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July 2

Refusing to Go In - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

And he was angry, and would not go in— Luk_15:28

An Inexhaustible Parable

I have often spoken on this beautiful parable, and I hope often to speak on it again. It is so full of teaching and so full of hope that in a lifetime one could not exhaust it. I think I have even spoken on this verse when discussing our duties to our equals. But now I choose it for a different purpose, and I want to put it in a different setting. I want to look at this brother in the parable as the type of the man who will not enter into a love that is too big for earth, and into a household that is home indeed. "And he was angry, and would not go in. "Are there not multitudes in that condition? They see the gleaming of the lights of home, and there is the sound of music in their ears. And yet though they know that they would have a welcome, and add to the gladness of it all by entering, somehow or other, like the brother here, they stand in the cold night outside the door. I am not speaking to those who have accepted Christ, and know His fellowship, I am speaking to those so near to door and window that they see the light and hear the sound of music. And yet though the night is over them and round them, and they are hungry and the feast is there, somehow or other they will not go in. Let me ask you in passing to lay this to heart, that no one will ever force you in. God is too careful of our human freedom to drag us against our will into His home. You must go willingly or not at all. You must make up your mind to go, and do it. And probably there is no hour so fit for that as just this hour which you have reached.

There are two things about which I want to speak in connection with the conduct of this brother. First, I want to look at the reasons which kept him from entering the home that night. Second, I want to find out what he missed because he thus refused to enter.

He Could Not Understand His Father's Ways

First, then, looking at the man, why was it that he refused to enter? I think to begin with, that this was in his heart, that he could not understand his father's ways. Doubtless he had always loved his father. Doubtless he had always honored him. He had never before questioned his sagacity, or dreamed of thinking of him as unjust. But now, in the hour of the prodigal's return, when the house was ablaze with light and loud with merriment, all he had cherished of his father's justice seemed to be scattered to the winds of heaven. Was this the way to receive back a prodigal? Was not this to put a premium on folly? Was it fair to him, so faithful and so patient, that a reckless ne'er-do-well should have this welcome? He could not understand his father's ways. Is this the only man who has stood without because of irritating thoughts like that? Are there none here who will not enter because they cannot understand the Father's dealings? They cannot fathom the mysteries of providence. They cannot understand the cruelties of nature. They cannot grasp the meaning of the cross, or see the power of the death of Jesus. Am I speaking to anyone who feels like that—who cannot understand the Father's dealings? I want to say to you that the one way to learn them is to come at once into the home. For the ways of God are like cathedral windows which to those outside are dim and meaningless, and only reveal their beauty and their story to those who are within.

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Refusing to Go In - Page 2
by George H. Morrison

He Was Indignant with His Brother

I think again this man refused to enter because he was indignant with his brother. He was indignant that one with such a character should have a place at all within the house. It is not likely that he ever loved his brother, and perhaps his brother had never much loved him. There was such a difference between their natures that they could hardly have been the best of comrades. For the one was always generous to a fault, and always getting into trouble somewhere; and the other was a pattern of sobriety, and as cautious as he was laborious. Such Jacobs, and they are found in every region, are always a little contemptuous of Esaus. Secretly they despise them and their singing, and they cannot understand why people love them. And when they find that they are home again, and that all the household is in revelry, then are they angry and will not go in. So was it with this person in the parable. He was not only angry with his father; he was deeply indignant that in the house of gladness a man should be tolerated such as his brother was. And I know many who are standing outside—who are angry and will not go in—for a reason precisely similar to that. I remember a young man coming to me in Dundee to tell me why he would never join the church. It seemed that in the place of business where he worked there was a young woman who made a great profession. And all the time that she was busy in attending meetings and acting as a monitor, she was engaged in pilfering the till. "And he was angry, and would not go in." He was very indignant with his sister. He said, "If these are the kind of people who are in, then it is better that I should be without." And I tell you there are many just like that, who would come in and get their welcome, if it were not for what they have seen in you—if it were not for what they have seen in me. My brother, standing in the darkness there, there is a great deal to justify your attitude. But why do you leave the happiness to us when we are such prodigals and so unworthy of it? Come in yourself tonight out of the cold. Bring your enthusiasm and your courage with you. And not only will you receive a blessing, but you will be a blessing to us all.

He Trusted the Reports of Others

I think again this man refused to enter because he trusted the reports of others. He did what is always a foolish thing to do—he went on the information of the servants. Had he gone right in and seen things for himself, the night for him would have had a different issue. One look at his brother might have softened him, there were such traces of hell about his face. But instead of that he went to the stable door, where the ostler was loafing and listening to the music, and he, the first-born of his father's family, was content to get his information there. Now of course we know that he was told the truth. "Thy brother is come, and they are making merry." But might not the truth be told in such a way as would irritate and rankle just a little? It is always the prodigals whom the servants love. It is always the prodigals they like to serve. And there would be just a touch of pleasing malice in it, when they told the elder brother what had happened. "And he was angry, and would not go in." It was partly the servants' tone that made him angry. He took his report of that most glorious night from men who knew nothing of its inner mystery. And what I say is that it is often so, and that there are multitudes outside today because they have taken the report of others who are incapable of judging rightly. Are you quite sure that your reports of Jesus are taken from those who know Him and who love Him? Are you quite sure that in your thoughts of Christ there is no travesty of what is true? You must especially beware of that, young man, in an age like this when everyone is talking, and when a thousand judgments are passed on Jesus Christ by men who have never touched His garment's hem. I beg of you to believe that in the Gospel there is something that lies beyond the reach of intellect. There is something which is never understood except by those who have experienced it. And therefore if you are in earnest and are wise you will take no verdict upon the cross of Christ, except the verdict of the man or woman who has experienced its saving power.

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Refusing to Go In - Page 3
by George H. Morrison

He Missed What He Most Needed

So far then on the older brother's reasons. Now will you let me show you what he missed? Well, to begin with, you must all agree with me that the man missed just what he most needed. Think of it, his day's work was over. He was coming home in the evening from the field. Like a faithful servant he had been hard at work, driving the furrow or building up the fences. I honor him for that quiet and steady toil, and for being not above the servant's duty. There would be more prosperous farms and prosperous businesses, if sons today would follow his example. Now the labors of the day were over. "The ploughman homewards wends his weary way." And he was hungry and he needed food. He was weary and he needed rest. He was soiled and stained with his day's work, and he wanted a change of raiment in the evening—and all that he needed in that evening hour was stored and treasured in his father's house. "And he was angry, and would not go in. "He missed the very things that he was needing. All that would freshen him and make him strong again, he lost because he stayed outside the door. He was a soiled, weary, and hungry man, and everything was ready for the taking, yet no one forced him to the taking of it when he deliberately stood without. Is not that always the pity of it, when a man refuses the love of Jesus Christ? Is he not missing just what he most needs, and needs the more, the more he has been faithful? For all of us are soiled and we need cleansing; and all of us are weak and we need strength, and all of us are hungering and thirsting, and Christ alone can satisfy that hunger. My brother and sister, I want you to come in not to please me, but for your own sake first. I want you to come in, because just what you need now is waiting you in Christ. I want you to come in because that heart of yours is restless and unsatisfied and hungry; because when you were tempted last you fell, and you are missing the very thing you need.

He Missed the Joy

But not only did the man miss what he needed; he also missed the merriment and gladness. He missed what some folk would not miss for worlds—he missed an excellent dance and a good supper. Think of him, standing out under the stars, a man alone and out of touch with everybody. Have not you felt it when there was some fine gathering, and you were not one of the invited? And then, to make it worse to bear, the sound of the music floated through the yard, and he could see how happy they all were, as the figures passed beyond the lighted window. The man was bitten by the fiercest jealousy. He was hurt; he was offended; he was miserable. Everyone was joyous except him. Everyone was in the light but he. And the strange thing is that in all the countryside there was not a man who would have been more welcome, nor one who had a better right and title to the gladness and the feasting of the night. Ah! what a right some of you have to know the joy and feasting of the Lord! How you have been prayed for since you were little children! How hearts at home have yearned for you in tears! And yet today you are the very one—you who have had an upbringing like that—who stand without, and will not enter in, and miss the gladness of the Lord Jesus Christ. I want you to come right in tonight. You are far more lonely than some people think. I want you to have the gladness of religion, instead of your little petty evanescent gladness. I want you to feel that in the love of Christ, with all its strengthening and all its saving, there is just that deep strong joy that you are missing, and always will miss till you pass the door. "I am the door," said Jesus. "By me if any man enter in, he shall be saved" (Joh_10:9).

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Refusing to Go In - Page 4
by George H. Morrison

He Missed a Chance to Serve

Then tell me, did he not miss one thing more? Did he not miss his chance of making others happy? Although I daresay he never thought it so, his absence was the one shadow on that feast. He was not, I take it, a very lovable person, and for that matter perhaps you are not that either. He was not at all the kind of man we know, who is the life and soul of any gathering. And yet that night—that night and that alone—his presence would have been the crowning gladness; his absence was the one dark shadow upon a happiness which was like that of heaven. Do you think the prodigal could be at peace until his brother had come in and welcomed him? Could the father be happy when there was one wanting, one whom he loved and honored for his toil? And all the time, bitter and angry-hearted, the man outside was missing his great chance, a chance that it is worth living years to win—the chance of making other people happy. Have you ever thought, young men and women, of the happiness you would give by coming in? If you have never thought of it before, I want you to think of it today. What of your mother, who has toiled and prayed for you? What of your father, though he never says much? What of that friend whose eyes would be so different if you were but a faithful soul in Christ? What of the angels in their ranks and choirs who are waiting to rejoice when you are saved? What of Jesus Christ, the Lover of mankind, who would see of the travail of His soul and would be satisfied? I beg of you not to miss your opportunity. It is a great vocation to make others glad. I would call you to it even if it were hard, and meant the sacrifice of what was dearest. But the wonderful thing about our Lord is this, that when you trust Him, and make others glad, in that very hour you become glad yourself, and win what you have craved for all along.

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By George H. Morrison
_______________________

These beautiful messages by George H. Morrison are distributed freely and Internationally in the excellent freeware Bible Study package called e-Sword. These messages are representative of many sweet Christians who want to put excellent Bible Study material in the hands of many, free of charge.

You can obtain e-Sword at:
http://www.e-sword.net/downloads.html
Author: Rick Meyer
(The goal of Rick Meyer is to freely distribute Bibles to every country on earth in their own language, and that goal gets closer by the day. Thanks to countless Christian individuals and organizations with big hearts, many excellent Bible Study tools are also being distributed with e-Sword around the world, free of charge.)

August 10


The Thing Incredible - Page 1
By George H. Morrison

Therefore doth my Father love me, because I lay down my life .... No man taketh it from me, but I lay it down of myself— Joh_10:17-18

History Has Come Full Circle

It is strange how often in the course of history the wheel has "come full circle." The impossibilities of yesterday have proved the commonplaces of today. Our Christian faith has always had its elements which powerfully commended it to men, and always there have been aspects of it which were obstacles to its acceptance; but the singular fact which steadily emerges from a growing knowledge of its story is how often the glory of the past becomes the difficulty of the present. One sees that in regard to miracles. Once they were confirmations of the faith. For multitudes the Gospel was authenticated by the signs and wonders of the Lord. And now for multitudes these very miracles are obstacles and stumbling blocks, only making it harder to believe. Today it is the divinity of Christ which so many find it difficult to credit; in the early days of Christianity there was far more difficulty over His humanity. Today we have to battle with agnosticism, which is the denial of all certain knowledge; but in the early Church the conflict was with gnosticism, which, of course, is agnosticism's opposite.

The Change in Attitude Towards Christ's Death and Resurrection

Something of the same kind is seen in regard to our Lord's death and resurrection. Nobody today questions that He died, but many question if He rose again. That He incurred the bitter enmity of men by the fearless proclamation of His message, that the passions He inevitably roused finally brought Him to His death—all this seems so natural to us that no one has any trouble with the cross now, viewed, I mean, just as a fact of history. The problem for us is not that Christ should die; the problem is that He should rise again, with the very body which the nails had pierced and which had known the thrusting of the sword. Multitudes of earnest souls have difficulty in crediting that. This is seen in the various attempts of modernism to explain away His resurrection. No one tries to explain away His death now. It is universally accepted that He died. Nobody finds it a thing almost incredible that at last He was hung upon a tree. The thing almost incredible to many is that on the third day He rose again, in all the power of an endless life.

The Mystery of Mysteries for the Early Disciples

And yet, if I do not greatly err, the opposite was true in the first days. For those who stood nearest to the Lord the staggering difficulty was His death. They had seen Him in conflict with all the powers of darkness, and from every conflict He had emerged victorious. He had challenged evil in all its ugly forms, and as a Conqueror driven it from the field. He had marched on in triumph, in the power of the Holy Spirit, and every foe of full abundant life had been forced to acknowledge His supremacy. Blindness had vanished at His word. Leprosy had departed at His touch. Fevers had fled away, and the withered arm had become strong again. Even death itself, that universal conqueror, had been forced to render up its prisoners at the kingly command of the Lord Jesus. All this they had seen with their own eyes. It was the constant experience of comradeship. They had walked with One who had matched Himself with death and compelled death to acknowledge he was beaten. And to them the thing incredible was this, that He, who had triumphed all along the line, should Himself become a prisoner of the tyrant. For us the resurrection is the staggering thing: the death but the inevitable end. For those who had corn-partied with Jesus it was the other way about. That He should die, that death should conquer Him, that over Him the grave should be victorious, was to them the mystery of mysteries.

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The Thing Incredible - Page 2
By George H. Morrison

Almost certainly some such thought as this moves through the disciples' aversion from the cross. It underlies their incredulous astonishment when our Lord began to speak about the end. That they heard with horror of a death of shame is in consonance with human nature. Mingling with that horror was the agony of losing their Beloved. But perhaps we shall never fully understand their wild and incredulous astonishment till we recall the personality of Jesus. Men find it difficult to associate death with powerful and arresting personalities. From Nero to Lord Kitchener we trace the conviction that the dead are living. And for men who had companied with Jesus and seen the energies of His victorious life, it must have been extraordinarily hard to picture Him under the power of the grave. That He who was the life should be overcome by the opposite of life, that He who was continually giving life should be powerless to retain His own, this was what perplexed those earliest followers mingling with their love and sorrow, whenever Jesus turned their thoughts to Calvary. It was easy to think of Him as living; it was impossible to think of Him as dead. How could death, whom He had faced and beaten, overthrow that radiant personality? And now the wheel has "come full circle," and it is not the fact of His death that staggers anybody; it is the assertion that He rose again.

Christ's Death Was a Glorious Act of Service

And it was then, brooding in the darkness, that the word of Jesus came back to them with power. They recalled how He had told them once, "I lay it down of myself." That death, which was so hard to understand, was not the ghastly token of defeat. It did not mean that He who had raised Lazarus had Himself been beaten by the enemy. It meant that He had given Himself, in the wise and holy purposes of love, into the clutching fingers of the tyrant. His death was not a dark necessity. It was a glorious and crowning act of service. The very love that had conquered death for Lazarus submitted to it for the sake of sinners. So did the death of Jesus for these sorrowing men cease to be an inexplicable problem and become the center of their hope and joy.

_______________________

By George H. Morrison
_______________________

These beautiful messages by George H. Morrison are distributed freely and Internationally in the excellent freeware Bible Study package called e-Sword. These messages are representative of many sweet Christians who want to put excellent Bible Study material in the hands of many, free of charge.

You can obtain e-Sword at:
http://www.e-sword.net/downloads.html
Author: Rick Meyer
(The goal of Rick Meyer is to freely distribute Bibles to every country on earth in their own language, and that goal gets closer by the day. Thanks to countless Christian individuals and organizations with big hearts, many excellent Bible Study tools are also being distributed with e-Sword around the world, free of charge.)

October 17

The God of Hope

Now the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, that ye may abound in hope, through the power of the Holy Ghost — Rom_15:13

In the Hebrew language, as scholars know, there are several different words for rain. From which we gather that in Hebrew life rain was something of very great importance. It is the same, though in the realm of spirit, with the names of God in the letters of St. Paul. The variety of divine names there betrays the deepest heart of the apostle. Think, for instance, of the names one lights on in this fifteenth chapter of the Romans, all of them occurring incidentally. He is the God of patience and of consolation (Rom_15:5). I trust my readers have all found Him that. He is the God of peace (Rom_15:33), keeping in perfect peace every one whose mind is stayed on Him. He is the God of hope (Rom_15:13), touching with radiant hopefulness everything that He has made, from the mustard seed to the children of mankind.

The Hopefulness of God in Nature

Think, for instance, how beautifully evident is the hopefulness of God in nature. Our Lord was very keenly alive to that. There is much in nature one cannot understand, and no loving communion will interpret it. There is a seeming waste and cruelty in nature that often lies heavy on the heart. But just as everything is beautiful in nature that the hand of man had never tampered with, so what a glorious hopefulness she breathes! Every seed, cast into the soil, is big with hopefulness of coming harvest. Every sparrow, in the winter ivy, is hopeful of the nest and of the younglings. Every streamlet, rising in the hills and brawling over the granite in the valley, is hopeful of its union with the sea. Winter comes with iciness and misery, but in the heart of winter is the hope of spring. Spring comes tripping across the meadow, but in the heart of spring there is the hope of summer. Summer comes garlanded with beauty, but in the heart of summer is the hope of autumn when sower and reaper shall rejoice together. Paul talks of the whole creation groaning and travailing in pain together. But a woman in travail is not a hopeless woman. Her heart is "speaking softly of a hope." The very word natura is the witness of language to that hopeful travail — it means something going to be born. If, then, this beautiful world of nature is the garment of God by which we see Him, if His Kingdom be in the mustard seed, and not a sparrow can fall without His knowledge, how evident it is that He in whom we trust, who has never left Himself without a witness, is the God of hope.

The Hopefulness of the New Testament

Again, how evident is this attribute in the inspired word of the New Testament. The New Testament, as Dr. Denney used to say, is the most hopeful book in the whole world. I believe that God is everywhere revealed — in every flower in the crannied wall. But I do not believe that He is everywhere equally revealed anymore than I believe it of myself. There are things I do that show my character far more fully than certain other things — and God has made me in His image. I see Him in the sparrow and the mustard seed; I see Him in the lilies of the field; but I see more of Him, far more of Him, in the inspired word of the New Testament. And the fine thing to remember is just this, that the New Testament is not a hopeless book. Hope surges in it. Its note is that of victory. There steals on the ear in it the distant triumph song. It closes with the Book of Revelation where the Lamb is upon the throne. And if this be the expression of God's being far more fully than anything in nature, how sure we may be that He is the God of Hope.

Christ, the Gloriously Hopeful One

And then, lastly, we turn to our Lord and Savior. Is not He the most magnificent of optimists? Hope burned in Him (as Lord Morley said of Cromwell) when it had gone out in everybody else. There is an optimism based on ignorance: not such was the good hope of Christ. With an eye that sin had never dulled, He looked in the face all that was dark and terrible. There is an optimism based on moral laxity: not such was the good hope of Christ. He hated sin, although he loved the sinner. Knowing the worst, hating what was evil, treated by men in the most shameful way, Christ was gloriously and sublimely hopeful till death was swallowed up in victory; hopeful for the weakest of us, hopeful for the very worst, hopeful for the future of the world. Now call to mind the word He spake: "He that hath seen me, hath seen the Father. "He that hath seen into that heart of hopefulness hath seen into the heart of the Eternal. Once a man has won that vision though there are many problems that may vex him still, he never can doubt again, through all his years, the amazing hopefulness of God.

_______________________

By George H. Morrison
_______________________

These beautiful messages by George H. Morrison are distributed freely and Internationally in the excellent freeware Bible Study package called e-Sword. These messages are representative of many sweet Christians who want to put excellent Bible Study material in the hands of many, free of charge.

You can obtain e-Sword at:
http://www.e-sword.net/downloads.html
Author: Rick Meyer
(The goal of Rick Meyer is to freely distribute Bibles to every country on earth in their own language, and that goal gets closer by the day. Thanks to countless Christian individuals and organizations with big hearts, many excellent Bible Study tools are also being distributed with e-Sword around the world, free of charge.)

October 19

The Grace of Happy-Heartedness - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

I would have you without carefulness — 1Co_7:32 Cast thy burden upon the Lord — Psa_55:22

There are few graces which the world admires so much as the grace of a cheerful heart. There is a certain perennial attraction in men and women who bear their burdens well. When we see a face all lined with care it often touches the chord of pity in us. We are moved to compassion when it flashes on us what a story is engraven there. But the face that really helps us on our journey is seldom the face of battle and of agony; it is the face which has its sunshine still. None of us is enamored by a frown. All of us are attracted by a smile. We recognize by an unerring instinct that in happy-heartedness there is a kind of victory. And so we love it as we love the sunshine or the song of the birds upon the summer morning. It takes its place with these good gifts of God.

The Charms of Children

Children are possessors of this sunny attribute. That is one reason why the presence of children is such a perpetual solace and so refreshing. Children are far from being little angels as every father and every mother knows. They can be cruel and intensely selfish and amazingly and unblushingly untruthful. Yet when the worst is said of them that can be said, there yet remains in them this touch of heaven which is a greater blessing to the world than all the modem methods of communication. They cry., and then in the passing of an hour the heart that was inconsolable is healed. They scowl (and they are not pretty when they scowl), but so far as I know them they never bear any malice. They bully in the most shocking fashion, when you and I happen to be absent, but if they bully they almost never brood. "I would have you without carefulness" — that is how the great apostle puts it. He was one of these men whose interests were too vast to allow him time for watching little people. But Christ, whose interests were far vaster, somehow or other always had time for that, and so He puts it, not "I would have you without carefulness," but "except ye become as little children."

Frivolity

Of course we must distinguish happy-heartedness from that poor counterfeit we call frivolity. A child may be absolutely irresponsible, but a child is never frivolous. No one is so swiftly touched to wonder. No one is so deeply moved with awe. When our children laugh at what to us is sacred, it simply means that they do not understand. The things that are wonderful and great in their eyes are not at all what we consider so, and note, you never find them mocking at what is wonderful and great to them. Now that is the very hallmark of frivolity. It recognizes what is great and jests at it. It is not an intellectual inability; it is much more truly a moral inability. Some of the most frivolous people I have known had plenty of brains and were as sharp as needles; it was their heart and not their brain which was contemptible. The great instance of frivolity in Scripture is that of the men who refused the invitation. They were by no means intellectual fools, these men. They could do a bit of work and do it admirably. But when this moment came they all made light of it — they took it as a joke though it was kingly —they lost the opportunity of their lives because of their old habit of belittling. Different by all the world from that is the sweet genius of happy-heartedness. It is as swift to recognize the best as is frivolity to have a laugh at it. Indeed so far as my experience goes, frivolous people are commonly unhappy and are very often trying to forget something which is akin to tragedy.

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The Grace of Happy-Heartedness - Page 2
by George H. Morrison

Temperament

Now we are all apt to think that such a happy disposition is just temperamental. We are apt to think it is just born with people, and of course in a measure that is true. There are those with a perfect genius for the sunshine, and those with a perfect genius for the shadow. There are those who will carry a burden in a happy way without the slightest aid from any faith, and you, who wrestle in prayer about the thing, are bowed with it to the very ground. And not only is it temperamental. We might go further and say that it is racial. Broadly speaking, as we survey the world, we find it to be a national characteristic. For the Irish have it and the Scots have not; and the southern peoples and not the northern peoples; and the Kaffir boy out in South Africa will go singing and laughing over his work all day while his Dutch master, for all his Bible reading, will have a face as long as his prayers.

A Virtue To Be Won

But there is one thing in the Bible I have often noticed. I wonder if it has occurred to you? It is how often it classes with virtues to be won what we have reckoned to be gifts of nature. The Bible is always true to the great facts. It never diminishes nor distorts anything. It recognizes in the most liberal way the infinite divergences of nature. And yet I am often struck by how often it takes these natural endowments and says to you of what you do not have —"that is a virtue to be won." Think of courage — do not we regard that as a gift? Don't we know that certain men are born courageous? Do you think every boy could say what Nelson said: "Fear, mother — what is fear?

I never saw it"? And yet this courage, which with perfect justice we are in the way of regarding as temperamental, is viewed in Scripture as something to be won. Take joy. Are we the masters of our joy? Is not the capacity for joy inherent? Are there not those who gravitate to joy as there are others who gravitate to gloom? And yet our Savior says to His disciples, "These things have I spoken to you, that in me ye might have joy." And the fruit of the spirit is love and joy and peace.

Well now, as it is with these, so I take it as with happy-heartedness. In the eyes of God and in the light of Scripture it is a shining virtue to be won. It may be easier for some than others just because of the nature God has given. But remember we do not win our best when we have won our most congenial virtues. A happy disposition is possible for all — that is what I want to urge tonight —and the unfailing secret of it lies in the casting of the burden on the Lord. It does not matter what the burden be. Burdens are just as various as blessings: They may be secret, or they may be public. They may be real, or they may be imaginary. But once a man has learned this deepest lesson that God is with him and will see him through, I say to the weariest and most desponding soul that happy-heartedness is in his grasp. Many of the heaviest burdens men can bear have to be borne where eyes can never pierce. Many of the heaviest burdens men can bear fall on them through the relationships of life. It matters not. There can be no exceptions in the magnificent impartiality of God. Cast thy burden on the Lord.

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The Grace of Happy-Heartedness - Page 3
by George H. Morrison

Depending upon God

Now I want you to notice — it is very important — the words in which our text is couched. It is "cast thy burden on the Lord"; it is not "cast thy burden anywhere." I think there is nothing poorer or more cowardly than just the desire to be rid of burdens. It is always the mark of meanness in a character and the sorry witness of a contracting soul. For life grows richer by what we have to bear, and sympathies grow tenderer and broader, and the world expands into a richer place through things which we once thought would make us poorer. They say that the Indian by putting his ear to the ground can hear far off the galloping of horses. Erect, there is not a sound upon the breeze. Prone on the earth, he hears the distant trampling. And I daresay there are some here tonight who lived and moved upon a silent prairie until somehow they were bowed into the dust. The Bible never urges any man recklessly to cast his cares away. As soon would it urge the captain of a ship to cast out his ballast when he was clear of port. Knowing the preciousness of what is heavy, it bids us summon to our aid the power of God, and it is that which makes all the difference in the world. Now we know we are in the hands of One who providently caters to the sparrow. Now we know that on the line of duty we shall have strength for all that must be done. Now we can laugh with the children in the thick of it, and have our sunshine even in December, for God is with us and His name is wonderful and underneath are the everlasting arms.

Christ Makes the Difference

In closing I have one thing more to say — one thing I never think of without shame. It is how much easier this secret is for us than it ever could have been for David. "Cast thy burden on the Lord," he wrote — and of course he had first done it for himself. Now tell me, what was that Lord to David- that Lord into whose keeping he committed everything? He was the King eternal and invisible, and clouds and darkness were around His throne, and men looked to the left hand and He was not there, and to the right and lo! they could not find Him. Was not the faith of these old Jews magnificent? Could you have trusted in such a God as that? Could you have believed that the infinite Creator would open His arms and take your burden in? It might have been easy for a Greek to do it for he believed in the divinity of man, but how a Jew rose to a faith like that is to me as wonderful as any miracle.

But do you see how everything is changed now? We have Christ and that makes all the difference. For do you remember how, when Christ was here, men came and cast their burdens upon Him? Everyone did it, and did it as by instinct — it did not matter what the burden was — and "he that hath seen me hath seen the Father." Run through the gamut of our human burdens, and tell me if there were any that they failed to bring. They brought their sicknesses and they brought their fears. They brought their children and they brought themselves. And the strange thing is that though Christ was angry sometimes, and His eyes flashed in righteous indignation, not in a single instance do you find Him angry because anyone cast a burden upon Him.

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The Grace of Happy-Heartedness - Page 4
by George H. Morrison

We Can Achieve Joy

My brother and sister, if your faith is to be real, shall I tell you what you must always do? You must always carry into your thought of God what you have learned and seen of Jesus Christ. "He that hath seen me hath seen the Father:" He is the express image of His person. You must carry up into your thought of God all the revelation of His Son. And I tell you that when you once do that the Fatherhood of God becomes so wonderful that even you, with your weak and trembling faith, are able to cast your burden upon Him. It took a hero to achieve it once. The weakest woman can achieve it now. It was once the act of a sublime enthusiasm. It is now within the reach of everyone of you. So sure are we in Christ of God's deep sympathy and of His care for us and of His love, that there is not a man or woman here who may not know the strength of happy-heartedness. Therefore I charge you in the name of Christ that you are not to let that burden weigh you down. I charge you to remember that you sin if you live in gloom and miserable wretchedness. Never frivolous, but always reverent-happy-hearted just because He knows — I know no better way in this strange world of glorifying the Father and the Son.

_______________________

By George H. Morrison
_______________________

These beautiful messages by George H. Morrison are distributed freely and Internationally in the excellent freeware Bible Study package called e-Sword. These messages are representative of many sweet Christians who want to put excellent Bible Study material in the hands of many, free of charge.

You can obtain e-Sword at:
http://www.e-sword.net/downloads.html
Author: Rick Meyer
(The goal of Rick Meyer is to freely distribute Bibles to every country on earth in their own language, and that goal gets closer by the day. Thanks to countless Christian individuals and organizations with big hearts, many excellent Bible Study tools are also being distributed with e-Sword around the world, free of charge.)

October 20

The Wonder of That Night - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

The same night in which he was betrayed — 1Co_11:23

Attention has been directed in these days of ours to what is called the method of suggestion. The power of suggestion to influence thought and conduct is one of the great themes of educational science. We are taught that beneath our consciousness there is a whole world within each of us that lies asleep, and that it depends on the suggestive touch whether it will awaken to evil or to good. Now there can be little question that in throwing in this clause, Paul is acting on the method of suggestion. He is not just stating an historic fact nor indicating a bare point of time. He is conveying to the Corinthian church by the suggestion of the betrayal-night a veiled and delicate rebuke.

Divisions in the Church

Recall the circumstances of that church at Corinth. It was in a sad and pitiable state. It was rent with such unseemly factions that any one but Paul would have despaired of it. A church is always in the most deadly peril when its divisions are felt at the Lord's Table. It is bad enough when they interfere with service; it is far worse when they invade the ordinance. Yet at Corinth that was what had happened, and brotherly love had vanished from the ordinance and pride and selfishness and disregard of decency had reared their heads at the communion table. It was to such a church that Paul was writing when he said, "On that night in which he was betrayed. "Let them but think of that, in all the pathos of it, and it would shame them into a better spirit. How could any of them be proud again, or drunken or scornful of the poor, when they remembered that their feast was instituted in the infinite sorrow of betrayal-night. In other words, Paul flung this clause in to quicken and intensify right feeling. It was not an item of information merely; it was a call to worthier communicating.

The Wonder of Christ's Thanksgiving

One of the great features of the Last Supper was the prayer of thanksgiving which Jesus offered. It had its place, no less than the breaking of the bread, in the revelation which Paul had had from Christ. What was included in that thanksgiving is one of the things which God has hidden from us. We know from the Gospels that the bread and wine were blessed, but no one imagines that that was all. Clearly, there was such an outpouring of the heart, such adoration of the Heavenly Father, that none of the little band in that upper room ever forgot it to his dying day. John carried the thought of it to Ephesus. Peter recurred to it in distant Babylon. It had moved them to a depth of awe and wonder that was vivid to their last hour of ministry. Whenever they met to break the bread again on distant shores and after the lapse of years, swift as an arrow-flight their hearts went back to the wonderful thanksgiving of Jesus.

Thanksgiving Distinguishes the Lord's Table

So powerfully has that been impressed upon the church that thanksgiving has always distinguished the Lord's Table. In every fellowship and throughout all the ages one great mark of the Communion Service is gratitude. One of the oldest names for the feast is eucharist, and eucharist is the Greek for thanksgiving. One of the oldest traditions of the Table is that the poor should be remembered at it. And all this thankfulness expressed in name and offertory is not only the witness of our debt to God, it is the witness also of the depth of feeling that was stirred by the thanksgiving of Jesus. It is that which is written out in after ages. It is that which is testified to in every ordinance. Every time we meet to break the bread, we touch on the wonder of the upper room. We touch on the awe that filled the little company, as with the filling of the Holy Ghost, when they listened with rapt hearts and straining ears to the thanksgiving of their Master and their Lord.

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The Wonder of That Night - Page 2
by George H. Morrison

The Adoring Gratitude of Christ

Now what was it that made that thanksgiving so wonderful? Well, that is a question we cannot fully answer. It may be that even if you and I had been there we could not have explained why we were moved so. But this is certain, that as the days went on and the disciples looked back upon it all, the thanksgiving grew doubly wonderful to them because of the hour in which it had been spoken. On that night in which he was being betrayed — it was on that night our Lord broke into thanks. Think of it, in such an hour as that, no room for anything but an adoring gratitude! No wonder Peter never could forget it — no wonder John never could forget it — they never could forget that joy in God in the tense agony of the betrayal-night. Had Christ been looking forward to triumph the next day they might more easily have comprehended it. Had He been ringed about with perfect loyalty —they could have understood it then. But on that night on which He was betrayed- that then, in such an hour, Christ should adore, was something that grew and deepened in its mystery the more they brooded on it in the years.

The Wonder of Christ's Certainty

There is nothing more notable in the memorial supper than the perfect confidence of Jesus in the future. No trace of doubt can be detected in Him — no slightest misgiving seems to have crossed His heart- as He looked away from His own little company down through the ages that were yet to be. Like all great moments in our earthly life, the Lord's Supper has a twofold reference. It reaches back into bygone days; it stretches forward to the untrodden future. And one of the singular things about our Lord which has attracted the eyes of every age is that at the Table, looking forward, He was possessed with a quiet and perfect confidence. "This do in remembrance of me," — then He was to be loyally and lovingly remembered. "Ye do show the Lord's death until he come," — then His memory was to last while the world lasted. In loving hearts right through the ages, on and on till the last trumpet sounded, Christ never doubted that His Name would live in warm and powerful memorial. Had He looked with quiet confidence across the past, it would not have arrested us so much. For all the past had been leading up to Him, and He had perfectly fulfilled the will of God. But that with equal confidence, unsullied and serene, He should have anticipated all coming time is something that has always stirred the church.

Christ's View of the Centuries to Come

Of course it is possible to minimize this thought as it is possible to belittle everything about Christ. We are told that He was thinking only of His own here, and that His coming was expected in a year or two. There was no vision of the coming centuries — no thought of you and me on that evening — it was a word spoken to the disciples only till in a dozen years or so their Lord should come again. Of course there is much to be said for that view, or thinking men would never have advanced it. But deeper than any arguments in favor of it is its injustice to the spirit of the scene. And once we have grasped the spirit of the scene and turn to the life of Christ for confirmation of it, we see that it is something more than sentiment which finds the centuries in the heart of Jesus here. We learn from some of His most familiar parables how slowly and gradually the kingdom was to come. It could no more be hurried on than one could hasten the growing of the mustard seed.

We learn, too, that Jesus had an eye which ranged away beyond the bounds of Israel: "Go ye into all the world and preach the gospel to every creature." It is that far-ranging and large spirit which you must carry into the upper room. An hour of high intensity like this was certain to be an hour of vision. If ever Christ saw imperially and magnificently, and we know from other sources that He did, would it not be on the eve before that day which was to close His earthly ministry by death? I believe, then, that in the upper room Jesus had an eye for all the ages. I believe that He was looking down the centuries to the table which is spread for you and me. And the singular thing is that with a range like that over the illimitable fields of time, Christ should have shown such quiet and perfect confidence.

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The Wonder of That Night - Page 3
by George H. Morrison

Christ's Confidence in Spite of Human Betrayal

It is that wonder which is deepened as we recall the season when it was exhibited. Do we not feel afresh the marvel of such confidence on that night in which He was betrayed? Now it was evident beyond dispute what was moving in the heart of Judas. Now at last came leaping to the surface the treachery that had been brooded on in secret. And if this was the issue of the years of fellowship — this unutterable malice of today — was it likely there would be a bright tomorrow? Christ had spared no pains on His betrayer. He had lavished His love upon him constantly. He had done everything to woo and win him, and every effort He had made was baffled. And it was then, in such a bitter hour, when He well might have lost His faith in human loyalty, that He looked forward with confidence unquenched to the loyal remembrance of the ages. Christ knew in the quiet of that evening what was involved in the treachery of Judas. Already He saw the shadow of the cross and heard the evil voices crying "Crucify him." Yet with so much to drive Him to despair — so much to suggest to Him that He had failed — with a heart as calm as any summer sea He looked away to the loyalty of time. "This do in remembrance of me: ye do show the Lord's death till he come." Think of it, this grand unfaltering confidence amid the despairing horrors of that night! It would have been wonderful at any time, but surely we feel afresh the wonder of it when we remember that it was exhibited on the night in which He was betrayed.

The Wonder of Christ's Love

The Lord's Table is a feast of love, and yet the word love was never spoken at it. It is the picture of a love that is commended to us not so much in words as in deeds. In the early church they used to have a love-feast, and the love-feast was at first associated with the communion. But gradually and with growing insight the love-feast fell into disuse. Men came to feel that they did not need a love-feast to express the love that was in Christ; it was exhibited in all its height and depth in the simple ritual of the Last Supper. Here in the quiet of the upper chamber was given the pledge of a love that was unquenchable. Here there was gathered into one swift moment the yearning and the tenderness of years. Here did there flash out as in a flame of glory the love which had been striving through the past and which tomorrow, on the cross of anguish, was to be consummated and crowned in sacrifice.

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The Wonder of That Night - Page 4
by George H. Morrison

Now do you not feel the wonder of that love afresh as you recall when it was pledged and sealed? That sealing would have been wonderful at any time, but on such a night as that it passeth knowledge. Had it been some Pharisee who was betraying him, we should not have marveled at it so. But it was no Pharisee —no enemy — it was His own familiar friend in whom He trusted. Yet in the very hour of His betrayal when any other heart might have grown bitter, Christ deliberately seized his opportunity to show forth and to seal His dying love. Mazzini, that great-heart of Italy, tells us something of his sad experience. He tells us how bitter he grew — how sick of soul — when the men who had followed him fell away from him. But on that night when all forsook Him there is not one trace of hardening in Christ; on the contrary, it was that hour He chose to institute the memorial of His love. Is not this the wonder of Christ's love, that right through that betrayal it survived? And the question is, have not we too betrayed Him since we last gathered at the Communion Table? God knows we have, yet shall we eat and drink because of a love that has survived our past- that has forgiven everything in mercy, and in mercy will not let us go.

_______________________

By George H. Morrison
_______________________

These beautiful messages by George H. Morrison are distributed freely and Internationally in the excellent freeware Bible Study package called e-Sword. These messages are representative of many sweet Christians who want to put excellent Bible Study material in the hands of many, free of charge.

You can obtain e-Sword at:
http://www.e-sword.net/downloads.html
Author: Rick Meyer
(The goal of Rick Meyer is to freely distribute Bibles to every country on earth in their own language, and that goal gets closer by the day. Thanks to countless Christian individuals and organizations with big hearts, many excellent Bible Study tools are also being distributed with e-Sword around the world, free of charge.)

October 27

The Three Centers of Love

God so loved the world— Joh_3:16

Christ also loved the church— Eph_5:25

The Son of God, who loved me— Gal_2:20

John's Assurance of God's Love for the World

We have first the love of God for the whole world, or, as we should put it, for all the human race. The world of John is not the world of nature, but the teeming world of sinful men and women. Now, the extraordinary thing is this, that such a statement should fall from Jewish lips. The ancient Hebrew was the true aristocrat looking with proud disdain on every Gentile. And it was because this Jew had companied with Christ and drunk deep of His spirit, that there had come to him the rich assurance that the love of God was for the world. Born of a Jewess, made under the law, Christ was the Son of man. For all mankind He lived and taught and died. He was the light of the world. It was in following Him and brooding on His mystery, that the eyes of John were opened by the Spirit to recognize the worldwide love of God.

The Universality of God's Love

The wonder of it deepens when we remember what the world of men is like. The Bible, for all its unconquerable optimism, never gives us a rosy view of man. It is the writer of our text who tells us that the whole world "lieth in the evil one." Like a precious vessel sunk in a foul stream, it is submerged under a tide of evil. And this is not only the view of the disciple, it is the view of our blessed Lord Himself—"the prince of this world cometh, and hath nothing in me." I could understand God loving the world of nature where the sunshine is sleeping on the lake. If the human heart is drawn to hill and meadow, how much more the infinite heart in heaven. But that that heart, knowing every secret, should love the teeming millions of mankind lies on the utmost verge of the incredible. It only becomes credible in Christ. It is a dream but for the Incarnation. Unless God gave His only begotten Son, worldwide love goes whistling down the wind. It was because this writer had learned, from personal contacts, the universality of the unspeakable Gift that he awoke to the worldwide love of God.

God's Love for the Church

The second center of divine love is the Church—Christ also loved the Church. And at once this question rises in the mind, why should the Church be singled out like that? Well, when you read the story of the prodigal, you feel that the father always loved that son. When he was far away rioting with the harlots, the father was yearning for him night and day. But only when that prodigal came home could the pent-up love be poured upon the child—and the Church is the bit of the world that has come home. The true Church is not an organization. It is not Episcopalian nor Methodist. It is the mighty company of quickened souls who could never rest content among the swine. Drawn by need, hungry and despairing, they have traveled back to "God who is our home," and found the love that had been always yearning for them. The prodigal was loved in the far country, but there no ring could be put upon his finger. So long as he was there no cry was heard, "Bring forth the best robe and put it on him." To gain these tokens of unwearying love, the poor rebellious child had to come home—and the Church is the bit of the worm that has come home. That is why the Church, and not the family, is the second center of the love of heaven. Some in the family may still be far away, living in utter heedlessness and sin. But no one in the true Church is in the far land. All are brought nigh by the blood of Christ, and love is able to show itself at last in the ring and in the shoes and in the robe.

God's Love for the Individual

The third center of divine love is the individual—He loved me, says the apostle. And it is just here that the love of God so infinitely transcends the love of man. No man can love a multitude with the intensity wherewith he loves his child. No patriot can feel towards all his countrymen as he feels towards his little daughter. But the wonder of the love of God is this, that with a compass that encircles millions, every separate soul is loved as if there were no one else in the whole world. Our Lord was moved to His depths by mighty multitudes. He brooded over them with infinite compassion. He came to be the Savior of the world, and He came because He loved the world. Yet, living for mankind, He gave His richest to the one who fell suppliant at His feet, and, dying for mankind, He gave His heart to the one who was hanging by His side. He loved the world—and gave. He loved the Church—and gave. But all would be incomplete could we not add, "He loved me and gave Himself for me." When we are tempted to doubt the love of heaven for the little unit in unnumbered millions, there comes a gentle voice across the darkness, "He that hath seen me, hath seen the Father."

_______________________

By George H. Morrison
_______________________

These beautiful messages by George H. Morrison are distributed freely and Internationally in the excellent freeware Bible Study package called e-Sword. These messages are representative of many sweet Christians who want to put excellent Bible Study material in the hands of many, free of charge.

You can obtain e-Sword at:
http://www.e-sword.net/downloads.html
Author: Rick Meyer
(The goal of Rick Meyer is to freely distribute Bibles to every country on earth in their own language, and that goal gets closer by the day. Thanks to countless Christian individuals and organizations with big hearts, many excellent Bible Study tools are also being distributed with e-Sword around the world, free of charge.)

November 7

The Power of the Resurrection

That I may know…the power of his resurrection— Phi_3:10

The Fact Versus the Power

Of the fact of the resurrection, Paul had not a shadow of a doubt. It was one of his indubitable certainties. He himself had had a revelation of the Lord which had altered the whole tenor of his life. He had known and conversed with those who saw Him in the days that followed upon Easter morning. Whatever might be doubtful to his intellect or might remain a matter of conjecture, his life, both of experience and thought, was based upon the fact that Christ was risen. But the power of a fact is to be distinguished from the fact itself. The power is the influence it exercises in its various relationships to life. And so the power of the resurrection is not the power that raised Christ from the dead, but the increasing pressure upon life of the stupendous fact that Christ is risen. To penetrate more fully into this, to grasp it in its infinite significance, that was the ambition of St. Paul as he made his lonely way among the mysteries. Like some bright star the fact was always shining. It was unalterable and unsetting. His passion was to know the power of the fact.

One thinks, for instance, of its evidencing power. The resurrection was the seal of heaven. In it the stupendous claims of Jesus were guaranteed and ratified of God. The dark hours when He lay buried were to the disciples hours of anguish. They could not reconcile that last indignity with the magnificence of His spiritual program. It must have seemed to them, and seemed to everybody, as if all that they had shared in was a dream now quenched forever by the grave. The fact of death extinguished all their hopes. It invalidated every claim of Jesus. It brought down into a hopeless ruin the building they had thought to be of God. And the first great power of the resurrection, its primary influence upon thought and life, was the power to scatter the agonizing doubts that filled the breasts of those who trusted Him. It gave beauty for ashes and the oil of joy for mourning. It guaranteed the Messiahship of Jesus. It flooded with the authority of heaven the vocation of their blessed Lord. That was why, in the earliest Christian preaching, there was such impassioned and unswerving emphasis on the resurrection of the Savior. It was not an isolated fact. Isolated facts are quite inoperative. It was a fact fraught with a tremendous influence on the whole concept of the Lord. Every word He spoke and every claim He made was charged with new and heavenly significance under the power of the resurrection.

The Resurrection Provided the Intimacy of a Living Friend

Or one thinks again of its sustaining power amid the tasks and burdens of mortality. It gave to men, wherever they might wander, the near presence of a living Friend. The soul thirsts for a living God, and the heart thirsts for a living friend—for one who knows and understands and loves in the intimacy of a present fellowship. And the power of the resurrection is that it answers that steady yearning of the heart in a way no memories can ever do. It gives us a Friend who is alive, closer than breathing, nearer than hands or feet. It confronts our lives not with the storied past, but with One who lives and loves us to the uttermost. And the best of all is that this living Friend has sounded all the depths of human life and has "come smiling from the world's great snare uncaught." What the law could never do for Paul was done victoriously by the risen Savior. In fellowship with Him he triumphed, and when he was weak then he was strong. His one passion was to know more fully the resources of that living Friend. That was the power of His resurrection.

The Resurrection Provided for Paul a Pull for Things Above

Or one thinks of its exalting power which was never absent from the apostle's thought. The spiritual power of the resurrection is its steady upward pull upon the life. When one is climbing in our Scottish highlands, there are often places perilous to negotiate. In such places it is a mighty succor when someone above reaches down a helping hand. And the mystical thought that Christ was gripping him from the upper security of heavenly places turned the apostle into a daring climber on the steeps that lead to God. Christ was above him—He was risen. He was stooping down to lift the climber up. Paul felt the urge of the true mountaineer which lies in seeking the things which are above. But for him there was the splendid certainty that he was not going to perish for before him and above him there was Christ. In union with Him there was an upward pull. Paul turned his back upon the lower things. Just because Christ was risen and above him, he must gain in Christ the heights of holy living. Had you asked the apostle, I think he would have answered that that was the dominant thought within his breast when he wrote of the power of His resurrection.

_______________________

By George H. Morrison
_______________________

These beautiful messages by George H. Morrison are distributed freely and Internationally in the excellent freeware Bible Study package called e-Sword. These messages are representative of many sweet Christians who want to put excellent Bible Study material in the hands of many, free of charge.

You can obtain e-Sword at:
http://www.e-sword.net/downloads.html
Author: Rick Meyer
(The goal of Rick Meyer is to freely distribute Bibles to every country on earth in their own language, and that goal gets closer by the day. Thanks to countless Christian individuals and organizations with big hearts, many excellent Bible Study tools are also being distributed with e-Sword around the world, free of charge.)

November 8

The Discipline of Thought - Page 1
by George H. Morrison (Worth The Length)

Think on these things— Phi_4:8

Two Unseen Worlds

When we speak of unseen things, we commonly refer to things that are eternal. We associate the unseen with the world beyond the veil where the angels of God, innumerable, are around the throne. Now it is true that that is an unseen world though the time is coming when our eyes shall see it, but we must never forget that far nearer to us than that there is another world which also is unseen. We live in a day of very strange discoveries and look on many things that were once invisible. By means of our telescopes we see very distant stars, and we can watch the beating of our hearts. But the world of thought, of feeling, of passion and of desire—that world still baffles the finest powers of vision; as surely as there is an unseen heaven above us, there is an unseen universe within. What a mysterious and strange thing is life—a burning point, and round it what a shadow! How utterly must a man fail who walks by sight and who will not recognize the all-embracing mystery! Deep calleth unto deep wherever man is—the invisible deep within to the unseen depths beyond. It is one distinguishing feature of the Gospel that it never makes light of these great and awful things.

Let us turn to the world within, our thoughts. For I believe that most of us give far too little heed to what I might call the discipline of thought. "If there be any virtue, or any praise, think on these things." First, I shall speak on the vital need there is of governing our thoughts. Next, on how the Gospel helps men to this government.

The Government of Our Thoughts

First, then, on the government of our thoughts—and at the outset I would recognize the difficulty of it. I question if there is a harder task in all the world than that of bringing our thoughts into subjection to our will. It is very difficult to regulate our actions, yet there is a social pressure on our actions. It is supremely difficult to order our speech aright, yet speech is restrained and checked by countless barriers. Every time we act and every time we speak we come into direct contact with society, and prudence and self-love and reputation and business interests admonish us instantly to walk with caution. But thought is free—at least we think it is. It is transacted in a world where none can observe it. The law cannot reach us for unclean imaginations. Think how we will of a man, he cannot charge us with libel. All the prudential safeguards which God has set on speech, and all the deterrent motives which surround our deeds, are lacking when we enter the silent halls of thought. It is that—perhaps above all other things—which makes the management of thought so difficult. It is the secrecy—the absence of restraint—the imagined freedom of the world within. And yet there are one or two considerations I can bring before you that will show you how, in the whole circle of self-mastery, there is nothing more vital than the mastery of thought.

Much of Our Happiness Depends on Thought

Think, for example, how much of our happiness—our common happiness—depends on thought. We begin by imagining it depends on outward things, but we all grow to be wiser by and by. "There's nothing either good or bad," says Shakespeare, "but thinking makes it so." Now of course that is only half a truth. There are things that in themselves are forever good, and there are other things that eternally and everywhere are bad—never be juggled out of these moral certainties. But in between these everlasting fixities there lies a whole world of life and of experience, and what it shall mean for us—how we shall regard it—depends almost entirely upon thought. Our happiness does not depend on what we view. Our happiness depends on our point of view. There are men who can think themselves any day into a paradise, and others who think themselves into a fever. Have we not known or met or read of men and women who seemed to have everything this world could give, yet only to look at their faces or their portraits was to read the story of frustration and discontent? But St. Francis of Assisi, the sweetest of all saints, sitting down to dine by the roadside on a few crusts of bread, was so exquisitely and radiantly happy that he could not find words enough for thankfulness. That then is an integral part of happiness—the discipline and the government of our thoughts. Basically, it is not things themselves, it is our thoughts about them, that constitute the gentle art of being happy.

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The Discipline of Thought - Page 2
by George H. Morrison (Worth The Length)

The Unconscious Influence of Our Thoughts

Again I want you to consider this—how much of our unconscious influence lies in our thoughts. Not only by what we do and what we say, but by the kind of thoughts we are cherishing in secret, do we impress ourselves upon our neighbors and help or hinder the little world we move in. That very suggestive and spiritual writer, Mr. Maeterlinck, puts the matter in his own poetic way. He says, "Though you assume the face of a saint, a hero or a martyr, the eye of the passing child will not greet you with the same unapproachable smile, if there lurk within you an evil thought." Now probably there is a little exaggeration there; one thought, flashing and then expelled, may not reveal itself. The totality of saintly character is too great to be overborne by the intrusion of one shadow of the devil. But it is certain that by the thoughts we harbor and let ourselves dwell upon and cherish in the dark, we touch and turn and influence our world when we never dream that we are doing it. There is nothing hidden that shall not be revealed—what a depth there is in that one word of Jesus! He is not merely thinking of God's judgment bar tomorrow. He is thinking of the undetected revelation of today. Christ recognized that the kind of thing we brood on, the kind of thought we allow ourselves to think, though it never utter itself in actual words, or clothe itself in the flesh and blood of deeds, encompasses and affects the life of others like a poisonous vapor or like a breath of spring. Your secret is not such a secret as you think. Why are men drawn to you? Why are men repelled by you? Why is it that sometimes we instinctively shrink from people in the very first hour that we meet them? It is because the heart—more powerful than any x-ray—deciphers for itself the secret story, brushes past speech and deed into the hidden place and apprehends the existence that is there. To think base thoughts is a sin against our neighbor as surely as it is a sin against ourselves. To be unclean even in imagination is to make it harder for others to be good. In the interests of our influence then, no less than of our happiness, you see the need of governing our thoughts.

The Power of Thought in Our Temptations

There is only one other consideration that I would mention, and that is the power of thought in our temptations. In the government of thought—in the power to bring thought to heel—lies one of our greatest moral safeguards against sin. You have all read the words of Thomas A Kempis in that immortal book, "The Imitation of Christ." They occur in his thirteenth chapter, Of Resisting Temptation. How does sin reach us? That is his question—and this is his never-to-be-forgotten answer to it: "For first there cometh to the mind a bare thought of evil, then a strong imagination thereof, afterwards delight and evil motion, then consent." First, a bare thought—that is the beginning, and it is then that the government of thought means heaven or hell. For if a man has disciplined himself to crush that thought—which may come to the purest and holiest mind—still better, if he has acquired the power to change the current and to turn his thought instantly into other and nobler channels, temptation is baffled at its very start and the man stands upon his feet victorious. A man will never regulate his passions who has never learned to regulate his thoughts. If we cannot master our besetting thoughts, we shall never master our besetting sins. I think you see, then, that in the interests of morality no less than in the interests of our happiness and influence, it is supremely necessary that we all give heed to the great subject of thought—discipline.

How the Gospel Helps in Governing Our Thoughts

So now in the second place, I wish to ask how the Gospel helps us to that. I wish to ask why a Christian above all other men has powers available for governing his thought. To some of you the mastery of thought may seem impossible—it is never viewed as impossible in Scripture, and the secret of that
Gospel-power lies in the three great words—light, love, life.

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The Discipline of Thought - Page 3
by George H. Morrison (Worth The Length)

Think first of light as a power for thought-mastery. We all know how light affects our thoughts. In twilight or darkness what sad thoughts come thronging, which the glory of sunlight instantly dispels. I have a dear friend who is a terrible sufferer and who rarely has any quiet sleep after three in the morning, and the worst of wakening then, he tells me, is that that is just the time when everything seems melancholy, cheerless, hopeless. We need the light if we are to see things truly. We need the light if we are to think aright. And the glory of Christ is that by His life and death He has shed a light where before there was only darkness. What had the old and beautiful religion of the Greeks to say when a man was confronted by sorrow or disease? It was dumb, it turned away its head in silence; it had no light to shed upon the mystery—till men, having no light to think by, lost all thought-control and wandered into a labyrinth of evil. But the sufferings of Christ have shed a light on suffering. The death of Christ has shed a light on death. Faced by the worst now and called to bear the cross, we can think bravely and luminously of it all. The light of Christ, for the man who lives in it, is an untold help in the government of thought.

Then think of love—Is it not one mark of love that our thoughts always follow in its train? A love that never thought about the loved one would be the most heartless and hopeless of all mockeries. A man who is deeply in love with a good woman thinks of her every hour of the day, and there is no such certain sign of love's decay as the dying out of gentle and sweet thoughtfulness. That sign a woman instantly detects—it is the unuttered tragedy of countless lives—and the sorrow of it springs from the intuition that thought is under the mastery of love. Do you see then how the Gospel helps us to thought-control? At the very center of its message it puts love. It shows us a Savior who lived and died for us and who stretches out His pierced hands towards us. It speaks of Gethsemane and Calvary and at its burning heart reveals a love that passes the love of women. "Simon son of Jonas, lovest thou me?"—that will determine the current and trend of thought. That master-passion is the power of God for bringing every thought into captivity. If the love of a woman can control and purge our thoughts, how much more the love of Jesus Christ!

Then think of life—are not our thoughts affected by the largeness and abundance of our lives? When life is poor and feeble, base thoughts scent us out as the vultures of the desert scent out the dying traveler. Half of the vile or bitter thoughts we think are the children of our lusterless and unprofitable days. Expand the horizon—get a new breath of life —and they take to themselves wings and fly away. Now what did Christ say about His coming? I am come that they might have life, and have it more abundantly. Life is expanded and filled with undreamed-of fullness when we live in the glad fellowship of Jesus. And that great tide of life, like the tide of the sea that covers up the mudbanks, is the greatest power in the moral world for submerging every base and bitter thought. Do you know anything of that light—that love—that life? What a great deal we miss in ignoring Jesus Christ! The king's daughter is all beautiful within—just because her king is her Redeemer.

_______________________

By George H. Morrison
_______________________

These beautiful messages by George H. Morrison are distributed freely and Internationally in the excellent freeware Bible Study package called e-Sword. These messages are representative of many sweet Christians who want to put excellent Bible Study material in the hands of many, free of charge.

You can obtain e-Sword at:
http://www.e-sword.net/downloads.html
Author: Rick Meyer
(The goal of Rick Meyer is to freely distribute Bibles to every country on earth in their own language, and that goal gets closer by the day. Thanks to countless Christian individuals and organizations with big hearts, many excellent Bible Study tools are also being distributed with e-Sword around the world, free of charge.)

November 21

Christ and the Fear of Death - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

And deliver them who through fear of death were all their lifetime subject to bondage— Heb_2:15

We Face Death with Curiosity

There are two feelings which the thought of death has always kindled in the human breast, and the first of them is curiosity. Always in the presence of that veil through which sooner or later we all pass, men have been moved to ask with bated breath, What is it which that veil conceals? It is as if the most diaphanous of curtains were hung between our eyes and the great secret, making men the more wistful to interpret it. It has been said by a well-known Scottish essayist that this would account for the crowd at executions. You know how the people used to flock by the thousands when a criminal was to die upon the gallows. And Alexander Smith throws out this thought that it was not just savagery which brought them there. It was the unappeasable curiosity which death forever stirs in human hearts.

We Face Death with Fear

But if the thought of death moves our curiosity, there is another feeling which is always linked with it. Death is not alone the source of wonder. Death has ever been the source of fear. How universal that feeling is we see from this, that we share it with all animate creation. Wherever there is life in any form there is an instinct which recoils from death. When the butterfly evades the chasing schoolboy—when the stag turns at bay against the dogs—we have the rudiments of that which in a loftier sphere may grow to be a bondage and a tyranny. The fear of death is not a religious thing, although religion has infinitely deepened it. It is old as existence, wide as the whole world, lofty and deep as the whole social fabric. It touches the savage in the heart of Africa as every reader of Dr. Livingstone knows, and it hides under the mantle of the prince as well as under the jacket of the prodigal. How keenly it was felt in the old world every reader of pagan literature has seen. The aim and object of the old philosophy was largely to crush it out of human life. In the great and gloomy poem of Lucretius, in many a page of Cicero, above all in the treatises of Plutarch and of Seneca, we learn what a mighty thing the fear of death was with the men and women of the Roman Empire.

Of course I do not mean that the fear of death is always active and present and insistent. To say that would be an exaggeration and would be untrue to the plain facts of life. When a man is in the enjoyment of good health, he very rarely thinks of death at all. When the world goes well with him and he is happy, he has the trick of forgetting he is mortal. He digs his graves within the garden walls and covers them with a wealth of summer flowers so that the eye scarce notices the mound when the birds are singing in the trees. We know, too, how a passion or enthusiasm will master the fear of death within the heart. A soldier in the last rush will never think of it though comrades are dropping on every side of him. And a timid mother, for her little child's sake, or a woman for the sake of one she loves, will face the deadliest peril without trembling. For multitudes the fear of death is dormant else life would be unbearable and wretched. But though it is dormant, it is always there ready to be revived in the last day. In times of shipwreck—in hours of sudden panic—when we are ill and told we may not live, then shudderingly as from uncharted deeps, there steals on men this universal terror. Remember there is nothing cowardly in that. A man may be afraid and be a hero. There are times when to feel no terror is not courage. It is but the hallmark of insensibility. It is not what a man feels that makes the difference. It is how he handles and controls what he feels. It is the spirit in which he holds himself in the hour when the heart is overwhelmed.

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Christ and the Fear of Death - Page 2
by George H. Morrison

The Guard Around the Grave

Nor can we be altogether blind to the purposes which God meant this fear to serve. Like everything universal in the heart, it has its duty in the plans of heaven. You remember the cry wrung from the heart of Keats in his exquisite music to the nightingale. "Full many a time," he sings, "I have been half in love with easeful death." And it may be that some who read these pages have been at times so weary of it all that they too have been in love with easy death. It may have been utter tiredness that caused it. It may have been something deeper than all weariness. Who knows but that some may even have dreamt of suicide? Brethren, it is from all such thoughts and from all the passion to be done with life that we are rescued and redeemed and guarded by the terror which God has hung around the grave. Work may be hard, but death is harder still. Duty may be stem, but death is sterner. Dark and gloomy may be the unknown morrow, but it is not so dark and gloomy as the grave. Who might not break through the hedge and make for liberty were the hedge easy to be pushed aside? But God has hedged us about with many a thorn—and we turn to our little pasturage again. When Adam and Eve had been expelled from Eden, they must have longed intensely to return. It was so beautiful and the world so desolate; it was so fertile and the world so hard. But always when they clasped repentant hands and stole in the twilight to the gate of Paradise, there rose the awful form with flaming sword. Sleepless and vigilant he stood at watch. His was a dreadful and terrible presence. No human heart could face that living fire which stood in guardianship of what was lost. And that was why God had placed His angel there, that they might be driven back to the harsh furrow and till the soil and rise into nobility while the sweat was dropping from the brow. So are we driven back to life again by the terror which stands sentinel on death. So are we driven to our daily cross, however unsupportable it seems. And bearing it, at first because we must, it comes to blossom with the passing days until we discover that on this side of the grave there is more of paradise than we had dreamed. Christ then does not deliver us from the deep instinct of self-preservation. That is implanted in the heart by God. It is given for the safeguarding of His gift. It is only when that fear becomes a bondage and when that instinct grows into a tyranny that Christ steps in and breaks the chains that bind us and sets our trembling feet in a large room. The question is, then, how did He do that? How has Christ liberated us from this bondage? I shall answer that by trying to distinguish three elements which are inherent in that fear.

Fear of Dying

In the first place, our fear of death is in a measure but a fear of dying. It is not the fact of death which terrifies; it is all that we associate with the fact. We may have seen a deathbed scene of agony; it is a memory which we shall never lose. We may have read a story of torment in the closing hours. And it is not what death leads to or removes, but rather that dark accompanying prospect which lies hidden within a thousand hearts as an element of the terror of the grave. I think I need hardly stop to prove to you that this is an unreasonable fear. If there are deathbeds which are terrible, are there not others which are quiet as sleep? But blessed be God, Christ does not only comfort us when we are terrified with just alarms: He comforts us when we are foolish children. Clothed with mortality, He says to us, "Take therefore no thought for the morrow." Dreading the pain that one day may arrive, He says, "Sufficient unto the day is its own evil." He never prayed, "Give us a sight of death, and help us to contemplate it every hour we live." He prayed, "Give us this day our daily bread." Christ will not have us stop the song today because of the possible suffering tomorrow. If we have grace to live by when we need it, we shall have grace to die by when we need it. And so He sets His face against that element and says to us, "Let not your heart be troubled." "My grace shall be sufficient for thee, and my strength made perfect in thy weakness."

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Christ and the Fear of Death - Page 3
by George H. Morrison

Fear Lest Death Spells the End of Everything

Secondly, much of our fear of death springs from the thought that death is the end of everything. It is always pitiful to say farewell, and there is no farewell like that of death. You remember how Charles Lamb uttered that feeling with the wistful tenderness which makes us love him. He did not want to leave this kindly world nor his dear haunts nor the familiar faces. And deep within us, though we may not acknowledge it, there is that factor in the fear of death—the passionate clinging of the human heart to the only life which it has known. We have grown familiar with it over the years. It has been a glad thing to have our work to do, and human love and friendship have been sweet. And then comes death and takes all that away from us and says it never shall be ours again, and we brood on it and are lonely and afraid. Thanks be to God, that factor in the fear has been destroyed by Jesus Christ. For He has died, and He is risen again, and He is the first fruits of them that sleep. And if the grave for Him was not an end, but only an incident in life eternal, then we may rest assured that in His love there is no such sadness as the broken melody. All we have striven to be we shall attain. All we have striven to do we shall achieve. All we have loved shall meet us once again with eyes that are transfigured in the dawn. Every purpose that was baffled here and every love that never was fulfilled, all that, and all our labor glorified, shall still be ours when shadows flee away. This life is but the prelude to the piece. This life is the introduction to the book. It is not finis we should write at death. It is not finis, it is initium. And that is how Jesus Christ has met this element and mastered it in His victorious way and made it possible for breaking hearts to bear the voiceless sorrow of farewell.

Fear of Coming Judgement

Thirdly, much of the fear of death springs from the certainty of coming judgement. Say what you will, you know as well as I do that there is a day of judgement still to come. Conscience tells it, if conscience is not dead. The very thought of a just God demands it. Unless there be a judgement still to come, life is the most tragic of mockeries. And every voice of antiquity proclaims it, and every savage tribe within the forest; and with a certainty that never wavered it was proclaimed by the Lord Jesus Christ. Well may you and I fear death, if "after death, the judgement." Seen to our depths with every secret known, we are all to stand before Almighty God. Kings will be there, and peasants will be there, and you and I who are not kings nor peasants. And the rich and the poor will meet together there, for the Lord is the maker of them all. It is that thought which makes death so terrible. It is that which deepens the horror of the tomb. Dwell on that coming day beyond the grave, and what a prospect of terror it is! And it is then that Jesus Christ appears and drives these terrors to the winds of heaven and says to the vilest sinner, "Son of man, stand upon thy feet." He that believeth hath everlasting life. He gives us our acquittal here and now. He tells us that for every man who trusts Him there is now therefore no condemnation. And He tells us that because He died for us and because He bore our sins upon the tree and because He loves us with a love so mighty, neither life nor death can tear us from it. That is the faith to live by and to die by: "I will both lay me down in peace and sleep." That is the faith which makes us more than conquerors over the ugliest record of our past. O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory? Thanks be to God, who giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.

_______________________

By George H. Morrison
_______________________

These beautiful messages by George H. Morrison are distributed freely and Internationally in the excellent freeware Bible Study package called e-Sword. These messages are representative of many sweet Christians who want to put excellent Bible Study material in the hands of many, free of charge.

You can obtain e-Sword at:
http://www.e-sword.net/downloads.html
Author: Rick Meyer
(The goal of Rick Meyer is to freely distribute Bibles to every country on earth in their own language, and that goal gets closer by the day. Thanks to countless Christian individuals and organizations with big hearts, many excellent Bible Study tools are also being distributed with e-Sword around the world, free of charge.)

December 3

The Living Hope

Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who, according to his abundant mercy, hath begotten us again unto a lively hope by the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead- 1Pe_1:3

One of the glorious things in our religion is the preeminence it gives to hope. There is a radiant hopefulness in Christianity that is discoverable in no other faith. When the Gospel was first preached, the hopes of men were practically dead. As one of the old satirists expresses it, the world had the death-rattle in its throat. And then came the message of the Gospel, and everywhere, like the blossoming of spring, hope began to blossom in the world. As Peter puts it here, men were begotten into hope. The first effect of being born again was the awakening of hope within the heart. Like little children opening their eyes on the face of a mother bending over them, men, reborn, looked on the face of hope. Life was no longer dull and dreary and desperate. Hope touched the bitterest experiences. The song of hope sounded through the night and could not be silenced even by the grave. It is difficult for us to realize the tremendous difference that Gospel hope made in a world whose highest reach was Stoicism.

Begotten Into a Living Hope

Now the interesting thing is that here St. Peter calls that hope a living hope. And in that word living there is a wealth of importance that all our thinking never can exhaust. It implies that other hopes are dying. They grow dim and fade away and vanish. They buoy us up and lure us on, and, having accomplished that, they disappear. But though that contrast was in Peter's mind, and in the mind of every reader of his letter, there was something far more positive than that. A living hope is a hope that answers life. It is a hope that is commensurate with life. It moves triumphant through every sphere of life in which the regenerate man may fret himself. Let life bring with it what it will in the whole range of possible experience, and the shining of the living hope is there. It is always easy to be hopeful when we see the glory of a new dawn. There are times when men are as naturally hopeful as birds are naturally musical. But to be hopeful when things are dead against us and life is cruel and not a star is shining, that is the victory which overcomes the world. A hope like that is never natural. It is something into which we are begotten. It lives in the harshest experience of life. It moves and has its being in Gethsemane. Thus it is called a living hope because it interpenetrates the whole of life and brightens even the darkness of the grave. Such was the hope of Jesus. It shone through every chamber of His being. It was radiant in the agonies of Calvary not less than among the lilies of the field. It was a hope commensurate with life in its whole expanse of suffering and sorrow—and into that living hope we are begotten.

The Certainty of Future Blessedness

Then this living hope, St. Peter tells us, is based on the certainty of future blessedness, and here we must be careful to distinguish. Very commonly, in the New Testament, heaven is set as the object of our hope. It is for that sweet country that the heart is longing; it is the hope of God's elect as the hymn says. But sometimes as in our present passage, heaven is not the object of our hope, but the great certainty from which there springs the new-born spirit of hopefulness in life. Tell me that death ends everything and that my strivings are never to be crowned, and I may still toil and suffer on, "with head bloody but unbowed." But tell me that a fuller life is coming when the broken arc will grow into the circle, and hope sings its music in my heart. The sea shore is a dull and dreary place when over it is nothing but the mist. But when the vault of the sunlit heaven over-arches it, the barren sand becomes a thing of beauty. And only when the mist goes and the blue of heaven is radiant over life, does glory lie on the path of our pilgrimage. Every true believer hopes for heaven. He also hopes just because of heaven. He is begotten into a living hopefulness because some day there is to be a crowning. He does not struggle on despairingly as if everything were to be cast into the void. He is the child and heir of immortality.

Because of Jesus' Resurrection

And then St. Peter tells us that we win that hope by the rising of Jesus from the dead. We are begotten into a living hope by the resurrection of the Lord. Note that the resurrection does not give that hope, for it lies latent in the human breast. In every human heart, when we decipher it, are intimations of immortality. The thoughts that wander through eternity and the shadows that fall upon our hours of triumph and the things on board of us "not wanted for the voyage," and the "forever" graven on the heart of love, all these are stirrings, as of a babe unborn, in the secret places of our being—all these are hints that heaven is our home. The resurrection is not a bestowal. The resurrection is a confirmation. It makes our latent hope a living hope. It brings the struggling embryo to birth. All our human yearnings are authenticated by the tremendous fact of resurrection. We are begotten into a living hope by the rising of Jesus from the dead.

_______________________

By George H. Morrison
_______________________

These beautiful messages by George H. Morrison are distributed freely and Internationally in the excellent freeware Bible Study package called e-Sword. These messages are representative of many sweet Christians who want to put excellent Bible Study material in the hands of many, free of charge.

You can obtain e-Sword at:
http://www.e-sword.net/downloads.html
Author: Rick Meyer
(The goal of Rick Meyer is to freely distribute Bibles to every country on earth in their own language, and that goal gets closer by the day. Thanks to countless Christian individuals and organizations with big hearts, many excellent Bible Study tools are also being distributed with e-Sword around the world, free of charge.)

December 5

The Cross and Sin

Who his own self bare our sins in his own body on the tree — 1Pe_2:24

The cross, though it be a single fact, is a fact with large diversity of meaning. Its significance is inexhaustible. Calvary is the uttermost of service; it is the commendation of the love of God; it is the compendium of self-sacrifice. But we must never forget that right through the New Testament, whatever its other implications may be, it stands in vital relationship to sin. No one will ever understand the cross who does not set it as the Bible sets it in immediate relationship to human sin. The question we have to ask then is this: What does the cross tell us about sin? What do we learn about the fact of sin when we set it in the light of Calvary?

The first thing which the cross tells us is that sin is something tremendously important. God did not just utter warnings against sin; He gave His only begotten Son to die for it. There are many things we are willing to be taxed for, but we should never dream of letting our sons die for them. But some years ago when war broke out, we were willing to give our sons to die for liberty. Fathers gave their sons to die for liberty because liberty is so tremendously important—and God gave His Son to die for sin. It is important in His eyes for many reasons, perhaps most of all because He loves His children. Anything is important in our eyes that keeps our own dear children from the best. And the one thing that keeps His children from the best and tricks them and robs them of their heritage is the dark fact that we call sin. It disables and enfeebles them. It saps their character and wrecks their homes. It lies at the back of every tragedy that we read of in our daily newspapers. We may not "bother about sin," but God bothers intensely about sin—and He bothers most because His children are precious to Him.

Sin Neither Hopeless nor Incurable

Again, the cross tells us that sin is neither hopeless nor incurable. Into a hopeless and despairing world came the thrilling hopefulness of Calvary. When a surgeon is called in to see a patient, his conduct is determined by his hope. If there is hope that the patient can be saved the surgeon proceeds to operate. But if the case is absolutely hopeless and if the seal of death is on the patient, no surgeon worthy of the name will lift a finger. He acts because he hopes. He intervenes because he hopes. If there is not a single ray of hope, he holds his hand and he does nothing. And the very fact that God has intervened and given His Son to die for us on Calvary tells us that sin is not incurable. From the first hour that the cross was preached, that thrilling hope entered the human heart. Despair, which held the old world in its grip, went flying away in the wind. If the heavenly Surgeon had seen fit to operate, then sin was not incurable; there was healing and all the joy of life for the vilest sinner of mankind.

God Entered the Battle With Sin

The other thing which the cross tells us is that if sin is to be grappled with, God must come right into it. I illustrate that from what my eyes have seen among the sick and blind in the jungles of heathendom. If these poor sufferers are to be saved, there must be intervention from a higher realm with its science and its knowledge of the Christian art of healing. It is not enough to send them drugs or medicine. Someone from a higher sphere must come among them carrying in his heart and head and hand the science and the skill of the learned. I have been helped to understand the incarnation by living with doctors in the heart of Africa. If sickness there is ever to be grappled with, some one of greater ability must come into its midst. And if sin is ever to be grappled with, God must come into its midst. And this we adoringly believe that He has done when in the person of His beloved Son He lived our life and died for sin on Calvary.

And if anyone asks how that can save us, let us think of the penitent thief a moment. That thief is a living picture of us all. There he hung suffering condemnation for his undisciplined and lawless life. And then he turned his eyes and saw Jesus of whose beautiful life he had heard a hundred times (Luk_23:41 ). There He hung sharing the condemnation, bearing it in His body on the tree, and it was that which broke the criminal's heart and has broken the hearts of sinners ever since. Jesus did not stand beneath the cross and speak to him sweet and comfortable words. Jesus cried in the freedom of His will, "Hang Me on that cross beside My brother." And there they hung Him and pierced His hands and feet, those hands and feet that had always moved in loveliness—and the dying thief saw it and was saved. God grappled with sin on Calvary by bearing it; by sharing in its condemnation; by taking its agony into His own heart; by letting Himself be pierced by all its arrows. No wonder that the great apostle facing a decadent and rotting world cried "God forbid that I should glory save in the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ."

_______________________

By George H. Morrison
_______________________

These beautiful messages by George H. Morrison are distributed freely and Internationally in the excellent freeware Bible Study package called e-Sword. These messages are representative of many sweet Christians who want to put excellent Bible Study material in the hands of many, free of charge.

You can obtain e-Sword at:
http://www.e-sword.net/downloads.html
Author: Rick Meyer
(The goal of Rick Meyer is to freely distribute Bibles to every country on earth in their own language, and that goal gets closer by the day. Thanks to countless Christian individuals and organizations with big hearts, many excellent Bible Study tools are also being distributed with e-Sword around the world, free of charge.)

December 6

Keeping in Love With Life

For he that will love life (lit., he that wisheth to love life), and see good days, let him refrain his tongue from evil, and his lips that they speak no guile; Let him eschew evil, and do good,' let him seek peace, and ensue it. For the eyes of the Lord are over the righteous, and his ears are open unto their prayers — 1Pe_3:10-12

What man is he that desireth life, and loveth many days, that he may see good? Keep thy tongue from evil — Psa_34:12-13

These words of Peter are not original; they are a quotation from the Book of Psalms. The interesting thing to note is how Peter gives a new turn to the old thought. The psalmist asks, Do you desire life; do you want to live for many years? Peter asks, Do you wish to love life, to find it sweet and delightful to the end? In other words, the psalmist teaches us how to live if we want to reach old age, while Peter teaches us how we ought to live if we want through everything to find life lovable.

At the back of Peter's mind there lies the thought that in youth we are all in love with life. That is an experience, not a problem. To the child life is always sweet in spite of the childish bitterness of tears. To the young man or woman life is thrilling in its morning freshness of sensation. Of course, that very freshness and intensity has its reaction in the realm of suffering and darkens all the stars it sets shining. Still, speaking generally, we are all in love with life at one-and-twenty. We do not need to be taught to make life exquisite. It is fashioned so by Him who commands the morning. The difficult thing is to keep in love with life through all the experience of the years, through the sorrows and trials of the after days and the disappointments which are the lot of everybody.

It is notable that in Peter's answer there is not a word about poverty or hardship. That is one of the silences of Scripture which are as eloquent as any speech. Desperate poverty may make a man rebellious; it may rouse him against the social order; it may fill him with passionate anger at the flaunting of luxury and wealth. But that very anger is a token that poverty has not lost its love for life, for we are never angry about things that are indifferent. Poverty, strange though it may seem, does not throw men out of love with life. Far more often it is the idle rich who have lost the tang of living. I have scarcely ever known a working person for whom life was not sweet. But I have known scores of rich and idle people who were dead sick of everything.

We Must Not Shun the Cross

Nor is it less important to observe that Peter says nothing of suffering or cross-bearing. There is not a hint that we must shun the cross if we want to keep in love with life. One might think that constant suffering would create a loathing against life, or that a hidden cross, borne daily, would transform life into a thing unlovable. As a matter of fact, witnessed by experience, it does nothing of the kind. Suffering is a challenge; it calls out what is bravest in us; it makes us set our teeth and hold on tighter, determined never to be beaten. And who does not know how many a woman's life grows richer and more Christlike by some daily hidden cross she has to bear? Peter never dreams of saying that we must shun the cross to keep in love with life. That would make it impossible for most of us.

Now just here we face the splendid fact that our Lord was in love with life right to the end. To Him it was a glorious thing, and He came to give it more abundantly. Every element was in His cup that might seem to make life unendurable. There was hardship, poverty, misunderstanding; there was infinite and unutterable loneliness. Yet at the end, and in agony, He cried, "Father, if it be possible let this cup pass from me," (Luk_22:42) and "this cup" was not life, but death. Buddha said, Life is an evil thing; let us be done with it, and win Nirvana. Christ said, Life is a glorious thing: believe on Me and have eternal life. And yet His life knew all the depths of suffering and was tempted in all points like as ours is and was passed in a loneliness we cannot fathom.

How to Keep in Love With Love

And just here we come to Peter's answer, for do you not see what Peter's answer is? He says, If you want to keep in love with life, then live as the blessed Master did. Keep thy lips from speaking guile—there was no guile upon His lips. Eschew evil and do good—He went about continually doing good. Seek peace and ensue it, and He is the Prince of peace forever in a divided and alienated world. For Him life was not possessions. It was character; it was service; it was love. And do you want to keep in love with it? Then you must follow in His steps. Put first things first. Give primacy to character. Serve your brother.

Walk in love—and you will keep in love with life to the end.

And then remember life was sweet to Jesus because He lived it under the eye of God. He felt, as nobody else has ever felt, the continual presence of the Father. There was no God for Buddha. There is no God for any pessimist. For Jesus, God was Father: He was Friend; He shared in every heart-beat of His child. And does not Peter say, If you want to keep in love with life as Jesus did, right on to the end, then never forget that the eyes of the Lord are on you, and His ears are open to your prayers. When over life there is an arch like that, when underneath are the everlasting arms, when there is a heavenly hand to guide and a heavenly breast on which to lean, then, bring life what it may, a man is able to keep in love with it till the day break and the shadows flee away.

_______________________

By George H. Morrison
_______________________

These beautiful messages by George H. Morrison are distributed freely and Internationally in the excellent freeware Bible Study package called e-Sword. These messages are representative of many sweet Christians who want to put excellent Bible Study material in the hands of many, free of charge.

You can obtain e-Sword at:
http://www.e-sword.net/downloads.html
Author: Rick Meyer
(The goal of Rick Meyer is to freely distribute Bibles to every country on earth in their own language, and that goal gets closer by the day. Thanks to countless Christian individuals and organizations with big hearts, many excellent Bible Study tools are also being distributed with e-Sword around the world, free of charge.)

December 7

What to Do With Our Cares

Casting all your care upon him; for he careth for you. Be sober, be vigilant. — 1Pe_5:7-8

The cares of which the apostle speaks were those associated with persecution. He was writing to those who might, at any moment, be exposed to the fury of the populace. A great deal of pagan trade was intimately bound up with idolatry. Wherever the Gospel came and took a grip, it began to interfere with trade. And for that, as for many other reasons, Christians were never safe. Their life was one of continuous anxiety. Such anxieties are gone now where the populace is nominally Christian. But care remains, haunting the human heart and robbing life of the gladness of the sunshine. And so to us, in a land that is called Christian as well as to those sojourners in paganism, comes the message of the great apostle. The question, then, for all of us is this: How does a man cast his care on God? That I should answer by asking another question: How does a man cast his care on anybody? Our Lord was very fond of that procedure, arguing from the lesser to the greater, and reaching heavenly things through things of earth.

We Cast Our Cares on Someone by Relying on Him

In human life, then, we cast our cares on anybody when we confidently rely on him. We can illustrate that by the captain of a ship. When a wild storm falls upon a vessel, the passengers are naturally anxious. Children cry; women begin to tremble; men look grave and often become silent. And then they see the captain on the bridge relaxed, smiling as he talks to his officer, and they remember he never lost a ship and is reputed the finest captain in the service. The moment they see that their anxieties begin to vanish. Trusting the captain when the storm is raging, they find that they have cast their cares on him. And whenever anyone trusts God and quietly puts his confidence in God, he awakens to the same discovery. "Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on Thee," and then the prophet adds, "because he trusteth in Thee." Trust is the great antidote to care. It is by simple, quiet, unswerving confidence that we cast our cares on anybody, and just so do we cast our cares on God.

By Talking We Share Our Care

Once again we cast our cares on anybody when we go to him and talk things over frankly. That is one of the benefits of friendship. The chief office of friendship, says Lord Bacon, is the ease and discharge of the swellings of the heart. And then he adds that the man who has no friend is a cannibal of his own heart. That is to say, he eats his heart out because he has no one to whom he can resort to speak of the anxieties that gnaw him. People often approach me for advice, and frequently go away without it. And yet they thank me when they go away and say that everything looks different now. You see, what has helped them isn't my advice; it is just that they have talked the matter over with one who feels for them and is a friend. Friendship is like a lancet; it opens the abscesses which are very painful. And as it is with a true friend on earth, so is it with our truest Friend in heaven. When we go to Him and tell Him all, opening our hearts to Him in quiet communion, how wonderfully do we discover that we have really cast our cares on Him! Be careful for nothing, says St. Paul, but in everything let your requests be made known unto God. And then what happens? Are your requests granted? The wise apostle says nothing about that. But he does say, and it is always true, that the peace of God which passeth understanding shall keep your hearts and minds through Jesus Christ.

In Faithful Duty We Find Security

Once again we cast our cares on anybody when we do our duty by him faithfully. I think of the public servants of Glasgow Corporation. The dustmen who pass my windows in the morning have their cares just like other men. They are married and have to feed and clothe their wives and children. And yet so long as they do their duty faithfully, they have no need to worry about that. They cast their cares upon the Corporation. Is not that precisely what our Savior meant when He was speaking about care and worry? "Seek ye first the kingdom of God, and all these things shall be added unto you." Put God first, be loyal to Him daily, live for the happy service of the kingdom, and will God do less than the Glasgow Corporation? If any man is living for self, he has no warrant to cast his care on God. But if he lives for service and not self, he can lean his weight upon the word of Jesus. There is a deeper meaning than we think of in that word of our Lord beside the well, "My meat is to do the will of him that sent me."

What Does God Expect of us?

And then when our cares are cast on God, what kind of life does God expect of us? It is here that Peter displays a heavenly wisdom, for he says, "Be sober and be watchful." It is a perilous thing to have a load of cares. It is fraught with manifold temptation. It may make a husband very cross and irritable as many a wife knows. But never forget that to be free from cares may be as perilous as to be burdened with them, and that's why Peter adds, "Be sober and be watchful." I have known people suddenly freed from care by some large legacy of fortune—and that freedom has sometimes been their ruin. God does not make His children carefree in order that He may make them careless. Surely better a thousand cares than that. He makes them carefree that with undivided heart they may give themselves to the service of their brother and to the glory of His blessed name.

_______________________

By George H. Morrison
_______________________

These beautiful messages by George H. Morrison are distributed freely and Internationally in the excellent freeware Bible Study package called e-Sword. These messages are representative of many sweet Christians who want to put excellent Bible Study material in the hands of many, free of charge.

You can obtain e-Sword at:
http://www.e-sword.net/downloads.html
Author: Rick Meyer
(The goal of Rick Meyer is to freely distribute Bibles to every country on earth in their own language, and that goal gets closer by the day. Thanks to countless Christian individuals and organizations with big hearts, many excellent Bible Study tools are also being distributed with e-Sword around the world, free of charge.)

December 19

Reverence - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

And when I saw him, I fell at his feet as dead — Rev_1:17

John was a prisoner in the isle of Patmos when he had this revelation of Jesus Christ. He had been banished thither because he was a Christian; and if the early legends can be trusted, he was condemned to the hard slavery of the Patmos mines. But sweet are the uses of adversity. There are some things we cannot learn in Babylon that become plain to us in sea-girt Patmos. There are some sights we are blind to in the markets: our eyes are only opened in the mines. It was not at home that Jacob had his Bethel: it was in the hills, a wanderer and alone. It was not at Pharaoh's court that Moses saw Jehovah in the burning bush: it was when flying from Pharaoh in the desert. It was not in peaceful days that Stephen saw heaven opened and Jesus standing at the right hand of God: it was in the hour of martyrdom. And this vision of Jesus, the alpha and omega, the first and last, whose head and hairs were white as snow and whose eyes were as a flame of fire,—this vision came to John, an exile in the mines. "It is adversity," says Bacon in his priceless essays, "which carrieth the greater benediction, and the clearer revelation of God's favour."

Reverence

Now there are many lessons in this story. An old and fragrant commentary that I opened on the chapter rises into a height of eloquence, lost in this day and age, over these eyes that were like a flame of fire. But I want to center on one point only. I want to take this falling-down of John as a true instance of a truly reverent spirit. John saw, John worshipped, John adored. And we are living in a world that's full of God, and we have something better than a vision; we have the word of prophecy. And do we stand or fall upon our faces, and are we reverent or are we not? that is the question.

I do not think that the most cheerful optimist would dare to assert this was a reverent age. Of course we shall always have some reverent souls in every congregation, but reverence is not a note of modern life: still worse, it is not a desire. There was a time when to be thought reverent was an honorable thing. Now, to be thought reverent is to be old-fashioned. Men want to be smart and clever and successful, and somehow reverence does not agree well with these. We are all busy: few of us are reverent. Yet without reverence life is a shallow thing, and true nobility of character is impossible; and without reverence we shall be strangers to the end to all that is best and worthiest in our faith.

The Lack of Reverence

Can we explain the comparative absence of this grace? I think we can. It springs from certain features of our modern life, and the first of these is the wear and hurry of it. It is no chance that the most reverent hour in Moses' life was in the desert. It is no accident that John fell down as dead, not in the streets of Babylon, but in the isle of Patmos. It was no whim, though it seems whimsical to us, that a prophet of reverence whom we lost a week ago should have denounced our crowded city life. It is not easy for an overdriven man to keep a reverent heart. It is very hard to feel perpetual reverence when life for thousands is a perpetual rush. When I travel fast enough by train, castles and towns and woods and battlefields flash for an instant and are gone, and the great things are but little for the speed. So in the rush of life, worrying, leisureless, the great things of the soul and of the universe are dwarfed, and it is hard to be a reverent man. There is a certain leisure needed for the cultivation of a truly reverent spirit, a certain inward quietness, a certain detachment from the present day. But do note that leisure is a thing of heart and not of hours. Some of our hardest workers, who never enter a church door, it may be, are far more reverent, and being more reverent are better men, than many a church-goer who never felt the awe of things and never fell down at His feet as dead.

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Reverence - Page 2
by George H. Morrison

The lack of reverence too, I cannot doubt, is partly due to the spirit of inquiry of today. God knows that if to be reverent meant to be ignorant, some of us, in the eagerness to know, would say farewell to reverence forever. But is not the keenest teacher sometimes as reverent and humble as a little child? We had three great professors in my day at Glasgow, men known in every academy in Europe—the one for Greek, the other for medicine, the third for natural philosophy —and only to hear them was to be reminded of Sir Isaac Newton who felt like a little child picking some pebbles from the shore and casting them into the infinite ocean of the truth. Still, for all that, it is the truth that an inquisitive age is rarely reverent. And of all inquisitive and critical times, I fancy we have fallen on the worst. We are all eager: few of us are reverent. We are never afraid to criticize, but we have almost forgotten to adore. We can discuss these seven golden candlesticks, and trace the sources of the vision in Daniel, and smile at the strange mixing of the metaphors; but "when I saw Him," says John, "I fell at His feet as dead."

But this present lack of reverence has another source: it is the dying-out from heart and conscience of the fear of God. "Ah, Rogers," said Dr. Dale of Birmingham to his old friend,—"ah, Rogers, no one fears God now." And there can be little question that in the largest sense Dale was right. Man's views of God have changed in the past century. It was the Sovereignty of God that was the watchword once. It is the Fatherhood of God that is the watchword now. And no man can quarrel with that change of emphasis, when we remember how it has flashed new light upon the love of God and kindled into meaning many a page and parable. But things are not right if we can only love God more by reverencing Him less. And who can doubt that something of the majesty, and something of the grandeur, and something of the awesome fear of God is gone in this reiterated insistence on His Fatherhood? I sometimes think God had a special purpose in giving us the Old Testament in our Bible. With all its difficulties, I feel it was preserved to counteract a natural tendency of man. For God in the Gospel comes so very near us, and the love of God shown in the love of Jesus is so brother like, that only to realize it is to run the danger of forgetting reverence and growing very familiar with God. And it takes all the Psalms and all the prophets, with their magnificent Gospel of a Sovereign God, to make us fall down at His feet as dead. O living Spirit, open our eyes and give us back again something of the fear of God! For we shall never love or serve Thee well till we have learned to reverence Thee more!

What Is Reverence?

Now what is reverence ? It has been variously defined, but perhaps the old definition is the best. It is the practical recognition of true greatness. It is my attitude of heart and mind when I am confronted by the truly worthy and the truly great. It does not matter of what kind the greatness is: it may be the greatness of my brother's character, it may be the greatness of this mysterious world, or it may be the greatness of Almighty God; but the moment I see it, feel it, and recognize my place, I am a reverent man.

And that is the condemnation of the irreverent man. He may be clever, but he is always shallow. He may be smart, but he is blind. To live in a universe like this and to find nothing to reverence is to condemn, not the world, but myself. Irreverent men are often amusing, and are always selfish. For not to see and feel what is sublime, and not to be touched by what is truly great, is a true token of a selfish heart. The other side of reverence is humility. The other side of irreverence is pride. It is the curse of the irreverent heart that underneath all lightness and all jest it is a stranger to the humility of Jesus.

Now where does individual irreverence begin? I think that generally it begins at home. When I have ceased to reverence myself, it is the hardest thing in the whole world to reverence my brother and to reverence God. If I am mean, I shall read meanness in my neighbor's heart. If I am selfish, I shall find selfishness in the most Christlike thing my neighbor ever did. We all get as we give. If there is nothing great in you, no hope, no ideal, you pay the penalty by finding the world mean. If there is any glimmering of greatness in you and any passion for righteousness and God, it is wonderful what a grand world this becomes, and what new worth we find in other men, and what a majesty we see in God.

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Reverence - Page 3
by George H. Morrison

The Reverence of Jesus

Now there are two things in the life of Jesus that arrest me. And the first of these is His reverence for God. Jesus knew God as God was never known on earth before. God was His Father in far deeper senses than He is yours or mine. His intimacy with His Father was complete. He was at home with God. Yet nothing can match the perfect reverence of Christ towards this Father He knew and loved so well. I can always speak of Jesus' fellowship with God. It is a misuse of language to speak of Jesus' familiarity with God. There is an awe and reverence in all the recorded communication of Jesus with His Father that is as wonderful as His perfect trust.

But still more arresting than the reverence of Jesus for His God is the reverence that Jesus had for man. Sometimes you reverence a man because you do not know him well; you get to know him better, and your reverence dies. Christ knew men thoroughly. Christ knew men through and through,—their thoughts, their hopes, their fears, their weaknesses, their struggles, and their passions. Christ saw each sin more deadly and each vice more horrible than the most tender conscience in its most tender hour had ever dreamed of. If you had seen what Christ had seen, you would have spumed your brother. If you had known what Jesus knew, you would have spat on him. The wonder is Christ reverenced him still, still thought it worth His while to teach him, still thought man great enough to live for, still thought man great enough to die for. There never was a reverence so loving, there never was a love so sweetly reverent, as the love of Jesus Christ for you and me, fallen men, yet still in our ruin not without tokens of a heavenly greatness and of the God who made us in His image!

Lessons to a More Reverent Life

So as I think on reverence, and link it with the supreme reverence of Jesus, I learn three lessons that may guide us to a more reverent life.

And first, if we are ever to grow reverent again, we must know more. The reverence of ignorance is gone. Half-knowledge is irreverent: a fuller knowledge will make us reverent again. Jesus was reverent because His knowledge was perfect: we are irreverent because our knowledge is shallow. When we know man, far off, as Jesus knew him, we shall find something to reverence in our most ordinary brother. When we know God as Jesus knew Him, we shall adore. And is that knowledge possible to me? Thank God, through daily fellowship with Christ,

I may follow on to know the Lord.

And then, if we are ever to grow reverent again, we must trust more. If John had never trusted Christ, he never would have seen the vision and never would have fallen at Jesus' feet as dead. I cannot reverence a man whom I distrust, I cannot reverence a God. It wants deep faith to make me reverent. It wants a perfect faith like Jesus had to make me perfectly reverent like Him. I never can be noble without reverence. I never can be reverent without faith.

And if we are ever to grow reverent again, we must love more. There never was a time when so much was spoken and written about Christian love. If we loved more and said less about it, we might revive our dying reverence. Oh, how much of our so-called love to Jesus is spurned by an infinite God because the feeling of reverence is not in it. It is so easy to talk of leaning on Jesus' bosom. It is so easy to forget that he who leaned on Jesus' bosom fell down at Jesus' feet as dead. I plead for more love, not to increase, but to remove that light familiarity that blots our Christian service. For love reveals, love sees, love breaks the bars, love reads the secrets both of man and God. And when I have seen my brother's secret story, and when I have seen into the deep things of God, I never can be irreverent again.

_______________________

By George H. Morrison
_______________________

These beautiful messages by George H. Morrison are distributed freely and Internationally in the excellent freeware Bible Study package called e-Sword. These messages are representative of many sweet Christians who want to put excellent Bible Study material in the hands of many, free of charge.

You can obtain e-Sword at:
http://www.e-sword.net/downloads.html
Author: Rick Meyer
(The goal of Rick Meyer is to freely distribute Bibles to every country on earth in their own language, and that goal gets closer by the day. Thanks to countless Christian individuals and organizations with big hearts, many excellent Bible Study tools are also being distributed with e-Sword around the world, free of charge.)

December 21

He Knocks - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

Behold I stand at the door, and knock  —  Rev_3:20

We are all familiar with the picture by a well-known artist which portrays Christ standing at the door. It is one of the few pictures on a text of Scripture which has caught the imagination of the people. We see the door hanging on rusty hinges and covered with the trailing growth of years. And we see Christ, clad in His kingly robes, out in the dew and darkness of the night. And in the one hand He bears a lighted lamp whose rays are penetrating through the chinks and crevices, and with the other He is knocking at the door. You know the title the artist gave that picture. He did not call it "Christ knocking at the door." He called it — and there is spiritual genius in the title — "I am the light of the world." For him the wonder of it all was that the light which is life and blessedness and victory should be so near the door of every heart.

And after all, when you come to think of it, that is the most wonderful thing about this text. It is not the knocking at the closed door; it is the overwhelming thought of Him who knocks. Were it some emperor whose word is law to millions, it would be sufficiently awful and impressive. Were it some angel as he who came to Abraham, it would be a very memorable visitor. But when a man goes apart into some silent place and dwells upon the fact that knocking at his heart is CHRIST, I tell you it thrills him to the very depths. Not Jesus, who walked amid the fields of Galilee. He is no longer walking amid the fields of Galilee. He is no longer rejected and despised, homeless, with no shelter for His head. He is the risen Christ, exalted to the heavens, invested with all the authority of glory and yet, behold He stands at the door and knocks. At the door of your heart, my brother and my sister. You know what passions and what sins are knocking there, clamorous rabble — Christ is standing, the living, glorious Christ, and in infinite mercy He is knocking too.

Christ Is Not Far From Any Man

And that just means, stripped of its metaphor, that Christ is not far away from any man. Wherever on earth there is a beating heart, there is a yearning Savior. The best is never far away from men. That is one of the joys of this strange life. God has not hidden what is true and beautiful in inaccessible and distant places. Sunshine and summer and the little children, and duty and chivalry and faith and love, are nearer than breathing and closer than hands and feet. The highest and holiest are never inaccessible. And so do not think of it as a thing incredible that Christ should be very near to you. He is not hidden in the light of heaven beyond the shining of the farthest star. Life is mysterious, and God is wonderful, and the infinite is round about us everywhere, and Christ is not far away from any man. But, Lord, I am a bad man — Behold I stand at the door and knock. But, Lord, Thou knowest that secret sin of mine, and what a wretched, hollow life I have been living. Yes, my brother, He understands all that, and for all that He shed His blood for thee, and now He is standing knocking at thy door. Thy door — thy life — thine everlasting being. He wants to save it into life and victory.

And in what way does Christ knock? I answer, in a hundred different ways. He has a knock that is very imperious sometimes, and sometimes one that is infinitely gentle. He knocks in all the mercies you enjoy, in health and strength and happiness and home. He knocks in the tender memories of childhood of a father's character and a mother's love. He knocks in the thought of all that has been done for you, and of the love that has girdled you from infancy, and of the mercy that has never yet forsaken you from the hour of your birth until today. Sometimes He knocks in the strange sense of loneliness that steals upon the heart on busiest days. Sometimes He knocks in all that deep unrest that craves it knows not what, and never finds it. Sometimes He knocks in bitter disappointments and in bitter regrets over the might have been and in love baffled till the heart is breaking. He is knocking when a man has sinned and hates his sin and loathes himself as vile. He is knocking in the despairing sense that our vices and habits are mightier than we. He is knocking in every business in the hopeless tangle we have made of things, in the sickness that lays us prostrate for a season. He is knocking in the gift of little children, in the worries and trials and gladnesses of home. He is knocking when two lives are joined together. He is knocking when two lives are separated — in the last parting when the grave is dug, and the heart is empty and the coffin full. Lo! I am with you always, even to the end of the world; always at the door and always knocking. And that is our hope — that Christ is not far away, but that He is here in infinite grace to save. For when He ceases knocking we are lost.

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He Knocks - Page 2
by George H. Morrison

Indeed, I have often thought in quiet moments that that is the truest interpretation of all life. When I think of all that life has meant for me, it seems like someone knocking all the time. You remember that famous moment in Macbeth when the murderers hear the knocking at the door. And you recall how De Quincey in his so subtle essay has shown us the dramatic significance of that — how into a room reeking of blood and murder, self-absorbed, oblivious of environment, the knocking came, and with it in a flash the thought of the great world that lay beyond. Shakespeare did not summon any calling voices. He was too consummate a master to do that. Your inferior dramatist who knew not life would have given you shouting and the trampling of men's feet. But Shakespeare gives a knocking at the door — some hand, unknown, knocking — that is all, and the murderers, who had forgotten everything, waken to realize the world again. My brother and sister, if we were left alone we should be always in danger of forgetting everything — we should forget, if left alone, that God hates sin, that death is coming, and that heaven is real. And so, as I look back over my life, it seems to me there has never been a providence that has not been meant by God to be interpreted like that knocking at the door in Shakespeare. In every triumph someone has been knocking; in every failure someone has been knocking — in every hour of pain and call of duty and baffled effort and yearning for the beautiful. Until at last there grows upon a man the sense that life is deep and rich and wonderful; a little chamber red with blood and sin, but round it a spiritual unseen environment. Infinite love is pressing in upon us; infinite grace that can save unto the uttermost; infinite power that can redeem the weakest and cleanse him and set him on his feet. And to all that, out of the selfishness which is our birthmark and our heritage, we are awakened by the knocking of the Christ.

The Door Must Be Opened From the Inside

To come back to that picture of which I spoke in starting, I remember somewhere reading a story about it, and the story was that when the picture was finished a friend came into the studio to inspect it. And he looked at it and admired its exquisite grace and saw at once its spiritual significance. And then he turned to the artist and said to him, "It is very beautiful, but there is one mistake. You have forgotten to put a handle on the door." And the story told how Holman Hunt explained to his visitor that that was no mistake. Had there been any handle on the outside, he told him, Christ would have turned it and would have entered in. But this was a door that had no handle there — a door that could only be opened from the inside. If any man will open to Me, I will come in to him and sup with him.

And that just means, stripped of its imagery, that to the knocking of Jesus Christ each one must individually respond. We must open our hearts to the living, present Christ, and say, "Come in, thou blessed of the Lord." No man has a more profound faith than I have in the absolute sovereignty of Almighty God. I should not be a Scotsman if I disbelieved it, and I should be untrue to all that God has shown me. And yet so intricate are earth and heaven, and so respectful of His children's liberty is God, that till a man lift up his voice and cries "I will," Jesus Christ will never cross the door sill. That is just where so many are making a mistake. They are always waiting for something irresistible. They are waiting for the moment when some power divine will shatter the door and enter in, in spite of them. My brother, I want to tell you quite plainly, that hour will never come. "If any man will open the door" — it is the one condition of all blessing. You must respond. You must open wide your being. You must say to the living Lord and Christ "Come in." And the wonder of the Christian Gospel is just this, that all you have striven and struggled for and failed in becomes a thrilling power and possibility the moment with all your heart you have invited Christ in. That was the message that rang through a dying world and made it hope again and live again. It is no scheme of social reform. We could have that and more without a Christ. It is peace with God and victory for you. The sunshine is a very marvelous creation, but it will never open any blinds for you. You must open them — a very simple thing — and all the mystery of the light will flood the room. And so with Christ — more glorious than sunshine — Christ the living, reigning, mighty Lord — if any man will open, I will come in.


_______________________

By George H. Morrison
_______________________

These beautiful messages by George H. Morrison are distributed freely and Internationally in the excellent freeware Bible Study package called e-Sword. These messages are representative of many sweet Christians who want to put excellent Bible Study material in the hands of many, free of charge.

You can obtain e-Sword at:
http://www.e-sword.net/downloads.html
Author: Rick Meyer
(The goal of Rick Meyer is to freely distribute Bibles to every country on earth in their own language, and that goal gets closer by the day. Thanks to countless Christian individuals and organizations with big hearts, many excellent Bible Study tools are also being distributed with e-Sword around the world, free of charge.)

December 22

The Rainbow and the Throne - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

And immediately I was in the spirit: and, behold, a throne was set in heaven.., and there was a rainbow round about the throne, in sight like unto an emerald — Rev_4:2-3

This vision, like all the visions of the Apocalypse, is given for the most practical of purposes. It is not the dreaming of an idle seer. It is a message of comfort for bad times. You know the kind of scenery one meets with in the latter portion of this book. There are pictures of famine and of bloody war, pictures of sickness and of death upon his horse. Here, then, before the unveiling of these horrors we have the eternal background of it all. "And I looked," says John, "and lo, a door in heaven; and I saw a throne, and Him that sat thereon." God's in His heaven, all's right with the world—that was the meaning and purpose of the vision. Let famine come and fearful persecution; let the Christians be scattered like leaves before the wind—there was a throne with a rainbow round about it; and in the heavens a Lamb as it had been slain.

The Permanent Is Encircled By the Fleeting

Now I would like to dwell for a little while on the rainbow round the throne like to an emerald. Do you see any mystical meanings in that rainbow? I shall tell you what it suggests to me.

In the first place it speaks to me of this, that the permanent is encircled by the fleeting.

Whenever a Jew thought of the throne of God, he pictured one that was unchangeable. "Thy throne, O God, is an everlasting throne," was the common cry of psalmist and of prophet. Other thrones might pass into oblivion, other kingdoms flourish and decay. There was not a monarchy on any side of Israel that had not risen and had fallen, like a star. But the throne of God, set in the high heaven where a thousand years are as a day, that throne from all eternity had been, and to all eternity it would remain. Such was the throne which the apostle saw, and round about it he beheld a rainbow. It was engirdled with a thing of beauty which shines for a moment, and in shining vanishes. The permanent was encircled by the transient. The eternal was set within the momentary.

God Has a Purpose for Every Life

The same thing also is observable as God reveals Himself in human life. God has His purpose for every heart which trusts Him, nor will He lightly let that purpose go. We are not driftwood upon the swollen stream. We are not dust that swirls upon the highway. I believe that for each of us there is a path along which the almighty hand is guiding. Through childhood with its careless happiness, through youth with its storm and manhood with its burden, every one is being surely led by Him who sees the end from the beginning. And I looked, and lo, a throne in heaven—and "the kingdom of heaven is within you." And round about the throne there was a rainbow—symbol of the transient and the fleeting. And so it is that you and I are led amid a thousand evanescent things, under the arch of lights that flash upon us, and have hardly flashed ere they have disappeared. It is commonplace to speak of fleeting joys—and our troubles are often as fleeting as our joys. And then what moods we have; what moments of triumph; what bitterness of tears! And often they visit us just when we least expect them, and we cannot explain them as they come and go; and yet, through every mood and every feeling, the will of God is working to its goal.

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by George H. Morrison

The Bow, a Symbol of Mercy

Another truth which is suggested here is that power is perfected in mercy. The rainbow has been symbolical of mercy ever since the days of Noah and the flood. God made a covenant with Noah, you remember, that there should never be such a flood again. Never again, so long as earth endured, was there to fall such desolating judgement. And in token of that, God pointed to the bow, painted in all its beauty on the storm cloud,—that rainbow was to be forever the sign and sacrament that He was merciful. Do you see another meaning of that bow, then, which John discerned around the throne of God? What is a throne? It is a place of power; the seat of empire, the symbol of dominion. So round the infinite power of the Almighty, like a thing of joy and beauty, is His mercy. Round His omnipotence, in perfect orb, is the enclosing circlet of His grace. It is not enough that in heaven is a throne. God might be powerful, and yet might crush me. It is not enough to see a rainbow there. God might be merciful, and yet be weak. There must be both, the rainbow and the throne, the one within the circuit of the other, if power is to reveal itself in love, and love to be victorious in power.

We see that union very evidently in the life of our Lord Jesus Christ. One of the deepest impressions of that life is the impression of unfathomed power. There are men who give us the impression of weakness. We cannot explain it perhaps, but so it is. But there are other men, who, when we meet with them, at once suggest to us the thought of power. And you will never understand the life of Christ, nor the bitterness of hate which He evoked, until you remember that always, in His company, men felt that they were face to face with power. Think of His power over the world of nature—He spake, and the storm became a calm. Think of His power over disease and death—"and Lazarus came forth, bound in his graveclothes." Think of His power, more wonderful than either, over the guiltiest of human hearts—"Thy sins, which are many, are forgiven thee." And I looked, and lo, I saw a throne—wherever Jesus was, there was a throne. But was that all, and was there nothing else, and was it power unchecked and uncontrolled? Ah, sirs, you know as well as I do, that around the living throne there was a rainbow—a mercy deeper, richer, more divine, than Noah had ever deciphered on the cloud.

Might and Mercifulness

The same thing is also true of human character. It takes both elements to make it perfect. When human character is at its highest, its symbol is the rainbow round the throne. All of us admire the strong man—the man who can mold others to his will. There is something in titanic strength that makes an irresistible appeal. Yet what a scourge that power may become, and what infinite wreckage it may spread—all that needs no enforcement for a world which has known the evil genius of Napoleon. Mercy without power may be a sham; but power without mercy is a curse. It is not a throne which is the ideal of manhood; it is a throne encircled by the bow. It is power stooping to the lowliest service; it is strength that has the courage to be tender; it is might that can be very merciful, with the mercy of the Lord Jesus Christ.

I sometimes think, too, that this heavenly vision is just a type of what our homes should be. In the ideal home there will be kingship, and yet around the kingship will be beauty. There are many homes today which have no throne. There is no government; there is no subjection. The thought of fatherhood has been so weakened that it has lost its attribute of kingship. The children are the real masters of the home; by their inexperience everything is regulated. And I looked, and lo, a door into the home—and within it, no vestige of a throne. Then in other homes there is no rainbow. There is no beauty; there is not any tenderness. There is no play of color on the cloud; no shining when the rain is on the sea. And the merriment of the children is repressed, and the father does not understand his child; and the child, whose heart is yearning for a father, has no one to appeal to but a king. Surely, if home is to be heaven, we want a vision like that of the apostle. We w ant a throne in token of authority, for without that, home is but a chaos. But if little lives are to be glad and beautiful, and if there is to be radiance on the cloud, we also want the rainbow round the throne.

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by George H. Morrison

The Encircling Radiance of Hope

There is just one other lesson I would touch on—the heavenly setting of mystery is hope.

As the apostle gazed upon the throne, there was one thing that struck him to the heart. "Out of the throne came voices, thunderings and lightnings." Whose these voices were, he could not tell. What they were uttering, he did not know. Terrible messages pealed upon his ear, couched in some language he had never learned. And with these voices was the roll of thunder; and through it all, the flashing of the lightning; and John was awed, for in the throne of God he was face to face with unutterable mystery. Then he lifted his eyes, and lo, a rainbow, and yet it was different from earthly rainbows. It was not radiant with the seven colors that John had counted on the shore of Patmos. It was like an emerald—what color is an emerald? It was like an emerald; it was green. Around the throne, with its red flame of judgement, there was a rainbow, and the bow was green. Does that color suggest anything to you? To me it brings the message of spring time. You never hear a poet talk of dead green; but you often hear one talk of living green. It is the color of the tender grass and of the opening buds upon the trees. It is the color of rest for weary eyes and hope for weary hearts.

Brethren, is not that the message which has been given us in Jesus Christ? When you see God, mysteries do not vanish. When you see God, mysteries only deepen. There is the mystery of nature, red in tooth and claw; so full of cruelty, so full of waste. There is the mystery of pain, falling upon the innocent and bowing them through intolerable years. There is the mystery of early death with its blighted hope and with its shattered promise. There is the unutterable mystery of sin. Out of the throne came thunderings and voices. Out of the throne voices issue still. And we cannot interpret them—they are too hard for us, and we bow the head and say it is all dark. Nay, friend, not altogether dark, for around the throne of God there is a bow, and all the rest of the green fields is in it, and all the hope of a morning in the spring. Have we not Christ? Has He not lived our life? Has He not taught us that the worst and vilest sinner is good enough to live for and to die for? Has he not conquered death?—does He not live today?—is not the government upon His shoulder? A man can never be hopeless in the night who once for all has cast his anchor there. Have you done that? Are you a Christian? Have you cried, "Lord, I believe, help thou mine unbelief?." Why then, my brother, you are in the spirit, and for you a door is opened into heaven. And though for you mystery will not vanish and much that was dark before will still be dark, yet round and round all that is unfathomable, there is the encircling radiance of hope.

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Written by F. B. Meyer

The F. B. Meyer devotions are distributed freely and Internationally in the excellent freeware Bible Study package called e-Sword.

You can obtain e-Sword at:
http://www.e-sword.net/downloads.html
Author: Rick Meyer
(The goal of Rick Meyer is to freely distribute Bibles to every country on earth in their own language, and that goal gets closer by the day. Thanks to countless Christian individuals and organizations with big hearts, many excellent Bible Study tools are also being freely distributed with e-Sword around the world.)

December 23

The Feeding of the Lamb - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

The Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them — Rev_7:17

The first words which John ever heard of Jesus were words that described Him as a Lamb. When John was a disciple of the Baptist's, drinking in inspiration from that stern teacher, he had heard these words fall from the Baptist's lips, "Behold the Lamb of God which taketh away the sin of the world." The apostle was a young man then, aflame with eager hope, and the words of the Baptist sank deep into his heart—so deep that through all his after years he loved to think of Jesus as the Lamb. What experiences John had had and what a vast deal he had suffered when he came to write this book of Revelation! Life and the world were different to him now from what they had been in the desert with the Baptist. Yet in Revelation some twenty seven times John repeats the sweet expression "Lamb of God"—the first words he had ever heard of Christ. How blessed is a life when from its first stage to its last there runs through it one regulating thought! What concentration it bestows on character! What vividness it gives to the perceptions! There are men who are everything by turns and nothing long—unstable as water, they shall not excel. New ideas seize on them powerfully today, and other ideas as powerfully tomorrow. But men like John, grasping some great truth early, hold to it through storm and sunshine, through Babylon and Patmos, till it expands and breaks into a thousand meanings and becomes a thing of beauty and a joy for ever.

The Unchangeableness of the Lamb of God

Various thoughts are at once suggested to me by the beautiful and musical message of our text and the first is that Christ in heaven today is the very Christ who walked by the banks of Jordan. "Behold the Lamb of God," said the Baptist there; and "in the midst of the throne, a Lamb as it had been slain." In the opening chapter of this book of Revelation there is a strange and wonderful vision of the Lord: His head and His hairs were white as snow, and His eyes were as fire, and His feet were like fine brass as if they burned in a furnace. There is deep meaning in every line of that description, but perhaps the first thought to arise in us when we read it is that this is not the Jesus whom we knew in Galilee. It is august and terrible—a vision of light and splendor—and John when he saw it fell at His feet as dead, but it is not like Him who agonized in Gethsemane and whose tears fell beside the grave of Lazarus. But here it is the Lamb in the midst of the throne, as in the desert it had been the Lamb of God. Here, in the glory, it is the Lamb slain, as in Isaiah it had been a lamb led to the slaughter. And we feel at once that not all the height of heaven, nor all the inconceivable grandeurs of God's throne, have changed the nature or the love of Him who was pointed to beside the Jordan.

I think we all need to be assured of that, for we are very prone to disbelieve it. Somehow, we think, our Savior in the glory must be different from what He was long ago. We know that He is no longer rejected and despised, and we know that the body of His humiliation has been glorified, until insensibly we transfer these changes from His outward nature to His heart as though death and resurrection had altered that. So we conceive Christ as far away from us, separated from the beating of the human heart; glorious, yet not so full of tender brotherhood as in the days of Capernaum and Bethany. That error is combated by the vision of the Lamb in heaven. Purity, gentleness, and sacrifice are there. The wrath of the Lamb grows terrible just as we remember that that wrath is love rejected and despised. And in the Last Judgment when the Lamb shall be our judge it will not be the majesty of God that will overwhelm us; it will be that we are face to face, at last, with the love and with the sacrifice of Christ.

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by George H. Morrison

Our Need of Christ in Heaven

Another thought which our text suggests is this, that we shall need Christ in heaven as much as we do here. The Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them—even in heaven there shall be no feeding without Christ. I ask you to note how carefully in these verses John distinguishes between Jesus and His Father. Who shall feed the redeemed? The Lamb in the midst of the throne. Who shall wipe away their tears? Not the Lamb, but God. Now I cannot dwell here on the reasons—the deep reasons—why the consoling of heaven is named as the Father's work; what I ask you to note is that the satisfaction of glory is not a thing of course, that comes inevitably—it is entirely dependent on Christ Jesus. The Lamb which is in the throne shall feed them. On the Lamb depends the satisfaction of eternity. Heaven might be heaven, and God might still be there in His eternal splendor; but even in heaven the redeemed would starve, save for the Lamb in the midst of the throne.

We all know in some measure how great and how constant is our need of Christ on earth. There are moments—often moments of distress and darkness—when every true follower can truly say, "Thou, O Christ, art all I want." In the soberest senses it is the Lamb who feeds us here—it is on Him we are dependent for everything that nourishes us—without His love and His sacrifice and His revelation of God, there would be no spiritual pasturage on earth. But do we not sometimes think that death will change all that? Are we not prone to imagine that in the world beyond, the need of being nourished by Christ Jesus will be less? Have we not some dim idea that heaven is like a garden—so fair, so fragrant, and so beautiful in itself, that only to open our eyes there will be rest, and only to wander in its sunshine will be peace? However such an idea may arise within us, remember that it is not the concept of the Bible. The Lamb which is in the throne shall feed them; the need of Christ in heaven is supreme. Every tie that binds us to Him here is strengthened there; all feelings of dependence are infinitely deepened. All that we owe to Him on earth is but a tithe of what we shall owe to Him when we awake.

It is suggested, too, by the words of the original that this feeding shall be a perpetual process. Not once nor for a day shall the Lamb feed the flock; He shall feed them continually and forever. As John looked back on his discipleship in Galilee, one feature of it impressed him very powerfully. It was that the Lamb of God, whom the Baptist had directed him to follow, had taught him everything gradually and slowly. One truth today, one miracle tomorrow, and always and only as the disciples could bear it; little by little, with perfect adaptation, had the Lamb led them into ever deeper knowledge. That was one mark of the feeding of the Lamb, and every year that he lived, John grew more grateful for it. He saw the patience and the gentle constancy with which he had been led into all truth.

Spiritual Progress in Heaven

And now in Patmos John lifts his eyes to heaven, and there are they who came out of great tribulation; and the Lamb is there—a Lamb as it had been slain—and the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them. What did that mean to John? What did it recall to him? It spoke to him of quiet perseverance. There was progress and ever-growing reception of the truth in heaven for John, and there was all that, because the Lamb was there.

Have you incorporated that thought into your view of glory? It is bound up with the true thought of Christ. Just because He is the same yesterday and forever, there will be gradual unfoldings of joy through all eternity. It is true we shall hunger no more, and we shall thirst no more. We shall be satisfied when we awake. Yet John had been satisfied in his first hour with Jesus, but what great and lofty truths had he still to learn! Not all at once shall the mysteries be solved and every truth we have longed to know be taught us. Not all at once shall the full and glorious secret be flashed in its splendor on our awakened eyes. Through all eternity we shall go on to serve. Through all eternity we shall go on to learn. The love of God will expand and deepen endlessly so that every fresh hour will have its sweet surprise. Not God in the first person, but the Lamb—the gradual and patient teacher of the Twelve—the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them.

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The Feeding of the Lamb - Page 3
by George H. Morrison

The Position of the Lamb

Lastly, and most significant of all, will you note the position in which the Lamb is standing. Be sure it is no chance that the saints are fed in glory by a Lamb who stands, where?—in the midst of the throne. Not in the confines of heaven, not on its distant borders, does the Lamb stand who shall pasture the redeemed. In the very center and seat of power He has His place: He is the Lamb in the midst of the throne. There are few grander pictures in the Bible than John's conception of the heavenly kingdom. It is like one of those drawings by Dore of the Paradise of Dante in which there is circle within circle of wheeling angels. That is the kind of vision which John had of glory, as if from its utmost and dim verge it were filled with ranks and choirs; and as the circles drew nearer and nearer to the center, they were composed of nobler and more glorious beings. In the very center of that mighty confluence was a throne—it was the throne of the immortal and eternal God. And in the very center of the throne, standing in front of it, there was a Lamb. And not any angel from distant rank or choir, not even the flaming cherubim or glowing seraphim—not these, but the Lamb in the midst of the throne shall feed them. That means that the redeemed shall be fed not only gently, but by One who stands in the place of sovereign power. None can gainsay Him there; none can withstand Him; none can contest His access to green pastures. The Lamb who feeds them is in the midst of the throne—the sceptre of universal power is His now.

In this present world of shadows and of sorrow, have we not often longed for an authoritative voice? Are there not mysteries on every hand that press upon us with a terrible insistence on our hearts? And men try to explain these things to us, and such men may be taught of God, yet the noblest explanation leaves a ring of cloud so vast that we can only bow the head and say, Now we know in part and see in part. It is true that God does not leave us in the darkness—His word is a light unto our feet. When we trust Him there is always light for the next step, and it is the next step that is the road to glory. Still, there remains much doubt and much uncertainty, baffling us and sometimes overwhelming us, and these always will remain till one who knows us thoroughly speaks to us from the very center of authority. That is the meaning of the Lamb in the midst of the throne. Before the mountains were created or the hills were formed, that throne was there. From it the worlds were created; from it the nations were fashioned; from it has gone forth the plan of every life. Every shadow was foreseen there, every tear and every grave—and from the midst of that throne the Lamb shall feed them. Does not that illuminate the joy that cometh in the morning? Does it not assure us that we shall be satisfied?

_______________________

By George H. Morrison
_______________________

These beautiful messages by George H. Morrison are distributed freely and Internationally in the excellent freeware Bible Study package called e-Sword. These messages are representative of many sweet Christians who want to put excellent Bible Study material in the hands of many, free of charge.

You can obtain e-Sword at:
http://www.e-sword.net/downloads.html
Author: Rick Meyer
(The goal of Rick Meyer is to freely distribute Bibles to every country on earth in their own language, and that goal gets closer by the day. Thanks to countless Christian individuals and organizations with big hearts, many excellent Bible Study tools are also being distributed with e-Sword around the world, free of charge.)

December 24

How Science Helps Religion

And the earth helped the woman — Rev_12:16

One hears a great deal from many different quarters of the conflict of science and religion. It might be well if we heard a little more of the various ways in which science has helped faith. Of this help in the realm of applied science one scarcely needs to speak. It was science which built those mighty Roman highways which, at the Advent, carried the Gospel everywhere. And how railways and steamships and cars and planes have been the servants of missionary work is a familiar fact in all Christendom. To the scientific concept of the printing press the debt of the Gospel is incalculable. It has scattered the tidings of the Savior to the remotest corners of the world. And if our missionaries can live and labor now in regions that were once the white man's grave, we owe it to the activities of science. Such facts are familiar to us all, and there is little need to dwell on them. In the evangelization of the world, applied science has been a powerful helper. But there are other and perhaps deeper ways, more vital than such applications in which, in the language of St. John, the earth has helped the woman.

Jesus Had a Scientific Mind

To begin with, modern science has taught us that it is our duty to look facts in the face, never to come to them with preconceptions, never to shut our eyes to anything. In that respect, I venture to suggest that our blessed Lord had a scientific mind. He never came to things with preconceptions; He never shut His eyes to anything. He saw the vultures gathering by the carcass as well as the chickens gathering to their mother. He saw the tiny sparrow falling dead as well as the sparrow happy in its nesting. No man can have the mind of Christ who has not the courage to have the eyes of Christ. He rejected the traditions of men and saw things for Himself. And is not that the method of all modern science by which it has found the wonder of the world—to reject the traditions of the fathers and see things for itself?. Science has done that with nature, and doing it has won her victories. The world has proved itself a thousand times more marvelous than the traditions of the fathers ever dreamed. Jesus did that with men and women, with the Magdalene, with Peter, with Zaccheus, and in a deep sense, we are saved by being seen.

Science and Jesus Teach Surrender

That thought of method may be pushed a little further, and I do so in the words of Huxley. "It seems to me," said Huxley, "that science teaches in the clearest manner the truth embedded in the Christian thought of entire surrender to the will of God. Sit down before the fact as a little child (the very word is Christ's), be prepared to give up every preconceived notion, follow humbly wherever and to whatever end nature leads, or you shall learn nothing. I have only begun to learn content and peace of mind since I have resolved at all risks to do this." Now tell me, what is the essence of religion, I mean on the side of the response of man? Is it not summed up in this single word, entire surrender to the Lord Jesus Christ? As evangelical preachers constantly proclaim, it is not enough merely to admire Him. It is not enough, gazing on His beauty, to call Him the Altogether Lovely. You must trust Him, become a little child, yield yourself to Him in full surrender, if peace and power and liberty and knowledge are ever to possess the soul. Now when the preacher proclaims that, there are those who say, "I don't believe it. I'm captain of my soul and master of my fate. I am free. I am going to stand upon my feet." Then comes the scientist (our supposed enemy) and says, "Friend, you're in the wrong, the preacher's right. The only way to peace and power and knowledge is the childlike way of full surrender." So the earth helps the woman. So science corroborates our faith. The scientist finds that he is more than conqueror, in precisely the same way as the believer. And yet men talk, till one is sick of it, of the conflict between science and religion.

Faith Is Basic to Everything

Lastly, science helps religion by the new majesty that it has given to faith. That may seem a daring thing to say: let me explain my meaning. A Christian is a man who lives by faith—as a simple matter of fact we all do that. You cannot mail a letter without faith; without faith you cannot board a train. But a Christian is a man who takes that faith which runs like a thread of gold through all our life and centers it on the Lord Jesus Christ for time and for eternity. Now there are not a few who hold that science is the enemy of faith; that the more you expand the realm of exact knowledge, the more you contract the realm of faith. Whereas the truth is, the more that knowledge grows in a universe which thrills with the Divine, the more does faith become imperative and wonderful. Things do not grow less mysterious, they grow more mysterious as knowledge widens. To Peter Bell the primrose is a weed: to Tennyson the wallcress is a microcosm. The faith of a Lord Kelvin (as I who was his student know) is a thousand times larger and more wonderful than the faith of the untutored savage. When I think of the presuppositions on which the chemist builds, of the postulates demanded by the physicist, of the invisibilities that science reaches when she resolves matter into energy, I feel that science is founded upon faith as truly as the life of the believer. So my hope is that in coming days science and religion will be at peace again. Like righteousness and peace in the old psalm, the dawn is breaking when they will kiss each other. Then with blended voices, they will lift their common praise to Him, Whose we are, and Whom we serve.

_______________________

By George H. Morrison
_______________________

These beautiful messages by George H. Morrison are distributed freely and Internationally in the excellent freeware Bible Study package called e-Sword. These messages are representative of many sweet Christians who want to put excellent Bible Study material in the hands of many, free of charge.

You can obtain e-Sword at:
http://www.e-sword.net/downloads.html
Author: Rick Meyer
(The goal of Rick Meyer is to freely distribute Bibles to every country on earth in their own language, and that goal gets closer by the day. Thanks to countless Christian individuals and organizations with big hearts, many excellent Bible Study tools are also being distributed with e-Sword around the world, free of charge.)

December 26

Service in Heaven

His servants shall serve him — Rev_22:3

Of the life of the glorified in heaven Scripture does not tell us very much. And not a little of what it does tell is poetically and imaginatively described. There is, for instance, the familiar figure of the harp in the hands of the redeemed. It is easy to make a joke of that and so to turn beatitude to ridicule. But what Scripture is trying to convey is that in heaven utterance shall be music, and therefore self-expression shall be perfect. Music can say what speech can never say. It is more subtle and delicate than speech. It voices the deeper yearnings of the soul in ways that words are powerless to do. And if the utterance of heaven is to be music, then self-expression will be perfect there, and the loneliness of personality will be gone. Here we are all lonely. We long to express ourselves and cannot. There are a thousand things in every heart which it is quite impossible to utter. And the mystical meaning of the harp in heaven is not only that praise will echo there, but that at last we shall be no more lonely, but be in perfect accord with each other.

But if not a little is poetic imagery, there are glimpses that must be literally taken. And all such glimpses are radiant with comfort for the sojourner amid the shadows here. We read that in heaven there shall be no temple, for worship and being will be coextensive. We are told that there are many mansions, for individuality will be preserved. We are assured there will be a place prepared, just as here there was a place prepared when the cradle was ready and the little garments and the nurture of the mother's breast. We do not need to translate these into prose like the harp under the fingers of the glorified. If there is poetry in such expressions, it is the poetry which is the stuff of heaven. And so the words which form our text yield their comfort when they are taken literally—His servant shall serve Him.

In Heaven There Will Be Continuity

Perhaps the first suggestion of the words is that in heaven there will be continuity. The ruling passion of the life on earth will be the ruling passion of the life beyond. A true believer is a man who serves. He does not live for self; he lives for others. He follows One who left His high estate that He might take on Him the form of a servant. And Scripture assures us that our service here, transferred in an instant by the grave, is to be carried on in the land beyond the river. With powers quickened by their earthly exercise, with zeal made warmer by rebuffs, with wisdom gained through many a mistake as we sought gropingly to help some brother, we shall enter heaven to discover that the reward of service is a greater service, and that crowning is really continuance. For such service there will be ample room if heaven is the sphere of endless progress.

The Contrast of Heavenly Service

But if there be the thought of continuity, along with it there is the thought of contrast. As if at last, when the mists have rolled away, His servants shall serve Him. Here our finest service is imperfect; at the best we are unprofitable servants; self mingles with everything we do; unworthy motives touch and tarnish everything. But there where self is swallowed up in love and everything that defileth is excluded, in reality and in spirit and in truth, His servants shall serve Him. Think of some of the things that mar our service here. There is, for instance, the frailty of the body. How tender was that word of Jesus in Gethsemane. "The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak." Are there not many who read this little article who would give worlds to be in a greater service, but are debarred by frailty of body? There are the limitations of our ignorance, for here we know so little of each other. We long to help and do our very best, perhaps only to find that we have hurt. And then there is the shortness of our time, and the interruptions of sickness and of night, and the undeviating pressure of the hours. All this the Bible knows. It knows our frame and remembers we are dust. It knows our longings for a truer service than any we have been able to achieve. And then, when heart and flesh are failing and we lament the little we have done, it opens the lattice of heaven for an instant and says, "His servants shall serve him." There shall be no more night. There the limits of time shall all have vanished. There we shall never misinterpret anybody, for we shall know even as we are known. With motives undefiled, with knowledge perfected, with the tireless zest of the eternal morning, at last His servants shall serve Him.

_______________________

By George H. Morrison
_______________________

These beautiful messages by George H. Morrison are distributed freely and Internationally in the excellent freeware Bible Study package called e-Sword. These messages are representative of many sweet Christians who want to put excellent Bible Study material in the hands of many, free of charge.

You can obtain e-Sword at:
http://www.e-sword.net/downloads.html
Author: Rick Meyer
(The goal of Rick Meyer is to freely distribute Bibles to every country on earth in their own language, and that goal gets closer by the day. Thanks to countless Christian individuals and organizations with big hearts, many excellent Bible Study tools are also being distributed with e-Sword around the world, free of charge.)

December 27

The Beatific Vision

And they shall see his face — Rev_22:4

It should be noted that this beatitude of glory immediately follows on another. It immediately follows on the promise that His servants shall serve Him. We might draw the two into a unity by the suggestion that the glorified continually serve, and serving, continually see. There is a deep sense in which we see through serving. Service is one of heaven's eye-salves. A mother sees more in her child than anybody else does, in the loving patient service of her motherhood. It is when a man serves nature with an entire devotion, such as the naturalist or geologist or astronomer, that he begins to see in her things more wonderful than men had dreamed. The best way to see Christ here is to serve Him. If any man will do, then shall he know. To take one's cross up and to help is the open secret of fellowship with Jesus. And the apostle hints that in the life of glory our service, which shall be perfected at last, is going to issue in unclouded vision. The glorified shall serve and they shall see. They shall see just because they serve. Their vision shall be purified because in heaven their service shall be perfect. Is it not often the frailty of our bodies or the presence of other motives in our service that dims for us here the vision of the Lord?

Where Service and Seeing Shall Be One

Or, again, if we find in seeing all that is implied in contemplation, is it not a beautiful thought that in the life of heaven service and seeing shall be one? Amid the shadows of this lower world, activity stands apart from contemplation. The world is like that blessed home in Bethany where were active Martha and contemplative Mary. It is hard, in multifarious duties, to keep that child-like purity of heart without which no man shall see God. There are those who have so many meetings that they almost forget to meet with Him. How few, immersed in an untiring labor, keep the secret of an unruffled calm. And then John tells us that in the brighter world His servants shall serve Him, and yet in the very thickest of the service they shall see His face. Action will not be divorced from contemplation. The one will never make the other harder. Toiling Martha will never be grudging Mary, whose eyes are homes of silent prayer. The glorified, in utter self-abandonment, will give themselves to the services of God, yet never for one instant will they lose the beatific vision of His face.

Perfect Satisfaction in Heaven

And another implication is that in heaven there is perfect satisfaction. What a thrilling satisfaction to the heart just to see the face of somebody we love! We cherish their photograph when they are absent, and in quiet moments we gaze upon the photograph. They write us letters, and how we long for them. At other times they communicate by phone. But when the door opens and we see the loved one's face, what an exquisite and thrilling satisfaction—and so, says Scripture, shall it be in heaven. Here we have His photograph. Here we have His love-letters. Here, often, do we catch His messages in the silence and secrecy of conscience. But there we shall see Him as He is, face to face, without a cloud between, and we shall be satisfied when we awake.

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By George H. Morrison
_______________________

These beautiful messages by George H. Morrison are distributed freely and Internationally in the excellent freeware Bible Study package called e-Sword. These messages are representative of many sweet Christians who want to put excellent Bible Study material in the hands of many, free of charge.

You can obtain e-Sword at:
http://www.e-sword.net/downloads.html
Author: Rick Meyer
(The goal of Rick Meyer is to freely distribute Bibles to every country on earth in their own language, and that goal gets closer by the day. Thanks to countless Christian individuals and organizations with big hearts, many excellent Bible Study tools are also being distributed with e-Sword around the world, free of charge.)

December 28

The Reign of the Saints

And they shall reign for ever and ever — Rev_22:5

I venture to say that with this expression there creeps in a touch of unreality. It is difficult to associate thrones with the immortal life of our beloved dead. We can readily picture them as serving, for they loved to serve when they were here. Nor, remembering how they searched for it, is it hard to believe that they see His face. But to conceive of them as reigning and having crowns and sitting upon thrones introduces a note of unreality. For many of them that would not be heaven. It would be the last thing they would desire. For they were modest folk, given to self-effacement, haunting the shadowy avenues of life. And if individuality persists, they will carry over into another world those lowly graces that made us love them here. We can always think of an Augustine as reigning. But the saints we knew and loved were seldom Augustines. They were gentle souls, shrinking from publicity, perfectly happy in the lowest place. It is hard to see how natures such as that could ever be quite at home in heaven, if in heaven their calling were to reign. But the Scripture cannot be broken. It is revelation, not conjecture. If there is anything in it that offends the heart, we may be certain the error lies with us. So I believe that the difficulty here and the jarring note that grates upon the sensitive lie in our wrong ideas of reigning.

That there is something wrong in these popular ideas is demonstrated by one forgotten fact. It is that the saints do not begin to reign when they pass into the other world. If kingship were confined to heaven, the nature of it would lie beyond our understanding. It would be one of those things that eye had never seen, which God hath prepared for them who love Him. But kingship is not confined to heaven, according to the concept of the Scriptures. It is a present possession of the saints. We do not read that Christ will make us kings. We read that He hath made us kings (Rev_1:5). Loosed from our sins in His own blood, we begin to reign in the moment of redemption. And the reign in glory, which troubles meek souls, is not something different from that, but that enlarged and expanded to its fullness. This harmonizes with the general mind of Scripture in the glimpses it affords of immortality. It pictures it as a completion rather than as a contradiction. It takes such human things as love and service and tells us that in the land beyond the river such beautiful graces are going to be perfected. In what sense, then, do the saints reign here? How is the humblest child of God a king? There is no throne here, nor any visible crown, nor any of the insignia of regality. If we can grasp the kingship of believers amid all the infirmities of time, we have the key to understand the mystery of their reign forever and forever.

Our Reign Will Not Be in the Earthly Sense

And it is just here that a word of Christ's casts a flash of light upon our difficulty. "The kings of the Gentiles," He says, "exercise lordship, but it shall not be so with you." Are not all our common thoughts of kingship taken from the royalty of such monarchs? Does not their state and the insignia of it fill our minds when we meditate on reigning? And Jesus tells us that this whole concept, gathered from the facts of earthly lordship, is alien now and alien forever from the lordship and dominion of His own. He that would be greatest must be least. The monarch is the servant. Kingship is not irresponsible authority: it is love that gives itself in glad abandonment. It is love that goes to the uttermost in service just as He went to the uttermost in service and so reigns forever from the cross. It is thus a Christian mother reigns amid the restless rebellions of her children. It is thus that many a lowly toiler reigns over the hearts and lives of everyone around him. It is thus the Salvation Army lassie queens it over the rough and reckless slum though she carry no sceptre in her hand and her only crown be the familiar bonnet. The kingship of believers here has nothing whatever to do with pagan lordship. At the command of the Lord Jesus we must banish such concepts from our mind. The only kingship of the saints on earth is that of the glad abandonment of love in an unceasing and undefeated service.

Now it seems to me that all our trouble vanishes when we carry that thought into the other world. If this be reigning, then in the life of heaven our dear ones will be perfectly at home. We would not have them other than we knew them when they were with us here amid the shadows. The thought of heaven would be too dearly purchased if it robbed us of their lowly, quiet gentleness. But if the sway they won over our hearts on earth, perfected, be their eternal reigning, then they can still reign and be the same. Reigning will not alter them. It will not render them irrecognizable. It will not touch that lowly loving service which made them so inexpressibly dear. It will only expand it into fullest kingliness, setting a crown of gold upon its head. They shall reign forever and forever.

_______________________

By George H. Morrison
_______________________

These beautiful messages by George H. Morrison are distributed freely and Internationally in the excellent freeware Bible Study package called e-Sword. These messages are representative of many sweet Christians who want to put excellent Bible Study material in the hands of many, free of charge.

You can obtain e-Sword at:
http://www.e-sword.net/downloads.html
Author: Rick Meyer
(The goal of Rick Meyer is to freely distribute Bibles to every country on earth in their own language, and that goal gets closer by the day. Thanks to countless Christian individuals and organizations with big hearts, many excellent Bible Study tools are also being distributed with e-Sword around the world, free of charge.)

December 29

The Root and the Star

I am the root and the offspring of David, and the bright and morning star — Rev_22:16

Nothing is more notable in Jesus than the union of apparent contradictories. Qualities of the most diverse characters are brought into a perfect harmony in Him. When we set out to copy any brother, we are wrested from our true development. For other lives, even at their finest, are fragmentary and incomplete. But nobody who aims at following Christ can ever be false to his true self, for the character of Christ is universal. He combines the most opposing temperaments and reconciles diversities of being. Everything that all are meant to be, our blessed Savior actually was. That is the truth which lies in the assertion, so often fiercely combated, that our Lord was not a man but man. Speaking evangelically, it is only the redeemed who are in Christ. Not till we are born again are we in Him as the branch is in the vine. Yet in the matter of ideal character, in all its infinite diversity, there is a mystical sense in which our Savior embraces the whole human race. Nobody becomes anybody else when he aims at imitating Jesus. He grows nearer to his highest self when he becomes more like his Lord. For all the partial ideals of life which give to it an infinite variety blend into a perfect unity in the perfect character of Jesus.

The Union of the Diverse

Now, something of that reconcilement is seen in the imagery of our text. Between a root and a star there is a world of difference, and yet Jesus tells us He is both. He takes objects from two different worlds, and in both of them He finds Himself. He selects things that seem to have no unity, and He compares Himself with both of them. He brings together in a single sentence objects that are utterly unlike, and yet He sees in each of them something that is an image of His being. Take these figures separately and they are rich in spiritual significance. Take them together and they are big with hope for all the diversities of character. Men who are as different from each other as a root is different from a star may find all that they seek for in the Savior.

One notes, for instance, how this twofold figure combines the local and the universal. A root is embedded in a single spot; a star rains its influence on the world. If a root is to grow it needs a certain soil, for there and there alone it finds its nutriment. To that environment must come the searcher if he wants to get his hand upon the root. But in the crowded city and the lonely glen and far away on the solitudes of ocean a man may lift his eyes towards the heavens and be comforted by the shining of a star. The root is grounded in one place; the star sheds its light on every place. The root is fixed in a definite locality; the star is the joy of all localities. And then one thinks of Jesus, born in Bethlehem and growing up in Nazareth and yet today the light of the world. Go to Africa, and there you find Him. Travel to India, and He is them. Multitudes who have never been to Bethlehem have experienced the power of His name. Rooted deep in the rich soil of Palestine, the image of a root is not enough. On sinful men a million miles from Palestine He has shone as the bright and morning star.

The Union of the Hidden and the Evident

Another aspect of this twofold figure is the union of the hidden and the evident. A root is something concealed from observation; a star is conspicuous in its shining. There are roots which lie very near the surface, and there are others which run very deep. But one mark of every root is this, that it shuns the light and moves into the darkness. And just there, between root and star, what a world of difference there is, for a star is something that is seen. Nobody in the brightest day can see a root. It lives and moves concealed from human eyes. But in the darkest night the stars are shining in the wonder of the heavens. And does not one feel at once that it takes both, infinitely diverse though they be, to picture for us the mystery of Jesus? The kingdom cometh not with observation, yet Jesus could not be hid. The mighty world knew not when He came, and yet He is the light of every man. He lives in the secret of the heart and in our hidden being has His dwelling, and yet in the outward and habitual life He reveals the shining of His presence.

The Unity of the Earthly and the Heavenly

And then lastly in this twofold figure we have united the earthly and the heavenly. For a root is one of the children of the earth, and a star one of the glories of the sky. You find the root where common feet are treading, where lovers walk and little children play. You find the star beyond all human reaching in the infinite heights of heaven that are above us. And then we think of Him, whom we discover on our Emmaus roads, while He shines on us from the altitude of glory. One cannot explain these things nor understand them. They are mysteries beyond our fathoming. How can one be here, where the green grass is, and yet radiant in a world beyond our reach? And then we remember how these contradictions were reconciled in the consciousness of Him, who called Himself a root, and then—a star.

_______________________

By George H. Morrison
_______________________

These beautiful messages by George H. Morrison are distributed freely and Internationally in the excellent freeware Bible Study package called e-Sword. These messages are representative of many sweet Christians who want to put excellent Bible Study material in the hands of many, free of charge.

You can obtain e-Sword at:
http://www.e-sword.net/downloads.html
Author: Rick Meyer
(The goal of Rick Meyer is to freely distribute Bibles to every country on earth in their own language, and that goal gets closer by the day. Thanks to countless Christian individuals and organizations with big hearts, many excellent Bible Study tools are also being distributed with e-Sword around the world, free of charge.)

December 30

The Gentleness of God—Part I

"Thy gentleness hath made me great." Psa_18:35

It will be generally agreed that David was one of the great men of the race. In his trust and courage and leadership and genius he stands among the heroes of humanity. Now David had had a strange and varied life. He had been hunted like a partridge on the hills. He had suffered disloyalty at home and sorrowed in the death of Absalom. But now, as he looked back upon it all, what stood out in transcendent clearness was the unfailing gentleness of God—not the infliction of any heavenly punishment, though sometimes punishment had been severe; not the divine apportioning of sorrow, though he had drunk of very bitter sorrow. What shone out like a star in heaven, irradiating the darkness of his night, was the amazing gentleness of God. David could say with a full heart, "Thy gentleness hath made me great."

With a like sincerity can we not say it also? When we survey our course and recollect our mercies and recall the divine handling of our childishness, the confession of David is our own.

The Wonder of God's Gentleness

We feel the wonder of the gentleness of God when we remember it is conjoined with power. When infinite power lies at the back of it, gentleness is always very moving. There is a gentleness which springs from weakness. Cowardice lies hidden at its roots. It comes from the disinclination to offend and from the desire to be in good standing with everybody. But the marvel of the gentleness of God is that it is not the signature of an interior weakness, but rests upon the bosom of Omnipotence. In a woman we all look for gentleness; it is one of the lustrous diadems of womanhood. In a professional military man we scarcely expect it; it is not the denizen of tented fields. And the Lord is "a mighty man of war," subduing, irresistible, almighty, and yet He comes to Israel as the dew. The elder spoke to John of the lion of the tribe of Judah. But when John looked to see the lion, 1o! in the midst of the throne there was a lamb. Power was tenderness—the lion was the lamb—-Omnipotence would not break the bruised reed. It is the wonder of the gentleness of God.

Again, the gentleness of God is strangely moving when we remember it is conjoined with purity. There is a kind of gentleness, common among men, which springs from an easy, tolerant, good nature. To be gentle with sin is quite an easy matter if sin is a light thing in our eyes. It is easy to pardon a child who tells a lie, if lying is in our regard, but venial. And when we are tempted to think of God like that, as if heaven were rich in tolerant good nature, then is the time to consider the cross. Whatever else we learn at Calvary, we learn there God's estimate of sin. In that dark hour of agony the judgment of heaven upon sin is promulgated. And when that steeps into our being, so that we measure things by the measurements of Calvary, we are awed by the gentleness of God.

Then to all this must be added the fact of our human provocation. For, like the children of Israel in the wilderness, we are continually provoking God. Every mother knows how hard it is to be always gentle with a provoking child—how likely she is to lose her temper with it and how she longs to shake it or to slap it. But no child is ever so provoking to the tender heart of a good mother as you and I must always be to God. When we sin, when we fail to trust Him, when we grow bitter, when we become despondent, how ceaselessly provoking that must be to the infinitely loving heart in heaven. Yet David could say, as you and I can say, looking back over the winding trail of years, "Thy gentleness hath made me great." Nothing is more provoking to a parent than when a child refuses to take medicine, screaming and fighting against it desperately, though the cup be entirely for its good. The question is, How do you take your medicine? Do you grow faithless, hard, rebellious, broken-hearted? How provoking must that be to our Father. Yes, think on God's power and on His purity, and add to that our human provocation, if you want to feel the glory of His gentleness.

God's Gentleness Implies Our Illness

It always seems to me that tenderness and gentleness implies that we are sick. In our Father's sight we are all ailing children. We have all noticed how when one is sick everyone around grows strangely gentle. There is an exquisite gentleness, as many of us know, in the touch of a true nurse. Even rough, rude men grow very gentle, as is seen so often in war, when they are handling a wounded comrade. When he was well they tormented him; they played their jokes on him and coined his nickname; but when wounded, stricken, bleeding, shattered, they showed themselves as gentle as a woman. And I often think that the gentleness of God, could we track it to its mysterious deeps, is akin to that of soldier and of nurse. We are a sin-sick race. We all have leprosy. We are full of "wounds and bruises and putrifying sores." They that are whole have no need of a physician, but they that are sick. Love in magnificence may suit the angels. But in the world's great battlefield and hospital, Love binds on the cross and walks in gentleness. "Thy gentleness hath made me great."

_______________________

By George H. Morrison
_______________________

These beautiful messages by George H. Morrison are distributed freely and Internationally in the excellent freeware Bible Study package called e-Sword. These messages are representative of many sweet Christians who want to put excellent Bible Study material in the hands of many, free of charge.

You can obtain e-Sword at:
http://www.e-sword.net/downloads.html
Author: Rick Meyer
(The goal of Rick Meyer is to freely distribute Bibles to every country on earth in their own language, and that goal gets closer by the day. Thanks to countless Christian individuals and organizations with big hearts, many excellent Bible Study tools are also being distributed with e-Sword around the world, free of charge.)

December 31

The Gentleness of God—Part II - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

"Thy gentleness hath made me great." Psa_18:35

What exactly may be meant by greatness is a question that we need not linger to discuss. It is enough that the writer of this verse was conscious that he had been lifted to that eminence. That he had been in extreme distress is clear from the earlier verses of this chapter. His heart had fainted—his efforts had been in vain—his hopes had flickered and sunk into their ashes. And then mysteriously, but very certainly, he had been carried upward to light and power and liberty, and now he is looking back over it all. That it was God who had so raised him up was, of course, as clear to him as noonday. He had sent up his cry to heaven in the dark, and to that cry His greatness was the answer. But what impressed him as he surveyed it all was not the infinite power of the Almighty; it was rather the amazing and unceasing gentleness wherewith that infinite power had been displayed. "Thy gentleness hath made me great," he cried. That was the outstanding and arresting feature. Tracing the way by which he had been led, he saw conspicuous a gentle ministry of God.

The One and Only Gentle God

Let me say in passing that that wonderful concept is really peculiar to the Bible. I know no deity in any sacred book that exhibits such an attribute as that. Of course, when one believes in many gods, it is always possible that one of them is gentle. When the whole world is thought to be tenanted with spirits, some of them doubtless will be gentle spirits. But that is a very different thing indeed from saying that the One Lord of heaven and earth has that in His heart which we can dimly picture under the human attribute of gentleness. No prophets save the prophets of Israel ever conceived the gentleness of God. To no other poets save these Jewish poets was the thought of heavenly gentleness revealed. And so when we delight in this great theme, we are dwelling on something eminently biblical, something that makes us, with all our Christian liberty, a debtor unto this hour to the Jewish prophets for bringing this to our attention.

Now if we wish to grasp the wonder of God's gentleness, there are one or two things we ought to do. We ought, for instance, always to lay it against the background of the divine omnipotence. You know quite well that the greater the power, the more arresting the gentleness becomes. As might advances and energy increases, so always the more notable is gentleness. It is far more impressive in the general of armies than in some retired and ineffectual dreamer. The mightier the power a man commands, the more compelling is his trait of gentleness. If he is ruler of a million subjects, a touch of tenderness is thrilling. And it is when we think of the infinite might of God, who is King of kings and Lord of lords, that we realize the wonder of our text. It is He who calleth out the stars by number and maketh the pillars of the heaven to shake. And when He worketh, no man can stay His hand, nor say to Him, What doest Thou? And it is this Ruler, infinite in power, before whom the princes of the earth are vanity, who is exquisitely and forever gentle.

The Wonder of God's Gentleness in View of Sin

Again, to feel the wonder of God's gentleness, we must set it against the background of God's righteousness. It is when we hear the seraphs crying "Holy" that we thrill to the thought of the gentleness of God. There is a kind of gentleness—we are all familiar with it—that springs from an easy and uncaring tolerance. It is the happy good nature of those characters to whom both right and wrong are nebulous. Never inspired by any love of goodness and never touched by any hate of evil, it is not difficult to walk the world with a certain smiling tolerance of everybody.

Now there have been nations whose gods were of that kind. Their gentleness was the index of their weakness. Living immoral lives in their Olympus, why should they worry about man's immorality? But I need hardly take time to point out to you that the one radical thing about the Jewish God—-one unchanging feature of His being—was that He was infinitely and forever holy. He was of purer eyes than to behold iniquity. "The soul that sinneth," said the prophet, "it shall die." And He visits the sins of the fathers on the children, even unto the third and fourth generation. All this was graven on the Jewish heart and inwrought into Jewish history; yet the psalmist could sing in his great hour, "Thy gentleness hath made me great." I beg of you, therefore, never to imagine that the gentleness of God is only an easy tolerance. Whatever it is, it certainly is not that, as life sooner or later shows to every man. Whatever it is, it leans against the background of a righteousness that burns as doth a fire, and I say that helps us to feel the wonder of it.

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The Gentleness of God—Part II - Page 2
by George H. Morrison

The same jewel upon the bosom of omnipotence flashes out as we survey the Bible. The Bible is really one long record of the amazing gentleness of God. Other features of the divine character may be more immediately impressive there. And reading hastily, one might easily miss the revelation of a gentle God. Yet so might one, walking beside the sea, where hammers were ringing in the village workshop, easily miss the underlying music of the waves ceaselessly breaking on the shore. But the waves are breaking although the hammers drown them, and the gentleness of God is always there. It is there—not very far away—at the heart of all the holiness and sovereignty; it is there where the fire of His anger waxes hot and His judgments are abroad upon the earth, and men are crying, "It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God."

Take, for instance, that opening Scripture of Adam and of his sin and exile. Whatever else it means, it means unquestionably that God is angry with disobedient man. And yet at the back of it what an unequalled tenderness, as of a father pitying his children and loving them with a love that never burns so bright as in the bitter hour of necessary punishment. Losing his innocence, in the love of God Adam found his calling and his crown. He fell to rise into a world of toil, and through his toil to realize his powers. So looking backward through that bitter discipline, unparadised but not unshepherded, he too could surely say with David, "Thy gentleness hath made me great."

Or think again of the story of the Exodus, that true foundation of the Jewish race. It took one night to take Israel out of Egypt but forty years to take Egypt out of Israel. And while that night, when the first-born were slain, was dark and terrible with the mighty power of God, what are those forty years of desert wandering but the witness of the gentleness of heaven? Leaving Egypt a company of slaves, they had to win the spirit of the free. Leaving it shiftless, they had to win reliance; leaving it cowardly, they had to learn to conquer; leaving it degraded, as slaves are always degraded, they were to reach to greatness by and by, and looking back on it all what could they say but this, "Thy gentleness hath made me great." Never forget that in its age-long story the Bible. reveals the gentleness of God. Hinted at in every flower that blossoms, it is evidently declared in Holy Scripture. It is seen in Adam and in Abraham. It is seen in the wilderness journey of the Israelites. It is found in the choicest oracles of prophecy and in the sweetest music of the Psalms.

God's Gentleness in Our Lives

I think, too, that as life advances, we can all confirm that that is true. We all discover, as the psalmist did, how mighty has been the gentleness of heaven. In the ordinary sense of the word, you and I may not be considered great. We have neither been born great, nor have we come to greatness, nor has greatness been thrust upon us. And yet it may be that for you and me life is a nobler thing than it was long ago, and truth is more queenly, and duty more dignified, than in the past. We may not have won any striking moral victories, yet our life has leaned to the victorious side. We have not conquered yet all that we hoped to conquer, yet our will is serving us better through the years. There are still impurities that lift up their heads and still passions that have to be brought to heel, yet it may be that you and I are now nearer the sunrise than ten years ago.

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The Gentleness of God—Part II - Page 3
by George H. Morrison                              

If, then, that is the case with you, I urge you to look back on the way that you have come and think of all that life has meant for you. Think of the temptations that would have overcome you had not God in His gentleness taken them away. Think of the courage you got when things were dark; of the doors that opened when every way seemed barred. Think of the unworthy things that you have done which God in His infinite gentleness has hidden—of the love that inspired you and the hope that came to you when not far distant was the sound of breakers. You, too, if you are a man at all, can lift up your eyes and cry out, God is just. It may be you can do more than that and lifting up your voice say, God is terrible. But if you have eyes to see and a heart to understand, there is something more that you can say, for you can whisper, "To me, in pardoning, shielding mercy, God has been infinitely and divinely gentle." If every lily of the field lifting its head can say, "Thy gentleness hath made me great"; if every sparrow chirping on the eaves is only echoing that meadow music, then I do feel that you and I, who are of more value to God than many sparrows, owe more than we shall ever understand to the abounding gentleness of heaven.

Because He Knoweth Our Frame

Now it seems to me that this gentleness of God reveals certain precious things about Him. It reveals, for instance, and is rooted in His perfect understanding of His children. There is a saying with which you are familiar; it is that to know all is to forgive all. That is an apothegm, and like all apothegms, it is not commensurate with the whole truth. Yet as a simple matter of experience, so much of our harshness has its rise in ignorance that such a saying is sure of immortality—to know all is to forgive all. How often you and I, after some judgment, have said to ourselves, If I had only known. Something is told us that we knew nothing about, and instantly there is a revulsion in our hearts. And we retract the judgment that we passed, and we bitterly regret we were unfeeling, and we say we never would have spoken so, had we only known.

The more we know—I speak in a broad way—the more we know, the more gentle we become. The more we understand what human life is, the greater the pity we feel. And I think it is just because our heavenly Father sees right down into our secret heart, that He is so greatly and pitifully gentle. For He knoweth our frame and remembereth we are dust, and He putteth all our tears into His bottle. And there is not a cross we carry and not a thought we think but He is acquainted with it altogether. And all we have inherited by birth, of power or weakness, of longing or of fear—I take it that all that is known to the God of Abraham, of Isaac, and of Jacob.

Our Value in His Sight

And then again God's gentleness reveals this to us—it reveals our abiding value in His sight. It tells us, as almost nothing else can tell us, that we, His children, are precious in His eyes. There are certain books upon my shelves at home with which I hardly bother to be gentle. I am not upset when I see them tossed about nor when they are handled in a rough way. But there are other books that I could never handle without a certain reverence and care, and I am gentle because they are of value to me. And the noteworthy thing is that these precious volumes are not always the volumes that are most beautifully bound. Some of them are little tattered creatures that a respectable servant longs to light the fire with. But every respectable servant of a book lover comes to learn this at least about his master, that his ways, like those of another Master, are mysterious and past finding out. For that little volume, tattered though it may be, may have memories that make it infinitely precious—memories of school days or of college days, memories of the author who was well known to him. It may be the first Shakespeare that he ever had, or the first Milton that he ever handled, and he shall handle it gently to the end, because to him it is a precious thing. So I take it God is gentle because you and I are precious in His sight. He is infinitely patient with the worst of us because He values the worst of us so dearly. And if you want to know how great that value is, then read this text again and again: "For God so loved the world that He gave His only-begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish."

_______________________

By George H. Morrison
_______________________

These beautiful messages by George H. Morrison are distributed freely and Internationally in the excellent freeware Bible Study package called e-Sword. These messages are representative of many sweet Christians who want to put excellent Bible Study material in the hands of many, free of charge.

You can obtain e-Sword at:
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January 10

Known in Adversities

"Thou hast known my soul in adversities." Psa_31:7

One great comfort of assurance in this verse is that such knowledge is always very thorough. When someone has known us in adversities, then he has known us as we really are.

There is a sonnet by Blanco White, familiar to all the lovers of the beautiful, in which he develops the thought that but for the night, we should never know the stars. And so there is a very real sense in which we may say we never know a life till we have seen it in the darkness of adversity. When the sun is warm and all the leaves are green, you can scarcely see the cottage in the forest. But when the storm of winter sweeps the leaves away, then at last you see it as it is. It may be stronger than you ever thought, or it may be more battered and decayed, but always the winter shows it as it is.

Indeed, the revealing power of adversity strips the summer covering away. It shows us not in the setting of our circumstance, but as we are in naked reality. And therefore one who has known us in adversities, and been at our side in sorrow and calamity, knows us with an intimacy that probably nothing else can ever give. That is why the knowledge of a doctor is often more searching than that of any friend. That is why the knowledge of a wife often reaches to an unrivalled intimacy, for she has known her husband not only when all waswell with him and when the sun was shining on his head, but when his heart was wary and his body sick and all his hopes seemed crumbled into dust.

Hidden Burdens

It was a great comfort to the psalmist also that the Lord had pierced through every disguise. That is why he uses the word soul: "Thou hast known my soul in adversities." To the Hebrew, more simply than to us, that word "soul" just meant the real self. There was nothing theological about it. It was a common word in common use. And what the psalmist deeply felt was this: the knowledge of God had pierced through all disguises and known him in the secret of his being.

There are few things more beautiful in life than the way in which men and women hide their sorrows. On the street and in the shops there is a quiet heroism as great as any on the battlefield. You may meet a person in frequent conversation, yet all the time and unknown to you, some sorrow may be lying at his heart. How often a mother, when she is worn and ill, struggles bravely to hide it from her family. How often a husband, deep in business difficulties, struggles to keep it hidden from those at home. How often a minister, called from a scene of death which may mean for him the end of a friendship, has to go to a marriage and be happy there as if there were not a sorrow in the world. Talk of the disguises of hypocrisy! They are nothing to the disguises of the brave—those cheerful looks, that quiet and patient work, when the heart within is heavy as a stone. That Spartan youth who kept a smiling face while the fox was gnawing away at him has his fellows in every community.

But Thou hast known my soul in adversity. That was the joy and comfort of the psalmist. There was one eye that pierced through all concealment, and that was the eye of an all-pitying God. Others had known his outward behavior for in trials there are many eyes upon us. Others had heard his words and seen his actions and wondered at the courage in his bearing. But only God had read the secret story and seen how utterly desolate he was and known how often, in spite of all appearances, he had been plunged into profound despair.

There is a point where human knowledge ceases and beyond which human sympathy is powerless. It pierces deep if it is genuine, but there are depths to which it cannot pierce. And it was just there, in the region of his soul, that the psalmist felt that there was One who knew him and would never leave him nor forsake him. He felt it in the sustainment he received. He felt it in the strength that was bestowed upon him. He felt it in the peace that rested on him, a peace such as the world could never give. And so when the sun shone on him again, as sooner or later it does on all of us, he took his pen and wrote in gratitude, "Thou hast known my soul in adversities."

The Condescension of God's Love

There was one other comfort for the psalmist at which our text hints unobscurely. He had been awakened through the knowledge that he speaks of to the infinite condescension of God's love.

A well-known German religious writer who has brought comfort to multitudes of mourners tells us how once he had a visit from a friend who was in great distress. This friend had once been a very wealthy man, and now he had fallen upon evil days, and that very morning one of his old companions had passed him without recognition on the street. Then Gotthold, for such was the writer's name, took him by the hand and, pointing upward, said, "Thou hast known my soul in adversities."

It is one of the sayings of the moralist that the world courts prosperity and shuns adversity. There are rats in every circle of society who all hasten to leave the sinking ship. But what the psalmist had awakened to was this: the eternal God, who was his refuge, had known him and acknowledged him and talked with him when his fortunes were at their very blackest. Nothing but love could explain the condescension. He had found in God a friend who was unfailing. "If I ascend into heaven thou art there; if I make my bed in hell thou art there." So was the world made ready for the Savior who, when other helpers fail and comforts flee, never deserts us, never is ashamed of us, never leaves us to face the worst alone.

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George H. Morrison Devotions

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January 11

The Reach of His Faithfulness
"Thy faithfulness reacheth unto the clouds." Psa_36:5

The faithfulness of God is one of the strong truths of the Old Testament. It is one distinction of the Jewish faith, in contrast with the ancient pagan faiths. Pagan gods were not generally faithful whether in Babylon or Greece. They were immoral, careless of their promises regardless of their pledged word. And the wonderful thing about the Jewish faith was that the God of the Jew was always faithful both to His covenant and to His children.

Such a magnificent and upholding thought sprang not only from personal experience, it was interwoven with the fact that the Jewish religion was historical. The Jew could look backward over the tracts of time and discover there the faithfulness of God in a way the brief life might never show. As he recalled the story of the past, of Abraham traveling to the promised land, of the slaves in Egypt rescued from their slavery, of the desert pilgrimage of forty years, one thing that was stamped upon his heart, never to be erased by any finger, was that Jehovah was a faithful God.

That thought sustained the psalmist, and with him, all the saints of the old covenant. In the Old Testament the word "faith" is rare, but the word "faithfulness" occurs a score of times. And here the psalmist, in his poetic way, and like Jesus, drawing his images from nature, says, "Thy faithfulness reacheth to the clouds."

The Clouds of Scripture

One thinks, for instance, of the clouds of Scripture in such a passage as the Ascension story. When our Lord ascended to the Father, a cloud received Him from the disciples' sight (Act_1:9). That was a lonesome and desolating hour when the cloud wrapped around Him and He was gone. They had loved Him so and leaned upon Him so that I take it they were well-nigh broken-hearted. Then the days went on, and they discovered that the engulfing cloud was not the end of everything. It, too, was touched by the faithfulness of heaven. He had promised to be with them always, and He was faithful to that promise still. He had said, "I will manifest Myself to you," and that promised word was verified. The cloud had come and engulfed their Lord, and they thought the sweet companionship was over. But His faithfulness reached unto the clouds.

The Clouds of History

Again, one thinks of the clouds of history, for history has its dark and cloudy days. For instance, what a cloudy day that was when the Jews were carried off to Babylon. Exiled to a distant, heathen land, they thought that God had forgotten to be gracious. They said: "My way is hidden from the Lord, and my judgment is passed over from my God." It was not the hardship of exile that confounded them. It was that God seemed to have broken His covenant and had been found unfaithful to His promises. By the waters of Babylon they sat and wept. They hung their harps upon the willow trees. How could they sing of the faithfulness of God when He had let them go into captivity?

And yet the day was coming when the instructed heart would rise to another view of that captivity and say: "Thy faithfulness reacheth to the clouds." Memory became illuminative. Things lost grew doubly precious. Distance helped them to a clearer vision of what sin was and what God was. And then across that dark and cloudy day came the ringing of prophetic voices with the message of ransom and return (Isa_35:1-10). They were not forgotten. They were not rejected. Their way was not passed over by their God. Sunny days did not exhaust His faithfulness. It reached even to the clouds. And of how many a dark day of history (as when we revert in thought to the World Wars) can we set to our seal that this is true !

The Clouds Over Our Lives

Again, one thinks how this great truth applies to the clouds that hang over our human lives. What multitudes can say, in an adoring gratitude, "Thy faithfulness hath reached unto the clouds"? Just as in every life are days of sunshine when the sky is blue and all the birds are singing, when every wind blows from where the Lord is and when we feel it is good to be alive, so in every life are shadowed days when the sun withdraws its shining for a season and the clouds return after the rain. It may be a time of trouble in the family or of great anxiety in business, the time when health is showing signs of failing or when the chair is empty and the grave is full. It may be the time when all that a man has lived for seems washed away like a castle in the sand. It may be the day of unexpected poverty.

How unlooked for often are the clouds of life. They gather swiftly like some tropical thunderstorm. We confidently expect a cloudless day, and before evening the sky is darkened. And yet what multitudes of folk as they look backward, with much experience in life, can take our text and in quiet adoring gratitude claim it as the truth of their experience. You thought (don't you remember thinking?) that God had quite forgotten to be gracious. Possibly you were tempted to deny Him or secretly to doubt His care for you. But now, looking back upon it all, you have another vision and another certainty, just as the experienced psalmist had. If there are any of those who read these lines for whom this is the dark and cloudy day, who are anxious and distressed, who say in the morning, "Would God that it were evening"—have faith. Do not despair. The hour is nearer than you think when you also will say with David, "Thy faithfulness reacheth to the clouds."

January 12

The New Song
"He hath put a new song in my mouth." Psa_40:3

When anybody sings it is an outward token of an inward happiness. Despondent people very seldom sing. When a man sings as he walks the country road it means that he has a heart of peace. When he sings while he is dressing in the morning, it means that he gladly accepts another day. And wherever Christianity has come, with its liberating and uplifting power, it has carried with it this note of singing gladness. The Stoic boasts, when life is harsh and cruel, that his head is "bloody but unbowed." Paul and Silas did far more than that; they sang praises in the jail at midnight. Their religion was an exhilarating business as all true religion ought to be. They had not only peace in believing; they had joy.

Now if you listen to anyone singing at his work you will catch the strain of an old familiar melody. Nobody dreams of practicing new songs when he is walking along a country road. Yet the psalmist, thinking of life's highways and of daily work and undistinguished mornings, says that God has put a new song in his mouth. You see, a song may be very old, and yet to us it may be very new. It may break on us with all the charm of novelty though it has come ringing down the ages. It may be like the coming of the spring which is always new and wonderful to us though every vanished year has had its spring. Generally, the new songs which God gives have come echoing down the corridors of time. Men sang them long ago in days that carry the memories of history. But when they come to us, and touch our hearts in fresh, vivid personal experience, they are as new as the wonder of the springtime.

The Bible, the Song of Heaven

One sees that very clearly with the Bible which is the grand, sweet song of heaven for us. No mere critic can ever grasp the Bible any more than he can grasp the magnificence of Shakespeare. Now the Bible is a book for childhood. It has stories which enthrall the childish-heart. There is the story of David and Goliath in it and of Daniel in the den of lions. And then comes life with all its changing years, with its lights and shadows and sufferings and joys, and what a new song the Bible is to us! The strange thing is it is an old, old song. It is "the song our mothers sang." It is the song that kindled the great heart of Knox and satisfied Sir Walter Scott on his deathbed. Yet when our heart is deepened and our eyes are opened by sin and suffering and loneliness and mercy, a new song is put into our mouth.

We see that this is how God deals with us when we think of the old sweet song of love. For all love is of God, and he that dwelleth in love dwelleth in Him. Every spring of love in earthly valleys flows from the heavenly fountain. Every spark of love in human breasts is a spark of the eternal fire. The love of home, of parentage and childhood, not less than "the way of a man with a maid," are but the ocean of eternal love creeping into the crannies of the shore. Now the song of love has gone echoing through the world since the first lovers gathered in the gloaming. Joseph knew to its depths the love of fatherhood. Yet when love indwells any human heart, its song is as new as the melody of spring, though since the dawn of time spring has sung its carol. Whenever a heart loves, God puts a new song into the mouth. No love song is a repetition, though the same things have been said a thousand times. And just because God has set His love on us, His old love songs are all new to us when first in the secret of our souls we hear them. God does not need to write new love songs. The old, old love song is the best. The heart is crying, "Tell me the old, old story." But the wonderful thing is that when we hear it, old though it is to us, it is so thrilling that a new song is put into our mouth.

God's Redeeming Grace Is an Individual Love Song

I notice, lastly, that the newness of the song runs down to the mystery of individuality. The song is new just because we are new. We hear much today of mass production. It is because of mass production things are cheap. Had God made humanity by mass production, then human souls would have been cheap. But the very fact that we are individuals and that no two are alike in the whole world is a token that we were never made that way. No two faces are ever just the same; no two temptations ever quite alike; no two joys without their subtle difference; no two heart-breaks indistinguishable — it is this element of newness in the separate life of every man and woman that takes the old song and makes it new. The song was sung by David, but David and you were never standardized. It may be sung by multitudes in heaven, but your experience of mercy is your own. And so, when God in His redeeming love puts the old sweet song of grace upon your lips, the song is new—it is your very own—it seems as if no one else had ever sung it.

January 13

The Thirst for God
"My soul thirsteth for God." Psa_42:2

When the psalmist wrote this he was a fugitive in hiding somewhere across Jordan. He had been driven out by rebellion from Jerusalem, which is the city of the living God. To you and me, rich in the truth of Christ, that would not make God seem far away. And doubtless the psalmist also had been taught that Jehovah was the God of the whole earth. Yet with an intensity of feeling which we of the New Covenant are strangers to, he associated Jehovah with locality. He felt that to be distant from the Holy City was somehow to be distant from his Deity. And so, in a great sense of loneliness and in a thirsty land where no waters were, he cried out, "My soul thirsteth for the living God."

But when a poet speaks out of a burning heart, he always speaks more wisely than he realizes. When the soul is true to its own prompting, it is true to generations yet unborn. In the exact sciences you say a thing, and it keeps forever the measure of its origin. But when an inspired poet says a thing, it endlessly transcends its origin. For science utters only what it knows, but poetry utters what it feels, and in the genuine utterance of feeling there is always the element of immortality. No one worries about the atoms of Lucretius, but the music of Lucretius is not dead. No one feeds upon the Schoolmen now, but thousands are feeding upon Dante. And the psalmist may have been utterly astray in his measurements of the sun and stars, but taught of God, he never was astray in the more wonderful universe of the soul. That is why we can take his words and strip them of all reference to locality, or there is not one of us, whatever his circumstances, who is not an exile beyond Jordan and thirsting for the living God.

Spiritual Thirst Indicates the Certainty of God

Now it seems to me that such spiritual thirst involves the ultimate certainty of God. It is an assurance that is never antiquated, an argument that never fails. I thirst for water, and from a thousand hills I hear the music of the Highland streams. I thirst for happiness, and in the universe I find the sunshine and the love of children. I thirst for God—and to me it seems incredible that the universe should reverse its order now, providing liberally for every lesser craving but not for the sublimest of them all. I don't think, if such had been the case, that Christ would have said, "Seek, and ye shall find." For then we should have sought the lesser things and found them to our heart's content, but when we sought the greatest things of all, would have been hounded empty from the door.

That is why the psalmist also said, "The fool hath said in his heart there is no God." But there are men who have said that out of aching hearts and ruined homes. They have said it when love had proved itself a treachery. For sometimes the seeming cruelty of things, and the swift blows that shatter and make desolate, have blotted out even from devout hearts the vision of the Father for a little. God never calls these broken children fools. He knows our frame and remembers we are dust. He is slow to anger and of great compassion, and He will shine upon these shadowed lives again. But the fool hath said in his heart there is no God. He scorns the verdict of his deepest being. He believes his senses which are always tricking him. He doesn't have the courage to believe his soul. A man may say in his mind "There is no God," and God may forgive him and have mercy on him. But only a fool can say it in his heart.

This thirst for God is sometimes very feeble, though I question if it ever wholly dies. You may live with a man for months, perhaps for years, and never light on that craving of his heart. But far away in the ranches of the West there are rough men who were cradled in our Scottish glens, and you might live with them for months, perhaps years, and never learn that they remembered home. But some evening there will come a strain of music—some song or melody—and on that reckless company there falls a quietness and they cannot look into each other's eyes just then: and then it doesn't take a prophet to discover that the hunger for the homeland is not dead.

There are feelings that you can crush but cannot extirpate, and the thirst for the living God is one of these. You may blunt and deaden the faculty for God, but as long as the lamp burns, it is still there. It was that profound and unalterable faith which made our Lord so hopeful for the most hardened sinners of mankind.

Our Rest Is in God

And then remember also that men may thirst for God and never know it. That eminent scientist Romanes tells us that for twenty-five years he never prayed. He was crowned with honor in a way that falls to few—and all the time there was something lacking. It was not the craving of a disciplined mind that feels every hour how much still remains to do; it was the craving of a hungry soul that never knew it was yearning after God. Then, in the embrace of love, they met, and meeting, there was peace. So it often is when souls are restless. They are craving for they know not what. And all the time, although they little dream of it, that "know not what" is God. For as Augustine told us long ago, God has made us for Himself, and we are restless till we find our rest in Him.

January 15

To the Disheartened - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

"Why art thou cast down, O my soul?" Psa_43:5

It is one source of the eternal freshness of the Psalms that they tell the story of a struggling soul. They open a window on to that battlefield with which no other battle can be compared—the moral struggle of the individual with himself. And it is well that that story should be told in poetry, for there is nothing like poetry for describing battles. There is a rich suggestiveness in poetry, a rush of emotion, an enthusiasm that catches and conveys the excitement of the field. The dullest war correspondent grows poetical, his words become colored, vivid, picturesque, when he narrates the actions in the war. It was right, then, that for this warfare of the soul we should have the strong music of the Psalms.

Now as we read that story of the psalmist's struggle, one of the first things to arrest us is the likeness of that battle to our own. Ages have fled, and everything is different since the shepherd-king poured out his heart in melody. And yet his failures and his hopes are so like ours, he might have been shepherding and reigning yesterday. We are so apt to think we fight alone. We are so prone to think there never was a life so weak, so ragged, so full of a dull gnawing, as ours. We are so ready to believe that we have suffered more than any heart that ever loved and lost. And then God opens up the heart of David, and we see its failures and we hear its cries, and the sense of loneliness at least is gone. He prayed as we have prayed. He fell as we have fallen. He rose and started again as we have done. He was disheartened, and so are we.

Disheartenment

Speaking of disheartenment, there is one temperament that is peculiarly exposed to that temptation. It is that of the eager and sensitive and earnest soul. If you are never in earnest about anything, you may escape disheartening altogether. To be disheartened is a kind of price we pay for having a glimpse at the heavens now and then.

"The mark of rank in nature is capacity for pain;

And the anguish of the singer makes the sweetness of the strain."

So the dull pain of being disheartened now and then is the other side of man's capacity for enthusiasm. Give me a flood-tide and I shall expect an ebb. Give me an earnest, daring, generous, loyal heart, and I shall know where to discover melancholy.

And one word I should like to say here—never pass judgments in your disheartened hours. It is part of the conduct of an honest soul never to take the verdict of its melancholy. The hours come when everything seems wrong. And all that we do and all that we are seem worthless. And by a strange and subtle trick of darkness, it is just then we begin to judge ourselves. Suspend alt judgment when you are disheartened. Tear into fragments the verdict of your melancholy. Wait till the sunshine comes; wait till the light of the countenance of God comes, then judge—you cannot judge without the light. But in your darkness, stay yourself on God. Disheartenment is the wise man's time for striking out. It is only the fool's time for summing up.

No doubt there is a physical element in much disheartenment. There is a need of health; there is a lack of sunshine in the hills about it. When we are badly nourished and poorly clothed and live and sleep in a vitiated atmosphere, it is so very easy to lose heart. And all that inter-working of body and soul, with the reaction of a man's environment upon his life, should make us very charitable to our neighbor. If you knew everything, you would find more heroism in a smiling face sometimes than in the most gallant deed out in South Africa. Make every allowance for a disheartened neighbor. Be charitable. Be helpful and be kind. But in the name of the Christlike character you strive for, make no allowance, brother, for yourself. Allowance is merely the pet name for excuse. It speaks of that tender handling of ourselves which is so utterly foreign to a vigorous manhood. I must make no excuse. I must be at it when I feel least like it. It is so much better to live nobly than live long.

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To the Disheartened - Page 2
by George H. Morrison

Causes of Disheartenment

Now what are the common causes of disheartment? I think we can lay our hand on some, at any rate. And the first is the long and monotonous stretches of our life. "Variety's the very spice of life, and gives it all its flavor," sings the poet. And when there is no variety at all, no new horizon in the morning, but the same work and the same haunting worry, day in day out, we are all apt to grow disheartened. It is a dreary business walking in the country when the dusty road, without a turn or a bend, stretches ahead of you for miles. If there was only some dip and rise in the road, some unexpected scenery, some surprises, you would cover the distance and never think of it. It is the sameness that disheartens us. It is the dreary monotony of life's journey until we lose all spring and spontaneity, all freshness of feeling, all power to react; and we live and work mechanically, deadly.

Another cause is bitter disappointment. When we have made our plans, and suddenly they are shattered; when we have built our castles, and the gale comes and brings them down in ruin at our feet; when the ties are wrenched and the loving heart is emptied, and in the bitterness of death the grave is full—we are all ready to be disheartened then. For where our treasure is, there shall our hearts be also; and when our treasure vanishes, our heart is gone.

The poet Wordsworth, whose calm, deep verse we should all keep reading in these hurrying days, tells us of the utter disheartening that fell on him after the French Revolution. He had hoped great things from that stormy time. He had hoped for the birth of brotherhood and freedom. He had thought that the race was going to shake its fetters off and proclaim the dignity of man at last. And when these dreams were blighted as they were, and instead of liberty and true equality there came the tumbril and the guillotine and blood, "I lost," says Wordsworth,

"All feeling of conviction, and in fine
Sick, wearied out with contrarieties,
Yielded up moral questions in despair."

It was his terrible disappointment that disheartened him. Perhaps it is that, friend, that has disheartened you.

Another cause of the deepest disheartening is this: it is the apparent uselessness of all we do. It is the partial failure, it is the lack of progress, it is the fact that I strive and never seem to attain that lies at the root of spiritual despondency. "Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp, or what's a heaven for?" says Andrea. And this very psalm from which we took our text, that thrills and wails with spiritual depression, begins with the cry of the soul after the Infinite "as the hart pants after the water-brooks." It is the other side of my glory, that disheartening. It is the witness of my kinship with infinitude. I am never satisfied: there is always another hilltop. I am never at rest: there is a better somewhere. And so I am disheartened—fool!—because I am something better than a beast and have been made to crave, to strive, to yearn, to hope—unsatisfied—till the day break and the shadows flee away.

Advice Against Disheartenment

Now I shall venture to give some advice against disheartenment (I have received help here from the sermons of Dean Paget), and the first is this: disheartenment can often be dispelled by action.

A friend who knew Robert Browning well has said of him that one of his priceless qualities was that he always made effort seem worthwhile. You came into his presence restless, wearied, with all the edge taken off moral effort by the doubts and criticisms of this troubled age, and you left him feeling that in spite of a thousand doubts, the humblest effort heavenward was worthwhile.

O, how I wish that every young man and woman could feel the same thing! For what we want is not more light. What we want is more quiet fortitude. It is to believe that effort is worthwhile. It is to hold it, though the world deny it, that man shall not live by bread alone. And though it is very easy to preach that, and we read it and sing it like a common thing, there is the power of God in it against moral collapse, and it carries the makings of moral heroism on its bosom.

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To the Disheartened - Page 3
by George H. Morrison

And this is my second counsel to the disheartened. Remember, friend, what others have to suffer. Look around you and see the burden of your neighbor and mark the patience and sweetness of the man, until, in that great brotherhood of trial, you ask God to forgive your gloom and bitterness.

In the theater of the ancient Greeks—and the theater was religious, it was not vulgar then—they played great tragedies and brought the sorrows and passions of the noble on the state. And the men and women of Athens went to see them, and by the portrayal of these mightier sorrows, their own so shrank into an insignificance that they went home with something of new hope in them and the determination to be braver now. There are such tragedies today, my friend, and you cannot only witness, you can help. "When you are quite despondent," said Mr. Keble, "the best way is to go out and do something kind to somebody."

And lastly, in your hours of disheartenment, just ask if there was ever a man on earth who had such cause to be disheartened as our Lord. What griefs, what exquisite sorrows, and what agonies!—what seeming failure, what crushing disappointment! Yet on the very eve of Gethsemane and Calvary our wonderful Lord is talking of His joy. And when heart fails and faints, and I lose all will power, and my arm hangs helpless, and my soul seems dead, there is nothing like coming right to the feet of Jesus and crying with Peter, "Lord, save me or I perish." It is then that I take heart again to sing—

"The night is mother of the day,
The winter of the spring,
And ever upon old decay
The greenest mosses cling.
Behind the cloud the starlight lurks,
Through showers the sunbeams fall,
For God who loveth all His works,
Hath left His hope with all."

January 16

The Joy of Jesus

"God, thy God, hath anointed thee with the oil of gladness above thy fellows." Psa_45:7

For all the sorrows that lay upon His heart and the heaviness of the cross He had to bear, there can be little question that Jesus impressed people as a very contented person. When He spoke about His joy nobody had to ask Him what He meant. It never seemed strange to those who knew Him best that He should talk to them about His gladness. They were so familiar with it in their daily conversation, even when everything was dark and menacing, that the mention of it never took them by surprise. His enemies described Him as a wine-bibber, and that does not suggest a gloomy person. He called Himself a bridegroom, and the ideal bridegroom is a radiant person. We want children to be men and women; He wanted men and women to be children, and children, whatever else they may be, are extraordinarily carefree little beings. How, then, shall we explain this gladness of the Man of Sorrows? How did He maintain, through darkest hours, this unworrying and radiant heart? It is profoundly helpful to meditate on that.

Jesus Never Swerved From His Appointed Task

Supremely faithful to His high vocation, our Lord shone in the tranquil radiance of fidelity. One of the deepest attributes of duty is that the doing of it always leads to gladness. Wordsworth says of the man who does his duty that flowers laugh before him in their beds. To have a vocation and to hold to it, in spite of seductive and alluring voices, is the source of half the singing in the world. In the World War, in spite of all its sorrow, there was more singing than I ever heard before. Millions had something great to live for: something that was great enough to die for. And one of the sources of the joy of Jesus was that something great enough to live and die for had been given Him in the ordering of God. Voices called Him, as they call us all. Sometimes they bore the accents of a friend. He was urged to be careful and to guard Himself and to shun the agony of Calvary. But to all such voices He was deaf; He set His face stedfastly towards Jerusalem, and "flowers laughed before Him in their beds."

The Abundance of His Life

Another source of that joy of heart is to be found in the abundance of His life. We all know how when life is rich and full there comes to us a kind of inward radiance. Seasons arrive when life is at the ebb, and then "melancholy marks us for her own." But when the tide of life comes to the full again, immediately everything is different. The grasshopper has ceased to be a burden; everything is clothed in vivid coloring; in the dreariest period of bleak February we awaken in the morning singing. That is not only true of physical life; it is true of life in every sphere. It is "more life and fuller" if the jarring is to be changed into a song. How profoundly significant it is, then, that Jesus should be the enemy of death and should quietly affirm I am the Life.

All sin in its last results is impoverishing: of such impoverishing our Lord was ignorant. The life of God flowed through Him like a river, unchecked by any barrier of evil. Moment by moment drawing for His need out of the boundless life within His Father's heart, He had a joy the world could never give and could never take away.

Jesus Never Doubted God

The deepest root of all Christ's joy was that He never doubted God. And if ever a child had cause to doubt his father, I make bold to say that it was Jesus. Sent of God, He was a homeless wanderer: the Son of Man had not where to lay his head. Sent of God, men turned their backs on Him: He came to His own, and His own received Him not. Sent of God, He was ridiculed and mocked; He was beaten and insulted, and the nails were driven into His hands and feet. In such a life to trust was victory, and victory always is conjubilant. To live as He did, in a faith unfailing, is the victory that overcomes the world. That is why, right through the life of Jesus, there "steals on the ear the distant triumph song," sung not in celestial bliss but in the shame and agony of our mortality.

Why is a child such an unworried little creature? It is because he trusts his father and his mother. Why is the boat passenger untroubled in the tempest? It is because he absolutely trusts the captain. And the deepest root of the joy of Jesus was a trust in His Father which was perfect and which never faltered in the darkest hour. Why should you and I not live like that? The victories of Christ were won for us. A Christian does not so much win his victories as he appropriates the victories of Christ. Live as He did, trust as He did, keep the heart open to the inflowing tide, and in the dreariest days of February the time of the singing of the birds is come.

January 17

The River of God - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

"There is a river, the streams whereof shall make glad the city of God." Psa_46:4

The Bible opens the history of man by showing him surrounded by a garden. It is in the midst of a garden he awakes, touched into life by the creating hand. There he learns his kingship in creation; there he discovers One whom he can love; there he walks in fellowship with God. We read, too, that through the garden ran a river. It flowed from Eden through the midst of paradise. On leaving Eden it parted into four, and its streams went out to fertilize the world. This, then, is the environment of man in the idyllic morning of his days—a garden of perfect beauty and delight made glad by the flowing of a river.

But as the history of man proceeds, of man in his relationship to God, the need arises of some other figure to illustrate the scenery of redemption. As long as man is unfallen, so long is a garden his true environment. There is no sin seeking to assail him, no hostile power bent upon his destruction. He can walk secure amid his garden groves and live without apprehension of assault.

The City

But with the advent of sin, all is changed. There grows an antagonism between man and God. The Church of God separates from the world and lives engirded by a deadly enemy. And just as this antagonism deepens, so does the thought of the garden become dim, and its place is taken in poetry and prophecy by the sterner concept of the city. For modern man the city is the home of commerce and its social life is the measure of its value. But in earlier times the value of the city lay mainly in the security it offered. And all who have seen a medieval city with its high walls and its defended ports will understand how in the day of trouble the city was the stronghold of the land. It was not to gardens that men fled for refuge when the trumpet rang its summons of alarm. They tilled their garden in the day of peace, but fled to the city in the day of danger.

And so as the conflict of the spirit deepened and life assumed the aspect of a war, the garden ceased to represent the Church, and the battlement city took its place. That is why Scripture opens with a garden and closes its long story with a city. Slowly above the dust of spiritual battle there rose the outline of a city's wall, until at last, all that the psalmist hoped for and all that the prophet had declared in faith, was seen in vision by the seer in Patmos.

Now this identification of Church and city was greatly furthered among the Jews by one thing. It was greatly furthered for the Jews by the increasing importance of Jerusalem. So long as the Israelites were villagers and lived a pastoral or rural life, just so long their concept of a noble city was drawn from what they knew of foreign capitals. But as Jerusalem began to grow in numbers and to attract the attention of the world, then the associations of the city took a kindlier and more familiar tone. No Jew could picture a city of his God so long as the greatest cities were all heathen. There must be a capital of his own land to suggest and to inspire the figure. And so it was, as Jerusalem advanced and became the home of government and worship, that both prophet and psalmist with increasing confidence described the Church as the city of Jehovah. It was not just of Jerusalem they thought, though under all they thought about lay Jerusalem. Jerusalem was the sacrament and seal of the invisible city of their quest. Hence John in the closing page of Revelation, when he describes the city of his vision, says, "I saw the holy city, new Jerusalem."

Now between Jerusalem and other cities there was one point of sharp and striking contrast. Jerusalem stood almost alone in this. It had no river flowing by its walls. It was very beautiful for situation; and as a city compactly built together, it occupied a position of great strength, and its walls were a mighty safeguard round about it. Yet one thing it lacked to beautify its streets and to make it a safe shelter when besieged—and the one thing which it wanted was a river. Nineveh had the waters of the Tigris; through Babylon wound the streams of the Euphrates; the city of Thebes rose beside the Nile, and Rome was to win her glory by the Tiber.

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Jerusalem alone possessed no river; no depth of water flowed beneath her walls; all she could boast of, beside her wells and springs, was an insignificant and intermittent stream. It is that which explains the psalmist's exclamation. A river!—the streams of it make glad the city. He sees Jerusalem, yet it is not Jerusalem, for in his vision there flows a river there. Once there had been a river in the garden when the garden was man's meeting-place with God, and now the garden has become the city, and behold there is a river in the city.

What then is this river which the psalmist sees in the city of Jehovah? There is no need for conjecture, for the psalmist himself tells us what it was: "God is in the midst of her," and he adds that it is the presence of God that is the gladdening river. It is Jehovah present with His Church that constitutes its gladness and refreshing.

Living Waters

I need hardly remind you how often in the Scripture God is compared with living waters. We read in Jeremiah, "They have forsaken me, the fountain of living waters, and hewed them out cisterns, broken cisterns, that can hold no water." Zechariah speaks of the fountain that shall be opened in Jerusalem for sin and for uncleanness. "And in the last day, the great day of the feast, Jesus stood and cried, saying, 'If any man thirst, let him come unto me, and drink.'" That, then, is the river in the city. It is the gladdening presence of Jehovah. It is God not distant in the heaven of heavens, but moving in the midst of our activities. For in that there is the secret of all strength, the hope of patient endurance to the end, and the gladness which is born of satisfaction of all that is deepest in the soul.

Let us remember, too, what John says of this river, that it proceeds out of the throne of God and of the Lamb. It is not without deep significance that John should have added these words—"of the Lamb." There is a presence of God throughout the whole creation, for all things have their being in Him. That river flows from the throne of the Creator. But the river in the city flows from the throne of the Lamb; its well-spring is in Jesus and Him crucified; it is in Christ once slain and now enthroned that the city of God has joy and satisfaction. To His own city God reveals Himself, as He does not and cannot do unto the world. He comes to His own in the love of Jesus Christ, for he that hath seen Him hath seen the Father. And this is the river, not from the throne of God, but from the throne of God and of the Lamb, which flows and flows only through the city. This is that river which is full of water, and by the banks of which everything lives. This is the river which Ezekiel saw and which before long was deep enough to swim in. It is God, but it is God in Christ, the God of pardon and of full redemption. There is a river which makes glad the city, and it flows from the throne of God and of the Lamb.

The River Speaks of Joy

But now, to carry out the thought a little, let us take some suggestions from the figure. And, first, the river in the city speaks of joy. Between the ancient and the modern city there is one contrast we might easily miss. We view a city as the home of pleasure, as the place where most enjoyment may be had; it is in a measure to escape from dullness and boredom that multitudes leave the country for the town. But for the Jew, the city in itself was not regarded as a place of gladness; there was always something of a shadow on its streets. As a matter of fact, it is in country life that the Bible finds its images of gladness. The city was but a sad necessity in a country which might be swept by war. And the gloomier the city was, the better; for the higher and more impregnable its walls, the greater was the safety it afforded to men who sought its shelter in the strife. Not of a city such as we know today would a Jew think when he read of the city of God. He would imagine one that was impregnable and could defy the siege of any foe. And so says the psalmist, "Lo, there is a river"—the city of God is girded with walls unshakeable—yet through it flows the gladness of the hills and the joy of waters on which the sunshine plays. Safe is the man who dwells within these walls, for they are built by One whose workmanship is sure. His life is more than one of gloomy safety cut off from the liberty of plain and hill. At his very feet there flows a river, clear as crystal, making glad music, and he who stoops to drink of its clear stream is refreshed and made happy by its refreshment.

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The River of God - Page 3
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But aren't there many who are tempted yet to think of religion as a life of gloom? They may feel that it is safe to be religious, but that that safety is very dearly purchased. The city of God is but a gloomy place, and some day they shall enter its defenses; but today let them have the gladness of the mountains and the music of the broad and happy world. To all who may be tempted to think so comes the word of the psalmist—"Lo, there is a river!" Not only is the Christian life the guarded life, it is the life that is lived beside the stream of joy. For to know that God is with us in Christ Jesus and that He will never leave us nor forsake us, that, after all, is the unfailing secret of the happy and contented heart. Everything lives where this river flows. The tree of life is growing on its banks. To live with God is to redeem one's life from the worry and the rush that make it not worth living. The city of God is not a gloomy place, however it may look to those without; there is a river in its streets that makes it glad.

The River in the City Suggests Peace

When you read the opening verses of this Psalm, you find yourself in a scene of wild confusion. The psalmist, in a few graphic words, pictures chaos in the world. The earth is reeling in the shock of earthquake; the mountains sink into the depths of the ocean; the waters of the sea rise up in fury and sweep with terrific force across the land. Everywhere there is uproar and confusion, an earth that is shaken to its very base, and men in terror and panic fear as if the end of all things was at hand. Then suddenly the psalmist calls a halt, and another vision breaks upon his gaze. A river! and it is flowing in sweet peace through a city that stands unshaken and unshakable. And nothing could be more striking or more beautiful than that swift passage from the roaring sea to the gentle gliding of that quiet river as it murmurs among the city streets. It is the psalmist's vision of the peace of all who have taken up their dwelling-place with God. This is a peace that the world can never give, for the world is in throes of earthquake and of storm. But it flows from the throne of God and of the Lamb; its source is a Savior crucified yet crowned; and it is the heritage of every man who believes in an enthroned Christ.

The life of the Christian should be like a river flowing through the streets of a great city. In the midst of all disturbance and dismay it ought to be like a picture of sweet peace. For he who has God beside him night and day and who continually stays his mind on God, amid all the disturbing tumult of his lot, has a heart at peace with itself.

The River in the City Suggests Prosperity

We do not need to be told how a city's welfare depends upon its river. It is the Clyde that makes glad the city of Glasgow by bringing a livelihood to tens of thousands. There is hardly a dwelling on any street or terrace that is not influenced in some way by the river. Life may be hard enough for many citizens, but it would be harder and perhaps impossible if the sources of our river were to fail and its bed to become empty of its waters. On the Thames depends the prosperity of London, on the Clyde the prosperity of Glasgow; is it not equally true that on the river depends the prosperity of the city of God? For let the presence of God in Jesus Christ be withdrawn from the soul or from the church, and nothing can save that soul from being cast away or keep that church from the decay of death. No organization will avail if Christ is not present in its congregation. No wealth of learning, no beauty of ritual, is of the slightest use if that is lacking. Unless God is in the midst of her and His grace like a flowing river, the city of God can never hope to see the work of the Lord prospering in her hand. Brethren, for the sake of our own souls, and not less for the church which we belong to, let us covet more earnestly what is in our power, a life of unbroken fellowship with God. That is the victory that overcomes the world. That is the open secret of prosperity. That is the river from the throne of the Lamb that makes glad the city of our quest.

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A River With Many Streams

In closing let us note one other word. The psalmist does not merely speak about a river; he pictures the river branching into streams: "There is a river the streams whereof make glad." Now the word translated "streams" is rather "brooks." It is used everywhere of lesser rivulets, and it brings before us the thought of the great river with its waters carried along a hundred channels so that each garden-plot within the city has its own tiny, yet sufficient, stream. It is thus that the river makes glad the city of God, not merely by flowing in a mighty tide, but by coming into every separate plot in a channel peculiarly its own. And so the question for each of us is this, "Is God indeed mine—is He my own? Have I opened a way for Him into my garden—am I personally acquainted with His grace?"

It is not enough to live near the river and let it flow beside us in its beauty. God must be ours, and we must be His if we are to have the gladness of His presence.

January 20

The Triumph of Trust
"But I will trust in thee." Psa_55:23

The value of a word and the power that it has over our hearts depends largely upon the man who speaks it and on the circumstances of its utterance. When Paul said to the Philippians, "Rejoice in the Lord, and again I say rejoice," how inexpressibly these words are deepened by the circumstances of the Apostle—no longer young nor free, but a prisoner in a Roman cell with his life-work seemingly shattered at his feet. Living words have the quality of life. They are born and bear the fashion of their birth. They may be robbed of meaning, or may be filled with meaning, by the hour in which the spirit utters them. So it seems to me the only way to enter into the grandeur of our text is to learn the circumstances of the Psalm. What kind of man was this who said so confidently: "But I will trust in thee?" What were his circumstances? Was he happy? Was everything going very well with him? A study of the psalm will show us that.

The Psalmist Was a Man Unanswered

First, note that he was a man unanswered. He knew the bitterness of heaven's silence. His opening cry in our deep psalm is this: "Hide not thyself from my supplication" (Psa_55:1).

It is an easy thing to trust in God when swiftly and certainly our prayers are answered. There are some who read this column whose life is a compact of answered prayer. But when we pray and the face of God is hidden, and we are restless because heaven is silent—it is often difficult to trust Him then. Especially is that true of intercession when we have been praying for someone who is dear, that God would spare a life or kill a habit or bring the beloved prodigal home again. To continue trusting when we have prayed like that and the prayers have seemed to go whistling down the wind, is one of the hardest tasks in human life. The splendid thing is that the psalmist did it. He refused to regard silence as indifference. He knew that a thousand days are as one day to God and that sometimes love delays the chariot wheels. Heaven might be silent and the face of God averted and all the comfort of fellowship withdrawn, but "I will trust in thee."

The Psalmist Was Afraid

Observe next, he was a man afraid. "The terrors of death are fallen upon me. Fearfulness and trembling are come upon me" (Psa_55:4-5). Now if the writer of this psalm was David, he was one of the bravest souls who ever lived. As a shepherd lad, as an outlaw, as a king, he had given most conspicuous proofs of gallantry. Yet that gallant and courageous heart cries out: "The terrors of death are fallen upon me; fearfulness and trembling are come upon me."

Such hours come to the businessman when he has grappled with some big concern; to the lawyer on the eve of a very important case; to the mother, brooding in the quiet night on the responsibilities of her home and children; or to the pastor, praying for his flock. Suddenly our courage fails for reasons that are often quite inexplicable. Things are not different, duties are not different, but in a strange and mysterious fashion we are different. And men who faced the lion and the bear and were quick to answer the challenge of Goliath experience the fearfulness of David. All of us have fainting fits, even the strongest and the bravest; hours when the strong men bow themselves and when the keepers of the house do tremble. David had them in their full intensity, and the good thing is that when they fell on him, he lifted up his heart and cried, "But I will trust in thee."

The Psalmist Was Imprisoned

Observe next, he was a man imprisoned. "O that I had wings like a dove! for then would I fly away and be at rest" (Psa_55:6). Now this does not mean that he was in a dungeon. It is evident from the psalm that he was not. It means that he was weary of his lot; he was dead-sick of it; he loathed it. The meanness of things to that great heart had grown intolerable. He would have given worlds to fly away, but that was the one thing he could not do. In the providential ordering of heaven he was bound, as it were, by fetters to his place. And I believe there are few people anywhere, whatever their lot or calling, who have not known the longing to escape. To escape from the bondage of ourselves—what a craving we often feel for that! To get away—just to get right away—from the routine which meets us every morning, how overpowering at times is that desire! It was then that David rose to a better way. The wings of a dove would never give him rest. The thing he needed was to find his rest under the overshadowing wing of God—right there, just where he was, amid the burdens and the cares of kingship, "I will trust in thee."

The Psalmist Was Deceived

Observe lastly, he was a man deceived. Somebody he trusted had proven false, and it had almost broken David's heart (Psa_55:12-14). A man his equal, his guide and his acquaintance to whom he used to turn for loving counsel; a man with whom, on quiet Sabbath mornings, he used to walk unto the house of God; a man whose friendship he had never doubted and on whose loyalty he would have staked his life had played the part of Iscariot to the psalmist. What a devastating revelation! What a tragic and desolating hour! How many people have lost their faith in God when they have lost it in a man or woman? Yet David, amid the ruins of that friendship, deserted by one he clung to as a brother, says, "But I will trust in thee."

January 21

Daily Defilements - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

"Mine enemies would daily swallow me up." Psa_56:2

There are some enemies which only come to us at interludes. But you will note that it was different with the psalmist. It was not rarely and briefly that his enemies fell upon him to destroy him. What inspired his bitter cry was that every day he lived he was in peril: "Mine enemies would daily swallow me up." He never woke with a heart that was at peace saying, "Thank God all is well today." At any moment he might hear the ringing of the battle cry. And it was that which almost broke his heart and drove him in a wild despair to God and robbed him of all power to be happy.

Now who the psalmist's chief enemy was we don't know, but if we don't know his, at least we know our own. The deadliest enemy we have to fight is sin. That is the power bent on our destruction which we must conquer somehow or be crushed. There are certain sins, like certain enemies, that give us times of rest between their onsets. There are certain temptations which, being foiled today, may not return until a year has passed. But there are others, like the psalmist's foes, whose peculiar characteristic is just this, that every morning when we wake up, we dread them, and every day we live we have to battle with them.

I suppose there is no one reading this who cannot remember a day when he fell terribly. Have we not all had hours when we defied the right and broke down every barrier of conscience? My brother and sister, in whose heart such hours are living in all their bitterness, remember that there are other sins than these. When a soldier is out on a campaign, there may come a day when he is wounded. The bullet has found him and his rifle drops and he cries for water as they lift him, but remember that every day that he marches, and many a day there is no thought of wounds, there is the gathering of dust upon his arms. Let that dust gather, and in a little while you would scarcely recognize him as a soldier. Let that dust gather, and in a week or two his very rifle will be a useless instrument.

And so with us too as we take up the spiritual warfare; there may come a day when we are badly wounded, but always and every day there is the defilement of the march. There is the dust and soil of the everyday road. There are temptations that reach us not like a storm, but like the gentle falling of the rain.

Although seemingly minor and insignificant, these sins of everyday rob us of our present joy and peace. It is these which write lines upon the brow and bring the look of uneasiness into the eye. You may destroy the lute by breaking it in two, and there are homes and hearts ruined like that. But a little crack within the lute makes all the music mute, and so is it with our little sins.

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Blocked Channels

Some fifty or more years ago there came into our country a new weed. It was a pond weed living in the water, and so it found its way to our canals, and it was a little and inconspicuous thing to which nobody except the botanists gave heed. Would you believe it, that in thirty years our canals were being choked by it? It blocked the channel, delayed the passing ships, threatened the very existence of the waterway. And it was far more difficult than ice to deal with for ice can be broken with sufficient pressure, but all the pressure in the world was powerless against this living and compliant tangle.

Brothers and sisters, you may be sure of this, that true peace demands an open channel, an unobstructed way to God if one is to walk with music in his heart. And I say that no tragic fall so blocks the channel between earth and heaven as do these daily little and unnoticed sins that grow and gather in the passing days.

It does not take a wound in the eye to make the eye a source of misery. Lodge only a grain of sand within its orb, and all the pleasure of vision vanishes. And so for multitudes who are not reprobate, who have been saved by Christ, there is no joy, no peace, no song, because of the intrusion of the little sins.

I know a meadow not five miles away where thirty years ago the trees were beautiful, and men would travel to see them in the summer for there were few elms like them by the Clyde. And now half of these elms are dead, and for the others summer is a mockery. And it wasn't a storm that did it: it was the daily pollution of our Babylon. They are still rooted in the finest soil, and you too may be rooted in Christ Jesus. No one would question that your deepest life is hid with Christ in God. But even so rooted, you may miss the joy of your salvation, and miss it because every day you live you are subtly and insensibly defiled.

Little Sins Foster Despair

Such daily defilements have a peculiar power of fostering despair. They are like sickness in that point of view, and you know that sickness is a type of sin. Let a man be stricken with some sudden illness, and my experience is that he does not despair. Doctors will confirm this. It is not then that he loses hope or meditates on death. He summons all the strength that God has given him that he may battle the disease. Or if he is too weak for that, for disease in a day may make us weak as water, then he lies there, not in dull despair, but in a strange and acquiescent peace.

I shall tell you when it is that even the bravest is brought near the margin of despair. It is when every day and all day there is the gnawing away of some hidden malady. It is when a man goes to work and mingles with his fellows in the street, and all the time, like a dull undertone, is conscious that there is something wrong. It is that which leads so often to despair. It is that which makes the thought of death familiar. It is that which is the secret, never guessed at, of many a startling and unexpected suicide. And I feel that in the realm of sin which is so strangely linked with that of sickness, there is something analogous to that. Did you ever know of anyone despairing after a terrible and tragic fall? I never read of any in the Scripture. I never saw any in my ministry. But ah, how many I have seen who come to despair of ever attaining the highest—they were so crushed, so humbled and disheartened by the defilement of their daily sins. It is our little sins and not our great sins which have such a terrible power to make us hopeless. For our great sins cast us upon Jesus, and there is always hope when we are there. But our little sins leave us with ourselves and seem to mock us when we seek the highest, and tempt us to think that what we hoped for once must always be impossible for us.

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How to Deal With Daily Defilement

One thing at least is clear, and that is that we must never contemplate escape by flight. If God has given us our work to do, then we must continue with it in spite of all the soiling. There can be no escape from daily sin by flying from the path of daily duty. It is such dreams that builds monasteries, and many a monastery becomes like Sodom. You remember how Peter, on the mount of glory, wanted to build tabernacles there. He wanted to live forever in that solitude where all the voices of the world were hushed. And then the Savior led him down again, right into the jostling of the crowd, and Peter learned that life was not given for a hermitage.

What would you think of a man who left his home here and the business he made his living by all because amid our grimy streets his face and hands grew dirty every day? Yet he who seeks to fly from his daily task because of the temptations which it carries and the defilement it inevitably brings is just as cowardly and absurd. Either you must conquer where you are, or you will not conquer anywhere. Flee from the devil, and he will resist you. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you.

Do you recall that hour when Christ washed His disciples' feet? Do you recall the word He said to Peter, "He that is washed needeth not save to wash his feet, but is clean every whit"? My brother and sister, in that great word of Christ's there lies the Master's answer to our question. There is His treatment of the daily stain. He that is washed—and Peter had been washed. He had been bathed in the spirit of his Lord. Once and for all, coming to Jesus Christ, his guilt had been washed away forever. And now says Jesus, "Let me wash thy feet; let me cleanse off the soil of the daily walk"; and what He said to Simon Peter then, He says to you and me. I do believe that when a man is saved, he is saved not for a time but for eternity. I do believe that when we look to Christ, in that very moment all our sin is pardoned. But every day we need another cleansing for we have been traveling by dusty roads, and Christ is always stooping and ready to bestow His forgiveness. Do not rest at night till thou hast had it, brother. Summon the hours of the day before thee. Put forth thy feet and let Him wash them, for they are very dusty with the journey. So when thou wakest, thou shalt again be clean and ready for everything the day may bring, glad with the confidence of him who sang, "When I awake I am still with Thee."

January 22

Fear and Faith

"What time I am afraid, I will trust in thee." Psa_56:3

Let us consider for a little while some of the springs of human fear, and then notice how many of our fears spring from the imagination. It has been said (and I think truly said) that life is ruled by the imagination. The things we picture and weave in glowing colors have a very powerful influence over conduct. Often that influence is stimulative, illumining the pathway to discovery; often it creates or liberates fear. People who are highly sensitive are far more apt to be fearful than their neighbors. There are a hundred fears that never touch the man of stolid, unimaginative nature. That is why for a certain type of person to be brave may be comparatively easy, and for another infinitely hard.

Now, the worst thing about this kind of fear is that reason is powerless to allay it. You might as soon allay a fire with good advice. Argument is cold. It cannot banish the specters of the soul. It has no brush that can obliterate the pictures of the imagination. But there is another way, more powerful than reason, to overcome imaginative fears, and that is the way of this inspired psalmist. Faith is the antidote to fear. It quiets fear as the mother quiets her child. The child still dreams, but the dreams are not reality. It is the mother's arms that are reality. So we, His children, dreaming in the darkness and sometimes very frightened by our dreams, find "underneath the everlasting arms."

Weakness of Body

Another very common source of fear is weakness or frailty of body. Everyone is familiar with that. When we are strong and well it is not difficult to keep our fears at bay. Fears, like microbes, do not love the sunshine. They need the darkness for their propagation. That is why, when the lights of life are dim, we readily become the prey of fearfulness. We can bear burdens without a thought when we are strong and vigorous and well; we can meet tasks with quiet hearts; we can bravely face difficulties—but these seem insurmountable when we are worn and often plunge us into the lowest pit. We must never forget how the state of the mind is affected by the condition of the body. Health is not alone the source of happiness. It is one of the perennial springs of hope. Many of our vague uncharted fears which haunt us and rob us of the sunshine are rooted in the frailty of our bodies.

Now I have no doubt that many of my readers are far from being physically perfect. The fact is, there are very few of us who could be described as physically perfect. And to all such, whatever their condition, I want to give these wonderful words of Scripture: "What time I am afraid, I will trust in thee." He knows our frame. He remembers we are dust. He made us and He Understands us. He alone can perfectly appreciate the interactions of body and of mind. And when we trust Him in a childlike faith, nothing is more evident in life than the way in which He disappoints our fears. He grace is sufficient for us. Often when we are weak, then are we strong. Drawing from Him we find we have our fullness, given us daily as the manna was, until at last the "body of our humiliation" shall be fashioned like His glorious body, and then such fears will be laid to rest forever.

Faculty of Conscience

I close by naming one other source of fear, and that is the faculty of conscience. A guilty conscience is a fearing conscience——conscience makes cowards of us all. If we could get rid of conscience, what fears would go whistling down the wind! But God has so created us, that that is the one thing we cannot do. We may drug and dope it, we may silence it, we may sear it as with an iron, but, like the maiden, it is not dead but sleeping. It awakens in unexpected seasons, sometimes in the stillness of the night, or when our loved ones are removed in death, or when we see our sins bearing fruit in others; perhaps most often in our dying hours when the flaming colors of time no longer blind us and we draw near to the revelation of eternity. All the fears of our imagination, all the fears that spring from weakly bodies, all these, however haunting, are nothing to the fears of conscience. And the tremendous fact, never to be disputed by any theory of its evolution, is that God has put conscience in the breast.

But He who has put conscience in the breast has done something more wonderful than that. To minister relief to fearing conscience, He has put His Only-begotten on the tree. There, explain it as you will, is freedom from the hideous fears of conscience. There, explain it as you will, is release from the terrors of our guilt. One trustful look at the Lord Jesus Christ dying upon the cross of Calvary, and the fearfulness of conscience is no more. There is now therefore no more condemnation. Pardoned, we have joy and peace. God is for us on the cross, and if God be for us, who can be against us? Blessed Savior, who didst die for us and whose blood cleanseth from all sin, What time I am afraid, I will trust in thee.

January 23

The Rock That Is Higher Than I
"Lead me to the rock that is higher than I." Psa_61:2

Whatever suggested the image of our text, the inward meaning of it is explicit. It is the long cry of the human heart for the forgiveness and comforting of God. There are times when the deepest craving of the soul is for something higher than itself. The self-reliance of our sunny hours is lost in a deep feeling of dependence. And that deep feeling of dependence, expressed in many relationships of life, is never satisfied nor perfected until it finds its rest in God. Now when the heart is overwhelmed (as was the psalmist's) there always falls a dimness on the eye. The rock of safety may be very near, but the mist hangs heavy, and we cannot see it. It is then the soul betakes itself to prayer and like the shipwrecked sailor or the desert wanderer supplicates heavenly guidance to the refuge. There is a rock higher than our highest, but we all need to be led to it. No one can by searching find out God. And how we are led there by a most loving guidance, whether it be of providence or grace, is the question which arises from our text.

The Experience of Failure

We see, for instance, how often men are led to the Rock by the bitter experience of failure. Man's extremity of need is heaven's opportunity of leadership. A pastor friend of mine was once traveling in a train. He was joined by a well-known merchant whose affairs were on the point of bankruptcy. And quite naturally, after a little talk, the merchant asked my friend if he would pray for him, and there in the carriage they knelt down and prayed. He was a strong, self-reliant man, that merchant. He was not given to asking help of anybody. But now the deepest craving of his heart was for something higher than himself on which to rest.

And much of what is difficult in life, and overwhelming to the point of heart-break, is but the kindly stratagem of heaven to lead us to the higher Rock. Those hours of heart-sinking familiar to us all, the feeling that we have spent our strength for nothing, the deep conviction which visits us in secret that all our righteousnesses are as filthy rags—such things, for ten thousand souls, have been the hidden leadership of heaven to the Rock that is higher than themselves. Deep is calling unto deep, the deep of misery to that of mercy. Out of the depths man is always crying. And though he often knows not what he cries for, God knows and answers through the dark by leading the overwhelmed soul to Himself.

Devotion to the Best

Again, we note how often men are led thither by lowly devotion to the best. Loyal to the highest that they know, they are confronted by the higher Rock. If this universe is not a righteous universe and if love lies not at the heart of things, what use is there in striving to be righteous or in making love the passion of our lives? But the strange thing is that whenever a man is loyal to the best and worthiest he knows, he is never left with questions like that. He is led upward from his cherished loyalties to something loftier than his loyalties. It is a Rock, solid and impregnable; the Rock on which the universe is built. He passes upward from his values to the reality of what he values; he discovers he has aligned himself with God.

When men live for love and truth and mercy, God is always walking in their garden. They come to feel with deepening conviction that the things they strive for are not passing dreams, but answer to the realities of heaven. Do your duty, though it be very irksome, and do it because it is your duty; be tender-hearted, forgiving one another, no matter how you are tempted to be hard; and above you, over-arching you, the reality of what you strive for, you will discover God who is our Rock. "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these, ye have done it unto me." To be true to the highest that we know is to be led to the Rock that is still higher. "Madam," said Dr. Hood Wilson once to a lady lamenting she had lost the Lord, "go down and work in the slums and you will find Him."

The Guiding Hand of Christ

But, above all, we are led to the Rock that is higher by the guiding hand of Christ—"no man cometh to the Father but by me." When we crave for the certainty that God is love, we may turn in vain to nature or to history. Nature and history have many voices, but they never cry, "I am the way." Only Christ proclaims Himself the way to One higher than our highest thought, because deeper than our deepest need. Thus, although the psalmist did not know it, he saw the day of Christ and he was glad. It was for Christ that he was yearning in that passionate outcry of his spirit. It is He who takes us by the hand and leads us where philosophy can never lead us, to Love, to a Father on the throne, to "the rock that is higher than I."

January 24

Leaving It There
"Leave it all quietly to God, my soul." Psa_62:1 (Moffatt)

There are times in life when it is a great help to have someone say to us, "Leave all that to me." Like a gentle wind it blows the clouds away. When one has a difficult schedule or has arrangements to make for a marriage or a funeral, to have someone who is competent and expert take over is often an untold relief. There is much in life that we must do ourselves, and no one can relieve us of certain duties. There are crosses each of us must carry and burdens nobody can take away. But how much more difficult life would be in times of anxiety or strain were there not someone standing by to say to us, "Leave all that to me." That is particularly the voice of fatherhood, which in reality is the secret of childhood's carefree spirit. A child does not worry about clothes or meals. Instinctively it leaves that to its father. And much of the joy of childhood springs from the trustful relationship to somebody who says, "Leave all that to me."

It is beautiful to notice how the psalmist had grasped that comforting energy of God. Baffled, betrayed, a prey to bitter anguish—"Leave it all quietly to God, my soul." And so for him, too, came interior peace, and the light of heaven began to shine again and the storm was changed to calm.

Now this command which the psalmist gave his soul is one of the secrets of the spiritual life. No passing of ages has made it less imperative. Think, for instance, of those ways of providence which it is impossible to understand, for in every life, however blessed and happy, there are things impossible to understand. And often these are strange and bitter and so difficult to reconcile with love that the bravest soul is near to unbelief. When prayers seem to go unanswered, when someone dear and young is taken away, when those who would not harm a living creature are bowed under intolerable pain, how hard it is to say that God is good, and saying it, believe it with a confidence which is pleasing in His eyes. We want to know. We want to understand. Sometimes, like Job, we expostulate with God. And so, expostulating, everything grows harder till we are brought to the margins of despair. How much wiser the attitude of David, plunged into the very sea of trouble—"Leave it all quietly to God, my soul."

We are not here just to understand. Now we know in part and see in part. We are here to glorify God by trusting Him even when we do not understand. And such trusting carries its own evidences in the rich inward peace it brings as if our life were in tune with the Eternal. "My meat is to do the will of him that sent me." His meat was neither to probe nor to expostulate. When the cup was bitter, when the cross was heaviest, when the lights were darkened in the Garden of Gethsemane—He left it all quietly to God.

Questions Too Deep for Us

Think of those intellectual problems which visit and perplex the human mind. There are times in life when these are very perplexing. Who that has ever thought at all has not had anxious thoughts about the doctrine of election? What, too, of the foreordering of God and of His sovereignty, universal and particular, if I am really a creature of free will? Such things, and a thousand things like these, puzzle and confound the human mind. And we are so made that we cannot avoid thinking of them with the mysterious facilities which God has given us. Yet I venture to say that something must be wrong if such great thoughts that have baffled all the centuries rob the believer of his joy and peace.

There are times when it is well to consider such things. A great problem may be an inspiration. The opposite of faith is never reason; the opposite of faith is sight. But there are other times when the highest part of wisdom is not to torment ourselves with things too high for us, but to give our souls the counsel of the psalmist—"Leave it all quietly to God, my soul." Someday we shall arrive and understand. We shall see His face and His name shall be on our foreheads—it shall be written out in the region of the brain. Meantime we have a life to live, a heart to cultivate, a service to perform. "What is that to thee—follow thou me."

Failure and Discouragement

Again, we are to remember the psalmist's counsel in the hours when we have done our best—and failed. The higher the service that we seek to render, the more are we haunted by the sense of failure. The man who has no goal doesn't fear failure. But in higher ministries, when soul is touching soul and we are working not in things, but lives, how haunting is the sense of failure. Every Sunday School teacher knows it well, every mother with her growing family, and every preacher of the Gospel. So little accomplished, so little difference made, so little fruit for the laborious toil, although the seed sown may have been steeped in prayer. Well then, are we to give up in discouragement? Are we to leave the battle line and be spectators because we hear no cheering sound of triumph? My dear reader, there is a better way, and it is just the old way of this gallant psalmist—"Leave it all quietly to God, my soul."

Often when we fail, we are succeeding. We are doing more than we have dreamed. We are helping with our rough, coarse hands because Another with a pierced hand is there. Do your best, and do it for His sake. Keep on doing it and don't resign. And as to fruitage and harvest and success—leave it all quietly to Him.
"When obstacles and trials seem

Like prison walls to be,
I do the little I can do,
And leave the rest to Thee."

Dr. Hood Wilson once to a lady lamenting she had lost the Lord,
"go down and work in the slums and you will find Him."

Amen! What a beautiful reminder!  :D

January 25

Harvest Thanksgiving
"The valleys…are covered over with corn." Psa_65:13

One of the uses of the harvest festival is to awaken us to things we take for granted. We are always in danger of taking things for granted, especially in organized communities. The desert traveler can never take his water for granted, he has to shape his route to reach the wells. But in the city, where we have water supplied to every house, such a thing causes us no concern at all. That is especially true of daily bread. We just take it for granted. It has been bought at the baker's or the grocer's, and beyond that our vision seldom goes. And then comes the harvest festival, and beyond our city shops we see the golden mystery of harvest. We are awakened; we are shaken out of our ruts—and do you know what someone has said about these ruts? He has said that the rut only differs from the grave in that the latter is a little deeper. We are touched with the wonder of the commonplace—we feel the glory that invests the ordinary.

It is this, too, that makes it preeminently a Christian festival, for one of the beautiful things about our Lord was that He never took usual things for granted. The Pharisees were always doing that. They took the lilies of the field for granted. They took it for granted that if a woman was caught in sin, the God-appointed conduct was to stone her. And then came our Lord, with that dear heart of His, and He did not see just the glory of the rare thing; He saw the glory of the familiar thing—the sparrow and the mustard seed, and the woman who was a sinner on the streets.

It is very comforting to bear in mind that He never takes you for granted either. Other people are doing that continually: they have you classified and docketed in pigeon-holes. But to Him you are always wonderful though you are only a typist in an office and nobody would ever call you clever. Filled with the wonder and potential of the commonplace, that was the vision of the Savior, and it is to that that we are summoned by the recurrence of the harvest thanksgiving.

Mutual Dependence

Another benefit of harvest festival is to impress on us our mutual dependence. It is a call to halt a moment and reflect how we are all bound together with one another. The priceless secret of cooperation is God's secret of survival. The individual needs everybody, and everybody needs the individual.

Now at every harvest festival, how vividly is that thought brought before us! It preaches, with a kind of silent eloquence, the interdependence of man. Those sheaves of corn that stand within the sanctuary—who ploughed the fields for them? Who in the bleak morning sowed the seed, that sower and reaper might rejoice together? There are unknown ploughmen and harvesters and millers and bakers whose names are never heard behind that loaf of bread on the table. Was that why the Master chose the bread to be the Symbol of His dying love? He might have chosen one of the flowers which charmed Him and which He has bidden us to consider. But, choosing bread, He chose the staff of life, and that life wasn't one of isolation, but of a rich cooperating brotherhood. We are always in danger of forgetting that when we look at the bread on our table. And then the church comes with her harvest festival and says, "This do in remembrance," and we feel the interdependence of humanity and the fact that in back of everything the shops supply us with, stands the Creator, and on Him we utterly depend.

January 27

Summer and Winter - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

"Thou hast made summer and winter." Psa_74:17

I suppose there are few who seriously doubt that the maker of summertime is God. There is something in every summer's glory that tells us of the touch of the divine, for here indeed we see the handiwork of God. But notice that in our text it says a great deal more than just that God hast made the summer. It says "Thou hast made the summer and the winter."

It was an old belief which is still held by multitudes that rival deities had been at work on nature. It was not the handiwork of one god; it was the handiwork of two gods. And all the sharp antagonisms of the universe and all the contrasts amid which we live were tokens of their mutual enmity. Had one made the glory of the day and the other the darkness of the night? Had one cheered us with the genial heart and the other cursed us with the bitter cold? It was one power that made the radiant morn, and another that made the deepening shadow. There were millions of people who believed that once, and there are millions who still believe it.

How different, how superbly different, is the spiritual vision of this singer of the Psalms! It was the God of Abraham who made the summer, and it was his God who made the winter, too. The very hand that decked the summer meadow and cast the mantle of green upon the forest touched that summer glory and it died. Thou hast made the summer and the winter. Thou hast clothed and thou hast stripped again. Thou hast lengthened out the shining hours, and thou hast crushed them into a little space. Thou hast created the gentle breath of evening that falls on man with benediction, and thou the bitter and the piercing blast.

The Summer and Winter of the Heart

Now I want you to carry that great truth into regions which the eye has never seen. I want you to believe that one God has made the summer and winter of the heart. There are experiences which come to every man which are tingling with the touch of heaven. They are so radiant and so delightful that we never doubt the hand which gave them to us. It is good to be grateful for such recurring gladness, but more is needed for a life of victory. He who would conquer must have faith to say, "Thou hast made the summer and the winter." God is not only gracious when the sun shines, He is just as gracious when the wind is sharp. He gives the glory and He strips the glory, and on His vesture is the name of Love. He who can trace His hand when it is winter—who can still say He loves me and He knows—has won the secret of that abiding peace which the world cannot give and cannot take away.

What a summertime the patriarch Job enjoyed! How the sun shone on him for many days! There was no one like him in the land of Uz for health and wealth and happiness and peace. And then there fell on him the blast of winter, and he was desolate and deathly cold, and "The Lord hath given and the Lord hath taken away," said Job, "blessed be the name of the Lord."

Do you remember what his wife advised him? His wife advised him to curse God and die. Do you remember what his friends advised him? It was to confess that he had played the hypocrite. But Job was far too big a man for that. "Though he slay me yet will I trust him," he said. The faith in which he conquered was just this, "Thou hast made the summer and the winter."

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Summer and Winter - Page 2
by George H. Morrison

Winter Is the Loom on Which Summer Is Made

And now another question arises: How does God make the summer? What is the unseen loom on which He weaves that garment of beauty which we see Him by? Don't consider me as being mystical when I reply that winter is the loom. It is a truth which science will corroborate that out of the winter He hath made the summer. When a child rises in the morning, what an exuberance of life there is! The eyes are bright and the feet swift to run and play; and all that life, so wonderful and glad, has been created in the womb of sleep.

We say that in winter everything is dead. That is what they said of Jairus' daughter. And then came Christ and looked at her and said, "The maiden is not dead, but sleepeth." So we learn that in the dead of winter—and we never talk about the dead of summer—what we call death is but the child's sleep. Life has not vanished even though the eyes are closed. And then comes morning with all its joy and renewed life, all because of the quiet sleep of wintertime. There is no thrilling beauty of springtime without the chill of December. God needs the one if He would make the other. He fashions glory out of decay.

Consider that truth then and carry it to a higher sphere. It is as true of us as of the earth that winter holds the secret of the summer. Out of December, God will fashion June. Out of the cross, He fashions the crown. Out of the trial that was so hard to bear, He brings the beauty of the saintly character. "God be merciful to me a sinner"—that is the winter of our discontent, and yet when a man has cried that prayer of despair, he is preparing for his summer and his song.

There came to Glasgow, not so long ago, a pianist with an excellent reputation. I read the Herald's criticism of him, and there was one thing in it that I especially noted. The Herald said that he had been always brilliant—always been wonderful as an executant—but now there was a depth of feeling in him that had never been present in his work before. A day or two afterwards while preaching in a suburb, I met a relative of the pianist. As we began to discuss him and the Herald's criticism of him, the relative said to me, "Did you notice that? And do you know what was the secret of the change? It was the death of his mother eighteen months ago." He was an only son, unmarried, and had been simply devoted to his mother. And then she died and he was left alone, and all the depths were broken up in him. And now he played as only he can play who knows what life and death are and what sorrow is—and out of the winter God had made his summer.

Perpetual sunshine may make men brilliant, perhaps, but never deep. They don't understand. They never know. They condescend, for they cannot sympathize, for much that is beautiful in men and women springs from the season when the tree is stripped. All that is fairest in the world rises from the darkness of the cross. My brother, that is also how He leads us, for to our hearts the world is but the shadow. He will never leave us nor forsake us.

Why Did God Make the Summer and Winter?

There is only one answer that can be given to that question in the light of all that we have learned. Not just for their own sakes has He made them—not for their sublimity or beauty merely. Through night and day, through sunshine and through storm, God has His purpose which is never baffled. And that one purpose—how shall we describe it? Put in simple language it is this: It is the purpose of every living thing that after summer there should be the harvest. Of course, God has made purposes in every thing and every season. Undoubtedly when He made the summer beautiful, He meant it to give pleasure to His children. But there is one thing deeper than all others, and that is the mellowing of the harvest field. Nothing is beautiful in nature for its own sake. Beauty is a trust for other's sakes. Summer and winter look beyond themselves to the time when the flower shall wither and the fruit shall come. He that liveth to himself is dead. There is he that scattereth and yet increaseth. Our gifts——our summer sun and winter storm—these have an end to serve in other lives. We are not here simply to be happy. We are here to serve and be a blessing. And "Thou hast made our summer and our winter" that we may have the joy of harvest time.

January 28

The Higher Purposes of Winter - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

"Thou hast made.., winter." Psa_74:17

It is always easy to believe that God has made the summertime. There is something in a perfect summer day that speaks to us of the divine. The beauty which is around us everywhere, the singing of the birds in every tree, the warmth of the pleasant summer sun, the amazing prodigality of life, these, as by filaments invisible, draw our hearts to the Giver of them all and make it easy to say, "Thou hast made the summer."

With winter it is different. It is not so easy to see the love of God there. There is a great deal of suffering in winter both for the animal creation and for man. It may therefore aid the faith of some who may be tempted to doubt the love of God in winter if I suggest some of its spiritual accomplishments.

Winter Deepens Our Appreciation of Summer

One of the higher offices of winter is to deepen our appreciation of the summer. We should be blind if summer were perpetual. Someone has said, and very truly said, that our dear ones are only ours when we have lost them. They have to pass away into the silent land before we know them for what they really are. And in like manner summer has to pass, leaving us in the grip of icy winter, before we fully appreciate the summer. It is not the man who lives in lovely Scotland who feels most deeply how lovely Scotland is. It is the exile on some distant shore, yearning for the mountains and the glens. It is not the man with abundant, unbroken health who feels most deeply the value of his health. That is realized when health is shattered.

In Caithness, where I lived four years, there is a great scarcity of trees. I never knew how much I loved the trees till I dwelt in a land where there are none. And we never know all that summer means to us, in its pageantry of life and beauty, till we lose it in the barrenness of winter. Lands that have no winter have no spring. They never know the thrilling of the spring when the primroses awake and the wild hyacinths, and the iris waves in the breeze. Thoughts like these, in January days, make it easier for faith to say, "Thou hast made the winter."

Winter Puts Demands Upon the Will

Another of the higher purposes of winter is the greater demands it makes upon the will. I should like to take a simple illustration. In summer it is comparatively easy to get out of bed at the appointed hour. For the earth is warm, and the birds are busy singing, and the light is streaming through the open windows. But in winter, to fling the covers off and get up when it is dark and perishingly cold, that is quite a different affair. That calls for a certain resolution. It makes instant demands upon the will.

Now broaden that thought to the compass of the day, and you reach a truth that cannot be denied. The countries where the will is most developed and where moral life is most vigorous and strong are the countries that have winter in their year. There "ain't no Ten Commandments east of Suez," says Kipling in a familiar line. The singular thing is that east of Suez there isn't any winter in the year. Rigorous winter days when life is difficult and when it takes some doing even to get up are God's tonic for His children's will. "O well for him whose will is strong. He suffers, but he does not suffer long." Let any young fellow have his will under control and he is on the highway to his victory. Summer is languid; winter makes us resolute. We have to do things when we don't feel like them. And Thou—the Giver of the Ten Commandments—Thou hast made the winter.

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The Higher Purposes of Winter - Page 2
by George H. Morrison

Winter Intensifies the Thought of Home

Another accomplishment of winter is to intensify the thought of home. In lands that bask in a perpetual sunshine, home-life is always at a minimum. I had a friend who for three years was prisoner in an internment camp in Germany. I asked him once when he felt most homesick, and I am not likely to forget his answer. He said that the only times when he felt homesick were when fog settled down upon the camp reminding him of winter fogs in Glasgow. In summer he was happy. It was good to be alive in summer. But when the fog came, he thought of lighted streets and saw his cozy and comfortable home. And always the thought of home is sweetest, and the home-life richest and most beautiful, in the dark, cold season of the winter. We talk in the same breath of hearth and home, and it is in winter that the hearth is glowing.

There is one poem about a humble home more beautiful than any other in our literature. It is a picture by the hand of genius of the joy and reverence of the hearth. But the "Cottar's Saturday Night" could never have been written in the tropics. It is the child of a land with winter in its year.

Now think of everything we owe to home. Think of what the nation owes to home. "From scenes like these auld Scotia's grandeur springs." Home is the basis of national morality. Is it not easier when one thinks of these things to say in the bitterest January day, "Thou hast made the winter"?

Winter Stirs Us to Charity

The last purpose of winter I shall mention is how it stirs our sluggish hearts to charity. With that we are all perfectly familiar. Did you ever watch a singer in the street in the warm and balmy days of summer? The passersby pay him little heed and rarely give him a coin even though he is singing all the charms of Annie Laurie. But in winter, when the air is biting, and when the snow is deep upon the ground, Annie Laurie brings him in a harvest. Folk are extraordinarily good to me in giving me donations for the poor. For one donation that I get in summertime, however, I get ten in the bitterness of winter. Winter unlocks the gates of charity. It unseals the hidden springs of pity. It moves us with compassion for the destitute, and so to be moved is a very Christlike thing. Such thoughts as these in stern and icy days, when we are tempted perhaps to doubt the love of God, make it easier to say with David, "Thou hast made the winter."

January 29

The Highway in the Sea - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

"Thy way is in the sea." Psa_77:19

Doubtless when the psalmist penned our text, his first thought was the crossing of the Red Sea. He was seeking to revive his drooping heart by recalling the saving power of God in Israel's past. But the words of a true poet never end when we have found their literal significance. It is one mark of poetic inspiration that it is capable of indefinite expansion. It is not by narrowing down, it is by widening out, that we get to the real genius of a poet, and the writer of this psalm had the true gift. Thy way is in the sea—were there not glimpses in that of truths which the Exodus never could exhaust? So did the writer feel—so must we all feel—and it is on two of these suggestions that I wish to dwell.

The Sea As an Object of Dread

There were two places above all others dreaded by the Jew. The one was the desert and the other was the sea. The desert—for it was the home of the wild beasts and the haunt of the robbers who plundered the Jewish villages, and it was across the desert that those armies came which besieged Jerusalem and pillaged it. And the sea—because it was full of storms and treachery in Jewish eyes; it was the hungry, cruel, insatiable deep. It is very difficult for us who are an island nation to enter into that feeling of the Jew. The ocean is our defense and our great ally, and we have loved the sound of its waves since we were children. But to the Hebrew it was very different. For him there was no rapture in the lonely shore. He loved his fields and his vineyards and his markets, but the element he dreaded was the sea.

But now comes the voice of the great Jewish singer and says to the people, God's way is in the sea. In the very sphere and element they dread there is the path and purpose of divinity. They loved their gardens and the Lord was there. They loved their vineyards and the Lord was there. In places that were sweet and dear to them, there was the presence of the God of Israel. But nonetheless in the realm of what was terrible and in the regions which they shunned instinctively, there was the ordered path of the Almighty.

I think we should all do well to learn that lesson—God's way is in the very thing we dread. We are so apt to cry that God has forgotten us when the experience which we loathe arrives. We all love health, but we all dread disease. We love success, but we dread disappointment. We love the energy and glow of life, but we dread the silence of death and the cold grave—but the way of the Lord of heaven is in the sea. Believe that He is working out His purposes through what is dark as well as through what is bright. Believe that what is hardest to bear or understand is never disordered nor purposeless nor pathless. What is the object of thy greatest dread, O Hebrew? Is it the sea? "God's way is
in the sea."

The Restless Sea

And second, the sea is the element of restlessness. That is a familiar thought in the Old Testament, receiving its noblest and most poetic expression in Psa_107:1-43. It is not easy for us to realize how vividly this thought impressed the ancient world, for the most ignorant among us has been taught by science that nothing in the whole universe is at rest. The earth is flying with tremendous speed around the sun; and the solar system itself is hurrying somewhere; we hardly need to turn to the waves of the sea to get our parable of restless energy. It was very different with the Jew. For him, the earth was fixed under a fixed heaven. It was set fast by the ordering of God. And over against it, in the sharpest of all contrasts, rocked and surged the restless sea. The sea was the element of change, the home of restlessness. One day it was as calm as if it were asleep; the next it was tossed and rent in a storm. It was all that of which a Jew would think when the word came to him that God's way was in the sea.

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The Highway in the Sea - Page 2
by George H. Morrison

Now, there is an unrest in our life that is the consequence and issue of our sin. It is as true today as when the prophet wrote it, that "there is no rest for the wicked, saith my God." Let a man deliberately choose the lower levels and yield up the reins to his baser nature, and his whole existence becomes one of great discontent there is nothing of God's way in that.

But there is a restlessness that is inspired; there is a discontent that is divine; there is a spirit within us that will not let us rest, and it is the very spirit of the wind-swept sea; and if there is one thing written clear in human history, it is that the way of God is there.

In one of Shakespeare's sonnets there is a memorable line, "With what I must enjoy, contented least." There can be little doubt, from the connection, that Shakespeare is referring to his plays. "With what I most enjoy, contented least"—then Shakespeare was not satisfied with Hamlet. There is a grand unrest there like the unrest of the ocean, and through the heart of it there runs the track of God. We are not here to be satisfied and indifferent. We shall be satisfied when we awake. We are here to strive and yearn and toil and pray for things that are too large for our three-score years. And in that distressing and yet divine unrest, there is the way and ordering of God. God's way is never in the stagnant pool; His way is ever in the restless sea. It is He who says to us, "This is not your rest." It is He who fills us with eternal hope. It is He who makes us rise after each failure to strive again for what we cannot reach. So we toil on and all we do is fragmentary, but we shall be satisfied in the eternal morning. He keeps us "climbing up the climbing wave" here, but in heaven there shall be no more sea.

January 30

The Secrecy of God - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

"Thy way is in the sea, and thy path in the great waters, and thy footsteps are not known." Psa_77:19

Men tell us that there are few more impressive sights than that of a burial at sea. It is even more solemn and arresting than the last rites beside an earthly grave. There is the ceasing of the throbbing engines, the gathering of the hushed crowd upon the deck. There is the simple service, the lifting of the body, and then—the plunge into the deep. And it is this element of silent secrecy, this hiding in unfathomable depths, which thrills and solemnizes and subdues.

Something like that was in the poet's mind when he said of God, "Thy way is in the sea." Mingling with all his other thoughts was the thought that God has His unfathomable secrets. And it is upon that element of secrecy, so characteristic of the divine procedure, that I want to dwell.

The Divine Secrecy of God's Gifts

The best gifts are always at our hand. The brightest are never far away. All things needed for the song and crown are in the region where our hearts are beating. And yet though they are here, they are not flaunting themselves. They are by our side, but they are never showy. There is no name inscribed upon their foreheads nor any blast of the trumpet on their lips.

Think, for example, of the gift of love. In the darkest spot on earth some love is found. I doubt if there is a man so brutal and so base that no one loves him and thrills at his approach. And yet how silent and how secret love is, hiding itself away from human eye and speaking in a momentary glance. Our poets liken love to a flower. It is red as the rose, white as the lily. Yet love is not a flower of the field; love is the treasure hidden in the field. And thousands cross the field and never see it nor do they dream of the treasure hidden there until at last, in the appointed hour, passes the traveler who understands.

It is always so with the love of man. It is always so with the love of God. God's love is here, and yet how secret and hidden it all is—-how meaningless to the blinded—till Christ has come and shown His wounded side and led us to the glory of the cross.

The Providence of Life

The same thing also is true of the gift of life. Life is the one impenetrable secret. We have it and we thank God for it, and yet the wisest does not know what it is. It is not only of the heaven of heavens when looking up we say, "Thy footsteps are not known." It is not only where the sun is shining and where beyond the sun there are the angels. The deepest mysteries are not in heaven; the deepest mysteries are not in hell. The deepest mysteries are here where we are, and know not what we are. Life looks at us in every human glance. Life speaks to us in every human voice. Life meets us riotously in the play of children. Life shines transfigured on the face of saints. And yet what is it, so near and yet so far; so strong and beautiful, and yet so frail; so evident that none can pass it by; so hidden that no human hand can reach it? It baffles science with all its mighty claims. It baffles philosophy with all its pondering. No thought can get at it. Yet it is here where you are sitting and where I am writing. God's footsteps are in the temple of my heart, and yet His footsteps are not known.

Not with the sound of a bell does God arrive when our feet are at the turning of the ways. Over the silent sea the boat approaches, but the oars are muffled and we don't hear it as it comes from the haven of the far away. Decked with the embroidery of common moments, the moments which are not common reach us. Wearing the aspect of our usual hours, our great hours of destiny arrive—and life shall never be the same again. We thought it was a common hand that touched us; we know now it was the hand of God. Ah! sirs, life would be easy if providential hours declared themselves; if they met us radiant and with an uplifted look, and cried, "I am one of thy great hours." But they never meet us in a guise like that—never betray their greatness by their bearing—we hear no sound of the approaching footsteps—thy footsteps are not known.

When Abraham rested by the door at Mamre, he saw three travelers drawing near to the tent. They were but wayfarers, thirsty and dusty, and he had no idea that they were angels. And it is always thus that the angel-hours come, wearing the garments of the undistinguished, treading on the dusty ways of life, worn with the everyday weariness of man. How many noisy hours have passed away, and left no impact upon our life. How many a little hour has been a seed, and it rooted deep and blossomed high as heaven. Yet was it borne upon the wind so noiselessly and fell so lightly that we never noticed it; and its roots are deep today and its topmost branches in the sky.

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The Secrecy of God - Page 2
by George H. Morrison

The Secrecy of God's Approaches to the Soul

You who are students of the Scripture know what a favorite thought the secrecy of God was with Jesus Christ. It is not in the whirlwind that the kingdom comes when it makes it lodgment in the heart. Christ will not strive nor cry nor lift up His voice in the streets—those steep streets that lead into the soul. The kingdom comes as if a man should sleep, and the seed should spring up he knows not how. The kingdom comes just as the leaven comes, and who is so watchful as to see it rise? When Christ was born at the inn in Bethlehem, choirs of angels were singing in the sky. And when Christ comes again there will be the sound of the trumpet and a light so bright that every eye shall see Him.

But when Christ comes into the human soul, He comes with voice so soft that none can hear it except the ear on which the message falls. Christ does not ride in uproar to the soul; Christ steals in quiet secretly. The kingdom cometh not with observation, and here the kingdom is the King. His knock is so clear that when He knocks, you hear it, but His knock is so soft that no one else can hear it. To everyone else it is an ordinary footstep, and to everyone else it is an ordinary hand. But to you there is a wound upon the hand and the print of the nails upon the feet. To you it is CHRIST, and He is yours forever in infinite and redeeming love.

The Secrecy of Christ While on Earth

Notable, too, is this element of secrecy in the life of Christ when He was here on earth. God hid Him under the garb of poverty and set Him amid the silence of the hills.

When a man has a message which he burns to make known, you know the passion that rises in his heart. You know how the beckoning hand of London calls him, and how he is restless till he has reached the capital.

But when God had a message, He despised the capital and passed it by and all the glories of it, and He sent His Son into a secret place where the wind was fresh upon the hills. There He was born, and men were in the inn jesting and drinking and knew not it was He. And kings were rioting and scholars pondering and armies marching with the imperial eagles. But not a whisper broke upon that riot nor hushed the play of the children in the streets nor fell on the legionaries with a sense of awe as at a greater captain than their own. Wrapped in the secrecy of distant Galilee, moving obscurely amid obscurer villages, shrinking when men would hail Him king, craving for Bethany in crowded streets—that was the signet on the hand of God; that was the seal of the divine procedure. The footsteps of Jesus of Nazareth were the footsteps of God, and yet His footsteps were not known.

God's Secrecy Drives Us On

So far, then, upon the spheres of evidence, and now a word or two upon the other aspect. Can we discern the spiritual uses of this great element in God's procedure? I shall tell you how it seems to me to bear upon our triumph or our failure.

In the first place the secrecy of God is meant to be a spur to drive us on. There are things which are better for us not to hear, and God has the gracious strength to keep a secret. How often have we said to someone, "Ah, how I wish you had never told me that!" We can never have the same thoughts again since that one word was whispered in our ear. And we put it away from us and it comes again, and it rises from the dead when we least wish it; and we are brought lower and we are ashamed, just because someone could not keep a secret. There are times when there is strength in speech. There are times when there is strength in silence. There are things that it was very sweet to tell, but life has been far harder since we told them. And that is why God is silent in His love and will not speak although our hearts are craving; and tomorrow we shall thank Him for the silence that seems to be almost cruelty tonight.

"My father," said Isaac, as they went up the hill, "Here is the wood, but where then is the lamb?" Poor child, so wistful and so happy, it would have been cruelty to have told him that. And so with us who are but wistful children, speech may be cruel and secrecy may be kind. When we reach the hilltop we shall see; and seeing we shall understand.

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The Secrecy of God - Page 3
by George H. Morrison

The Secrecy of God Should Give Us Hope

There is hope for the world and there is hope for men when we can say, "God's footsteps are not known." The footsteps of sin and vice are always known. There is nothing unobtrusive about them. They leave their print of filthiness and blood on every pavement and on every newspaper. And that is why a thousand men are pessimists, for these reeking footsteps are before them and they forget that God is also there—-only His footsteps are not known.

Let some drunken husband kill his wife tonight, and you shall hear all about it in tomorrow's newspaper. And any scoundrel may have his doings published there so that any child can read about them. But thousands of homes were very happy yesterday and wives were singing and children were playing, but you shall read nothing in the papers about that. All that is of God, for love is of God; but then, you see, God's footsteps are not known. And no one buys the paper to read that, and it is not at all notorious or flaunting. And what I say is that you must remember that sin is riotous and God's way is in the still, small voice—-or hope will go and hearts will be embittered and faith will die into the cold of death.

God's Secrecy Keeps Us Faithful

And then, in closing, the secrecy of God is surely meant by God to keep us faithful. It is the pattern for our everyday life. It is given to help us on our daily round.

Rarely are we summoned to great deeds. To many of us they never come at all. We are not beckoned along the shining road to anything that might arrest the attention of the world. We make our journey by a quiet way, with crosses that are commonplace and duties that are ordinary duties unlustered by any sparkle of glory.

There are blessings in a life like that, and there are hardships too. We miss the excitement and the music and the cheering. And it is on that level road when we are a little disheartened and discouraged that we should recall the secrecy of God.

When a man is famous, his footsteps are well known. He is not nearer God on that account. From the tiniest violet up to Jesus Christ, God moves in quiet and unobtrusive paths. And if it is thus He lavishes His beauty and makes His infinite sacrifice of love, we can be very near Him in our calling.

His way is in the sea, and so let mine be. Let me live and work where there is depth and freedom. His footsteps are not known—ah! happy God, who hast thus chosen to reveal Thyself. So would I move apart and live unknown and never seek the clamor and the show; for love is not there with gladness in its eyes, nor does the road to the kingdom lie that way.

January 31

Drink From the Depths - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

"He... gave them drink as out of the great depths." Psa_78:15

The psalmist is here reviewing the providence of God that sustained the children of Israel in the desert. That providence had made a deep impression on him, and he delights to dwell upon its wonders. There is a sense, I believe, in which the poet is really the best of all historians. He sees by the gift of a trained imagination into the hearts of men and the character of movements. And though he may lack the minute and critical knowledge that is in the keeping of laborious students, yet he often brings us nearer to the truth than the man who discovers and refutes his errors.

One often feels that it is so with the psalmist, and especially when he is dealing with the Exodus. For him the miracles that marked that journey were not isolated and solitary splendors. They were rather the discoveries of that power which is everywhere present and everywhere upholding; only in other lives they dealt with small numbers of people while here in the Exodus they are with large numbers.

Take for example the water from the rock of which the psalmist is speaking in our text. The wonder that God gave them water as out of the great depths comes to him in a flash. He sees the Israelites crowding around the rock and saying in their hearts, "This cannot last long." He sees them watching for the supply to fail as, of course, coming from a rock, it must soon do. And then he sees their look of wild surprise when it dawns on them that the stream is inexhaustible and is fed by channels they know nothing of, from boundless and unfathomable reservoirs.

What the people crave for is a draught of water, and God in His mercy gives them their desire. But He fills their cups, not from a little cistern, but as from some illimitable ocean. And the psalmist knows that that is always true, for whenever the Almighty satisfies His creatures, He gives them to drink as out of the great depths.

All Nature Depends on God's Goodness

Think, then, for a moment of the world of nature as it unfolds itself in all its beauty around us. There is not a bird or beast, there is not a tree or flower, but is ministered to in the way our text describes. I take the tiniest weed that roots among the stones—the flower in the crannied wall of which the poet speaks—and I ask, What does it need to live; what does it need that it may flower and fruit? The answer is that it needs a little warmth; it needs an occasional moistening with rain.

Now in a certain measure that is true, but you can never stop there in this mysterious universe. At the back of the warmth which it needs, there is the sun; and at the back of every raindrop, there is sky and ocean. And it takes the sun and sea and the white cloud of heaven to satisfy that tiniest weed among the stones, which may come to its delicate beauty only to be unregarded and perhaps crushed by a passing foot.

Try to explain the light that a rose needs, and you are carried into the depths of solar energy. Look at the raindrop on the hedge—has it not been drawn "out of the boundless deep"? And so there is not a rose in any garden nor a leaf that unfolds itself on any tree that is not ever whispering to the hearing ear, "He gave me drink as out of the great depths."

Again, think of our senses for a moment—think of our sight and hearing, for example. One of the plainest facts about our senses is the different way they translate what they receive.

To one man a rose is just a rose and no more. To another, in the smallest flower there are thoughts that often lie too deep for tears. And it is not the eye alone that differentiates, it is the life that is hidden deep behind the eye; He giveth them drink as out of the great depths.

Two men may listen to a piece of music, and one, as he listens, is profoundly stirred by it. There seems to pass before him, as he listens, visions of what is high and fair and beautiful. And he hears the calling of his brightest hopes and the cry of regret for all his wasted years and the stooping over him again of faces that he has loved long since and lost awhile. All this is kindled in some hearts by music—this burning of hope and haunting of regret; yet play that very piece before another, and it is sound and fury, signifying nothing.

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Drink From the Depths - Page 2
by George H. Morrison

Is not the ear of a dead person perfect? Is not every membrane and convolution there? Yet call to it or whisper to it passionately, and will it play its part and carry the news of love? Yesterday there would have been a smile of recognition; there is not a flicker of response today.

So at the back of every sense we have there is a depth that can never be fathomed. All that a man is, looks through his eyes. All that his soul is, listens through his ears. If the eye could speak or if the ear could speak, would they not echo the language of the text, "He gave us drink as out of the great depths?"

The Common Joy and Sorrow of Mankind

Again let us think for a moment of God's ways in providence—in the ordering and
discipline of our lives. One of the lessons we learn as we grow older is that our discipline is not exceptional. When we are young our joys are all our own; we never dream that others could have known them. When we are young we take our little sorrows as if there were no such sorrows in the world. And much of the bitterness of childish trial lies in its terrible sense of isolation; in the feeling that in the whole wide world there is no one who has had to suffer just like us. It seems as if God has cut a special channel for us out of which no other life has ever drunk. In joy and grief, in sunshine and in shadow, we seem to move apart when we are children. But as life advances and our outlook broadens, and we learn the story of the lives around us, then we see that we are not alone but are being made to drink of the great depths.

It is not by exceptional providence's that we live. It is not by exceptional joys we are enriched. It is not by anything rare or strange or singular that we are fashioned under the hand of God. It is by sorrows that are as old as man, by trials that a thousand hearts have felt, by joys that are common as the wind is common that breathes on the palace and on the poorest street. By these things do we live; by these we grow; by love and tears, by trials, by work, by death; by the things that link us all into a brotherhood, the things that are common to ten thousand hearts. And it is when we come to recognize that truth and to feel our comradeship within a common discipline, that we say, as the psalmist said of Israel, "He gave us drink as out of the great depths."

The Everlasting Word of God

Now there is one thing that always arrests me in the Bible. It is that the Bible is such an ancient book, and yet is so intensely modern and practical. Think of the ages which have fled since it was written and how "heaven and earth have passed away" since then; think of our cities and of the life we live in them and of the stress and strain unknown in the quiet Bible times. To me it is wonderful, when I reflect upon it, that the Bible should be of any use at all now, and should not rather have moved into the quiet of libraries to be the joy of the unworldly scholar.

But if there is one thing certain it is this—-the Bible meets the need of modern life. In spite of all criticism, as a practical guide there is no book to touch it. There is not a problem you are called to face and not a duty you are called to do; there is not a cross you are compelled to carry and not a burden you are forced to bear, but your strength for it all shall be as the strength of ten if you make a daily companion of your Bible. Now this is what you feel about the Bible, that it never offers a draught from shallow waters. You do not find there a set of petty maxims, but you find the everlasting love of God there. You do not find any shallow views of sin there, but a Lamb slain from the foundation of the world. And that is the secret of the Bible's permanence, when our little systems have had their day and ceased to be, then for sin and sorrow and life and death and duty, it gives us to drink as out of the great depths.

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Drink From the Depths - Page 3
by George H. Morrison

The Depths of Jesus Christ

And think for a moment upon Jesus—-of Jesus in relation to His words. If ever words were as water to a thirsty world, surely it was the words that Jesus spoke. How simple they were, and yet how deep! How tender and full of love, and yet how searching! They seemed to pierce into the very heart till a man felt that his secret thought was known.

Now there are men whose lives so contradict their words that when you know the men you cannot listen to them. And there are men who are so much less than their own words that when you come to know them you are disappointed. But what people felt about Jesus Christ was that when all was uttered, the half was never told, for at the back of all His words there was Himself, deeper unfathomable than His deepest speech. That is why the words of Christ will live even when heaven and earth have passed away. You can exhaust the cup or drain the goblet dry, but you cannot exhaust the spring fed from the deeps. And just because the words of Jesus Christ spring from the depths of that divine humanity, they will save and strengthen the obedient heart to the last recorded syllable of time.

February 1

The Witness of Locality - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

"He let it fall in the midst of their camp." Psa_78:28

The writer of this noble psalm is meditating upon the past of Israel. He is recalling the wonders of the Exodus. He sings of how God fed the wanderers both with the manna and the quails. He gave them bread from heaven to eat and continued giving it in spite of all ingratitude.

But not only was the supply from God, there was another feature which impressed the poet, and it is this he writes of in our text. That bread might have been rained from heaven in places very difficult to reach. The quails might have fallen far away in regions almost inaccessible. And what impressed the poet was that God did not give His bounty in such a way—He let it fall in the midst of their camp. The gift was not far away from them. It did not call for any tiring journey. They had no long distances to travel to secure the necessities of life. God's gracious bounty, new to them every morning, fell just where they were—and the quick eye of the poet noticed that.

"The Word Is Nigh Thee"

Then one thinks how true that is of other heavenly blessings than the manna. It is true, for instance, of the Bible—"The word is nigh thee, even in thy mouth." When we read a confession or a catechism, we feel that it is very far away. The truth it embodies is remote from the beating of the human heart. But the wonderful thing about the Bible is that it is not only the most divine of books. It is that, but it is also the most human. It comes right into these sinful lives of ours, portraying them and understanding them. There is the throb of the human heart in it as well as the throb of the great heart of God. Our joys and sorrows, our victories and failures, our hours of triumph and the shadows on them, all these are mirrored on the pages of the Bible. It can never be treated just like other books. It is one great mark of inspiration that the Bible is not far away from life. He lets it fall in the midst of the camp.

Christ Was Born Among the Multitudes

And think how true this is of that unspeakable event, the Incarnation. In the fullness of the time God gave His Son. In palaces there is a certain isolation; they are remote from the common haunts of men. Even a cottage is a place withdrawn when within the cottage is a woman in travail. But not in a palace nor even in a cottage was our blessed Lord brought into our midst—He was born in the manger of an inn. Men were gathered there from every quarter. The world in miniature was there. Travelers had reached that inn by lonely roads, but it was not on lonely roads they found the Babe. They found Him amid a gathering of folks drawn from every section of society in the welcome afforded by an inn. The Child was born where there were human voices and all the stir and confusion of a crowd, where some were sleeping and others eating and many telling the adventures of the road. Where there was light and noise and the throb of human life, the Bread from heaven was bestowed at Bethlehem. He let it fall in the midst of the camp.

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The Witness of Locality - Page 2
by George H. Morrison

And this marked all the ministry of Jesus, distinguishing it from that of John the Baptist, for the Baptist was a solitary figure loving the lonely spaces of the desert. When men wanted to inquire of John, they had to go out and seek him in the wilderness. When they wanted to inquire of Jesus, they found Him on their trodden ways. He was a lover of the haunts of men, no stranger to their lowly cottages, sitting where the common people sat and perfectly familiar with the crowd. He gave them bread from heaven to eat, and it was given just as was the manna. He never reserved it for the monastic shelter nor for the quietness of the academy. He healed men and He taught men in the places where they lived and toiled, in the dull routine of daily living. In the fields, down by the seashore, in the narrow streets of unimportant hamlets, in the rooms of overcrowded cottages, in the thronged meeting-places of the cities, there He fed them with that wisdom which dwelt with God before ever the earth was (Pro_8:23)—He let it fall in the midst of the camp.

The Rich Provision of the Gospel Today

Equally does this apply to the rich provision of the Gospel now. We do not need to leave our place to gather it: it is given in the places where we are. The promises are not for imaginary circumstances; the promises are for here and now. The offered adequacy of the Holy Spirit is always available for us today. The fellowship of the Lord Jesus with all its cleansing and uplifting is not for the rare hours of mountain vision but for the common hours of ordinary life. Peace and joy are not for a few choice saints who move apart from the heavy cares of men. Serenity was never meant by heaven only for those who are withdrawn from things. The great distinction of the Gospel is that all its blessings are for common people immersed in the care and business of the hour. What struck this poet was that heaven's supply fell right among the places where people tabernacled. That is why God has poets in the Bible, because they see what others never notice. For this poet there was a wealth of meaning, which it has taken the ages to unfold, in the fact that when God gave bread from heaven, He let it fall in the midst of their camp.

February 2

Limiting God

"They... limited the Holy One of Israel." Psa_78:41

Sometimes we fall into the sin of limiting God to the greater hours of our life. I take it that all of us are so tempted. When the Syrians were fighting Israel they found they were always beaten on the hills, from which they gathered that the God of Israel was a God of the hills and not of the valleys. And this exclusion of the will of God from the peaceful and lowly valley-land of life is not confined to Syrian mentality. Every life has its dramatic hours and knows the exhilaration of the heights. In such hours, "so nigh to God is man," we often are strangely conscious of His presence.

But to limit the Holy One of Israel to our rarer moments on the hills is to miss the wonder of His fellowship. He is as near us in the dreary day as in the day when all the birds are singing. He is as close to us in lowly duty as in the hours that are going to alter everything. He is present in the lilies of the field, according to the teaching of our Lord, as magnificently as in the earthquake or the storm. Do not confine God to the big things as if these alone lay upon His heart. Never reserve Him for the greater moments as if He had no feeling for the lesser ones. To do so is to fall into the sin which is recorded here against the ancient Jews. It is to limit the Holy One of Israel.

We Limit God in the Use of Human Instruments

We are so ready to forget His sovereignty. It is true that often, when God has work to do, His choice of instruments at once commends itself. The man He chooses is exquisitely fitted for the peculiar task that is allotted him. But very often it is the other way—God's choice is mysterious and sovereign—the whole of history is one long commentary on the unlikely instruments of heaven. He wants a nation which shall bless the world, and He chooses a company of slaves in Egypt. He wants a messenger to carry doom to Eli, and He chooses Samuel, a little child. He wants a cradle for the beloved Son whose name is to be above every name, and He chooses a manger in the inn at Bethlehem.

I believe in an educated ministry. I trust we shall always have it in our land. It is one of the proudest boasts of Scotland that we have always had an educated ministry. But how often when we were priding ourselves upon our education, God in His sovereign fashion has come and put us all to shame by the preaching of uneducated men. You cannot limit the shining of the sun, and the Lord God is a sun. You cannot limit the breathing of the wind, and the Holy Ghost is like the wind. Men must watch when they want to keep their pulpits from the preaching of unordained servants lest they be limiting the Holy One of Israel.

Limiting God in Our Prayers

Or again, aren't we often tempted to limit God in the matter of our prayers? We confine Him to one expected answer. What if our blessed Savior had done that? What if He had limited the Father? What if the only answer He would tolerate had been the passing of the bitter cup? Then we would never have had Calvary nor the blood that keeps the sinner from despair, nor the victorious power of His resurrection. I remember a chaplain saying to me in France that if the Germans won the war, he'd lose his faith. In the mercy of God, the Germans did not win. But there are few things more perilous in prayer than to make one's faith conditional, and that is what the Savior never did. He never said, "This cup must pass from me, or I shall cease to trust the love of heaven." He said, "Father, if it be possible...nevertheless thy will not mine be done." And always we must bear that in mind when we cry for anything upon our knees lest, even in our holiest moments, we limit the Holy One of Israel.

Limiting God in His Power

Lastly, are we not prone to limit God in regard to the compass of His power? We have many instances of that in Scripture. When, for instance, Jairus' daughter died, the servants went hurrying through the streets to Jairus. And when they found him, they cried, "Sir, she is dead. There is no use troubling Jesus any further."

What they meant was that as long as she was living there always was the hope that He might cure her. There was no such hope now that she was dead. They were limiting the power of Jesus. There were certain things that were beyond Him. And sometimes when we view society today, are we not subject to the same temptation? God keep us all, who are praying for revival and for the coming of His kingdom in the world, from limiting the Holy One of Israel.

February 3

God's Self-Limitation - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

"God... delivered his strength into captivity." Psa_78:61

These words in their primary and historical reference refer to the taking captive of the Ark of God by the Philistines. What a terrific calamity that seemed to Israel! They thought that the glory of Israel had departed. To the whole world it looked as if God were overcome, as if some power had arisen that was really superior to God, or as if there was something in the world that would ultimately baffle and defeat His purposes. You can understand how, to a religious nation like the Jews, it was a tremendous and terrifying thought, as, of course, it ought to be to every man. And then this inspired writer came along being illuminated by the divine Spirit, and puts a different meaning on the whole thing—says that God designed it, says in his own poetic language that God, nobody else, God delivered His strength into captivity.

Don't you see in a moment how that thought would animate and inspire Israel? It was not enemies who had defeated God, it was God who had deliberately done it. God had not exercised His own omnipotence; He had self-limited Himself. And if we could only understand how God, not only with the Ark for that was typical, but right down the centuries, has voluntarily delivered His strength into captivity, I think it might confirm our faith.

God's Sovereign Will

Well now, let's consider the thought of God's sovereign will. The one jubilant note of the whole Bible is that God's will in itself is sovereign. "I formed the light and I created the darkness. I am God and there is none beside me." Anyone who imagines that there is any will in the universe that can ultimately thwart God is not making the Bible his rule of faith and life. Of course, that does not mean that God's will is arbitrary. God limits His rule of many things just because He is love. As Butler said in his own deep way, "God's being is a kind of law to His working." All God's workings must be love if He is love. But it does mean that God's will in itself is irresistible, that nothing can ever ultimately baffle it, that there is no rival in heaven or in hell who can ever stand against the will of God. Don't you see how that thought is bound up with the ringing note of triumph of the Bible? You have no assurance for the future of the world, but for the future of yourself, and yourself strangely corresponds to the greater progress of the world.

What a great comfort when a man can say, "This is the will of God, even our sanctification." Poor, weak sinners baffled every day, it is God's will that ultimately we will be clothed in white. But if God's will can be thwarted, if there are powers abroad that limit His sovereignty, why, you and I in every effort may be just beating the air. Nothing may come of it. You know that makes life impossible, and therefore all the depths in your heart corroborate the jubilant assurance of the Bible. If it did not it would not be the Bible because the deepest mark of inspiration is within, and if the Bible did not correspond with all the voices from the depths of your heart, you might lay it aside as not being inspired. But when you come to the Lord Jesus, you find the Lord Jesus teaching you to pray, "Thy will be done."

Now if God's will is an irresistible will, and if it is always exercised as an irresistible will, why should you and I pray, "Thy will be done"? It will be done whether you pray or not; it will be done whether you help or not. It must be done if it is exercised as a sovereign will. Don't you see you are faced by this dilemma, though nobody likes the argument of a dilemma—either the will of God is not omnipotent (a thought that is intolerable to the human heart) or else for wise, holy purposes, when God is dealing with mankind, He does not totally exercise His sovereign will—He delivers His strength into captivity. And don't you see what His wise and holy purposes are?

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God's Self-Limitation - Page 2
by George H. Morrison

Fellow-Workers With God

My father used to spend his leisure in editing books, and I remember once, just when I was about to finish school, he was editing one of the cantos of Childe Harold. He had the introduction all shaped out and most of his notes were blocked, and he turned to me and said, "I am very busy. I want you to complete the editing of this book for me." You know, to this hour, I have never forgotten it. To this hour I remember the joy and pride I felt when I was called to be a fellow-worker with my father.

And if God's will for mankind were sovereign, if it just had to be, you could not be a fellow-worker with God. It would not make the least difference what you did, whether you prayed or worked or gave. God is so passionately eager that you and I, His children, should be raised up to the joy and honor of being fellow-workers with Him that He just does not exercise the sovereignty He might—He delivers His strength into captivity, limits Himself that His children may help Him. Surely that is a motive worthy of a father, and that is just the name that Jesus gives Him.

I don't want to be philosophical, but you might put it another way. You might think of the purpose. Well, now, if you are going to be a fellow-worker with a man, that man must have a purpose. If a man has a purpose for building a house, every mason, every bricklayer is a fellow-worker with him. If a shipbuilder has a purpose for building a ship, then the whole labor force can be fellow-workers with him. If a man has no purpose, you cannot be a fellow-worker with him. And it is just so with man and God.

Self. Limitation

But does it ever occur to you that to have a purpose is to limit yourself? The builder would not take months to build the house if he could do it like the palace of Aladdin, all in a moment. The shipbuilder would not spend years and millions if he could create a ship just in an hour. And don't you see, if God limits Himself, if God doesn't complete His purposes in a moment, if God doesn't say in the slums of Glasgow, "Let there be light," as He once said in chaos, it is because He is limiting Himself for a purpose. And only in a purpose can you and I, His children, ever be fellow-workers with Him. I don't have the least doubt that the sovereign will of God could convert Africa just as we worship here; I don't have the least doubt that He could change Ireland and make it in a moment the Island of the Saints, but He does not. Don't you see that if He did, you and I, His children, could never be His fellow-workers? I think if we could only grasp that thought, it might help to explain a good deal of the suffering in the world. It is the suffering of being sharers in a purpose.

Take, for instance, the great French general who commanded at Verdun. Well now, why did he struggle on there? Because he had the purpose of saving France. Not only he, but every man down to the foot soldier shared in his purpose of saving France. They knew perfectly well that if wounds, pain or death came, all was bound up in the purpose which they shared with their general. If God has a great purpose, and if the Lord says, "Thy will be done," we have got to share it; and if it is a purpose in which suffering is inevitable in such a world as this, doesn't it cast a good deal of light upon much of the suffering in the world?

The Conviction That We Are Free

I am quite certain there is no Christian who, when he makes a choice, does not feel that that choice is a real choice, determined by himself. We all recognize that much of our battle is fixed for us by heredity, but there is not one of us who does not know in his heart that his fate is in his own hands. We are free creatures.

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God's Self-Limitation - Page 3
by George H. Morrison

And don't you see why God made us like that? God's purpose was love; God wanted beings who could be in fellowship with Himself. It would be an awful thing to be a lonely God. God wanted beings who could share His purpose, think His thoughts after Him, enter into His will, pray to Him, be His children. And no one could do that unless he were free. God could easily have made us mechanical so that sin would have been impossible, so that everything we did would have been automatic. Do you think God could ever have shared His thoughts and purpose with beings like that? Don't you see, the moment He made us free, He delivered His strength into captivity? God has created something with which He cannot interfere. The one thing God can never do, for His gifts are without repentance, is to smash and shatter our freedom by the intrusion of omnipotence. God can do just what He does in Christ—He can woo, He can appeal, He can try to win, He can breathe His spirit on each one of us; but if we misuse our freedom, not even God will break in with His omnipotence to make it impossible.

And yet people say, Why does God allow sin? God does not allow sin. Why does God allow the slums of Glasgow? Why did God allow war? God never allows war. God, wanting beings to have fellowship with Him, made us free, and not even God, having made us free, will bring His omnipotence to stop us when our freewill misused gives us sin, misery, slums and war.

When God made us free, He delivered His strength into captivity, and in that sense it is in captivity still. Without our freedom what a poor, miserable thing life would be. I think all that is perhaps corroborated by a very deep feeling that God's children have that they can disappoint Him. If a child does something that is wrong, he disappoints his mother or his father, or a husband may disappoint his wife, and you and I can disappoint God. My dear brother, if our sin was predetermined from all eternity, we could not disappoint God, and there could be no joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth.

Christ Was Delivered for Us

Let us consider the thought for a moment in connection with Christ. Don't you see how it all comes to its climax, how God delivered His strength into captivity when He gave His only-be-gotten Son for you and me? He had done it before in regard to His sovereign will when He created free beings—He had done it because He was love. And then, in His own way, He did it to its utmost when He gave the Lord—He did it because He was love. "God so loved the world that He gave"—-delivered Him to the captivity of the virgin's womb, delivered Him to the captivity of the body that had been prepared for Him so that the Lord emptied Himself and took on Him the form of a servant. Did you ever think how often the word "delivered" is used of the Lord Jesus Christ? "He was delivered to the high priest." "Pilate released Barabbas and delivered Jesus." "He was delivered by the counsel and foreknowledge of God." But most beautiful of all: "He was delivered for our offenses." Christ was the strength of God, and God delivered His strength into captivity. The marvelous and beautiful thing is just this, that by that deliverance you and I are saved.

February 4

Refusing to Go Back

"So will not we go back from thee." Psa_80:18

To go back from God is to desert Him. It is to turn away the footsteps of our heart from Him. It is to doubt the vision we have had of Him in our more intense and illumined moments.

To determine that whatever comes, we shall not go back from God, is one of the open secrets of the saints. To cling to Him when life is difficult and we are tempted to question if He cares; to believe in Him with a simple childlike faith when clouds and darkness hide His throne—this is one of the triumphs of the spirit which makes the humblest life a thing of victory and brings it to the sunrise at the end.

When Mallory and Irvine were last seen climbing Everest, they were "going strong for the top." From that top, a thousand feet above them, nothing could turn them back. What a great victory it would be for all of us were we to say, like these heroic climbers, So we shall not go back from Thee.

When Things Eternal Grow Dim

We are tempted sometimes to go back from God by the apparent indifference of heaven. There are seasons of the soul when things unseen are touched with a strange sense of unreality. The lamp that burns upon my study table is as nothing to the radiance of the moon. But then the lamp is near me, and I read by it till I grow oblivious of the moon.

And so there are seasons when the things around us so grip us in their vividness that things eternal tend to grow unreal. At such times we do not renounce God, but we are often tempted to go back from Him. We grow oblivious to His peace and light and there passes a certain deadness over us as the winter, and we forfeit the joy of our salvation. Prayer becomes a chore; the Bible loses its fragrance and its dew. We are in the dark night of the soul and lying under spiritual desertion. But even so (observe the psalmist's word) the true heart will cry out of the darkness, "We will not go back from thee." To cling to God and His great love to us when things grow dim and shadowy and distant, to affirm God to our own souls in the hours when the unseen is as a dream is one of the tasks of all who claim the name of Christ. "So will not we go back from thee."

We are also tempted to this retrogression in hours when all the lights are burning low. None is so strong that he does not now and then have fainting spells. We lose heart, and a dull depression seizes on our spirits. We move on the flat margins of despair, and are all tempted to go back from God as the disciples were tempted to go back from Christ.

To be perfect as our heavenly Father is a standard that often seems impossible. Is it any use striving to be holy with these insurgent and rebellious hearts? Is not sainthood for rare and elect souls, and beyond the compass of our common clay? So are we tempted to take the lower road, thinking it more on the level of our powers, and we settle down into second best. That is the tragedy of many lives—they have settled down into the second best. They had visions once of the summit of Mount Everest; now they are content to dwell below it. But the real victory of this life of ours is not to gain the summit we have seen; it is to keep on climbing to the end. God's best in Christ is not for elect souls. It is for everyone who trusts Him. Things that are impossible with man are possible with God, and in spite of all our failures, we shall not go back from Thee.

February 11

Forgiveness and the Cross

"There is forgiveness with thee, that thou mayest be feared." Psa_130:4
"In whom we have redemption through his blood, even the forgiveness of sins." Col_1:14

There are millions of people for whom divine forgiveness is a great and thrilling fact. They could no more doubt it than they could doubt their being. Quite possibly they do not understand it, but one can enjoy things he doesn't understand. We daily use and enjoy a hundred things of whose nature we are ignorant. I light my room with electricity or revel in a glorious summer morning though I know practically nothing about electricity or the sun. And among these things stands out divine forgiveness as the greatest. For millions it is an experienced reality. It is the spring of joy, the source of liberty, the starting-point of victorious endeavor. Forgiven, the barriers are gone that raised themselves between the soul and God. Estrangement from their Creator has given place to sweet communion.

Why Was the Death of Jesus Necessary?

But the difficulty for many people is how forgiveness comes through the death of the Lord Jesus. Why can't a God of love forgive His children as the father of the prodigal forgave his son? When a wife forgives her husband, she doesn't need the intervention of another. She forgives him just because she loves him with a love that expects a brighter tomorrow. When a father forgives his erring child, it is a private and personal transaction where the intrusion of anyone else would be impertinence. Why, then, should our heavenly Father call for more than a repentant heart? Why should restoration to communion demand the agony and death of Jesus?

This difficulty is often aggravated by the glorious ringing note of the Old Testament: "There is forgiveness with thee that thou mayest be feared, and plenteous redemption that thou mayest be sought unto." Well, men say, that is enough for me, I needn't complicate matters by the cross; and they forget that the Old Testament is never final but rather God's avenue leading to the new. I give a child an apple, and tell him to eat it for it is good for him. It is only afterwards that the child learns why that apple should be healthful. A little boy puts coals on the fire, confident that they will warm the room. But why the coals should have their warming properties he only learns when he goes to school or college. That is heaven's universal ordering, first the fact and then the explanation. Life would be impossible to live if we could not use things till we understood them. And as God orders the whole of human life, so He does with Scripture, first proclaiming the eternal truth and then showing us the secret of it. The cross of the New Testament is not an intrusion on an old simplicity. The cross does not complicate forgiveness: it explains it and shows how it is possible. "There is forgiveness with thee," cries the psalmist; and the New Testament interprets that—Yes, there is forgiveness through the blood.

God's Divine Assurance

Surely it is evident that without the cross we could have no assurance of divine forgiveness. It is only in the life and death of Jesus that we can be perfectly sure of a forgiving God. God reveals Himself in nature. Could we be perfectly certain of forgiveness there? Even though nature carries glimpses of it, are these sufficient to assure the heart? Neither in nature nor in human history is there the luminous proof the sinner needs that there is forgiveness with God. That proof is given in Christ, and in Christ only. Only in the life and death of Christ can we be perfectly sure that God forgives. When we see Him dying on the cross for us in a redeeming love that traveled to the uttermost, God's forgiveness becomes certainty. A child in his earthly home needs no such argument. He is perfectly familiar with his father. He sees him every evening and has his kiss before he falls asleep. But the heavenly Father is different from that—-clouds and darkness are about His throne—and so His children need for their assurance something that our children never do.

Again, we must not forget that earthly fatherhood can never exhaust the fullness of the Deity. In Him lies the fount of moral order without which life would be intolerable. A father at home who is a judge may freely forgive his child, but he cannot act like that on the bench. The morale of the State would go to pieces if the judge were to act just as the father does. He is to administer the law, and were every repentant prisoner forgiven, law would become a byword and a joke. That, as one of the Reformers put it, was a problem worthy of God—how to maintain and magnify the law, and yet freely forgive the transgressor; and God's answer is the cross of Christ. There we learn what heaven thinks of sin. There sin is seen in all its awfulness. There we behold the grandeur of the law in the very glance that tells us of forgiveness. The pardon of God is not the worthless pardon of an easy and tolerant good nature. He is just, and the justifier of all them that believe.

February 12

The Gifts of Sleep - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

"He giveth his beloved (in) sleep." Psa_127:2

If we take the words of our text just as they stand, they are charged with deep and beautiful significance. They tell us what our own experience confirms, that sleep is the gift of God. The world has gifts which it gives to its favorite children. It loads them with wealth or honor or fame. But God deals otherwise with His beloved, for "He giveth to his beloved sleep."

It would, of course, be very wrong to say that sleeplessness is a mark of the divine displeasure. A man may be wrapt in the gracious peace of God, yet seek in vain the refreshment of sleep. Yet it is true that sleep, when it is given, is such a medicine for the weary and worn, that it can be nothing less than the gift of love. I think of Jesus in the storm-tossed boat, asleep on the pillow when everyone else was running around in wild alarm. I think of Peter fast asleep in prison when the coming morning was to bring his execution. I think of the tired worker when nightfall comes, and the sufferer who has been racked with pain through weary hours, and I learn how tenderly and deeply true it is that "He giveth his beloved sleep." Nor can anyone ever ignore that sweetest of all suggestions wherein the word is whispered over the sleep of death. A thousand memories of shadows and tears have clustered around that interpretation. It is when the fever breaks that one sleeps well, and when the struggle of life has ended and quiet peace has fallen, then love, through the mist of weeping, murmurs: "So he giveth his beloved sleep."

The Stress and Strain of Life

But though that is a comforting and blessed truth, it is not the true interpretation of the words. If you read the verse in relation to its context, you will see that that could hardly be the meaning. The psalmist is warning against overwork which degenerates into worry. He is picturing the man who overdrives himself until he has no rest and no peace. And all this pressure and nervous activity is not only a sin in the sight of God, it is also, says the psalmist, a mistake. It is vain for you to rise up early and to sit up late. You will never gain the choicest things that way. Let a man be nervous, overworked and tired, and he is sure to miss the worthiest and the best. God giveth to His beloved in sleep—when they are at rest like a child within its cradle, when they are free from that turbulence of wild desire in which the still small voice is quite inaudible.

Remember that the psalmist never dreamed of casting a slur on honest, manly labor. He knew too well the blessings that we gain, and the sins that we are saved from, by our work. What was borne in on his soul was that by overwork we lose more than we gain, for many of the richest gifts of heaven only approach us through the path of slumber. It is imperative that the soul should be held passive if we are to have the inflow of His grace. It is imperative that its uproar should be hushed if we are to hear the still, small voice. And it is that which the psalmist hints at here, when, in the intense language of a poet, he cries to men, "Your stress and strain are vanity; God giveth to His beloved in sleep."

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The Gifts of Sleep - Page 2
by George H. Morrison

The Blessings of Infancy

There is a world of love encompassing an infant, yet how unconscious the baby is of it all! When our Savior was drawing near the cross, He said to His disciples, "I go to prepare a place for you," and they knew from that hour that when they awoke in glory, they would find that all was ready for their coming.

But not only in the land beyond the river is a place prepared for everyone God loves. When into this present life a child comes, hearts have been busy with preparation. Stooping over the little one is a mother's love and all the splendor of a mother's patience. Shielding it is a father's strength and eagerness to provide for all its needs. And it is clothed and fed with food convenient and rocked to sleep and sheltered from the storm. And should it become ill, the best skill in the city is not good enough for the tiny sufferer. What a wealth of love and care is here, yet what is more passive than that little infant! Have these small hands helped in the preparation? Has that little mind done any of the planning? Helpless it lies, and-doomed to certain death, if life depended on its puny efforts. But "God giveth to his beloved in sleep"; He has prepared for His children, too.

The Pursuit of Happiness

If anywhere in life, it is in pleasure-seeking that it is vain to rise up early and to sit up late. Not when we are determined, come what may, to have a pleasant and a happy life does God bestow the music of the heart. He gives it when there is forgetfulness of self and the struggle to be true to what is highest though the path be through the valley of the shadow. The one sure way to miss the gift of happiness is to rise early looking for it and to sit up late waiting for it. To be bent at every cost on a good time is the sure harbinger of dreary days. It is when we have the courage to forget all that and to lift up our hearts to do the will of God that, like a swallow darting out from under the eaves, happiness falls upon us with glad surprise. Had Jesus lived just that He might be happy, He certainly would have escaped the cross. No one would have laughed Him to scorn in Jairus' house; no one would have pierced His hands and feet. But He came not to be ministered unto, but to minister and to give His life a ransom for many; and so you find Him talking of His joy. Brethren, remember that nine-tenths of our unhappiness is selfishness and is an insult cast in the face of God. But the way to be happy is not to seek happiness. It is to be awake to what is higher and asleep to self-satisfaction. And then, as time passes, comes the discovery that God giveth to His beloved in sleep.

Heaven, the Gift of Sleep

The last gift of a kind God is heaven, and God giveth it to His beloved in sleep. We can never know how it would have been had man not sinned and fallen. Like Enoch, man would have walked with God till his never-halting footsteps brought him home. But death has passed upon all men for that all have sinned; yet "O death, where is thy victory?" God makes death's foul embrace His opportunity; He giveth to His beloved while they sleep. As one stands with sorrowing heart beside the dead and looks on him from whom the breath has flown, it is very strengthening and soothing to say, "God giveth sleep to his beloved." But isn't it better to lift our eyes to heaven and, thinking of its liberty and joy, say, "He giveth to his beloved in sleep."

This post will be way lame after BEPs poetic submission, however because it encompasses dreams I feel compelled to testify that God whispers to me in the night while I sleep.... I've had several dreams "come true".  The Lord has shown me His hand  and it's always while I'm sleeping.  Sometimes it takes days, weeks or even months for me to see it ~ but it's there and after so many years I've learned to recognize it for what it is:   Grace.

Blessings-
Terri 

Sister Terri,

I think that the Morrison devotions are at least 100 years old, but I think they are still beautiful and timely. Our REST is in a Living Lord and Saviour, JESUS CHRIST. Our PEACE with God is only through JESUS CHRIST. Our LEADING is through the Holy Spirit of God. We are CHILDREN OF THE KING OF KINGS!

Love In Christ,
Tom

Isaiah 55:10-11 NASB  "For as the rain and the snow come down from heaven, And do not return there without watering the earth And making it bear and sprout, And furnishing seed to the sower and bread to the eater; So will My word be which goes forth from My mouth; It will not return to Me empty, Without accomplishing what I desire, And without succeeding in the matter for which I sent it.

February 13

The Searching of God - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

"O Lord, thou hast searched me, and known me." Psa_139:1

We are prone to associate the searching work of God with events of a striking or memorable kind. It is in great calamities and overwhelming sorrow that we feel with particular vividness God's presence. When Job was in the enjoyment of prosperity, he was an eminently reverent man; but it was in the hour of his black and bitter midnight that he cried out, "The hand of God hath touched me." And that same spirit dwells in every breast so that God's searching comes to be associated with hours when life is shaken to its depths. Now the point to be noted is that in this psalm the writer is not thinking of such hours. There is no trace that he has suffered terribly or been plunged into irreparable loss. "Thou knowest my downsitting and my uprising"—my usual, ordinary, daily life—it was there that the psalmist recognized the searching; it was there that he awoke to see that he was known. And as the psalmist's, so our effort must be to try to discover how in our usual round, in the downsitting and uprising of our days, God searches us and shows us to ourselves.

The Passing of Time

In the first place, we are searched and known by the slow and steady passing of the years. There is a revealing power in the flight of time just because time is the minister of God. In heaven there will be no more time; there will be no more need of any searching ministry. There we shall know even as we are known, in the burning and shining of the light of God. But here, where the light of God is dimmed and broken, we are urged forward through the course of years, and the light of passing time achieves on earth what the light of the Presence will achieve in glory.

He is a wise father who knows his child, but he is a wiser child who knows himself. Untested by actual contact with the world, as children we dream our dreams in the sunshine of the morning. And then comes life with all its harsh reality and the changes of the years, and we turn around on the swift flight of time and say, "O Lord, thou hast searched me and known me." We may not have suffered anything profound, we may not have achieved anything splendid. Our life may have moved along in quiet routine, not outwardly different from the lives of thousands. Yet however dull and uneventful, God has so ordered the flight of time for us that we know far more about ourselves now than we knew in the dawn of our morning. Brought into touch with duty and fellowmen, we have begun to see our limitations. We know in a measure what we cannot do, and thank God, we know in a measure what we can do. And underneath it all we have discerned the side of our nature which leans towards heaven, and the other side on which there is the door that opens to the filthiness of hell. It doesn't take any terrible experience to learn our power and weaknesses. Each single day which makes up the passing years, slowly and inevitably shows it. So by the pressure of evolving time—and it is not we, but God, who so evolves it—for better or for worse we come to say "O Lord, thou hast searched me and hast known me."

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The Searching of God - Page 2
by George H. Morrison

Our Responsibilities Test Us

Then also, God searches us by the responsibilities He lays upon us, for it is in our duties that the true self is searched and known. Think of those servants in the parable who got the talents. Could you have gauged their character before they got the talents? Were they not all respectable and honest and seemingly worthy of their master's confidence? But to one of the servants the master gave five talents, to another two, and to another one, and what distinguished and revealed each one was the use they made of that responsibility. They were not searched by what they had to suffer; the servants were searched by what they had to do. They were revealed by what their master gave and by the use they made of what they got.

And so, I take it, it is with all of us to whom God has given a task, a job, a talent—it is not only a gift to bless our neighbor; it is a gift to reveal us to ourselves. It is not always the greatest jobs that make the greatest demands on a man. It is sometimes harder to be second than first, and sometimes harder to be third than second. In the important jobs there is a certain glow, and generally a cloud of witnesses to cheer us on; but in the humbler jobs there is nothing of that. Great services reveal our possibilities; small services reveal our consecration, calling for patience and rigorous fidelity and the power that can endure through dreary days. So by the daily work we have to do and the task that is given us of God, we are tested in the whole range of manhood. There are no temptations more subtle or insistent than those that meet a man within his calling. There are no victories so quietly rewarding as those that are won within one's daily work.

Details

God also has a way of searching us by lifting our eyes from the detail to the whole. He sets the detail in its true perspective, and seeing it thus, we come to see ourselves. You know how the writer of this psalm proceeds: "Thou knowest my downsitting and my uprising," he says. These are details, little particular actions, the unconsidered events of every day. But the writer does not stop with these details—he passes on to the survey of his life: "Thou compassest my path and my lying down, and art acquainted with all my ways."

You will remember that it was through details that Christ revealed the Samaritan woman to herself. She had been hiding her guilt from her own eyes by busying herself in the details of the day. And then came Jesus with His enlarged vision in which the days are all parts of the one life, and in the eyes of Christ she saw herself because she saw the details as a whole. "Come, see a man," she went and cried, "who told me all things that ever I did." Actually, it was an exaggeration, for Christ had not spoken to her very long. But when you get down to the spirit of the words, you never think of their exaggeration for they reveal the way that Jesus took in searching her and showing her to herself. He would not let her hide in the detail; He wanted her to have a vision of the whole. He wanted to show her what her life was like when looked at closely. And so this woman was searched and self-revealed through detail in its true perspective, and her conscience, which had long been slumbering, awoke.

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The Searching of God - Page 3
by George H. Morrison

I think that is often the way the Lord deals with you and me. We are all prone to be blinded by details so that we scarcely realize what we are doing. There are lines of behavior which we would never take, if we only realized all that they meant. There are habits and certain sins to which we would never yield if we only saw them in their vile completeness. But the present is so tyrannical and sweet and the action of the hour is so absorbing, that we cannot see the forest for the trees, nor see ahead the path that we are taking.

We often say when looking back upon our sufferings, "We wonder how we ever could have borne it." One secret of our bearing it was that we only suffered one moment at a time. And in looking back upon our foolish past, we sometimes say, "How could we have ever done it!"; and one secret of our doing it was that we only acted one moment at a time. When a man is dimly conscious that he is wrong, he has a strange ability to forget yesterday. When a man is hurrying to fulfill his passion, he shuts his ears to the call of tomorrow. And the work of God is to revive that yesterday and tear the curtain from the sad tomorrow and show a man his action of today set in the general story of his life. Sometimes He does it through sickness; sometimes in a quiet hour such as this. Sometimes He does it in a mysterious way by the immediate working of the Holy Ghost. But when He does it, then we know ourselves and see things as they are, and we are ashamed. Only then we can cry with David, "O Lord, thou hast searched me and known me."

Seeing Ourselves in Another's Life

We may never know ourselves until we see ourselves divested of all the trappings of self-love. It was thus, you remember, that He dealt with David when David had sinned so terribly. For all the depth and the grandeur of his character, David was strangely blind to his own guilt. But then came Nathan with his touching story of the man who had been robbed of his ewe lamb, and all that was best in David was afire at the abhorrent action of that robber.

Has God ever shown you your own heart like that, in drawing the curtain from some other heart? That, you know, is your story, your temptation, your sin in all its strength and sweetness. But ah, how very different it looks now when there is no self-love to plead for it and shield it, when there is no hand to weave excuses for it such as we make so quickly for ourselves. You thought that in yourself it was romance; but in another you see it as being disgraceful. You thought that in you it might be easily understood, yet in another it appears despicable. So in the mirror of another life God shows us what we do and what we are, and, seeing it, what can we do but cry, "O Lord, thou hast searched me and known me."

New Influences

Someone may enter the circuit of our being, and the light they bring illuminates ourselves. We are all prone ordinarily to settle down into a dull routine. The vision of the highest fades away from us, and we go forward without any worthwhile ambition. Our feelings lose their freshness and zest, and we are no longer eager and strenuous as we once were. We become content with far lower levels of achievement now than would have contented us in earlier days. All this may come upon a man, and come so gradually, that he hardly notices all that he has lost. His spiritual life has grown so dull and dead that prayer is a mockery and joy is flown. Then we meet someone whom we have not seen for years, one who has wrestled heavenward against storm and tide—and in that moment we realize it all. Nothing is said to blame or rebuke us. The influence lies deeper than speech. Nothing is done to make us feel ashamed. We may be welcomed with the old warmth of friendship, but there is something in that nobler life suddenly brought into contact with our own that touches the conscience and shows us to ourselves and quickens us to a shame that is medicinal. It is often so when the friend is a human friend. It is always so when the friend is Jesus Christ. "Depart from me, O Lord, for I am a sinful man"—the very coming of Christ searches and sifts. But the joy is that if He comes to search, He also comes in all His love to save; and He will never leave us nor forsake us, till the need of searching is gone forever.

February 14

The Comfort of the Universal Presence - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

"If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there: if I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there." Psa_139:8

In the library of our university are certain old and interesting maps. They have all the charms of a geography which knows no limit save imagination. In modern atlases where there is ignorance, such ignorance is wisely acknowledged. In older atlases, on the contrary, it is curiously and cunningly concealed. And so in reading these dusty parchments covering territories unexplored we are told that here are cannibals, or satyrs and sundry other goblins.

All that has vanished from our maps today, but there is one thing which is left to us still: it is that across the map, even to the remotest boundary, we can write with full assurance Here is God. If I ascend to heaven, thou art there; if I follow the beckoning of the rosy-fingered morning, I am still in the keeping of the eternal Father. Do you and I dwell on that as we should? Do we know the comfort of God's omnipresence?

The Universal Presence Is an Arresting Thought

There is nothing on earth, when we are being tempted, so arresting as the sense of a presence. There are times of temptation when the wisest counsel is swept away from us like leaves before the gale; times when everything we have resolved upon is broken like a thread of gossamer. And how often in such times as these when counsel and resolve have been cast aside, we have found restraining power in a presence. It may be the actual proximity of someone or it may be only the presence in the heart—the presence of someone who has passed on. But love is mighty in resurrection power and eyes which we once loved are on us still, and only God in heaven could tell how many men have been helped by such memories.

There was a certain shopkeeper who had a portrait of Frederick Robertson, that great preacher, in his back shop. Whenever he was tempted to be dishonest, he went and looked for an instant at the photograph, and then the sorry thing he wanted to do became impossible. It was not Robertson's sermons which did that, searching and beautiful though they were. It was not the memory of those flaming words which scorched and shriveled what was bestial. What gripped that man and stayed his itching hand when he was tempted was the constraining power of a presence. That is often the power of little children. It is often the power of a good woman. We may not feel that someone is rebuking us; what we feel is that somebody is watching. Eyes are upon us, pure and tender, or eyes that we have not seen for many years; and God knows—that thing—we cannot do it.

The Presence of God

Now as it is with the presence of our loved ones, it is so with the presence of our God. There is a mighty power to arrest us in the controlling thought that He is here.

There is an old story of a little girl who went to the attic to steal some apples stored there. On the wall hung the picture of some venerable and long-forgotten ancestor. And as she crept along the attic floor, the eyes of that old portrait seemed to follow her until in her childish fear she tore them out of the picture.

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The Comfort of the Universal Presence - Page 2
by George H. Morrison

If one could only tear out eyes like that, sin would be infinitely sweet for multitudes. But there are eyes no human hand can reach; the eyes of memory and the eyes of God. And that, I take it, is what Scripture means in that text so often misinterpreted, "I will guide thee with mine eye."

Linnaeus, the great botanist, cherished an open heart for God in everything. Over his study door these words were written, Numen adest, vivite innocui. And what they mean is this: Live innocently; do not sully hand nor heart today: numen adest—deity is present.

Now let me ask you, have you tried to live, "as always in the great Taskmaster's eye"? Have you ever stopped in the jostling street and said to yourself, "God is now here"? Say it the next time you are worried, Martha. Say it when the waves are stormy, Peter. Say it, David, when on the roof at evening you catch that glimpse of beautiful Bathsheba.

Men who have tempers often excuse themselves—they cannot help it; they are built that way. But if you were in audience with King George, you could control that nasty temper perfectly. And the simple fact is that wherever you are, among the crowds or with your wife and children, you are always in the presence of the King. There is an arresting power in God's presence which few of us have ever really used. It is a great moment when we say with Hagar, "Thou God seest me." You who are very sorely tempted and know it is an hour of crisis, One who is infinite love and power and purity is right there with you, and He is watching.

The Universal Presence Is a Sustaining Thought

Professor Henry Drummond used to tell us about a student at examination time. It was an examination of a decisive nature which would determine the young fellow's career. And every now and again he took something out of his pocket and gave it a glance, and then as quietly slipped it back again. The examiner had his suspicions aroused and stole up quietly for observation. And he saw—what do you think—scribbled notes? No, what he saw was not scribbled notes. It was a portrait of someone very dear and who would be dearer still for better or for worse through life's long battle—his lovely wife. It was not enough that he should know his subject well. He felt he needed something more than that. He felt he needed, just what we all need, the sustaining power of a loving presence.

And the One presence we can always have, through life and suffering and work and death, is that of Him who loves us to the uttermost. He is with us always and everywhere, when we wake and when we sleep. He is infinite love and perfect understanding and irresistible power that makes the devils tremble. And yet we fuss and worry and dread tomorrow but all in vain and as if everything had not been pledged to us in Christ. But, behold, everywhere Thou art there!

February 15

Still With Thee - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

"When I awake, I am still with thee." Psa_139:18

A man whose religion is of a shallow kind is content with only an occasional acknowledgment of God. He has his stated seasons of approach to God and his rigid periods of worship. There are long stretches of time when, as the psalmist says, God is not in all his thoughts. He wages his warfare on the field of business in total forgetfulness of the divine—a mark of a religious life which is neither very deep nor very real. It never thrills in spiritual strength or joy.

Now in the book of Psalms, this is not so. The psalmist's recognition is continuous; always he sets the Lord before him. And it is this continual recognition and this unvarying practice of God's presence which kindles the psalmist when he is discouraged and brings the joy that cometh in the morning. When we go to sleep mastered by some thought, that thought is usually beside us when we awake. If it is trouble on which we closed our eyes, how swiftly in the morning it returns! And it was because the psalmist lived with God and went to sleep under the wings of God that he could take his pen and write in all sincerity, "When I awake, I am still with thee."

Spiritual Lethargy

Our text is full of meaning when we think of waking up from our spiritual lethargy. There are times for most of us, in our spiritual life, when we are little better than asleep. Our prayers—how cold and formal they become; they are merely the semblance and mockery of prayer. And the Bible loses its freshness and its blessing and does not leap to meet our needs when we come to it. There settles down a deadness on our spirits, and we go to church and listen to the preaching and might as well be a thousand miles away. Who has not know such desert seasons, such days of lethargy? And to me the wonder of it all is that when the darkness passes and the dayspring comes, we are still able to lift our heads and say, "When I awake, I am still with thee." God has not forgotten to be gracious. We have been false to Him; not He to us. He has been longing to show His love again.

A Time of Crushing Sorrow

In all great sorrow there is something numbing, an insensibility like that of sleep. It is one of the triumphs of our modern medicine that it can apply opiates so powerfully. A prick of a needle and one forgets the agony of pain. But God has His opiates no less than man, and these are reserved for the hours when the physician fails, so that the mourner says, "I can't understand it—it is like a dream—I cannot realize it." There is mercy in that numbing of the spirit. The worst might be unbearable without it. When vividness of perception would be torture, God giveth to His beloved sleep. And it is when a man awakens from that sleep, slowly and heavily through dreary days—it is then that he can lift his heart to God and say, "When I awake, I am still with thee." The past may seem to be far away now, for there are days which do the work of years. But if the past is distant, God is near; nearer than He has ever been before. And the unseen is very real to us, and truths that once were on the dim horizon become the most tremendous of realities. And there are friends who cannot help us for we are moving in regions where they never traveled. But no man who believes in Jesus Christ can move in regions where God has never traveled, for down to the very bitterness of death, God in the Crucified has gone before. That is the joy of having God in Christ. You can never awaken to the bitter day and say, "Of this, the serene God knows nothing."

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Still With Thee - Page 2
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The Last Awakening in Eternity

And then, in closing, doesn't our text also apply to the last awaking in eternity? "I shall be satisfied when I awake," and satisfied because I am with Thee.

I heard the other day of a young husband who had to go under the surgeon's knife. All went well, and as he awoke again, his first inquiry was for his wife and children. And he was satisfied when he awoke, not merely because of his life which he had regained, but because he was still with those who loved him so and who were all the world to him. That is the Christian doctrine of the future. That is the one clear point in all the mystery. I shall be satisfied when I awake, because when I waken, I am still with Thee—still with the God who was my shepherd here; still with the God who saved me and who blessed me; still with the God in whom I trusted amid the shadows and the doubts of time.

The greatest of all questions is just this, "Am I with God, and is God with me?" Do I trust Him and try to serve Him now? If not, when I awake—what then? But if I do and if I seek His face, then when I awake under the touch of death, this will be the glory of it all, that "I am still with Thee."

February 16

Showing It Before Him

"I showed before him my trouble." Psa_142:2

What the trouble of the psalmist was it is impossible for us to say. It was so bitter in its onset that his spirit was overwhelmed within him.

In one of his sermons, Mr. Spurgeon touched on our ignorance of Paul's thorn in the flesh. He suggests that perhaps it is unspecified so that each of us may apply it to ourselves. And I think that the vagueness of the Bible is often of a deliberate intention in order that room may be left within its words for every variety of human need.

When Jesus said, "Let not your heart be troubled," He was not contemplating exemption for His own followers. He knew there would be troubles in their lives; what He enjoined was an untroubled heart. And one great help to an untroubled heart amid the thronging troubles of our lives is to be found in this practice of the psalmist. A brave man does not show his troubles before all the world. He tries to hide them and keep a smiling face in order that he might not be a discouragement to others. But to show before the Lord our troubles in the quiet moment when the door is shut is one of the secrets of serenity.

The Comfort of Having a Friend to Listen

In one sense, one of the duties of friendship is just to lend an ear. It is an untold comfort when troubles are depressing us to have someone in whom we can confide. A brother is born for adversity, not just that he may lend a helping hand. A helping hand may be a blessed thing, but a helping heart is often better. To have somebody to whom we can open our hearts in the certainty of perfect understanding is one of the choicest gifts of human life. Visitors among the poor have experienced that. How often they bring comfort by just listening! Poor folk, toiling away bravely, discover an easing of their trouble when they can pour it all, if only for an hour, into a listening and appreciative ear. Now it was that easing which David found in God. He showed before Him his trouble. He did not brood on it in solitary bitterness; he quietly laid it before God. And though the trouble didn't disappear any more than the thorn of the Apostle, he gained a sweet serenity of spirit which made him capable of bearing anything.
And, indeed, that is the real victory of faith and of all who quietly wait on God. It may not banish all the trouble, but it always brings the power to bear it beautifully. There is a deep-rooted feeling in the heart that if we are God's, we ought to have exemption. Troubles that afflict the faithless soul ought to be averted from the faithful. But the age-long experience of God's children and all the sufferings of His beloved Son proclaim that this is not so. David was not protected from life's troubles, nor was Paul or our blessed Savior. David knew, in all its bitterness, what a thing of trouble our human life may be. His victory, and that of all the saints who have learned to show their trouble before God, was an inward peace that the world can never give and the darkest mile can never take away. God does not save His children from that dark mile. He saves His children in that dark mile. Whenever they show their trouble before Him, He shows His lovingkindness to them. He keeps them from an embittered heart; He puts beneath them the everlasting arm; He makes them more than conquerors in Christ.

God Cares

One feels, too, that David, like Abraham, had seen the day of Christ. His personal trouble was of concern to God. One hears it said so often that in the Old Testament the nation was the unit, and one remembers right through the Old Testament the insistence on the majesty of God. Yet here is a troubled and persecuted soul who dares to think that the God of all the earth has a heart responsive to his very own trouble. He never dreamed it was a thing too petty for the concern of the infinite Jehovah. With a quiet confidence he showed it before Him who was the Maker of heaven and earth. And the wonderful thing is how this faith of David in the individual loving care of God was confirmed by great David's greater Son. Not a sparrow can fall without our Father. The very hairs of our head are numbered. If we, being evil, know how to give good gifts unto our children, how much more our Father? There would be no surprise in that precious teaching for one who could write in childlike trust, "I showed before him my trouble."

February 17

God Knows - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

"When my spirit was overwhelmed within me, then thou knewest my path." Psa_142:3
It is often a deep relief in trouble to have someone with whom the grief may be shared. There is a certain pride natural to us all which prompts us to hide what we may have to bear. There are trials, too, of such a peculiar character that we can never hope to find an understanding heart. Nevertheless, speaking in general terms, it is a mighty solace to be able in our dark and bitter hour to pour our story into another's ear. Now that comfort, you notice, was denied this psalmist. "No man careth for my soul," he said. Crushed as he was into the very depths, men passed him by in selfish disregard. There was no one to whom he could go for a word of cheer, no one who would be patient while he spoke, no one he could trust with the story of his sorrow.

It was in such an hour this singer did what is always wise in such hours. "I cried unto the Lord with my voice, with my voice unto the Lord did I make my supplications." Denied the privilege of human sympathy and with a heart that was likely to break for grief, "I poured out," he said, "my complaint before him; I shewed before him my trouble." Now, that this was a step of profound wisdom is abundantly manifest by its results. God answers his prayer by breathing a new hope into the cheerless gloom of His petitioner until at last this brokenhearted suppliant is set so surely on the rock again that he cries, "The righteous shall compass me about, for thou shalt deal bountifully with me."

We have all seen, amid our Highland hills, a day that opened in utter desolation. There was the rolling mist, the drenching rain, the forlorn sighing of the cheerless wind. All nature seemed to brood in hopelessness as if she had forgotten to be glad. Heavy sorrow seemed to lie upon her bosom and to struggle in despair in all her voices. But as the day wore on, the aspect changed. First there was a dull and watery sun and then the heavy mists went rolling upward; the light shone and birds began to sing. So in the afternoon came warmth and beauty, and in the beauty a softness and mystery that never would have fallen upon the land but for the dreary vapors of the morning.

Brethren, have you ever noticed in the Psalms a progress like that of our hills? Have you ever noticed how often they begin cheerless and tearful and with a shrouded sun? And then have you noticed how, as they proceed, they break into the light of joy and trust, a light that is made more beautiful and tender by its trailing and misty fringes of the morning. Such is the little Psalm before us here. It begins with a cry out of the very depths. It ends with the sunshine of the glad assurance, "Thou shalt deal bountifully with me."

Times of Desolation

First, then, let us examine some of the times in which our spirit is overwhelmed within us. And may I ask you to note the word the psalmist uses? "My spirit," he says, "was overwhelmed within me." Now, in the Old Testament whenever that word spirit is used, it carries the suggestion of activity. There is another passage in which the psalmist says, "When my heart is overwhelmed within me, lead me to the rock that is higher than I." But the overwhelming of the heart is a little different from the overwhelming of the spirit. The heart is the inward nature of the man viewed passively as the groundwork of his character. The heart is the soil from which the actions spring, white as the lily or black as the night. But the spirit is the action and the energy, the manhood rising up to face its duty, the treasury of life, if I may put it so, out of which all our conduct draws supply. And when the spirit is overwhelmed within us, there will always be one sign of that dejection. It is the sapping of the springs of energy, the heaviness and the weariness of duty. The hands grow weak, the knees become feeble; power and hope die down. The spirit hears the call but cannot rise to it—as the psalmist puts it, it is overwhelmed.

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Now one of the seasons when this is likely to happen is the season when troubles are multiplied. A single problem we can generally handle; it is when problems are multiplied that we fail. Now you may always be certain that where you find a proverb, it voices a pretty general experience. If a proverb is not generally true, men have no use for it and it dies. And one of the proverbs that has survived the years and grown familiar to every one of us is that troubles never come singly. Why, think of Job when a messenger came running to tell him that his oxen and asses had been stolen; and while he was yet speaking came another to tell him that his camels were gone. And while he was yet speaking another hotfooted in with more trouble, and I say that that is the experience which humanity corroborates. Had Job been written by some hermit scholar, he would have put an orderly space between the messengers. But whoever wrote that book knew human life well when he hurried the messengers on one after the other. Isn't that how troubles often come, thronging together, following one another, blow after blow in shattering succession? Now it is just that relentlessness that is so prone to overwhelm the spirit. "Innumerable evils have compassed me about; therefore my heart faileth me," says David. If a single wave were to dash against us, we would have power to resist the shock. It is when "all thy billows are gone over me" that the spirit is so near to being overwhelmed.

When We Feel Unequal to Our Duties

Another time when we are likely to faint is when we feel ourselves unequal to our difficulties. When the tasks of our appointed calling overwhelm us, then often our spirit is overwhelmed too. There comes times to every one of us when our courage melts, when tasks appall us, and doubts and fears rush in like the tide. It may be all a matter of our health, for body and spirit are in close union. It may be that our work becomes more difficult through competition or altering conditions. Or it may be that there is trouble somewhere that cannot be eradicated so that a person is unable to give himself to a task that calls for quiet or concentration. It is in such a time that even the most valiant are in danger of an overwhelmed spirit. The knees become weak; the hands hang down; strong men bow themselves and the keepers tremble. One cannot look upon the golden bowl but he shudders lest it be broken at the fountain.

The Mysteries of Providence

Such mysteries do not only crush the heart, they do far more; they overwhelm the spirit. You know how hard it is to be a faithful servant if you are serving an unreasonable master. Nothing so crushes the spirit out of service as to be at the sport of whim and of caprice. But, on the other hand, nothing is more effectual in making our service one of joy and steadfastness than just to know that the master whom we serve is a perfectly just and reasonable man.

You can crush the spirit of a child by cruelty and by terrorizing its imagination. But remember, there is another way that may be quite as fatal in the after-years. It is bringing the child up under the growing sense that in the conduct of the home there is no justice, that there is nothing over it from day to day but the foolish whim of affection or of temper.

Brethren, we are all children in this world, and we know that in heaven is our Almighty Father. And it isn't His chastisements that try our spirit, although His chastisements are often hard to bear. It isn't even what we cannot fathom—for who are we to comprehend the Infinite? It isn't what we cannot comprehend, but what we cannot reconcile. We do believe that God is perfect wisdom and perfect justice and all love. And it is when we meet with mysteries that we cannot reconcile with justice or love or wisdom that our spirit—our power for reasonable action—is likely to be crushed into the very dust. Why should one who would not harm a creature be bowed for years in acute pain? Why should a mother lose her one and only child? Why should the reprobate live for many years and be useless to all and a misery to many; and some precious life be terminated in the morning when its influence was so needed in the world?

By and by it will all be plain to us, for now we know in part and see in part. Blessed are they that having not seen, yet believed. Shall not the Judge of all the earth do right? Yet compassed as we are by clouds and darkness and confronted by the mysteries of providence, have we not all had times like the psalmist's when our spirit was overwhelmed within us?

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by George H. Morrison

The Consolations of the Psalmist

Isn't it a mark of our overwhelming hours that our pathway seems to stop or disappear? Like the children of Israel on the banks of the Jordan, we are confronted by a swollen river. Our path seems to suddenly reach some chasm or ravine, and on the edge it disappears. How often we have taken a path across the fields that seemed to lead in the way we wished to go. For a little while it was plain beneath our feet, and then it grew fainter and became divided, until at last, perhaps when the sun was setting and the shadows of evening were falling on the valleys, the path we followed just disappeared. It is always so in overwhelming hours. We lose our peace because we lose our path. Our plans are crushed; our prospects are destroyed. We seem like helpless wanderers in the twilight. And it was then that David comforted his soul with the assurance that was given him from God, that all the time, although he couldn't see it, there was a pathway for his weary feet. He was not an aimless wanderer in the dark, the result of an accident or chance. His feet were moving on a prepared path through light and shade to a prepared end. Let him go forward trusting Jehovah—that was his duty if the path were there, and by and by it would lead him from the valley and bring him to the waters of repose.

And then the psalmist had this other comfort: not only was there a pathway, but God knew it. As he reviewed his overwhelming hours, he saw it clearly—"then thou knewest my path." The Thou is emphatic—the accent is on Thou. I did not know my path—but Thou didst. Of that the psalmist could never be in doubt when he surveyed the way he had been led.

Brethren, where the Scripture says "God knows," it means far more than bare words convey. Our knowledge is often useless and inoperative, but the knowledge of God is always full of action. He knows us, and therefore He will help us. He knows our path, and therefore He will guide us. When my spirit was overwhelmed within me, the Lord was my shepherd and I did not want. Let us hold to that confidence whenever, like the psalmist, we are crushed in spirit. Clouds and darkness are around His throne, and yet He knows and is very merciful. And then at last, when the dayspring has arisen and the mystery has passed away forever; when the book is opened in which He keeps our wanderings, then we shall look back upon it all with all its happiness and all its heartbreak and say, "When my spirit was overwhelmed within me, then thou knewest my path."

February 18

When the Spirit Is Overwhelmed

"My spirit is overwhelmed within me; my heart within me is desolate." Psa_143:4
There are some natures more prone than others to this overwhelming of the spirit, but it wouldn't be true to say that the peril is limited to temperament. Some of the last persons one would ever dream of are prone to this hopeless sinking of the heart. I would expect it in Jeremiah, that most tremulous of all the prophets; but in Elijah—that man of iron will—I would scarcely anticipate finding it. Yet in the life of Elijah came an hour when, plunged into the deeps, his prayer was that God would let him die. There are few things that men hide so well as this inner desolation.

Sometimes such an overwhelming feeling comes for reasons that are purely physical. This is the body of our humiliation, and we are fearfully and wonderfully made. I asked a friend only the other evening if she ever experienced an overwhelmed spirit, and she answered, "When I am very, very tired." Nothing is more delicate and subtle than the interaction of the body and the soul. Lack of faith is sometimes related to lack of health which should make us very tenderhearted and forbearing in judgment towards those who are never really well.

Sometimes we become overwhelmed through simple failure to do our duty. To shirk our God-appointed task is to court the presence of despair. When Christian and Hopeful were on the King's Highway, Giant Despair was never encountered. But when they got into By-path Meadow, then they fell into the giant's clutches. And whenever anybody leaves the King's Highway, sooner or later, but inexorably, "melancholy marks him for her own." To omit the task we know we ought to do, to shirk the duty of the hour and shun the cross, to refuse to lift the burden and put selfishness in place of service—all this, in this strange life of ours, is to head straight for the overwhelmed spirit.

Times of Darkness Are Not Times for Judgment

I should like, too, to add here that we should never pass judgment in overwhelming hours. Let a man accept the verdict of his Lord, but never the verdict of his melancholy. Hours come when everything seems wrong and when all the lights of heaven are blotted out, and how often, in such desolate hours, do we fall to judging the universe and God! It is part of the conduct of the instructed soul to resist that as a temptation of the devil. Such hours are always unreliable. The things that frighten us in the night are the things we smile at in the morning. We are like that traveler who in the fog thought he saw a ghost; when it came nearer, he found it was a man; and when it came up to him, it was his brother. Overwhelming times are times for leaning; God does not mean them to be times for judging. They are given to us for trusting; they are not given to us for summing up. Leave that till the darkness has departed and the dawn is on the hills, and in His light we see light again.

Indeed, the great need in overwhelming hours is the old, old need of trust in God. It is to feel, as the hymn has it, that we are "safe in the arms of Jesus." To be assured that God is love and that He will never leave us nor forsake us; to be assured that He knows the way we take and that His wings are folded over us all the time, that is the way to keeping a brave heart when everything is dark and desolate. Plunged into such depths, there is something even deeper. There is the love of God commended in the cross. Underneath are the everlasting arms. So we endure as seeing the invisible, and then (and often sooner than we expect) the day breaks and the shadows flee away.

February 19

The Setting of the Pearl

The book of the generation of Jesus Christ— Mat_1:1

The Fact of Jesus—Mark's Gospel

It is generally agreed that the Gospel of St. Mark is the earliest of the four Gospels, and it is notable that in this earliest Gospel there is no genealogy at all. St. Mark does not give the ancestry of Christ, nor does he say a word about His lineage. He stands beside the flowing river, and never seeks to trace it to its source. St. Mark, from the very outset, has his gaze fixed upon the Savior, and brings the reader face to face with Him. There is no attempt to explain the fact of Christ, by relating it to the long past. All that will come in season, for unrelated facts can never satisfy. The first thing is to have Jesus shown us, to be confronted with Him as a living person, and that is the divine office of St. Mark.

His Relation to the Old Testament—St. Matthew's Gospel

But just because man is a reasonable being he can never find rest in isolated facts. And in the next Gospel, the Gospel of St. Matthew, you have our Lord related to the past. St. Mark plunges into the heart of things. He confronts you with the Savior. He says: "If you want to understand the Lord the first thing is to fix your gaze on Him." Then St. Matthew takes that isolated fact, and traces it back to David and to Abraham; Christ is "the son of David, the son of Abraham" (Mat_1:1). St. Matthew is thinking out what Christ implies, the Christ who had changed his life down to the deeps, and the great truth which dawns on him is this, that it takes David and Abraham to comprehend Him. In other words, St. Matthew says that if you want to understand the Lord, you must take in the whole of Jewish history. To St. Matthew, Christ is the crown of Jewish history. Without Him it is inexplicable. It was to Him that the sacrifices pointed. It was of Him that all the prophets wrote. That is why, for all its difficulties, we never can dispense with the Old Testament. Christ is the son of David, who is the son of Abraham.

His Relation to Adam—Luke's Gospel

Then you come to the Gospel of St. Luke, and in St. Luke you have a larger setting. St. Luke does not trace the lineage to Abraham. He traces it right back to Adam: "which was the son of Seth, which was the son of Adam" (Luk_3:38). Beyond the parent of the Jewish race stands the parent of the human race. Beyond the representative of Israel stands the representative of man. And St. Luke sees that to comprehend the Lord calls for more than the history of Israel; it calls for the long story of humanity. Much in Christ will always be unintelligible, unless you know the page of the Old Testament. But it takes more than the page of the Old Testament to reach His full significance. Christ is the son of Adam, says St. Luke. He is vitally related to humanity. He is in living touch with all mankind. St. Matthew says: "If you want to understand Him, you must lay your hand upon the Jewish heart."

St. Luke says: "If you want to understand Him, you must lay your hand upon the human heart." And one of the beautiful features of St. Luke's Gospel is the stress it lays upon that larger setting—on Christ as the Savior of mankind. The Gospel is full of tender human touches, such touches as make the whole world kin. Roman officers march across its avenues. The Good Samaritan is there. In the Christ of St. Luke there is neither Jew nor Greek, barbarian, Scythian, bond nor free. He is the son of Adam.

His Relation to God—John's Gospel

Lastly we come to the Gospel of St. John, the last of the four Gospels, written after years of ceaseless brooding on everything the Lord had meant. How then does St. John begin? What is the lineage he gives? Is he content to trace Christ back to Abraham, or to set Him in relationship to Adam? "In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God, and the Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us." St. Mark gives the fact of Christ, and bids us start by contemplating that. St. Matthew relates that fact to Jewish history; St. Luke to the whole history of man. Then comes St. John, after the lapse of years, and says, "All that-is not enough. If you want to understand the Lord you must relate Him immediately to God." That is the final setting—that the ultimate relationship. The glory of the Man St. John had known is that of the only-begotten of the Father. He comes from Abraham. He comes from Adam. Yes, says St. John, but there is another lineage: "the Word was with God, and the Word was God, and the Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us."

February 20

The Wise Men and the Star - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

There came wise men from the east to Jerusalem, saying, Where is he that is born King of the Jews? for we have seen his star in the east, and are come to worship him— Mat_2:1-2

God Speaks Our Language

One of the first lessons of this passage is that God speaks to men in ways they can understand. These Chaldeans had been stargazers from childhood; the study of the nightly heavens was their passion. They had watched the stars with a patience and an accuracy such as are never suffered to go unrewarded. And now by the aid of the stars they loved so well and on which they had meditated with such unwearied devotion, they are brought to the feet of the Infant in the manger. The shepherds were not Chaldeans, they were Jews. They had been trained in the doctrines of the angels. I dare say they never went out to the pasture at night without hoping to see some shimmer of angel's wings. So it was by the long expected voice of angels that the shepherds received the tidings of the Christ. But the Chaldeans had not learned the lore of angels; it was the lore of stars they were familiar with; God spake to the separate companies in separate voices, but the voices were those that each could understand. That is always true. His voice is as the sound of many waters. He is a Father, and you never heard of a father who took his children on his knee and answered their questions in Latin or in Greek. We shall never understand the Bible truly, nor shall we ever value aright all that we learned in childhood, until we have grasped this simple yet profound truth, that God speaks to men in ways they can understand.

People Led to Christ in Unlikely Ways

Another lesson of this passage is the unlikely ways in which men may be led to Jesus. We know that the prophets pointed to Jesus; so did the law—Christ was the end of the law. So did the sacrifices on the Jewish altars, and the stern summons to repentance of the Baptist. All these things were intended and adapted to guide men into the presence of Messiah, and multitudes journeyed to His presence so. But a star—do you think that was a likely leader? Is that the duty and the function of a star? Yet by a star, as surely as by the angels, were men conducted to Bethlehem. Let us be taught, then, that by unlooked-for ways men may be led to light and love and liberty. Let us never limit the power of the Almighty in opening up avenues to Jesus' feet. There are men who have heard a thousand sermons, and been deaf to the whole range of evangelical appeal, who have yet been won for Christ by a stray word in passing, or by some act of self-sacrificing kindness. There are women whom all the praise of the sanctuary has not moved, but who have been turned to God by the ceasing of childish laughter. The star is a type of the strange and unlooked-for ways in which men are led to the feet of Jesus Christ.

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The Wise Men and the Star - Page 2
by George H. Morrison

The Intense Curiosity of the Wise Men

A third lesson of this passage is the intense curiosity of these men about the King. Nothing would satisfy them but that they must leave home and kindred, and set out on a long and toilsome journey, and brave a hundred dangers on the road, all for the sake of worshipping Christ. Had it been a king of the whole East who had been promised them, I could have better understood their curiosity. For there is a strong desire in the heart of a loyal subject to get a glimpse of his own future sovereign. But it was not a king of Chaldea they were seeking—"Where is He that is called King of the Jews?" And when I think of that passionate inquiry for the unknown monarch of an alien race, and how they traveled hundreds of miles to see Him—and how they troubled Jerusalem about Him, and would not be baffled nor beaten in the search, I am amazed at the mysterious interest excited by the new-born Savior. The strange thing is that from that hour to this, that curiosity has never died away. In the whole of history Jesus is the supremely fascinating figure. More thoughts are directed to Jesus in one day than to Caesar or Napoleon in ten years. More books are written about Jesus now than about any hundred of earth's greatest men. There is an inexplicable mystery and charm about that simple Galilean figure; and the world is still as curious about Him as were the wise men when they saw His star.

Anxious Inquiries by Those Far Away

Again, the most anxious inquirers about Jesus were men who were very far away from Him. I wish you to compare these pilgrims from the East with the men gathered in the inn at Bethlehem. The Chaldeans were many a long mile away, and the company in the inn were at the manger. Yet it was not the latter band, it was the former, who were eager about the newborn Savior.

There were ninety-and-nine that safely lay
In the shelter of the fold,
But some were out on the hills away,
Far off from the gates of gold.
Away on the mountains wild and bare,
Away from the tender shepherd's care—

yet who were the nearest to Jesus Christ that night—was it not those who were so far away? That is a parable of what often happens. At home, in the bosom of a Christian country, we are always in danger of careless unconcern. We are exposed to that worst indifference that springs from the dying of the sense of wonder. Meantime, from distant countries like Chaldea, come tidings of the kingdom being taken by violence. Once again the most anxious seekers are men whom we should say were far away.

The Apparent Insignificance of What They Found

Lastly, let us not fail to observe the apparent insignificance of what they found. When the Queen of Sheba set out from Arabia, and entered with her fine retinue into Jerusalem, she saw such lavish glory there that her heart sank under the wonder of it. But when the wise men from the East came to the inn, expecting perhaps some sight of royal majesty, they found in happy innocence—a Child. I wonder if they felt a touch of disappointment? Was it worthwhile to make that tedious journey, and this—this little Babe—the end of it? We know now that it was well worthwhile; that Infant of days was the eternal Lord. So there come times to everyone of us when we are tempted to ask, "Is all our effort worthwhile?" We pray and serve and struggle through the darkness, and the end of it all seems (as it were) a manger. But for us, too, the eternal dawn is coming when the King in His beauty shall meet us with a welcome; and I think we shall find then, like the wise men from the East, that the journey to Bethlehem was well worthwhile.

February 21

They Found What They Diligently Sought - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

When they were come into the house, they saw the young child with Mary his mother— Mat_2:11

At Last They Reached Their Goal

I notice first of all that these wise men from the East came to the house at last. They had had a long and toilsome and perhaps a perilous journey; they had crossed the desert and they had forded rivers; yet in spite of all hardship and difficulty and obstruction, here they were at their desired haven. There had been days when their journey seemed a failure, when they were tempted to renounce it altogether; they had knocked at door after door in Jerusalem seeking news, yet for a long time they had knocked in vain. They had thought to have found Jerusalem rejoicing—illuminated, maybe, because its King was born; and men were at business and little children were playing, as if nothing remarkable had happened. They had said to each other as they battled across the desert, "Our difficulties will be over when we reach Judaea. The roads will be thronged with pilgrims travelling kingwards, and we will join ourselves to one of these singing companies." But the roads were empty, and listen as they might, the wise men could not catch one burst of song. There were a thousand things to dishearten or discourage them. It was almost impossible that they should be successful. Their Chaldean neighbors had told them it was folly when they set out a week or two before. But with magnificent enthusiasm they persevered—nothing could baffle them or daunt them or dismay them—and all that story of heroism is in these opening words, "when they were come into the house."

A Great Effort May Be behind a Few Common Words

What a stirring and great history may lie under half a dozen commonplace words! A few quiet sentences, when the time of utterance comes, may cover the effort and the pain of years. It is not always in impassioned declamation that the deepest concerns of the human heart are spoken. There may be hardly the lifting of the voice, yet the words may tell of the tragedy of years. A young man may quietly say, "I cannot do that," and to the unobservant ear that may mean little; yet struggle and failure and repentance and prayer and promise may all be hidden in that quiet refusal. There is more heroism in a smiling face sometimes than in half of the deeds that are chronicled in battle. There may be more self-mastery in the doing of quiet duty than in the scourging of a whole calendar of saints. A world of effort and of hope deferred and of resolute uplifting of a man's brow again—all this may be hidden in such a simple sentence as "when they were come into the house."

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They Found What They Diligently Sought - Page 2
by George H. Morrison

The Secret of Their Perseverance: They Followed a Star

The secret of the perseverance of these wise men is not hard to find. It sprang from this, that they were following a star. Had they been guided by anything less than that, they would have sunk down wearied long ago. Do you think, now, if they had read about this King in some of their Chaldean or Babylonian libraries—do you think that that literary discovery would have buoyed them up and carried them at last into the manger? It needed more than earth to carry them through; it needed the bright and beckoning radiance of the sky. They were strong because their guidance was a star. They looked to the lamp of heaven and not to earth's taper. And if they battled bravely, and journeyed with zeal unquenchable, and if nothing could turn them from their unheard-of quest, it was because they followed, not a light of earth, but a light that was hung aloft by God.

God behind Great Human Enthusiasms

You may make up your mind that all the great enthusiasms have had at the heart of them something religious. When a man can follow a great purpose steadily, through ridicule and insult and obstruction, there is more than strength of will in it—there is God. He who sees no star never can be stable. He wanders vainly in a trackless wilderness. Conflicting voices reach him; he is perplexed; he cannot tell whither he is moving. But when above all mists our eyes have seen the light, when we can say, "Come night or agony, God reigneth," when we believe that no effort is in vain, and that there is not a pang but has a meaning in it, then life is filled with such a quiet purpose that like the wise men we come to the house at last.

The Variety of Motives That Brought People to Bethlehem

We should never forget the variety of motives that brought men under that roof at Bethlehem. The house was an inn or caravanserai, and we know that at that season it was very full; the wise men from the East had varied company when they came into the house that nightfall. Merchants were there, and all manner of wayfarers, and men who had gathered in Bethlehem for the taxing. And they began to eat and they chatted by the fire and they rehearsed their adventures by the way; but not a man of them dreamed that in that very building the Christ of God was born into the world. They came into the house and saw the Child, and they said, This is no place for a tender child like that. They came into the house and saw the Child, and they said, God have mercy on that poor mother there! But the wise men came, and when they saw they worshipped, and presented gold and frankincense and myrrh.

Most of us Cannot See the unusual in the Common

How blind most of us are! How little we know what is going on! We rise and journey and eat and go to rest and we know not what is being transacted at our door. Tragedies happen, lives are altered in an hour, heroical deeds are done or are attempted, and you and I, living within a stone's throw, may never hear one whisper of it all. The isolation of a great city is pitiable. Who lives in that house a few doors off? We do not know. But one day the blinds are drawn, someone is dead; and there have been tears and watching and breaking hearts within it; yet all the time we were happy with our children and could not have told you so much as our neighbor's name. Many a husband goes cheerily to business, in total ignorance of what his wife is suffering. Many a father would be amazed tonight if he knew the thoughts that were stirring in his daughter's heart. The greatest things are never obtrusive things. They are never clamorous or noisy or spectacular. How many are in the inn where Christ is born, yet they know nothing of the glory.

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They Found What They Diligently Sought - Page 3
by George H. Morrison

They Saw and Knew Him Whom They Were Seeking

Do you observe why the wise men saw the King when all the others that night at Bethlehem were blind to Him? The simple reason is that they were seeking Him, and just because they were seeking Him, they saw. Where is He that is born King of the Jews—they had troubled all Jerusalem with their questions. They were more than stargazers, they were anxious searchers not to be beaten off in their endeavor. And so where others saw nothing but a child, they saw, because they had searched for Him, a King. We read that Caesar came and saw and conquered; but these three wise men came and saw and worshipped; and to worship is sometimes better than to conquer, if they be not identical before the Throne. That is an exquisite title which John Bunyan gives to the church. You remember that he calls it the House Beautiful. When you are come into the House Beautiful which is the church the supreme question is, what do you see? It all depends on what you come to see. It all depends on what you have been seeking. If you seek to find fault you shall find it very easily, for neither preaching nor singing nor prayer is ever perfect. If you seek the fellowship of men and women you shall get it, for in the sanctuary men and women gather. But if you seek for more than that, if you seek light and guidance, if you seek power to live well, and power to die well, then poor though the worship may be, never a service shall pass, but you shall be blessed by seeing what you sought.

First They Saw the Young Child

In closing will you notice this, that the wise men saw the young Child and His mother. First the young Child—it was a child-and-mother picture, not mother-and-child, as the catalogues describe it. There are those who cannot see the Child, they are so taken up with gazing on the mother; but the wise men saw the Child, and then in that very glance they saw beautiful and peerless motherhood. They had found all they looked for and a little more, for they could never forget the look in Mary's face. It is always so when a man sees God for himself. We see the young Child and—something more. Motherhood, fatherhood, duty and trial and burden—all are lit with a new radiance from that hour. Then like the wise men we go home again, but like them, warned of God, we go another way; for the old ways and the old days are done and dead, when once we have seen God in Jesus Christ.

February 22

Consecration - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

Then cometh Jesus from Galilee to Jordan unto John, to be baptized of him— Mat_3:13

The Baptism of Jesus Was Surrender to Vocation

The baptism of our Lord was His self-consecration to His lifework. It was His dedication to His public ministry. When others were baptized in Jordan, it was a symbol of their need of cleansing. Awakened to the guilt of sin, they were promising amendment of their lives. But when our Savior was baptized, He had no sin to be repented of. His baptism was surrender to vocation. Hitherto He had been preparing for it. He had been, if one might put it so, at college. In the secret fidelities of home God had been training Him to be the faithful witness (Rev_1:5). Now He was entering on His public ministry, and for that He was set apart and consecrated by this open and voluntary action. In what, then, did that dedication issue? What were its spiritual and immediate consequences? It is not wasted time to meditate on these things.

Clearer Vision Followed Full Surrender

First, then, it issued in a clearer vision, for we read that the heavens were opened unto Him. That does not point to a material sky, but to a vision breaking on His soul. When Peter was praying on the housetop, he, too, saw the heavens opened. In that great moment there was revealed to him the spiritual equality of Jew and Gentile. So our Lord, when the heavens were opened to Him, won a larger and a clearer vision, and won it because in full surrender He had dedicated Himself to God. That always follows personal dedication. To see, we must surrender. It is when we give ourselves with our whole heart to anything that it breaks out into a wealth of meaning. It is when we give ourselves with our whole heart to God that, like our Lord, we see the heavens opened, and new vision dawns upon the soul.

Personal Dedication Brings New Endowment

Again, this personal dedication brought with it at once a new endowment, for we read that as He left the river, the Holy Spirit descended upon Him. When God bestows His Spirit on a child, He gives it up to the capacity of childhood. God does not pour into a little cup what it would take a flagon to contain. So then the Spirit of God filled the holy Child, it was not that He might be a perfect man: it was that He might be a perfect child. As a child He was a perfect child, and as a youth He was a perfect youth. All that was needed for those quiet years was given without measure. But now these sheltered years were over, with their lowly tasks, and happiness of home, and He was launching out into the deep. Before Him lay the highway of Messiahship, the proclamation of the Kingdom, the long conflict with the powers of darkness, the crucifixion on the tree. And for that He needed an equipment which He had never needed as a child, nor in the lowly duties of the home. That is what God gave Him at the Jordan, when the Holy Spirit descended on Him there—grace for His unparalleled vocation as the one Savior of mankind. The full surrender of the baptism was owned and honored by a full equipment—and so it is with every believer.

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Consecration - Page 2
by George H. Morrison

A Sense of Filial Intimacy

Again, the dedication of the baptism issued in a new sense of filial intimacy, for immediately there was a voice from heaven, saying, "This is my beloved Son." We know that even from His childhood Jesus had dwelt in the fatherhood of God. The presence of God as a loving heavenly Father had been His through all the silent years. But never, till the hour of baptism, had this deep sense been verified and owned by audible witness from the other side. There came a voice now, carrying in its utterance intense and irresistible conviction. There came the glorious and immediate certainty of One who never had been far away. And all this when He came up from Jordan, and when, for life and agony and death, He had yielded Himself up a living sacrifice. Not when He was a happy child at Nazareth, wandering and playing in the fields there; not when He was a lad of twelve, intensely and spiritually eager; but when He gave Himself, yielded up Himself, immersed Himself in the baptism of sinners, did He have the divine assurance of the voice of the Father.

The Dove Gave Him a Certainty of Sacrifice

Lastly, the dedication of the baptism issued in the certainty of sacrifice, for we read that when the heavens were opened, He saw the Spirit descending like a dove. Now the dove is a very gentle bird, and you and I have a very gentle Savior. As we read the story of His life, we are often reminded of the dove. But the first thing which the Holy Spirit did was to drive Him out into the wilderness, and that is scarcely significant of gentleness. Something more than gentleness is here, and every Jew could tell you what it was. For the dove was the one and only bird that was ever sacrificed upon a Jewish altar. And do you not think that when in that high hour the Holy Spirit descended like a dove, our blessed Savior would see the meaning of it? Just as the dove was laid upon the altar, so He was going to be laid upon the altar. Just as the dove was sacrificed for sin, so He was going to be sacrificed for sin. In that great moment of perfect dedication, when He identified Himself with sinful man, there was revealed the necessity of Calvary.

February 23

The Temptation of Jesus - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

Then was Jesus led up of the Spirit into the wilderness to be tempted of the devil— Mat_4:1

Christ's Temptation: It Was Real

Whatever view we take of the temptation—whether it was an inward struggle or an actual scene—the one thing to remember is its intense reality. Prayerfully and reverently we must strive to realize that the temptations of Jesus were unutterably severe! It is not difficult to realize Christ's brotherhood in suffering. It is very difficult to do so in temptation. And one great reason of that is, that in our temptations, we are so conscious of sinful impulses within. But when we remember that our temptations sometimes touch not what is worst, but what is noblest in us; when we think that without the sorest and fiercest trial, the thought of sinlessness has little meaning, then we dimly perceive how intense temptation might be to a spotless and holy Savior. There is nothing more heavenly than a mother's love, yet sometimes a mother is tempted most severely just because she loves her children so. If men were always tempted at their weakest, we could hardly understand a tempted Jesus. If our temptations only lit where we were worst, Christ (who had no worst) could not have been tempted. But when we see (and time and again we see it) that the sorest onset may be on the saintliest side, then we know that the temptations of Jesus may have been unutterably sore, since Jesus was unutterably good.

Truth Was His Nature, Not His Pursuit

One of the shining features of the life of Jesus is His great and glorious fidelity. In the largest compass of the words He came to bear witness to the truth, He was supremely true to His brethren of mankind—He was as a brother born for adversity. He was supremely true to Himself and to the moving of His heart of love. He was supremely true to His heavenly Father, in whose unbroken fellowship He lived, and in whose will He found His motive and His peace! One never gets the impression from His life that He was passionately— struggling to be true.

Yet Victory Was an Achievement

There is a largeness and a liberty about Him that tell of a heart which has arrived. One feels that the battle has been fought, that the great determination has been made, before He opened the roll in the synagogue of Nazareth. Now that does not mean that this supreme fidelity was an innate equipment of the Savior. Like His sinlessness it was a vast achievement, wrought out in conflict with temptation. (Editor's note: The Lord Jesus was, however, unlike any other human in that He was born sinless. But His victory over temptation was not an empty one. His practical sinlessness was an achievement. In a similar manner, when we become children of God through our new birth we become positionally sinless in Christ, but practically we are still "sinners saved by grace." Temptation is real and therefore victory against temptation is a practical achievement. We do not acquire sinlessness by our practical victories against temptation but through the sinless Christ who became our substitute on the cross.) And of that conflict we have the vivid history, before His public ministry began, in the narrative of the temptation in the wilderness. There He was tempted, and very really tempted, to be untrue to His brethren of mankind. There He was tempted to be untrue to God and to all that was deepest in Himself. When we view the temptation in that light we catch a glimpse of the terrific struggle that preceded the perfect fidelity of Jesus.

The Time of Its Occurrence on the Threshold of His Glorious Career

With such thoughts we may approach the scene; and if we would hope to understand it, we must remember the time of its occurrence. The place of its occurrence matters less though to a heart filled with the loveliness of Galilee the grimness of the desert would be awful. But the time of the temptation matters much, for the tempter is a master in his choice of hours. Jesus, then, had been baptized in Jordan. He had been endowed with gifts from heaven for His ministry. All He had dimly seen upon the hills of Nazareth now rose before Him as His mission to mankind. In such tumultuous hours men crave for solitude. In such an hour the Spirit drove Jesus to the desert. It was, then, on the threshold of His ministry, and facing His lifework with its infinite issues, that the tempter came to Him. It is in the light of His service and His sacrifice that we shall reach the inward molding of the scene. These are the dark hours through which Jesus passed on the threshold of His glorious career.

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The Temptation of Jesus - Page 2
by George H. Morrison

The First Temptation Proved Him Faithful to Humanity

The first temptation seems a simple one. "If thou be the Son of God," says the tempter, "command that these stones may be made bread." Jesus had been fasting forty days; now He was in the dire pangs of hunger. What possible harm or danger could there be in satisfying the pangs of hunger so? Had not God rained down manna in the desert? Had not Elijah been miraculously fed by ravens? The real temptation lay in using for Himself the powers that had been given Him to use for man. He was baptized in Jordan that He might show His brotherhood. He did not stand above John on the bank; He went and stood beside John in the river. At His baptism He had gone down into the water—He had stood where sinful man was standing—He had identified Himself with sinful man, as at the end He did upon the Cross. And if here, in the agony of hunger, He had miraculously created bread He would have cut the tie that bound Him to His brethren. When He fed the thousands with the loaves and fishes He was using His divine prerogative for others. That was His God-appointed mission: He was sent to satisfy our need. But had He used these powers for Himself, in an experience common to humanity, He would have broken His brotherhood with man. How could the poor ever have said again that they had a real brother in the Lord? How could the famishing ever had been certain of the perfect understanding of the Savior? Had He miraculously turned these stones to bread, and left His brethren to sweat and toil for bread, no longer would He have been the Son of Man. And when a man is tempted to a selfish life, or to use for himself alone the graces and the means that have been given him in trust for others, then is the tempter whispering to him, as he spake to Jesus in the wilderness. And whenever a man denies himself, and sacrifices something for a brother, he is sharing in the victory of Christ.

The Second Temptation Proved Him Faithful to Himself

As in the first temptation He is true to others, in the second He is true to His own self. That is why He scornfully refused to fling Himself on the astonished populace. It was the common expectation of that populace that the Messiah would appear in sudden splendor. Suddenly He would flash upon their eyes in an epiphany dramatic and divine. But our Lord Jesus, intimate with heaven, knew that epiphanies were not like that, nor were these the signals of His coming. He knew that the Kingdom must grow as does a mustard-seed, nor does it ever come with observation.) He knew that when men say "Lo, here!" it is not the real Christ whom they are hailing. (So, resisting the very real temptation to manifest Himself in splendor to the populace, He was supremely true to His own self) He came by quiet ways, and as the light cometh when the day is breaking. He came as the leaven which does not burst the loaf, but works in secret till the whole be leavened. In the first temptation He fought His lonely way to a perfect fidelity to man. From the second He emerged in triumph perfectly faithful to Himself.

The Third Temptation Proved Him Faithful to His Father

And then the third temptation shows our Savior perfectly faithful to His Father. "All these kingdoms will I give thee, if thou wilt fall down and worship me." We are tempted along the line of our desires, and our Lord was tempted in all points like as we are. He had been dreaming, in the days at Nazareth, of a worldwide and universal reign. And now the devil comes and whispers to Him, "Renounce God and ally yourself with me, and I shall give you the longing of your heart." What a magnificent temptation, tribute to a magnificent Redeemer. What a fierce temptation, when we bear in mind that these kingdoms were the yearning of His being. But our Lord in an instant recognized the treachery, and recoiled from it in an infinite abhorrence, and emerged triumphant because true to God, He took the long, long road which is the road of heaven—the road that was wet with sorrows and with tears—the road that led, through loving human service, to the crown of thorns and to the pierced hands. My meat is to do the will of Him who sent Me. I come to do Thy will, O God. Supremely true to His brethren and Himself, here He is supremely true to God.

February 24

Christ's Temptation—How and When? - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

Then was Jesus led up of the spirit into the wilderness to be tempted of the devil— Mat_4:1

Jesus, as a Man, Was Tempted in Order to Show That No One Can Escape Temptation
If our blessed Savior had to be the very Son of Man, it was, of course, inevitable that He should be tempted, because that is the one experience nobody ever escapes; it is the touch of nature—one of the touches of nature—that makes us all akin. A man may escape great calamity, a man may escape overpowering illness, a man may escape the perils of being very poor and the perils of being very rich; but there is one thing that nobody escapes, from the king on his throne to the beggar on the highway, that is, the experience of being tempted. And therefore, if our Lord was to be the perfect Son of Man, it was quite inevitable He should be tempted. The man who is never tempted has either sunk to the level of the beast, or risen to the level of angels. Is there anybody who is never tempted, just because evil has already gotten complete control of him—anybody who can do things with unconcern that twenty years ago would have made him halt a moment? I don't think there is any prayer for such a man except just, "Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me." Of course, if we were all tempted on our worst side, our blessed Savior could never have been tempted, because His nature was that of heaven—while yours and mine has much of hell in it. But I think you will see how, in our common life, we are very often tempted not on the side of what is bad, but just on the side of what is good. Here is a mother, and how she loves her son; it is the finest thing about her. She used to be a careless girl, and now she is a self-sacrificing woman. How often mothers are just tempted not on the side of what is bad, but just in that beautiful love for their children. Or here is a man very, very fond of his wife and children—someone once said that whenever the devil tempts an Englishman he always does it in the guise of wife and children—here is a man very fond of his wife and children; it is the most beautiful thing about him; in business he has got rather a shady character, but he is almost perfect in his home. How often a man is tempted, perhaps, just to do things that conscience does not agree to because of his dear care for wife and children. You see, you and I are very often tempted not on the side of what is bad, but on the side of what is good; and if you follow out that thought a little, don't you come to see it was possible that our Lord was tempted, even though His nature was pure? I think sometimes we are very apt to misconceive the sinlessness of Christ, as if it was a garment given to Him by God, and He could not put it off even if He tried. It was not a garment, it was a victory. It was not an endowment, it was an achievement. Every hour the Lord was tempted, and every hour He put it from Him, until at last His sinlessness was final, and He cried, "It is finished." And if you regard that as the sinlessness of Jesus, wrought out every moment, every moment tempted, every moment obedient to God until the end, you begin to see He was tempted just as you and I are.

His Temptation Makes Us Consider Him Our Brother

The thought I wanted to follow out was this. I wanted to ask, Along what lines did the tempter come to Christ? Because if we discover that, then we begin to understand that He was tempted just as we are. You know it is very difficult to feel that Christ is really our Brother. There is so much in Him that is different—His power, His nature is so unlike yours and mine, that it is a kind of relief to discover a touch of brotherhood. That is why we love to hear that He was weary—perhaps some of you are weary now; that is why we love to hear that He was hungry—there are people that have known hunger; that is why we love to hear that He was tempted—it draws Him near us. And if we discover the tempter came to Him very much as he comes to you and me, you have got a brother born for adversity. There is nothing in life like that.

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Christ's Temptation—How and When? - Page 2
by George H. Morrison

Three Times When Temptation Strikes

I want you to note, first, how the tempter came to Him at the very beginning of His task, before He had wrought a single miracle, before He had said a single word. I suppose that in these forty days in the wilderness our Lord was meditating on the future. I don't think there was a single incident that ever came to Him that our Lord had not anticipated in these forty days. He was looking forward to all that was coming, and it was just then the devil tempted Him.

I think there are three times in every great task when one is peculiarly liable to be tempted. The first is the start, when things are looming up before him. The second is when he is halfway through, the arrow that flieth at midday, when he has lost the glow and glory of the morning. The third is at the end, when he is tempted to think it has all been just a failure: like Lord Kelvin: near the end of his career he said he could only describe his life as a failure. I think it would be easy to show that our Lord was tempted at these times—right in the middle when the first enthusiasm had died away, right at the end when He had to turn to Peter and say, "Get thee behind me, Satan," and here, just at the beginning. There is a curious correspondence in many details at the end of His life with the details of the start, and I sometimes think that out in the desert here there had been something of Gethsemane, "Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me." It was going to be an awful cup, awful, bitter as gall. And then, just in an instant, "Nevertheless not what I will, but what thou wilt."

Tempted at the Start of His Ministry

Just at the start our blessed Lord was tempted. There may be someone who is starting a new task, perhaps in the Church, perhaps in the city, called to it by your duty. Well, if you are a lightweight, one of these jaunty people, of course it won't trouble you. My experience is that these kind of jaunty people never get there. But if you are deep and serious, and take life earnestly, when the thing looms up before you, then you are tempted to despair. I remember an eminent man in this city, called to a great task, telling me how the first thing he did (he was not commonly afraid) was to bow his head down in his hands and say to a friend, "It can't be me." Whenever you have these temptations, is not it a great thing that you are sure the Lord knows it? He has been there. He understands; you can get His fellowship even in that. A young writer once wrote to Sir Walter Scott, and he said, "Sir, I don't know how it is, but just when I am beginning a new book my heart sinks, formless fears surge up." And Scott, that gallant heart, wrote back, "My dear fellow, I feel it just as much as you do." You have got to think how that young writer was encouraged by the sympathy of that great soul, and you and I have got the sympathy of Someone infinitely greater.

Or again, there may be somebody who is starting a far more difficult task, and that is the task of taking up your cross, the task of bearing a great sorrow. By and by it will get a little easier. Time is a great healer; time rubs the edges off the boldest granite on the Arran hills. Men picture time with a scythe; I picture time with a vial of balm that it just pours into your gaping wounds. But at the very outset, is it not difficult? A few weeks ago, a month ago, you lost somebody very dear; now you are called to a task that is going to last through life; that is, bearing your cross of sorrow. At the very beginning are you not tempted, tempted to wonder if God is love, tempted to wonder if God cares, tempted to be dull and heartless when other lives are dependent on your brightness? It is a great thing to think that in an hour of that kind you have the sympathy, the understanding of the Lord Jesus. His task was not to manage a business. His task was to bear a cross: "Behold, and see if there be any sorrow like unto my sorrow." And at the very start, to Him, just as to you, comes the devil, tempting you to doubt the Father, and to wonder if there is any love in heaven. "In every pang that rends the heart, the Man of Sorrows had a part."

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Christ's Temptation—How and When? - Page 3
by George H. Morrison

Tempted in the Hour of Reaction

Again, I think it must occur to you that our Lord was tempted in the hour of reaction. I suppose you all know what reaction is? It is the recoil after a time of stress and excitement. Our Lord was subtly tempted in the hour of reaction. Well now, consider. I suppose the hour of the baptism of Christ, which just preceded, was an hour of the most terrific strain. You have got to try and picture it. It lies there quietly upon the Gospel page, but when you get to its meaning what an hour of strain it was—the old now gone, the quiet and beauty of Nazareth, the love of His mother. "Woman, what have I to do with thee?" was just coming, and then all the future of blood and sorrow, and all that; the cleavage of it, the baptism, and then identified with sinful man, and then equipped by the Holy Ghost for all His ministry, and then heaven opening and a voice speaking to Him—try and think of the tremendous strain of it. Mark tells us that He was driven to the wilderness. I wonder no great painter has ever painted that. The Lord, bowed and driven by what was uncontrollable to get alone to think it all out, and then for forty clays so wrapped in it that He quite forgot to eat. And then, suddenly, spent in every power, and wearied to His fingertips, then the devil comes—is not he subtle? Then the devil comes, in the very hour of reaction. Not when the candle of God is shining on His head, not when all the lights are burning, not when He is strong and quivering with life, but in that awful hour of weakness and reaction. Brother, sister, is it not so still? The devil leaves us when we are happy, and comes back when the tide is at the ebb. I want you to remember in these hours when there is no music, when all the lights are burning dim, when you are so weary you can hardly face your task, when after some time of spiritual intensity you are tempted, that the Lord knows it. He was just so tempted; He has just come through it. He holds out His hand and calls you brother.

Tempted along the Line of His Desires

There is only one thing more I want to say, and it is this. I want you to notice how our Lord was tempted along the line of His desires, along the line of His ambitions (if I might venture to use that somewhat degraded word). You have that in every one of the temptations; you have it specially in the third. He would go out and preach about the Kingdom—no man worth anything preaches on what he has not given his intense thought to when you were busy at your business—and the Lord had been thinking of the Kingdom in these forty days when He was all alone, I suppose, saying to Himself, "My mother thought the Kingdom was for the Jews; and God, My Father, is showing Me that it is not. The Kingdom is going to include every kingdom in the world." And just then the devil comes to Him, and what does he do? Contradict Him? Never! The devil comes and says, "Sir, that is a most laudable ambition; accept my help; just let me give you a hand and all the kingdoms of the world will become yours." And our Lord said, "Get thee behind me, Satan." Do you see the tactics he uses? That is exactly what happens today. Take for instance, a preacher who is on fire to preach the Gospel; but what is the use of preaching when the church is empty? Of course, his deep desire, though he does not say it to you, is to have his church full. And just then the devil comes to him and—contradicts him? Never. Says, That is a poor kind of ambition? Nothing of the kind. The devil says, "Now I want you to let me help you. Don't preach on such and such things; be modern, just avoid the Cross; sometimes take a risky subject about the eternal triangle; advertise flaming, flashing titles, just have a touch of the music hall about your service, and it will all come right." And the Lord says, "Get thee behind me, Satan."

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Christ's Temptation—How and When? - Page 4
by George H. Morrison

Take a man whose great ambition is to advance in his field. Men who are content to be failures are not in God's line. Here is a man determined to advance, wanting to progress—and he is perfectly right, and the more of you who get ahead the better. And then Satan comes to him. Does he contradict him? Does he say to him, "Friend, you ought to have higher motives than that"? He says, "Won't you just allow me to help you a little?" The man is tempted to do something that he knows is wrong. The man is tempted to give bribes; to say, Of course everybody gives them, and I have my wife and children to look after. And the Lord was tempted just like that, and the Lord said, "Get thee behind me, Satan." The point is, are you a follower of His? It all comes to that. If you are not, you can do what you like. But what right have you to call yourself a disciple of Christ if in such hours you accept such help as that? None, no more than I would have as a preacher if I advertised flashy titles and had Scotch ditties sung here on my platform. Here is a man who is given to writing books, as so many people have an itch to do. Suppose he wants to be famous, and that is perfectly right. "Fame is the last infirmity of noble minds," says Milton. Mark you, of noble minds. Then the devil comes to him, never contradicts, says, "Friend, I want to help you to have your name on every lip," and tells him the sort of hook to write, so what if some of the Commandments are broken! But the point is that the Lord says, "Get thee behind me, Satan." The singular thing is this, that when the Lord took the long, slow, bloody way, there came into His heart a joy and peace that the world could never give, and has never taken away. And there is coming to Him a triumph ten thousand times greater than if He accepted the advice of Satan:

Jesus shall reign where'er the sun
Does his successive journeys run.

February 25

The Net Mender - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

He saw other two brethren, James the son of Zebedee, and John his brother.., mending their nets; and he called them— Mat_4:21

The God of all grace…make you perfect— 1Pe_5:10

Peter Called while Mending His Nets

We have all seen fishermen upon a summer morning mending their nets on the seashore. With a patience and a skill that we have envied, we have watched them busy at their task. These bronzed faces, and strong and vigorous frames, tell of many a year upon the deep. We can picture the men handling their boats magnificently when the wind is freshening into angry storm. And now in the quiet of the summer morning, when the waves are idly lapping on the beach, they are busied with the mending of their nets. It was thus that James and John were busied when they received the call that changed their lives. Their boat was rocking in the shallow water, and they were chatting, and working as they chatted. And then came Jesus, and claimed them for Himself, and called them into the service of discipleship, and they left everything and followed Him.

Christ Takes Over the Mending of Our Nets, When We Decide to Follow Him
Now you will wonder why, with that Highland scene, I have associated these words of Peter. Well, the reason is a very simple one, although perhaps not lying on the surface. The word that Peter uses here for make you perfect, is the same word as is used for mending of the nets. It is as if Peter had said, The God of grace, whatever else He may do, will mend your nets for you. And when you remember that Peter was a fisherman, and had spent many a day upon the sea of Galilee, it seems impossible that he should have used the word without some recollection of his craft. Our calling, whatever it may be, has a way of coloring the words we use. It influences language with its old associations, and gives it some of the music of the past. So Peter, in the throng and stir of Babylon, writing his letter of comfort to the churches, flashed back in thought again to the old days, when the water was lapping on his boat. The God of grace will make you perfect. The God of grace will mend your nets for you. Our nets are sorely broken in the boat, and the God of grace is the great net-mender. It is on that figure I want to dwell, and to try to discover some of its significance, for that it was often present to the first disciples there cannot be a shadow of a doubt.

How Are Nets Usually Broken?

Now first, how are nets usually broken? That is a question which is worth considering. Well, I was talking to an old fisherman this summer, and the gist of what he said was of this nature.

Sometimes, he told me, nets are broken by the ordinary wear and tear of fishing. They get worn out here, and they get worn out there, through the rough handling of the common day. There is no reason to suspect that they were bad nets. They may have been purchased from the finest maker. Nor have they met with any accident, such as may happen to the most skilful fisherman. But fishing is rough work at the best of it, and the handling of tackle never can be gentle; and so as the days pass—now here, now there—the fisherman comes to find his nets are broken. There are points where the net is very apt to break, but it is not always there the breakage happens. Sometimes in the least expected quarter, unexpectedly; a rent appears. And so, my brother, in these lives of ours is there often a breaking down through wear and tear, and sometimes the breaking is at the very point where you and I might never have expected it. There are men who have never been great sinners, as we put it. They have only had the wear and tear of life—the strain of business and the stress of home. And yet sometimes that very wear and tear has spoiled all that was finest and most beautiful, and the temper is irritable, and the heart is sullen, and the net, so delicately made, is broken.

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The Net Mender - Page 2
by George H. Morrison

By Obstacles and Objects in the Sea

Again he told me that nets are often broken through the encountering of some jagged obstacle. They are caught by some obstruction in the deeps, and, clearing themselves free of it, are torn. It may be a piece of wreckage in the sea, jagged, and with iron spikes upon it. It may be the sharp edge of some familiar reef, that has been swept clear of its seaweed by the storm. But whatever it is, the net goes dragging over it, and dragging over it is caught and rent, and tearing itself free in desperate effort, it gapes disfigured like some wounded thing. Are there no human lives like that? No nets mystical that are so broken? It may be a hidden and surprising sin that does it; it may be a sudden and overwhelming sorrow; it may be the ruin of a cherished friendship, or the wreckage or a love that meant the world, or some swift insight into another's baseness, where once we dreamed there was sincerity. In such an hour as that the net is rent. There is a tearing of the very heartstrings. And faith is shattered, and God is but a name, and life seems the most shallow of all sophistries. For always, when we lose our faith in man, there falls a shadow on our faith in God, so that the very stars seem masterless, and goodness but the mockery of a dream.

By the Abundance of Catch

And then he told me that nets are sometimes broken through the very wealth of the sea that they enclose. And he did not need to tell me that, for I had read it as a child in Holy Scripture. I remembered a scene on that same sea of Galilee when the disciples had toiled all night and had caught nothing. And then in the morning came the Master—it is always morning when the Master comes. And He bade them cast upon the other side, and casting so, their nets were filled with fishes—filled with such a great abundance of them that the nets, as we read, began to break. My brother, it seems a thing incredible that the gifts of a good God should break the nets. Does it not seem unlike divine compassion that the very wealth of heaven should lead to ruin? Yet are there lives on every hand of us—God grant that yours and mine be not among them—where nets are broken just because God is good. What I mean is, that life has been so easy that all that is best and noblest has decayed. Prosperity has had a hardening influence, and luxury has diminished every sympathy. Endowed with everything that makes life rich—surrounded with all imaginable comforts, how many there are who have never done a hand's turn to leave the world better than they found it!

The Loss of Broken Nets Is Fundamental

So far then on the breaking of the nets. Now will you think of the loss when they are broken? Well, to begin with, remember it is the loss of the most important possession of the fisherman. If his cottage is burned he can still ply his calling, and be out providing for his wife and children. If a blight falls upon his little garden, it is hard, but it is not unbearable. But if his nets are useless all is useless, and his very livelihood is swept away, and other boats shall hoist their sails tonight, but his shall rock idly in the harbor.
There are some losses that are insignificant, and only a foolish man will trouble over them. But there are other losses that are vital, and affect everything, and are determinative. So with a fisherman is a lost net, and so with every man is a lost life, which is not lived to the glory of its Maker, and has never known the joy of doing good. All other losses, matched with that, are comparatively insignificant. The loss of health may be a bitter thing, and the loss of a fortune may be very terrible. But the one loss that cuts down to the quick, and calls for mercy in the heart of heaven is not lost health nor lost prosperity: it is lost life and opportunity. It is a mighty thing to save the soul; but we want to save the life as well as save the soul. We want to have sin conquered, and habits brought to an end, and time redeemed, and something worthy done. And it is just when we are doubtful of all that, and wondering if there be any hope for us, that the Bible comes to us, a seaborn people, and says, The God of grace will mend your nets. He will do it by His pardoning mercy, that forgives everything for Jesus' sake. He will do it by His upholding power, that will never leave us nor forsake us. He will do it perfectly, and do it now, and do it for the weakest and the worst, for the God of all grace will make you perfect.

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The Net Mender - Page 3
by George H. Morrison

It Is Distressing for It Misses What Is at Hand

But not only is it a vital loss. It is a peculiarly distressing loss, for this reason. The loss of the rent net entails the missing of riches that are at hand on every side. If one of our whalers were to be wrecked off Orkney, it would lose a harvest that was far away. There are a thousand miles between the whaling ground and the wild cliffs and stormy seas of Orkney. But when a net was rent upon the sea of Galilee, it meant not the loss of a far-distant harvest, it meant the loss of what was just at hand. There were the shoals of fish in the blue waters. They were in the very depths where the boats lay. They were not far away in other seas; they were where Peter was, and John and James. And that was the pity of the useless net, that all that was precious was so near at hand, and yet, for all the power to take it, might have been a thousand miles away. My brother, the God of grace will mend your nets. He will give you the wealth that is lying at your hand. He will mend your nets, not for some distant fishing, but for the fishing where your bark is tonight. He will redeem for you your opportunities, and show you new meanings in your daily task, and give you the wealth that is on every hand although it may be you have never dreamed of it. Home will be different from what it has ever been; it will be so full of peace and happiness. Work will be different from what it has ever been, for it will all be done with new ideals. And on every hand, all unsuspected once, will be opportunities of doing good, and of helping someone who has need of help, although you never saw that need before. The God of grace will make you perfect. The God of grace will mend your nets for you. He will sweep into your poor barren life the riches that are there just for the taking. For the gladdest things are never far away, nor hidden in distant oceans, inaccessible, but they are here where you and I are living, and where eyes of love answer to our own.

The Work of Net Mending Requires Skill

And so we come to the work itself of net mending, and I ask in closing what kind of work is that? Well, in the first place, you will agree with me that it is a work that calls for very perfect skill. Have you never been amazed at the deft fingers of some rough old fisherman upon the Clyde? Those hands of his, so brawny and so powerful—they could hoist any sail and manage any sheet. But the beautiful thing is that these very hands, all rough and seamed and hardened with the weather, will work as delicately as a woman's hands in the fine work of mending nets. Were you and I to try it—what a failure! What a hopeless tangle we should make of things! We have our own bit of work that we can do, but the one thing we could never do is that. Yet he, with hands as deft as any woman's, and with an eye that sees right through the tangle, makes his gear ready for the deeps. I have often thought that God's hands were like those hands. They too are powerful, and can grasp tremendously, when the wind is high and when the waves are raging. But they, too, with a delicacy infinite, and with a tenderness surpassing that of women, can mend the broken net upon life's shore. The hand of Christ was mighty to command. When it was lifted up, the devils trembled. Yet that same hand, with what unerring skill did it ply its task upon the brokenhearted! It touched the weary, and they took heart again, and it was laid on the hopeless, and their hope was kindled, and it fell with a healing that was irresistible on lives that shrank from every other touch. That was the ministry of Christ on earth. That ever since has been His ministry. When wisdom has failed, and learning been inoperative, Christ has succeeded, and is succeeding still. For He knoweth our frame, and remembereth we are dust, and He is infinitely strong and gentle; and He alone, if we but trust Him, can mend the broken net and make it perfect.

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The Net Mender - Page 4
by George H. Morrison

It Also Requires Patience

But it is not only a work that calls for skill, it is a work that calls for patience also. There are tasks you can hurry through, and get them done, but you can never hurry the mending of the net. That is indeed a recognized distinction between a first-rate fisher and a bad one. The one, impatient, will patch his nets up anyhow, that he may have leisure for the public house. But the other makes it a leisurely affair, and settles down to it, and is deliberate—so deliberate sometimes that you and I are inclined to be irritated at his slowness. But the man is not working for our shallow praise. He is working with a higher thought than that. For he loves that net of his with a strange love that you and I could never understand. So with a leisureliness that is old-fashioned now, in this age of fast motion, he works at the mending through the summer morning, There is a patience that is born of cowardice, and there is a patience that is born of love. The one is the patience of a broken-spirited people who have been crushed for ages by some tyrant. But the other is the patience of our fishermen, and it is also the patience of our God, who through length of days, as Newman sings, elaborates a people to His praise. If you and I are ever to be perfect, it will take infinite patience to achieve it. We are so backward—so ready to forget—such foolish scholars in the school of heaven. Blessed be God, that love which gave a Savior will never weary in its appointed task, till that hath been made perfect which concerneth us.

It Involves Hope

And then, in closing, this work of net-mending, is it not a work that involves hope? There would be little use in mending any net if there were no hope of a harvest of the sea. Sometimes around the coasts of Scotland fish take what the fishermen call a flight. One year they are there in plenty, then unaccountably they disappear. And I know little towns upon our northern coasts where that has happened, and where hope was killed, and where the nets, so finely mended once, have hung upon the shore until they rotted. Always, when a net is mended, it means that there is hope for coming days. And always, when a life is mended, it means there is a harvest yet in store. And that is why, when a man yields up his will, and gives himself into the hand of God, hopes that were quenched begin to shine again, and the heart thrills with what is yet to be. We have sinned, and we have sinned exceedingly. We have done our very best to spoil our lives. We have wasted time, and squandered opportunity, and been unloving and utterly unworthy. Thanks be to God, in spite of all that, and of things that may be far darker than that, the broken net is going to be mended. He forgives us even to the uttermost. He is pledged to save us even to the uttermost. Deeper than our deepest need are the infinite depths of His compassion. It is in such a faith that we give Him our lives which are so rent and ragged, assured that His grace will be sufficient for us, and His strength made perfect in our weakness.

February 26

Our Daily Bread - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

Give us this day our daily bread— Mat_6:11

Every Harvest Is Prophecy

Once more in the kindly providence of God we have reached the season of the harvest. The reaper has been busy in the fields, and sower and reaper have rejoiced together. Many a day in the past summer season we wondered if the corn would ever ripen. There was such rain, so pitiless and ceaseless. There was such absence of sunshine and of warmth. Yet in spite of everything harvest has arrived, and the fields have been heavy with their happy burden, and in the teeth of clenched antagonisms the promises of God have been fulfilled. Every harvest is a prophecy. It is the shadow of an inward mystery. It cries to us, as with a golden trumpet, "With God all things are possible." And so in days when all the world is dreary, and excellence seems farther off than ever, the wise man will pluck up heart again, as not despairing of his harvest home. Well, now I want to take our text and set it in the light of harvest. I want to look upon our daily bread against the background of the harvest field. A thing seems very different, does it not, according to the light in which you view it? Suppose then that in this light we look for a little at these familiar words.

First then in that light let us think of what the answer to this prayer involves.

The Tiniest Petitions

Now when you read it unimaginatively, this seems an almost trifling petition. It almost looks like an intruder here, and men have often spoken of it so. On the one side of it there is the will of God, reaching out into the height of heaven. On the other side of it there are our sins, reaching down into unfathomed depths. And then, between these two infinities, spanning the distance from cherubim to Satan, there is "Give us this day our daily bread." Our sin runs back to an uncharted past, but in this petition there is no thought of yesterday. The will of God shall be for evermore, but in this petition there is no tomorrow. Give us this day our daily bread—supply us with a little food today—feed us tilt we go to rest tonight. As if a tiny cockleshell should be sailing between two mighty galleons, as if some hill that a child could climb should be set down between two mighty Alps, so seems this prayer for our daily bread between the will of the eternal God, and the cry for pardon for our sins whose roots go down into the depths of hell.

But now suppose you take this prayer and set it in the light of harvest. Give us this day our daily bread—can you tell me what is involved when it is answered? Why, if you but realized it, and caught the infinite range of its relationships, never again would it be insignificant. For all the ministry of spring is in it, and all the warmth and glory of the summer. And night and day, and heat and cold, and frost, and all the falling of the rain. And light that has come from distances unthinkable, and breezes that have blown from far away, and powers of nourishment that for a million years have been preparing in the mother earth. Give us this day our daily bread. Is it a little thing to get a piece of bread? Is it so little that it is out of place here where we are moving in the heights and depths? Not if you set it in the light of harvest, and think that not a crust can be bestowed unless the sun has shone, and the rain fallen, and the earth been quietly busy for millenniums.

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Our Daily Bread - Page 2
by George H. Morrison

I think then there is a lesson here about the greatness of the things we pray for. Our tiniest petitions might seem large, if we only knew what the answer would involve. There are things which you ask for which seem little things. They are peculiar and personal and private. They are not plainly vast like some petitions, as when we pray for the conversion of the world. Yet could you follow out that prayer of yours, that little private prayer, you might find it calling for the power of heaven as mightily as the conversion of the nations. "Thou art coming to a King, large petitions with thee bring." Only remember that a large petition is not always measured by the compass of it. It may be small and yet it may be large. It may be trifling and be tremendous, for all the days beyond recall may somehow be implicated in the answer. You are lonely, and you pray to God that He would send a friend into your life. And then some day to you there comes that friend, perhaps in the most casual of meetings. Yet who shall tell the countless prearrangements, before there was that footfall on the threshold which has made all the difference in the world to you? Give us this day our daily bread, and the sunshine and the storm are in the answer. Give us a friend, and perhaps there was no answer saving for omniscience and omnipotence. Now we know in part and see in part, but when we know even as we are known we shall discover all that was involved in the answer to our humblest prayers.

The Toil It Cost

In the second place, in the light of harvest think of the toil that lies behind the gift.

There are some gifts which we shall always value because of the love which has suggested them. There are others which mean much to us because of the thoughtfulness which they reveal. But now and then a gift is given us which touches us in a peculiar way, because we recognize the toil it cost. It may be given us by a child perhaps, or it may be given us by some poor woman. And it is not beautiful, nor is it costly, nor would it fetch a shilling in the market. And yet to us who know the story of it, and how the hands were busied in the making, it may be beautiful as any diadem. It was not purchased with an easy purse. The purses that I am thinking of are lean. It was not ordered from a foreign market. Love is not fond of trafficking in markets. In that small workshop where your boy is busy, in that small room where the poor sufferer lives, it was designed and fashioned and completed. Such gifts are often sorry to the eye. Such gifts are never sorry to the heart. Poor may they be and insignificant, yet never to us can they be insignificant. We know what they have cost, and knowing that we recognize an unsuspected value. We know the toil that is behind the gift.

I want you then to take that thought and to apply it to your daily bread. It is a gift, and yet behind that gift do you remember all the toil there is? I could understand a man despising manna, even though manna was the bread of angels. It came so easily, and was so lightly gotten, and was so lavishly and freely given. But daily bread is more divine than manna, for it like manna is the gift of heaven, and yet we get it not till arms are weary and sweat has broken on the human brow. I think of the ploughman with his steaming horses driving his furrow in the heavy field. I think of the sower going forth to sow. I think of the stir and movement of the harvest. I think of the clanking of the threshing mill, and of the dusty grinding of the corn, and of all those who in our bakeries are toiling in the night when we are sleeping. Give us this day our daily bread—then it is a gift, that daily bread. It comes to us from God, in His great bounty, and in His compassion for His hungry children. And yet it does not always come through an opened heaven, But more often than not, it comes through the sweat and labor of humanity, through men and women who are often weary after bearing the heat and burden of the day.

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Our Daily Bread - Page 3
by George H. Morrison

And is it not generally in such ways that our most precious gifts are given us? Every good and perfect gift is from above, yet is there something of heart-blood on them all. A noble painting is a precious gift. It is a thing of beauty and a joy forever. Look at it, how calm and beautiful it is. There is not a trace of struggle in its beauty. But had you lived in communion with the artist, and had you been with him when he was painting that, what strain and agony you would have seen! So is it with every noble poem; so with our civil and religious liberty. They are all gifts to us; they come from God; they are ours to cherish and enjoy. Yet every one of them is wet with tears, and charactered with human toil and pain, and oftentimes, like the Messiah's garment, dipped in the final ministry of blood. Into that fellowship of lofty gifts I want you, then, to put your daily bread. It is not little, nor is it insignificant when you remember all that lies behind it. And do you not wonder now to find it here between the will of God and our transgressions, though the one rises to the height of glory and the other tangles in the pit of hell.

By Lowly Hands

Lastly, in the light of harvest think of the hands through which the gift is given. Give us this day our daily bread we pray, and then through certain hands it is bestowed. Whose hands? Are they the hands of God? "No man hath seen God at any time." Are they, then, the hands of the illustrious, or of those whose names are famous in the world? All of you know as well as I do that it is not thus our bread is ministered; it reaches us by the hands of lowly men. Out of his cottage does the reaper come, and back to his cottage does he go at evening. And we halt a moment, and we watch him toiling under the autumn sunshine in the field. But what his name is, or where he had his birth, or what are his hopes and what his tragedies, of that we know absolutely nothing. So was it with the sower in the spring. So is it with the harvester in autumn. They have no chronicle, nor any luster, nor any greatness in the eyes of man. And what I want you to realize is this, that when God answers this universal prayer it is such hands as these that he employs. Once in Scotland we had a different case. We had a genius at the plough. And he saw visions there and he dreamed dreams until his field was as a lawn of paradise. But for that one, who has his crown of amaranth, are there not tens of thousands who are nameless, toiling, sorrowing, rejoicing, dying, and never raising a ripple on the sea? Give us this day our daily bread—it is by such hands that the prayer is answered. It is by these that the Almighty Father shows that He is hearkening to His children. It is His recognition of obscurity, and of lives that are uncheered by human voices, and of days that pass in silence and in shadow into the silence and shadow of the grave.

Now have you ever quietly thought of what we owe to ministries like that? One of the deepest debts we owe is to those who are sleeping in unregarded graves. It is not the rare flower which makes the meadow beautiful. It is the flower that blossoms by the thousand there. It is not the aurora which gives the sky its glory. It is the radiance of the common day. And so with life; perhaps we shall never know how it is beautified and raised and glorified by those who toil in undistinguished fashion. Such men may never write great poems, but it is they who make great poems possible. Such may never do heroic things, but they are the soil in which the seed is sown. Such men will not redeem the world. It takes the incarnate Son of God for that. But they—the peasants and the fishermen—will carry forth the music to humanity. Give us this day our daily bread. Are there not multitudes who are praying so? And you, you have no genius, no gifts? You are an obscure and ordinary person ? But if there is any meaning in our text, set in the light of sowing and of harvest, it is that the answer to that daily prayer will be vouchsafed through lowly folk like you.

February 27

The Two Worlds - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our debts— Mat_6:11-12

Acceptance of the Material World

When our Lord bids us pray for daily bread He accepts the visible world of space and time. He reveals to us our right relationship to the material world with which we are surrounded. Only if a man accepts that world is it possible for him to live. He must receive and assimilate the nourishment it offers him if his bodily life is to continue. He does not create his own material nourishment. He finds it in the world around him, and, finding it, draws it within himself. Our true attitude to that outward world lies in receiving what it has to offer us. We need bread, and it comes to us with bread. We need water, and it brings us water. Not out of the stores of our own being, but out of the vast largesse of the world do we secure our bodily existence. All this is implied when we are taught to pray, "Give us this day our daily bread." Our Lord is not setting the bounty of His Father over against the world in which we live. He is teaching us what He profoundly felt, that the material things which make our being possible are the free gifts of a loving Father's hand.

Realization of the Spiritual World

But to our Lord there was another world, and that other world not far away. The moment He teaches us to ask forgiveness He has stepped from the one into the other. In the material world pardon is unknown, just because sin is non-existent there. The effects of sin darken and disorder it, but it is not the sin of any bird or beast. These, guided by instinct, ignorant of evil, untouched by the glory of responsibility, have never felt the shamefulness of sin. The moment our Savior speaks about forgiveness He has passed into another world. It is not the world which bears the golden corn, nor is its music the music of the river. And the wonderful thing is how our blessed Lord, in a single breath, if I might put it so, moves over from the one world to the other. When He bids us pray, Give us our daily bread, He is thinking of the sower and the reaper. When He bids us pray for pardon, He has moved into the realm of spirit. And quite evidently, from His swift transition, the latter was not a world of distant frontiers. It was closer than breathing, nearer than hands and feet.

Both Material and Spiritual Gifts Are Derived from Outside of Ourselves

Now it seems to me that this rich collocation has a profound significance for all of us. It means that to these two different worlds our attitude is meant to be identical. We crave for bread, and the one world gives us bread. We thirst for water, and it gives us water. If we are to maintain our bodily existence we must receive what we cannot create. And in the same way our deeper life, to which we give the name of spiritual, must be sustained by constant receptivity. We do not win bread out of our inward stores. We get it from the bounty of the world. It is scattered across a thousand fields, and from these fields we wrest it and assimilate it. And all the nurture of our deeper life, to which our Savior gives the name of bread, has got to be received in the same way. It is not within our power to create pardon, anymore than it is in our power to create corn. Both are gifts and miracles of mercy, to be humbly accepted from God's hand. Give us our daily bread; forgive us: God's gifts are diverse; man's attitude is one.

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The Two Worlds - Page 2
by George H. Morrison

Man's Craving Not Satisfied with Bread Only

One feels, too, that in this collocation there is a powerful encouragement to faith. It reminds us of our Savior's graciousness in comparing faith to a grain of mustard-seed. I crave for bread, and the one world comes to me crying, Child, I have got bread for you. I have got satisfaction for that hunger in the loving fore-ordering of God. And I cannot believe that in the world of sense God would make ample provision for our cravings, and mock them in the other world of spirit. You do not exhaust the hungering of man when you satisfy the hunger of his body. The craving for truth and love and light is as real as the craving for the loaf. And that God in His merciful provision should give the loaf and deny the spiritual bread, to the thoughtful mind is utterly incredible. To do that would be to mock us. It would force us back to the level of the beast. To give the lower and refuse the higher would be the deathknell of the hopes of man. And how unthinkable that would have been to Jesus is evident from the one simple fact that His hopes for man are boundless. To Him the bounty of the world of sense was a pledge of the bounty of the other world. If from the one realm we get the gift of bread, shall we not from the other get the gift of pardon? Every field ripening to the harvest, and every fountain with its bubbling waters, was to Him a sacrament of the world unseen where are the water and the bread of life.

February 28

The Wonder and Bloom of the World - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

Consider the lilies of the field— Mat_6:28

Jesus Keenly Alive to the Message of Nature

During the glorious days of June, when the world is so full of light and joy, it is an unspeakable satisfaction to remember that our Lord was keenly alive to the message of nature. It is part of the undying charm of the Gospel story that while it sounds all the deeps of the human spirit, it never forgets that we are living in a world where the grass is green and where the birds are singing. There are poets whose gift is that of interpreting nature. There are others whose genius works at its noblest in interpreting the strange story of mankind. But the sublimest masters are endowed with both these gifts—they interpret nature and they interpret man. Now Jesus Christ was far more than a poet; He was inspired as no poet ever was. Yet the twofold gift of interpreting nature and man, the gift that is the glory of our masterpieces, shines out most cloudlessly upon the Gospel page. It is there we read of the Samaritan woman. It is there we read of the denial of Peter. But the mustard-seed and the birds and the lilies are there too.

Love of Nature Was a Hebrew Tradition

Now no doubt this love of nature which was so strong in Jesus sprang partly from the circumstances of His birth. He was a Hebrew with a Hebrew lineage, after the flesh, and nature was eloquent with voices to the Hebrew. You can often tell what a people gives its heart to by the richness and copiousness of its vocabulary. Where a nation's interests have been long and deeply engaged, there it soon wins for itself a wealth of terms. Well, in the Hebrew language there are some ten words for rain, and to the understanding heart that is significant. Into that heritage, then, Jesus of Nazareth entered. He was the child of a race that had lived with open eyes. And if the glory of the world lights up the Gospel story—if there are sermons in stones, and books in running brooks, there, we owe it in some measure to God's ordering, when He cradles Emmanuel in a Hebrew home.

From Fear of Nature to Love of It

But between the Hebrew outlook on nature in the Old Testament, and the outlook of Jesus as we find it in the Gospels, there is one marked difference that we cannot note too closely. There is one contrast which no one can fail to remark, who reads the prophets and the Psalms and then turns to the Gospels. In the Psalms the world is magnificent and terrible. It is a mighty pageant of grand and mysterious forces. We see the sun there rejoicing like a strong man to run his race; we hear the rush of the storm as it shatters the cedars of Lebanon. The sea is angry, its waves mount up to heaven. There is the roll of thunder; there is the flash of lightning. You feel that clouds and darkness are never far away. It is a vast and glorious world—hardly a kindly one. Now turn to the Gospels, and do you note the change? Consider the lilies of the field, the fowls of the air. Behold the sower goes forth to sow in the spring morning. The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard-seed. It is not that vast and magnificent things are disregarded, and the beauty of the small things recognized. That is not what gives us the sense of contrast between the nature of the psalmist and of Jesus. It is rather that the world is a much kindlier place; there is less menace in its terrific powers. It is still as full of mystery as ever; but it is the mystery of love now, not of fear.

Now can we explain that deep and striking change? It is quite clear that nature will not explain it. Had Jesus lived under a sunnier sky or amid fairer pastures than the old Hebrew psalmists, we might think that the change was due to change of scene. But the same stars looked down on Jesus of Nazareth as touched into music the craving heart of David; and the same wild storms leapt out of the blue heaven as have given the fire and rush to Hebrew melody. And the hills and the streams and the gleaming of the sea far off, these were the same. It is clear, then, that there is no explanation there.

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The Wonder and Bloom of the World - Page 2
by George H. Morrison

Nature Was Not Kinder to Jesus

Nor is there any—I speak with loving reverence of One to whom I owe so much—nor is there any explanation in the change of persons. I mean that had the lot of Jesus been a kindly lot, I could have fathomed His kindly view of nature. Has not Tennyson sung very wisely and very well—

Gently comes the world to those
That are cast in gentle mould?

And had the life of Jesus been a life of ease and tenderness, I think I could explain His view of nature. But did He not come unto His own and they received Him not? Was He not despised and rejected of men? Were there no drops of sweat like blood in lone Gethsemane? Was there no cup to drink, no cross to bear and die on?' I do not think that bitter sorrows like these make a man ready to consider the lilies. In my own tragedies the world grows tragic. I understand the storm when I am storm-tossed. But to Jesus, misunderstood, cross-burdened, Man of Sorrows, nature was genial, kindly, homelike, to the end.

Man's Attitude toward Nature Changes as a Result of Inward Change—God Not a Mere Creator but a Father

Here is the explanation of that contrast. It is not change of scene, nor change of circumstance. It is the changed thought of God that is the secret. To prophet and psalmist, no less than to Jesus, the world was alive and quivering with God. But to prophet and psalmist God was Jehovah; to Jesus of Nazareth God was Father. Twelve times over in this sixth chapter of Matthew Christ speaks of the Creator as "your Father." I have read of the child of a distinguished English judge who was rebuked for prattling beside the judge's knee. And the child answered: "Why should I not? He may be your judge, but he's my father." So when the thought of the Creator, infinite in majesty, was deepened and softened and glorified in Fatherhood, the mystery of fear was swept out of the world, and the gentle mystery of love came in. It was a Father who had reared the mountains. There was a Father's hand upon the storm. At the back of the thunder, no less than in the lilies, there was a Father's heart, a Father's love. It was that glorious truth filling the heart of Jesus that made all nature what it was for Him. Perfect love had cast out fear.

In the city of Florence there is an old building now used as a museum. Six hundred years ago it was a palace, and on the altar wall of its chapel, sometime about 1390, Giotto painted a portrait of the poet Dante. This portrait, the only one painted during the poet's lifetime, is of inestimable value. But the building fell upon evil days; it was turned into a jail for common criminals; its walls were coated with whitewash. And for centuries under this covering the face of Dante was hidden, until its existence was well-nigh forgotten. But in 1840 three gentlemen, one of them an Englishman, set to work and discovered the lost likeness. And now the old prison wall is full of glory because the lineaments of the great poet shine out there. Ah, yes, if a common wall is quite transfigured when the likeness of Dante is discovered on it, no wonder that a common flower is glorified when it reveals—as it did to Christ—the Father. It is a great thing to be alive to beauty; but men were alive to beauty before Jesus lived. It is a great thing to feel the mystery of nature; but men had felt all that in paganism. What Jesus did was to take the truth of Fatherhood, and touch every bird and every lily with it, till beauty deepened into brotherhood, and we and the world were mystically kin. "When I consider the heavens," said the psalmist, "what is man, that thou art mindful of him?" But Jesus, just to reassure us of God's mindfulness, says, "Consider the lilies of the field."

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The Wonder and Bloom of the World - Page 3
by George H. Morrison

Jesus Used Nature in the Interest of Morals

Such, then, was the secret of nature for our Lord. And now I have a word to say upon one other point. I want you to observe how constantly and simply our Lord used nature in the interests of morals. Our outlook on nature is very largely emotional. We make it a mirror to reflect our moods. If we are happy, then all the world is happy. But if we are sad, then even "the banks and braes O' bonny doon 'mind me O' departed joys, departed—never to return." Now all that is very natural, I doubt not; and it is a witness to the grandeur of our human story that we make every stream and every sunset echo it. But in the life of Jesus there is little of that; it is the moral helpfulness of nature that He seizes. Burns wondered how the flowers could bloom when he was so weary. That is the emotional outlook on the world. Tennyson said: "Flower in the crannied wall, could I but understand thee, I should know what God and man is." That is the intellectual outlook on the world. But Jesus said: "Why take ye thought for raiment? Consider the lilies of the field," and that is neither emotional nor intellectual; it is moral. I do not mean that Jesus was blind to the other aspects; but I do mean that He centered His thought on that. For the soul and the life and the individual character—these things were so transcendently important to Christ Jesus, that everything else must be impressed into their service. In the glorious days of June we are apt to grow a little dull to what is highest. Just to be alive is such a sweet thing at such a time, that the hope and the resolve of sterner moods take to themselves wings and fly away. Do not forget the earnestness of Christ. Do not forget that out in the summer fields this was His aim—to fashion noble, trustful, reverent disciples. We must have room for the lilies of the field no less than for Gethsemane; we must remember the birds not less than the bread and wine, if the whole ministry of Christ is to be operative in winning us to some likeness of Himself.

To the Very End Nature Appealed to Jesus

It is notable, too, that as Jesus' life advanced, and as the shadows upon His path grew darker, we find no trace that Jesus outgrew nature, or passed beyond the power of its reaching. I think most of us have had hours when nature seemed to desert us. She became dumb and had no healing for us. It may have been the hour of a great sorrow, or a great crisis in our life's career. And I think that most of us have had moods and feelings which we thought that nature was powerless to interpret. She could not enter into our weary problems. So as our life goes on we drift away from nature, and nature silently drifts away from us. But what I want you to note is that though that happens with us, there is no trace that it ever happened with Jesus. Here on the hillside He is speaking of providence, and He says, "Consider the lilies of the field." Then follows the preaching of the kingdom throughout Galilee, and "the kingdom of heaven is like a mustard-seed." Then the shadow of Calvary falls, and the awful death that is coming—can nature interpret and illuminate that darkness? "Except a corn of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone." And where did Christ agonize? Was it in the upper room? He went into a place where there was a garden. And in the exultant joy of resurrection morning, did He hasten away into the city? He waited till Mary supposed He was the gardener. Right on, then, through the wealth of all His teaching, right on through His suffering and death and rising, the voices of the natural world appealed to Jesus. Nature may seem to fail us before the end, but it never deserted Jesus Christ.

In Perfect Touch with His Father's World

And the reason is not very far to seek. "I come…to do thy will, O God" (Heb_10:7). It was the childlike heart, absolutely true, never swerving by a hairbreadth from the line of duty; it was His perfect obedience to a Father's will that kept Jesus in perfect touch with His Father's world. Do you remember how Wadsworth, speaking of the man who does his duty, says:

Flowers laugh before thee in their beds
And fragrance in thy footing treads?

He means that nature ceases to be musical when we are anywhere else than on the path of duty. Here, then, is the secret of a happy summer, in which all the world and you shall be in comradeship. It is to be patient, brave, unselfish, kind, and loyal. It is to accept the cross. It is to be true. To see the beautiful, you must be dutiful. It is a most strange world. "Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God"—even in the lilies of the field.

March 1

A Sermon for Springtide - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

Consider the lilies of the field— Mat_6:28

The Ministry of Nature

At the sweet and hopeful season of Spring, when freshness and beauty surround us, I am sure there are few of us whose thoughts do not go forth to the wonder and the glory of the world. After the deadness of our northern February springtide comes tingling with the surprise of joy, and that is indeed one of our compensations for the stern and desolate winter of our land. Of all our poets who "build the lofty rhyme," there is none more thoroughly English than the poet Chaucer. As we read his musical and vivid verse, it is always the sound of a brother's voice we hear. And in nothing is he more truly English than in this, that he stirs at the call of the sweet voice of April, and casting his books aside, longs to become a child of his warm and beautiful and gladsome world. In some measure all of us feel that; nor is there aught unworthy in that restlessness. Rightly used, it may be a means of grace, drawing us nearer to the feet of Christ. And therefore I like at this season of the year to speak sometimes on the ministry of nature, and to discover what that meant for Jesus.

Christ at Home in the Country; Paul at Home in the City

Now in this matter there is one thing which strikes me, and that is the contrast between Christ and Paul. You never feel that Paul is at home in the country. You always feel that Paul is at home in the city. Country life did not appeal to Paul; it did not flash into spiritual suggestion as he viewed it. He heard the groans of a travailing creation, but he did not love it to its minutest feature. It was the city which appealed to Paul, with its great and crying problems of humanity, with its pageantry and its murmuring and its stir, with its crowds that would gather when one began to preach. The kingdom of heaven is not like a seed to Paul; the kingdom of heaven is like some noble building. When he would illustrate the things of grace, he does not turn to the vine or the lily. He turns to the soldier polishing his Armour; to the gladiator fighting before ten thousand eyes; to the freeborn citizen whose civic charter had been won in the senate of imperial Rome. I hardly need to indicate to you how different this is from Christ's procedure. Not in the city did Jesus find His parables, save when He saw the children in the marketplace. He found them in the clustering of the vine. He found them in the springing of the corn. He found them in the lake where boats were rocking, and in the glow of sunset and of sunrise. He found them in the birds that wheeled above Him—in the fig tree—in the fowl of the farmyard. He found them in the lily of the field, with which even Solomon could not compare.

Jesus of Nazareth and Paul of Tarsus

It is for that reason that when the springtime comes I always thank God that Christ was bred at Nazareth. We owe far more to that quiet home at Nazareth than some of us may be ready to acknowledge. Paul was a native of Tarsus—no mean city. It was a place like Glasgow, the seat of a wide commerce. Paul was a city boy, bred among city streets, familiar with crowds since he had eyes to see. And though the gardens of a Roman city were very beautiful in their arrangement, yet gardens and fountains are a sorry substitute for the lone glen and the silence of the hills. But in the providence of God, Christ was a country child. There was no "Please keep off the grass" at Nazareth. Trespassers were never prosecuted on the hills there, as they ought never to be in any country. And it was there that Jesus spent His boyhood—keen-eyed, quick-hearted, loving all God's creatures, moving, as if at home, where all was beautiful, and praying best because He loved it all. That is the note which you detect at once when you come to the public ministry of Jesus. Other teachers elaborate their parables; but with Christ they come welling up out of the heart. They were His heritage from the quiet days of Nazareth when He had watched and loved and understood. It was His manhood recalling in the strife the music that had charmed Him as a child.

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March 2

Putting First Things First - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

Seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness— Mat_6:33

Necessity of Order

The more narrowly one looks on life, the more one sees the necessity of order. The quality of life largely depends on the right ordering of its interests. When our Lord said, Seek ye first the kingdom, He was not speaking with contempt of other interests. He who had been the Carpenter of Nazareth knew that man must toil for daily bread. He was enforcing that infinite love of order which Fenelon noted long ago as one of the characteristics of His life. The land of the shadow of death, says Job, is a land of darkness without any order (Job_10:22). In that ineffectual and dreary realm things are tossed and tumbled in confusion. But He who came to give us life abundant insists upon the ordering of our interests, and says to us, Seek ye first the Kingdom. Put first things first, and life is like a melody. Virtue is love's order, says St. Augustine. Put secondary things in the first place, and life goes down into the glen of weeping. It is that condition of victorious living which the Lord is emphasizing in our text.

Putting First Things First

This divine necessity for order might be illustrated from many spheres. One might think, for instance, of the student. When a student enters a class of the humanities there are two ambitions he may set before himself. He may be bent on grasping the spirit of a literature, or he may be bent on the securing of a prize. He may be eager to enrich his being through converse with the immortal dead, or he may covet his name upon the prize list. Now there is nothing mean in seeking to be a prizewinner. It is a perfectly laudable ambition. Even the great apostle of the Gentiles had an eye to the prize of his high calling. But whenever the thought of prizewinning comes first, when it becomes the dominating passion, then the student misses that enriching which is the peculiar gift of the humanities. It is not a case of intellectual failure. It is really a case of moral failure. Putting what should be second in the first place induces a certain blindness of the heart. A man is out of touch with a great literature, as he is out of touch with a great God, when self has the first in his program.

A Doctor Should Put His Patients, Not Fees, First

Again, we might illustrate this need of order in our various callings and professions. Take, for instance, the man who is a doctor. The difference between a good and a bad doctor is not that the good one never thinks of fees. If he never thought of fees he would be a fool, for the laborer is worthy of his hire. The difference lies in what the man puts first, in what is primary in his profession, in what is the dominant interest in his calling. Let a doctor put the thought of money first, let his first consideration be his fees, and, for all the brilliance of his gifts, he is unworthy of his high vocation. But let him put his patients in the first place; let his primary ambition be to heal, and then, though he be ignorant of brilliance, he is an honorable member of his calling. The strange thing is that when a doctor puts the fees first, his character invariably degenerates. Probably he is half-conscious of it, but other people are not unconscious of it. Something goes—some-thing is always lost—some touch of what is brotherly and beautiful, and lost through the disorder of his interests. He is not sinning as a drunkard sins. He is only putting first what should be second. He is perfectly entitled to his fees. He is not entitled to give his fees the primacy. And the narrowing that always follows upon that, and the sneer with which common people talk of it, is a tribute to that perfect wisdom which inspires the moral teaching of our Lord.

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Putting First Things First - Page 2
by George H. Morrison

People, Not Things, Should Be Our First Consideration

I think, too, the world has yet to learn this lesson in our industrial and commercial life. Take, for instance, the case of some great company. Now, the shareholders in that company have a perfect right to get interest on their shares. Many a lonely woman could not live but for the dividends she gets on her investments. But so long as the thought of interest comes first, to the exclusion of all else, we can never hope to have a Christian country. So long as people insist on a high interest and are careless of how the workmen live; so long as they regard these workmen as simply a means to bring them in their interest; so long, though every shareholder be a respected member of the Church, we can never expect to have a Christian land. Men were not just means to Jesus Christ. The poorest and the humblest was an end. The lowliest toiler was of an infinite value to which the wealth of companies is nothing. And until the common, careless, unconcerned shareholder learns to put first the man who makes the interest, the Kingdom of God is never going to come.

March 3

The Restfulness of Christ - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

Then he arose, and rebuked the winds and the sea; and there was a great calm— Mat_8:26

People Who Provide an Atmosphere of Restfulness

There are some people we meet who impress us with a sense of restfulness. Such people, not infrequently, are men; more often, if I mistake not, they are women. They are not necessarily brilliant, nor have they any striking or unusual gifts: all we feel is that in their company there is a pleasant atmosphere of restfulness. We are all tempted to strain after effect sometimes, but in the presence of these people we do not think of that. There is no effort to keep up conversation. We are not ashamed even of being silent. Like a breath of evening after the garish day, when coolness and quiet have followed on the sunshine, such natures, often we know not how, enwrap us with a sweet sense of rest.

And you will find, as your survey of life broadens, that people who are weak never create that atmosphere. There may be many vices in the strong, but there is always something unrestful in the weakling. We talk of the restfulness of the calm summer evening, and unhappy is the man who never feels it. But we know now how at the back of that there is the stress of conflict and the strain of battle. And so in the people who are full of restfulness, could we but read the story of their lives, we should find the record of many a hard battle, and the tale of many a well-contested field. I do not mean that they have done great deeds. I do not mean that they have suffered terribly. The greatest victories are not spectacular, nor is there any crowd to cheer the combatant. I only mean that people who are restful are people who have looked facts in the face; who have toiled, when there was not much light to toil by, and carried their crosses in a smiling way. There is never any rest in weakness. To be weak is miserable, doing or suffering, says Milton. The condition of all restfulness is power of the open-eyed and quiet, heroic kind. And probably that is why people who are restful are at the same time delightfully subduing; for there is nothing that so subdues a man as power, save the apotheosis of power, which is love.

The Restfulness of Jesus

Now no man can reasonably doubt that Jesus was pre-eminently restful. Whenever I peruse the Gospel story, I am impressed by the restfulness of Christ. One of the first invitations which He gave was this: "Come unto me…and I will give you rest." One of the last promises before the cross was this: "My peace I give unto you." And though there are depths in the peace of Jesus Christ that reach to the deepest abysses of the soul, yet the words would have been little else than mockery had the Christ not been wonderfully restful. Take a word like that of the Apostle Paul: "The Lord of peace himself give you peace always." Down to the depths of the sin-pardoned soul you are still in the province of the benediction. But there never could have been that benediction unless the Lord, whom the church loved and worshipped, had impressed everyone who ever met Him with the feeling of an infinitude of rest.

Craving for Restfulness

And I cannot help thinking that if men realized that, it would constitute a new appeal for Christ. If I know anything about this present day, there is a craving in its heart for restfulness. Mr. Moody used to tell a story of a little child who was tossing and fretting in some childish fever. And its mother sang to it and told it stories, and the little child tossed and was fretful still. And then the mother stooped down without a word and gathered her little daughter in her arms, whereon the child, in an infinite content, said, "Ah, mother, that's what I wanted." She did not know what she wanted, like many wiser people; but like most of us she knew it when she got it. And so today there are a thousand voices singing to us, and some perhaps telling stories. But it seems to me that the times are a little fevered, that the pulse is not beating steadily like our fathers', and that what we need in modern society is just the shadow and the space of rest. The strenuous life is being overdone. It is a little too strenuous to be strong. It is issuing, not in the dignity of manhood, but in the hustle of the modern market. And wise men everywhere are coming to see that we need a new ideal not less intense, but one that has ampler room within its borders for the fructifying pleasantness of rest.

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The Restfulness of Christ - Page 2
by George H. Morrison

Rest for Those Whose Burden Is Religion

It is just here that, out of the mist of ages, there steps the figure of the Man of Nazareth. "Come unto me…and I will give you rest"—it is the message of Jesus for today. I want you to remember that these words were spoken to men and women whose burden was religion. It was the spirit of the age, charged with religion. It was the spirit of the age, charged with tradition, from which our Savior offered them relief. And once again the spirit of the age demands an ideal that shall have room for rest, and standing among us is the restful Christ. But the continual wonder about Christ is this, that in every part and power of His being He was intensely and unceasingly alive with a vitality which puts us all to shame. Let a woman touch Him in the throng—"Who touched me?" Let Him see a crowd, and He is "moved with compassion." Let Him be baited by the subtlest doctors, and He fences and parries with superb resource. In body and spirit, in will, emotion, intellect, Christ was so flooded with the tides of life, that when He cried to men, "I am the Life," they felt in a moment that the word was true. Yet, "Come unto me…and I will give you rest." That is the abiding mystery of Christliness. That is the secret we are hungering for today, how to engraft the strenuous on the restful. And you may laboriously search the ages, and all the ideals and visions of the ages, and never find these so perfectly combined as in the historic personality of Jesus. The East says, "Come let us rest awhile; no need to hurry, and the sun is warm." And the West says, "Let us be up and doing," till we have almost lost the forest for the trees. And then comes Jesus, most superbly active, and toiling with an inspired assiduity, and yet in the very thick and tangle of it, girt with a restfulness that is divine.

Christ's Restfulness Was the Restfulness of Balance

Now when we study the life of Jesus Christ, we light on one or two sources of this restfulness. And in the first place it was the restfulness of balance. You remember how John in the Book of Revelation has a vision of the heavenly Jerusalem; and you remember how, as he surveys its form, he sees that the length and the breadth and the height of it are equal. It was symmetrical in every measurement—perfectly balanced in every dimension, and I challenge any man to read the Gospel and not remark that equipoise in Christ. We talked of Bismarck as the man of iron, but we never talk of the iron will of Christ. We speak of the myriad-mindedness of Shakespeare, but we do not speak in that fashion about Jesus. And it is not reverence that keeps us silent, nor is it any awe at present deity; it is rather that everything is in such perfect poise there, that the total impression is repose. It is the same in the highest works of art. In the noblest art there is always a great restfulness. Passion is there, and energy, and power, as there are passion and power in the sunrise. But the mark of genius is the mark of God, that it brings the warring forces into balance, and holds its energies in such a poise that the impression of the whole is rest. It is not the enthusiast who is most like Christ, no matter how fiery his ardor be. It is not the man whose feelings are the tenderest. It is not the man who has a will of steel. Ethically, that man is most tike Christ who has so lived with Him under the love of God that every part and power of his being has opened out like a flower to the sun. That, then, is one of the ethical sources of what I call the restfulness of Christ. Ill-balanced men always make us restless; ill-balanced women do so as well. But to me at least, reading the life of Jesus, there comes such a sense of powers in perfect balance, that I accept the invitation, "Come unto me…and I will give you rest" with all my heart.

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The Restfulness of Christ - Page 3
by George H. Morrison

Jesus' Restfulness Is the Restfulness of Purpose

Again it is the restfulness of purpose—of steady and unalterable purpose. There is no rest in the little Highland stream as it brawls and chafes along its bed of granite. It "chatters, chatters as it goes," and chattering things and people are not restful. But the mighty river, silent and imperial, guiding its wealth of water to the sea, is like a parable of mighty purpose, and in the bosom of that purpose there is rest. There is something river-like about the life of Christ—it is so resistless in its flow. Sorrows or joys could no more stop His course than the lights and shadows on the hills can stop the Clyde. And in this mighty purpose, so deep and so divine, there lies not a little of the secret of the unfailing restfulness of Christ. Why is it that young men are so restless? And why is there generally more repose as life advances? It is not merely that the fires are cooling; it is that life is settling into a steadier aim. No longer do we beat at doors that will not open—no longer does every bypath suggest dreams—we have found our work and we have strength to do it, and in that concentration there is rest. Now in the life of Jesus Christ there is always the beat of underlying purpose. No life was so free or so happily spontaneous. To call it cribbed, cabined, and confined would be mockery. Yet underneath its gladness and its reach, and all the splendor and riches of its liberty, there is a burning and dominating purpose, and in the bosom of that purpose is repose. It is a bad thing not to have a friend. It is a worse thing not to have a purpose. Something to love, to fight for, and to live for, in the heat of the battle keeps a man at rest. And Jesus had the world to love and fight for, and the world's redemption to achieve on Calvary, and I say that that, in the midst of all the tumult, was the strain of music whose echo was repose.

Jesus' Restfulness Is That of Trust

Then lastly it was the restfulness of trust. Christ had repose because He trusted so. Faithlessness, even in the relationships of earth, is the lean and hungry mother of unrest. Let a mistress once distrust her maid, and there will be worrying suspicion everyday. Let a husband distrust his wife, a wife her husband, and the peace of home, sweet home, is in ashes. We charge this with being a restless age, and we lay the blame of that restlessness on love of pleasure, but I question if it be not lack of faith that is the true root of social instability. To me the wildest little child is restful, and it is restful because it trusts me so. Faith is the great rebuke of boisterous winds when the ship is likely to be swamped in angry waters. And the perfect restfulness of Jesus Christ, in a life of unceasing movement and demand, sprung from a trust in God that never faltered even amid the bruising of the cross.

March 4

Enough!

It is enough for the disciple that he be as his master, and the servant as his lord— Mat_10:25

Spirituality Is Conformity to Christ

The highest praise that can be given to any man is that others, knowing him, should call him Christlike. That is the noblest ideal in the world. People who live long together often grow to resemble one another. Years of intimate and loving fellowship reflect themselves even on the face. So years of close communion with the Lord insensibly convey His impress, and the inward life becomes what we call Christlike. Now one of the subtle temptations of this life is an impatience with the reality of things. The facts of life are often hard, stern facts, difficult to reconcile with spirituality. And it is when we are tempted to despondency, as if the higher life were not for us, that we ought to remember this saying of our Lord. One is our Master, even Christ. His life is our ideal. Spirituality is not a vague abstraction; it is growing conformity to Him. And if He was burdened, and misunderstood, and sometimes sorrowful even unto death, we must not quarrel with such dark experiences. It is enough that we should be like Him.

Christlikeness Does Not Exempt Us from Weariness

We ought, for instance, to remember this great saying in the frequent hours when we are weary. Many of His servants have times of great exhaustion in the work and welfare of the Kingdom. They would give much to be always at their best, and perhaps they read of others who are so. There are those who claim never to have known weariness since they gave themselves up to Him in full surrender. But the Lord Himself, who yielded up His life in a way that no one else has ever paralleled, never made any such claim as that. He was so weary once that He fell fast asleep, with His head on the wooden pillow of a fishing boat. He was so weary once, travelling to Calvary, that His cross was transferred to Simon of Cyrene. And all this is written on the page of Scripture, not only that we may see the kind of man He was, but that those who love Him, and who seek to follow Him, might be delivered from the lure of false ideals. It would be a wonderful thing always to feel radiant, and equal to every task the day may bring. Never to grow weary in our service would be to taste the joy of service in eternity. But our Master knew not that experience. There were hours when He was utterly exhausted. And it is enough, He tells us, that we be like Him.

Christlikeness Does Not Exempt Us from Being Misunderstood

Again, we should always bear these words in mind in seasons when we are misunderstood. To be misunderstood is always bitter. Nothing so adds to the joy of spiritual service as to be certain that it is appreciated. Appreciation, from the right kind of people, is always a spur to more devoted toil. But to toil on, as so many have to do, misunderstood even by those they love, is one of the heaviest crosses in the world. It is so apt to blight all that is most delicate, so swift to sour the milk of human kindness. Why should God permit this chilling atmosphere to surround many of His finest toilers? Then one remembers that He who came to earth to embody the ideal of life and character breathed that pestilent atmosphere all the time. He was misunderstood when He wrought His deeds of mercy—He casteth out devils by Beelzebub. He was misunderstood when He hung upon the cross—they thought He was calling on Elias. And with that spirit of His, so exquisitely sensitive, that increasing and deep misunderstanding was sorer than the piercing of the nails. One of our novelists speaks of "Kingdom of Heaven kindness." Have not many practiced it, and been misunderstood? A little gratitude would have made all the difference, but gratitude was conspicuous by its absence. It is in such hours, and they come to everybody who has practiced the secret of the "cup of water," that there is a gospel in the word enough. Enough is as good as a feast. Enough is satisfaction. More than enough would be a spiritual surfeit, and surfeit is the prologue to disease. He who knows us and what is best for us, just as He knows what is in store for us, says it is enough that the servant be as his Lord.

Christlikeness Does Not Exempt Us from a Sense of Failure

Then, lastly, we should remember this in the seasons when we think that we have failed. Spiritual work, above all other work, is dogged and haunted by the sense of failure. A postman does not fail—he delivers his letters, and his work is done. A captain does not fail—he brings his ship to port, and that's the end of it. But when men are dealing, not with ships but with souls, and seeking to win them for the Lord, the sense of failure is often overwhelming. How many a minister, who has wrought and prayed, is so haunted by the failure of his preaching, that he longs sometimes never to preach again! Is it alien from the spirit of the Lord? It seems to me that without that seeming failure we shall never fully share in His experience. When I hear Him crying, "O Jerusalem, Jerusalem,…how often would I have gathered thy children together, as a hen doth gather her brood under her wings, and ye would not" (Luk_13:34), I realize that He was there before us—and it is enough, for the most ardent heart, that the servant should be as his Lord.

March 6

The Sending of the Sword - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

I came not to send peace, but a sword— Mat_10:34

Christ Came to Bring Both Peace and a Sword

There seems to be a glaring contradiction between this word and some other words of Jesus. Some of the most familiar Gospel words—words that shine down like stars on the world's darkness—speak of Jesus as the great peace bringer. "Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you." Yet here, "I came not to send peace, but a sword." The point I wish you to observe in passing is Christ's disregard for superficial consistency. Life proves many a proposition to be true that logic would readily demonstrate as false. And the strange thing about the words of Christ is, that while they seem to contradict each other at the bar of reason, they link themselves together into perfect harmony when we go forward in the strength of them. Are you fond of arguing about Christ's teachings? You may argue till doomsday and never find their power. They are words of life meant to be lived out; there is no argument in all the armory like action. And it is only as we set our faces heavenward, making these statutes our song in the house of our pilgrimage: only as we view every new morning as a new opportunity of putting Christ to proof; it is only thus, through the gathering experience of days, that we awaken to their power and truth. I notice in the engines of our river steamers that there are rods that move backward as well as rods that move forward. A child would say they were fighting with each other, and that half of the engines were going the wrong way. But though half the engines seem to go the wrong way, there is no question that the ship is going the right way: out of the smoke and stir of the great city into the bays where the peace of God is resting. So with the words of Christ that seem to oppose each other. Make them the driving power of the soul: and the oppositions will not hinder progress, and the contradictions will reveal their unity, and you shall be brought to your desired heaven.

So to our text; and there are two lights in which I wish to set it. (1) The coming of Christ sends a sword into the heart. (2) The coming of Christ sends a sword into the home.

Christ Sends a Sword into the Heart

First, then: The coming of Christ sends a sword into the heart. Now this is exactly what I should have expected when I remembered the penalties of gain. For everything a man achieves there is a price to pay. There comes a wound with everything we win. Think of the knowledge of nature that we now possess. All knowledge, whatever joy it brings with it, brings with it in the other hand a sword. All love, though it kindles the world into undreamed-of brightness, has a note in its music of unrest and agony. Every advance mankind has ever made holds in its grasp new possibilities of pain.

It is through thoughts like these that I come to understand how the coming of Christ into the heart must send a sword there. To receive Christ is to receive the Truth; it is to have the Spirit of Love breathing within us: and if truth and love always bring sorrow with them, I shall expect the coming of Christ to be with pain. I have no doubt there are some to whom Christ came, and made them very happy. You will never forget the hour of your conversion, when, as by the rending or a veil, the night was gone, and the trees in the forest clapped their hands before you, and every star in the heavens shone more brightly. A true experience, a very real experience: there are those here who look back on such an hour. But Jesus does not always come that way. He comes with the sword as well as with the song. He comes to banish the old shallow happiness, to break the ice that was over the deep waters, to touch the chords that had never given their music, to open the eyes to the hills above the cloud. And if He has come to you thus, so that you are not happier but consumed with a passion of divine discontent, I bid you in God's name go forward—it is Christ with the sword, but it is still the Christ. It is a great thing to feel like singing. Perhaps it is greater still to feel like struggling. This one thing I do, forgetting the things that are behind I press towards the mark.

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The Sending of the Sword - Page 2
by George H. Morrison

Three Ways Christ's Coming into the Heart Brings a Sword: He Opens Up the Depths of Sin within Us

There are three ways in which the coming of Christ into the heart sends a sword there. I can only briefly touch on these three ways. Christ opens up the depths of sin within us; that is one. We see what we are in the light of His perfection. We were tolerably contented with our character once, but when Christ comes we are never that again. Like the sheep that look clean enough among the summer grass, but against the background of the virgin snow look foul; so you and I never know how vile we are until the background of our life is Christ. You would have thought that when Christ filled Peter's net, Peter would have been ecstatically happy; but instead of that you have Simon Peter crying, "Depart from me for I am a sinful man, O Lord." Christ came to Simon Peter with the sword; showed him himself; taught him how dark he was. And whenever the sword-stroke of an indwelling Savior cuts into the deeps of a man's heart the wound is very likely to be sore.

He Calls Us to a Lifelong Warfare

And then Christ calls us to a lifelong warfare. The note of warfare rings through the whole New Testament. The spirit is quickened now to crave for spiritual things, and the flesh and the spirit must battle till the grave. I knew a student who had been to Keswick and had drunk deep of the teaching of that school. And very noble teaching it is when nobly grasped. And he came back to Scotland in a kind of rapture; everything was to be easy evermore. And he went to one of our most saintly and notable ministers to tell him about this newfound way to holiness, and the minister (with his beautiful smile) looked at him and said, "Ah, sir, it will be a sore wrestle till the end." For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities and powers and spiritual darkness. And the evil that I would not that I do, and the good I would that do I not. Paul knew the peace of God that passed all understanding, yet to Paul the Savior came bearing the sword.

He Heightens Our Ideals

But above all, it is by heightening our ideal that the old peace goes and the pain begins. It is in the new conception of what life may be that the sword-stroke cuts into the heart. We are no more the children of time and space. We are the children of glorious immortality. We are launching out onto a career that will advance and deepen forever and forever. And do you think that the birth of a mighty thought like that can be accomplished without wound or pain? Whenever the horizon widens there is sorrow. The sword of Christ smites through the thongs that bind us. The sword of Christ cuts down the veil that shadows us. The sword of Christ makes free play for our manhood; we step into our liberty through Him. And if, with all that, there comes a haunting pain and an unrest that may become an agony, remember that Christ came to send the sword.

Christ Sends a Sword into the Home

But I pass on now: so, secondly and lastly, Christ comes to send a sword into the home.

Did you ever think how true that was of Nazareth? Did you ever reflect on our text in the light of that home? There was not a cottager in all the village but would think of one home they knew when they heard this. Joseph and Mary—was there any home in Nazareth on which the sunshine of heaven seemed to rest so sweetly? The peace of mutual love and trust lay on it, like a benediction from the green hills that sheltered it. Then into that quiet home came Jesus Christ, and the point of the sword has touched the heart of Joseph. And he was minded to put Mary away quietly, for the great love he had to her. Then came the flight to Egypt; then Jesus in the Temple—ah, yes! the sword is going deeper now. And when the public ministry began, and He was put to scorn, rejected, crucified, I think the sword had smitten that quiet home. It might have been so peaceful and so happy, with the laughter of children and the joy of motherhood. It might have been so peaceful and so happy if God had never honored it like this. But Jesus was born there, and that made all the difference. It could never be the quiet home again. Gethsemane was coming, Calvary was coming; a sword was going to pierce through Mary's heart. He came not to send peace, but a sword.

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The Sending of the Sword - Page 3
by George H. Morrison

Now I think that still in many and many a home the coming of Jesus spells out unrest like that. When a young man or woman in a worldly home takes a definite stand, comes out and out for Christ, then the father and mother and every brother and sister will understand the meaning of this text. There is no outward quarrelling—how could there be when all the family are members of the Church? But the new enthusiasm and the new consecration and the new wholeheartedness for Jesus Christ—all well enough at the distance of the pulpit, but now brought into the bosom of the family—cause unrest, uneasiness, and irritation there, and that is Christ coming with the sword. I quite admit the sword is needlessly sharpened sometimes by the pride and arrogance of the young convert. I have had cases in my ministry where all my sympathy went out to the unconverted brothers. But this I want to say, Is there any young man or woman whose difficulty in deciding for Christ is the life at home? Well, then, be very humble; do not obtrude yourself; remember your ignorance, remember your youth; but as you have a life to live, and as you have a death to die, and as you have a God to meet before the Throne, do not let father or mother or the happiest home that ever cradled man keep you from closing with the call of God. If there must be trouble, then trouble there must be. To thine own self be true. As man to man Christ says to you, "I came not to send peace, but a sword."

The Sword in the Hearts of Parents over Their Children

A word to the children of sorrow as I close. A word to the fathers and to the mothers. I want you to remember there is another way in which Christ has brought the sword into the home. For home itself has a wealth of meaning in it that it never would have had save for the Gospel. And the natural love of the mother for her child has been deepened and glorified since Jesus came. Brotherhood, sisterhood, fatherhood, motherhood, childhood, you do not know how little these words meant once. And if now they speak to us of what is truest and tenderest, of ties unsurpassably delicate and strong, it is the love of Christ, it is the revelation of the Father, it is the touch of our Brother that has achieved the change. And what is the other side of that rich heritage? Ask any Christian mother for the answer. Find out if her heart never bleeds over her child; if she has not hours of haunting and torturing fears. Develop love, and you develop sorrow. Deepen the heart-life, and you deepen suffering. It is by doing that, through all the centuries, that Christ has brought the sword into our homes. The Stoic said, "Dry up these fountains of feeling"; so he made a solitude and called it peace. But Christ deepened and cleansed life's wellsprings here, and that very deepening has brought the sword. I think it is worth it. I would not be a Stoic. It is better to live vividly, spite of the pain, than to have the fingertips of all the angels grope at a heart of steel. After all, if He smiteth, He will bind up again. If He woundeth, yet He will make us whole. The sword, like Excalibur swung by the arm of Bedivere, shall flash and sink into the deeps forever, when we wake in the eternal morning of the Lord.

March 7

The Trifling Things of Life

A cup of cold water— Mat_10:42

The Importance of Little Things

Every reader of the Gospel knows the stress which our Lord put on little things. He hath put down the mighty from their seats, and exalted men and things of low degree. Things that to other people seemed important had often little importance in His eyes. Things that to others seemed of trifling value were often things of magnitude to Him. He had a scale of values all His own. Think, for instance, of this cup of water. Was not that a very trifling service? Could anyone refuse a cup of water to the thirsty beggar at the door? Yet a cup of water and a widow's mite and a kiss of welcome to the entering guest—all these meant a great deal to the Lord.

And not only is this true of life; it is true also of His view of nature. Our Lord had an eye for the trifling things of nature, and found in them His parables and poems. Very generally in the Old Testament it is the mighty things of nature which are evident. "Thy justice is like mountains great, thy judgments deep as floods." But in the eyes of Jesus these stupendous things are never quite so eloquent of God as the objects that to others were but trifles. The anemones that flowered in their thousands; the sparrows chirping in the villages; the weeds that were growing on the hedgebanks; the tares that were springing in the corn, these things, to the Lord who came not to destroy but to fulfil, were richest in meaning and in magnitude.

Life Is a Bundle of Little Things

One sees the divine wisdom of this outlook when one thinks how life is compact of little things. "Life is not a little bundle of big things, but a big bundle of little things." Reflect on the story of a day, and what a multitude of little things composes it. From the time we waken till we go to rest, we are engaged in a thousand trifling tasks. And this is as true of the greatest of mankind, who lead humanity in thought and action, as of the rest of us who are but common clay. Great hours come to us but rarely; common hours are with us all the time. Great hours reveal our possibilities; common hours reveal our consecration. And for our Lord the usual was the big thing, because the usual is nine-tenths of life, and sets the field for triumph or defeat.

The Common Little Things Are the Source of Happiness

Again, one must remember how much of our happiness depends on trifling things. It takes many of us years to learn that lesson. Professor Leckie tells of a writer who was engaged in some stupendous task. After years of labor it was ended, and he entered into the joy of finished work. But the joy so given was not half so great, he said, as the joy he got from the little pattering footsteps of some children whom he had taught to love him. "Give me health and a day," said Emerson, "and I will make the pomp of emperors ridiculous." It is the common things open to us all which are the secret and the source of happiness—the breath of June, the clasp of trusty hands, the eyes which answer ours across the crowd, the lowly service of a cup of water. That explains the emphasis of Jesus. He exposed the fallacy of rarity. He altogether revised the scale of bigness, because He so perfectly understood the heart. Christ has proved equal to the demands of life because, in a great love which comprehends, He recognized the magnitude of trifles.

Trifling Things Are Truest Service

One finds, too, in watching life observantly, how trifling things are often truest service. Nobody knew that better than the Lord. A well-known writer who fell into vile sin tells us how he plucked up heart again. It was because when "down and out" a passing stranger lifted his hat to him. And then one thinks of drunken John B. Gough, and how a friend laid his hand upon his shoulder—and that touch, that trifling touch of brotherhood, lit the star of hope for him again. Seekest thou great things for thyself? Seek them not. To neglect the trifle is to miss the triumph. A tiny snowflake is as exquisitely beautiful as all the splendid pageantry of sunrise. It is one of the wonderful things about our Savior that He recognized this with such perfect clearness—and the servant is not greater than his Lord.

March 8

Do We Look for Another? - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

Art thou he that should come, or do we look for another?- Mat_11:3

The Finality of Our Christian Faith

I wish to say a few words on the finality of our Christian faith, and there could be no better approach to that than the experience of John the Baptist. When John cried "Behold the Lamb of God," he was asserting the finality of Christ. All the lambs slain on Jewish altars were but prophecies and presages of Christ's sacrifice. He was the completion and the crown of the long and chequered history of Israel, and beyond Him there could never be another. Then doubts began to assail the mind of John. All was so contrary to expectation. This lowly Savior, moving about the villages, was so different from the Messiah of his dreams. And then, as in a torturing agony, John sent his disciples to the Lord, saying, "Art thou he that should come, or do we look for another?"

Is There Going to Be Another One?

Now that question, if I am not mistaken, is in many earnest minds today. Many are asking, secretly or openly, if Christ be the final Word of God. Partly through the comparative study of religions, with its appreciation of what is beautiful in all, partly through the slowness of our faith to bring the Kingdom into our teeming cities, partly through the supineness of the Church in answering the challenge of our social problems, that question is being widely asked today. Is Christ the final Word of God? Is a new world-teacher still to be revealed? Or, in the abstract language of the West, is our Christian faith the final faith? That is being discussed more widely than many of the orthodox imagine.

The Universality and Completeness of the Christian Faith

That our faith (like polytheism) will die a natural death is a thought that may be at once rejected. Heaven and earth have passed away, and His word has not passed away. Much more conceivable is the thought of certain circles that our Christian faith will be absorbed in some synthesis of what is best in all religions. That, we are told, is what has happened with Judaism. All that is best in it was absorbed in Christianity—its sense of guilt, its craving for atonement, its profound sense of the holiness of God. And if this has been the fate of Judaism, itself one of the revealed religions, may it not be so with that which has replaced it? But there is this profound difference to be noted—Judaism could never satisfy. Paul, who embraced it with passionate intensity, found himself thirsty and hungry at the end. Whereas the wonderful thing about our faith is this, that, take it where you will throughout the world, it absolutely satisfies the heart. Take it to India, and that is true. Take it to Africa, and that is true. Take it to the cultured or the ignorant, and when they find its secret that is true. Paul needed Judaism and something else if he was to win perfect satisfaction. Nobody needs Christ and something else. That infinite satisfaction which our faith gives, that profound sense of being complete in Christ, that song which rises from the believing heart, "Thou, O Christ, art all I want," that distinguishes our faith decisively from Judaism and every other faith. It is the mark of its absolute finality.

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Do We Look for Another? - Page 2
by George H. Morrison

Because Christianity Is Final It Demands Unconditional Surrender

To some this may seem a theoretical question, but in reality it is far from being that. For example, unless our faith be final it cannot demand unconditional surrender—and that is exactly what it does demand. No one would cast himself upon another if he knew that the other's friendship were but temporary. Love demands finality, if it is to give itself in utter unreserve. And the utter unreserve our faith demands could not be asked, and never could be given, were our faith destined to be superseded. Religion is nothing unless it can be everything, unless it deserves unconditional surrender, unless we can rest ourselves upon it, unreservedly, in life and trial and suffering and death. And that is what nobody can ever do, anymore than he can give his love or friendship, if what claims his heart be only temporary.

A Missionary Faith Because of Its Finality

Again, one remembers that our Christian faith is in its essence a missionary faith. Whenever it ceases to be that, it ceases to be Christianity. From the first it has evangelized the world simply because it could not help it. It could no more help it than the river can help flowing, or the rain coming down on the mown grass. But the instant you cease to believe our faith is final, and that Christ is the last Word of God, you "cut the nerve" of missionary effort. To what purpose is this waste—this lavish expenditure of men and money, if the message of the Cross is to grow obsolete and Christ be replaced by any other teacher? Do you think our Lord, who was always sweetly reasonable, would ever have said "Go into all the world," had He foreseen a prospect such as that? The genius of Christianity is missionary, and all missionaries believe that Christ is final. Men who hold Him one teacher among many have never lifted a finger to evangelize the nations. Thus this question, seemingly theoretic, has the mightiest influence on personal response, and on the coming of the Kingdom in the world.

The Finality of the Christian Faith Gives Direction

And then we remember how right through the New Testament that is the unvarying attitude—and when we cut ourselves adrift from the New Testament we are sailing on an uncharted sea. Paul never doubted that his faith was final through all the magnificent expansions of his thought. To John, Christ was the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end. The majestic argument of the Epistle to the Hebrews is an argument for the finality of Christ—God has at last spoken by a Son. Best of all, our Savior never doubted it—it was part and parcel of His consciousness. I am the Bread of Life. I am the Light of the World. My words shall never pass away. No one has had even a glimpse of Christianity who cannot sing with the profoundest faith.

Jesus shall reign where'er the sun

Doth his successive journeys run.

March 9

The Decisiveness of Christ - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

But I say unto you— Mat_11:22

In Jesus There Was Never Any Hesitancy

There is one element in the character of Jesus which is well worthy of our consideration. It is the element which, in default of a better word, one might describe as His decisiveness. In other men, even the greatest, you catch continually the note of hesitancy. Even in the most dogmatic person you have the occasional sense of possible mistake. But in the Jesus given us in the Gospels there is not the faintest trace of such a hesitancy. There is an absolute and instantaneous certainty in the face of every problem and perplexity. In other lives, if such certainty be found, it is found generally in exalted hours. It is found in those rare and elevated moments when the mists are scattered somehow, and we know. But with Jesus this decisiveness was normal. He had not to wait for any glorious hours. It never seems to have left Him for an instant as He moved among the villages of Galilee. From the first recorded utterance of His boyhood, "Wist ye not that I must be about my Father's business?" on to the last glad triumph on the cross, when He exulted in the thought that it was finished, there is not visible one shadow of perplexity, nor any halting as of uncertain feet, nor any clouding, even for a moment, of the serene decisiveness of Christ.

Christ's Decisiveness Was Accompanied by Charm

This is all the more notable when we remember how infinitely gracious Jesus was. The mystery of His decisiveness is deepened greatly when we associate it with the beauty of His character. When men have a habit of laying down the law, they may convince us but they rarely charm us. Your citizen who is always in the right may generally reckon on being held a nuisance. And the unique thing about our Lord is this, that He was .always laying down the law, yet men found Him infinitely gracious. He was dogmatic and yet they clung to Him. He was intolerant yet infinitely winsome. He was always judging without the slightest hesitancy, and yet men never felt He was censorious. There was in our Lord a constant self-assertion that is quite unparalleled in human history, yet I do not think that any lip was curled when He said He was meek and lowly in heart. It is such antinomies in Jesus' character that have made men call Him utterly inexplicable. No one would ever have dreamed of such a character, had not such a character actually existed. To be full of grace has been the lot of some, and to be full of truth the lot of others, but to be full of grace and truth is the unique prerogative of Christ.

Christ's Decisiveness in Regard to Israel

We catch that note of decisiveness in many spheres, and first in regard to the long past of Israel. There is nothing more striking in the Gospel record than the attitude of our Savior to that past. What thoughts He cherished about the past of Greece we neither know nor are we meant to know. Nor shall we ever know what thoughts He cherished about the magnificent grandeur which was Rome. But how He viewed the glorious past of Israel, with its song of psalmist and oracle of prophet, all that is written so that all may read. For Christ that story of Israel was divine. It was the revelation of His God. One jot or tittle of the law was not to pass till everything had been fulfilled. And yet though He reverenced it with a far deeper reverence than any scribe who sat in Moses' seat, He judged it with unfaltering decision. He utters His judgments of these old enactment's with the perfect freedom of a full authority. This He accepts as something always valid; that He rejects as something only temporary. He moves among these glories of the past not as a subject who has no right to question, but as a king who has the power to abrogate, as certainly as He has the power to endorse. Moses said unto you so and so, but I say unto you so and so. He has the fullest authority to ratify, and He has the fullest authority to cancel. And all this from a Galilean villager who had never had any learning from the schools, and who had been cradled in His village home in intensest devotion to the past. Had Jesus been a reckless demagogue, we could more easily have understood that attitude. There are demagogues who do not care one scrap for all that is highest and holiest in antiquity. But Jesus cared intensely for antiquity, for He saw in it the handiwork of God, and yet He judged it, and praised it, and condemned it, with a decision from which was no appeal.

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The Decisiveness of Christ - Page 2
by George H. Morrison

Christ's Decisiveness in Regard to Himself

The same striking feature of decisiveness is seen again in regard to His own person. Christ never seems to have doubted for an hour that He was supremely and ineffably great. I have through my life been a reader of biographies, which I take to be the most fruitful of all reading. Well, in all the great lives that I ever read, there is one thing evident and universal. It is that every life has had its faltering hours, when vision has failed and inspiration vanished, when a man's confidence in his power and genius has silently and unaccountably deserted him. You find it in every life of men of action. You find it in every life of men of thought. You find it conspicuously and remarkably in the biography of every saint. Yet Christ, who was a man of thought and action, as surely as He was the ideal of sainthood, was never visited by any hour like that. Other men rise into the thought of greatness; Christ was possessed with it from the beginning. Other men win it, and in dejection lose it; Christ never lost it in any hour of agony. Rejected by His own people and betrayed, Pilate said to Him, Art Thou king? And Jesus replied, Thou sayest, I am a king. There is something very wonderful in that, and I would give much that you should feel the wonder of it. That is a consciousness not merely notable; that is a consciousness which is unique. And when you have difficulties about the virgin birth, and about miracles, and the resurrection, I beg you to turn your thoughts to facts like these if you wish to feel the mystery of Christ. No one doubted that He was meek and lowly. Everyone saw that He would not strive nor cry. There was a loving gentleness about this man of Nazareth which drew the burdened and the broken to Him. And yet this loving, gentle, lowly Man said, "I am the way—I am the truth—I am the life"; and "Before Abraham was, I am."

He Declares Himself to Be Greater Than Solomon and the Temple

That unfaltering sense of His pre-eminence is sometimes witnessed by our Lord's comparisons, and there are two such comparisons so vivid that it is worthwhile to recall them for a moment. To the Jews of our Lord's time there was one name in history that stood out glorious above all other names, and there was one building that meant more to them than any other building in the world. The name so pre-eminent was that of Solomon, and the building so solitary was the temple. These two summed up, for every pious Jew, all that was highest and holiest in the past—all that was most magnificent in empire, all wealth of argosies from distant shores, all near protection of a covenant God who had His place of rest between the cherubim. No king had ever been so great as Solomon; no building ever so holy as the temple. To it the heart of every exile turned, and for it even the exile would have died. And now comes Jesus, and to men and women burning with passionate convictions such as these, He quietly says, "I am greater than Solomon," and "a greater than the temple is here." Had He been a stranger with an alien upbringing that would have been easier to understand. But He was no stranger with an alien upbringing; He was the son of Mary, and the Child of Nazareth. He had been fed upon the Jewish Scriptures; He had been kindled as a boy with Jewish memories, and yet with a quiet, unfaltering decision He placed Himself supreme above them all.

Decisive about Human Character

The same decisiveness is very marked again in our Lord's handling of the character of others. There is a ring of finality in all His judgments which is very arresting and impressive. Every age has its own problems with which it must wrestle and seek to answer. But there is one problem common to all ages, and that is the problem of a human life. And men are always trying to solve that problem, and are always baffled in their attempts to solve it, there is such intertwining of evil and of good in the most commonplace and ordinary mortal. If all that was noble in a human character stood out apart and separate from the base, how easy it would be to judge a brother, and to classify him, and assign him to his deserts. And it is just because in actual human life there is no such cleavage between light and darkness, that men are so baffled in their attempts to judge. Sometimes all that is fairest in a character is perilously akin to what is foulest. Sometimes all that is basest in a character is irradiated by gleams of heaven itself. Until at last in the common lives around us we meet so much that is awesome and inscrutable, that we feel how impossible it is to judge. There are people, many of them women, who have a wonderful intuition into character. They seem to detect, as by a kind of instinct, the innermost nature of the folk they meet. Yet even they can never be quite sure that they have solved the secret of a character, for something always may emerge tomorrow that contradicts the impression of today. It is not the great only who are misunderstood; every one of us is misunderstood We baffle each other, and perplex each other, and are insoluble enigmas to our dearest. We are a little better than the most loving think, and a little worse than the nastiest imagine; and if one thing is certain in this mortal life, it is that no one has ever seen us as we are.

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The Decisiveness of Christ - Page 3
by George H. Morrison

Christ Was Never Baffled by Any Problem of Human Personality

Now it is just here, I say with the fullest confidence, that Jesus of Nazareth stands unique. There is not one trace that He was ever baffled by the haunting problem of human personality Born in a remote and quiet village, He went into the world of men. There, with an utter freedom from convention, He mingled in every circle of society. And if one thing is certain in that unfettered intercourse, which brought Him into touch with rich and poor, it is that His every judgment was decisive. One hour He was disputing with the Pharisees; the next He was in the company of Mary. Now it was a rich young ruler who was at His feet, and now it was a woman who had been a sinner. And always, without one trace of hesitancy, you have the Savior praising or condemning with an authority from which there is no appeal. One man He commands to follow Him; another He bids go to his home again. One man He overwhelms with woe unutterable; over another He pronounces pardon And all this He is doing every day, and in the course of His ordinary ministry, and with people whom He has never seen before, till suddenly they are forced into His presence. There is something very wonderful in that; there is something quite unparalleled in that. And if you have doubts about the resurrection, I want you to give your thoughts to facts like these. Do not brood upon your resurrection difficulties; brood upon these great facts in Jesus' life, till it comes home to you, as it has come to many of us, that this is none other than the Son of God.

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The Decisiveness of Christ - Page 4
by George H. Morrison

Christ's Decisiveness in Regard to the Future

Then lastly, this decisiveness of Christ comes to its climax as regards the future. You find no shadow of doubt upon His heart as He looks forward to the coming ages. There are men who have started out with flowing hopes, and then their hopes have gradually died. For sorrow has come, and very bitter enmity, and they have lost the vision of the morning. But on that night on which He was betrayed, when everything was dark and spoke of treachery, Christ was certain that He would be remembered. He had no hesitancy about the past, handling its content with a swift decisiveness. He had no hesitancy with any human soul that rose up out of the crowd and stood before Him. And equally certain with these facts is this, that He knew no hesitancy about the future, nor about the absolute power that He would wield when the small and great were gathered before God. You remember what Danton at the French Revolution cried out with all the passion of his heart. He cried out—and he meant it from the depths—"Let my name be blighted, but let France be free." And that is a cry that has echoed down the ages from the lips of every patriot and prophet, with the one exception of the Lord Jesus Christ. Others have been content to die, if only the cause for which they fought should triumph. Others have been content to be forgotten, if only their message should inspire mankind. But Christ was never content to be forgotten, and never dreamed that He would be forgotten, but in the very center of all coming ages knew that He would bless and would condemn. While we must be on our guard against interpreting literally the poetic and pictorial language of the Master, there can be no question that Christ anticipated a day of judgment when the secret of every life would be revealed. And the amazing thing is that in that day of judgment it is His presence that is to search the character, and His estimate that is to turn the scale of heavenly blessedness or awful loss. Whenever Christ speaks about a day of judgment, it is He Himself who is the central figure. It is He who separates the sheep and goats. It is He who says Depart, I never knew you. And that magnificence of royal authority, which is interwoven with the whole Gospel story, is the climax of the decisiveness of Christ. Did you ever think how different it was from the outlook of the old Jewish prophets? They had their vision of a coming day, but in that day you never light on them. Then Christ took up that old prophetic vision, and glorified it, and touched it with eternity, and in the center of it all He puts one figure, and that one central figure is Himself. My brother and sister, either that is blasphemy, or it is something different from humanity. Either it is wild, defiant atheism, or else in the sweep of it, it is divine. And as reasonable beings you have to ask yourselves, knowing the tenor of the life of Jesus, which of the two conclusions is more likely. For myself it is such facts that are determinative. They lead me in Christ to the very feet of God. Though it were proved to me that Jesus never rose, Jesus would still be more than man for me. Down in the depths of His moral and spiritual being I light on things I cannot understand, unless that solitary lowly figure was different from us children of mortality.

March 10

The Timeliness of Christ - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

At that time Jesus answered and said, I thank thee, O Father— Mat_11:25

Thanksgiving in the Hour of Darkness and Seeming Failure

Matthew never could forget the time at which these words were uttered. The hour never vanished from his memory. Our Lord had been speaking of His rejection by cities like Bethsaida and Capernaum. There He had wrought His mighty works, and had found no tokens of repentance. And just then, when everything seemed dark, and the darkness was deepening into tragedy, our Lord had risen to exultant thanksgiving. It recalls another time of darkness—that night on which He was betrayed. Then, too, He had broken into thanksgiving, so wonderful that none ever could forget it. When others would have been plunged in sorrow, struggling to keep their faith from being quenched, our Lord was filled with an adoring gratitude. Such experiences of their common Master sank deep into the minds of the disciples. They began to watch the times of Jesus, as if in these very times there was a message for them. And for us, just as for them, there is a deal of spiritual profit in studying the timeliness of Christ.

Man's Extremity Was God's Opportunity

One notes, for instance, with ever-growing wonder, the timeliness of the hour of His coming. Enlightened men saw from the very first that He had come in the fulness of the time. Sometimes a gift, precious in itself, is robbed of half its sweetness by untimeliness. Hope deferred maketh the heart sick, and there are gifts which are bestowed too late. But God was neither too early nor too late, as all our growing knowledge teaches us, when He gave His Son to be the Savior of the world. It was the fulness of the time, for need was greatest. The inspiring voice of prophecy was silent. Older faiths had lost their power to satisfy, and men were settling down into despair. And not only was it man's extremity; it was the hour of greatest opportunity, for there was peace abroad, and highways through the world, for carrying the news of the evangel. No one can study history, and then turn to the manger at the inn, without gaining a profound conviction of the perfect timeliness of Christ.

Christ Knew When It Was Time Not to Act

Then we turn to the earthly life of Christ, and the same feature is everywhere apparent. We take, for instance, the marriage feast of Cana. "Woman," said Jesus to His mother, "Mine hour is not yet come." He meant that she must not interfere; when the hour struck He would perform His part. And that reiterated insistence on His hour, when others sought to hasten or retard Him, is one of the indications in the Gospels of the perfect timeliness of Christ. The time of others might be always ready; His hour was not always ready. For the deed at Cana, as for the deed on Calvary, there was one perfect moment and one only. And nothing is more notable in Christ than how He refused to let Himself be hurried, or, when the hour struck, to be delayed. Even His mother must not interfere, however it pained Him to have to tell her so. Familiar with the timeliness of God, He must be faithful to His Father in this also. That is why, with such intense insistence, He silenced people by speaking of His hour. It is the perfect timeliness of Christ.

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The Timeliness of Christ - Page 2
by George H. Morrison

He Acted Always in Time

Again, one traces the same feature in the moments of His intervention. There is the story of the epileptic boy. The disciples were powerless with that boy—how they longed for the presence of the Lord! He could do what they had failed to do, but He was away on the Mount of Transfiguration. And just then, in their dire distress, they lifted up their eyes, and there was Jesus—and Mark tells us that the disciples marveled. Some have thought they marveled at His glory, as if traces of heaven still clung about His form. But if that were so, what would have been the use of telling the three that they were to be silent? I do not think it was at that they marveled; it was rather at the appearance of their Lord in the very moment when they needed Him. An hour before they had not learned their powerlessness. An hour after the boy would have been home. The marvelous thing was that the Lord appeared in the very nick of time. And I venture to think that there are multitudes who have found that this is just as true of them as it was of the disciples on that day.

Jesus Never Gave a Series of Lectures—He Spoke Freely to Meet Needs as He Saw Them

One feels, too, how true this is of the words which our Lord spake. One has only to read the Gospel narrative to discover that they were exquisitely timely. Our Lord never gave any course of lectures. He spoke freely, and for the moment's need. He answered questions, and met the scribes in argument, and gave His best to the solitary listener. And the marvel is that these free words of His, which have satisfied the needs of men, might seem to have had no one else in view than those who originally heard them. The words were timely, and yet they have proved timeless. They were occasional, and yet they are immortal. "Heaven and earth may pass away, but my words shall not pass away." They are so timely still, that many a man has felt as if they had been spoken to him alone, though centuries have gone since they were uttered.

March 11

Surrender and Service - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me;…and ye shall find rest unto your souls— Mat_11:29

The Thought of Surrender

There are, I think, three thoughts that meet and mingle in this beautiful figure of the yoke. The first is the great thought of surrender. When the Romans conquered some rebellious tribe they made the vanquished pass under the yoke. It thus became a figure of common speech that the conquered were under the yoke of the victorious. And our Lord, who had seen the legions marching, and who was quite familiar with the figure, says "Take my yoke upon you." Nothing is more magnificent in Christ than the way in which He demands a full surrender. He does not claim a little bit of life. He claims life in its wholeness and entirety. And the strange thing is that whenever that is yielded, and never until that is yielded, the life is flooded with the sense of rest. Such a surrender to anybody else would mean the warping of the personality. But that it never means with Christ. It means the liberation of the personality. No man is ever really himself until he has fully surrendered to the Lord. "Take my yoke upon you.... and…find rest."

Not a Forced Surrender

This, you observe, is not a forced surrender. Our Lord says take My yoke upon you. Our Lord is very fond of the word must, but He never uses it in this connection. When the Roman legions smashed some savage tribe, that tribe was compelled to bear the yoke. Often, on that account, they hated Rome, and served her with rebellion in their hearts. But Christ wants nobody on terms like these. Such terms are not in the program of His conquest. Christ demands a surrender that is willing. You can compel the dog to do your bidding. You can force the slave to carry out your will. But Christ, that mighty protagonist of liberty, treats nobody as a dog or as a slave. We are the Father's children, made in the Father's image, with an inalienable heritage of freedom, and we may take or we may spurn the yoke. There are so many who are waiting for something irresistible to happen, something to sweep them off their feet to Christ, as the breaker sweeps the log on to the shore. That something is never going to happen. Now is the accepted time. The Master's word is "Take my yoke upon you."

Taking on a Yoke Means Service

The next suggestion of our text is that of service, for the yoke at once suggests the thought of service. Our Lord had coupled the two thoughts a hundred times as He wandered among the farms of Galilee. I love to watch the horses on a farm when the evening hour of their unyoking comes—the big, beautiful creatures free at last from the swinging and the straining of the day. So they pass to the water trough and to the stalls, till with the morning the yoke is on again: the yoke, the symbol and sacrament of service. Now all life is service, and perhaps "all service ranks the same with God," from that of the starveling in Sally Brass's kitchen to that of the Prime Minister of Britain. And then Christ comes to all who have to serve, no matter how high or how low their service be, and says, "Take my yoke upon you, and find rest." It is not of rest from service that He speaks. It is of rest in service. It is of rest that comes when care and worry vanish, and the burden no longer irritates and frets. For duty is different now, and God is near, and love is everywhere, and strength sufficient, when once the yoke of Christ is on the shoulders.

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Surrender and Service - Page 2
by George H. Morrison

Peace in the Heart while Serving with Christ's Yoke

That our Lord had full authority for speaking so is evident to every student of His life. He served with an intensity unparalleled, yet who would ever think to call Him restless? Busy and broken were His days, yet He had the heart at leisure from itself. The crowds thronged Him and the calls were overwhelming, yet He moved in the peace that passeth understanding. And now He says, "Take My yoke upon you. It is My passion to pass on My secret. Take My yoke upon you—and find rest." When a man flings himself into his toil without one word of prayer or thought of God, can you wonder if his nerves get jangled, or if he is tempted now and then to give things up? But we are not here to give things up, if the ordering of God be a reality. We are here just to give up ourselves. To take Christ's yoke upon us is to serve in the spirit that made all His service beautiful, with the same unfaltering trust that God was over Him, and that the everlasting arms were underneath Him. That gave Him peace when burdens grew intolerable. Sustained by that, He never gave things up. He gave Himself up upon the Cross.

A Double Yoke Means Christ Pulling with You

And then our text suggests another thought. It is the infinite comfort of society. The yoke is a double yoke (as Matthew Henry said), and we are going to draw along with Him. Farmers tell me they sometimes train a young beast by yoking it with an old experienced beast, one that is familiar with the plough, and has been out on many a raw and stormy morning. And Christ says, "I want you to pull with Me, and then you will learn to make a straighter furrow, and the farmer will be well contented in the evening." He has been over all the ground before. He knows it well, and all its inequalities. He has been tempted in all points like as we are. He has borne the heat and burden of the day. And then He comes to us, worrying and anxious and wondering how we shall ever carry on, and He says, "Child, let's do this thing together." It is the offer of partnership with God in the strain and stress of unillumined days. The question is, Have we accepted it? Is it a great reality to us? If not, why not accept it now?

March 12

Humility Interpreted by Christ - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

I am meek and lowly in heart— Mat_11:29

From Vice to Virtue

It has been said that the greatest of all differences between ancient and modern morality is not the introduction of new virtues, but the changing of the order of the old ones. In this sphere, as in other spheres, Christ has put down the mighty from their seats. He has taken the little one of ancient ethics, and made it as it were a thousand. And so it is said our Christian morality is not generically different from others; the difference is mainly one of emphasis. Now in this there is a large element of truth, and of very fruitful and suggestive truth. No one will ever understand the Savior who forgets how largely He wrought by rearranging. But there is one point at which it is not true, and that the most important point of all perhaps—it is not true in reference to humility. Humility was not a virtue in the old world. Humility in the old world was a vice. It was a thing abhorred and accursed, utterly unworthy of the gentleman. And the amazing thing is that in Christendom it has not merely ceased to be a vice, but has been given the primacy of virtues. To be humble was once to be contemptible: now to be humble is to be blessed. It was once rejected as a thing of shame: it is now sought for as a grace of heaven. In every communion of Christendom, however deep the cleavages between them, the queen of Christian graces is humility.

The Infinity and Eternity of Christianity Should Humble us

Now for this Christian glorying in humility there are two reasons which suggest themselves. The first is the expansion given to life by the revelation of our faith. Had you lived within a little room, and then been brought under the open heaven, can you not picture how your thought would change in that amazing moment of expansion? Seeing the sun and moon in all their beauty, and the azure heaven, and the myriad stars, you would be silent and wonder and adore. Feelings hitherto repressed would waken; thoughts would rise and soar into the infinite. In a world so high and wonderful and great there would be known the surge of aspiration. And that is exactly what our faith has done in giving life its infinite horizon: chords which were silent have begun to vibrate. Life is not less mysterious since Christ came; it is far more mysterious since Christ came. He has made it high as heaven and deep as hell, and touched it to the issues of eternity. And so has been born our Christian aspiration, which neither Greek nor Roman ever knew, and humility is the other side of aspiration. Make life a finite and measurable thing, and inevitably you foster self-complacency. Make it an infinite and eternal thing, and humility ceases to be a thing of scorn. It is the fitting attitude of mind and spirit for one who stands in the light of immortality, and whose true horizon is the eternal God.

And yet that reason, though a very real one, is after all but a secondary one. The primary reason is not our new horizon; it is the personality of Christ. When you meet a person for the first or second time you may receive from him varying impressions. But gradually, as acquaintance ripens, one clear and definite impression comes. And so as men meditated on the Lord, and came to know Him through such meditation, one feature took precedence of all. It was not His courage, although He was very brave; it was not the eloquence with which He spake. It was not even that mighty power of God with which He healed the sick and raised the dead. Clear and conspicuous above all other qualities, the crown and inspiration of them all, stood out the perfect humility of Jesus. Men found it in every action which He wrought; they lit on it in every word He uttered. They traced it in a thousand subtle touches that are more delicate than speech and action. And it was that large and overwhelming impress, forever deepening as they brooded over it, which altered the conception of mankind. All the humility of Christendom really runs back to that of Christ. If it is the distinguishing virtue of the saint, it was first the distinguishing virtue of the Savior. And that is why to understand humility we must study it in the Person of our Lord, which is what I propose to do. Let me use first the method of exclusion.

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Humility Interpreted by Christ - Page 2
by George H. Morrison

Christ's Humility Was That of Authority

To begin with, then, the humility of Jesus was certainly not a mean and groveling spirit. The bitterest enemy of the Redeemer has never taunted Him with that. In one of his pathetic letters the poet Keats says, "I hate humility." You have only to read the context of that letter to discover what he meant by that. He meant that groveling and cringing spirit which Heine called the virtue of a hound, and which is immortalized in English literature in the portrait of Uriah Heep. That is what Aristotle would have called humility. That is what Cicero would have called humility. And there are multitudes still who have a lurking feeling that if this is not the truth it is very near the truth. And I want you to learn how utterly astray are all such conceptions of humility, if the standard of humility be Christ. Christ never groveled before man or God. He never cringed to any living creature. There was a dignity about His bearing which never forsook Him in His darkest hour. It made itself felt among the hardened soldiery, cast its subduing power upon Pilate, touched the Roman centurion to reverence, and awed the clamorous rabble in Gethsemane. I therefore learn that true humility has nothing to do with cringing or with fawning. The moment you associate it with that, you dissociate it from the Person of the Lord. For He was a King, and had a royal bearing, and moved among His fellows with authority; and all the time His humility was perfect.

Christ's Humility Was Not Self-Depreciating

Going a little further, we must note that the humility of Christ was not self-depreciation. It was not the habit of belittling Himself, or the work which God had given Him to do. There were some things which Christ made very light of; things He refused to reckon as important. But there was one thing which He never once made light of, and that was the work which was given Him to do. On the contrary, He always magnified it, and used the loftiest terms in speaking of it, associating it forever with His glory. Other teachers call men to their message; Jesus called men to Himself. The self-assertion of our Savior is the most magnificent self-assertion in all history. And yet He tells us in this single glimpse which He gives us into the secret of His being, that He is meek and lowly in heart. Clearly, then, the humility of Christ was not any belittling of Himself. It was as far removed from pride on the one hand, as from self-depreciation on the other. And it is needful to remember this, for we are often tempted to think that we are humble, when all the time we are but doing dishonor to the faculties or the work which God has given us.

Christ's Humility Did Not Arise from a Sense of Sin

Going deeper still, there is one other thing which I beg you very carefully to note. It is that the humility of Christ did not arise from any sense of sin. In your experience and in mine, there is nothing so humbling as the power of sin. You have had seasons, and I have had seasons, when sin has humbled us into the very dust. And that experience, oftentimes repeated, and in a measure always present with us, has led us to connect the two together. Now most unquestionably God meant it so. It is a blessed hour of true humility when we cry, "God be merciful to me a sinner." But to understand the meaning of humility, in all the depth and compass of its glory, we must never forget that it was first exhibited in One who had no sense of sin at all. The one thing that you cannot find in Christ is any trace of a scar upon His conscience. There was not one single shadow of remorse. There was not one single whisper of regret. Many a cry of prayer was on His lips, and went ringing heavenward among the hills, yet the one prayer He never prayed was, "God be merciful to me a sinner." The point to note is that our Lord was sinless, and yet was the perfect exemplar of humility. Utterly untouched by moral evil, He was humbler than man has ever been. And that should teach us that this queenly grace is something nobler than the fruit of guilt, however the consciousness of guilt may deepen it.

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The Humility of Christ Is as a Child's Trust

What, then, was the humility of Christ? Has He Himself thrown any light upon the matter? There are two incidents which at once suggest themselves as teaching us everything we want to know. On one occasion the disciples had been arguing as to who is greatest in the Kingdom. They came to Jesus with their difficulty, and the answer which they got was very beautiful. For Jesus beckoned to a little child, and set him down right in the midst of them, and said, "Whosoever therefore shall humble himself as this little child, the same is greatest in the kingdom of heaven." There is the living example of humility as Jesus understood humility. And what is the spirit of a little child: is it not a spirit eminently trustful ? It trusts a father's wisdom without questioning; confides unfalteringly in a mother's care; rests in happy security on this, that there is someone arranging and providing. There is nothing mean or groveling in that. In that there is nothing of self-depreciation. A child is not humble because it knows its guilt. It is humble because it is a child. It is humble because it trusts so utterly, because it leans its weight upon a father, because it answers so unswervingly to every movement of another will.

Now that, I take it, in its essence, is the humility of Jesus Christ. It is not primarily a relationship to men; primarily it is a relationship to God. It has been noted that in the Gospels you do not read about the faith of Jesus; what you do read of in the Gospels is the humility of Jesus. And the reason for that is that our Lord's humility, when you come to understand its inner meaning, is just His faith in its most glorious exercise. Moment by moment He learned the will of God. Moment by moment He responded to it. The faintest whisper of His Father's voice was answered in unquestioning obedience. And this not only when that will was sweet, and reached Him amid the fields of Nazareth, but when it came to Him in the garden of Gethsemane. That was not courage, though it may look like courage. It was not heroism, though you may call it so. It was the perfected spirit of the child whom Jesus took and placed among them all. That was humility as Jesus understood it—loyal, loving, unquestioning submission, not only when submission was a happy thing, but when it led to the garden and the cross.

And you see at once, taking that view, how it explains a great deal which was dark before. It helps us to see the humility of Christ where otherwise we might be blind to it. When a man is humble he is always humble. His humility makes itself evident in everything. You must be able to trace it through his whole activity, if it be a real and genuine humility. And yet there are moments in the life of Jesus when it would be difficult to call Him humble, in the usual interpretation of that word. Think of His withering anger at the Pharisees. Think of His driving the traders from the Temple. Is that humility—that withering anger; or has Christ forgotten to be humble now? No, He has not forgotten to be humble: it is you and I who have forgotten something; forgotten that the humility of Christ is His absolute fidelity to God. Do you think it was pleasant to Jesus to be angry so? Do you think He delighted to wither and to burn? A thousand times rather, we may say with reverence, He would have been seated in the home at Bethany. Had He consulted Self He would have been with Lazarus, or among the hills, or in the fields of Galilee; but He withered and burned, and drove the traders forth, because He consulted nobody but God. In other words, He was never more a Child than in those hours when He seemed least a Child. He was never humbler in His Father's eyes than in His awful and imperious majesty. For then you hear, clear as a trumpet note, "I come to do thy will, O God," and that was the humility of Jesus. Take that view, and it irradiates everything. It gives a unity we never felt before. Christ is no longer humble in His suffering, and something else in His denunciation. He is as humble when He scorns the Pharisee as when He talks with the woman by the well; as humble when He commands, "Take these things hence," as when He cries upon the cross, "Father, forgive them."

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Christ's Humility Was That of a Servant

And then there is the second scene which is needed if our thought is to be adequate. It is that scene, forever memorable, in which Jesus washed the disciples' feet. Need I recall it? You all know it perfectly. You see it before you even as I speak: how Jesus laid aside His garments, and took a towel, and girded Himself and washed His disciples' feet. And He did it "because He was come from God, and because He was going home again to God"—that is to say, all filial life in God must issue in lowly and in loving service. First the child, you see, and then the servant. Take both together and you have humility. First the child, the filial trustful confidence; and then, as the fruit of that, the servant's office. And that is exactly what you find in Jesus, whom the prophet calls the Servant of the Lord, and yet says that a little Child shall lead them. Perfect loyalty to the Father's will issuing in lowliest service to the brethren—that was the humility of Christ, and that is the humility He wants in us. There is nothing cringing in it, nothing mean. It is trustful, active, eminently blessed. It is the crowning grace of every Christian character, and makes the wilderness blossom as the rose.

March 13

Christ's Teaching On Man - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

How much then is a man better than a sheep?— Mat_12:12

The Expression of Compassion Originates with Christ

Not very far away from where we sit there are gleaming the lights of our great city hospitals. We can see with the mind's eye the quiet wards, and the nurses moving in their gracious ministry. There the poorest citizens are treated with all the appliances that riches can command. There are they tended by night and day, with a skill that is as wise as it is kind. And if we ask ourselves, as thoughtful men, to what it is that we owe such institutions, the answer is not very far to seek. It is not enough to say we owe them to the generous support of a compassionate public. We want to find the source of that compassion, which is peculiar to the Christian era. And we find it, without any question, in the new conception of what man is, which we owe to our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ.

Christ Brought a New Estimate of Man

Indeed if one were asked the most distinctive feature of those ages which we call the Christian era, I do not think we should much err in answering that it was just that altered thought of man. We divide the history of the world into two parts, the one before Christ and the other after Christ. That in itself is an unequalled tribute to the centrality of the Redeemer. Well, among all the differences of these two eras, I say that none perhaps is so remarkable as the difference which is known to every student in the accepted estimate of man. It has breathed a new spirit into literature. It has created a passion for social service. It has built those splendid palaces of healing, where is the hand of science and the heart of mercy. All this, and a vast deal more than this, has been wrought by the new idea of man which Christendom owes to the Lord Jesus Christ.

Our Doctrine of Man Is Determined by Our Doctrine of God

There are one or two preliminary things I want to say, and the first of them is this, that the doctrine of man, whatever it may be, is always the other side of the doctrine of God. As is the thought of God in any faith, so is the thought of man in that same faith. The one controls and dominates the other, giving it its colour and its content. Tell me the kind of god a people worships—tell me their thought of the being in the heavens—and I shall tell you what they think of man in his value and his freedom and his destiny. Now we are not dealing with Christ's thought of God tonight, but we all know something of the wonder of it. We know how infinitely rich in personality was the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ. And I throw out the hint that knowing it, we shall expect to find in Jesus' view of man a grandeur, a freedom, and a depth that are without parallel in any teaching. "For in him we live, and move, and have our being" (Act_17:28).

Jesus' View of Man Was a Spiritual One

Again it is well that we should bear in mind that Jesus laid down nothing about man's origin. His view of man is a spiritual view; it is in no sense a scientific one. That man as such was a child of God, and that he owed his being to the Creator's hand is a truth which Christ never stays to prove—He assumes it, taking it for granted. (Editor's note: The word child is used with the connotation of creature needing redemption.) But beyond that, practising a silence which is as wonderful as any speech, He leaves the utmost freedom for inquiry. His view of man is not bound up with any theory of man's physical origin. It can be held by the most advanced of scientists as fully as by the humblest peasant. The one man by whom it cannot be held is the man who makes a jest of human nature, and who, so scorning it, sets a stumbling block before the feet of one of these little ones. That Christ in His infinite humiliation may have shared in the current beliefs of His own day, is not only possible, but as it seems to me, adds to the wonder and depth of His abasement. But that He should have thought to lay on us these limitations which He assumed in mercy, must be something wholly and forever alien from the spirit and mind of Him who is the Truth. Christ has involved us in no theory here. He has not barred the door on scientific progress. He has left it open to every earnest seeker to follow the truth wherever it may lead.

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Christ's View of Man Was Based on Observation

And another thing it is well to remark is that Christ's view is based on observation. It was not the dreaming of a doctrinaire; it was fashioned in closest contact with humanity. I have read some learned books dealing with children, and been entirely humbled with their learning. But the strongest impression made on me by some of them was that the writer had never known a child. So are there certain theories of man that are entirely admirable and excellent, save for the one unfortunate detail that the man they analyse is nonexistent. There are people who are enamoured of humanity. They will talk to you by the hour about humanity. Christ did not care one farthing for humanity; He cared with all His heart for men and women. And the great glory of His view is this, that it is not elaborated in any solitude, hut is wrought out in daily loving contact with actual sinning men and sinning women. He did not come to them with any creed, determined to find that creed in every bosom. He came with a single eye, and with a heart of love, to find what was there, and only what was there. And so He saw in man such height and depth, such light and shadow, such infinite variety, as never had been seen on earth before. He knew that the eye might be so evil that the whole body might be full of darkness; and yet He knew there was a cry for home in the soul of the prodigal among the swine. He knew that out of the heart there spring adulteries, and all the lust that dwells so hard by hate, and yet He knew that we who are so vile can give good gifts unto our children. Now the real worth of any viewpoint depends on the range of facts that it interprets. If it be broad enough to embrace all contrarieties, the chances are it is the view of God. And the view of man that Jesus Christ has given us shall ever stand conspicuous in this, that it was wrought out, not in dreams of solitude, but in daily loving contact with His kind.

Christ Made the Individual the Object of Divine Regard

Coming now to the teaching in itself, the first thing to be said is this, that in His thought, as in His love, Christ made the individual the unit. He did not regard men as on the scale of fifty. He did not think of them as on the scale of ten. He thought of men, and lived for them, and died for them, upon the scale of one. Now to you and me, brethren, that is such a commonplace that we can scarcely conceive of any other reckoning. But one of the primary lessons of all history is that our commonplaces were once incredibilities. And though of course there never was a time in which men did not live their individual lives, yet it is no exaggeration to declare, as one has done, that Jesus Christ discovered the individual. To the ancient Jews, among whom Christ was born, in relation to God the nation was the unit. At an earlier period we have a time when it was the family who took the eye of heaven. But Christ as it were disrobed the individual, disengaged him out of all relationships, and revealed forever the truth that in Himself man was the object of divine regard. There is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner that repenteth. Take heed that ye despise not one of these little ones; it is not God's will that one of them should perish. It was for one coin the woman swept the house; for one sheep the shepherd left the flock; for one son, and him a sorry prodigal, the father in the home was broken-hearted. If you go back into the ancient world I shall tell you the kind of feeling you discover. You discover men claiming divine protection because they were members of a tribe or family. And the wonderful thing in Jesus Christ is this, that from such relationships He disengaged the soul, and, never despising the family or the state, flashed all the light of heaven upon the one. That is what is meant when it is said that Christ discovered the individual. It does not mean that there ever was an age when the separate heart had not its separate sorrow. But it means that Jesus, out of all societies, disentangled the individual being, putting a crown of glory on its head, and the staff of the Good Shepherd in its hand. In what innumerable ways that has affected Christendom I have not time to dwell upon. It has given a new note to literature. It has breathed a new spirit upon art. It has shown itself in the ward of the infirmary where there may be fifty patients under one surgeon, yet each of them, as an individual being, is tended with an individual care.

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Christ Taught That the Individual Was of Infinite Value to God

But there is something deeper still in Jesus' view, for Christ did not only discover the individual; He taught us also that the individual was of infinite value in the eyes of God. There are some secrets for which men have toiled, and when they have found them they have been broken-hearted. What they discovered has proved itself so tragical that they have prayed to heaven to make them blind again. But Christ, discovering the individual, found in that secret such a wealth of glory that the name He chose for Himself was Son of Man. They say that a diamond which today is blazing upon the crown of a European monarch lay for weeks upon a stall in Rome, labelled "Rock crystal, one franc." And may we not reverently say that Jesus Christ, purchasing the rock crystal for His own, has found something more precious than a diamond. For it is not man as rich that Jesus thinks of. It is not man as learned or as powerful. The ancient world was quick to recognise the value of the learned or the powerful man. The differential of Christ is this, that He stands up and faces that old world, and says that the thing of infinite worth to God is not man as powerful but man as man. Strip him of all the art of Greece. Take from him all the might of Rome. Call him a prodigal, and let him feed the swine; call him a sunken creature of the street. Yet even then, disrobed of every grace, sunken into the mire and trampled on, even then, says Christ, in God's eyes man is a being of a worth unspeakable. There is a great deal of talk today about the mystery of personality. Men are giving their deepest thought to that, and already there are signs of a rich harvest. But the deepest mystery of personality, if you will only sit down and think about it, is just that at its shallowest and worst, it should be of infinite value in the eyes of heaven. I tell you it is an overwhelming thought. It is enough to make one thrill to realise it—that the sorriest wretch whose every breath is vile, is precious because he is a man. And that is the great truth which Christ hath taught us, and which is so inwrought into our scheme of life, that not only in the church but in the world today it has the accent of the commonplace.

Jesus' Concept of God as Father

Now I said at the beginning that the thought of man is always relative to the thought of God. And I said it because I was looking forward to the point of the argument we have now reached. You know—all of you know perfectly—what was Jesus' controlling thought of God. From first to last our Saviour thought of God under the deep and tender name of Father. And you see at a glance, do you not, how this new doctrine of the infinite preciousness of every man springs from the thought of the Fatherhood in heaven? Does a father wait to love his children till they have come to discretion or maturity? Does he wait until one son has risen to honour, and another has become a prosperous citizen? On the contrary, he never loves them more than in the happy and helpless days of childhood, when there is never a scrap of learning in the brain, and never a jingle of money in the purse. Nay, if among that little family there be one that is sickly or weakly or deformed—one with a twisted limb, or with a shrunken arm, or with an intelligence arrested strangely—is not that the very child the father loves with an ineffable and yearning tenderness, so that he often prays for it, and sometimes quietly weeps, in the long silent watches of the night? That is the mystery of human fatherhood, and Christ has taught us when we pray to say, Our Father. And we lift our eyes at the command of Jesus, and lo, there is a Father on the throne. And so do we learn that man as man, simply and solely because he is a child, is infinitely and forever precious in the eyes of Him with whom we have to do. For remember that the son is still a son, though he have wandered away to the far country. He may be a prodigal—he may be lost—but he has never ceased to be a child. And just because, through all his degradation, nothing can cancel that filial relationship, there is a welcome for him in the father's home, and a yearning in the father's heart.

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Worth of Man Strengthened by the Incarnation

May I say, too, that this thought of the worth of man is enormously strengthened by the incarnation? Christ took on Him not the nature of angels, but He took on Him the seed of Abraham. If there is one truth to which all thinking leads me it is the pre-existence of Christ Jesus. To me the Bible is an unmeaning riddle if Christ began to be when He was born. But if He came from heaven—the eternal Logos—to tabernacle with us for a little season, then in the circumstances of His coming I learn the infinite worth of man as man. One of the most curious books that was ever written has been lately translated by one of our professors here. It is the life of one Apollonius of Tyana, who was for long regarded as a kind of rival Christ. For he too healed the sick as Jesus did, and he too raised the dead as Jesus did, and he too, as the people of Tyana had it, was the son not of a mortal but of God. But there is one difference which is overwhelming. For Apollonius was the child of a vast wealth and the scion of a very noble family. But Jesus was the Son of a poor mother, for whom there was no room in Bethlehem, and who, where the dumb beasts were in their stalls, brought her firstborn Child into the world. That does not mean that God entering humanity was bringing down the mighty from their seats. But it does mean that the incarnate God was showing forth the worth of man as man. Not manhood in any might or splendour, but manhood at its lowliest and its least, was the tabernacle of the eternal Son.

Jesus' Thought of Man Explains His Thought of Sin

Is it not true also that this thought of man sheds a great light on Jesus' thought of sin? It helps us to fathom that intense abhorrence with which our Saviour contemplated sin. There were things that Jesus took no notice of, and there were others He treated as supremely petty. But there was one thing which always stirred Him to the deeps, and that was the spectacle of sin. And He abhorred it in its guilt and power not merely because it was a grief to God, but because it wrought such irreparable havoc on a being who was so infinitely precious. If I spill the ink bottle on some cheap novel, that is a matter of very small concern. But if I spill it on some priceless manuscript, then the pity of that blot is great. And it is just because man is precious in Christ's eyes—more precious than any priceless manuscript—that He felt the infinite pity of it all, when He looked on the disfigurements of sin. Whenever you have low thoughts of personality, you have low conceptions of the power of evil. Whenever you have lofty views of man, sin stands out there positive and terrible. And if you want to understand Christ's thought of sin, and all the passion of His abhorrence of it, I say you must bear in mind that in His eyes the poorest wretch was of a worth unspeakable. He was always pitiful towards the sinner; He was always pitiless towards the sin. He hated it with all the hate of heaven, which is far more terrible than all the hate of hell. And He hated it because it spoiled the beauty, and marred the strength, and slew the joy and peace of the most wonderful and precious thing in the whole universe of God.

Jesus' Thought of Man Involved His View of Man's Immortality

Then the third point I wish to note is this, that such a view involves man's immortality. The immortality of man in Jesus' eyes rests on the fact that he is the child of God. In one of the most exquisite of all his dialogues Plato handles the theme of immortality. And he discusses it and argues for it, and builds up lofty reasons for its certainty. But Jesus never discusses immortality for Him it is a thing to be assumed—He cannot conceive of any other destiny for a being so infinitely dear to God. If man were a trifle in the eyes of heaven, then like a trifle he might cease to be. But if man is infinitely dear to God, then it is impossible that he should cease to be. Girt with a love so mighty in its tenderness, able to look up and say My Father, it was simply impossible for Christ to think that the coffin and the grave should be the end. If one of your little children lay dying, and looked up at you and smiled, and said My Father, would you not barter everything you had for the power to bring that child to life again? And God in heaven always has that power, and He is our Father with a father's heart, and we, even the sorriest of us all, have never ceased at our worst to be the object of His fatherly love. It is that filial relationship, in Christ's eyes, which makes the thought of extinction quite impossible. To be what we are within the heart of God, must mean and can only mean to be forever. For love is loath to lose what it holds dear, and wants it not for an hour but forever, and only says farewell when forced to do it, which forcing has no place in the divine.

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All Doctrine Has an Influence upon Conduct

Such then is the teaching of Jesus about man, and now in closing let me say this to you. All doctrine has an influence upon conduct, and we see this perfectly in our Redeemer. Holding such a view of man as that, He was always reverent and always courteous. If the meanest life was of an infinite value it was not likely that Christ would be contemptuous. And so you find Him reverent and courteous, quite independent of any social station, and you find Him kindly when other men were harsh, and hopeful sometimes when all the world despaired. And it all sprang from His undying faith in the infinite preciousness of man as man. He never could scorn the most degraded creature, when He thought of what that creature meant for God. So you and I who name the name of Christ, must see to it as we take our journey, that we are looking out on men and women with somewhat of the look of our Redeemer. We are not called upon for any easy tolerance, as if moral distinctions were to be obliterated. We are not called upon to think of evil lightly. But we are called upon to think that every man, however lost, is still the Father's child, and is so precious to the heart of God that He will never leave him nor forsake him. Remembering that, we also shall be reverent, and always pitiful, and always hopeful. Remembering that, we shall delight to serve and count it a glad thing that we are brothers.

March 14

The Lure of the Impossible - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

Stretch forth thine hand— Mat_12:13

No Challenge to Handling That Which Is Easy

Few things are so attractive as those which seem impossible. The passion to achieve what seems impossible is one of the deepest passions of mankind. One might have thought that man, being a reasonable creature, would have averted his gaze from the impossible. It would seem natural that he should give his energies to things within the compass of his powers. But there is that within the human heart which is always suspicious of the easy thing, and yearns for victories beyond its grasp. Tell men that a certain hill presents no difficulties, and for the climber it loses half its charm. Men do not dream of it by night, nor resolve to gain the summit in the morning. But tell them (as climbers once were told) that it is impossible to scale the Matterhorn, and they never rest till the Matterhorn is conquered.

The Daring of Childhood

We see that curious element in childhood, and the child is father of the man. The nearer anything approaches the impossible, the stronger its attraction for the child. Children have a way of daring one another. It is the childish challenge of the perilous. The parapet that looks impossible to walk on is more attractive to the boy than any highway. That is the real charm of fairy tales, with their seven-league boots, and fairy godmothers, and palaces erected in a night. If the heart of childhood could rest in easy things, fairy tales would lose their charm tomorrow. But that is what the childish heart can never do, in the dullest surroundings and most prosaic street. And fairy tales, where things impossible are common as berries on the rowan tree, are a refuge, in imagination, for the cravings of the childish heart.

Science Is Mastered by the Lure of the Impossible

It is very largely to this lure that we owe the conquests of our science. Great discoverers and inventors are like children, and are mastered by the lure of the impossible. When Stephenson proposed to run a train at thirty or forty miles an hour, men laughed at him as an unbalanced visionary, and assured him it was quite impossible. Had they only known the human heart, with its strange and undecipherable questings, they would have known that their jeering was encouragement. It is impossible things that captivate the child, and every man of genius is a child. He dreams at night, not of the safe bridge, but of crossing the foaming torrent on the parapet. Every train running across the world, and the telegraph and the radio and the airplane, spring from the deep passion of humanity to achieve what duller people call impossible. It is this lure which at last discovers continents, and reaches the Pole, and finds the source of rivers. It keeps men eager, in spite of every argument, to get in touch with Mars. I fancy we all love the conjurer, though we know quite well he is deceiving us, because his nightly business is doing the impossible.

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Christ Used the Lure of the Impossible

It shows how perfectly our Lord knew the human heart that He loved to employ the lure of the impossible. One thinks, for instance, of the man with the withered hand. That the man had often tried to stretch his hand we may take for granted from all we know of life. His wife would say to him: "Husband, you're looking better; don't you think you could stretch out your arm today?" And always, though he made a thousand efforts, there was no response in that withered hand of his. The thing was found to be utterly impossible. Jesus was perfectly aware of that. He read the life of that sufferer like a book. He did not sympathise with him in words. He challenged him on the line of the impossible. And the wonderful thing is that whenever Christ does that, a faith is kindled equal to accomplishment, and things that yesterday were quite impossible become perfectly possible today.

The Lure of the Impossible Is One of Christianity's Strengths

This lure of the impossible is one of the great powers of Christianity. It is one of the things that sets a gulf, for instance, between Christianity and Mohammedanism. Mohammed says, "Brother, all that I ask of you is perfectly within your power. I shall give you definite rules that you must practise, and, practising them, you will be perfected." Christ gives men an infinite ideal, beyond the grasp of any human hand, and lures them on with the lure of the impossible. That is why Mohammedanism is stagnant—it has no infinite and unattained ideals. That is why Christendom thrills and throbs with life, and has "the rapture of the forward view." Beyond every peak there is another peak, and though nobody wins the highest summit here, he gets higher than if he were never called to climb. The lure of the impossible, transformed by Christ, has given its zest and urge to Christendom. The more we trust and toil, the more we feel that the ideal for which we strive is unattainable. But then, thanks to that same Lord, we believe that we have forever, and there the impossible that lured us on will be ours in the perfect vision of the Father.

March 15

The Intolerance of Jesus- Page 1
by George H. Morrison

He that is not with me is against me— Mat_12:30

Christ Rejects Accusations Made against Him

Our Lord had just performed a notable miracle healing a man who was possessed of a devil. It had made a profound impression on the people, and had forced the conviction that this was indeed Messiah. Unable to dispute the miracle itself, the Pharisees tried to impugn the power behind it, and in their cowardly and treacherous way they suggested there was something demoniac about Christ. With a readiness of resource which never failed Him, Christ showed in a flash the weakness of that argument. If He was the friend of the demons, was He likely to make a brother-demon homeless? Then moved to righteous anger by these slanders, He said, "He that is not with me is against me."

You Cannot Understand Christ if You Fail to Notice His Intolerance

I want to speak on the intolerance of Jesus Christ. However startling the subject may appear, and however the sound of it may jar upon us, I am convinced we shall never understand our Lord if we fail to take account of His intolerance. We have heard much of the geniality of Jesus, and of the depth and range of His compassion; nor can we ever exaggerate, in warmest language, the genial and generous aspect of His character. But it is well that the listening ear should be attuned to catch the sterner music of that life, lest, missing it, we miss the fine severity which goes to the perfecting of moral beauty. Wherever the spirit of Jesus is at work, there is found a sweet and masterful intolerance. The one thing that the Gospel cannot do, is to look with easy good nature on the world. And if this passionate urgency of claim has ever marked the activities of Christendom, we must try to trace it to the fountainhead and find it in the character of Christ.

Intolerance Must Be Knowledgeable

Of course there is an intolerance so cold and hard that it must always be alien from the Master's Spirit. All that is best in us condemns the temper which lacks the redeeming touch of comprehension. When the poet Shelley was a lad still in his teens, he fell violently in love with his cousin Harriet Grove. Shelley was a sceptic even then, and on account of his scepticism his cousin was removed from him. And those of you who have read his letters of that period will remember how they throb with the great hope that he might live to do battle with intolerance. Now Shelley was a poet, with all a poet's ardour, yet I think that most young men have had that feeling. Nor is it one of those feelings that pass away with youth; it generally strengthens with the tale of years. "One has only to grow old," says Goethe, "to become tolerant." As life advances, if we live it well, we commonly grow less rigid in our judgment. By all we have seen and suffered, all we have tried and failed in, our sympathies grow broader with the years. We learn how precious is the grace of charity; how near akin may be the fiercest combatants; how great is the allowance we must make for those of whose hidden life we know so little.

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The Intolerance of Jesus- Page 2
by George H. Morrison

Christ Died Because of His Intolerance

I mention that just to make plain to you that I am not shutting my eyes to common truths. Yet the fact remains that in all great personalities, there is a strain of what is called intolerance. There are things in which it must be yea or nay—the everlasting no, as Carlyle has it. There are spheres in which all compromise is treachery, and when a man must say with Luther, "Here I stand." And that intolerance, so far from being the enemy of love and sympathy and generous culture, is the rock that a man needs to set his feet on, if he is to cast his rope to those who cry for help. You find it in the God of the Old Testament—"Thou shalt have no other gods before me." He is a jealous God, and brooks no rival. He must be loved with heart and soul and strength and mind. You find it in the music of the psalmist, and in the message of prophet and apostle, and you find it bosomed amid all the love that shone in the character of Jesus Christ. Never was man so tender as the Lord. Never was man so swift to sympathise. Never did sinners so feel that they were understood. Never did the lost so feel that they were loved. Yet with all that pity and grace and boundless comprehension, I say you have never fathomed the spirit of the Master, until you have recognised within its range a certain glorious and divine intolerance. We talk of the infinite tolerance of Shakespeare; it is a commonplace of all Shakespearean criticism. Nothing was alien from that mighty genius; the world was a stage and he knew all the players. But underneath that worldwide comprehension there is a scorn of scorn, a hate of hate; there is such doom on the worthless and the wicked as can scarce be paralleled in any literature; and till you have heard that message of severity—that judgment which is the other side of love—you have never learned the secret of the dramatist. In a loftier and a more spiritual sense that is true of our Master, Jesus Christ. He loved us and He gave Himself for us. He says to every weary heart, "Come unto me." But that same spirit which was so true and tender could be superbly unyielding and inflexible. The gentle Saviour was splendidly intolerant, and because of His intolerance He died.

Intolerant toward Hypocrisy

We trace the intolerance of Christ, for instance, in His attitude towards hypocrisy. One thing that was unendurable to Jesus was the shallow profession of religion. You can always detect an element of pity when Jesus is face to face with other sins. There is the yearning of infinite love over the lost; the hand outstretched to welcome back the prodigal. But for the hypocrite there is no gleam of pity, only the blasting and withering of wrath. "Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites!" It is the intolerance of Jesus Christ.

Christ Is Intolerant of Sharing His Uniqueness

We trace it again in those stupendous claims that Jesus Christ put forward for Himself. The Lord our God is a jealous God, and the Lord our Saviour is a jealous Saviour. "I am the way, I am the truth, I am the life"—"No man cometh unto the Father but by Me"—"No man knoweth the Father save the Son, and he to whomsoever the Son will reveal him." What do you make of these amazing claims, and of that splendid intolerance of any rival?—yet all these words are in the Gospel record as surely as "a bruised reed shall he not break." Do you say there are many doorways to the Father? Christ Jesus stands and says, "I am the door." Do you say there are many shepherds of the sheep? Christ stands in His majesty, and says, "I am the shepherd." Pitiful, merciful, full of a great compassion, Christ is intolerant of any rival; He stands alone to be worshipped and adored, or He disappears into the mists of fable. So far as I am aware that is unique; there is nothing like it in religious history. The ancient pantheons had always room for the introduction of another god. It is Christ alone, the meek and lowly Saviour, who lifts Himself up in isolated splendour. Friend of the friendless and Brother of the weakest, He is intolerant of any sharing of His claims.

Christ Is Intolerant When It Comes to Sharing the Allegiance He Demands from us
Again I trace this same intolerance in the allegiance which Christ demands from us. He is willing to take the lowest place upon the cross; but He will not take it in your heart and mine. When He was born in the fullness of the time, He did not ask for the splendour of the palace. He was born in a manger, reared in a lowly home, and grew to His manhood in obscurest station. But the moment He enters the kingdom of the heart, where He is King by conquest and by right, there everything is changed, and with a great intolerance He refuses every place except the first. "He that loveth father or mother more than me is not worthy of me"—"Follow me; and let the dead bury their dead." That is the word of a King in His own Kingdom, claiming His rightful place among His subjects. And when you speak of the meek and lowly Jesus, never forget there is that imperial note there. He is divinely intolerant of everybody who would usurp the throne that is His right.

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The Intolerance of Jesus- Page 3
by George H. Morrison

Such, then, are one or two instances of the intolerance of Jesus Christ, and now I want to examine its true nature, that we may see how worthy it was of Christ.

The Intolerance of Christ Is the Child of Glowing Faith

The first thing I note in the intolerance of Jesus is that it is the child of glowing faith. The intolerance of Christ is little else than the other side of His perfect trust in God. When one is a stranger to you, bound by no ties of love, you are little affected by what is said about him. The talk may be true, or it may not be true, but it is none of your business, and you do not know. But the moment a man becomes a hero to you, that moment you grow intolerant of liberties. If you believe in a woman, your heart is aflame with anger should anyone sully her name even with a breath. A French poet tells us that when he was a youth he was a passionate worshipper of Victor Hugo. He believed in Hugo with all his heart and soul; he thought there had never been a poet like him. And he says that even in a dark cellar underground, where nobody possibly could have overheard him, he could not bear to whisper to himself that a single verse of Hugo's poetry was bad. That is the fine intolerance of faith in ardent and eager and devoted natures. That is the faith which Jesus Christ was filled with, in God and His righteousness and providential order. And with a faith like that there can be no compromise; no light and shallow acceptance of alternatives. Under the sway of such a glowing trust a certain intolerance is quite inevitable. It is easy to be infinitely tolerant, if all that Christ lived for means but little to you. An age that can tolerate every kind of creed is always an age whose faith is burning low. And just because Christ's faith burned with a perfect light, and flashed its radiance full on the heart of God, you find in Him, in all His God ward life, a steady and magnificent intolerance.

Christ's Intolerance Was Found in His Perfect Understanding

Then once again the intolerance of Jesus is the intolerance of perfect understanding. It was because He knew so fully, and sympathised so deeply, that there were certain things He could not bear. One great complaint we make against intolerance is that it does not sympathetically understand us. It is harsh in judgment, and fails in comprehension, and has no conception of what things mean for us. We have all met with intolerance like that, but remember there is another kind. Take the case of drunkenness, for instance; there are many people very tolerant of drunkenness. They talk about it lightly, make a jest of it; they are none of your rigid, longfaced Pharisees. But sometimes you meet a man, sometimes a woman, to whom such jesting talk is quite intolerable, and it is intolerable not because they know so little; it is intolerable because they know so much. The curse has crossed the threshold of their home, and laid its fatal grip on someone who was dear. They have seen the wreck and ruin of it, and all its daily misery, and the drying up of every wellspring of the heart. So in their grief they grow terribly intolerant, and it is not because they do not understand; they are intolerant because they understand so well. Never forget that it is so with Christ. He is intolerant because He comprehends. He knows what sin is; He knows how sweet it is; He knows its havoc, its loneliness, its dust and ashes. And therefore is He stern, uncompromising, and says to us, "Choose ye this day whom ye will serve." There are men who are intolerant because of ignorance; Christ is intolerant because He knows.

Christ's Intolerance Is Based on His Love

Lastly, the intolerance of Jesus is very signally the intolerance of love. Love beareth all things—all things except one, and that is the harm or hurt of the beloved. Here is a little child out in the streets, ragged and shoeless in the raw March weather. Let it stay out till midnight, no one complains at home. Let it use the foulest of language, no one corrects it. Poor little waif, in whom all things are tolerated, and tolerated just because no one loves it! What kind of mother has that little child? What kind of father has that little child? You know them in the street, swollen and coarse, reeking with all the vileness of the city. They tolerate everything because they do not love; when love steps in, that toleration ceases. Now we all know that when our Saviour came, He came at the bidding and in the power of love; love wonderful, love that endured the worst, love that went up to Calvary to die. And just because that love was so intense, and burned with the ardour of the heart of God, things that had been tolerable once were found to be intolerable now. That is the secret of the Gospel's sternness and of its passionate protest against sin. That is why age after age it clears the issues, and says, "He that is not with me is against me." The love that beareth all things cannot bear that hurt or harm should rest on the beloved. Christ is intolerant because He loves.

March 19

Feeding the Five Thousand - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

And he commanded the multitude to sit down on the grass, and took the five loaves, and the two fishes, and looking up to heaven, he blessed, and brake, and gave the loaves to his disciples, and the disciples to the multitude— Mat_14:19

The Only Miracle Recorded in All Four Gospels

This is the only miracle recorded in each of the four Gospels, and we must take that as a token of the profound impression which it made. To us, the raising of Lazarus is more astounding than this mountain feast; but had we lived in Galilee, and heard the common talk, we should have perhaps found that this miracle was graven deepest on men's hearts. Most of the other miracles had been seen by few. There was no crowd near when the Nain widow got her son again. When Lazarus awoke, there were only the village neighbours present. But here five thousand lips had eaten, and five thousand lips would talk, until in every farm house and cottage this miracle would be a household word. That deep impression is registered in the fourfold narrative.

Only a word is needed to describe the miracle. Partly to avoid the dangerous neighbourhood of Herod, and still more, to refresh His overstrained disciples—for there is nothing like a day with Christ among the hills for making a worried heart itself again—Jesus and His disciples cross the lake, and steer for the quiet hills by the north shore. Alas! there was to be little rest that day. The folk had seen them launching. They hurry round by the north end of the lake, meeting and mingling with the pilgrim-companies making for Jerusalem to keep the Passover. And as the prow of the boat grates on the beach, and Jesus and His disciples step ashore, God's great cathedral of the mountainside, whose roof is heaven and whose organ music is the sea, is thronged with a vast and eager congregation. Then Jesus heals, and teaches, and in the evening feeds them. Which done, the stars come out, and the crowds are scattered, and the disciples are rowing homeward to Capernaum, and Jesus is on the mountainside in prayer.

Christ's Compassion

Note first that this miracle had its roots in Christ's compassion. When He stepped ashore and saw much people, we read that He was moved with compassion towards them. And all the healing, and teaching, and feeding of that memorable day sprang from that pity in the heart of Christ. And that is the glory of divine compassion it is the source and spring of noble deeds. Often we pity where we cannot help. But the compassion of Jesus sprang into action always. It set Him healing, teaching, feeding hungry men, and it still draws Him to the same service. Is Christ my compassionate High Priest today? Then He will help me in my struggle to be true. He will lift me up when I have failed and fallen. He will feed me when my soul is starving.

One Food for All

Mark, too, there was but one food for all these thousands. The rich were there, journeying to Jerusalem, and the poorest of the poor were there, from the rude huts by the lakeside. Yonder were the quick merchants from the cities, here lolled the farmhands from the fields. There was a mother crooning to her babe, and here were the children romping on the green. Old men were there with the first glow of heaven about them, and young men with the first glow of earth. Yet Jesus fed them all with the same bread. The strange thing is that no one scorned the victual. All ate, and all were filled. No swift relays of courses had ever been so sweet as the single dish with Jesus on the hill.

Now the wonderful thing about Christ—the living Bread—is that He satisfies us all. What a great gulf between the Jew of Tarsus and the ignorant fishers of Bethsaida! What a world between the gentle Lydia and the rude jailer at Philippi! Yet the power of Christ that made a man of Peter was no less mighty in the heart of Paul; and the love of God that won the love of Lydia conquered the jailor too. In all love, says a thinker, there is something levelling; and the love of God is the great leveller of the ages. It knows no social barriers. It is not powerless where temperaments differ. It comes to all, this one glorious Gospel of the grace of God, and all may feed and be satisfied.

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by George H. Morrison



Jesus Uses Gifts Men Bring Him

Again note, that in satisfying the needs of men Christ uses the gifts which men bring Him. Had Jesus so willed, He could have made bread out of the stones. In times past, God had called water from the rock, and brought manna from the windows of heaven, and I do not know why God in Christ might not have summoned these hidden stores again. But Jesus' miracles were acted parables, not wrought to amaze, but to instruct. And so He takes what the disciples give Him, and uses that to feed the crowd. It is often Christ's way to help the world through men. It is His plan to bring the Kingdom in through us. And if we take our gifts, however poor and humble, and lay them freely at the feet of Jesus, He will so bless and multiply and use them that we shall be amazed, and recognise His hand.

The Bread Increased in the Breaking of It

I see, too, that it was in the breaking that the bread increased. A wonder-worker would have touched the loaves, and made them swell and multiply before the crowd. But Jesus blessed, and brake, and gave to the disciples, and as they brake the bread, it increased. It was through the blessing that the miracle was wrought, and through the breaking that it was realised. And ever, through the breaking, comes the increase, and in the using of our gifts, with God's blessing, are our gifts enlarged. Trade with your talent bravely, and it shall be five. Power springs from power, and service out of service. Never try to do good, and you will find no good to do. Do all the little good you can, and every day will bring a fresh capacity and a new opportunity, until you find that "there is that scattereth and yet increaseth."

Careful of the Fragments

And lastly, note that Jesus was very careful of the fragments. One would have thought that Jesus was too rich to trouble Himself about the fragments. Surely it was but labour lost to sweat and stoop and stumble in the dark, to fill their wicker baskets with the scraps. But Jesus is imperious. "Gather the fragments that remain," is His command. And the twelve disciples, who a little before had been sent out to heal and teach and preach the Gospel, had now, in the presence of the thousands, to set about sweeping the crumbs. It was a splendid discipline. Someone has said that if two angels came to earth, the one to rule an empire, and the other to sweep a crossing, they would never seek to interchange their tasks. And our own poet has told us that:

A servant with this clause
Makes drudgery divine,
Who sweeps a room as for Thy laws,
Makes that and the action fine.

But was that all? I think not. It was not merely to discipline the disciples that Jesus commanded the fragments to be gathered. We cannot read the story of His life, but we detect a care for the fragments through it all. The fragment of a day, how He employed it! The fragment of a life, how He redeemed it! The fragment of a character, how He ennobled it! Yes, that is His great passion—to love and lift our fragmentary lives till they are brought into the image of His own.

March 21

Jesus Walking on the Sea - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

And in the fourth watch of the night Jesus went unto them, walking on the sea— Mat_14:25

Jesus Felt the Necessity of Being Alone with God

It had been a day of trial and stress for Jesus, and when the sun set, the danger was not over. There were terrible risks in that enthusiastic crowd that surged and swayed upon the mountain side. The miracle of His feeding the five thousand had made a powerful impression. It had struck deep into these fickle hearts. And if the cry once rang along the hillside "Jesus is King!" who knew where the echoes of that cry might end? Christ recognised the peril of the hour. He felt the supreme necessity of prayer. It was a moment in the Master's life when His greatest desire was to be alone with God. Full of that quiet authority that moved the crowd as wonderfully as it calmed the sea, Jesus constrained the disciples to depart, and sent the throng away. How they would talk as they travelled homeward! How gladly, as the first gusts of storm swept down on them, would they descry the gleaming of their cottage windows! I see the children plucking their mothers' robes, and crying, "Mother, where is the Teacher now? We left Him on the hill—has He no home?" Perhaps some of them would learn in after days that it was home and heaven and life for Jesus to be alone with God.

A Storm Breaks Out to Teach the Disciples Dependence

Meantime the storm had broken. The clouds swept out the stars, the wind came whistling through the glens and corries, the sea ran high. And out in the midst of it toiled the disciples, Masterless, shelterless, helpless. It was a wild night after a weary day. It was a strange fulfilment of their promised rest (Mar_6:31). And yet I question if any holiday among the hills could have taught them as much as did that unmanageable boat. That very evening they had been ordering their Master (Mat_14:15). They had been giving Him advice about five thousand men. They had been eager to manage that great crowd for Jesus—and now they cannot manage their little craft! It was a very blessed and very humbling storm. It brought the disciples to their place again. It printed upon their hearts, as in a picture, that the secret of Christian power is dependence.

They Wanted Jesus and Yet They Did Not Recognise Him

And so the night wore on, and every wave that dashed into the boat deepened their need of Jesus. The crowds were home now, the children were asleep, and every light by the lake side was out. Then with the dawn came Christ. They spied a form, moving along the ridges of the sea, now lost for a moment in the trough of the waves, now dimmed by the showers of spray. And though they had longed for Jesus, and prayed for Jesus, and this was Jesus, they did not know Him, and cried out for fear. Sometimes we get the very thing we ask, and we do not recognise it when it comes. Sometimes we win the very help we need, and we are just as troubled as before. They cried, It is a spirit! The demon of the tempest was abroad, and Jesus—where was He? Who can describe their joy when the familiar voice rang over the white crests, "Be of good cheer; it is I; be not afraid!"

One Stood Out

Now there are times when a man's character is revealed, and one of these times is often that of storm. When we find Jesus sleeping in the tempest, it teaches us His perfect trust in God. When we rehearse Paul's conduct in the shipwreck, it opens a window into that noble heart. So here, from all the disciples, one stands out; and amid the spray, and in the driving wind of that wild morning, there falls a shaft of light on Simon Peter. It is Peter who cries across the storm, "Lord, if it be thou, bid me come unto thee." It is Peter who flings himself upon the waves to get to Christ. And it is Peter who begins to sink, and would have gone to the depths but for the hand of Jesus. There is the strength and there is the weakness of that hero. There is the story of his life condensed. When the wind ceased, and the ship's company knelt down to worship Jesus, none felt so deeply as Peter that this was the Son of God.

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Jesus Walking on the Sea - Page 2
by George H. Morrison

The Long Delays of Heaven

Among the many lessons of this miracle we shall note three. First remark the long delays of heaven. The night must have seemed endless to the twelve. Hour after hour dragged on, and hour after hour brought no word of Jesus. And it was not till the Roman guard in Caesarea had changed for the fourth watch, that the beloved voice was heard over the waves. Had they lost heart and hope? Did they suspect that Jesus had forgotten them? We are always ready to think ill of God, because of God's great method of delay. But of this be sure that when our need is greatest, God is closest. He may delay, He will not disappoint. We must be schooled out of our impatience somehow. We must be trained in waiting and in trusting. It was not only for a night of prayer that Jesus lingered. It was to teach His own that patience of hope which was to win such triumphs for the Church.

Christ Comes by Unexpected Roads

I see, too, that Christ comes by unexpected roads. That night the twelve were longing for their Master, but they never dreamed that He would come that way. If any sail went beating up the lake, their hopes rose, for Jesus might be there. But even Peter, most sanguine of them all, had never guessed that the waves would be His street. Yet by that unexpected avenue the King approached, and on unlikeliest highways He is coming still. By what strange roads Christ enters human hearts! By what strange ways He comes into our homes! A word, a visit of a stranger perhaps, a sickness or a death—and He is here. And it is all so different from what we looked for, that we do not recognise it is the Lord. There are ten thousand thoroughfares for Jesus. His ways of ingress into human souls are endless. Let me not bind Him. Let me not limit Him either to my preconceptions or my prayers. He puts to shame my wellworn offers of salvation, and comes to men by unexpected roads.

We Sink When We See Nothing But the Storm

And lastly, this meets me in the story: we sink when we see nothing but the storm. When Peter looked to Jesus he was safe. But perhaps a wave came and towered like a wall before him, and for the moment he could not see his Lord. He saw the waves, he felt the spray, he heard the wind. But he looked and he saw no face, no arm, no hand, and in that moment Peter began to sink. Do we still detect that presence in the tempest? Do we discern the presence and the love of God in the confusion of our common day? When we see nothing but the storm, we sink. When we see Christ enthroned in it, we triumph.

March 22

Beginning to Sink - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

Beginning to sink, he cried, saying, Lord, save me— Mat_14:30

The Pathos of a Wasted Life

There are two sights in human life which fill the heart with profound sorrow. The first is that of a person who has sunk. When we see a face made loathsome by iniquity and think that once it was innocent and childlike; when we hear of somebody who bore an honoured name, but is now in the depths of degradation, that is one of life's most piteous spectacles. It arrests even the worldly-minded who cherish no ideals for humanity; how much more must it sadden one who has anything of the vision of Christ Jesus. Men who are sunken—women who are sunken—are the heartbreak of the home and of the city. There is such infinite pathetic waste in a wasted, miserable life. But to the seeing eye and the perceiving heart, there is another spectacle which is not less tragic—it is that of the man who is beginning to sink. Beginnings are always mighty and momentous for every eye that has the power to see. Much of our knowledge and our power today springs from our modern study of beginnings. And in this text we have an instance, not of a man who has sunk into the depths, but of a man who is beginning to sink. Shall we look at him in that light for a little?

Our Best Qualities May Be Our Ruin

The first thought to force itself upon me is that it was Peter's temperament which put him in this danger. He began to sink because he was Simon Peter. The other disciples were all safe. It never occurred to them to leave the vessel. They were men of sagacity and common sense and knew the difference between land and water. But Peter was reckless, headstrong and impetuous, acting on impulse. Peter followed the dictates of his heart, and never waited for his laggard reason. In a sense that was the glory of his character. It made him do what no one else would do. It gave him the charm of daring and enthusiasm of that unexpectedness which always fascinates. But those very qualities that in the hand of Christ were to go to the upbuilding of the Church, sometimes brought him to the verge of ruin. It was only Peter who would begin to walk, and it was only Peter who would begin to sink. He was led into peril on these stormy waters because of what was self-forgetful in him. And it may be there is someone who has not sunk yet, but is beginning to sink, because he has a temperament like that. Our perils do not always reach us through our worst. Our perils sometimes reach us through our best: through what is charming in us, delightful, and enthusiastic. And so like Peter we begin to do what the cold and calculating would never do, and then like Peter we begin to sink. That is why every man needs to be saved not only from his sin but from himself. That is why God, in His holy love to save us, gave us not a message but a Man. For our brightest social qualities may wreck us. A touch of genius may be our ruin. For all that is implied in that word temperament, we need the keeping of the Lord Jesus Christ.

Sinking amid Familiar Surroundings

The next thing to arrest me here is that Peter began to sink in very familiar waters. I suppose if you had asked him if he knew them, he would have replied that he knew them, every inch. Some of us, who spend our summers by an ocean or a lake think we are very familiar with them. And if love be at the source of all true knowledge, then indeed it may be that we know them. But if you want a true and perfect knowledge, it is not to the summer visitor you look, but to the fisherman who was cradled by its shores. Now Simon Peter was a fisherman, and all his life had been spent beside that lake. He had played on its shores as a little child; he had known it in summer and in winter. And it was there, in these familiar scenes, amid what was habitual and customary, that he began to sink. There was another occasion when he began to sink, and that was in the High Priest's palace at Jerusalem. He was a stranger there—in unfamiliar scenes—among men and women who knew nothing of him. Here it was different. Here he was at home. He was among those who knew him and who loved him, and here he began to sink. It is a very sad and pitiable thing when a man begins to sink away from home, when he goes away into a distant land and forgets the God of his father and his mother. But the peril for each one of us is the peril of Peter on the lake of Galilee—that we begin to sink amid familiar waters. Beginning to sink in India is sad; beginning to sink at home is almost worse; forgetting the sanctuary and the bended knee, the purity and temperance and tenderness. And if there is anyone who is beginning to sink at home, amid those who love and pray, now is the time to cry as Peter cried, "Lord, save me, or I perish."

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Beginning to Sink - Page 2
by George H. Morrison

Sinking after Loyal Discipleship

Another feature which I note is that Peter began to sink after loyal discipleship. He had known Christ and had loved and followed Him before this hour of peril on the lake. We all remember that great hour in history when Peter had been called to the discipleship. Then he had left all and followed Jesus; he had made the full surrender to the Lord. And from that hour he had companied with Jesus and seen His miracles and heard His words and enjoyed the infinite blessings of His friendship. No one would doubt the reality of that. That self-surrender was intensely real. And Peter loved his Lord and knew His power and was never happy except in His companionship. And it was after all that rich experience—that self-surrender and devoted service—that Peter on the lake began to sink. He was no raw and inexperienced youth. He was one who had heard the calling of the Master. He was no beginner in the higher life. He was a man who had done yeoman service. And the sad thing is that in every community there are men and women who begin to sink, not in their raw and inexperienced youth, but after years of discipleship and service. Sometimes it is the deceitfulness of riches which causes it. Sometimes it is growing absorption in business. Sometimes it is the constant subtle influence of one who is unspiritual in the home. Sometimes it is weariness in well doing and the dropping of the life to lower levels from secret clingings that no one knows but God. No one would say such lives were sunken lives. I am not speaking of moral wrecks and tragedies. I am speaking of men who are still of good repute, still kind at home, still diligent in business. And yet one feels they have begun to sink; they are not the men we remember in the morning; there is a different accent in their speech and a different atmosphere around their character. Men need to be awakened out of their security, as Peter was wakened on the sea of Galilee, to recall their past discipleship and to compare it with what they are now, and then to cry, as Simon Peter cried, "Lord, save me, or I perish."

Sinking While Obeying Christ

Also to be noted is this fact, that Peter began to sink on a permitted path. When he began to sink he was no trespasser; he was going where Christ permitted him to go. Had our Lord cried to him across the water, Thou art a madman if thou triest to come; had He cried to him, Thou shalt not come—on the peril of thy life I bid thee halt; why then we should have understood it better—we should have said it served him right to sink for then he would have been disobeying Christ, and the wages of disobedience is death. The point which I want you to notice is that Simon Peter was not disobeying. Our Lord had not forbidden him to come. And so do I learn that on permitted paths—on ways that are sanctioned by the voice of heaven—it is possible now, as on the lake of Galilee, for men and women to begin to sink. There are ways that are forbidden to every child of man. God writes His flaming "No Thoroughfare" upon them. And just for the reason that this is a righteous universe, the man who sets foot on them begins to sink immediately. But the strange thing is that even when God says "Come," and opens up the way that we may walk in it, even there it is always possible to sink. That is true of the blessedness of home. It is true of all social and Christian service. And man may preach the everlasting Gospel, yet run the risk of being cast away. And therefore amid all our privileges and all the gifts which God has blessed us with, "Lord, save us, or we perish."

Peter Began to Sink When He Began to Fear

Equally notable is this, too, that Peter began to sink when he began to fear. And the Scripture tells when he began to fear: it was when he took his eyes off his Lord. There is not a trace that the wind had grown more fierce while the disciple was walking on the water. It had been just as fierce and the waves had been just as boisterous when he had sprung from the gunwale of the boat. But then he had thought of nothing but the Master, had had eyes for nobody except the Master, and so long as that continued he was safe. Looking to Christ, he could go anywhere. The very sea was as a pavement to him. Looking away from Christ he was as other men, and the perils that surrounded him were terrible. And then he regretted the rashness of his venture and saw nothing around him but the seething waters, and so Peter began to be afraid and beginning to be afraid, began to sink. That is true of every kind of life. It is true especially of spiritual life. In the perilous calling of the spiritual life, to lose heart is to lose everything. And that is why the Lord is always saying to us, "My son, give me thine heart," for only in His keeping is it safe. It is a simple message—looking unto Jesus, and yet it is the message of salvation. To trust in Him and to keep the eye on Him is the one secret of all Christian victory. And when we have failed to do so in the stress of life, as all of us, like Simon Peter, fail, then there is nothing left but to cry with Peter, "Lord, save me, or I perish."

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Beginning to Sink - Page 3
by George H. Morrison

Sinking Unobserved

I think, too, we may reasonably infer that the other disciples knew nothing of all this. When Peter began to sink, they never noticed it. To begin with, all this happened about the time of daybreak. Then the waves were boisterous and in wild confusion, so that the feet of Peter often would be hidden. And if they failed to recognise their Lord when He walked in majesty upon the waters, they were not likely to see Peter clearly. When we see someone on the point of drowning, our first instinct is to give a cry. But we have no hint of anyone crying here, save the disciple himself in his distress. And so I gather from these converging hints that when Peter began to sink into the deeps, no one saw it except himself and Christ. There are some people just like Simon Peter. They have not sunk yet, they are not degraded; they are just beginning to sink. Yet no one at home knows anything about it; no one suspects it or has ever dreamed of it; no one would believe it for a moment. When a man has sunk, then there is no disguising. The story is written that he who runs may read. There is nothing hidden but it shall be revealed, whether of things in heaven or things in hell. But when a man is just beginning to sink it may be utterly different from that; it may be a secret between himself and God. His nearest and dearest may not dream of it; his mother and father may be in total ignorance. And he may come to church and engage in Christian service and take his place at the communion table. And we say of him, How well he is getting on—what a fine young fellow he is turning out to be. And all the time, unheard and unobserved, the man is crying, "Lord, save me, or I perish." It ought to make us very tenderhearted. It ought to make us always very prayerful. There are things happening among us which we never suspect, of which we never dream. For the heart knoweth its own bitterness and a stranger intermeddleth not therewith; but there is One who is not a stranger and He knows.

Christ Is Never Far A way

And so I close by saying that when Peter began to sink, his Saviour was not far away. Immediately He put out His hand and grasped him. How far Peter had walked upon the water the narrative of Scripture does not tell us. Shall we say fifty yards, or shall we say a hundred yards?—it matters not whether fifty or a hundred. If the nearest human hand was fifty yards away, the hand of Christ was not fifty yards away; immediately He put forth His hand and helped him. My brother, just beginning to sink, will you remember that Christ is at your side? All human help may seem very far away; remember that He is not very far away. He is near you now; near you where you sit. You need Him sorely and He is there for you. Cry out now, "Lord, save me, or I perish," and He will do it to the uttermost for you.

March 23

The Syrophoenician Woman - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

And, behold, a woman of Canaan came out of the same coasts, and cried unto him, saying, Have mercy on me, O Lord, thou son of David; my daughter is grievously vexed with a devil— Mat_15:22

Jesus in Heathen Territory

The first interest of this story lies in the fact that Jesus is now moving in heathen territory. It is a pledge and forecast of the time when the Spirit of Jesus, living in countless missionaries, will spread the knowledge of the Kingdom throughout heathendom. When we think of the heathen, our thoughts fly far away. There are vast distances of sea between us and them. But a walk of a few miles, over the hills of Galilee, brought Jesus to the borders of a heathen country. We must not think, however, that they were uncivilised people like the Africans. They were not wild barbarians like the Scots whom Columba found around him in Iona. They were an ancient people with a wonderful history, skilled navigators, builders of mighty cities. Who could have thought that that wearied Galilean, journeying northward for a little rest, was to be far more powerful in the world than these old kingdoms? Yet Tyre is today a mean town of ruins, and the commerce and the colonies of Sidon are forgotten, and the Kingdom of Jesus is becoming worldwide.

Her Child Brought Her to Jesus

One of the first stones of that worldwide empire was laid when this woman got her girl again. We sometimes think there are no homes in heathendom. We think that the children are all cruelly treated, and are never encircled by a mother's love. But here was a mother who loved her daughter so, and had such an agony of heart about her, that it led her straight to the feet of Jesus Christ. I have read that in the wild American prairies, if a traveller steps out of his tract but a few yards, he often finds it impossible to discover his way back. But there is a flower there, called the compass-weed, that always bends to the north; and when the traveller finds it, and watches how it leans, it shows him his course, and sets him right again. And all that is noblest in the human heart has been like a compass-weed to lead a wandering world to Jesus. It was this mother's love that led her. It was her passion for her daughter that constrained her. A little child had brought her to His feet.

Her Faith Conquered Jesus

It has been asked, how could this woman have heard of Jesus? But I do not think we need trouble about that. I am quite sure she was not a Jewish proselyte. If you had peered through the window of her humble cottage, when her daughter was crying and writhing on the floor, you would have found her pleading for mercy from her heathen gods. But just as the woman with the issue, having tried all physicians, determined at last to steal a cure from Jesus, so this poor mother, who was only the worse for all her heathen gods, determined at last to come to Jesus too. Some village neighbour had told her of this Son of David. Some friend had been marketing in Capernaum that morning when the nobleman's boy had been brought to life again. And if He could do that for a centurion's boy, would He not do as much for a Syrophoenician's girl? She hurries to Christ. She pleads with Him. She bows at His feet. She will not be gainsaid. Until at last even Jesus wonders at her faith, and conquered by its power and persistency, gives her, her heart's desire. They say love conquers all things, but it is only faith that can conquer Jesus. A faith like this, powerful in ten thousand hearts, would give us a time of Pentecost in Christendom.

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The Syrophoenician Woman - Page 2
by George H. Morrison

Her Faith Overcame the Prejudice of Her Race

Now what was the real greatness of her faith? And how did it make even Jesus of Nazareth marvel? Well, first, it overcame the prejudices of her race. She was a heathen woman, trained in a heathen home. She had bowed down to idols from a child. She had been taught from infancy to scorn the Jews. If she had asked her aged mother by the fireside for advice, she would have been told that to go to Jesus was to disgrace the family. If she had gone to the priests and asked for their permission, they would have banned her by all the powers of heaven. But she broke through everything to get to Jesus—all that was customary, all that was dear. And Jesus knew what barriers had gone down, when she lay at His feet and cried, Lord, help me. Have I no barriers to break to get to Christ? And are they keeping me from coming closer to Him? We are not born and bred in a heathen land. God has been good to us and set us down where the church bells ring, and the Bible is on the table. But sometimes a friendship, and sometimes what the others will say, and sometimes the jeering of a brother or sister, have kept us from coming right out for our Captain; and this poor heathen woman is going to shame us when we all stand face to face with Christ.

Her Faith Mastered the Natural Shrinking of Her Heart

And, again, her faith mastered the natural shrinking of her heart. It steeled her for this terrible ordeal. When a woman loves her daughter as this mother did, she is never fond of attracting public notice. She will watch all night by her sick daughter's bed; she will make her cottage a very heaven of service; but to cry out in public, and have the gaze of the strange crowd upon her, is very alien to a true mother's heart. I dare say in her after days she often wondered how she had ever done it. We cannot explain them, but Jesus can; and in the enthusiasm of this woman He saw faith. It was faith that had prompted her to leave her cottage. It was faith that had nerved her heart before the company. Had she not ventured everything on Christ, she would have been sitting weeping by her daughter yet.

Her Faith Refused to Be Denied

And then her faith was great because it so stoutly refused to be denied. No silence and no rebuff could drive her off. She was simply determined that she should have an answer. And so closely are faith and love bound up together, that the cry of her little daughter in her ear, and the picture of her daughter in her heart, kindled her faith into a flame again when it was almost quenched. Did Christ keep silence? She still cried, Lord, help me! Did He discourage her? She was still at His feet. Did He speak about the children and the little dogs? She has caught the words up, and made a plea from them. And it is in that magnificent persistency, as humble and reverent as it is persevering, that the true greatness of her faith is found. We have a beautiful hymn beginning, "O love, that will not let me go." We want another beginning, "O faith, that will not let Him go." When we have that faith—and this woman had it—our hearts and homes shall be as blessed as hers.

March 24

The Cross and the World - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

I am not sent but unto the lost sheep of the house of Israel— Mat_15:24
I, if I be lifted up…will draw all men unto me— Joh_12:32

Christ Came to and for Israel

We have but to read the record of the Gospels, to find confirmation of the former of these texts. The whole activity of Christ on earth shows Him as sent to the lost sheep of Israel. Within the boundaries of Israel He was born, and within the boundaries of Israel He died. With the one exception of the journey here recorded, He never in His maturity left the Jewish land. His twelve disciples were of the Jewish faith; His friends were inhabitants of Jewish homes; His enemies were not the Romans, but His own, to whom He came and they received Him not. For His teaching He sought no other audience than the men and women of the Jewish villages. For His retirement He sought no other solitude an that of the Galilean hills. And all His miracles, with rare exceptions, which were recorded because they were exceptional, were wrought for the comforting of Jewish hearts, and for the drying of tears in Jewish eyes. The whole story of the Gospel, then, is a witness to the truth of our first text. In the fulfilling of His earthly ministry Christ confined Himself to Jewish limits. And He did so because of His assurance, that He was sent to the lost sheep of the house of Israel.

Christ, However, Anticipated a Wider Ministry

But as we study the words of our Redeemer, one thing gradually grows very clear. It is that He anticipated a ministry that should be wider than these Jewish limits. I am not thinking just now of any words He spoke after He was risen from the dead. I am thinking only of His recorded utterances in those crowded years before the cross. And what I say is that no reasonable man can study the discourse of the historic Jesus without discovering that He foresaw a ministry which was to be as wide as the whole world. There is, for instance, the second of our texts today—"I will draw all men unto me." There is that beautiful word of an earlier chapter, "Other sheep I have which are not of this fold." There is that utterance at Simon's table, when the woman broke the alabaster box, "Wheresoever this gospel shall be preached in the whole world, this that she hath done shall be told of her." I ask you to observe that these great sayings have stood the test of the most searching criticism. They are so germane to the mind of Christ that they have come triumphant through the fires. And they tell us this, that through the earthly ministry, confined as it was within the house of Israel, Christ had the outlook of an approaching lordship over the nations of mankind.

The Cross and the Worldwide Empire

But these utterances tell us more than that, and to this I specially invite attention. They tell us that in the mind of Jesus His death and His worldwide empire were related. So far as we can learn about the mind of Christ, we can with reverence say this about it. It was when the cross was clearest in His thought that the worldwide empire was most clear to Him. If you will think of the texts which I have cited, and consider the occasion of their utterance, you will understand quite easily what I mean. Take for instance that most beautiful word, "Other sheep I have which are not of this fold." What are the words which immediately precede it? "The good shepherd giveth his life for the sheep." At the very moment when the thought of shepherding kindled the vision of the shepherd's death, at that very moment there flashed upon the Lord the vision of the sheep beyond the fold. Take again the scene at Simon's feast where Jesus spoke of a Gospel for the world. "Wheresoever this gospel shall be preached in the whole world, there this deed that she hath done shall be remembered." And what was it that the woman had done under the interpreting eyes of Jesus Christ? She had anointed His body for its burial. In other words that womanly act of hers had spoken to Jesus of His coming death. Over the table where the guests reclined, it had cast the awful shadow of the cross. And it was then, anointed for His burial by an act which no one else could understand, that Christ in vision lifted up His eyes and saw the Gospel preached to the whole world. Clearly, then, Christ looked upon His death as the great secret of a worldwide empire. When the one grew vivid in His thought, there rose on Him the vision of the other. And that to me is a matter to meditate on, as one of the most momentous of all truths, by every man and every woman who is interested in the world empire of the Lord. Now the question is, can we follow out that thought, and see even dimly where the connection lies? It is that which I should like to attempt to do.

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The Cross and the World - Page 2
by George H. Morrison

The Motive of Missionary Enterprise

In the first place, it is the death of Christ which supplies the motive of missionary enterprise.

We must ever remember that when we speak of the death of Christ, we speak of a death different from our own. Our death is the cessation of activity; Christ's was the crown and climax of His life. "I have power to lay it down," He said, and that is a power no other man has shared. We die when our appointed hour comes, and when the hand of God hath touched us, and we sleep. But Christ never looked upon His death like that, as something inevitable and irresistible. He looked on it as the last free glorious service of a life that had always been a life of love. Here in one gleam, intense and vivid, was gathered up the light of all His years. Here in one action which we name His dying was gathered up the love in which He wrought. And it is just because of the power of that action, concentrating all the scattered rays, that Christ could say, "I, if I be lifted up,…will draw all men unto me." How true this is as a fact of history we see in the story of the Christian Church. There is the closest connection in that story between the death of Christ and missionary zeal. There have been periods in the Church's history when the death of Christ was practically hidden. The message of the cross was rarely preached; the meaning of the cross was rarely grasped. And the Gospel was looked on as a refined philosophy, eminently fitted for the good of men, inculcating a most excellent morality, and in perfect harmony with human reason. We have had periods like that in Scotland, and we have had periods like that in England. God grant that they may never come again with their deadening of true religion. And always when you have such a period, when love is nothing and moral law is everything, you have a period when not a hand is lifted for the salvation of the heathen world. For it is not morality that seeks the world; it is religion centering in love. It is a view of a divine love so wonderful that it stooped to the service of death upon a cross. So always, in evangelical revival, when that has been apprehended in the wonder of it, the passion to tell it out has come again, and men have carried the message to mankind.

And may I say that it is along these lines that the road must lie to a deepening of interest. To realise what it means that Christ died, is to have a Gospel that we must impart. There are many excellent people who, in their secret heart, confess to a very faint interest in missions. They give, and it may be they give generously, and yet in their hearts they know that they are not interested. They know almost nothing about mission-fields, and are never seen at missionary meetings, and take the opportunity to visit a sister church when a missionary is advertised to preach in theirs. With such people I have no lack of sympathy, for I think I understand their position thoroughly. I have the gravest doubt if any good is done by trying excitedly to lash up their interest. But I am perfectly confident that these good people would waken to a new and lively interest, if only they realised a little more the wonder of the love of God in Christ. What think you, my brother and my sister, is the most wonderful thing that ever happened? It is not the kindling of the myriad stars, nor the fashioning of the human eye that it might see them. It is that once the God who is eternal stooped down from heaven and came into humanity, and bore our burdens, and carried our sorrows, and died in redeeming love upon the tree. Once realise what that means, and everything else in the world is insignificant. Once realise what that means, and you must pass it on to other people. And that is the source of missionary zeal—not blind obedience, nor any thoughts of terror, but the passing on of news so wonderful that we cannot—dare not—keep it to ourselves.

The Answer for a Universal Need

In the next place, the death of Christ interprets and answers a universal longing. It meets with perfect satisfaction the deepest need of all the world.

One of the great gains of this age of ours is that it has drawn the world together so. There is now an intermingling of the nations that but a few decades ago was quite impossible. Thanks to the means of transport we possess, and to the need of expansion on the part of nations; thanks to the deathless spirit of adventure, to the gains of commerce and to the march of armies, there is a blending now of the whole earth such as was undreamed of once. Now one result of all that intermingling has been a new sense of the oneness of humanity. No longer do we delight in travellers' tales, such as captivated the Middle Ages. Men push their way into untravelled forests, and they come to us from Arabia and Tibet, and under all that is strange they bring us tidings of the touch of nature that makes the whole world kin. We realise today as men have never done, how God has made all nations of one blood. Deeper than everything that separates, there are common sorrows and elemental hopes. There is one common heart by which we live; one common life in which we share; one common enemy awaiting all, when the pitcher is broken at the fountain.

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The Cross and the World - Page 3
by George H. Morrison

But especially has this oneness of humanity been made evident in the religious life. That has been one incalculable gain of the modern study of comparative religion. It has investigated a thousand rites, and found at the back of them a common longing. It has touched the foundations of a thousand altars, and found they were built upon a common need. It has gathered from Africa, from India, from China, the never-failing story of religion, and always at the very heart of things it has discovered one unchanging element. It is not enough to say that all men have religion. That is now an accepted commonplace. Something far more wonderful and thrilling has been slowly emerging into prominence. It is that under a thousand different rites, from those of Patagonia to those of China, there lies the unquenchable desire of man to get into right relationship with God. Deeper than all sense of gratitude, though gratitude is very often there—deeper than unreasoning terror, though heathen religion is always big with terror deeper than that, this fact stands out today, based on exhaustive and scientific study, that the deepest longing in the soul of man is the longing to get right with God. It is that in the last analysis which explains sacrifice, and where is the heathen tribe that does not sacrifice? It is that which explains the sway of heathen witchcraft, of which the evils can never be exaggerated. The religious life is the deepest life of man, and in that life, over the whole wide world, the one determining and vital question is, how can mortal man get right with God?

My friend, I almost ask your pardon for having taken you so far afield. But you see, I think, the point which I am driving at, and from which there is no possible escape. That very question, so vital to humanity, is the question which the atonement answers. It answers the cry that is rising to the heavens from every heathen rite and heathen altar. It tells men in language that a child can grasp, yet with a depth that angels cannot fathom, how sinful man by an appointed sacrifice can be put right with the eternal God. I believe with all my soul in educational missions, but at the heart of missions is more than education. I believe with all my soul in medical missions, but at the heart of missions there is more than healing. Christ never said, "My teaching shall draw all men," nor yet, "My healing power shall draw all men"; He said, "I, if I be lifted up, shall draw all men, and this spake He of the death that He should die." That means that in the atoning death there is the answer to man's deepest need. It means that the deepest cry of all humanity is answered in the message of the cross. And I venture to say that all we have learned today in the modern study of comparative religion, corroborates, and authenticates, and seals that certainty upon the lips of Jesus.

The Necessary Step before the Comforter Could Come

Then, lastly, we have the thought that the death of Christ has liberated His influence. It has opened the window of the ark, if I might put it so, that the dove might fly abroad over the waters. "It is expedient for you that I go away," He said, "for if I go not away the Comforter cannot come." Now the Lord is that Spirit, says the apostle—it is that same Jesus glorified and liberated. So by the lifting up upon the cross Christ was set free from local limitation, to pass into a spiritual ministry that should be co-extensive with the world. No longer can any village of far Galilee claim the present monopoly of Christ. No longer can loving hearts in Bethany say, "He is our guest and ours only for tonight." He is at present now by the lake shores of Africa as He is within the house of God where you worship—because He lived and died. We often talk of the story of the cross as if in that story lay the world's redemption. But I beg of you to remember that while that is true, it is far from being all the truth. Christ spoke not a word of the story of the cross. He said, I—persisting through the cross—I, the living Christ, will draw the world—I whom death is powerless to hold. In other words, when our missionaries go forth, they go with something more than a sweet story. They go with Him of whom the tale is told, so wonderful, so unspeakable, so moving. They go with Him who, having tasted death, is now alive and lives for evermore, and who is able to save unto the uttermost all who come unto God by Him.

March 25

Great Faith - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

O woman, great is thy faith— Mat_15:28

The Greatness of Faith Measured by the Obstacles It Overcomes

The greatness of faith often can be measured by the obstacles it overcomes. Our Lord evidently had that in mind when He spoke of faith like a grain of mustard seed. The mustard seed, when it is grown, is nothing extraordinarily beautiful or useful. One does not love it as one loves the lilies, nor is it fashioned into food for man. The wonderful thing about the mustard seed is its gallant adventure in the world of life, starting from the unlikeliest beginnings. Faith can often be measured by achievement; but achievement is not the only measurement. It may accomplish little and yet be really great in its overcoming of opposing circumstances. And in the faith of this Syrophoenician woman that feature is so signal and so splendid that we might measure her faith by that alone. Let us, then, lay aside all else, and think only of the things that were against her, when she came to Jesus that memorable day.

Her Birth Was against Her

In the first place, her birth was against her. St. Matthew tells us that she was a woman of Canaan, and she is called a Syrophoenician woman by St. Mark, from which we learn that she belonged by birth to one of the native races of the land. Now when, long centuries before, the Jews had entered Canaan, they had been bidden to exterminate these races. It had been war to the death between the Hebrews and the tribes who were in possession of the land. And we know what hatred and bitterness will rankle in the heart of some poor remnant whose memories are of exterminating wars. Into that heritage was this woman born. She was bred in abhorrence of the name Jew. To her the Jew was like the Norman conqueror to the disinherited and defeated Saxon. Yet all the bitterness in which she had been trained, and the prejudice in which she had been steeped, was overcome in her profound belief that Jesus could save her little daughter. How her neighbours would deride her if she hinted to them the nature of her errand! They would charge her with being false to her own gods, a traitress to her people and her past. But all the mocking of her village friends was powerless to dissuade her from her purpose, and here we find her at the feet of Christ.

Her Lack of Knowledge Was against Her

Again, her lack of knowledge was against her. This woman was not a Jew; she was a Grecian. She had been reared in the worship of the heathen gods, and was a stranger to the God of Israel. Doubtless she had heard Jehovah's name, but always in tones of hatred or contempt. Possibly there had drifted to her ear tidings of the Jewish hope of a Messiah. But how that hope would be misrepresented, and in what distorted fashion it would reach her, is not very difficult to picture. She was a stranger to the Hebrew Bible, with its prediction of a coming Saviour. She had never dwelt upon its pages in secret, feeding her soul on the nurture of the promises. The Psalms of David she had never sung; the fifty-third chapter of Isaiah she had never read; no one had ever told her of a Coming One who was to bear the sicknesses of others. Think, too, how little she could know of Christ Himself. It is almost certain that she had never seen Him. A woman with such a heart and such a daughter was unlikely to be away from home often. All that she knew of Jesus was from hearsay, from the stray rumours that would travel northward, and there was not a single rumour yet that could speak to her of the healing of a heathen. When the sisters sent for Jesus, when Lazarus was ill, theirs was indeed a noble faith. But Christ had lived with them, and loved them, and all that was a mighty encouragement to faith. Here there was nothing of such sweet experience; no personal knowledge for faith to strike its roots in. And it was all so wonderful that even Jesus wondered—"O woman, great is thy faith."

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Great Faith - Page 2
by George H. Morrison

The Disciples Were against Her

Once more, the disciples were against her— "Send her away, for she crieth after us." They had come northward for a little rest, and they were irritated at being so disturbed. Perhaps what they meant was this: "Give her the boon she craves, and let her go. The crowd will be sure to gather at her cries—for the sake of peace grant her, her request." But the very fact that they could speak so, shows that they viewed her in an unkindly light, and, from the moment that they saw her, had cast upon her uninviting looks. So had they acted with the mothers of Salem when they brought their little ones to Jesus. How much more natural such conduct now, when the mother was a Syrophoenician and a heathen. Yet all the angry looks of the disciples, and their biddings that she should hold her peace, and their drawing together to keep her off from Jesus, and the fact that they were men and she a woman—all this was powerless to dishearten her or to quench the shining of her faith.

Christ Seemed to Be against Her

But there was one other obstacle she had to conquer, for Christ Himself seemed to be against her. When she pleaded with Him in all her mother's passion, He answered her never a word. These silent lips were terrible enough—they were so unlike all she had heard of Him; but when He spoke it was like the knell of doom, robbing her of the hope that was her life—"I am not sent but unto the lost sheep of the house of Israel." Do not imagine it was said to try her. It was said in the perfect sincerity of truth. There is an order in the plans of God, and the time of the Gentiles was not yet. But what did the woman do—did she retire? Did she say, "Ah me, my case is hopeless now"? There is something magnificent in what she did—she came and worshipped and cried to Him, "Lord, help me." Again Jesus raised another obstacle. He uttered that dark word about the dogs—not the wild and masterless dogs of Eastern streets, but the "doggies" which even then were household pets. And the alertness, the ready mother-wit, with which this mother parried that rebuff is one of the most delightful things in Scripture. Who could have blamed her if, being called a dog, she had turned in womanly anger and gone home? Instead of that she catches up the words and turns the supposed taunt into an argument. And it was then that Jesus, charmed and captivated by that refusal to admit defeat, crowned her with the encomium of our text. Her birth was against her; her knowledge was against her; the Twelve were against her; Christ seemed to be against her. But her great faith broke every obstacle—and her daughter was made whole that very hour.

March 26

Son of Man - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

Whom do men say that I the Son of man am?— Mat_16:13

The Name by Which Jesus Most Frequently Called Himself

There are two names which our Lord was wont to use when He spoke about His person or His work. The one was the Son of God, and the other was the Son of Man. It was not often that He used the former title, if we may judge by the Synoptic Gospels, and when He used it, it was always in some moment of unusual importance and solemnity. But it is different with the latter, "the Son of Man." This was constantly upon the lips of Christ. It seems to have been His most familiar word when He referred to His person or His work. And so deeply engraven is this upon our hearts, and inwrought into the thought of Christendom, that whenever we hear the expression "Son of Man" we at once revert to the figure of our Saviour. Under this name, then, our Lord described Himself. By this He conveyed His thought about Himself. It was a name He loved with deep affection, and which welled to His lips in the most diverse circumstances. Nor should it be forgotten that in the whole New Testament, where the title "Son of Man" occurs so often, only on two occasions is it used by anyone other than the Lord Himself.

Jesus Never Defined or Explained the Meaning of "Son of Man"

Now it is notable that in all His use of it our Lord never pauses to define the name. He does not explain what it conveyed to Him, nor what He meant it should convey to others. When our Lord gave Simon his new name of Peter, He was careful to interpret its significance. "Thou art Peter," He said, so that all could hear, "and on this rock I shall build my church." But when He laid aside His own name Jesus, and began to speak of Himself as Son of Man, He offered no explanation of the name, and never declared the reason of His choice. Equally noticeable too is this, that no one ever asked Him to define it. It seems to have been accepted without comment, and at least in a measure to have been understood. For men were not slow to interrogate the Saviour, and to ask Him what He meant by this or that, but we never find anyone enquiring of Him what was the meaning of this "Son of Man."

Not a New Name

Now the reason for that absence of all questioning will suggest itself to every reader at once. This was no new name, coined at a moment's need, it was a name that was wreathed with old association. There was not a Jew who heard the Master use it but would find it encircled with familiar thoughts. It was a name they had been accustomed to since childhood in their reading or hearing of the ancient Scriptures. And it came to them, not as a word of novelty, nor with the arresting touch of the unknown, but as a word that was a heritage of Israel from the far-off day of prophet and of psalmist. In other words, this was a borrowed name, and it was borrowed from the roll of the Old Testament. It was not a title coined for the occasion; it was fragrant with happy and with holy memories. And what Christ did was to take the hallowed name, and to breathe upon it with the breath of life, so that it glowed into a new significance and expanded into undreamed-of fullness.

Let me just say in passing that that is the real meaning of originality. If only we had just thought upon that matter, I think that we might understand our Saviour better. It is not the nature of originality to say what never has been said before. The genius that is most strikingly original is hopelessly in debt to all the past. Originality consists in this—in taking all that the past has got to offer, and then in so passing it through heart and brain that it leaps forth as if a recreation. We speak of the originality of Shakespeare, yet who is more deeply in debt to his predecessors? We speak, and we can do it with all reverence, of the originality of Jesus. Yet do remember, that that does not mean that Christ owes nothing to the past of Israel. It means that He gathers up that mighty past, and makes it new just because He is new. It should never distress you to find in the Old Testament the rudiments of one of the beatitudes. The past was Christ's, but just because He was Christ the old was all transfigured on His lips. And so with His favourite name "the Son of Man"; it was not new, it was an ancient title; it was drawn out of the storied past of Israel, but Christ has made it different forever.

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Why Did Jesus Choose This Name?

Well, that being so, why did this title so appeal to Christ? Why did He love to use it of Himself? Why was it so often on His lips? There were many other names He might have chosen out of the stores of psalmist and of prophet. In Isaiah you will get twenty titles that describe the office and glory of Messiah. And all these were familiar to our Lord, whose mind and heart were steeped in the old Scripture, yet the one He chooses from them all is "Son of Man." Why, then, did this title so appeal to Him? There is only one way to discover that, it is to go back to the Old Testament page, and find the meaning of the words "Son of Man" there. If we discover that, then we discover the thoughts that moved before the mind of Jesus, when in the quiet of Nazareth He made His choice of the name that was to mark His ministry. I do not imagine for one single moment that He used the word in a dogmatic way. There was nothing hard or cold about His use of it—nothing of fixed and stereotyped significance. It was a plastic and suggestive word for Jesus, now shining in one light, now in another, and we must reverently try to trace these lights to that Word which was a lamp unto His feet.

To Indicate His Humiliation—Psalm Eight

First, then, we shall turn to the 8th Psalm for one of the notable uses of the word: "What is man that Thou art mindful of him, and the son of man that Thou visitest him?" The psalmist has been gazing at the heavens and contemplating their majestic grandeur. He stands perhaps upon his palace roof, amid the silent beauty of the night. The moon has arisen, and over the sleeping city there streams the silver pathway of her radiance. And the heaven above him, undimmed by any cloud, is ablaze with the countless glories of the stars. It is one of those eastern nights of perfect beauty when the stars are like the eyes of heavenly watchers looking down with an infinity of calm upon the weary and troubled hearts of men. Now, had the psalmist been a poet only, he might have rested in that outward beauty. But he was more than a poet; he was a spiritual man ever awake to the touch of the divine. And looking upward into that night of beauty what was borne in upon his soul was this—how could a God whose finger made the heavens be mindful of a creature such as man? "When I consider Thy heavens, the work of Thy fingers, the moon and the stars which Thou hast ordained; what is man that Thou art mindful of him, and the son of man that Thou visitest him?" You see, then, the thought in David's mind when he uses that expression "son of man." He is thinking of man in all his native lowliness, of man contrasted with the glowing heavens, of man so frail compared with moon and star, yet crowned with a glory akin to that of angels. Man but a breath contrasted with the stars, yet greater than they in fellowship with God; man but the needy creature of a day, yet lifted up above all heaven's magnificence. "What is man that Thou art mindful of him, and the son of man that Thou visitest him?"

Now, when you turn to the words of Jesus, you find Him using the name in the same way. For Jesus also it carries the significance of man in His lowliness and yet exalted. "Foxes have holes, the birds of the air have nests, but the Son of man hath not where to lay his head." Or again, where He is foretelling His own passion: "The Son of man shall be betrayed into the hands of men." And yet this lowly and suffering Son of man is to be crowned with glory and honour, for "Hereafter," He cries, "ye shall see the Son of man sitting on the right hand of power." I think there can be no question that that was one charm of this old name for Christ. It blended together His humiliation with the joy of glory that was set before Him. It spoke of Him as a man of sorrows and as One who shared the frailty of our frame, yet it ever suggested the glory that was His, and the honour that was in store for Him from God.

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A Prophet Identified with Manhood—Ezekiel

Again, when we turn back to the Old Testament, we light upon the title in Ezekiel. God calls Ezekiel the son of man not less than seventy times. "Son of man, stand upon thy feet"; "Son of man, seest thou what they do?" It is thus that God constantly addresses him. You will understand, then, how the title "son of man" came to be charged with a prophetic import. It became familiar to readers of Ezekiel as the name for the prophet of the living God. And so when one called himself the "son of man," amid a people so intimately acquainted with the Scriptures, it would at once suggest to them his claim to stand in the succession of the prophets. But why did God choose this title for Ezekiel? Was it just to indicate his lowliness? Nay, rather, it was God's reminder to His servant that he was one with the people whom he warned. He was not to speak as one who stood apart, untouched by the sorrow and the tears of Israel; he was the son of man, the sympathetic man who was bone of their bone and flesh of their flesh. Thus you see that in the mind of Israel there clustered these ideas around the title. Familiar with it from Ezekiel's writings, it spoke to them of one who was a prophet; and yet this prophet was not a man aloof and unable to enter into his people's heart. He was a son of man, the man of sympathy, one who was touched with a feeling of their infirmities.

And again, when we turn to the words of Christ, we find Him using the term in the same way. He uses it to claim prophetic power, and yet to reveal His sympathetic heart. "The Son of Man hath power to forgive sin"; "the Son of Man is Lord even of the Sabbath day"—that is the voice of One who was a prophet, charged with a message greater than Ezekiel's. And yet, "the Son of man came eating and drinking"; "the Son of man came to seek and save the lost"—that is the voice of One who was a Brother, and who was filled with intensest sympathy for man. That also is one secret of the charm which this ancient title had for Jesus. It revealed a yet half-concealed prophetic claim, and told that His word was the oracle of God; and yet it suggested that He was rich in sympathy and able to be compassionate to the weakest, and fitted to bear the burdens of humanity, and to be the Brother of the tired and weak. Was He the Son of Man?—then He was Brother-Man, and all might find in Him their Friend and Helper. But was He the Son of Man ? — then, like Ezekiel, He was the Prophet of the living God.

Associated with the Nations—Daniel

Then, lastly, and most notably of all, we find this title in the Book of Daniel. Let me recall to you what it implies in Daniel, and in what connection it was introduced. Daniel had had a vision of four empires that came up like four great beasts out of the sea; and then to these bestial and inhuman kingdoms succeeded another and a nobler kingdom. Within it were all nations and all peoples; it was a dominion that was to last forever. And over it, coming with the clouds, Daniel saw one like to the Son of Man. Now that was a vision of Messiah's kingdom, superseding the bestial kingdoms of the world. And who was the Son of Man who reigned within it? He was the expected Messiah of the Jews. And so, as the Jews looked forward to Messiah, and dreamed of the day when He was to appear, they came to think of Him, and came to speak of Him, under that ancient name of "Son of man." Let other kingdoms be typified by beasts, the kingdom of Christ is typified by manhood. It is the perfect Man who is to reign, in the golden age to which the Jew was looking. And yet this Man is something more than man, for He stands in the heavens engirdled by its clouds, and the passing of ages leaves no trace upon Him, and the Ancient of Days receives Him as His fellow. It was such thoughts the Jews associated with the name "Son of man."

It is not a matter of debate if such thoughts were in the mind of Jesus. There can be no question in the matter, for we have the testimony of Christ Himself. On two occasions our Lord recalled this prophecy in words whose reference is unmistakable, and both times He identified Himself with the Son of man of Daniel's vision. In His prophecy over Jerusalem, He predicted that they shall see "the Son of man coming in the clouds with power and great glory." And when standing before Caiaphas He thus addressed His judges, "I say unto you, hereafter shall ye see the Son of man sitting at the right hand of power, and coming in the clouds of heaven." Of this, then, there is no doubt, that the name was to Jesus a Messianic name. He would never have used it had He not wished to intimate that He was the promised Messiah of the Jews. And so it tells us that here is Christ indeed; the Man in whom all humanity is centered, yet the Man who knew that He was more than man, the Fellow of the everlasting God.

March 27

Elijah or Jeremiah - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

Some say that thou art…Elias,' and others, Jeremias— Mat_16:14

Elijah—A Prophet of Wrath; Jeremiah—A Prophet of Tears

It is of the deepest interest to discover what was the common impression about Jesus, and in this report conveyed by the disciples we get a hint of the utmost value. "Whom do men say that I the Son of man am?" said Jesus; and the answer was, "Some say…John the Baptist: some [and probably the greater number], Elias; and others, Jeremias, or one of the prophets." Now there are many interesting suggestions in these answers; but one of them to my mind exceeds all the others. Did you ever think of the vast difference there was between the characters of Elijah and Jeremiah? Yet some said about Christ, "This is Elijah," and others said, "No, it is Jeremiah." If you read again the page of the Old Testament you will appreciate the gulf between the two. The one is ardent, enthusiastic, fierce sometimes. The other is the prophet of the tender heart and tears. And the remarkable thing is that the common people should have taken these types, which are so wide apart, and should have found in both the character of Christ. In other words, the impression which Jesus made was that of a complex, inclusive personality. You could not exhaust Him by a single prophet. It took the range of the greatest to portray His character. And I want to try to bring before you some of these qualities of different natures, which harmonise so perfectly and wonderfully in the human nature of our Lord.

Christ to Be Obeyed and Loved

First, then, I am arrested in Christ's character by the perfect union of mastery and charm. It is one of the rarest things in the world to find the masterful man possessed of the indefinable quality of charm. There are some people born to be obeyed, and there are some other people born to be loved; but it is very rarely that the compelling nature, in the language of Scripture, is "altogether lovely." Think of the masterful men whom you have known; the men whose distinguishing attribute was power; the men who never insisted on obedience, yet somehow or other always were obeyed; the men who were very quiet, and very strong. Such men are always needed in the commonwealth—such men are always secretly admired; but it is very seldom, in this curious world, that such authoritative men are loved. What they lack is the indefinable quality of charm. They can master everything except the heart. They appeal to all that is strong and virile in us. Yet they do not appeal to the imagination. And it is strange what a deal the people will forgive, and how they will cover up a hundred failings, in the man who appeals to their imagination.

Christ Was Characterised by Power and Love

Now when we turn to Christ, the first thing we observe is that the mark of His character is power. Here is no sentimental dreamer from the hills; here is a regal, authoritative Man. Read over His life in the Gospels once again and mark how often that word "power" occurs. "His word was with power," says Luke. "The kingdom comes with power," says Mark. "The multitude glorified God who had given such power unto men," says Matthew. We are quite wrong in saying about Jesus that the first impression which He made was that of gentleness—the first impression which He made was one of power. He spake with authority, and not as one of the scribes. And why did men leave all when He said, "Follow me"? And in the garden when He was betrayed, and said to them, "I am he"—why did the rabble shrink and fall away? There is something so magnificent in that—in the sheer power of that defenceless manhood—that I defy any painter to portray it. Yet look at the little children how they came to Him, and nestled without a tremor in His arms. And think of Peter by the sea of Galilee, "Lord, Thou knowest that I love thee." Some men are born to be obeyed, some to be loved; but Jesus pre-eminently was born for both. That is why people said, "Lo, here is Elijah," and others, "No, it is Jeremiah." All that had marked the noblest of the prophets was harmonised and reconciled in Him. Untold authority, infinite sensibility; a will that would not swerve, a tender heart; the union of mastery and charm.

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Elijah or Jeremiah - Page 2
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Christ Characterised by Remoteness and Accessibility

Again, I am arrested in Christ's character by the union of remoteness and accessibility. There is something in Christ that always suggests distance. There is much in Christ that tells us He is near. Now there are many people who convey the impression of remoteness, though none in the same way as Jesus did. There is the man who is absorbed in some great work, for instance; and we feel that he moves apart when we meet him. And there is a certain type of the religious spirit that is so cold and so icily immaculate that a poor sinner, like the rich man in hell, sees what a gulf there is between him and Abraham. What you feel is, when men are so remote, that you must not trouble them with your small matters. You must not look to them for the sweet word of sympathy. You must not expect them to bother about you. They lift themselves apart like some high alp, which catches the morning, but is always snow clad; while we poor mortals, with hearts so weak, so warm, must struggle along in the valleys as we may.

There never lived on earth a Man who so impressed men with His remoteness as did Christ. "Depart from me, for I am a sinful man, O Lord," was how Simon Peter reacted to His presence. You remember how Milton in his Hymn of the Nativity says, "Kings sat still with awful eye, as if they surely knew their Sovran Lord was by!" and I tell you there are a hundred touches in the Gospel that confirm that impression of the incarnate Lord. It is the height of childishness for any Gospel student to say that Jesus was just a genial socialist. "Gentlemen," said Napoleon, "I know men, and you may take my word for it, this is more than man." For He stood apart; men felt He was remote; there was the touch of the far away about this figure. Some said Elias, and others Jeremiah; no one said, "A genial, pleasant neighbour." The strange thing is that though Christ thus stood remote, men still should have come to Him with every worry. "Come unto me," and they came from every rank—from the lady of the court to the poor reprobate. And He who stood so far apart that He could say, "Thy sins are forgiven thee, go in peace"; yet He stood so near that there was not a sorrow He could not appreciate and understand. Some said Elias, that lone figure, standing apart from the surge and flow of Israel. And some said Jeremiah—tenderhearted, whose tears were a river for his people's sorrow. And both opinions were wrong, yet both supremely right, for Elias and Jeremiah both were here. Christ was far more lonely than the one, and far more sympathetic than the other.

Christ Characterised by Enthusiasm and Tranquility

Once more I am arrested in Christ's character by the union of enthusiasm and tranquility. His feelings were often powerfully stirred, yet the whole impression is one of profound peace. There are men who can walk unmoved through a vast crowd. When Christ saw a crowd, He was touched with compassion always. There are men who can stand beside a grave emotionless, but by the grave of Lazarus, Jesus wept. There are men who can view all manner of iniquity and never lose a moment's peace about it; but Jesus, in a mighty surge of indignation, drove out the buyers and sellers from the temple. Clearly, this is no cold, phlegmatic nature. There is nothing of the steeled heart of the Stoic here. Here is a man whose eye will flash sometimes, whose soul can be roused into a glow of passion. And yet the one impression of the whole is not that of an eager, strained unrest; the impression of the whole life of Jesus is that of an unutterable peace. It is very easy to be bold, yet calm; to be uninterested, unimpassioned, and so tranquil. It is very easy to deaden down the feelings, till a man has made a solitude and called it peace. But the abiding wonder about Christ is this, that He had an ardent, eager, enthusiastic heart; yet He breathed such a deep, such a superb tranquility, that men instinctively felt He was at rest.

Christ Was Characterised by Abnegation and Appreciation

Then, in closing, and most notable of all, there is the union of abnegation and appreciation. I regret using such ungainly words, but I know no others that so express my meaning. What is the last word in the ideal of Jesus—is it asceticism, or is it joy? Let me show you in a word how Christendom has leaned at different times to different answers.

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Elijah or Jeremiah - Page 3
by George H. Morrison

Think, then, on the one hand of mediaeval painters who have portrayed for us the Man of Nazareth. It is not the Christ who considered the lilies whom they paint. It is the Christ of agony and shame. You know that figure kneeling in the garden. You know that face with its awful look of agony. You know those hands with the blood dropping from them, and St. Dominic looking upward with enraptured eyes. And even where the suffering is shrouded by an art as exquisite as it is perfect, you know that the appeal of all such art is, "Come, and let us mourn with Him awhile." It is not joy that animates these pictures; it is a calm and holy acquiescence. It is not intense delight in the glad world; it is unquestioning acceptance of the will of God. He has given up everything, this Christ, to die for men, and the last word of that art is abnegation.

And then I turn to some modern paintings of Christ, and I seem to be moving in a different world. I turn to Renan, to Zangwill, or to Dawson, and I hardly recognise the painter's figure. He is entranced with the vision of the divine life, says Renan, and He gives Himself with delight to its expression. He is the incarnation of the spirit of joy, says Dawson. And Mr. Zangwill, in his Dreamers of the Ghetto, says, "I give the Jews a Christ they can accept now; the Lover of warm life and the warm sunlight, and all that is fresh and beautiful and pure." Is this the mediaeval Sufferer, with the blood-drops, and with the crown of thorns? Is this glad poet with His glowing cheek the pallid figure of mediaeval paintings? It is not suffering that is the keynote here. It is positive, intense, and simple joy. It is not abnegation of the world; the keynote is appreciation.

"Some said Elias, others Jeremiah"—have we not here another echo of such judgments? The wonder of Jesus is not this or that; the wonder of Jesus is this and that together. There is a joy that has no room in it for sacrifice; it is too selfish, too sensuous, and too shallow. There is a sacrifice that is absolutely joyless, without a gleam of the sunshine on its cross. But Christ was happy as a child in this green world, because not a sparrow could fall without His Father; yet He gave up everything and died on Calvary, that guilty men and women might be saved. In the deepest of all senses Christ renounced the world, and trampled all its glory underfoot. The first condition of following in His train was that one should lead the life of self-denial. Yet He who so followed Him was never deadened to the call of lovely or delightful things; He was led into a world where birds were singing, and which was beautiful with the lilies of the field. That is why in Christ there is neither Jew nor Greek. All are united in that wonderful character. That is why you and I can never say, "He was Elias," or, "He was Jeremiah." Embracing both—all that was best in both—and all that is highest and fairest in humanity; we fall before Him and reply, with Peter, "Thou art the Christ, the Son of the living God."

March 28

Founded on Rock

Thou art Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church— Mat_16:18

Christ Wanted to Be Understood

To understand these words aright we must endeavour to recapture the right atmosphere. The words were spoken under intense excitement. The hour had come when our Lord felt it necessary to tell the disciples plainly of His death. So He had led them to the rocky solitudes which lie about the sources of the Jordan. And first, lest the shock should overwhelm them, He set Himself quietly to discover if they had solved the secret of His being. No one will ever triumph in the Cross who has wrong views of the Person of our Lord. In His own beautiful way He did not begin with that. He began by asking what other people thought. Then, having elicited an answer, He said, "But whom say ye that I am?" And immediately, with glorious insight, in a light that broke on him from heaven, Peter cried, "Thou art the Christ, the Son of the living God." To be understood is always sweet, especially after long misapprehension. It is a thrilling hour when one is understood. And so perfectly human was our Lord, that the cry of Peter moved Him to His depths, and stirred Him with profound emotion. The words of Jesus are not a cold pronouncement. They are a glowing and impassioned utterance. They are not a statement of theology; they are the glad cry of a heart. He could face the cross and all its desolation, and be tranquil in His darkest hour, in the assurance that He was understood.

Did Christ Point to Himself When He Said, "Upon This Rock I Will Build My Church "?

There are two interpretations of these words which I mention only to discard. The first is, that when He said "On this rock," He pointed with a gesture to Himself. My learned namesake, Dr. Morison, in his quite invaluable Commentaries, is the best-known upholder of this view. But surely it is not like our Lord to convey truth by an unrecorded gesture. When the moving of His hands is eloquent, the Gospel is always careful to portray it. And our Lord was so watchful of His little words that it is incredible He should have said and, when the contrast of the gesture called for but. It is the most profound of truths that the Church is founded upon Christ. It is founded on Him who loved us and who died for us, and who rose again on the third day. But here, in this moment of emotion, our Lord was not thinking of Himself; He was thinking of those who recognise His mystery.

Did He Mean Peter?

With equal conviction do I discard the view that our Lord meant Peter as an individual. With that mystic gaze of His, Peter was the type and representative of multitudes. There are hints in the story (as is so often true) that Peter spoke in the name of the disciples. There flashed into words on his eager lips, the truth that was inarticulate in them. And if there was a gesture of our blessed Lord, was it not rather a waving of His hand over the company gathered at His feet? To them, just as truly as to Peter, Christ was not Jeremiah or Elias. For them He stood in solitary grandeur, different from and greater than the prophets. And what they all felt in their inmost core, though they could not command speech to utter it, broke into utterance on Peter's lips. It is incredible that in such high emotion our Lord's vision should have stopped at Peter. Moved to His very depths He saw in Peter the guarantee and the foretaste of His triumph. He heard in Peter's cry the voice of millions, echoing through every country of the world, confessing Him and adoring Him as Lord.

"The Rock" Is the Confession of All Who Acknowledge Christ as Lord

So do I hold with a very strong conviction that such was the meaning of our Lord. Peter was the forerunner of confessing and adoring souls. The Church is not founded on an individual, and that individual soon to be called Satan (Mat_16:23). It is not founded on any form of words, for rock in Scripture is never used of words. The Church is founded on confessing lives, on all those who acknowledge Christ as Lord, and of these Peter is the forerunner. Empires are founded upon force; kingdoms upon mercenary armies. Institutions are founded upon money; secret societies on catchwords. But the Church is founded on living men and women, confessing in gratitude and wonder "Thou art the Christ, the Son of the living God." In the deepest of all senses the Church is founded upon Christ. But let those who confess His name never forget that it is also founded upon them. Let them see to it that it is not founded upon sand, blown about by every desert wind. Let them see to it that it is founded upon rock.

March 29

The Master Builder

I will build my church— Mat_16:18

Jesus Used the Term Church Only Twice

Only on two occasions did our Lord use the word Church, here and in the eighteenth chapter, where He says, "Tell it to the church." In the rest of the New Testament the word occurs with frequency, sometimes of the universal church, and sometimes of the local church. But to the lips of our Lord Himself it rises only twice. It has been argued that He never used it, and that it really is due to the evangelist, writing at a later date, when the word had passed into the common speech. But that our Lord actually used it seems to me entirely likely, and that for two considerations. In the first place, you have it in the Greek Old Testament, and with that version our Lord was quite familiar; and in the second place He only used it in the closing period of His ministry. Hitherto He had spoken of the Kingdom—that was the word which was always on His lips. Now, as the end approached, was it not natural that He should talk of the instrument for bringing in the Kingdom? For that is what the Church is, not merely a spiritual fellowship, but God's great instrument for bringing in the Kingdom which is righteousness and joy and peace. How has the Kingdom come in Britain? How is it coming in India and Africa? Everywhere it is coming through the Church. Men say they have no use for the Church, and yet they profess to reverence our Lord, for whom it was the instrument of heaven.

Christ's Confidence in the Future

What first arrests us in the words which I have chosen is the profound confidence of Jesus in the future. We must remember that the words were spoken when the shadow of the end was on His path. In a little while He would be crucified. His very disciples would forsake Him. Men would say He was a noble visionary, but now His beautiful visions were extinguished. And just then, when everything was darkest, our Lord looked down the echoing aisles of time, and said with a serene and perfect confidence, "I will build my church." The same confidence you meet again as He sits at the Supper with His own. There He was on the verge of His betrayal. Yet there He never for one moment doubted that through the ages, till He came again, He would be remembered by adoring hearts. Sometimes you hear men say that they tremble for the ark of God. Let them not forget the fate of him who was the first to tremble for the ark of God. When once the heart has heard the Lord's assertion, "I will build my church, "such solicitude is irreligious.

He Will Build His Church through Human Instrumentality

Of course, when our Lord says, "I will build," that does not mean His hands will do the building. One recalls the dictum of the ancients, quod facit per alium, facit per se. We read in the Gospel of St. John that Jesus tarried with them and baptized (Joh_3:22). Yet in the next chapter we are told that Jesus did not baptize, but His disciples (Joh_4:2). He baptized (it is the word of Scripture), and yet He did it not with His own hands; He did it by the hands of His disciples. "Except the Lord build the house, they labour in vain that build it" (Psa_127:1). Does not that mean that though the Lord be builder, the masons must be busy all the time? So when Jesus says, "I will build my church," He means that He is going to build it by the toiling hands and consecrated lives of sinful men and women like ourselves. "Young man," said the old minister to Carey, "if God wants to convert the heathen He can do it without you." But that old minister was wrong. It is through those who dedicate their lives, as Carey did, through those who toil and pray and give, that the ages see the fulfilment of the words, "I will build my church."

Assurance That the Church Is Going to Be Completed

In these words, lastly, we have our great assurance that the building is going to be completed. That is why the Lord says, "I will build." We know the story of one who thought to build a tower, and had his vision of that tower completed. But long before the cornerstone was in place, that visionary's resources were exhausted. But the resources of Jesus Christ are inexhaustible—all power hath been committed unto Him—and His church is going to be built. It must be a depressing thing to be a mason when the contractor is on the verge of bankruptcy. How can a labourer toil with all his heart if tomorrow the work may be suspended? But the joy of service in the Church of Christ, a joy that ought to thrill through every toiler, is that no such dark dubiety as that can hang like a chilling cloud over his toil. Our Master-builder has resources infinite. His power is co-extensive with His vision. We have His Word that the building will be crowned and His Word will never pass away. In such sure confidence, itself a spring of gladness, the humblest worker plucks up heart again when the arm is weary and the sky is grey.

March 30

The Transfiguration - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

And after six days Jesus taketh Peter, James, and John his brother, and bringeth them up into an high mountain apart, and was transfigured before them: and his face did shine as the sun, and his raiment was white as the light— Mat_17:1-2

Scenes on Mountains

How often the Bible brings us into mountain scenery. It was on a mountain that Abraham prepared to offer Isaac and that men received the law of Moses, and from a mountainside the law of Christ. The bitterest conflict between Elijah and the prophets of Baal was on Mount Carmel. John was on a great mountain when he saw the new Jerusalem descend; and on a mountain occurred the transfiguration. Do you think that choice of place is but an accident? I do not think so. For always, in the grandeur of the mountaintop, lifting its masses silencewards and heavenwards, have men perceived God's choice environment for the highest hours of holiest souls. The dullest of us knows the fuller life that stirs us on the hills. It is a fitting scene for the transfiguration.

The Transfiguration Was an Answer to Prayer

First, then, let us note that the transfiguration was an answer to prayer. Jesus took Peter and James and John, we read, and went up into a mountain to pray and as He prayed, the fashion of His countenance was altered (Luk_9:28-29). It may be we shall never grasp the mystery of the prayers of Jesus Christ. The simplest prayer you ever breathed raises a score of problems when you think on it, and these problems are multiplied a thousandfold when we are thinking on the prayers of our Redeemer. But the fact remains that Jesus prayed, intensely, passionately, resolutely, till the end; and if it is asked what He was praying for on this mountain, I think we may reverently give this reply. It was the thought of His sufferings that filled Him. It was the vision of His death that bowed Him down. Eight days before, Jesus had talked of that. He had told His disciples how He must suffer and die. And all the evangelists date this mountain scene from the memorable hour of that conversation. It was of His death, too, Moses and Elias spake. Now, these are hints of the inner life of Jesus. These are like far-off echoes of His cry. His hands were trembling as they grasped the cup. The shadow of the cross was on His soul. He went to the hill to agonise with God, and the transfiguration was the answer.

Thus, then, we reach the inner meaning of the scene. It was not a spectacle. It was not acted out for James and John. Its chief importance was for the heart of Jesus. Can we discover, then, its meaning for Christ? Can we see how it greatly strengthened Him for Calvary? That is to get to the marrow of the story. For the memory of this hour was music to Jesus, when all the daughters of music were brought low. It was song and strength to Him, when He went forth to die.

Jesus Received a Fresh Assurance of His Father's Love

Note first then, that the transfiguration gave to Jesus a fresh assurance of His Father's love, for there came a voice out of the cloud, "This is my beloved Son." There are times when we are sorely tempted to doubt the love of God; and if our Redeemer was tempted in all points like as we are, this sore temptation must have fallen on Him. And the one week, in His three-and-thirty years, when it would light on Him with most tremendous power, would be the week before the transfiguration. Till then, Christ had been climbing upward, amid the welcomes of an eager people. From then, He was to journey downwards to the Cross of Calvary and to the grave. The tides were turned. The crisis had been reached. With terrible clearness He realised His death. Oh, what a task, in the full sight of Calvary, still to believe in the changeless love of God! God saw, God understood. God strengthened and established the human soul of Jesus. And from that hour—come agony, come death, Jesus is still the well-beloved Son.

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His Agony: Misunderstood on Earth, But Understood in Heaven

Again, the transfiguration assured Jesus that if His agony was not understood on earth, it was fully understood in heaven. In His sufferings and in His death Jesus was never understood on earth. Men understood the wisdom of His speech. They saw the power of His deeds of healing. But His sufferings they could not understand. The thought of crucifixion was intolerable to the disciples. Even Peter, who loved his Master so, out of his love would have kept Him from the Cross. But Moses and Elias understood what Peter and James and John quite failed to see. They spake of His decease (Luk_9:31). It was the theme of heaven whence they had come. There might be none to sympathise on earth; but the spirits of just men made perfect, in the home above, were following with unbounded love and wonder the progress of Jesus to the cross.

Assurance of the True Greatness of His Mission

Mark, too, that the transfiguration assured Jesus of the true greatness of His mission. We never doubt the greatness of that work. We now know the value of His life and death. The centuries are but a commentary on His power. Yet we sometimes wonder if in the weary round of humble service, the greatness of His task was ever bedimmed for Jesus. We are amazed, as we read the Gospel story, at the seeming insignificance of many of the days and deeds of Christ. He lived in villages and companied with humble folk. He healed their sick; He preached to unlettered crowds. So day succeeded day, and the sun rose and set, and men could not see the splendour of His work. Was Jesus sometimes tempted to forget it too? If so, it was the very love of God that sent Moses and Elijah to the mount. For Moses and Elijah were the past. They were the spirits of the law and prophecy. And now the past hands on its work to Jesus. All that the law had vainly striven to do, and all that prophecy had seen afar, was to be crowned on Calvary. His, then, was no fragmentary life. It was the very crisis of the world. For all the
past was centering in Him, and from Him the future was to stretch away.

The Transfiguration Encouraged Jesus

And lastly, note how the transfiguration encouraged Jesus because it gave Him a foretaste of His glory. His sufferings were near; His death was near; but on the mount Christ knew that heaven was nearer still. For the dazzling glow of heaven was on His face, and the saints of glory were standing by His side, and His Father's voice was music in His ear. Not that heaven was ever unreal to Jesus; but in view of the intensity of coming sorrow, there must be intense conviction of the joy beyond. It is this that was granted to Jesus on the mount. Is it not given to His children too? There is always the burning bush before the desert. There is ever the mountaintop before the garden. In the strength of the joy that is set before us, we endure the cross and despise the shame.

March 31

The Child in the Midst - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

And Jesus called a little child unto him, and set him in the midst of them— Mat_18:2

Jesus' Love for Children

I want to speak on Jesus and the child to show you out of the Bible story how precious childhood was to Jesus Christ. And I want to do it just that we may feel that when the Church which is His body tends the children it is certain to have the blessing of the Master.

First, then, we may find how Jesus valued them by the loving way in which He had observed them. With a quick eye and with a loving heart He had been watching them when they never dreamed of it. You can tell how closely He had watched the world by the exquisite beauty of His parables. You can tell how closely He had watched His nation from His certainty that ruin was impending. And so by innumerable incidental references, occurring everywhere throughout His teaching, you can tell how closely He had watched the child. He had watched the mother fondling her babe, and in her joy forgetting all her agony. He had watched the children playing in the market place, and sulking, and quarrelling with each other. And He had watched the boy, when school was over, hurrying home and asking for a piece of bread, and always getting it and not a stone. For Christ the coming ruin was doubly terrible just because children were to be involved in it. For Christ there was no test of loyalty more searching than that a man should love Him more than he loved his children. And all these references to the little people, these recognitions of them in unexpected moments, show you how dear they were to Jesus Christ. That is one of the great and striking differences between the Gospels and the Epistles of Paul. You would never gather from the Pauline letters that the writer was a lover of the child. But when you follow Jesus through the Gospels, when you see how He had observed the ways of children, when you mark the niceness of His references to them, as of One who had watched them for Himself, why then you feel at once that here was One for whom there was a joy for every child. He loved the little as deeply as the lost.

The Busy Jesus Had Time for the Child

Again, the same impression is intensified when we think of the access He gave them to His presence. There was never a more crowded life than His, and yet He always had leisure for the child. The fact is, friends, that in the life of Christ that air of leisure always is amazing. With such a mighty work for God to do, might you not reasonably expect some sign of strain. And yet the one thing that took the hearts of men, and awed them as with the touch of heaven, was just the infinite restfulness that clothed Him. He had a baptism to be baptised with, yet had He leisure for the summer lilies. He had but three short years to do His work, yet He had eyes for the sparrow when it fell. He had to ransom from the power of darkness men and women who were the slaves of Satan, yet always had He leisure for the child. The fact is that Christ like all of us, always had leisure for the thing He loved. It is in the heart rather than in the clock that there lies the secret of the leisure hour. And so when in the midst of all His stress, you find that Christ gave access to the children, you may learn certainly how much He loved them. It is but seldom in the Gospel story that you read of Christ as being much displeased. The impression made upon you there is this, that it took something mighty to stir Him to the depths. Yet one of the rare occasions in the Gospel when we do read that Christ was much displeased was when the disciples sought to keep the children back. It was not done in anger but in kindness. They were distressed because Christ was overburdened. Here was something they could save Him from, as if a mortal man could save the Saviour. But Christ for once made no account of motive, found no excuse in an intended kindliness; He chided His followers because they sought to bar Him from the child. My brother, there was something divine in that; but there was also something human. They were trying to keep from Him, although they knew it not, the very company in which He most delighted. And that—that constant leisure for the child, that open access in the busiest day, is another sweet and subtle indication of the value of the children in His eyes.

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Jesus Loved to Help Children When They Suffered

This impression once again is deepened by the appeal which the sufferings of children made to Him. He not only loved to watch them when they played; but He also loved to help them when they suffered. There were some appeals which Jesus disregarded, as that of the man who wanted a judgment on his property. There were some prayers that Jesus would not listen to, as when the healed demoniac prayed that he might follow Him. But the one prayer that carried Him by storm, the one appeal He never could finally resist, was when a father or a mother came and used the words "My son"—"my little daughter." Everything else must stand aside if it be a child that cries for healing. He cares not what all the mourners think of Him when He asks them unceremoniously to leave the room. With an intensity that we shall never fathom, because our hearts at their warmest are but cold, Christ felt the sufferings of little children. The first healing miracle He wrought was wrought not on a man but on a child. The only cure He gave outside of Israel was given to a little Gentile girl. Of His three rescues from the grip of death, it was only Lazarus who was an adult. The other two who were brought back again were young. You recall the scene on the Mount of Transfiguration, and how Peter would have had Him stay there forever. But Jesus could not stay and would not stay simply because the world was calling Him. And so He descended from the Mount of Glory to take up His cross again and be obedient, and the first to meet Him was an epileptic boy. It is as if, transfigured on the hill, He had heard the calling of the child. It is as if the writhings of that lad had pierced the radiance that en-wrapped Him there. And so may we learn, brethren, if we will, from that irresistible appeal of childish suffering, how near and dear the children were to Christ.

Jesus Delighted in the Services of Children

That impression received further vividness when we recall how Christ delighted in their services. He sometimes refused the service of a man; He never refused the service of a child. There is an excellent sermon by Mr. Spurgeon on Christ refusing first offers of service. Strange though it may seem, He sometimes did that, and sometimes He is doing it today. But the one service that He welcomed eagerly, and never checked, and never thought unworthy, was the sweet service of the little people. "There is a lad here," said Andrew to Him. I think that one word "lad" was all Christ wanted. There is a lad here with five small loaves, and he wants us to take them and make the best of them. I take it that Andrew was intensely tickled at a lad's luncheon for five thousand people; but it was just the thing that Jesus loved. He would not add a scrap to that small store. He wanted to use the offering of the boy. He wanted to show them that in Messiah's kingdom a little child shall lead them. And if that were so out on the hills of Galilee, how much more truly so in the last days, when the children flocked to the triumphal entry, and cried "Hosanna to the Son of David." Men had wanted to cry that before, and on every such occasion Christ had checked them. They had wanted to hail Him as Messiah, and Jesus had refused to be so hailed. But now the children break into that service—for praise is service just as much as alms, and Christ with a glad heart accepts of it. Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings He felt that God was perfecting His praise. There was hope for the future, though the Cross was coming, when He had won the hearts of little children. We all long to be loved by those we love. We are proud and happy when they praise us. And it was just because Jesus loved the children that their shouting was like music in His ear.

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Christ's Estimate of the Child Spirit

The same impression is confirmed again by the estimate which Christ made of the child spirit. It was in the child that Jesus found the type of the true citizen of the heavenly kingdom. "Suffer the little children to come to Me, for of such is the kingdom of heaven." Except ye become as little children, ye cannot even see the kingdom. To enter the kingdom it is by no means necessary that a child should grow into a man. But to enter the kingdom it is always necessary that a man should grow into a child. Christ did not speak of the innocence of childhood. That innocence is gone and gone forever. He came to call the sinners to repentance. His kingdom is a kingdom for the lost. He was thinking of the receptiveness of childhood, of its glorious freedom from the worldly spirit, of the love that fills it, of the hope that stirs it, of its simplicity and sublimity of faith. To you and me, my brother, that is commonplace; but remember it is Christ who made it so. As dearly as the Jew had loved his children, he had never seen that glory in his children. It was Christ who was the first to see it. It was Christ who drew it into the light of day. And now we see it, and we reverence childhood because we are looking at it with His eyes. When a man is far from home, in a strange country, he loves whatever reminds him of his home. Some glimpse of hill, some blossom like the heather, will bring a tenderness into his heart. And that, I think, was why Christ loved the children, and was always so exquisitely tender with them. He was a stranger in a distant land here, and the children reminded Him of home. Of such is the kingdom of heaven—the kingdom here, the kingdom in the glory. I say unto you that in heaven, yonder, their angels are looking on the Father's face. Brethren, with such deep words from Jesus' heart is it any wonder the child is precious now? Is it any wonder that the Church which is His body gives of her best and noblest to their service?

"Feed the Lambs" Comes before "Feed the Sheep."

And then this ever-deepening impression is crowned when Christ risen from the dead. "Simon, Son of Jonas, lovest thou "Yea, Lord"; then, "Feed my lambs." Then twice over Simon was bidden feed the sheep. That repetition has the note of urgency. But it is not the sheep that are first mentioned, mark you. First of all is "Feed my lambs. "Still in the forefront of the love of Jesus, unchanged by Calvary and by the grave, still deep within His heart, there are the children. My brother and sister, there are many voices that say to us today, "Amuse the children." But this is the glory of the love of Christ that its command is "Feed the children." And this is the wonder of the Christian Gospel that, with great depths in it that none can fathom, it is so simple in its central message that you can tell it to the little child. Tell it, you mothers, to your children, then. Tell it, you Sabbath teachers, to your classes. Let your class witness when you meet in heaven that you were not ashamed of the Gospel of Christ. So let us prosecute our work with patience, remembering how Jesus loved the children. So let us welcome the glad song of Christmas, "Unto us a child is born."

April 1

How to Be Rid of Contempt - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

Take heed that ye despise not one of these little ones— Mat_18:10

The Savage Are Characterized by Contempt of Others

The spirit of contempt is very strongly developed among savage races. A savage is nurtured to hate or to despise. Between his own tribe and every other tribe there is a deep and quite impassable gulf, and it has never entered into the savage heart that love or kindness should seek to bridge that chasm. If other tribes are powerful they must be hated. If they are weak they must be treated with contempt. There is the belief, then, in the sad creed of many a savage, that there is virtue in despising others.

The Spirit of Disdaining Others

And when we pass from the wild life of savagery to the civilisations of the ancient world, the remarkable thing is that we are immediately confronted with the same spirit of contemptuous disdain. We might have hoped that the culture of the Greek, and his swift appreciation of all things of beauty, would have given him a large sympathy with mankind. We might have expected that the world-conquering Roman, strong in his masculine sense of law and order, would have been too large-hearted to belittle. And above all, we might have trusted that the Jew, to whom had been granted the vision of the eternal, would have learned in the great glory of that vision to call nothing common or unclean. But history tells us a very different story. The old world is flooded with the spirit of contempt. And we do not need to go beyond the Bible story to learn how the Greek looked down on the barbarian, or how the Jew disdained the Gentile world. Everywhere, then, where the spirit of Christ is not, we are confronted with the spirit of contempt. A Christless world, if it believes in anything, believes in the holy duty of disdaining. And it is like the courage of the Lord Jesus Christ that He dared to lift up His voice against the past, to charge it with error in its cherished virtues, to tell it that it had gone utterly astray. For all this our blessed Lord was doing, when He taught the lesson of not despising others.

The Duty of Holy Scorn

Of course we must distinguish this despising from what I might call the passion of noble scorn. A man is a poor creature and a poorer Christian, if he has lost his capacity for scorn. There are deeds that a right-thinking man will scorn to do. There are books that an earnest heart will scorn to read. And there are men and women whom a heaven-touched soul would scorn to number in its list of friends. A man is out of line with Jesus Christ who does not hold scorn for certain things. For if ever in the world there was the passion of scorn, it was in the heart of Jesus in the Temple, when He raised His whip and drove the traders out. Such scorn as that is a very holy thing. It is the kindling of a man's best into a flame. It is all that is purest and most divine within us raised to white-heat by intolerable evil. And a man must be very lukewarm for the right, and have sadly confused weakness with charity, who is never stirred so in a world like this. But to despise is something very different. There is nothing of moral passion in despising. It does not spring from any love of goodness. It is not rooted in any hate of wrong. True scorn is an utterly self-forgetful thing. But the man who despises is always full of self.

The Evil Brought about by the Spirit of Contempt

And I think it is not difficult to see the evil that is wrought by the spirit of contempt. It was as the Champion of the weak and the oppressed, so that they might have an atmosphere to grow in, that our Lord spoke so sternly of despising. It is easy to be good when we are loved. It is not very hard to play the man when we are hated. But to be courteous, charitable, gentle, loving, kind, when all the time we know we are despised, is a task that would try the powers of an angel. There is nothing so likely to make a brother despicable, as just to let him see that you despise him. There is nothing so certain to touch the flowers with frost-bite, and chill the air, and make the spirit bitter. And I think that Jesus Christ hated contempt, and banished it imperiously from the kingdom, that chilled and suppressed hearts might have a chance. There is only one thing worse than being despised by others. And that is to be despised by one's own self.

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Christ Was Also Despised

And let me say in passing that we must bear that in mind if we would really know the beauty of Christ's character. The wonder of it is deepened a thousandfold for me, when I remember that He was despised. If it is hard for you to hold fast to lovely and lowly things, if it is difficult to be good and to be tender, when in the eyes that look on you, you see contempt, you may be sure it was not less hard for Jesus. Nay, on the contrary, it was far harder; for Jesus was far more sensitive than you. We have all been dulled and coarsened by our sin; Jesus alone knew nothing of that coarsening. In looks that we could never have interpreted, in words whose sting we never should have felt, Christ felt in its bitterness that He was despised: yet what can match the beauty of His character? Had it been only antagonism that confronted Him, I think I could understand Christ Jesus better. For a man is often roused by fierce antagonism till all his slumbering powers take the field. But that Jesus of Nazareth should have wakened every morning and said to His heart, I shall be despised today; that He should have gone every evening to His rest saying to His heart, Today I was despised; and that in spite of that He should have moved on to the cross, brave, tender, loving—that is the great mystery for me. May it not have been because our Lord knew to its uttermost the temptations of the soul that is despised, that He spoke so strongly on not despising others?

Spirit of Contempt Rooted in Lack of Understanding

Now what are the sources of this contemptuous spirit? Why is it we are so ready to despise? Well, I take it that contempt has two main roots, and the first of them is want of understanding. There is a great text in Job of which I often think; it occurs where Elihu is justifying God to men. And he says, "God is mighty and despiseth not any; He is great in strength of understanding." Now Elihu was not a very brilliant person; one can hardly imagine even patient Job listening patiently to Elihu's preaching. But I could forgive Elihu a whole volume of commonplace for this one thought that flashed on his poor brain. For Elihu means that just because God is great, and knows each separate heart with perfect knowledge, and reads, without an error in one syllable, the intricate story of the worst and weakest, because of that, God is a God of pity: "He is mighty and despiseth not any." That means that if we knew our brother as God knows him, we should never dare to despise him anymore. In the last analysis man may be a sinner, but in the last analysis—thank God—man is not despicable. If only we knew what the weakest and worst had borne, if only we understood how they were tempted, if we could read the story of their secret battle, could fathom their wretchedness, could hear their cry; if only we realised that under that dull exterior there are heaven, hell, loneliness, cravings, love, I think we should cease despising in that hour. God understands all that, and therefore despises no one. We despise because we do not know.

Contempt Rooted in Lack of Love

And then the other root is want of love. Where love is, there can be no contempt. A man may have twenty despicable traits, but to the one who loves him he is still a hero. And that is why, in the love of Christian homes, men who are not thought much of in the city are sometimes wonderfully good and gentle. They are not hypocrites. It is the absence of even the suspicion of contempt at home that brings out all that is best and brightest in them. I have seen a deformed or crippled little boy or girl sadly despised in the playground and the street. They have had to stand many a bitter jest—for children can be terribly cruel. But though all those in the playground despise the shrunken limbs, and make very merry at the arrested brain, there is one at home who would sooner lie down in her grave, than think of despising that little shattered frame. Where a mother's love is, there is no contempt. It is want of love, then, and want of understanding, that lie at the roots of most of our despising. And the question I wish to ask in closing is this: How does the Gospel of Jesus combat that? Christ never says do this, and leaves us there. When He commands, He gives the power to fulfil. And I wish to ask what are these powers, that have been called into action by the Christian Gospel, to banish the contemptuous spirit from the kingdom?

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The Christian Ideal

First, then, there is the height of the ideal that dawns on a man when he becomes a Christian. In his new standards of the measurements of things, there is less difference between him and others than he thought. A little green hillock of some thirty feet high might well despise the molehill in the field. But place them both under the shadow of Ben Nevis, and there is little room for boasting or contempt. The schoolboy who has mastered Caesar despises his junior still struggling with the rudiments. But in the presence of a ripe Latin scholar there is not so much difference between the brothers after all. Just so when a man sees little higher than himself, it is tolerably easy to despise. But when the ideal is lifted into the glory of Christ our superiority has a strange trick of vanishing. It was the Pharisee, whose standard of all things was the Pharisee, who thanked God that he was not as other men. But the poor publican, with his God-touched conscience, and his vision of the splendour and purity of heaven, could only cry, "God be merciful to me the sinner." With such heights to scale, and with such depths to loathe, it was impossible to despise the sorriest brother. And every man who has been wakened to the eternal has been wakened to the sight of heights and depths like that. It is that heightening and deepening that comes through Christ that robs a man of shallow self-content. And to rob a man of shallow self-content is a sure way to guard him from despising.

The Gospel Teaches Human Brotherhood

And then the Gospel insists on human brotherhood. "Our Father which art in heaven" is its prayer. Did the cultured Greek look down on the barbarian? Did the elect and covenanted Jew despise the Gentile? Did the free man look with an infinite disdain upon the slave? Clear as a trumpet, strong as the voice of God, there rang this message on a dying world: there is neither Jew nor Greek, barbarian, Scythian, bond nor free, but all are one in Christ. Yes, and when that word of command was obeyed, and the Gospel of Jesus was carried to the heathen, and when the peace and hope and joy and comfort of it was offered in all its fulness to the slave, slowly, like a dark cloud, the contemptuous spirit of paganism scattered, and the star of brotherhood rose in the sky. It is our kinship in Christ, then, that is blotting out contempt. It is our brotherhood that has lightened that burden of despising. God meant us to be like that tiny lass in Edinburgh who was carrying a strapping infant in her arms, and when a stranger said, "Why, what a burden for you," she answered, "Please, sir, he's not a burden, he's my brother."

Who Can Despise Someone for Whom Christ Died?

But the greatest power of all has still to be named. It is the life and death of our Saviour Jesus Christ. No man can struggle to be true to that ideal, nor feel the love that brought Him to the cross, without the contemptuous spirit we are all so prone to, taking to itself wings and flying away. I ask you to trace the story of that life, and tell me if you find a trace of despising there. The fact is, Christ was despised for not despising: the Jew could never understand His charity. Did He despise the woman of Samaria though all her village held her in contempt? Did He despise the publican, the harlot? Did He ever look with disdain on the little children? Christ saw the worst as you have never seen it—felt all the loathsomeness and guilt of sin—yet for the worst all things were yet possible; there was some chord still capable of music. The sorriest sinner was good enough to live for. The sorriest sinner was good enough to die for. A man may be poor, unsuccessful, vulgar, very dull; but if he can say "Christ Jesus died for me," I do not think I shall despise that man again.

April 2

When the Child-Spirit Dies - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

Of such is the kingdom of heaven— Mat_19:14

Christlikeness Is Childlikeness

It is a beautiful thought, of such are the kingdom of heaven. It is a beautiful conception, daring and fresh as it is beautiful, that the one attribute of all citizens of God must be the possession of the childlike heart. We need not be learned, though it is sweet to be learned; we need not be gifted, though God be thanked for gifts. But we must be childlike; that is the one necessity. Christ takes an unalterable stand on that.

Childlikeness Is Not Childishness

Now of course to be childlike is one thing; and it is quite another to be childish. I sometimes fear we have so confused the two, that a certain contempt has touched the nobler of them—we use our common words so carelessly, and treat that magnificent instrument of speech so lightly. To be childlike is to have the spirit of the child, to have the touch of the divine about us still. It is to live freshly in a glad, fresh world, with a thousand avenues into the everywhere out of this dull spot that we call now. But to be childish is to be immature; to have no grip of things, never to face facts squarely; and he is a poor Christian who lives so. In understanding, says the apostle, I would have you men. It is one distinguishing glory of our Lord that He looked the worst in the face, and called it bad. But the guileless heart, and the soul that can serve and sing, because there is love and home and fatherland about it—all that is childlike—like the children—and of such is the kingdom of heaven.

Childlikeness Is a Sign of Greatness

There can be little doubt, too, that in claiming the child-spirit Jesus was reaching up to the very highest in man. "Wisdom," says Wordsworth in his own quiet way—so helpful in these noisy days—"Wisdom is ofttimes nearer when we stoop, than when we soar," and Jesus, stooping to the little children, was really rising to the crown of life. Show me the greatest men in human history—the men who were morally and nobly great—and I shall show you in every one of them tokens and traces of the childlike heart. It is the middle-men, the worldly middle-men, the men of one talent who bury it in the napkin, it is these who are locked into their prison-house, and have lost the happy daring of the child. Great souls, with the ten talents flaming into genius, live in a world so full of God, that men say they are imprudent, careless; and Jesus sees that they are little children. Who was it that defined a genius as a man who keeps unsullied through the stern teaching of the years the spirit of the child? I think that Christ would have liked that definition. There is genius in childhood; there is childhood in genius too. "He hath put down the mighty from their seats, and exalted them of low degree."

Christ Possessed the Spirit of Childlikeness

And you cannot read the story of Jesus Christ without feeling that to the very close of it the child-spirit was alive in Him. "A little child shall lead them," said the prophet; do you think it was only a poetic fancy? The Bible is too terribly in earnest to have any margin for poetic fancies. When I study the records of the life of Jesus, and stumble on some unfathomable mystery, immediately I find my heart responding, "This is the Son of God." And when I find Him healing the Syrophoenician's daughter, raising the widow's son, or weeping in infinite pity by the grave—"This is the Son of Man." But when I light on these passages about the lilies; about the sparrow falling, and the raven who toiled not; then, in a thousand touches such as these, fresh, penetrating, wonderful, I feel that, after all, the prophet was right—a little child shall lead them. No scoffing hardened Him. No disappointment soured Him. No pain dulled the keen edge of His love. He still believed, in spite of Iscariot. He still had a Father, in spite of Calvary. And that sweet spirit, as of a little child, has been the dew of heaven to the world.

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When the Child-Spirit Dies - Page 2
by George H. Morrison

The Loss of Childlikeness May Creep on Us Slowly

The spirit of the child, then, never died in Jesus. I wonder if it has died in you? It dies away so slowly and so gradually, under the pressure of a worldly city, that we hardly notice how far we have drifted. But the greatest losses are the losses we never observe; the crumblings in secret till this or that is ruined; the stealing away of the dearest in the dark; and there is no loss more tragic for a soul than the loss of that spirit of the child.

You Cease to Be Childlike…When You Cease to Be Receptive

You ask me why? I think there are three reasons; there are three penalties that follow when the child-spirit dies, and the first is, that we cease to be receptive. The joy of childhood is its receptivity. The greatest duty of it is to receive. The child knows nothing of a haunting past yet, and it is not yet anxious about the future. Its time is now, and now is God's time too, do not forget. But you and I have so overlaid this present with yesterday's sin and with tomorrow's project, that we have little heart for today's message. We are not receptive as the little child is, we do not welcome impressions and angels now. And so we grow very commonplace and dull; there is plenty of dust about us, and no dew. Let the dead past bury its dead! Do not be living in a quenched yesterday. And take no anxious thought about tomorrow. Consider the lilies; be a child again. To feel the eternal in this passing moment, to catch the rustle of God's garment now, not to be burdened with a vain regret, not to be peering forward through the curtain; all that, with the open eye and feeling heart, is to be childlike. And of such is the kingdom of heaven.

When You Cease to Live in Your Own World

No doubt it is that very receptivity that makes the little children dwell apart. I have long thought that the aloofness of the Christian, his isolation in the busiest life, was closely akin to the aloofness of the child. You talk of loneliness?—I tell you there are few such lonely creatures as little children. And they are lonely not because of sorrow; and not, thank God, because their lives are empty. They dwell apart, because they live in their own world, bright, wonderful, with its own visions and voices, and you and I never touch even with our finger-tips these ivory gates and golden. What I suggest is that the isolation of the saint is like the isolation of the child. For the Christian also dwells apart, but not in the solitude of emptiness. He has his world, just as the children have; old things have passed away from him in Christ. And in that new creation where the Saviour reigns, and which the worldly heart has never seen, there is a peopled isolation like that of the little children, for of such is the kingdom of heaven.

When the Simplicity of Faith Is Gone

Once more, when the child-spirit dies, then the simplicity of faith is gone. There is an exquisite purity about the faith of children; sometimes they make us blush—they trust us so. Intensely eager, inquisitively curious; why? why? from sunrise, to sunset—but all the time how they are trusting us! Ah, if we had only trusted God like that! It is something to be trusted, if only by a helpless babe, and even God is happier when we trust Him. But better than to be trusted, is to trust; to walk by faith and not by sight; and when the spirit of the child dies out, it is not possible to walk that way again. For when we cease to be childlike we grow worldly, and to be worldly is always to be faithless; and one great danger of this commercial city is to develop faithless, worldly men. I have no doubt you call me an idle dreamer because I plead for the child-spirit in the city. But it is better to be a dreamer than a coward, and woe is me if I preach not the Gospel. "Of such is the kingdom of heaven"—minister! "Of such is the kingdom of heaven" — merchant ! "Of such is the kingdom of heaven"-schoolmaster, doctor, workman, servant! Are you of such? It is not my question. I only pass it on from Jesus Christ!

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When the Child-Spirit Dies - Page 3
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When the Feeling of Wonder Disappears

Lastly, when the child-spirit dies, then the feeling of wonder disappears. For the child is above all else a wonderer, and is set in the center of a wonderful world. There is nothing common or unclean for children; all things are big with wonder for him. The rolling of the wagon in the street, and the gathering banks of cloud down by the sunset; and the opening flower, and the father's morning kindness, and the mother's stories, and the birthday joy—the little magicians so trick them out with glory, that they make the pomp of emperors ridiculous. Childhood, as one of our poets sang, is "The hour of glory in the grass, of splendour in the flower."

What a poor thing is life when the wonder of it all passes away! I remember a magnificent sermon by John Ker, that master in the great art of spiritual preaching, and this is the title of it, "God's Word suited to man's sense of wonder." And Ruskin said, "I had rather live in a cottage and wonder at everything, than live in Warwick Castle and wonder at nothing." You have all felt the trials of existence, I want you to feel the wonder of it now; and the great wonder that the Lord should be your Shepherd, and should have died upon Calvary for you. His name shall be called Wonderful—become a child again, and feel it so. For except ye be born again, ye cannot see the kingdom; and of such is the kingdom of heaven.

April 3

The Labourers in the Vineyard - Page 1
By George H. Morrison

The kingdom of heaven is like unto a man that is an householder, which went out early in the morning to hire labourers into his vineyard— Mat_20:1

The Divine Plan in the Ordering of Scripture Chapters

As we move through chapter nineteen of Matthew's Gospel, we seem to breathe a different atmosphere than that of the twentieth. Yet the two chapters, though seemingly separated, stand in the closest connection with each other. In the former we meet with the rich young ruler and witness his sorrowful departure from the face of Christ; we hear, too, the question of Peter, "we have forsaken all, and followed thee; what shall we have therefore?" (Mat_19:27). It is then that Jesus begins speaking about rewards of service. It is then, as if summing up the visible contrast between the rich young ruler and His poor disciples, that He says, "Many that are first shall be last; and the last shall be first" (Mat_19:30). And then, as though to show forth in a picture some of the mysteries He has been dealing with, He speaks the parable of the Labourers in the Vineyard.

God's Kingdom Is Like a Vineyard

Note first, then, God's kingdom is like a vineyard. It is an excellent exercise for all of us to recall the things that the Kingdom of God is like. It is equally good for us to gather together some of the Bible references to the vine. The vines of Palestine were famous for their growth, and for the immense clusters of grapes which they produced. We all remember that splendid bunch that the spies bore on the staff from the valley of Eshcol (Num_13:23). We cannot wonder, then, to find the vine and the vineyard among the most precious of the Bible metaphors. Israel is a vine brought out of Egypt, and planted in the Land of Promise by the Lord (Psa_80:8-10). To dwell under the vine is the choice emblem of domestic happiness (1Ki_4:25). It is a vine which Jesus selects to typify the union between His disciples and Himself (Joh_15:1-6). And the vineyard becomes the figure of God's kingdom. Long centuries before, Jeremiah had cried, "Many pastors have destroyed my vineyard" (Jer_12:10); and now our Lord, who had very profoundly studied Jeremiah, presses the same emblem into His service. Can we give two or three of the clear likenesses that would make this metaphor a favourite with Jesus?

As the Vineyard Needs Workers, So Does God

Again, observe God's anxiety for workers. Above the door of the tramway office in a certain city there is written just now, "No men wanted: none need apply." All posts are full; there is no call for hands; men may be very poor and very hungry, but there is no help for them there. But the householder whom we read of in our story had no such notice on his vineyard gate. His great concern was not to keep workers out, but somehow or anyhow to get them in. So we find him early in the morning going out to the marketplace to hire his men—how different a scene from the London Docks, for instance, where early in the morning the men are clamouring at the gates, and only a few out of the crowd are hired! And then at nine o'clock he is out again, and then in the height of noon, and then at three. These hours were the great hours of prayer in Jewry: was not this householder's work a kind of prayer? And he has not done yet: he will make one more effort—an hour before sunset he is out again. It is clear that the great passion of the man is to get the idlers set to honest work. May we not say, with reverence and gratitude, that that is the passion of the Father of Jesus Christ? He has service for all, and He wants all to come and serve Him. His finger never wrote, "No men need apply." Whenever any of our young people,, then, get the opportunity of doing something kind, when the hour comes that they can make some little sacrifice, and help in any way the cause of Jesus, let them not say, "Bother!" or do it with a grudge; but just let them think that the Lord of the vineyard has come with this very bit of work for them to do.

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The Labourers in the Vineyard - Page 2
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Labourers Are Rewarded in God's Vineyard

Note once more that God rewards all service. In the old times of feudal law in Scotland, there was many a man who laboured all his days, and never got a penny of reward. In the Southern states, while slavery existed, the men and the women who did all the work dreamed often of the lash, but never of a wage. And in many a campaign, written of in our histories, the soldiers never saw their hire. But this householder was so careful of his word, that he began with the last comers in making account; and none of his men got less than they expected, while the great majority of them got far more. All of which, I take it, is meant to teach us this—that all our service for Christ shall be rewarded. No worker shall ever get less than was agreed on; and the great multitude, to their own sweet surprise, shall be given more than they could ask or think. Now if it should seem to any of my readers that this is a mercenary view of spiritual things, I would bid them remember that even the choicest parable can only rudely embody the things of God. The reward of plucking grapes may be a penny—there is a kind of gulf between the two. But, spiritually, the wage of service is new power to serve; and the reward of love is ever-deepening capacity of loving; and the hire for all honest effort to know Jesus, is to know Him at last as the chiefest among ten thousand.

God's Measures of Rewards Differ from Ours

Lastly, observe God's measures are not ours. Do not think that this parable is meant to teach us that the self-same reward is to be given to all. If that were so, what about the talents? It so happens that all the workers get the penny; but it is not on this that the stress of the story lies. Had the latest comers chanced to begin at dawn, we feel that the householder would have given them sixpence. He was delighted with them because of their earnest spirit. They came at once; they did not stop to haggle. He saw that their whole heart was in their work, and he really paid them according to their heart. Do we not learn, then, that God does not measure service by length of time or anything external? God measures service by the motive of it, by the spirit that prompts it, by the secret heart. An hour with the heart in it for Jesus Christ is better and worthier than a heartless day. We really have not been serving well, if the first thing we do at sunset is to murmur (Mat_20:11). "My son, give me thine heart?' "Yes, Lord, we give it, and all these questions of the pence we leave with Thee!"

April 4

The Eleventh-Hour Man - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

And about the eleventh hour he went out, and found others standing idle— Mat_20:6

Staying outside the Kingdom to the Last

By the eleventh-hour man I mean the man who at five o'clock is still outside the Kingdom, and one would notice first that in the parable there is no hint of this man being bad. There was another eleventh-hour man, who had taken to evil courses on the highway. He had left home, and broken his mother's heart, and we see him at last hanging on a cross. But this first man was a much more usual type, haunting the marketplace in search of work, not forgetful of his wife and children. If you want the prodigal, go to the far country. If you want the brigand, take the road to Jericho. Our Lord, in that most masterly way of His, has always a fitting background for His characters. And this man, against the back ground of the market-place, stands for the ordinary, well-intentioned person—yet at the eleventh hour he is still outside the Kingdom.

Not without Excuse

One notes, too, that he was not without excuse. It is so like our Lord to touch on that. When the man was asked why he was standing there, he could truly say that nobody had hired him. That this excuse was not entirely valid is, I think, embodied in the parable. For at the third hour and at the sixth and ninth hours the householder had been out looking for workers. Now had this man been tremendously in earnest he would have thrown himself in the employer's way; but there is not a hint that he did that. Probably at nine o'clock he was in bed; men out of work are prone to oversleep. At twelve o'clock he would be having dinner, and at three enjoying his siesta. But the beautiful thing is that, though this be true, the Master sees, and is at pains to show us, that this man was not without excuse. There are men outside at the eleventh hour who are utterly without excuse. Deaf to every call, they have resisted the inviting Spirit. But there are others who are different from that, and one of the charming things about our Lord is that He finds room for that suggestion in His story. Such may have sat under a sapless ministry, or had the Gospel presented in repellent ways. They may have been plunged, when little more than boys, into dubious or soul-destroying businesses. Someone they loved, who made a great profession, may have proved (long years ago) a whited sepulchre—and at the eleventh hour they are still outside the Kingdom.

The Lord Still Calls at the Eleventh Hour

Now the wonderfully hopeful thing is this, that this man was called at the eleventh hour, for the eleventh hour (as Bible students know) is an hour when nothing ever happens. With the exception of this single parable I am not aware that the eleventh hour is mentioned from the Book of Genesis to Revelation. The third hour is a great hour of Scripture, for then (according to St. Mark) our Lord was crucified. And the sixth and ninth are both great hours of Scripture, and all three are Jewish hours of prayer. But the eleventh hour is an hour unchronicled—it is an hour when nothing ever happens— and it was just then that this man was called. Nobody had ever heard of such a thing. Nobody ever expected such a thing. The oldest frequenter of the market-place had never known anyone to call at five o'clock. And yet that is what happened in the story and our blessed Lord would never have told the story if it could not happen now—and to you.

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The Eleventh-Hour Man - Page 2
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God Is an Extraordinary Employer

For this employer is an extraordinary person. It is that which Jesus is eager to impress on us. Had the employer been thinking of nothing but his grapes, he would never have acted in this amazing fashion. What! to hire men when the work day is closing, and to pay them with an insane extravagance? Whoever heard of a businessman like that! Such conduct in an employer is unthinkable. And then our Lord would smile, and flash a glance at them, and say, "Children, that is exactly what I am driving at, for remember that My householder is God." "My ways are not your ways, neither are My thoughts your thoughts." This is an extraordinary householder because God is an extraordinary God, giving His only begotten Son to die for us, waiting and watching and yearning for the prodigal, putting a ring on his hand and shoes upon his feet, when in the evening he comes home.

He Got More Than He Ever Dreamed Of

And then this eleventh-hour man got far more than he had ever dreamed of. It was almost incredible, but it was true. The men who came at break of day were bargainers. They began by driving a bargain with the master. They said, "Let us settle the wages question first," and he settled it, and gave them what they bargained for. But the eleventh-hour man did not drive a bargain; filled with gratitude, he left things to the Master, and he got more than he had ever dreamed of. That is the kind of faith which God delights in, not the conditional faith that drives a bargain, not the faith that says, "If Thou wilt do so-and-so for me, I will do so-and-so for Thee"; but the faith, born of a wondering gratitude that leaves all issues in the Master's hands, perfectly certain that His name is Love. Think of the amazement of the eleventh-hour man when the whole penny was lying in his hand. "What! all this for me? All this for me?" Yes: "eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man, the things which God hath prepared for them that love Him" (1Co_2:9).

April 5

The Ambitious Disciples - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

And he said unto her, What wilt thou? She saith unto him, Grant that these my two sons may sit, the one on thy right hand, and the other on the left, in thy kingdom— Mat_20:21

A Promise Misunderstood

The disciples had been pondering deeply, we may be sure, on the great promise Jesus had lately made to them—"When the Son of man shall sit in the throne of his glory, ye also shall sit upon twelve thrones, judging the twelve tribes of Israel" (Mat_19:28). So strongly had these words impressed James and John, that from the hour they heard them they could think of little else. And gradually, as they dwelt upon that future, new ambitions began to mount within them; they began to dream of holding the most coveted seats, on the right hand and the left hand of the King. But they remembered how Jesus had rebuked them when once before they had striven for precedence. They dreaded such another rebuke, should they venture to broach the same subject again. So they made their mother the petitioner, they entreated Jesus through their mother's love, and it is the story of that entreaty that forms this lesson. Do you know what their mother's name was? It was Salome (cp. Mat_27:56 with Mar_15:40). Do you know what Salome means? It means perfect. I believe that Salome is perfect now, though she was very far from being perfect then. And do you know where we meet with her again? Once at the cross, where she stands far off and watches (Mar_15:40); and then in the early morning at the sepulchre, where she has gone to anoint the body of Jesus (Mar_16:1).

It Happened Shortly before the Crucifixion

Let us note, too, that all this happened little more than a week before the crucifixion. The shadow of the cross lay on the path of Jesus, His soul was filled with the thought of the approaching agony, and He had begun to talk very plainly of it to His own—and all the time His own were dreaming their own dreams, and happy in the golden thought of thrones. They thought that the kingdom was to be realised at once; were they not travelling to Jerusalem for that very end? But Jesus saw the darkness of Calvary before Him, and on either side (not seated upon thrones) a thief. Do you mark the gulf between the thoughts of Jesus and the thoughts of those who were nearest and dearest to Him? On the one side ambition and dominion; on the other, renunciation and the grave. Surely, in the next year or two, some mighty power must have been at work to bring round the disciples to the mind of Jesus. Just think how the cross found them, as their hearts are revealed in this incident, then think what in the after-days they became, and it is impossible not to feel the action, and detect the presence of a risen Lord.

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We Must Drink the Cup If We Would Wear the Crown

This passage again teaches very clearly that we must drink the cup If we would wear the crown. When Jesus spoke about His cup, He was using a familiar Bible figure. Sometimes it is a Scripture image for joy: "My cup runneth over" (Psa_23:5); "I will take the cup of salvation" (Psa_116:13). Sometimes, as here, it is the emblem of sorrow: "If this cup may not pass away from me, except I drink it, thy will be done" (Mat_26:42). Now, when Jesus says to His two disciples, Can ye drink My cup? Can ye suffer My baptism? He is not merely questioning their power to suffer—He is hinting that that is the one way to the throne. "Ah, James and John," says Jesus, with infinite gentleness, "your eyes have been dazzled with that promised throne; but I tell you that the only road to that, lies through suffering and the death of self. I am not a tyrant who can dispense these honours even to the favourite who has lain upon My bosom; they shall be granted by God in perfect justice to those who have trodden most worthily the way of the cross." There must be the cup before the crown, says Jesus. There must be the baptism before the throne. And the strange thing is, that that truth was never more nobly illustrated than in the after experience of James and John. One of the two was the first of the apostles to drink the cup, and to be baptized with the baptism of blood (Act_12:1). The other had the longest experience among them all of bitter trial and persecution. And so Salome, after all, has had a royal answer to her prayer. But truly she did not know what she was asking.

Jesus Can Bring Light out of Darkness

Another suggestion arises from our theme—how wonderfully Jesus could bring light from darkness. When the ten heard what the two had asked, we read that they were moved with indignation. I take it that the one spirit was in them all, and that the ten were as selfish in their irritation, as the two had shown themselves in their ambition. They were all heated, envious, and hasty. It was like an hour of the Prince of darkness. This, too, after all that had come and gone between them—the wonder is, it did not break Christ's heart. But Jesus, with perfect patience, begins to teach them. The simple lessons must be gone over again. So step by step He leads them onward and inward, till they are face to face with the mystery of His death (Mat_20:28). Now, is not that a notable example of the power of Jesus to bring light out of darkness? Do you not feel as you read the story that moments of difficulty were His opportunity? How easy to have denounced James and John! How easy to have lost heart with all the twelve! I am almost certain we should have done that. But Jesus so redeemed that hour of bitterness, that we can thank God the ten were ever angry. And He has left us an example, that we should follow in His steps.

April 10

Mistaken Magnitudes - Page 1
By George H. Morrison

Ye blind guides, which strain at a gnat, and swallow a camel— Mat_23:24

The Evil of Not Seeing Things in Their True Proportion

It was one great complaint of our Lord against the Pharisees, that they had lost the relative magnitude of things. They were very much in earnest about the Jewish law; but for all that, they had sadly misinterpreted the law. They laid great stress upon the infinitely little, until the weightier matters of it passed out of sight. They magnified trifles—paid so much attention to their rushlights till they forgot that the stars were in the sky. It is that spirit which Jesus is rebuking in the familiar proverb of our text. Ye blind guides, cannot you see that some things are great and some are little? If there are larger and lesser lights in the great heavens, will there not be kindred differences in God's other firmaments? It is the evil of not seeing things in true proportion that is present to the mind of Jesus Christ.

Worthy Living Is Seeing Things in Their Relative Importance

Now it is on that subject that I wish to speak, for one of the great arts of worthy living is to see things in their relative importance. I have known so many who failed in what was worthiest, not because they were weaker than their neighbours—for the strongest of us is pitifully weak—they failed not because they were weaker than the others, but because they never seemed able to grasp the difference between things that were really great and really little. Mr. Froude, in his Spanish Story of the Armada, makes a significant remark about the Spanish king. Showing the incompetence of Philip II, he says, "the smallest thing and the largest seemed to occupy him equally." That was one mark of Philip the Second's incompetence. That gave the worst of all possible starts to the Armada. And for the equipping of nobler vessels than these galleons, and the fighting of sterner battles than they fought, that spirit spells incompetency still. It is a great thing to know a trifle when you meet it. It is a great thing to know that gossamer is gossamer. It is equally great, when the decisive moment comes, to seize it and use it with every power of manhood. It is such swift distinguishing between the great and little, such vision of the relative magnitude of things, that is one secret of a quiet and conquering life.

In Our Hurriedness We Fail to Distinguish True Magnitudes

Now I think that this gift of seeing things in their true magnitude is very difficult to exercise today. We live in such a hurried fashion now, that we have little leisure to take these moral measurements. When I am travelling sixty miles an hour in the express, I have very hazy thoughts about the country. Villages, towns, meadows, woods, go flashing by, but the speed is too fierce for accurate observing. So with our lives today; they hurry forward so. The morning paper has hardly been unfolded, when the children are selling the evening paper in the streets. The wide world's news comes crowding in on us; we are spectators of an endless panorama. And all this change, and movement, and variety, while it makes men more eager, more intense and responsive, is not conducive to a well-balanced judgment. We are a great deal sharper now than men were once. I do not think we are a great deal deeper. It is the still waters that run deep, and stillness is hardly a characteristic of the city. I have often been humbled, when I lived among them, at the wise judgment of one Highland shepherd. The man was not clever; he read little but his Bible; his brilliant son was home with his prizes from college, and I dare say, in the eyes of his brilliant son, the father was fifty years behind the times. But you get the shepherd on to moral questions, on to the relative magnitude of things, and in spite of all the Greek and Latin of the prize-winner—and the father is infinitely proud of these bright eyes—in spite of the Greek and Latin of the son, you recognise the father as the greater man. Something has come to him amid the silent hills; the spirit of the lonely moor has touched him; he has wrestled with a few great truths, a few great sorrows, alone, amid the rolling miles of heather. And it is that discipline of thoughtful quietude, controlling and purifying the moral judgment, that puts the keenest intellect to shame.

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Mistaken Magnitudes - Page 2
By George H. Morrison

Grievances Distort Our Vision

This failure to see things in their true proportions is often seen in relation to our grievances. When a man has a grievance—and many men have them—he is almost certain to have distorted vision. You can block out the sun by the smallest coin if you hold the coin near enough to the eye. And we have a way of dwelling on our grievances, till we lose sight of the blue heaven above us. How ready we are to brood on petty insults! How we take them home with us and nurse and fondle them! How we are stung by trifling neglects! A little discourtesy, and our soul begins to fester! And though hearts are just as warm to us today as they were yesterday when we responded to them, and though the great tides of the deep love of God rise to their flood, still, on every shore, it is strange how a man will be blind to all the glory, when a little bitterness is rankling within. We are all adepts at counting up our grievances. Open a new column and count your mercies now. It is supremely important to see things in their magnitudes, and perhaps you have never learned that lesson yet. The man who suspects is always judging wrongly. A jealous woman sees everything out of focus. If there be any virtue, if there be any praise, think on these things, says the apostle.

Fatigue Causes You to See Things out of Proportion

Of course I am aware that the failure to see things in their true proportions has sometimes got physical and not moral roots. There come days when the grasshopper proves itself a burden, and the simple reason is that we are weary. Let a man be vigorous, and strong, and well, and he can take the measurement of his worries very easily. But when he is exhausted with the winter toil of a great city we know what alarming proportions trifles take. It is well that a man should remember in such moments that this is the body of our humiliation. Christ understood that matter thoroughly—"Come ye apart," He said, "and rest awhile." The disciples were overstrung and overwrought, and the tact and tenderness of Jesus dealt with that. What the men wanted was a little rest. Never accept the verdict of your weariness. Never judge anything when you are tired. We are so apt to be jaundiced and think bitter things, when all that we want is a little rest and sunshine. All that will come; the birds will sing again; the dew of May morning will sparkle on the grass. We shall see things in their true proportions then. Meantime trust thou in God, and be the person God intends you to be.

Sleep Helps You See Things in Their Proper Proportions

In this connection, too, I find a gleam of glory in the beneficent effects of sleep. Of all the secondary ministries of God for helping us to see things as they are, there is none quite so wonderful as sleep. We go to rest troubled, perplexed, despondent. We cannot see how we shall get through at all. But when we waken, how different things are! Sleep has knit up the ravelled sleeve of care. Now, Jesus loved to speak of death as sleep. He seems to have kept that word death in reserve, as the name for something darker and more terrible. Tennyson talks of "the death that cannot die," and I think that is what Jesus meant by death. Our "death," for Christ, was sleep, and sleep is the passage to a glad awaking. Shall not that sleep do for us what tonight's will do, and help us to see things truly in the morning? Then we shall know even as we are known. There will be no mistaken magnitudes in heaven. There will be no errors in proportion there. We shall no longer be blind to the relative importance of things that confused us when we fell asleep. The love at home that we despised down here, and the selfishness that made those whom we loved unhappy, and the work we tried to do with so much failure, and the exquisite joys, and the bitterness of tears—all these we shall see at last in their true magnitudes when we awaken in the eternal morning.

What Makes a Man See Things As They Are?

Meantime we are on this side of the grave. There are heavy mists lying along the valley. I want to ask, then, what are the Gospel powers that help a man to see things as they are?

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Mistaken Magnitudes - Page 3
By George H. Morrison

Love

First, then, remember that the Gospel which we preach puts love at the very center of our life. It makes all the difference what you put first and foremost, and the Gospel of Jesus Christ puts love there. That was the tragedy of these poor Pharisees. It is always a tragedy when love dies out. When anything other than love is at the center, the gnats and the camels are certain to get mixed. For love alone sees purely, clearly, deeply. Love always seeks the best interpretation. Love never makes the most of petty faults. The windows of love are of the finest glass. And it is that spirit of loving interpretation that helps a Christian to see things as they are. If without love I never can know God, then without love I never can know anything. For every blackthorn that breaks into snow-white blossom, and every bird that is winging its way from Africa, and every human heart, however vile, has something of the Creator in its being. Take away God, and things are chaos to me. And without love, I never can know God. You understand, then, the wisdom of Jesus Christ in putting love at the center of our life. It focuses everything. It links the little and the great with the Creator, and brings things to their relative importance.

Look at Things in the Context of Eternity

And then the Gospel takes our threescore years and ten and lays them against the background of eternity. And a life is like a painting in this respect, a great deal depends upon the background. You have been charged with making your colouring too strong. Men say it is a beautiful and powerful picture, but the hill, and the sunset, and the breaking waves, were never so intense and vivid as that. The likelihood is that they are far more vivid; but the hills and the sunsets are not flamed, in nature. Your canvas has got to end abruptly; but nothing in nature ever ends like that. Things stretch away into infinite distances there. There is not a tree and there is not a wave but is part of the one grand colour-scheme of God. And it is because you have to isolate a little part, and take it out of its setting in the expanse, that men will tell you sometimes it is exaggerated. Do you not think the same charges will be made when we isolate our threescore years and ten? The colours will always be too bright, too dark, unless we remember the eternal setting. And it is because Christ has brought immortality to light that the Christian sees things in their true proportions. I bid you remember that eternal prospect. The efforts and strivings of our threescore and ten years are not adjusted to the scale of seventy, they are adjusted to the scale of immortality. This life is not the opera, it is the overture. It is not the whole book, it is the first chapter of the book. A man must be wakeful to his eternal destiny if he would know the magnitude of things.

Take Your Measurements from Jesus

And then the Gospel brings us into fellowship with Christ, and that is our last great lesson in proportion. The heart that takes its measurements from Jesus is likely to be pretty near the truth. A great deal depends on the kind of company you keep, as to what things are to be important to you, and what not. It is one of the hardest tasks of every earnest man quietly to scorn the measurements of the world, and in that task we are mightily helped by Christ. His comradeship reinforces the true standards. There is a scale of worth in the teaching of Christ Jesus to which the spirit instantly responds. Cherish that comradeship. Live in that glorious presence. Take your measure of the worth of things from the Redeemer. And when the journey is over, and the hill is climbed, and you look back out of the cloudless dawn, I think you will find that in the fellowship of Christ you have been saved from many a mistaken magnitude.

April 13

The Ten Virgins - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

Then shall the kingdom of heaven be likened unto ten virgins, which took their lamps, and went forth to meet the bridegroom. And five of them were wise, and five were foolish— Mat_25:1-2

The Tradition of a Jewish Wedding

The ceremonies at a marriage in the East were very different from those we are accustomed to, and the more clearly we can picture one of these Eastern weddings, the better we shall understand this parable. There was no religious service, as with us; no priest or minister was present. The essential thing was that the bridegroom should lead his bride from her father's house to his own. Hence the old phrase, "to take a wife," was literally true in Eastern countries, and we know that to this day, among the Arabs, the bride is taken as if she were an enemy—captured after some show of violence, and removed as a prisoner to her husband's home. Among the Jews, the bridegroom, with his friends (Joh_3:23), went to the home of his bride in the late evening. It was dark, and lights were needed for the procession—such lights among the Greeks and Romans (as the boys who are reading Latin poetry know) were generally torches; but among the Jews were more commonly lamps. The bride was waiting for the bridegroom there, in a white dress, decked out in all her jewels; and John would recall many a village scene when he wrote that the wife of the Lamb was arrayed in fine linen, clean and white (Rev_19:8), and that the New Jerusalem came down from heaven prepared as a bride adorned for her husband (Rev_21:2). Then the bridegroom led his bride into the street, with her maiden friends bearing her company, amid music and a score of flashing lights. And as the procession made its way back to the bridegroom's home, through the crowds who had poured out to see the bridal party, a little group of maidens at this corner, and a few more who had been waiting in the court, joined the happy company, and went with it to share in the marriage feast.

Five Were Not Prepared for a Delay

This, then, was the scene that Jesus transfigured in this exquisite parable, and the ten virgins, who take the chief place in it, may either (as many have thought) have been attending the bride in her own home that evening, or they may have formed one of those little bands that waited for the return of the procession. Will the reader please observe that number ten ? It is a favourite number in the Bible. When Abraham's servant went on his great journey, he took ten of the camels of his master (Gen_24:10). When the kinsman of Ruth desired to deal with Boaz, he took ten men of the elders of the city (Rth_4:2). The dragon in Revelation had ten horns (Rev_12:3).There were ten lepers who were cleansed by Jesus (Luk_17:12). The commandments were ten, and the talents and pounds were ten, and here our Lord says there were ten virgins. Now we are not told that these ten were good and bad; but we are told that five were wise and five were foolish, and we recall another parable where we read of a wise and of a foolish builder (Mat_7:24-27). The strange thing is that the foolish as well as the wise, here, each had her lamp, and it was burning merrily. The sad thing is that the foolish were not prepared for a quite possible, and indeed quite common, delay. The night deepened, and still there was no bridegroom. The wisest of them nodded off into sleep. Then at midnight there rang the cry, "Behold the bridegroom!" and in a twinkling every eye was open. No lamp was out, but all were going out (read verse 8 in the Revised Version). The wick even of the wise was sputtering. But then the wise had little flasks of oil with them; it was the work of a moment to trim their lamps. But the foolish had no oil, and there was none to borrow, and when they hurried out to buy it at the merchant's—can you not hear the jesting of the crows? And while they went to buy, the bridegroom came; and they that were ready went in with him to the marriage, and the door was shut.

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The Ten Virgins - Page 2
by George H. Morrison

Want of Forethought Is True Foolishness

Now I trust that no one will spoil this matchless story by arguing what the lamp or what the oil must be. I do not think that Jesus built up His parables laboriously. It is better to keep to the broad lessons of a parable, and there are three here which anyone may grasp. The first is, want of forethought is true foolishness. Can you tell me why the one builder was a foolish man (Mat_7:26)? It was just because he never foresaw the storm. He built in May when the birds were singing, and the sand was firm enough for summer weather; but he forgot November and its gales, when nothing could stand but a house upon a rock. So here the foolish virgins had their lamps, and their lamps were burning merrily enough. But they forgot to reckon with a tardy bridegroom, and it was just that want of forethought that spoiled all. Now none of us is to be anxious for tomorrow. But we have a strange and difficult life to live, and we have a death to die and a God to meet, and it is high time to make provision for all that. Have you done it? You know perfectly what the provision is. "Evil is wrought by want of thought, as well as want of heart."

Times When We Cannot Help Each Other

And the second lesson of the story is this: in the great hours we cannot help each other. I have no doubt the ten were all good friends; they had done many a kindly turn one to another. But now, that friendship was of no avail; there was no oil to borrow or to spare. It was not because the wise disdained the foolish, or were eager to see them ousted from the marriage, that they were deaf to this request for oil. They refused it for a far better reason—they needed every drop of oil they had. That means, that in every hour of judgment, there is no shining with a borrowed light. The help of others is priceless in many things, but in the hours of spiritual crisis it is vain. Another's faith can never aid us then, even though that other be a friend or father. It is our own faith and holiness and love that will determine matters when the Bridegroom comes.

The Highest Wisdom Is to Be Watchful

Then, lastly, and this is the great lesson of the parable, it is the highest wisdom to be watchful. The bridegroom came when no one looked for him, and Jesus will come in an hour we think not of. The one day has been hidden, said Augustine, that every day might be regarded. How little did Pompeii think, in the bright morning, of the desolation the evening was to bring! With what awful suddenness in 1666, did the great fire devastate London! And like a Bridegroom in the night, Jesus will come. God grant He find us vigilant!

Watch! 'tis your Lord's command,

And while we speak, He's near;

Mark the first signal of His hand,

And ready all appear.

April 14

The Talents - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

For the kingdom of heaven is as a man travelling into afar country, who called his own servants, and delivered unto them his goods. And unto one he gave five talents, to another two, and to another one; to every man according to his several ability; and straightway took his journey— Mat_25:14-15

Slaves Were Trusted Servants

To understand this parable we must remember that the servants spoken of were really slaves. It might seem a strange act on the part of this proprietor to intrust his goods to servants, in our modern sense; but in the old world the slaves had far more power, and were intrusted with far greater responsibilities, than commonly fall to the lot of servants in our homes. In the Latin plays of Plautus and of Terence the slave is a constantly recurring character; and even in the Bible, we find the slave occupying very confidential posts. Abraham's slave is the steward of his household (Gen_15:2). We read in Proverbs of slaves acting as teachers (Pro_17:2). And Ziba, the slave of Saul, who himself had fifteen sons and twenty servants, was put in charge of the goods of Mephibosheth, very much as the servants are, in this parable (2Sa_9:2-10). We must try then to realise these old-world ways, if we wish this parable to be a living story.

Connect This Parable with the Preceding One of the Ten Virgins

It makes an interesting study for us, too, to compare this passage with that which precedes it. The story of the Ten Virgins and the tale of the Talents were either spoken by Jesus at the same time, or else were designedly placed side by side by Matthew, who felt that each threw light upon the other. For the former is a parable of watching, and the latter is a parable of working—and every Christian watcher is meant to work, and every Christian worker is bound to watch. And the former centers in the heart, while the latter moves in the sphere of outward service, as if to indicate that, in the Christian life, the heart must always come before the hand. Why did the five foolish virgins fail? Because they were over-sanguine and easy. Why did the man of the one talent fail? Because he was over-careful and afraid. Thus Jesus, in His infinite compassion, moves round the whole circle of the heart in warning. I need nothing more than a study of the parables to assure me that He knew what was in man.

Our Gifts Are Proportioned to Our Power of Using Them

Note, first, how our gifts are proportioned to our power of using them. In the parable of the Pounds in Luke, you remember that each man got one pound. That is to say, there are certain things (what were they?) that the wisest and the weakest share alike. But here, one man gets five talents, the second gets two, the third gets only one; but they get according to their several ability (Mat_25:15). Now I think that Jesus meant us to learn that all we have is wisely and justly given. He wanted to teach us that all our several differences, which sort us out into such strange variety, are not the work of any accident, but of the discriminating hand of God. Are any two girls in the Sunday school the same? Is not one brighter, stronger, quicker, than the other? It was that which flashed before the mind of Jesus, when He made this householder give different sums. We are not to be jealous of another's gifts. We are not to think how happy we would be, if only we were like so-and-so. We are to remember that all we have is God's, and God has given us all that we could use. The question is, How are you using it? Are you trying to be faithful in the least? Then, because "thou hast been faithful over a few things, I will make thee ruler over many things: enter thou into the joy of thy lord."

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The Talents - Page 2
by George H. Morrison

Non-Use Is Misuse

In the parable of the unjust steward (Luk_16:1-31), the steward is accused of wasting his master's goods. In the parable of the prodigal son (Luk_15:1-32), the son recklessly squanders the portion he had got. But here, there is no wasting and no squandering; the slave returns every penny he received; yet his lord calls him a wicked and slothful servant (Mat_25:26). Learn, then, that it is not enough to have a gift; the gifts of God are given to be used. God is grieved, not only when a talented man does wrong: He is grieved when a talented man does nothing. The sure way to have a gift withdrawn, is to be lazy or too timid to employ it—not to use it, at last spells not to have it. Henry Drummond used to tell us about the fish in the great caves of Kentucky, and how their eyes were perfectly formed, and yet the fish were blind. They had never used their eyes in the dark caves; the gift of sight that God had given them had been unexercised for generations, until at last due to non-use, the power of seeing passed away.

Heaven doth with us as we with torches do;

Not light them for themselves; for if our virtues

Did not go forth of us, 'twere all alike

As if we had them not.

We Don't Know God Unless We Try to Serve Him

I do not know what the slave who got five talents thought of his master in his secret heart. But I know that when he did his best with the trust his master had committed to him, he found his master far more generous and far kindlier than he had ever dreamed. But the slave of the one talent said: "I know my lord" (Mat_25:24); "I know his temper and his character exactly." And it was he (who was sure he knew his lord so well) who missed all that was most generous in him! That means, that if we never try to do God's will, we shall never know Him in His love and tenderness. The worst of burying our talent is, that it always keeps us from knowing God aright. Do we wish to find what a loving God He is? Do we wish to feel what joy He can bestow? Then we must be in earnest with every gift we have; we must trade with it, and take the risks. Slothfulness always misinterprets God—"I knew thee that thou art an hard man." I wonder if the other two would have subscribed to that, when they were summoned into their Master's joy?

How Jesus Adds Grace to a Word

If we had asked the boys and girls of Nazareth what the meaning of that word
"talent" was, they would have told you it meant a great sum of money—about two hundred and forty pounds in British currency. But now we speak of a very "talented" boy, or we say of a man that he has splendid "talents," and it was Jesus who, in this little parable, lifted the word into these nobler meanings. When He found the word, it signified gold and silver; but when He left it, all gifts and graces were in it. That upward sweep is very Christlike. It is just what Jesus has always loved to do with words, and lives, and all the world. What He did for the word "talent" by one parable, He is waiting to do for you this very day.

April 15

The Fact of Faithfulness - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

Well done, thou good and faithful servant: thou hast been faithful over a few things, I will make thee ruler over many things: enter thou into the joy of the lord— Mat_25:21

Faithfulness, a Test of Character

One might dwell for a long time upon this parable without exhausting its message or its meaning. It is like a sea in which men fish for pearls, and in which every diver has some new reward. These parables are terribly practical, yet in their suggestion they are boundless. Again and again do we return to them, only to be amazed with their significance.

I want to center your thoughts upon one theme—upon the fact of faithfulness, and to speak to you for a little while on that; and my prayer is that as I dwell upon that subject and show you one or two of the bearings of it, we may all be moved to cry, "Please God, I shall be more faithful in the days ahead."

What is our Lord's doctrine of fidelity as we find it in this parable before us? Let me endeavour to present it to you. In the first place what impresses me is this, that our Lord makes faithfulness a test of character.

These men in the parable are sifted out, and the cause that separates them is faithfulness. It is not a case of having great abilities or of being dowered with the gift of genius. It is not along such lines there is a cleavage, with the one servant here and the other there. The touchstone of character is faithfulness; by that they stand, through lack of that they fall; the men go to their blessing or their curse, and the basis of it is fidelity.

To show you that this is a leading thought with Jesus, I might ask you to recall His praise of John the Baptist. For what was the distinguishing feature of John's character? It was his fidelity to God and duty. "What went you out into the wilderness to see: A reed shaken by the wind"—a man swayed to this side and that with every breath that blew upon his soul? True poet that he was, Christ saw the contrast between that reed bowing to every gale and the figure of the Baptist by the river standing four-square to every wind that blew. That is the glory and the strength of John. Nothing could ever move him from his duty. In desert and dungeon the Baptist was magnificently true. I want you to note that it was such a character, conspicuous above all else in faithfulness, that won from our Lord that so majestic praise when He called John the greatest born of women.

According to the measurements of Jesus, then, we are face to face here with a test of character. It is in faithfulness that men are great; it is in unfaithfulness that they are weak. When the morning breaks and we get our welcome, it will never be, "Well done, thou brilliant servant." The highest praise even for all the talents will be, "Well done, good and faithful servant."

But, after all, when we think of the world's great men, when we get to know them intimately in their lives, there is perhaps nothing so arresting as the fidelity which we discover there. When we are young we are ready to imagine that the great man must be free from common burdens; we think he has no need to plod as we do and face the weary drudgery daily; we picture him lighthearted and inspired, moving with ease where our poor feet are bleeding. Ah! in such terms we dream about the great in the days when we know little of them, but as knowledge widens we see how false that is.

We see that at the back of everything is will. We come to see how every gift is squandered if it be not clinched with quiet fidelity, until at last we dimly recognise that the very keystone of the arch of genius is something different from all the gifts, and that something is called fidelity.

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The Fact of Faithfulness - Page 2
by George H. Morrison

Examples of Faithfulness

One of the critics of Shakespeare, Professor Bradley, insists upon the faithfulness of Shakespeare. It is the fidelity of Shakespeare, in a mind of extraordinary power, he says, that has really made Shakespeare what he is. I turn to Sir Walter Scott, and the same thing meets me there. It is written on every page of his journal. If there ever was a man who was faithful unto death, faithful to honour, to duty, to work, and I shall say, to God, it was that hero who so loved his country, and died beside the murmur of the Tweed.

My point is that one mark of all the greatest is a fidelity which is sublime. No gifts, no brilliance, no genius can release a man from being faithful. Not in the things we do but how we do them, not in fame but in fidelity, is the true test of a man's work, according to the teaching of our Lord.

Faithfulness—a Result of Courage

In the second place our Lord recognises that faithfulness calls for courage. It is significant that the man who hid his talent said to his lord, "I was afraid." In trading there was a certain risk, as in all commerce, I suppose there is a certain risk, and the man with the one talent was unfaithful because he had not the courage for that venture. It was far easier to wrap his talent up than to give it out to the traffic of the market. I dare say he slept a deal more comfortably than the others, who tossed with their anxieties; but God has not sent us into this stirring world just to sleep comfortably and wake at ease. He has sent us to work, and to carry to the market every power that He has dowered us with. It is only in doing that that we are faithful; it is only in taking the risk which that involves. And when our Lord makes the servant say, "I was afraid," and bury his talent without using it, He indicates in His own exquisite way that in faithfulness there is the element of courage.

As our life advances we come to see clearly that our Lord is right. To be faithful in one's duty, whether for layman or for minister, may come to be the finest of heroisms. In youth we are hardly awakened to that fact. When we are young it seems easy to be faithful, for youth is a time of generous enthusiasm and a heavenly disregard for the world's judgment. But the outlook alters when we get a little older; we grow more cautious, more prudent, more worldly wise, until to be quietly and gladly faithful is only possible when the heart is brave.

When Thomas Carlyle, with no prospect of a settled income, received the offer of the editorship of a London magazine, it was an honourable offer; it required competence. A man less sure of a mission would have jumped at it; but Carlyle, faithful to his trust, refused it, and only a brave man would have done that.

It is a brave thing when morning after morning a man goes cheerfully to his unpleasant duty, and it is a brave thing when a daughter year after year nurses an aged mother, or toils for a motherless family. It is a brave thing when a wife is faithful to a husband when he has ceased to be a man and plays the brute. Yes, there is nothing spectacular in that long fortitude: the world will never hear it and applaud; but I think that Jesus understands its courage and will not forget the reward when He returns.

The Rewards of Faithfulness

In the third place, observe that our Lord makes faithfulness the road to power. "Because thou hast been faithful over a few things, I will make thee a ruler over many things." Now, we must remember God's rewards are never arbitrary like the prizes boys get for running races. God's rewards grow out of the struggle that we wage, as the fruit of the autumn grows from the flower of spring. All the rewards that we shall ever gain are with us in their rudiments, just as the doom that waits some in eternity is germinating in their heart this very hour.

You see, then, in the light of that, why Christ associates faithfulness and rule, "Because thou hast been faithful over a few things, I will make thee ruler over many things." It is because one is the outflow of the other, as is the brook among the heather in the spring. It is because, as the flower blossoms from the bud, influence blossoms from fidelity.

There are many pathways to power in this world, some of which may lie far away from us. There is wealth, there is social influence, there is charming manner; all these make a man powerful enough, but the power that an earnest heart will covet most is not an authority that is external; it is the influence that radiates from the heart to hearten those who struggle by our side. That is the rule, I take it, of which Jesus speaks here. That is the power which is so much worth possessing, and having it makes a man's life worth living. Now our Lord here shows that the road to it is not to be feverishly anxious to do good, but rather to be faithful in the least.

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The Fact of Faithfulness - Page 3
by George H. Morrison

Do you think Abraham had an eye for power when he obeyed God's call to leave his home? Do you think that Moses dreamed of majesty when he loyally accepted his great task? Moses and Abraham were sublimely faithful, passionately bent on being loyal, and all the power in the lives of men has sprung from their fidelity to God.

Now if you believe in Christ at all, I want you to believe in that. I want you to believe that your life is bound to show if you are day by day faithful in the least. Seekest thou great things for yourself? Seek them not; study to be quiet and to do your work within your own path, and follow it to the end. Men will be helped toward the feet of God by you, and there is not one of us who does not have an audience.

The Joy of Faithfulness and the Sorrow of Unfaithfulness

Then I want you to observe, Christ associates faithfulness with joy. To the faithful servant came this benediction: "Enter thou into the joy of thy Lord." It is not success and joy, it is not fame and joy; it is not these that are joined in our Lord's teaching, but faithfulness and joy. These are the bride and bridegroom and the mystical marriage of our Lord.

Then look at the doom of the unfaithful servant; it is outer darkness and wailing and gnashing of teeth. I trust none will take these words of parable as a correct description of a material hell. A man who is unfaithful is always moving nightwards. He has been false to the light God gave him for his journey; and the man who has been unfaithful, when the day is done, what can he look for but remorse and tears?

Here are two men engaged in the same work, both of them intelligent and skillful craftsmen. One is careless and scamps his work, while the other does it with his heart and soul. Is the work easier for the man who does it negligently? Is he happier when the bell rings in the evening? I tell you that every nightfall, had he but eyes to see it, he might detect the shadow of the outer darkness. It is only the faithful workman who has joy, no matter how hard and laborious his work be; he understands, when he lays down his tools, why Christ associates faithfulness with gladness.

Or here are two young men starting in life with bright ideals and dreams of a great future. And one holds fast his ideals through failure and toil; the other is overcome and barters them. He may be very prosperous indeed and an honourable citizen, but all his prosperity will never compensate him for having ceased to walk in the direction of his dreams. He has gained much, but he has lost himself, and the bitter note is that he knows it. He sees things in their proper values now, and would give half the world to begin again. He understands the meaning of those words, perhaps the most solemn that were ever spoken, "What shall it profit a man, if he gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?" Lord, keep our young men from that successful tragedy. We wish to live no less than well, therefore to be faithful, whatever our trust be, no matter how hard and wearisome the toil along that road is, if the words of Christ mean anything, the song of triumph will echo by and by.

April 16

The Lowly Duty of Fidelity - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

Thou hast been faithful over a few things— Mat_25:21

Fidelity Can Be Anybody's Virtue

It was very like our Lord to make fidelity the test of life. He was quick to recognise the lowly virtues. Just as He took obscure and lowly men when He wanted to build up a kingdom, so did He take obscure and lowly virtues when He wanted to build up a character, and this not merely because they were obscure, but because they were within the range of all, and His was to be a universal Gospel. There is nothing dazzling in fidelity. It is not at all a rare and splendid gift. It has no power to arrest the eyes, nor get itself chronicled in any newspaper. And it is singularly like the Lord, with His passion for undistinguished people, that He should crown a virtue such as that. Some of my readers never can be brilliant. They serve in the great army of the commonplace. But there is one thing within the compass of them all, and that is the steady practice of fidelity. And the inspiring thought is that our Lord should take a thing within the reach of everybody, and make it the criterion of character.

Fidelity Demands Courage

It is like Him, too, to recognise that fidelity demands a certain courage. In the parable from which our text is taken that is very charmingly exhibited. There is one man there who was not faithful. He got his talent and he buried it. And it is a master-touch of a profound psychology that in the end of the day, when the reckoning was taken, that man is made to say I was afraid. His infidelity was fear, and the Lord delights to hint at truth by negatives. There is a courage of the battle-field, which is often a very splendid thing. There is courage needed for every high adventure, whether it be in Africa or Everest. But perhaps the finest courage in the world (in the eyes of God, if not of men) is the quiet and steady courage of fidelity. To do things when you don't feel like them, to keep on keeping on, to get to duty through headache and through heartache, to ply the drudgery when birds are calling—there are few things finer in the world. That is not a thing of the rare moment—it is carrying victory into the common day. It does not flash in the country of our dreams—it illuminates the dreary levels. And life is never a victorious business unless our common days are full of victories of which no one ever hears anything at all.

Christ Demonstrated the Courage of Fidelity

I should like to halt a moment to say in passing that this was the courage of our Lord Himself. Sometimes we forget how brave He was. We sing of "Gentle Jesus, meek and mild," and we dwell on His exceeding tenderness, nor in a world like this, so full of difficulty, can we ever dwell on His tenderness too much. But if we ignore His courage, we lose one of the appeals of Christ to youth, and to do that is infinitely pitiful. Did it take no courage to come down from heaven and become the tenant of a cottage? Did it take no courage to remain at Nazareth when His heart was burning in His breast? Did it take no courage to resist the devil, offering Him the kingdoms of the world, when the winning of these kingdoms was His passion? To scorn delights and live laborious days, to take the long, long trail that led to Calvary, to set His face steadfastly towards Jerusalem, where the Cross was waiting and the crown of thorns—never was finer courage in the world. When we feel that we are missing things (and to feel that means an aching heart), when we are tempted to rebel at drudgery and to long for the wings of a dove to fly away, we must remember Him who never flew away (though white-winged angels were His servitors), but took up His cross, daily, to the end.

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The Lowly Duty of Fidelity - Page 2
by George H. Morrison

Fidelity Is Rewarded by Capacity

Another profound suggestion of our Lord is that fidelity is rewarded by capacity. "Thou has been faithful over few things, I will make thee ruler over many things." Sometimes an employer of labour says to me, "The young fellow you sent me is no use. He has proved a slacker in his task, and I never can offer him a bigger one." But sometimes he says to me, "I've been watching that lad; he's doing splendidly; the first bigger thing that offers he will get." The real reward is not the bigger task. It is the capacity to do the bigger task. Real rewards are never arbitrary; they are vitally related to the toil. The reward of service is greater power to serve. The reward of fidelity is new capacity—added fitness comes through being faithful. To be faithful in the least is to be qualifying for what is greater. To do with the whole heart the lowliest thing is to be getting ready for the higher thing. So live, and whatever the world may have in store, He whose word can never pass away will make you ruler over many things. Life will deepen and be enriched for you, though your home be but a humble lodging. Your will shall be strengthened by those daily victories which, after all, are the victories that count. True wealth is augmented personality, with corresponding increase of capacity, and the avenue of God to that is faithfulness.

Fidelity Is Associated with Joy

We shall not forget how our Lord associates fidelity with joy. "Enter thou into the joy of thy Lord." Tell me, is not that profoundly true? Here are two men engaged in the same task, both intelligent and skillful workmen. But the one is careless, and he scamps his work; the other is laboriously faithful. At the end of the day, when work is over, and there stretches ahead the leisure of the evening, which of these two workmen is the happier? "Flowers laugh before thee in their beds," says Wordsworth of the man who is found faithful. Unfaithfulness moves towards the dark. Fidelity pitches its tent towards the sunrise. Be thou faithful, and when the task is over, and the morning breaks upon the farther shore, thou shalt enter into the joy of thy Lord.

April 17

Judgment - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

When the Son of man shall come in his glory, and all the holy angels with him, then shall he sit upon the throne of his glory— Mat_25:31

Preaching on the Judgment

One always notices in time of revival that a great deal is preached about the Last Judgment. In our ordinary pulpit ministration it is not so. I think most ministers hesitate to face up to these awful truths, but always, both in past centuries and today, when there is a revival of God's Spirit, as a moral motive power you find prominence on the Last Judgment. Over against the inequalities, the injustices, the apparent unrighteousnesses of this world, mankind almost naturally has postulated a judgment to come. I suppose there is not a savage faith without some glimmering of it; and in the religion of old Egypt there was no picture more familiar than that of the Judgment Hall, and somebody standing holding a pair of scales, and in one side of them the human souls.

The Judgment Is Going to Be at the End of Time

One wants, then, to find what our Lord had to say about this deep instinct of the human heart. We find it here. Laying aside the imagery—one can never be quite sure when or not the curtain is the picture—but trying to lay aside the imagery and trying to get at the truth which our Lord wanted to teach, I think we discover this. First of all, our Lord makes it perfectly plain to us that this judgment is going to be at the end of time; when the Son of Man cometh in His glory and His holy angels with Him, then—and whatever be our thoughts of eschatology, and whatever be our views of the millennium, I think it must be clear to all of us that what our Lord meant was that the great judgment is not to be until the story of time is at an end. Now a little reasoning will just show you how necessary that is. For instance, nobody can be perfectly judged in this life, just because life is not static; life is a thing of movement. Our blessed Lord never judged a man by what he might be at the particular moment, but rather by the trend of what he was going to be. You take the parable of the Pharisee and Publican praying in the Temple. At that particular moment the Pharisee really thought he was better than the Publican, he had done far more good, but in the broken heart of the poor penitent the Lord saw such possibilities for tomorrow that He pronounced blessing. John Newton was a slave trader, and if at any hour in his earlier life you had judged him you would have condemned him to the lowest pit. But Newton was converted, became a well-known minister, and won multitudes of souls for Christ. You see, you can never judge him while his life is moving. Again, is it not equally clear to you that you can never judge a man just when he dies, because when a man dies his influence does not die; it may go on from age to age. You take, for instance, a case like Mr. Quarrier. Mr. Quarrier with all the passion of his heart loved these little orphan children, and then he got the Homes built at Bridge-of-Weir, and there he laboured till he died; but the Homes did not die. Year after year, generation after generation, perhaps to the end of time, they are going to go on blessing the orphan children. If you want to sum up the total influence of Mr. Quarrier you cannot judge him till the end of time. You take a man whose influence is bad: a man who writes a bad book, it may be an obscene novel, spawn of the press, it may be a book deliberately designed to overthrow faith. The man writes it and gets his bread by it, and he dies; but the book does not die. Year after year it may go on corrupting, degrading, and lowering, and not till the ripples have broken on the shore of eternity is the whole story of the man's influence known, and our Lord, who is always so reasonable, says that when the Son of Man comes, when times is done, when your influence has gone to its uttermost limit, then we are going to be judged.

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Judgment - Page 2
by George H. Morrison

The Judgment Is Going to Be Final

The next thing our Lord tells us here is that the judgment is going to be final. I want you to listen while I read over quietly these words—not of mine, but of Christ: "And these shall go away into everlasting punishment, and the righteous unto life eternal." If there be anybody here who knows Greek, he will know that the word for "everlasting" is the same word as the word for "eternal," and therefore if you and I believe that the life we are going to live beyond is one that never ends, you can only interpret the words of Christ as meaning that the punishment is never going to end. I want you to think of that. It is perfectly true that men have tried to get out of it by giving another meaning to that word "eternal." They have taken it to mean "age-long": that is, lasting through the next period to this, though beyond that no one knows what happens. There is no hope that way. All through the Bible—St. Paul, St. John, the writer of the Hebrews, the Revelation—the word means "never ending." So it means in classic Greek, so it means in Plato. It is not I, it is the Lord who says, and says it with a passionate intensity, "Where the worm never dieth, where the fire is never quenched." It is not I, it is the Lord who says, "These shall go into everlasting punishment, and those into everlasting life," and how the Lord, with His big heart of love, tender to everybody, even to the beasts, how the Lord could combine that with such an awful prospect, is something we have never fathomed to this hour. If you want to say, "I do not believe in everlasting punishment," remember you are at perfect liberty to say it. If it is your judgment, then it is yours, but please observe you can never quote the authority of the Lord Christ for that. It is awful to think that His authority is on the other side. You have got to face up to that. I suppose the two difficulties men have felt when they have allowed themselves to brood upon this matter are these. First, we say, we have all said, How could anyone be happy in heaven, how could the saints of heaven sing their song if they knew that there were souls—even one soul—suffering in hopeless misery? To that there is no answer. But is not it possible that a little light may be drawn from what we see in this present world? Are not there people in Glasgow who are perfectly happy, thoroughly enjoying themselves, and all the time within a stone's throw there are men and women in hopeless misery? You see it can be done, and if you answer, as I have no doubt the keener among you would answer at once, that these are worldly people, these are not the inhabitants of heaven, my experience is, it is generally worldly people who talk like that. The saints rather bow the head and say, "Shall not the Judge of all the earth do right?"

Can God Be Love and Punish?

I fancy our other profound difficulty is this. How can God be love? How can God care and be a Father and wish us well and have the power to give us the best, and yet forever have creatures in hopeless misery? Again there is no answer, but again does not this present world suggest that it may be possible? Is not God love today? Is not God infinitely kind today? And yet today are there none who have committed the unpardonable sin which can never be forgiven, neither in this life nor the life to come? May there be forgiven, neither in this life nor the life to come? May there not be a fixity of heart, a deadness like that of the nether millstone, owing to our free will working as well as the love of God? There is not one of us in pew or pulpit, who does not long with all the passion of his heart for universal restoration; there is not one who does not crave that ultimately all should be blessed; but the Lord has been our light, the Lord has been the Revealer of the Father, and it is the Lord who says, "Where their worm dieth not and the fire is never quenched." It is the Lord who says, "These shall go away into everlasting punishment." I want to speak in the right tone, I don't want to speak harshly. I am like a man groping in the dark, but with one hand I grip Christ, and I say, Brother, would not it be awful to awaken and find that you were wrong and the Lord was right? "Seek ye the Lord while He may be found, call ye upon Him while He is near: let the wicked forsake his way, and the unrighteous man his thoughts: and let him return to the Lord, and He will have mercy upon him."

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Judgment - Page 3
by George H. Morrison

Christ Himself Will Be the Judge

The next thing which our blessed Saviour tells us is that He Himself is going to be our judge: "When the Son of man shall come in his glory." Our judge is not God, the Father; our judge is Christ, the Son, and you know that is as stupendous as it is beautiful. Think how stupendous it is. Here is Christ, born in a manger, living for thirty years in a little cottage, going about among humble people, doing little deeds of kindness, and then He says, "I am going to judge mankind." It is either arrogance raised to the point of madness, or it is the truth, and I do not think that any fair review would ever charge the Lord with arrogance. And if it is the truth, your Carpenter of Nazareth is God, and you have got to bow before Him and say, "My Lord and my God." All well enough to say, I love the Carpenter of Nazareth; I like to watch Him talking with the children, watching the sparrows, moving through the harvest; but mark you, your only source of knowledge of that Carpenter tells you that He said, "I am going to judge the world." Then how beautiful it is that you and I are going to be judged by a Man, by One who bore our burdens, by One who knew our frame, by One who understands us perfectly. The other day there came into the vestry a man who again had given way to drink. When I asked him what was the cause of it, he answered something like this: "I was down and out, my business tottering, my home unhappy, and I gave way to drink." If I had judged him, what would he have said? He would have said, "You do not understand; you never had a business that was tottering; you were never unhappy at home." But if I could have said to him, "Brother, I have been down and out, I have come through all that you have, and yet God brought me through," my very presence would have judged him. It is so with the Lord. He was tempted in all points like as we are, yet without sin. He was down and out when every disciple forsook Him and fled; and He is going to be our Judge. I could imagine some daring soul on the Day of Judgment, if the judge was God the Father, saying, "Thou who dwellest yonder, far away in the light that never fades, you do not understand." Nobody ever can say that to Christ; I think just His presence will be the judgment.

Our Judgment Will Depend on the Discharge or Neglect of the Common Charities of Life

One thing more I have got to say, and it is this, that our Lord—apart from the figure altogether—teaches us the principle of the Last Judgment, and the principle is this: it is the discharge or the neglect of the common charities of life. May I say it again? It is the discharge or the neglect of the common humanities of life—visiting the prisoner, cheering the sick, giving bread to the hungry, clothing the naked; and that is but a short and swift summation of what we call the charities of life. Are you not surprised? You thought character was going to be the test in the Last Judgment; you thought the Spirit of Christ was going to be the test—"If any man have not the Spirit of Christ he is none of His." But what is the spirit of Christ? It is believing and experiencing what He said about the new birth and proving it by doing what He did. It is the Spirit who brought Him to the manger, it is the Spirit who kept Him quiet in Nazareth for thirty years, it is the Spirit who made Him move among men, teaching them, healing them, helping them, doing them good; and if that is your life, you have got the Spirit of Christ. You do not know it ? Of course you don't; none of the saved knew it, they were all amazingly surprised when the Lord told how He reckoned them (see Mat_25:35-40). And you may have the Spirit of Christ if you go out and be kindly, charitable, helpful; and yet you may never know it till the judgment comes. You say, I am going to be judged by my relationship to Christ. Yes, you are. When the Lord was here, with whom, tell me, did He identify Himself? Was it with Herod? "Go tell that fox." Was it with the Pharisees? "Woe unto you, Pharisees." The Lord identified Himself with the poor, with the needy, with the last, with the least, with the lost; and He is the same yesterday and today and forever. And if the Lord is identified with all who are in need, then every time you help a man in need you are brought into relationship with Christ.

We Must Revise Our Lives

It has been very difficult—not difficult to speak the truth, but to speak the truth in the right spirit. I trust I have done it tenderly, and I simply want to ask you to remember that all of us have got to appear before the judgment seat of Christ, and therefore should not we all revise our lives, lest at the end, when far off there is music, for us it should be wailing and gnashing of teeth?

April 18

The Anointing at Bethany - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

And it came to pass, when Jesus had finished all these sayings, he said unto his disciples, Ye know that after two days is the feast of the Passover, and the Son of man is betrayed to be crucified…Now when Jesus was in Bethany, in the house of Simon the leper, there came unto him a woman having an alabaster box of ointment, and poured it on his head, as he sat at meat— Mat_26:1, Mat_26:2, Mat_26:6, Mat_26:7

Jesus Was Calm on His Way to the Cross

We are now approaching the last days of the earthly life of Jesus in our study of Matthew's Gospel, and our lesson opens with the clear declaration from our Saviour's lips that in two days He would be crucified. There is a singular interest in Matthew's little preface to these words: he tells us that it was "when Jesus had finished all these sayings" that He spoke plainly about His crucifixion. That means, I take it, that the mind of Christ was calm; that there was order and quiet progress in His teaching; that He moved forward through His many lessons with a deliberate and sure advance, till His hearers were able to bear the news of Calvary. How apt we are, when a great secret holds us, to blurt it out in an ill-considered way! How thoughtless and how unkind we often are, in the eager telling of unpleasant things! The narrative of Matthew deepens our impression of the noble self-restraint of Jesus. Matthew had felt in Christ that sweet reserve without which love is sure to prove a wastrel. Observe, too, that when Jesus foretells His death, He does not say He is going to be betrayed. He says, "The Son of Man is betrayed to be crucified" (Mat_26:24). That intimates that in the heart of Judas, Christ read the deed as if already done. In the thoughts of the traitor everything was planned, and Jesus is a discerner of men's thought. The secret imaginings of our today are the open sins and failures of our tomorrow. There is a deep philosophy of conduct in the advice of Paul, to bring every thought into captivity to Christ. I fancy that God sees, hidden in every acorn, the beauty and the gnarled strength of the oak tree; so Jesus, in the dark and brooding heart of Judas, saw the arrest in the garden, and the cross. And one point more: The high priest is called Caiaphas (Mat_26:3). But it seems that Caiaphas was only his distinguishing name. His personal name was Joseph, but there were so many Josephs that men called him Joseph Caiaphas, perhaps Joseph the Oppressor. Can we recall a similar Bible instance where the name of Joseph has been almost forgotten? "Joses, who by the apostles was surnamed Barnabas, which is, being interpreted, the Son of Consolation" (Act_4:36).

In the House of Simon the Leper

Then follows the beautiful scene at Bethany, and we cannot too closely note the setting of it. It is immediately preceded by this black conspiracy (Mat_26:1-5); it is immediately followed by the traitor's bargain (Mat_26:14-16). On the one side, fear and jealousy and hatred; on the other side, treachery and bargain driving. And in the center (a rose between the thorns) a love that forgot everything and lavished all. Who Simon the leper was, we do not know. I like to think he was that leper we read of, who had cried, "Lord, if Thou wilt, Thou canst make me clean" (Mat_8:2). Whoever he was, no doubt our Lord had cleansed him: and yet men called him Simon the leper still. You see how old names, like old reputations, stick. Men keep them alive with a kind of evil pleasure. There would be many who could never talk of Simon but they would add, "Of course, you have heard he was a leper once?" And yet I think that Simon loved his name. It was a standing memorial of one glorious morning. He never could think how he had been a leper but it led him to think of how he had met the Lord; and now that that same Lord was at his table, he may have been saying, "My cup is running over." It was then that this woman, whom we know to have been Mary, performed this act that was to live forever. She broke the alabaster box of very precious ointment, and poured it on Jesus' head as He reclined at meat. And the disciples were indignant and thought it sheer extravagance; but Jesus crowned the act with immortality. Just note that in the ancient world rare ointments were commonly held in alabaster vases. Herodotus tells somewhere that among the presents sent by King Cambyses to the Ethiopians there was an alabaster vessel of nard like Mary's. Now, if this woman were indeed the sister of Lazarus, may not the ointment have been purchased to anoint his body, and so have been given with a double meaning to the Lord who had raised her brother from the grave ?

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The Anointing at Bethany - Page 2
by George H. Morrison

The Lord Can Read the Glory of Humble Acts

The first thing to impress us in this story is Christ's rich interpretation of the deed. It was a simple action, done by a sinful woman, yet Jesus drew a wealth of meaning from it. To the disciples it was a foolish exhibition. Even the best of them thought lightly of it. Christ had no need of it, so they began to reason; He came not to be ministered unto but to minister. Were there no paupers in the village of Bethany? And might not the ointment have been sold for their benefit? A murmur of disapproval ran round the table, scarcely audible, perhaps, when it reached John, but loud and positive when Judas voiced it (Joh_12:4). And then, had you asked the woman what she meant, I dare say she would have stammered in reply. She might have said she had never stopped to reason; she had only listened to her heart, and there she was. None of the disciples knew what she was doing; I question if she really knew herself. Only Jesus saw the meaning of the deed, and felt its glory in the love that filled it. Never forget, then, that we serve a Lord who can read the humblest actions gloriously. The Son of man in the midst of the seven candlesticks has eyes as it were a flame of fire (Rev_1:14). He sees in the simple deed, inspired by love, meanings and purposes we never dreamed of. He so interprets our poor and tangled service that we shall hardly know it in the morning. All which is fitted to make us very hopeful when, loving the Master, we first try to serve Him; and to restrain us from judging or troubling anybody when they serve in ways we fail to understand.

Mary's Act of Sacrifice Was a Symbol of Christ's Cross

But the heart of this exquisite story lies in this, that this deed was the dying of Jesus, in a figure. It was not merely because love inspired it that Jesus crowned it with unequalled praise. It was because He found in it the very Spirit that was leading Him on so steadily to Calvary. Had Mary stopped to balance or to weigh, we should never have heard of the alabaster box. Had the gift been calculated to a nicety, it had never been part of the undying Gospel. But the love of Mary never asked how little; the love of Mary only asked how much. With a magnificent and glorious disregard, it broke the box and lavished everything. Now there is no need to make the alabaster box a type and figure of the body of Jesus. It was not the vase that was like the body of Christ; it was the act that was kindred to His death. For Jesus, like Mary, never asked how little. He lavished everything in saving men. He gave with a glorious fulness like that of Mary's, when He gave Himself to the cross and to the grave. And wherever the love of Christ is known and felt, and the wonder of its lavish sacrifice awakens, "there shall also this, that this woman hath done, be told for a memorial of her."

April 20

Love's Wastefulness - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

To what purpose is this waste?— Mat_26:8

A Strange Deed Lives Forever

The scene was Bethany, and the time was near the end. A few more days and the earthly life of Jesus would be over. Jesus and His disciples are seated at their evening meal, when a woman, whom from other sources we learn to have been Mary, did this strange deed that is to live forever. It is not always true that "the evil that men do lives after them, the good is oft interred with their bones." The harm that Mary did, if she did any, lies sleeping with the other gossip of the street of Bethany. This deed still lives, like a choice framework for her heart and hand. 'Tis one of those countless actions of the just, that smell sweet and blossom in the dust.

A Simple Act to Express Love

And the deed, however unforeseen, was very simple. It was the breaking of an alabaster box, and the pouring of the ointment on the feet of Christ. How much this Mary owed to Jesus, perhaps we shall never know. We cannot tell what a new peace had stolen upon her heart, and what a new glory had fallen upon her world, when first this guest entered her brother's home. But when her brother died, and Jesus came, and called him from the dead, and gave him back to Bethany and to Mary, why then, by any passionate thankfulness we have felt in getting back our kindred from the gates of death, we can touch the fringes of the gratitude of Mary. And that was the motive and meaning of her act. She loved Him so, she could not help it. Christ's love had broken her alienated heart. Now let it break her alabaster box. The best was not too good for Him, who had given her a new heart and a new home.

This Was a Deed Only Christ Could Understand

But there are deeds so fine only Christ can understand them. There are some actions so inspired, that even the saintliest disciple, leaning on Jesus' bosom, will never interpret them aright. And this was one of these. Peter, and James, and John—they understand it now, but they did not understand it then. They were indignant. It was a shocking extravagance of an impulsive woman. What need to squander so a year's wages of a working man—for the ointment never cost a penny less. If it were not needed now for Lazarus, it might have been sold and given to the poor.

You call them narrow? And you are irritated by their lack of insight? Stay, brethren, there were some noble features in their indignation. And had you and I been lying at that table, I almost hope we should have fallen a-fretting too. These men could not forget, even at the feast, the gaunt and horrid form of destitution that sits forever in the chamber of the village pauper, crying aloud for clothing and for bread. It may be, too, that at their evening worship they had been reading that he who gives to the poor lends to the Lord. And had they not had it from their Master's lips that He came not to be ministered unto, but to minister? Till in the light of that, and in the remembrance of the woes of poverty, their hearts began to burn with a not so dishonourable indignation. And each began to ask his fellow, "To what purpose is this waste?"

Her Wastefulness Was the Expression of Her Love

But these disciples had forgotten one thing. They had forgotten that this woman's wastefulness was the native revelation of her love. There is a wasteful spending that is supremely selfish. There is a lavish giving that is disowned in heaven, because the giver is always thinking of himself. But God suspends the pettier economies, and will not brook a single murmur, when He detects the wastefulness of love. It is the genius of love to give. It is love's way to forget self and lavish everything. And Mary's way was love's way when she brake the box and poured the ointment on the feet of Christ. And being love's way, it was God's way too.

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Love's Wastefulness - Page 2
by George H. Morrison

God Lavishes His Love

And so we reach the truth that I am anxious to press home on your hearts. If God be love, and if a prodigal expenditure like that of Mary be of the very essence of all love, then in the handiwork of God we shall detect a seeming wastefulness. I scan the works of the Almighty, and everywhere I see the marks of wisdom. I look abroad, and the great universe assures me of His power. But God is more than wisdom or than power. God is love. And I can never rest till I have found the traces of that love in all I know and all I see of God. Here, then, is one of love's sure tokens. It is a royal expenditure, a lavish and self-forgetful waste. Can I detect this prodigality in the various handiworks of God?

In Nature

First, then, I turn to nature. I leave the crowded city, and find my way into the field, and there, amid the hedgerows, under the open sky, I see a prodigality like that of Mary. God has His own arithmetic, it is not ours. God has His own economy, but it is not the economy of man. Things are not measured here and weighed in scales, and nicely calculated and numbered out. The spirit that breathes through universal nature is the spirit that brake the alabaster box. That heather at my feet is flinging off its seeds in such countless millions, that this one patch could cloak the mountainside in purple. Yon birch that shakes its leaves above my head could fill with seedlings the whole belt of wood. The sun is shining upon dead Sahara as well as on the living world that needs it. And the gentle rain that falls on the mown grass is falling just as sweetly on the granite rock. What mean these myriads of living things? Was He utilitarian who formed and decked the twice ten thousand creatures who dance and die upon a summer's eve? Have we not here in primal force the spirit that prompted Mary to her deed? There is a royal extravagance in nature. There is a splendid prodigality. There is a seeming squandering of creative power. Let men believe it is the work of carelessness, or of a dead and iron law; but as for us, we shall discover in it some hint that God is love, until the day break and the shadows flee away.

In Beauty

Or holding still by nature, let us set the question of beauty in that light. This world is very beautiful, the children sing; and so it is. And the only organ that can appreciate beauty is the eye of man. No lower creature has the sense of beauty. It serves no purpose in the world's economy. Beauty unseen by man is beauty wasted. Yet there are scenes of beauty in the tropics on which the eye of man has never lit. And there are countless flushings of the dawn, and glories unnumbered of the setting sun, that never fall within the ken of man. Arctic explorers tell us that in the distant north there is an unsurpassable glory in the sunset. For a brief season in declining day the levels of the snow are touched with gold, and every minaret of ice is radiant. And every sunset has been so for centuries, and never an eye has looked on it till now. O seeming waste of precious beauty! Until the heart begins to whisper, "Why, to what purpose is this waste?" Ah! it is there! that is the point. We have observed it now in the Creator's work.

In Providence

But now I turn to providence. If Mary's action was in the line of God's, we should detect even in providence something of the prodigality of love.

When aged Jacob sat in his tent in Canaan, nursing the hope that Joseph still was living, he would have been content to have had his son again though he came home in rags. And when the prodigal of the parable came home, ashamed of himself, and sorry for his sin, he wished no better chamber than his father's kitchen. But God was lavish in His lovingkindness, and gave a prince and not a beggar back to Jacob. And the father of the prodigal was himself so prodigal of love that he must put a ring upon that truant hand and bind the shoes upon these wandering feet.

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Love's Wastefulness - Page 3
by George H. Morrison

Now do not say all that was long ago. And do not think the God of providence has changed. Even now, in every heart and home, He is still working with lavish prodigality. O brother, what opportunities that God of providence has squandered upon you! Come, to what purpose is this waste?—unsaved heart, you tell me that. Justice would long ago have settled things. Nothing but love could ever be so lavish in letting down from heaven these opportunities. And when I think of all the gifts of God that seem to be given only to be wasted; of sight that might have seen so much, and sees so little, and that little can be so vile; of speech that might have done such noble things, and does so little, and that little can be so mean; of hearing and of memory, of thought and of imagination, lavished so royally on worthless men; then dimly I realise the prodigality of providence, and feel my hopeless debt, and the hopeless debt of all this fallen world, to the seeming wastefulness of Him who quickened Mary to her wasteful deed.

In Grace

So, in the realm of nature and in the sphere of providence, we have observed a spirit akin to Mary's. But in the world of grace it is clearer still. Indeed, when Jesus said that Mary's deed was always to be coupled with His death, He must have recognised that the two were kin.

Now think: the death of Jesus is sufficient to pardon all the sins of every man. Why do we make a universal offer, and why do we carry the Gospel to the heathen, if we are not convinced of that? Yes, "God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth on Him should not perish, but have eternal life." There is no soul so sunk, nor any heart so ignorant, but turning may be saved. And all the teeming millions of the continents, coming to Jesus Christ for mercy, could never exhaust the merits of His blood.

But tell me, are these millions coming? And do you really believe that the whole world is being saved right now? Are there not multitudes for whom life's tragedy is just the "might have been"? And souls unnumbered, here and everywhere, galloping down to the mist and mire? And there was room within the heart of Christ for all! And there was cleansing in the Saviour's death for everyone! O waste! waste! waste! And to what purpose is that wasted agony? And why should Jesus suffer and die for all, if all were never to accept His love? Ah, Mary, why didst thou break the alabaster box and pour the precious ointment upon Christ? That prodigality was just the Saviour's spirit that brought Him to the cross and to the grave. Love gives and lavishes and dies, for it is love. Love never asks how little can I do; it always asks how much. There is a magnificent extravagance in love, whether the love of Mary or the love of God.

If, therefore, you believe that God is love, if you take love as the best name of the Invisible, then, looking outwards to the world and backwards to the cross, you can never ask again, "To what purpose is this waste?" If you do that, come, over with the love as well, and go and find a calculating god who is not lavish because he does not love. Find him! and be content! Only beware! Be self-consistent! Never look more for strength when you are down. Never again look for help when you are weary. Never expect a second chance when you have squandered one. Seek not for any sympathy in sorrow, or any fellowship of love in loneliness. And never dream that you will find the Christ. Come, will that do for you, young men and women? And will that do for you, housewife or businessman? You want the loving arm and voice of God. You want the loving ministry of Christ. You, poor rebellious and staggering heart, are lost but for the lavish scattering of a love that never wearies, and will not let you go. And I believe that is mine in Jesus, and I believe that is yours. Claim it and use it. And when you see that love breaking the alabaster box, ask not the meaning of that waste again.

April 22

The Cry for Companionship

What, could ye not watch with me one hour?— Mat_26:40

The Closest Disciples Sleep Most Often

The scene was the Garden of Gethsemane, and all three disciples were asleep. It is not the first time in the Gospel story that we have found these three disciples sleeping. When the Lord was transfigured on the mountain these same disciples were asleep, and neither there nor here was it a light and evanescent drowsiness. We are told that in the former narrative, and here, the moment Jesus ceased to speak they relapsed into their heavy slumber. One would have thought that the word of Jesus to them would have stabbed them wide awake. It evidently did nothing of the kind. The last syllable was scarcely uttered, when they were sunk again in profound sleep.

As a Man, Jesus Craved Companionship

One recognises in these words of Jesus His passionate yearning for companionship. In His hour of travail and of agony He craved the companionship of men. One might have conjectured that in such an hour the Master would have longed to be alone. Had He left His disciples in Jerusalem one could have understood that perfectly. And the very fact that He took these three disciples, and set them where they were not far away, shows how He craved for human sympathy and needed the companionship of men. Our blessed Saviour was no stoic. He leaned hard on loving hearts. He yearned for the fellowship of men as intensely as they yearned for His. And if today He is "the very same Jesus," unchanged by death and resurrection, then He still craves, with an unaltered longing, for loving human companionship.

He Craved for Their Companionship although He Knew It Would Be Inadequate

It should be noted that He craved this fellowship when it was utterly inadequate. How little could these disciples fathom all that was transacting in the darkness! There He was bearing sin upon His spirit, as on Calvary He bore it in His body. There He was giving Himself utterly to God's will in the redemption of mankind. Even had the disciples been awake, how little could they have understood—yet He craved an imperfect sympathy like that. What an exquisitely human touch that is! An old and faithful family retainer may know nothing of what her master has to bear. To her his troubles may be as great a mystery as the troubles of Jesus to His three disciples. Yet the loving sympathy of that old servant, even though she does not understand, is strangely helpful to her master's heart. Perhaps at the best all we can give to Christ is a sympathy like that of the old servant. There are depths in His being, His death, His endless life, that no human heart can ever fathom. And yet He wants our loving close companionship, just as, in the Garden of Gethsemane, He wanted that of these three sleeping men.

He Asked Them to Watch But One Hour

Another thought that meets us is how often it is in lesser things we fail. In order to fully appreciate that I ask you to put the accent on one hour. Had He asked them to watch through the livelong night with Him, that might have been a high and arduous service. But to ask their vigilance for sixty minutes surely was a very small demand, yet it was there that the disciples failed. In the last great service Peter did not fail Him, for Peter was crucified for Christ. James, too, laid down his life for Him, and John went to exile in the Isle of Patmos. Where they all failed was in the lesser thing, in the duty that was comparatively small—what, could ye not watch with Me one hour?

And perhaps it is there most often that we fail in our loving companionship with Christ. Perhaps it is there that love most often fails. In our fellowship with the Lord Jesus we may be ready and eager for the greatest sacrifice, and yet we cannot watch with Him one hour. In those infinitesimal self-denials which are possible with every passing day, in patience and appreciative sympathy within the shelter and secrecy of home, in the rendering of those little kindnesses which are more to many hearts than gold or silver, how often we fail as those disciples did. Great services reveal our possibilities; little services reveal our consecration. Jesus places the emphasis of heaven on him who is faithful in the least. Had these disciples watched for that one hour they would have rendered a service far beyond their dreams. That is true of everyone of us.

April 23

On Making Allowances - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

The spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak— Mat_26:41

To Forgive When Hurt Is Hard

There are times when it is very hard to make allowances for other people. To forgive them seems a counsel of perfection. Even if we do forgive we are haunted by a lingering resentment. Gusts of bitterness invade the soul when we remember how deeply we were wronged. To trust again when we have been deceived, with the simple and sweet trust of long ago, seems a victory beyond our powers. Love may abide through bitterest disappointment, for love is strong as death. But the love which has been hideously wronged is seldom quiet as a resting place. Flashes of suspicion visit it; harsh thoughts come surging to the surface; memories, sharp and anguished, break their blighting way into the soul. To make allowance when someone dear has failed us, to forget judgment in a great compassion, to go on trusting hopefully, after the shock of discovered infidelity, that, which falls to the lot of many people, though they very seldom speak about it, is one of the hardest tasks in human life.

Jesus Substitutes Mercy for Resentment

Now it was such a task that met our Saviour in the Garden of Gethsemane. The hearts on whose fidelity He counted in one blinding flash were found to be unfaithful. Who could have wondered if our blessed Lord had turned from these three men in stern revulsion? Who could have wondered if His instant thought had been that He never could trust them any more? In swift and righteous condemnation might He not have judged them unworthy of His love, and so barred them from His heart forever? That is the first swift impulse, let me say, of every woman who has been deeply wronged. She says (little knowing what she says) I may forgive, but I never can forget. And the beautiful thing is that our Master, pierced to the quick by dear ones' infidelity, rose to a loftier attitude than that. Judgment was submerged in pity. Compassion took the place of condemnation. The love that had been so terribly wronged wove the garment of mercy round the sinners. And so doing it saved their souls alive and led them onward to that brighter morrow, when infidelities were all to be redeemed.

It Would Have Been Human to Be Done with Them, But It Was Heavenly to Continue.

Trusting Them

To understand that magnificence of attitude ponder a moment on the sleep of these disciples. It was not a venial fault of drowsiness; it was a heinous sin of infidelity. It is always a very grave offence if a sentry be found sleeping at his post. Often the penalty for that is death. And these men were not only there in comradeship; they were sentries at the post of duty; they were there to watch as well as to keep awake. I shall not say that had they watched they might have saved the Lord, for it was not the will of God that He be saved. But would not Jesus crave to be forewarned that He might have a last quiet moment with His Father. And He never got it—the armed rabble broke on Him, suddenly, with shouting and with torches, because these sentries were sleeping at their posts. A disloyal soldier is like a disloyal friend—it is supremely difficult to make allowance for him. The heart that has been wronged by infidelity haunts the margins of despairing bitterness. Yet Jesus, towards His disloyal soldiers, who were also His weak disciples, maintained a pitying love that was redemptive. It would have been easy to have done with them. It was very hard to trust them still. To condemn them would have been entirely natural. To keep them still within His heart was heavenly. So our Saviour points the better way for all who find their Garden of Gethsemane in the disloyalties of someone who is dear.

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On Making Allowances - Page 2
by George H. Morrison

Their Lack of Vigilance Was a Sign of lngratitude

And then, mingling with disloyalty, think of the ingratitude involved. "What, could ye not watch with Me?" For a moment put the accent upon Me. Have not I been the best of friends to you? Have not I toiled for you and prayed for you? Have not I watched many an hour for you? Have not I lavished the riches of My love on you? All that they owed to Him in love and sacrifice, and in the uplift of unrecorded intimacies, was forgotten in that disloyalty of sleep. That is what makes infidelity so bitter. At the heart of it lies rank ingratitude. All the patient ministries of years are forgotten because the flesh is weak. And no one could have blamed our blessed Lord if, in the sudden flaming of disgust, He had torn these disciples from His breast.

He Remembered It Was Past Midnight

But He did not do that, however terrible the provocation. The others might forget, but He remembered. He remembered it was long past midnight; He remembered the awful strain of the past days; He remembered the sorrow that consumed them, and their burden of unintelligible mystery. And the condemning wrath that might have ruined them was swallowed up in an infinite compassion—the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak. Never was there kindlier allowance. It was the consummate handling of heaven. It issued not in tragedy, but in the richer loyalties of resurrection days. So may like grace be given to all in perplexity through infidelites, that they may find a budding morrow in midnight.

April 24

Jesus before Caiaphas - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

And they that had laid hold on Jesus led him away to Caiaphas the high priest, where the scribes and the elders were assembled. But Peter followed him afar off unto the high priest's palace, and went in, and sat with the servants, to see the end— Mat_26:57-58

Jesus Had to Be Tried Twice

Our Saviour had to undergo two trials, the one before the high priest, and the other before the Roman governor, and it is with the former of these two that our passage deals. Had Palestine been an independent state, the tribunal of Caiaphas would have given the verdict. There would have been no appeal for any prisoner from the decision of the college of the Sanhedrin. But Palestine had lost its independence. It was part of the great Roman province of Syria. Hence the last word, in cases of high moment, lay not with the Jew, but with the Roman. Now the Romans did not strain their own authority. They left a large measure of power with the provincials. Especially where matters of religion were concerned, they gave the conquered nations a free hand. But when the question was one of life and death, they took the final judgment to themselves, and that explains the double trial of Jesus. He is first brought before the Jewish council, and by it He is held guilty of death. He is then brought before the Roman governor, and in another message we shall find what happened there.

Why Was He Brought to Annas First?

Caiaphas, then, was high priest at the time, and Jesus should have been led straight to him. But it was past midnight now, and some of the members of the court would be in bed—could not something be done with Jesus till all was ready? John tells us that Jesus was taken before Annas. This Annas had himself been the high priest, and just as we sometimes call a man provost, or bailie, though it is a year or two since he held office, so Annas, a man of most commanding influence, was still called, in Jerusalem, the high priest. He parleyed with Jesus, in an informal way, while the senators came hurrying into the council hall. And then, while all the city was asleep, and the children were dreaming of play and love and heaven, the Friend of the children was put upon His trial. It was an illegal council to begin with. The Sanhedrin was forbidden to meet by night. But if they waited until the city was astir, and the whisper ran along the streets that Christ was prisoner, might there not be a popular rising in His favour? They loved the darkness because their deeds were evil. Like Judas, they had a kinship with the night. It were well that the Roman soldiers should have Jesus, when the day lightened and the city awoke.

Jesus Patiently Stood His Hurried Trial

Then the trial began with the summoning of witnesses, and for a time it looked as if the prosecution must break down. Things had been rushed with such a nervous hurry that even the witnesses had not been drilled. There was no lack of witnesses, it seems (Mat_26:60). I wish we could always count on witnesses for Christ, as surely as they reckoned on witnesses against Him then. But though these witnesses had much to say, and repeated many a biting word of Jesus on His judges, the judges knew their own character too well, and knew what the people thought of them too well, to dream that Jesus could be condemned for that. There was a vaunt about the Temple, certainly, but you could not get Rome (that rude destroyer of temples) to sanction a Galilean's death for that. Caiaphas was baffled. The steady composure of Christ was like an insult. Everyone else was feverish, Jesus alone was calm. And it was then, as in half-frantic desperation, that Caiaphas put his question to the Lord. He conjured Him to tell if He were Messiah. Jesus answered immediately that He was, and "hereafter shall ye see the Son of Man sitting on the right hand of power, and coming in the clouds of heaven." Jesus was very courageous in His silence; but He was also very courageous in His speech. That sentence practically sealed His fate, yet the hour had come for speech, and Jesus spoke. They called it blasphemy. He was guilty of death (Lev_24:15). They had triumphed, and self-control went to the winds. Their pent-up passions burst out like a torrent. They spat on Him, and they smote Him—how they loathed Him! And out in the court the Apostle John was sitting, watching it all in unutterable agony. Would not this hour come back to him again, when, long years afterwards, in the isle of Patmos, he wrote of "the Kingdom and patience of Jesus Christ"?

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Jesus before Caiaphas - Page 2
by George H. Morrison

Peter Arrives to Deny Him

Meantime Peter had come upon the scene. Impelled partly by curiosity, it may be, and largely by his devotion to his Lord, he had followed afar off to the high priest's palace. Like other men who follow afar off, he was running into terrible temptation. Unbefriended and unknown, Peter might have been denied admission to the high priest's house. But John was there already, and John was a man of some little social standing, and it was at John's entreaty that Peter got in. There are times when we think we are doing our friend a kindness, and we are only making life the harder for him. Now, when we read about the high priest's palace, what do we understand? It was a large house built round a square courtyard, and with the windows opening inward on the court. It was in this courtyard, then, that Peter was sitting, chafing his cold hands at the fire, when one of the maidservants charged him with discipleship. And Peter was so utterly taken aback, that quick as lightning, he denied the charge. And then it dawned on him what he had done, and he rose up, and went to the dark gateway. He would stand in its deep shadows for a little, if only to feel the ground beneath his feet. But the lamp in the gateway swung and flared, and every now and then it lit up the face of Peter; and another maid recognised him there, and Peter once again denied his Lord. The first sin made the second easier. Meanwhile the news was spreading in the courtyard. There would be sport in baiting the disciple. It would put some warmth into their hearts on that cold morning to worry this bewildered Galilean. Poor Peter! It was too late to keep silence now, and to open his mouth was to be betrayed by his Highland accent. Peter denied again. "And immediately the cock crew." With a breaking and a penitent heart Peter went out. When Judas went out, it was darkening to midnight. But when Peter went out it was very near the dawn.

April 25

Jesus before Pilate - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

When the morning was come, all the chief priests and eiders of the people took counsel against Jesus to put him to death: And when they had bound him, they led him away, and delivered him to Pontius Pilate the governor— Mat_27:1-2

Pilate the Last Roman to Manage Jews

By the Jewish law no sentence of death could be passed by night, and therefore, when the morning dawned (Mat_27:1), a second meeting of the priests and elders was convened. It was then that their formal sentence of death was passed on Jesus, and it was then that they deliberated how they should best present their case to Pilate, so as to ensure that Jesus would not escape. We know very little about Pilate, save from the Gospel story. He was a typical Roman, self-centered and self-seeking, not devoid of the Roman love of justice. But his love of self outweighed his love of justice; and his shameful past had so eaten the heart out of him, that in the great crisis of his life he went to ruin. He was the last man in the world to manage Jews. He had outraged their feelings in the most wanton manner. We do not wonder to read in an old historian that Pilate fell into disgrace in after years, and, wearied with misfortunes, killed himself. Those who have read Scott's story, Anne of Geierstein, will know the legend of Mount Pilatus—the mountain with the bare and jagged peaks, opposite the Rigi, at the west end of the Lake of Lucerne. The legend is that Pilate spent years of torturing remorse on that mountain, and at last drowned himself in the lake; and "a form," says Scott, "is often seen to emerge from the water, and to go through the motions of one washing his hands."

Accusation That Jesus Was Implicated in a Political Plot

Now the usual residence of the Roman procurator was not Jerusalem. Jerusalem was an intolerable city to the man who had revelled in the gay life of Rome. The usual residence was Caesarea, a mimic Rome down by the seashore. But whenever Jerusalem was thronged with strangers, as it was on the occasion of all the great feasts, it was the duty of the Roman governor to be there in person, to see that the peace was kept. So Pilate was in Jerusalem at the Passover, and he was living in the magnificent palace of the Herods, when the hour came that flashed on him a light that was to make him visible to all the ages. In the early morning Jesus was brought to Pilate, not into the palace (for to enter that would have been pollution to a Jew), but into the court, with its colonnade, in front of the palace. And the first question which Pilate asked showed how cunningly the charge against Jesus had been coloured. Pilate did not ask, "Art Thou the Messiah?"—what did he care for Jewish superstitions? But he did ask, "Art Thou the King of the Jews?" (Mat_27:11). The question indicates how craftily the priests had gone to work. They had given a political and civil turn to the spiritual claims of Jesus, in order to play on the Roman governor's heart. They had hinted that here was a rival to Tiberius, and Pilate would do well to silence him. Jesus did not deny the accusation. There was a glorious sense in which He was a King. And when the accusers began to heap charge on charge, and Jesus neither retorted nor retaliated, I think that Pilate began to feel His kingliness. He marvelled greatly (Mat_27:14). He had never met a Jew at all like this. There was something subduing in this silent Man. Pilate resolved to do all he safely could to get this strange, sad prisoner acquitted.

Pilate's Wife Attempted Intervention

A powerful influence now appeared to back his efforts—it was the unlooked-for intervention of Pilate's wife. Do you remember how she had heard of Jesus? Well, perhaps in the idle days of Caesarea the tale of His deeds had enlivened the dinner table. Or perhaps that morning, when Jesus was gone to Herod, Pilate had told his wife about the Man. And then, for it was still early, Pilate's wife had fallen asleep again, and God had visited her in a dream. Did God reveal the glory of Christ to her, so that she became a disciple of the Lord? Every Christian in Russia believes that, and the Eastern Church has made a saint of her. At least, while she slept, God touched her conscience, and she saw the unutterable horror of the deed in hand. She wakened in terror—could something still be done? She despatched a messenger to warn her husband. She bade him have nothing to do with that just Man. And again Pilate resolved to do all in his power to get this haunting prisoner acquitted.

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Jesus before Pilate - Page 2
by George H. Morrison

With the Hosannas of Palm Sunday Fresh in Mind, Pilate Tried an Appeal to the Populace

Now Pilate had formed the shrewd suspicion that jealousy was at the back of the indictment (Mat_27:18). Who knew but that the prisoner might be a popular hero—had not the provincial crowds been crying Hosanna to Him? It flashed on Pilate (always thinking of self) that there was one way of releasing Jesus that might rebuild his own shattered popularity. It was a Roman custom at the Passover to liberate one prisoner chosen by the people. And it came as an inspiration to Pilate that if he summoned the people they might ask for Jesus. He summoned the people and laid two names before them—that of Jesus and the other of Barabbas. And we have a hint that Barabbas—which means "son of the father'—had another name, and it was Jesus too! Now we never can tell how the mob would have chosen had they been left alone to make their choice, for the Pharisees were busy in the crowd; they whispered that Jesus was favoured by that odious Pilate. And they so played on these poor city-hearts, and so touched the chords of their cherished prides and hates, that there grew and gathered a hoarse shout, "Barabbas"; and Jesus—"Let Him be crucified." There was no gainsaying a hoarse mob like that. The more they were checked, the wilder grew the clamour. It was infinitely disgusting for a patrician Roman to have any discussion with such shouting beasts. He called for water, and standing on the balcony where all could see him, he washed his hands. It was an act that every Jew would understand. A silence fell on the flushed and eager crowd. What was that they heard from the balcony—Pilate protesting his innocence? Another terrible cry rang out in an instant, "His blood be upon us and on our children." Then Pilate released Barabbas unto them, and when he had scourged Jesus, delivered Him—to be crucified (Mat_27:26).

April 26

Which Is Your Answer? - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

What shall I do then with Jesus which is called Christ?— Mat_27:22

Jesus Is Unavoidable

One possible answer to this question is: I shall have nothing to do with Him at all. I shall ignore Him and pay no heed to Him. If He confronts me when I go to church, I shall deliberately avoid the church. If He steals on me when I am quite alone, I shall do my best never to be alone. If He meets me in certain companies, so that I am very conscious of His presence, I shall be careful to choose my company elsewhere. I shall bar every window against Him. Against His coming I shall bolt my doors. I shall give injunctions to my lodgekeeper that He is never to have access to my avenue. But the extraordinary thing about the Lord is (and there are thousands who can testify to this) that to get rid of Him is utterly impossible. He is inevitable. He is unavoidable. Just because He is love, He laughs at locksmiths. As on the evening of the resurrection day, when the doors are shut, comes Jesus. Just when a man thinks that he is safe, secure from the intrusions of the Lord, He is there, within the circuit of the life, closer than breathing, nearer than hands or feet.

Indecisions That Are Not Intellectual but Are Moral

Another common answer to this question is: Really I can't make up my mind. Folk are in perplexity today, and therefore halting between two opinions. Now I want to say, gently but quite firmly, that is often a dishonest answer. The difficulty is not in making up the mind. The difficulty is in making up the will. There are indecisions that are not intellectual: they are moral; they are based on character; they strike their roots into some secret sin. The real problem is not making up; the real problem is giving up. We are all tempted to cloak our moral weakness in the garb of intellectual perplexity. But even when the answer is entirely honest, there is one thing that should never be forgotten, and that is the great fact of life that not to decide is to decide against. A man is travelling in a railway train. Shall he get out at such and such a station? He vacillates; halts between two opinions; really he can't make up his mind. Meantime the train has drawn up at the station, and is off again thundering through the dark—and the man has decided against alighting there, just because he could not make his mind up. Few people calmly and deliberately decide against the Lord. But multitudes do it who never thought to do it, by the easy way of not deciding. And while I would rush nobody's decision (just as I would not let anyone rush mine), a wise man will accept his universe, and never ignore the great facts of life.

Postponed Decisions May Never Be Made

Another common answer to this question is: I shall accept Him by and by. I have no intention of dying out of Christ; but meantime I want to have my liberty. Life is sweet; it is a thrilling world; I want the colour and music for a little. Leave me the gold and glory of the morning, and I shall settle matters in the afternoon. I trust my readers will not be vexed with me if I call that the meanest of all answers: nobody ever likes to be thought mean. Who that had a loved one on a sickbed would bring that loved one a bunch of withered flowers? And yet many seem to be perfectly content in the thought of offering Christ a withered heart—and He has loved us with a love that is magnificent, and has died for us upon the cross, and is the finest Comrade in the world. It is true that there is always hope: a man may be saved at the eleventh hour. "Betwixt the stirrup and the ground, I mercy sought and mercy found." My fear is not that Christ will mock the prayer that is offered at the eleventh hour. It is that when the eleventh hour comes a man may have quite lost the power to pray. There are things that we can do at one-and-twenty that are almost impossible at sixty. At one-and-twenty one may be a footballer; very rare are the footballers of sixty. And to surrender oneself to the Lord Jesus Christ is a far more intense activity than football. Perhaps that is why at sixty it is rare.

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Which Is Your Answer? - Page 2
by George H. Morrison

Christ Will Not Accept Any Place in Your Heart but the First Place

Another answer to this greatest of all questions is the frequent one: I shall compromise. I shall give Him a certain place within my heart, so far as other interests will permit. I have no intention of being out and out; I am not going to carry my heart upon my sleeve. I shall do my duty and lead a decent life, and come to church, and be present at communion. But the strange thing that the meek and lowly Saviour, who was content with a manger and a cottage, is not content with that. Offer Him a place in your life, and the extraordinary thing is that He refuses it. His peace is never won on such conditions; His joy is never a factor in experience. As Henry Drummond put it once, "Gentlemen, keep Christ in His own place—but remember that His place is the first." "Seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness."

The Decision Must Be Made Here and Now

There is perhaps only one other answer. It is: I accept Him now. Here and now I yield myself to Him, for that is my reasonable service. Paul did that, going to Damascus, and it changed the universe for him. Augustine did that, in the quiet garden, and it freed him from the tyranny of vice. There are millions everywhere, right across the world, who, giving that instant answer to the question, have found life and liberty and power. My prayer is that these words of mine may lead to such immediate decision. "There is a tide in the affairs of men which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune." "Seek ye the Lord while He may be found. Call ye upon Him while He is near." He will never be nearer than just now.

Brother this is very powerful indeed.

Okay, this is my BIGGEST problem I have with mankind--well, one of the biggest. ADULTERY.

I have always, ever since I can remember, been an advocate of fidelity. One time, a neighbor of mine came over to tell me that, (and proudly tell me), she was having an affair. I was friends with her and her husband, and her husband was the type of man that loved this woman with all his heart. First thought in my head was, "How could you"? Second thought in my head is, "God, please comfort her husband, for she has no remorse and he deserves the love of a true woman". They were divorced within a few months. She couldn't want to go and live with her new man. She admitted that, she only got married to..GET MARRIED AND OUT OF HER PARENT'S HOUSE. By her infidelity, she not only hurt her husband, but a child they had together as well.

Fidelity is something we all should adhere to, as well as all the laws that come with being a Christian. It is easy for the flesh to give in, but even easier to just walk away and turn back on your own convictions. JUST SAY NO! Okay, a little Nancy Reagan there, on a different subject.

I will always, and forever be faithful, no matter what the situation. I took a vow, and plan on keeping it. Even during the 5 years I was separated, I never once thought of looking for another man. I prayed and stayed faithful to my husband, and to God.

There, I feel better again!

God Bless,
Kelly