meet him. He presents himself to us as a risen Christ, an almighty Saviour, all that the sinner needs, full of grace and truth, with forgiveness upon his lips and eternal life in his hands; with every heavenly blessing held out to us; and yet we recognise him not; for unbelief has given another representation to him, and we are not prepared to recognise him, save in that form which we ourselves would prescribe to him, in that aspect that we have made ourselves think that he will surely appear to us in. Faith makes no such conditions as unbelief does. Faith does not attempt to prescribe to the Lord in what form, or at what time, or in what way, or in what circumstances he shall appear. It is ever ready to recognise him in any condition, and under any garb. It is glad to find him anywhere.

Mark then the peculiar position occupied by Mary. She thought that she was seeking an absent Lord, whereas she was refusing to recognise a present one. Most sinful mistake and full of evil to herself, robbing her of that fulness of blessing which was at her very side! Had you asked her what ailed her when she was weeping, she would have said, my Lord is absent, I have been seeking him and I cannot find him anywhere, whereas it should have been, my Lord is

present and I do not know him. This was her sin. While professing to seek an absent Lord, she was refusing to recognise a present one. This was her sin, this was her calamity. "She knew not that it was Jesus." This kept her in sorrow, and in darkness.

Is not her position precisely that which we ourselves too often occupy? Is not that sin of hers too often ours, and is not that calamity which overtook her just the very calamity which we so often bring upon ourselves? Her case resembles ours. We thrust away blessings from us in the same way that she did; we shut out the Lord just as she did. Christ is present; let us keep this in mind—"Lo, I am with you alway." He is no distant, no absent Saviour to any one, but ever nigh. He is at our very side, at the very side of each, so that no one can complain of distance in him any more than they can complain of estrangement or want of love. He is never absent, nor repulsive, nor unwilling to be recognised as Jesus, whether by saint or sinner. He does not veil himself to prevent our seeing him. He does not repel our advances. His grace never varies. Always is he the same. His ear is the same willing ear, his eye the same loving eye, and his hand stretched out,—the same gracious hand. To sinner and to saint, Jesus is near

This nearness of Christ is what faith recognises; for the office of faith is not to make him present, as so many seem to imagine; it is not to bring him down from above. The office of faith is not to seek an absent, but to recognise a present Lord. And what a mighty difference there is between these two things! Unbelief seeks an absent, faith recognises a present Lord. Recognition is faith's special office; and the Saviour whom we preach is not far distant and inaccessible in yonder heaven, but near; and not only near, but the nearest of all near beings; the nearest thing to you on earth or in heaven. We preach a present Christ. Let faith simply recognise him as such, and all is well. And just as faith recognises this present Christ, instead of going in quest of him as if he were absent, unbelief blinds the eye to him. It cannot, indeed, thrust him away; that is impossible. It cannot, with all its efforts, make him the absent one; it

cannot empty him of blessings, but it refuses to recognise him. It knows him not, it treats him as the distant one, in order thereby to be furnished with a ground for self-righteous efforts in seeking him. It treats him as an unloving one, as one hiding himself, one reluctant to appear; and thus it puts away that blessing which is at hand, in all its fulness. It keeps us in sorrow and in darkness; it prevents communication between us and the Lord. For, let us remember, that earnestness is not faith. There is an earnestness which is pure unbelief; and this earnestness of unbelief shews itself by going in quest of an absent Saviour while the earnestness of faith shews itself in recognising a present one.

Yes; Christ is at our side, though unseen and unknown. When he works in us, effectually drawing the soul to himself, he cannot be hid; but, for a time he may. A man does not always recognise him at first, even when he is really working in him, and drawing him to himself. Many things hide him, and yet he carries on his work though hid.

He has hidden ways of leading the sinner to the Father. It is, perhaps, sometimes a long way; there are many windings in it, and it seems when we look at it, as if there was nothing but common events, common providences, common mercies, common trials; and yet it was Jesus in each one, Jesus himself, though we knew him not. We saw the process, though we did not realise what it meant. We knew not that Jesus was in it, that he was in each of these events, in each of these providences, in each of these mercies, in each of these trials. There is danger in not giving Christ credit for his own work, but in taking the credit to ourselves for it, or giving the credit to chance, or to the common course of events. It is one tiling to take to ourselves too much credit, and it is another thing not to ascribe enough to him, or not to realise him in certain things, because we think these things are not so remarkable as we should have expected him to work by; but, how blessed does the discovery come, when at length we find that it was really he who was working, though we long refused to believe him, and that what we imagined to be just natural

feeling, natural sentiment, was, after all, Jesus himself, carrying on his work in us.

He has hidden ways of giving peace to the troubled. The wounded spirit looks around for rest, and for healing; yet it comes not. It expects something outward, something visible, something striking, as Naaman did, and it is disappointed when there is nothing of this kind. It refuses to take peace in a way so simple; it refuses to taste and recognise the gift, because it is not presented to it in some striking way; till, at last, the soul is led to ask, What if, after all, I am putting away a present blessing, and refusing to recognise a present Christ? What if all these gleams of peace which I am putting away from me be real? What if it be the light of his countenance which I am refusing to receive? Thus, the soul begins to learn that it is really so, and that it has been Jesus all along, and yet we knew him not.

Again, he has hidden ways of comforting and gladdening the spirit of the afflicted. Trials ofttimes come strangely, very strangely, and we do not see Jesus in them. They are not the kind of trials we looked for, nor such as we should have thought best for us, and so we refuse to be comforted. But, perhaps, at some unexpected turn of the way we make the blessed discovery that it was really Jesus, and none but he! How much do we lose of consolation by failing to recognise Christ in each, even the commonest, even the unlikeliest, even the most untoward and adverse events that befall us. He is seeking to purify us. Each event, be it dark or light, be it sunshine or shadow; each event is tending to this. All is full of meaning, full of rich, deep meaning, though we know it not. We find, in spite of ourselves, a process moving onward, moving unaccountably, perhaps imperceptibly, on; and though, for a time, we discern it not fully, yet at length it unfolds itself in all its blessedness, and we see that the Lord was in it all, purifying us as silver. These changes that were taking place in us were not natural changes, the result of natural causes, but wrought by his own Almighty hand, though not in the way that we expected.

Let us learn, then, to recognise a present Lord! This is faith's especial office, and no amount of sin on our part, can reverse this state of things, this order which God has established. When we begin, because of felt guilt, or of conscious evil, and unworthiness, to seek an absent or a distant Saviour, we are giving way to unbelief in one of its worst forms. And never shall we return to our quiet rest again, until we have learned the sin of going in quest of an absent Lord, instead of doing what he desires we should at all times do, recognise a present one.

SERMON XXIX

SELF OR CHRIST; WHICH IS IT?

"For none of us liveth to himself, and no man dieth to himself. For whether we live, we live unto the Lord; and whether we die, we die unto the Lord: whether we live therefore, or die, we are the Lord's. For to this end Christ both died, and rose, and revived, that he might be Lord both of the dead and living."— ROM. 14:7–9.

THE words "none of us" shew that the apostle is speaking of those who have been delivered from a present evil world. He is contrasting them with the men of earth. Once, our life, he means to say, was the same as theirs; now all is changed; and instead of resemblance, there is unlikeness in every feature. He does not count it pride to say, we are unselfish, they are selfish; we are of God, and the whole world lieth in wickedness.

Each of these verses brings out a distinct truth. In the seventh verse we have the setting aside of self; in the eighth, the substitute for self; in the ninth, the way in which this substitution has come about.

I. The setting aside of self.—I do not mean annihilating self, as some speak. There is no such thing, save in the dreams of a vain philosophy, or a self-righteous mysticism. I speak of giving self its proper place,—the place recognised by our Lord, when he said, "Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself." Lawful self-love is not selfishness; yet we may say that selfishness is diseased self-love; and, as such, is the master-sin, the master-curse of man. He lives for self; his estimate of everything is its bearing upon self; the colour which he casts over everything is one derived from self. Self is the horizon which limits all his views. He is not like a man looking round on a noble landscape, and forgetting himself in the beauty of the wide expanse; but he is like a man carrying a mirror with him, into which he is continually looking, that he may see and admire himself; so that every object is seen in connection with self, and is only admired as it helps to set off self. The apostle's statement presents the reversal of all this. It shews us the mirror broken, into which we looked so complacently; the eye turned outward instead of inward; the horizon thrown back into the far distance, self-forgotten, lost sight of—"None of us liveth to himself, and none of us dieth to himself." We have done with self, at least, in the way in which we have hitherto been connected with it. It is displaced. It is brought down to its true position and level; it is set aside entirely as an end, or motive; and this, not in one thing, but in everything; for we may take the words, life and death, not merely as expressive of the very things that they mean, but as bringing before us the two extremes of man's being, and including, of course, everything between these two extremities. This displacement of self, then, is carried through man's whole being, from one extremity to the other. From his life and from his death, as well as from all between, this self has been displaced.

Now, mark how this process is carried out. The first setting aside of self is in the matter of justification before God; for, previously, self

was the main ingredient in man's theory of justification. His object was to amend self, to improve self, or it might be, to mortify self, in order that thereby he might recommend himself to God. Thus self, in the matter of his justification before God, occupied the chief place. The first thing which the Holy Spirit does, when he convinces a man of sin, is to shew that this cannot be; that self can contribute nothing towards his acceptance with God. What is conviction of sin but just the setting aside of self; a negative, but still an important, step; shewing a man what cannot justify him before shewing him what can. Thus it is, then, in the matter of justification before God, that the setting aside of self begins. From that point it proceeds onwards throughout a man's whole life. From life, in all its parts and movements, great and small, his inner life, his outer life, his domestic life, his social life, self is displaced. Life is no longer tinged or shaded, or discoloured by self as it had once been. And then the close of his life, in like manner, exhibits the setting aside of self. On a sick-bed self is set aside; in dying, self is not allowed to come in. Nor in dying, are we to exhibit self or turn the eye either of ourselves or others to it; or to think merely of enjoyment, or comfort, or reputation among men, our good name, our fame after death,— posthumous fame, as men vainly call it. In reference to all these points self is set aside,—"None of us liveth to himself, and no man dieth to himself." Others may live to themselves, but not we who have been "bought with a price." Others may die to themselves, but not we who have been "redeemed with the precious blood of Christ."

How this elevates life! What was that which degraded life? It was the introduction of self. Now, this element of degradation is set aside, and life is lifted up into its true glory,—the true position which God originally designed for man. It is no longer the degraded thing that self has made it, but a glorious thing such as God meant it to be.

How this takes away life's littlenesses! What was it that introduced so much of narrowness into life, into every part of life, and its daily transactions? It was the infusion of self. It was this that made life feeble and little; that shrivelled it up, and contracted its original

greatness. But now that this element is set aside and expelled, life expands to its true dimensions. Its littlenesses are gone.

How this establishes and strengthens life! What was the element of our weakness? It was self. Yes; self is the great element of weakness, for it disconnects us with the foundation of strength. It cuts us off from God. It isolates and makes us stand alone. But now, when this is set aside, life assumes the strength which God meant it to possess. It is "stablished, strengthened, settled."

How this secures us against all failure and disappointment! Why was it that we failed so often in our schemes? Because we lived for self. Why was it that we were often disappointed? It was because we were seeking self; but now that this is gone we cannot fail, we cannot be disappointed in anything, for we know that, though our plans and wills are crossed, yet God's good purpose is carried out, his ends are secured, his will is done. There can be no failure now; no disappointment now; for that which made failure and disappointment necessary and certain has been wholly set aside. Now we go forward as men who feel that, let whatever may come upon us, upon our land, or upon our world, we cannot fail, nor be disappointed. All must succeed, all must be well.

II. The Substitute for self.—It is the Lord Jesus Christ who has come into the place of self, filling up its room. In turning from self we do not leave ourselves without an object to live for, or to die for: we get one infinitely more worthy than we possessed before. Instead of self we get the Son of God; the glorious one. He fills us, occupies us, engrosses us henceforth. He is all to us what self was before. He takes the place of self in everything from first to last, great or small. He is the Substitute for self, first of all, in the matter of our standing before God. As the first thing the Holy Spirit does is to set aside self, in the matter of justification and acceptance, so his next is to present to us the Son of God as the true ground of our acceptance. We no longer seek to be justified by self in any sense, or on account of anything done to self; on account of amended self, or improved self;

or mortified self, but solely on account of our Lord Jesus Christ, who died for us and who rose again. Having taken him in the place of self, we find ourselves at once accepted of the Father, "accepted in the beloved," accepted, not because self has been improved, but because self has been set aside and the Son of God substituted in its room. And in this Son of God, whom we take as a substitute for self, in the matter of our acceptance, we find an object worth living for, an object that we can carry through everything, through every part of life, into every region of life. We make him our Alpha and Omega, our first and our last. On a sick-bed our object is, that Christ should be glorified whatever becomes of us. On a deathbed our desire is, that Christ should be magnified, and in all that may happen to our name after death, in anticipation either of good report or of bad report among men, our sole wish is, that the name of Christ should be exalted. Thus, in living and in dying, Christ is all. He has come in the room of self, and fills that room entirely. Our life is thus full of Christ, and so is our death; "Whether we live, we live unto the Lord; and whether we die, we die unto the Lord: so that living or dying we are the Lord's." You are not your own at any time, nor in any circumstances, but his, his only.

What solemnity is thus thrown over life! All its parts, all its movements, are now consecrated to the Lord. Up till the time when this substitution takes place our life is a wasted one, utterly thrown away. It is dedicated to self, just as some of Egypt's magnificent temples of old were consecrated to the worship of some reptile. But now that self has been cast out, and Christ introduced, our life has become a sacred thing; every part of it is consecrated,—made "holy unto the Lord."

What dignity this imparts, both to life and death! Let it be the life or death of the poorest, if he be a believing man, a man in Christ Jesus, what a dignity attaches to him; a dignity that attaches to no other being upon earth, not even to its mightiest kings. From the moment that he became a man in Christ Jesus, living not to himself but to Christ, all littleness vanished, all narrowness and meanness were

gone, and in the place thereof grandeur, glory, and heavenly magnificence thrown around his person. What a change!

What importance now attaches to life! All triviality has passed out of it. It has now become an important thing either to live or to die. We have got something worth living for, and something worth dying for; and in circumstances such as these, there can be nothing unimportant about life. The end we live for, the end we speak for, the end we act for, raises life up to an importance which nothing else could have done. There can be nothing little now about anything that we think, speak, or do.

What an imperishable character is thus imparted to life! Everything we do, whether in living or in dying, becomes imperishable, now that we live unto the Lord and die unto the Lord. It was self formerly that ruined everything, that made everything connected with us to crumble down and waste away. But now it is entirely different. The Lord has come in to occupy the place of self. He is come in, who is "the same yesterday, to-day, and for ever," and he imparts his immortality to us, in all we are and do. Now nothing dies, but everything lives, and that for ever, for it is done unto the Lord. Every word spoken for him has an eternal being. Every action done for him carries its results forward into eternity; and every step we take, if taken for him, is a step whose effects are immortal, as is our being, and as is the being of him who has, by his oneness with us, attached to all we do his own imperishable character.

What an incentive to zeal this gives us! We have now got something to do that is really worth doing; an object worth living for and worth dying for. There is nothing so heartless as to have no object in life, or a poor object; and, on the contrary, there is nothing so quickening, so animating, as to have a worthy object. How mighty, then, must be the impulse, when we can feel that our life is a life to the Lord, that our death is a death to the Lord.

What a reason for consistency and holiness of life! Everything we do tells, not merely upon our comfort, on our earthly prospects, on our good name, but upon the glory of Christ. We have now become so connected with him that everything we speak or do bears upon him and his cause. The consistency of a holy life honours him, and brings a good report of him to our fellow-men. How watchful, then, ought we to be; how jealous over ourselves, lest self should assume the place that belongs only to the Lord; how anxious to adorn the doctrine of God our Saviour in all things; how desirous that our life should be a consistent witness-bearing for Christ, that our light should shine before men!

Man out of Christ, I speak to you now. What art thou living for? What has thy past life been? what is thy present life? What are thy ends in living? What is thy hope in dying? The very utmost, I fear, is this,—to enjoy present things as much as possible, and to escape hell at last. Have your ideas, your hopes, your aspirings, ever risen beyond these two things? Man out of Christ, what art thou living for? For self! Is that all? What a poor object, what a mean and narrow aim; and what, in such a case, must thy end be but utter disappointment and eternal failure? Man out of Christ, what a poor life must thine be, and what a poor death! What an unmeaning, empty being is thine, and to what a more unmeaning, more empty departure out of it art thou hastening. And yet how different it might be. Why should not thou, even thou, begin to live unto the Lord? What a rich, noble life might thine become. Instead of a wasted, shrivelled, useless, perishable thing, thou mightest have a life filled up for God, and filled up with God; filled up for Christ, filled up with Christ; a life which, though in so far as this world is concerned, may be a life of poverty and obscurity, yet would be, in all other respects, a foretaste of everlasting life, the earnest of the endless glory. And what stands between thee and that life? It is self, the accursed thing. What separates thee from God? It is self, thy love of self, thy admiration of self, thy confidence in self. What is it that stands between thee and the forgiveness of thy sins? It is self; thy confidence in self. What is it that comes between that eye of thine

and the vision of the eternal glory? It is self. It is self that is blinding and bewildering thee. What is it that is dragging thee down, and making thee cleave to the dust? It is self. And what is it that will ere long be thine everlasting ruin? It is self. Oh, that thou wouldest begin to make the great substitution of Christ for self. Put Christ where self is, in the matter of thy justification before God, and all is well. Put Christ in the place of self, in regard to the forgiveness of thy sins, and thou art straightway forgiven.

III. The manner in which this substitution is effected—"For to this end Christ both died, and rose, and revived, that he might be Lord both of the dead and the living." Christ's claim over us as Jehovah is eternal, and nothing can be added to it. As the Eternal Son he has always been Lord both of the dead and living, of heaven, earth, and hell. But his claim over us as the Christ is different from his Lordship over us as Jehovah. His claim over us as the Christ is a superadded claim. It is not something which derogates from, or which neutralizes his former claim; it is simply something added to it. This claim of headship over us he has made good by his death and resurrection. "He died, and rose, and revived." He received the resurrection-life that he might have a legal claim to Lordship both over the dead and living; so that there might be no part of a man's being, whether pertaining to his life or his death, over which the Christ might not have the right of Sovereignty. Nor can any one dispute his claim or present a rival one, for no other has done what he did to secure it. He died and rose again; may he not demand entire Lordship over us in living and in dying? Does not every part of our being thus owe him allegiance? To whom do we owe homage save to him? Who has done for us what Christ has done? Has self done the like? Has the flesh done the like? Has the world done the like? Has any angel done the like? Has any fallen man done the like, that we should serve them, and that they should have lordship over any part of our being? No one of these. He alone can ask homage and headship; for He only has the divine and indefeasible right. He has won the dominion, which none can now dispute, by dying and by rising.

Self, then, has no claims upon us, for it has done nothing for us,— nothing either for soul or for body. It has been a wall of iron between us and Christ. Is that a reason that we should serve it? It has been a mountain of ice between us and the world to come. Is that a ground of claim over us? Nay, brethren, self has done nothing to make us either live to it or die to it. It never can do anything; shall we then own it; shall we serve it; shall we do it homage?

The Lord has every claim. We have asked, What has self done? We ask on the other hand, What has the Lord not done? What indissoluble, innumerable bonds are there between us and him, as the living, the dying, and the rising one. He claims to be loved, to be served. Have we satisfied ourselves as to the ground upon which that claim rests? Have we acknowledged it, and is our whole life in every point an acknowledgment of this claim? The whole of our life is to be his, as his life was for us. Surely he has earned this, if he has earned anything at all. The least that we can give him is our life; the undivided service of our being, in every part; in our doing, in our speaking, in our planning, and in all our daily round of business, so that every part of our life shall be a witness-bearing for him.

Our death is to be his. In dying he thought on us; so in dying let us think on him. Our death is to be for his glory. Our last testimony is to be a testimony for Christ. Do we not often, in looking upon deathbeds, forget this? We desire from the dying, satisfaction as to their hope, as to their peace, but that is all. How rarely do we go beyond that, and remember that there is to be no dying for self, even as there is to be no living for self; and that there is something beyond getting satisfaction of our friend's state, and that something is, that Christ be glorified, that the saint's testimony be not merely as to his own peace, or as to his own prospects, but as to the glory of him who "died for us, and rose again."

Our eternity is to be his. He ever liveth for us; let us anticipate the ever living for him. It is not merely that we shall be for ever with the Lord; though that is well; but it is that we shall for ever glorify him,

for ever live to him. Our whole eternity is to be one of obedience, love, service,—all for his glory, for "Christ is all and in all," whether in heaven or on earth. He is so, even here, in some poor measure, to those who have tasted that the Lord is gracious, but in the eternal kingdom he is to be still more fully so. Our life here, and still more our eternity hereafter, are to be for him. He is the Alpha and Omega of our life here; still more the Alpha and Omega of the life to come.

O man of earth, what is thy eternity to be? If thy life here is life without Christ, is thy eternity to be the same? Think what such an eternity will be to thee. Even if there were no hell, what will be an eternity without Christ? Perhaps thou thinkest little of that; and thou sayest to thyself, "I can do without Christ here, and I shall be able to do without him hereafter." Nay, my friend, it is not so. Thou canst do without him here, because thou canst contrive to forget him,—to forget him in the world, in pleasure, and in business; and this makes thee to do without him here. But hereafter there shall be no drowning of thy senses in such things as these, so as to prevent the conviction of thy infinite loss. Then the full knowledge of thy loss shall come up before thee, and it will not be a lost heaven merely, a lost kingdom, a lost inheritance, but it will be A LOST CHRIST. That will be the eternal sting; the sense of what thou hast lost in losing Christ. It will be the very bitterness of the cup of gall and wormwood that shall then be given thee to drink. The everlasting sense of what thou hast lost in losing Christ shall be the very sting of the undying worm, and the very torment of the ever burning fire.

SERMON XXX

PRIMITIVE DOUBTINGS, AND THEIR CURE

"When the Lord had thus spoken, he shewed them his hands and his feet."—LUKE 24:40.

THERE are two special points which I ask you to notice here: first, the doubts of the disciples; secondly, the Lord's way of meeting them.

I. The doubts of the disciples.—There were some things respecting their Master which these disciples strangely doubted; and there were other things, which they as strangely, as it seems to us, did not doubt at all. They doubted whether he were risen, as some had reported; but they had no doubt that, if he were risen, all was well with them. They doubted whether those who said that they had seen him were correct in their statement; but they had no doubt that, if these witnesses were correct in their report, they had no further ground for sorrow, or doubt, or fear. They doubted whether this person, who now stood in the midst of them, were really their old Master, Jesus of Nazareth; but they had no doubt that, if this were really he, they had abundant cause of rejoicing.

This state of things is now in a great measure altered, or rather reversed. There are doubts now as to points on which there were no doubts then; and there are no doubts now upon points which, among the first disciples, were the only subjects of doubt. Seeing that this is the case, may we not suspect that there is something wrong with many of us; wrong at the very root? We do not doubt, it seems, whether Christ has risen; but we doubt whether this resurrection can be of any use to us personally, or wear any kindly aspect towards us, till we have succeeded in doing or feeling something to make it available and beneficial; as if the great virtue of his resurrection did not flow out of that event itself, but out of those acts of our own which we may have been enabled to put forth in connection with it. We do not doubt that the risen and ascended Jesus is actually the Christ of God, the Saviour of the world; but we doubt whether this is

of any importance to us, till we have ascertained, according to the most approved tests, whether our knowledge and faith be of the right kind; that is, of such a quality as to warrant us to expect that this risen One will condescend to bless us because of it. We do not doubt that this Son of God is near us, within our reach, so that a touch, a word, a look, may in a moment connect us with him; but we doubt whether this nearness be in itself a matter of rejoicing, until we, by working ourselves into the consciousness of "acting faith" on this truth, have made it a blessing: as if the use of faith were not at once and directly to draw joy out of a thing of joy; to take and use, for purposes of immediate peace and comfort, the simple fact, that Christ is risen; but to put gladness into a fact which otherwise possesses none.

This surely is unnatural, and founded upon a misapprehension of the real meaning of the fact presented to us. The doubts of the first disciples, strange as they seem to us, were natural, in their circumstances. It needed no small amount of proof to convince them, that he whom they had seen crucified on Golgotha, and had buried with their own hands in Joseph's tomb, was actually risen; but, that proof having been fully given, there lay nothing beyond it to prevent them enjoying the divine fact, and rejoicing in the risen One. The position of many among his disciples now is by no means so intelligible. We admit the proof of his resurrection; we own him as the Prince of Life, and the Conqueror of death; but we say that all this is nothing to us, so long as we are not sure what our own feelings are, or what the quality of that faith of ours is, by which we believe in this resurrection.

This mode of dealing with the facts of the Bible, ascribes to faith what belongs to Christ. By all means let us render to faith what is due to faith; but let us not forget to render to Christ what is due to him alone. Let us beware of ascribing a virtue to our faith, which belongs to His resurrection.

Our method of treating Christ's resurrection leads us to concentrate our expectations upon self, and on the changes to, be wrought on self. It makes our joy, to come, not at once from the certain good news of what the Father did for Christ when he raised him from the dead, but from the yet uncertain consciousness of what the Holy Spirit is to do for us and within us. It says that the sinner is not warranted in tasting the full cup of blessing which the resurrection of Christ presents, till he has wrought or prayed himself into a more suitable, more receptive frame of spirit; forgetting that nothing save the direct drinking of this cup can bring about this better and more blessed frame.

The way in which many of us treat the death and resurrection of Christ, always raises questions as to personal acceptance and fitness. The way in which the early disciples treated these, never raised any question pertaining to self at all. Conscious of no goodness, in word, or deed, or feeling; aware that no length of time nor earnestness of effort could make them more fit or more acceptable to Christ; knowing that it was the lost that Christ came to save, the very last thing that could have entered their minds was, that their Master would hesitate about receiving any sinner that would apply to him. They knew well about men refusing to follow him; they never heard of his refusing to receive one. Altogether satisfied as to his grace and power on the one hand, and as to their own poverty and emptiness on the other, there was no room for any question, about self, to be raised at all. If he were the Christ, as they believed him to be; and if they were the lost ones, as they knew themselves to be, then the whole matter was decided at once and for ever. Thoughts about self, and faith, and goodness, could have no place. They were excluded. By what law? Of works? No. But by that divine testimony, which, ages before, had announced, "he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities."

The only question which, during his lifetime, these disciples felt that they needed to have settled was, "Is our Master really the Christ?" The only question which, after his death, they hesitated about, was,

"Is our Master really risen, and is he, who now appears in the midst of us, the same as he who formerly went out and in among us, doing the mighty wonders which demonstrated that he was truly the Christ?"

And, after all that has been said, and written, and disputed; after all that has been advanced as to inward evidences and preparatory experiences, this is the one great question still, Is Jesus of Nazareth in very deed the Christ of God? Has he died? Was he buried? Has he risen? These are the questions which we should still feel to be the vital and the lawful ones, had we any right apprehension of the state of matters between us and God.

But did the disciples make of no account the question of their own acceptance? They did not. But they saw it as so entirely included in, or at least so inseparably connected with, the question of his resurrection, that if the one were conclusively settled, the settlement of the other followed, as a matter of course, without difficulty or delay.

Not that they were accepted before they believed, or whether they believed or not; not that they were to believe themselves accepted and forgiven, in order to be accepted and forgiven, as some would frame the Gospel. No; but the knowledge of Christ, in his person and propitiatory work, was understood to be so necessarily and inevitably the introduction to acceptance and pardon, that they did not suppose it possible to know the Divine testimony concerning Christ, without being, thereupon and thereby, justified and blest. To know him, as crucified for sin, was to be "crucified with Christ." To know him as dead, was to be "dead with Christ." To know him as buried, was to be "buried with Christ." To know him as risen, was to be "risen with Christ." To receive the Father's testimony respecting him, as crucified, dead, buried, risen, and ascended, was, in the very act of receiving it, to enter into the state of "no condemnation," to get possession of eternal life, to be "accepted in the Beloved." The object of the Holy Spirit's work was, not to concentrate their thoughts upon

themselves, or introduce them to the knowledge of their own acts of faith and love, but to fix their eye upon another, to introduce them directly to the knowledge of the risen Son of God. The saving vision was one, into which no element of self could enter: it was the vision of "the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ."

SERMON XXXI

PRIMITIVE DOUBTINGS, AND THEIR CURE

"When the Lord had thus spoken, he shewed them his hands and his feet."—LUKE 24:40.

THE light in which the disciples viewed the great facts respecting this dead and risen Substitute, never raised the question of their own acceptance; or at least, in raising it, settled it at once and for ever. Our way of regarding these, seems only to raise the question, not to settle it; nay, it makes the settlement of it one of the most subtle, prolonged, and intricate processes which a tried soul ever undertook. According to the apostles, the adjustment of the personal question was the simple and immediate result of their knowledge of the risen Christ. According to many of us, peace with God can only be the result of the knowledge of self, or rather of the begun improvement of self, in addition to the knowledge of Christ; the fruit of a lifetime's hard experience; the inference from an algebraic summation of doubtings and believing; the termination of one of the most tedious and painful processes of metaphysical analysis and mental scrutiny ever attempted by man. Strange, that the knowledge of a risen Christ, which, in apostolic days, was the ending of all doubt, and suspicion, and perplexity, should, in our day, with so many, be only the

beginning of these. Strange, that that which was once the settlement of every personal question between the soul and God, should now be the signal for letting loose all such questions, and letting them loose in a way which makes it impossible that they can ever be conclusively adjusted. Strange, that that which was meant to throw men entirely out of self, either righteous or unrighteous self, by handing them over to the Divine Substitute, should be the very thing which now is employed for throwing them into self; thus degrading the Sinbearer, and converting into a secondary remedy his completed propitiation on the cross.

God's plan, in his glorious gospel, was to reach self by means of Christ; our plan is, to reach Christ by means of self. To be satisfied with Christ, was the primitive way of peace and forgiveness; to be satisfied with self, in addition to Christ, is the modern plan of many: as if the other were too free and too simple; as if the peace obtained in the primitive way were too liable to abuse, and therefore needing a check and safeguard, to protect the threatened interests of holiness.

To be satisfied with Christ, is surely, of itself, life and gladness, as well as the destruction of sin. To be satisfied with self, in addition to this, is to add to the finished propitiation of the Son of God, and to cast doubts upon the efficacy of his cross. To seek to be satisfied with self, in order to be satisfied with Christ, or to make Christ satisfied with us, is the introduction of one of the subtlest forms of selfrighteousness, by means of which, combined Popery and Arminianism ever subverted the free grace of God, and rebuilt the barrier between the sinner and the kingdom, which the Son of God had thrown down. To be satisfied with Christ, is the simplest, purest, brightest form of faith. To be satisfied with self, is the darkest and deadliest form of self-righteous unbelief. To recognise the completeness, personal and vicarious, of the Christ of God, dying and rising for sinners,—this is peace, this is life, this is sunshine. To begin to think about our own act of recognition, in order to ascertain its completeness and perfection,—this is the entrance of gloom, and

trouble, and doubt; nay, this is, in many cases, the first step of apostasy; this is to renounce the cross, and to fall from grace.

II. The Lord's way of meeting the doubts of the disciples.—"He shewed them his hands and his feet." That which they doubted was, whether this Stranger who had come to them, and who looked so like their old Master, were in very deed himself. If he were, then he must have risen from the dead; for they saw him die, nay, they had buried him. If this were he, then all had come true which he had spoken of himself, and which the prophets had spoken concerning him. He was now doubly demonstrated to be the Christ. That which he had spoken to them concerning his rising from the dead was no vain thing; and now they saw in him, not only all that they had seen before, but much more. As the dying Christ, he was much more to them than the living Christ; but as the risen Christ, he was more than the dying Christ. The seed had not only been sown and taken root, but was now springing up into a glorious tree.

His object, then, in shewing them his hands and his feet, was not only to convince them that he was no spectre, no shadow; but that he was the very Christ who had been crucified. The nail-prints were the proof, not only that he had died, but that he had triumphed over death; that, though "crucified through weakness, he lived again by the power of God." The sin had been borne; the blood had been shed; the sacrifice offered up; the penalty paid; the law satisfied; righteousness honoured; Satan baffled; death overcome. Of all these things the nail-prints assured them. They were the chief of the "many infallible proofs" (Acts 1:3) given to his disciples of his true resurrection.

Strange as this kind of recognition, this way of fixing the doubted identity, may seem, it was satisfactory. The mother in the story knew her long-lost child by the scar on the shoulder received in infancy; so was the Son of God recognised by the nail-prints and the bruises of the cross. But did the disciples need this? Were the loved features not the same as ever? Were the eyes that wept over Jerusalem not the

same as before; or had the grave robbed them of their tenderness and lustre? Were the lips, from which came the gracious words of parting love, not the same as in the upper chamber at the Last Supper? Was the voice so altered, that they did not know its tones? No. These resemblances might all be recognised; but so many things threw doubt upon these recognitions, and they were so slow of heart to believe what the prophets had spoken, that, instead of reasoning in favour of his identity from the fact that he professed to be risen from the dead, they stumbled at this stumbling-stone, and raised doubts out of the very events which ought to have dissipated all. It was not till they had seen him die that they would believe that he could die; and now not even their own eyes will convince them that he is risen; so little did they understand what Messiah was to be, and to do, and to suffer. Their one redeeming point was attachment to his person. Of his sacrificial work they knew but little; of his bloodshedding they had but slenderly felt their need; into the profound significance of his death they had not yet entered. But to his person they were attached, with all the warmth of true-hearted friendship. And it is of this personal attachment that the Lord is making use, to lead them into the deeper, truer knowledge of his mighty work.

They were to be made to recognise him by his wounds; his healed, but still visible wounds; the scars of the cross, the marks of suffering and death. Their unbelief was to be allowed so to come out, that nothing would remove it, but that which proved him to be the very kind of person they had all along shrunk from acknowledging,—One who must die in order to bless them. Their former faith in his person had been shaken (founded as it was on very imperfect knowledge); and that which was to reassure them was his wounds. The old chords that fastened them to his person had heen shaken and strained, till they had almost snapped; and the new link, which was to knit them more firmly than ever to his person, was that which fastened itself, not so much to his person, as to his work as the Substitute. They had known him as the seed of the woman; they were now to know him as the Man with the bruised heel, "the Lamb as it had been slain."

It was with this same blessed evidence that the staggering faith of Thomas was held up, when nothing save the sight of the nail-prints could reassure him; and it was on similar ground that the beloved John was comforted in Patmos, when he fell at the feet of the glorious one. This same Jesus laid his right hand on him, and said, "Fear not, I am the First and the Last; I am he that liveth and was dead." It is thus that he approaches us still, and shews us his hands and his feet, that by these scars we may be made to feel that he is in very deed the Christ that we need. And in in doing so, he shews us the true way of dispelling doubt, of whatever kind it may be, viz., the fuller knowledge of himself, as the dead, the buried, the risen, and living Christ. It is this that is the cure of all unbelief, the death of doubting, the cherisher of faith, the perpetual source of stability and peace; for the real cause of all doubting is imperfect knowledge of the Lord.

Nor let any one say, I know all that I can know, both of himself and of his work. He that says this, knows nothing yet as he ought to know. When doubt arises, and unbelief gets the mastery, and estrangement comes in, let the first thought be,—Could this have taken place, had I fully known him whom I profess to have received; and will not another look at him, another glimpse at his glorious person and deep-scarred wounds, fully reassure me, and rebuke all alarm or distrust?

He shews you once more his hands and his feet, that through them you may know him, by these "infallible proofs," to be the very Christ you need, both for heart and for conscience. The Christ we need is such a Christ as will not only reveal the immeasurable love of God, but convince our consciences as to the lawfulness of that love, by shewing us the life, the death, the resurrection of a divine Substitute, through means of whom this love to the sinner is enabled to give itself out lawfully and righteously to man.

He is the Christ of Bethlehem; the Child that was born, the Son that was given. But this is not enough. Mere incarnation falls short of our

wants, and fails to pacify the conscience.

He is the Christ of Nazareth; the Man that dwelt among sinners, and shewed the love of God to sinners. But this is not enough.

He is the Christ of Capernaum; the great worker of miracles, the healer of the sick, the raiser of the dead, the feeder of the hungry, the utterer of the most gracious words that ever fell on the ear of man. But this will not purge the conscience, or secure our peace with God.

Accordingly, he shews himself as the Christ of Gethsemane, the Christ of Golgotha, the Christ of Joseph's tomb. And what shall we more say? Who, after the proof that is given of death and resurrection, can persist in doubting, or refuse to be comforted? And, if these gracious facts will not cheer and revive, what is there that will do it in earth or heaven? Look at him with prolonged gaze. See him as he was and is; as the dead, the buried, the risen One. Look at his hands, his feet, his side. These scars, though healed, are allowed to remain, just on purpose to meet your doubts, and banish your distrust. He who raised him from the dead, left these scars still visible, these marks of death and weakness, these memorials of the cross and its nails, in order, by means of them, to speak to you, to give you demonstration of his true death and true resurrection, that thereby you might be comforted exceedingly, nay, be like those of whom it is written, "Then were the disciples glad when they saw the Lord."

SERMON XXXII

CHRIST AND THE WORLD

"What fellowship hath righteousness with unrighteousness?"—2 COR. 6:14.

"The friendship of the world is enmity with God."—JAS. 4:4.

WORLDLY people seem to be well aware that it is only in this life that they will be able to get vent to their worldliness. They quite count upon death putting an end to it all; and this is one of the main reasons for their dread of death, and their dislike even of the thoughts of it.

They know that there will be no "worldliness" in "the world to come;" that there will be no money-making, nor pleasure-finding, nor feasting, nor revelling; no balls, nor races, nor theatres, in heaven or in hell. Hence their eagerness to taste "life's glad moments," to take their fill of mirth, to make the best of this life while it lasts; and hence the origin of their motto, "Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die."

Such are the out-and-out "lovers of pleasure," the worshippers of the god of this world, the admirers of vanity, the indulgers of the flesh. They do not profess to be "religious;" but rather take pains to shew that they are not so, and boast that they are not hypocrites.

But pleasure won't do always; and this world will not last for ever; and vanity will soon pass away; and the flesh will cease to satisfy. And when all these things come to an end, what will be the condition of those whose gods they were? Cheated, befooled, despairing, their blossom shall go up as dust, and they themselves shall lie down in sorrow. Their idols are broken in pieces, and they find at last that they have trusted in a lie, and that now, when most they needed succour, they have none to succour them; they are left without a god, without light, without help, without even so much as the hope of a hope, or the faintest glimmer of a dawn, in that long night which, after their merry day of pleasure, has fallen so thickly over them.

Ah, yes; the fashion of this world passeth away; and they who have followed that fashion, and identified themselves with that world, will find too late that, in gaining the world, they have lost their souls; that, in filling up time with vanity, they have filled eternity with gloom; that, in snatching at the pleasures of earth, they have lost the joys of heaven, and the glories of the everlasting inheritance. Yes, life is brief, and time is swift; generations come and go; graves open and close each day; old and young vanish out of sight; riches depart, and honours fade; autumn follows summer, and winter soon wipes out every trace of leaf and blossom; nothing abides, or remains unchanging, but the blue sky and the everlasting hills! O man, dying man, dweller on a dying earth, living amid sickbeds and deathbeds, and funerals and graves, surrounded by fallen leaves and faded blossoms, the sport of broken hopes, and fruitless joys, and empty dreams, and fervent longings, and never-healing, never-ending heartaches;—O man, dying man, wilt thou still follow vanity and lies; still chase pleasure and gaiety; still sow the wind, and reap the whirlwind? After all that has been told thee of earth's weariness, and pleasure's emptiness; after all that thou thyself hast experienced of the poverty of all things here below; after having been so often disappointed, mocked, and made miserable by that world which thou worshippest; wilt thou still pursue the lusts of the flesh, the lust of the eye, and the pride of life?

"Who has felt the desolation

Of the earthquake's dreadful reign,

And would seek the same foundation

For his peaceful bower again?"

O follower of the world, consider thy ways and ponder thy prospects. Look behind thee, and see the utter emptiness of the past. Look before thee, and make sure of something better and more substantial. Look on the right hand and on the left, and see the weary

crowds, seeking rest, and finding none. Look beneath thee, to that eternal fire which is preparing for all that forget God. Look above thee, and see that bright heaven, with all its unutterable gladness, which thou art so madly despising. Think, too, of thy brief time on earth, lent thee, in God's special love, to accomplish thy preparation for the eternal kingdom. And, when thou considerest these things, rouse thyself from thy dream of pleasure, and rest not till thou hast made good the entrance at the strait gate which leadeth unto life.

But these out-and-out lovers of pleasure are, after all, not the most mysterious class, nor the most difficult to deal with: for we know exactly what they are, and what they are seeking; for they do not disguise their worldliness, nor treat it as a thing to be cloaked or apologised for.

There are other classes of a much more uncertain and indefinite kind, whose object seems to be to get hold of both worlds. They want to infuse as much religion into their life, their doings, their conversation, as will make them be reckoned religious men; at least, save them from the imputation of being worldly men. But they want also as much of worldly comfort and pleasure as will gratify the tastes of a still unrenewed nature. Their life is a compromise; and their object is to balance between two adverse interests, to adjust the conflicting claims of this world and of the world to come; to please and to serve two masters, to gratify two tastes, to walk in two opposite ways at once, to secure the friendship of the world without losing the friendship of God.

The character as well as the life of these men is undecided and feeble. They are not decided in their worldliness, and they are not decided in their religion. If they were compelled to choose between their two masters, the probability is that they would prefer the world; for their heart is not in their religion, and religion is not in their heart. Religion is irksome to them; it is a yoke, not a pleasant service. They don't want to part with it, for several good reasons; but they have no delight in it. Their consciences would not allow them to throw it off;

but it occupies a very small part of their thoughts and affections. They are, in fact, worldly men varnished over with religion; that is all. They are made up of two parts, a dead and a living; the living part is the world, the dead is religion.

There are many of these in our day, when religion is fashionable. When religion is unfashionable, there are few; when it is scoffed at, still fewer; when it is persecuted, hardly any. But when it is in fashion, they are numerous. They may go under many names,— formalists, externalists, half-hearted Christians, half-and-half disciples; they may put on more or less of religion; they may indulge more or less in worldliness; still, the class I speak of is, in all circumstances, substantially the same. They have never broken with sin, nor crucified self, nor taken up the cross. Whatever their lives or their words may be, their heart is not right with God.

Some of these are men who have been brought up in worldliness, and who have, as they grew up, added a little religion to their worldliness, to make it respectable. Others have been religiously brought up from childhood; they have been well taught in the things of Christ; they have had their religious impressions, some deeper, some shallower; and these have remained for a season, so as to mould their character and life considerably. But such feelings have never gone deep enough; they never led to the new birth; they issue in no lasting spiritual life, so that, instead of leading to the transformation of the whole man, inner and outer, they have merely religionized the outer being, leaving the inner man unmelted, unbroken, and unrenewed. The persons thus moved have gone a considerable way, but not the whole. They have been roused, but not converted. They have passed through a certain religious process, but not experienced the heavenly change, without which they cannot enter the kingdom. They have felt a good deal, read a good deal, prayed a good deal; they have not been without their earnestness and solemnity, perhaps their sighs and tears. They have been moved under sermons; roused by searching books; done many things and taken many steps which seemed to be religious. Yet, after all, there has been no broken-heartedness, no

opening of the eye, no breaking off from sin, no surrender of the soul to God, no crucifixion of the old man, no resurrection to newness of life.

After a while, in such cases, a deep and settled formalism has supervened. Earnestness has faded away, and left nothing but its dregs. The soul has become sapless and insensible. The edge of feeling, both upon heart and conscience, has become blunted. The routine of religion is still gone through, and the profession still kept up; but all within is dried up and withered; there is no enjoyment of spiritual things; the service of God is a burden; praise and prayer are irksome; sermons and sacraments are wearisome; and the poor professor moves on in his heartless career; outwardly still religious, but at heart as unspiritual and worldly as if he had never at any time been touched or awakened at all.

In such a case, with a religion in which he has no enjoyment, and with a profession which brings him no liberty and no comfort, it is not wonderful that he should have recourse to the world, to fill up the dreary void within. His carnal tastes never having been radically changed, but simply overborne for a season, by a rush of religious earnestness, he returns naturally to their gratification in their old objects, and his only restraints are the dread of a dark future, which he cannot shake off, and the desire to maintain a religious character, to stand well with religious men, and to maintain his place in the church. How many of this class there may be in our day, God only knows. We are warned that, in the last days, there will be multitudes having the form of godliness, but denying the power thereof.

These are the ambiguous disciples of our age, who belong to Christ but in name. These are the stony-ground or thorny-ground hearers; men who have a place at our communion tables, who figure at religious committees, who make speeches on religious platforms, yet are, after all, "wells of water," "trees without root," stars without either heat or light.

The religion of such is but a half-and-half religion; without depth, or decision, or vigour, or self-sacrifice. It is but a picture or a statue, not a living man.

The conversion of such has been but a half-and-half conversion; it has not gone down to the lowest depths of the man's nature. I do not say it is a pretence or a hypocrisy; but still, I say it is an unreality. It has been a movement, a shaking, a change, but it has not been a being "begotten of God," a being "born from above."

The discipleship of such is but a half-and-half discipleship. It has some of the aspects of discipleship; but it is not a forsaking all, and taking up the cross and following Christ. We do not count genuine the discipleship of the man who is to-day with Christ, to-morrow with the world; to-day in the sanctuary, to-morrow in the ball-room. There must be suspicion attaching to all such inconsistent discipleship; it is both cold and hot; it is both worldly and unworldly; it is both Christian and un-Christian;—what can it be?—what can it mean?

In speaking of such inconsistencies, we must be faithful and direct. We are not to prophesy smooth things, and hint at certain evils, as if they were but minor imperfections, the quiet removal of which would set all to rights. No; we must strike deeper than this. We must lay the axe to the root of the tree, and say at once, that such inconsistencies betray the utter unsoundness of the man's whole religious profession. It is not that there are some flaws in his religious life; it is that his religion itself is hollow,—without foundation, without root or soil. I will not say it is all a lie; for there is sometimes a certain amount of good intention in it; but it is all a mistake,—a mighty and terrible mistake; a mistake which, if not rectified at once, must issue in the fearful darkness and woeful disappointment of an undone eternity!

Such a man's whole religious life is one grand misconception; and every step he takes in it is a blunder, and a stumble, and a snare. Let

such a man know that, in his present half-worldly, half-religious condition, he has no real religion at all. It is a fiction, a delusion. It will stand no test of law or gospel, of conscience or of discipline, of time or of eternity. It will go to pieces with the first touch. It is all hollow, and must be begun again, from the very first stone of the foundation.

If, then, O worldly formalist, thou wouldst make sure thy hope, and obtain a discipleship that will stand all tests, begin this day at the beginning. Count all the past but loss. Fling away thy vain hopes and self-righteous confidences. Give up thy fond idea of securing both earth and heaven. Go straight to Calvary; there be thou crucified to the world, and the world to thee, by the cross of Christ. Go straight to the grave of Christ; there bring all thy sins, thy worldliness, thy halfheartedness, and all pertaining to thy old self, that being made partaker of Christ's death and burial, thou mayest be sharer of his resurrection too. Go at once to Him who died and rose again, and drink into his love. One draught, nay, one drop of that love will for ever quench your love of sin, and be the death of that worldliness which threatens to be your eternal ruin. The love of Christ will not only make you an out and out Christian, a thoroughgoing, decided man in all the things of God, but it will pour in a peace which you have never known, which you cannot know, save in simple faith in the heavenly Peacemaker, and in entire surrender of soul to him who gave himself for us, that he might deliver us from a present evil world, according to the will of God our Father.

SERMON XXXIII

THE GOD OF GRACE

"That in the ages to come he might shew the exceeding riches of his grace, in his kindness toward us through Christ Jesus."— EPH. 2:7.

THE history of God's "grace," or free love, goes back into eternity. Our earth's six thousand years mark neither its beginning nor its end. It dates immeasurably backward among the ages that are past, and it stretches immeasurably forward into "the ages to come." It is like Him in whose bosom it dwells, unbeginning and unending; so that, as he is from everlasting to everlasting "God," so is he from everlasting to everlasting the "God of all grace."

This grace must give vent to itself and be manifested, for it is the very law of the divine nature,—not merely to be, but to manifest itself. This is the law of all being,—to bring forth that which it contains; in other words, to manifest itself; as in the case of the seed sown in the ground; a law which, in the creature, is the finite copy or image of that which has its seat and origin in the infinite Creator himself. The sun cannot but shine; the fountain cannot but pour forth its waters; the seed cannot but shoot up and bear fruit after its kind; so, divine goodness cannot but spread itself out, divine holiness cannot but come forth, divine wisdom cannot but give utterance to itself, and divine grace cannot but unfold its riches.

But, for this unfolding of grace, this manifestation of what is gracious in the divine character, there must be a purpose; for grace is not to manifest itself at random, or without due regard being had to time, and place, and objects, and circumstances, and final issues. It is this "purpose of grace," as the apostle calls it, that is needed for giving shape and direction to the divine self-manifestation. It is this purpose of grace that adjusts the awful question,—a question which no finite being can ever solve or ought to entertain,—of how far a certain amount of permitted evil may so be overruled for far greater good as to warrant that evil being allowed to enter. It is this purpose

of grace that defines the objects towards whom this grace is to direct itself; the circumstances in which it is to find them; the time or times at which, and during which, it is to reveal itself; the channel through which it can righteously flow; the amount of obstacles which it can righteously overcome; the nature, as well as the extent and duration, of the results which it is to accomplish. All these, as so many preliminaries, God's purpose of grace must define; leaving nothing to chance, trusting nothing to the caprice of creature-will or the uncertainties of creature-mutability; embracing all conceivable contingencies, and regulating the exact amount of evil that righteousness can tolerate, and that grace can undertake to deal with.

The details of this purpose are to be found in the history of our race. That story, which in so many of its parts seems to us tangled and unmeaning, is no random assemblage of events, but, in all its processes, as well as all its issues, is the deliberate unrolling, fold after fold, of that purpose of grace, which, transmuting the indefinite into the definite, the contingent into the certain, and anticipating the permitted entrance of evil, proposed to deal with this evil, not by swift expulsion or extinction, not by immediate and unrepealable judgment on the transgressors, but in a way more transcendently glorious, and more fitted to draw forth the hitherto unknown wonders of Jehovah's character, and the unimaginable resources of his wisdom and grace.

This purpose selected the channel through which this divine manifestation was to come, and in selecting it settled, at once and for ever, the vain question that has been so often raised, Could there not have been another channel equally efficacious? There could not. The divine selection of one is the setting aside of all the rest as inadequate to accomplish the design. This purpose, then, gave definite shape to the future, arranging its endless movements, as certainly as the motions of each starry orb in the firmament are adjusted, by the hand of the Creator. It regulated the time when grace was first to come forth, the place where it was first to be

proclaimed, and the race in reference to whom the manifestation was to be made. It was not to shew itself at the first irruption of sin. In that case, righteousness was alone to triumph, and the transgressors consigned to everlasting chains. But at the second irruption, after it had been proved that vengeance executed on the criminal could not deter others, and that thus righteousness alone was insufficient to deal effectually with sin, grace was to be introduced, to deal with it in a way such as would render any future outburst of it for ever impossible. Immediately on man's fall, grace was to come in, and undertake the mighty work; a work in which righteousness had been baffled. On the very spot where sin had burst in upon the new-made world, grace was to plant its standard, and at the very commencement of the conflict proclaim its certain victory. It was to meet sin face to face, choosing for its battle-field the very territory where sin had displayed itself. It was to begin its actings on the soil where the blight had fallen and the ruin been wrought. Confronting both the tempter and the tempted, interposing between the spoiler and the victim, bidding the law stand by and see itself vindicated to the full, though in a new way; calling on righteousness to forego its prey, under the promise of a far nobler and more satisfying victim, it proclaimed "glory to God in the highest" out of that event which seemed most to dishonour his name, "peace on earth" out of that disaster which seemed to have driven peace out of the world, "goodwill to man" out of that sin which threatened to make God man's enemy for ever. Hard by the forbidden tree of Eden, God opened the well-spring of grace, and, out of the fountain there opened, have flowed to us all the manifold streams of grace which have, since that, watered our parched and cursed soil.

This grace is something wholly new, and, as such, difficult for man to apprehend. The very idea of grace is strange, and, we may say, unnatural to man. He understands the meaning of righteousness, but not of grace, save in the sense of mere indifference to sin. His thoughts are not God's thoughts; and hence the difficulty of making the sinner comprehend what grace really is, or, having comprehended it, to act upon it. To know what grace is, and to act

upon it,—to know what grace is, and to go to God, simply as one who has heard that he is gracious,—this is salvation,—this is eternal life! Yet thus to teach the sinner what grace means is strangely difficult; and to persuade him to trust his soul for eternity to that God who has thus made known his grace, is a thing so impossible, that as nothing but the infinite skill of the divine Spirit is sufficient to overcome man's unteachableness in this thing, so nothing save the almightiness of the same Spirit is able to conquer his determination not to allow himself to be dealt with in any such way by God. To the grace which consists in indifference to sin he offers no objections; the grace that would allow him to work his own way back to God, and accept his doings at what he conceives them to be worth, he comprehends: to the grace that would make him partner in the work of salvation he would submit; but to the grace which sets out with the total condemnation both of himself and his sin, which allows him no standing before God save that of the sentenced criminal, and no plea save that of worthlessness, which treats himself as one thoroughly lost, and his case as absolutely desperate, and which, while doing all this, presents him with a complete, an immediate, an eternal salvation,—without preparation or prerequisite, as the purchase of the great redemption on the cross, and the gift of God's free and boundless love,—to this grace he has insuperable objections, and would perish rather than take life upon such terms, nay, would turn round upon God and accuse him of unfairness in such treatment of himself, and of disregard to the interests of morality and virtue, in disallowing what he calls the honourable competition for eternal life.

From the hour that God proclaimed this grace upon the earth, he gave man to understand that there was grace enough to meet his case as a sinner. The first promise embodies this as its essence; and upon the strength of this simple assurance, sinners in those early days drew nigh to God, and saints walked with him in holy companionship. They knew but little then; for God's purpose of grace dawned slowly on the world; but what they knew gave rest to their souls, for they could say this much at least, "There is enough of grace in God to meet my case." Thus they tasted that the Lord was

gracious, and went upon their way rejoicing, to keep the commandments of their God.

But as the world went on, sin went on; and it might be doubted whether this grace of God that was sufficient at first was sufficient still, or whether man's sin might not exhaust it, or whether it could continue to widen its circle, and embrace yet larger and larger measures of unworthiness. Grant that the rays of the sun can pierce a certain amount of darkness, is there light enough to pierce all darkness whatsoever, though it were to deepen and thicken beyond measure? Grant that the light has proved itself sufficient to absorb the darkness of the world's first sad night, is it adequate to swallow up the darkness of ten thousand midnights gloomier and more sorrowful than these? Will grace last? Will it expand itself to take in greater guilt? Will not God be wearied with receiving so many sinners, and forgiving so many sins? All these questions required to be answered, and God proceeded to answer them age after age, by shewing that "where sin abounded, grace did much more abound."

He not merely allowed sin to enter, but to spread; not only to spread, but to increase in heinousness; not only to increase in heinousness, but to vary itself, and take every conceivable shape that man's spirit could undergo,—all in order to demonstrate that his resources of grace were adequate to meet it all. Sin might widen its circle age after age, but grace widened its circle and still went far beyond man's transgression. Age after age sin ascended a higher pinnacle of rebellious ungodliness; but grace ascended along with it, and took its station far above it, like a bright canopy of heavenly azure. Age after age descended to lower and lower depths of hateful pollution; grace went down along with it, and when the soul found itself at the very bottom of the horrible pit, and expected to meet nothing there but hell itself, it found the hand of grace still beneath it, as mighty to save, as willing to bless as ever. Just as sin abounded, so grace did much more abound.

Such has been the history of our world, and such the way in which God's purpose of grace has unfolded itself, and widened its circle just as sin continued to widen,—so that every part of it has been a story of abounding sin, and far more abounding grace. We know that Adam's case was such, and such has been the case of each saved one to this hour. What was Abraham's history but one of abounding sin and superabounding grace? What was Rahab's, but a history of abounding sin and superabounding grace? What was David's, but a history of abounding sin and superabounding grace? What was Manasseh's, but a history of abounding sin and superabounding grace? What was the history of Saul of Tarsus, but one of abounding sin and superabounding grace, as he himself declares, "The grace of our Lord was exceeding abundant towards me with faith and love, which is in Christ Jesus?" What has all Israel's history been, but the history of abounding sin and superabounding grace? Nay, what is all this world's long history, protracted to its utmost length by God's marvellous long-suffering, not willing that any should perish, but that all should come to repentance;—what is it but a history of abounding sin and superabounding grace? O the infinite dimensions of this immeasurable grace! It has a breadth and length, a depth and height, that pass all knowledge. And it is this wondrous grace, in all its exceeding riches, that God is presenting to each sinner here, that they may take it and live for ever. There was enough for Rahab, and Manasseh, and Saul; be assured that there is enough for you.

SERMON XXXIV

THE GOD OF GRACE

"That in the ages to come he might shew the exceeding riches of his grace, in his kindness toward us through Christ Jesus."— EPH. 2:7.

BUT the past has not exhausted this grace; the future is as much connected with it as is the past. It is in "the ages to come" that he is "to shew the exceeding riches of his grace." The Lord's first coming displayed much of these exceeding riches, his second coming is to bring them to light in yet larger fulness. From the foot of the cross the fountain of free love poured itself plenteously forth; but from the foot of the throne this same fountain is again to break out and send abroad its unexhausted abundance. Of the many ways in which grace shall then get vent to itself, I do not mean here to speak; yet this much may be said, that in a thousand forms and ways shall grace yet unfold itself,—in bringing back the captivity of Zion, in converting the world, in binding the strongman, in removing the curse, in making all things new, so that God's last demonstration of grace shall be the strongest and the fullest,—proving that where sin has abounded grace has much more abounded.

Of these, however, I do not speak further, as the Apostle's words in the passage before us speak more especially of the Church, and of what grace is yet to do for her in the ages to come. To this same thing and time refer the words of the apostle Peter, when he speaks of "the grace that is to be brought unto us at the revelation of Jesus Christ" (1 Pet. 1:13). Both passages point us forward to the day of Christ's appearing, as the day in which new treasures of grace shall be unlocked to us, and God's free love have a new manifestation which shall shew that the past has not exhausted it; nay, that the past has merely been the earnest of the wonders yet to come. It is grace that strives with the sinner, grace that renews him, grace that leads him to the cross, grace that forgives him, grace that heals all his diseases, grace that bears with him after forgiveness, grace that guides him along, grace that fights for him, grace that comforts him, grace that

trains him for the kingdom and makes all things work together for his good, grace that keeps his soul in peace amid the tumults of a stormy world, grace that maintains his unbroken fellowship with the Lord, grace that lays him down quietly to sleep in Jesus, with the blessed hope of soon rising again and putting on immortality;—it is grace that does all these marvels for him and in him. In experiencing these things, he feels oftentimes as if grace had gone to its utmost stretch, as if it were not possible nor conceivable that grace could do more for him than it has done. Its past dealings with him have been so marvellous, that it seems ingratitude as well as presumption to anticipate more. Yet that which he is afraid even to imagine, is that which God has in store for him. Grace, nay, riches of grace, nay, exceeding riches of grace, are yet to be unfolded to him in the ages to come. Eye hath not seen them, ear hath not heard them, the heart has not conceived them; yet they are not the less surely provided for him.

There is, of course, a difference in the ages to come. There are no more sins to be forgiven, and no more perversity and unbelief to be borne with; but still the man is the same man that was once in the miry clay, that was once a sinner and an alien, and accordingly he can only be dealt with, even hereafter, by grace. It was only grace that could meet his case here in his sins; and it is only grace that can deal with him hereafter, even when made perfect. All that shall be done for him in the ages to come, shall be the result of grace. Here it is grace seen in justifying; hereafter it is grace seen in glorifying the justified. The amount of grace given out here is just the amount needed for the forgiveness of his sins, and the new-moulding of his nature, and the helping of his infirmities; but the amount of grace to flow forth in the ages to come, is to be measured by the excellency of the inheritance which is then to be bestowed. That which man calls "exceeding riches of grace" is just that extent of grace which he needs here, when fighting his way to the kingdom, for his finite soul can hardly conceive of anything larger; but that which God calls the "exceeding riches of grace" is that which is measured by "the exceeding and eternal weight of glory."

We often feel as if grace had done its utmost when it has carried us safely through the desert, and set us down at the gate of the kingdom. We feel as if, when grace has landed us there, it has done all for us that we are to expect. But God's thoughts are not our thoughts. He does exceeding abundantly above all we ask or think. It is just when we reach the threshold of the prepared city, that grace meets us in new and more abundant measures, presenting us with the recompence of the reward. The love that shall meet us then to bid us welcome to the many mansions, shall be love beyond what we were here able to comprehend; for then shall we fully realise, as if for the first time, the meaning of these words, "The love of God which is in Christ Jesus our Lord;" and then shall we have that prayer of Christ fulfilled in us, "That the love wherewith thou hast loved me may be in them, and I in them." It is grace that bestows the inheritance; and the greatness of that inheritance will be the measure of the grace. It is grace that crowns and enthrones us; and the crown and throne, which shall then be ours, will be the measure of the grace. It is grace that provides for us the New Jerusalem, with its bright beauty and divine magnificence; and that celestial city will be the measure of the grace. It is grace that spreads for us the Lamb's marriage-supper, and clothes us with the bridal-dress; and that marriage-supper, that bridal-dress, will be the measure of the grace. It was grace that on earth said to us, "Come unto Me, and I will give you rest;" and it will be grace, in all its exceeding riches, that will hereafter say to us, "Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world."

No doubt, in one sense, we might say that God's Son, his unspeakable gift, is the measure, even as he is the pledge of the grace; and, speaking generally, we might say, the grace must be boundless, seeing the gift is infinite, so that we do not need to wait for the ages to come to disclose the riches of the grace. But let us remember that it is one thing to know that a friend's bountifulness is large, and another thing to know in what gifts that large bountifulness will display itself. God's gift of his own Son assures us that there is nothing too costly for him to bestow on us; so that,

applying this measurement generally, we may say, "He that spared not his own Son, how shall he not, with him, freely give us all things?" But not until these "all things" are made ours in the ages to come, can we realise all the grace that the "unspeakable gift" includes and implies. Faith uses this as the great standard of measurement when calculating the extent of its anticipated possessions; hope assures itself by means of it that it shall not be put to shame. But all this is only seeing things "in a glass darkly." Possessing Christ, we feel assured that we can possess nothing of greater value; but still the things which we receive in him and through him, will most marvellously contribute to make us understand the grace which is given us in him. In giving us Christ, the Father traces round us, as it were, an illimitable circle; but then our exact appreciation of its wide dimensions depends much upon its contents, upon the nature of the things which it comprehends. To say that our treasure-house is infinite, is one thing, and to bring forth its treasures and spread them out before us, is another. It is one thing to tell us that there is over our heads a vast and all-including firmament, bright with the glory and the love of God; and it is another to withdraw the clouds that veil it, and to present us with a whole sky of stars. And just as, in receiving our daily forgivenesses at his hand, God made us to understand the riches of his grace, while here, in a way such as we never could by any mere statement of their greatness; so, in conferring on us the incorruptible inheritance hereafter, he will give us conceptions of his unutterable grace such as, till then, we could not realise. The truth is, though it may seem almost a contradiction, that while we measure the greatness of the coming glories by the unspeakable gift, we are also to measure the greatness of the unspeakable gift by the glories which shall then be revealed. We stand at the cross just now, and, realising the love of which that cross gives us the happy pledge, we look forward into the ages to come and say, What will not God give? so hereafter, when these ages shall have begun, we shall turn our eye backward to the cross, and, encircled with the glory of the kingdom that shall then be ours, we shall exclaim, "Oh, what hath God given us in giving us his Son!"

This glance into "the ages to come," with all their "exceeding riches of grace," is plentiful in lessons, as practical as they are precious. It opens out so largely, in all its breadth and length, in all its depth and height, the infinitely gracious character of "the God of all grace," that we cannot give it admission for a moment without feeling what a new intensity of light it casts upon "the gospel of the grace of God."

Pointing to these "ages to come," we can reason with the man of this age, the man who is walking "according to the course of this age," and who, if Christ were coming now to introduce the age to come, would be found all unready; we can reason with him and say, Behold these riches of grace! are they not enough to startle even your heedlessness into solemnity, and to convince you that there is a better portion, than this poor world, for that empty soul of yours? Is that boundless store of love, which the eternal ages are to unfold, not more satisfying, more gladdening to the spirit than this present evil world? And does it not assure you, though you be the guiltiest and most alienated that earth contains, that there is grace enough in God to receive you, save you, pardon you, bless you, and make you, even you, an heir of God and joint-heir with Jesus Christ.

Again, pointing to these ages to come, we can reason with the troubled spirit, weary of its burdens, yet doubting whether its wounds can be healed or its sins forgiven:—These "ages to come," my friend, with all their exceeding riches of grace, do they not speak peace to your sorrowful spirit? Do they not tell you of grace so free and ample that it is not within the bounds of possibility that your sins can exceed it? You do not need to vex yourself with the thought, "But what are these riches of grace, so long as I am not assured of my portion in that kingdom?" This is not the point with which you have more immediately to do. The question on which the commencement of your peace depends is not, "What is your ascertained participation in that promised heritage?" but, What is the character of the God with whom you have to do, and what is the light which these future ages cast upon his character as the God of all grace? His past dealings with sinners reveal his graciousness, and is not that enough

to make you feel that there is a welcome for you? The cross of his Son; where the great pacification was accomplished, in virtue of which his grace has got righteous vent to itself; that cross makes known his graciousness, and is it not sufficient to pacify your conscience and win your reluctant confidence? But, as if all that were still inadequate, he gives you a prophetic glance into the fountainhead of his immeasurable grace, and disclosing to you the gracious bosom out of which all grace has come, he shews you such a vastness of love, and such an infinite magnitude of resources ready to be poured forth at the bidding of that love, that it seems as if he would not allow the very shadow of an excuse to remain for one distrustful imagination, one suspicious thought. This God of all grace, the God of these coming ages, is he not just such a God as even you may go to, with the whole outcry of your complaints, the whole burden of your wants and sins? Whether it be your sense of sin or your want of a sense of sin that is saddening you; whether it be a new and sudden rising of doubts within you, or a long-protracted course of unbelief, and insensibility, and darkness; whatever it be, know this, that there is grace enough in this God of all grace even for such a case as yours. And if you would but be persuaded to give yourselves at once to the blessed impression which the simple announcement of these tidings of grace is fitted to make, you would know, ere you were aware, the divine peace that calms every tumult within; and, tasting that the Lord is gracious, you would go upon your way rejoicing, the Lord directing your heart into the love of God and into the patient waiting for Christ.

Lastly, pointing to these ages to come, we can reason with the struggling saint and say, Look at these exceeding riches of grace which are to be unfolded at the revelation of Jesus Christ, and then ask yourself, Is there any room for that faintness and oppressive despondency which sometimes weighs you down? Is there room for care, and anxiety, and dread, and sadness? Is there room for anything save joy in the Lord, and exultation in the hope of his appearing? It was thus that our Lord reasoned with his disciples, "Fear not, little flock; for it is your Father's good pleasure to give you

the kingdom;" the meaning of which passage is not, as some take it, "Be not afraid, for you shall soon have a kingdom that will make up for all poverty and privation here;" but, "Fear not, neither despond respecting your present lot; he who is about to give you a kingdom will assuredly supply all your need according to his riches in glory; the kingdom which you have in prospect is a pledge that he will deny you nothing here." So we say, He that has made you heirs of his kingdom, will he withhold anything from you? Nay, what will he not fully give, whether pertaining to the soul or the body? Is his grace large enough to give you a kingdom, and yet not large enough to provide for you on the way to it? Are not these exceeding riches of grace, which are to be unrolled in the ages to come, the pledge of all present grace which your case requires? That which God purposes to do hereafter tells you how much he is willing to do just now. What sin is he not willing to forgive? What want is he not willing to supply? What infirmity is he not willing to help? What enemy is he not willing to bruise under your feet? What evil in you is he not willing to uproot? What fruits of his Spirit will he not ripen in you? What fear is he not willing to remove? What burden is he not willing to bear? What desire of your heart is he not willing to grant? What trial is he not willing to alleviate? What wound is he not willing to heal? What sorrow is he not willing to turn into joy? Ah, these exceeding riches of grace in the ages to come,—these are the Church's pledge for all needed blessings now! If we may expect these hereafter, what may we not count upon now? He that has prepared for us a crown of righteousness, will he not uphold our goings here? He that has built for us the New Jerusalem with all its glory, will he not give us a place on earth whereon to lay our head? He that has provided the white raiment of the bridal feast, will he not give us clothing for our bodies in the days of our pilgrimage? He that is to spread for us the table with the hidden manna and the fruit of the tree of life, will he not give us bread to eat, while passing onwards to the kingdom? He that is ere long to give us the bright and morning star, will he not shed light upon the darkness of our dreary path, till the day break and the shadows flee away?

SERMON XXXV

THE SINCERITY OF THE DIVINE COMPASSION

"It repented the Lord that he had made man on the earth, and it grieved him at his heart."—GEN. 6:6.

THE manner in which God here acknowledges man as his handiwork is specially to be noted. The words are, "It repented the Lord that he had made man upon earth." It is not said generally, "that man had been made;" but definitely, that "he had made man." He had spoken of man in his primeval goodness, as coming from his hand; so now he does not fail to remind us that it is this same man, this very race, that has now become so worthless and hateful.

He might have drawn a veil over this point, so as to prevent our being so vividly reminded that man was truly his own workmanship. But he does not. Nay, he brings the sad fact before us,—a fact that seems to reflect upon his own skill and power. He does not disavow creation. He does not disown man. He does not speak or act as one ashamed to be known as the Maker of one so miserably apostate, so incurably depraved. Even when making known man's extremity of guilt, he openly owns him as his creature. He does not keep silence on the matter, as one desirous that it should be forgotten or unnoticed. He brings it directly forward, as if to call attention to the fact.

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