The Christian Father's Present to His Children

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I have somewhere read of one of the early Christians, who, on being asked by a friend to accompany him to the amphitheater, to witness the gladiatorial combats with wild beasts, expressed his utmost abhorrence of the sport, and refused to witness a scene condemned alike by humanity and Christianity. Overcome, at length, by the continued and pressing solicitations of his friend, whom he did not wish to offend, he consented to go—but determined that he would close his eyes as soon as he had taken his seat, and keep them closed during the whole time that he was in the amphitheater. At some particular display of strength and skill, by one of the combatants, a loud shout of applause was raised by the spectators, when the Christian almost involuntarily opened his eyes; being once open he found it difficult to close them again; he became interested in the fate of the gladiator, who was then engaged with a lion. He returned home, professing to dislike, as his principles required him to do, these cruel games—but still his imagination ever and anon reverted to the scenes he had unintentionally witnessed. He was again solicited by his friend, who perceived the conquest that had been made, to see the sport. He found less difficulty now than before in consenting. He went, sat with his eyes open, and enjoyed the gory spectacle. Again and again he took his seat with the pagan crowd, until at length he became a constant attendant at the amphitheater, abandoned his Christian principles, relapsed to idolatry, died a heathen, and left a fatal proof of the deceitfulness of sin!

When a young man who has received a pious education, begins to be solicited to break through the restraints imposed upon him by conscience, he can venture only on lesser sins; he perhaps only goes to see a play, or joins in one midnight revel—but even this is not done with ease; he hears the voice of an internal monitor, startles, and hesitates—but complies. A little remorse follows—but it is soon worn off. The next time temptation presents itself, his reluctance is diminished, and he repeats the offence with less previous hesitation, and less subsequent compunction. What he did once, he now without scruple does frequently. His courage is so far increased, and his fear of sin is so far abated, that he is soon emboldened to commit a greater sin, and the tavern and the horse-race are frequented with as little reluctance as the theater. Conscience now and then remonstrates—but he has acquired the ability to disregard its warnings, if not to silence them. In process of time, the society of all who make any pretensions to piety is avoided, as troublesome and distressing—and the heedless youth joins himself to wicked companions better suited to his taste. Now his sins grow with vigor under the fostering influence of evil company, just like trees which are set in a garden.

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By this time the Bible is put out of sight, all prayer neglected, and the sabbath constantly profaned. At length he feels the 'force of custom', and becomes enslaved by the 'entrenched habit'. The admonitions of a father, and the tears of a pious mother, produce no impressions—but such as are like the "morning cloud, or early dew, which soon passes away." He returns to the society of his evil associates, where parental admonitions are converted into matter of wicked jest. The sinner is settled now in an evil way; and the 'sapling of iniquity' has struck his roots deep into the soil of depravity. The voice of conscience is now but rarely heard, and even then only in the feeble whisper of a dying friend.

His next stage is to lose the sense of shame. He no longer wears a mask, or seeks the shade—but sins openly, and without disguise. Conscience now is quiet; and he pursues without a check, the career of sin. He can meet a saint without a blush, and hear the voice of warning with a sneer. Would you believe it? he glories in his shame—and attempts to justify his conduct. Not content with being wicked—he attempts to make others as bad as himself—puts on the character of an apostle of satan, and, like his evil master, goes about as a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour.

As he is condemned in all his ways by the Bible, he endeavors to get rid of this troublesome judge, and persuades himself that Christianity is a cheat. With infidel principles, and immoral practices, he now hurries to destruction, polluted and polluting. His parents, whose gray hairs he brought in sorrow to the grave, have entered on their rest, and in mercy are not permitted to live to witness his shame. His vices lead him to extravagance; his extravagance is beyond his resources, and in an evil hour, under the pressure of claims which he is unable to meet, he commits an act which forfeits his life. He is arrested, tried, convicted, condemned, executed!

This is no imaginary picture; it has often occurred. My dear children, see the deceitfulness of sin. Meditate, and tremble, and pray. Be alarmed at little sins, for they lead on to great ones. Be alarmed at acts of sin, for they tend to habits. Be alarmed at common sins, for they proceed to those which are heinous. I have read of a servant who went into a closet, with an intention only to gratify his palate with some sweets—but perceiving some silver articles, he relinquished the lesser prey for these, purloined them, became a confirmed thief, and died at the gallows! Many a prostitute, who has perished in a garret upon straw, commenced her miserable and loathsome course with mere love of dress. Sin is like a fire, which should be extinguished in the first spark, for if it be left to itself, it will soon rage like a conflagration!

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[airIam2worship]

5. The last proof of the deceitfulness of the heart which I shall advance is, the delusive prospects which it presents to the judgment.

Sometimes it pleads for the commission of sin on the ground of the pleasure which it affords. But while it speaks of the honey of gratification—does it also tell of the venom of reflection and punishment?

At other times the deceitfulness of the heart suggests that retreat is easy in the career of sin, and may be resorted to if its progress be inconvenient. Is it so? The very contrary is true. Every step we advance renders it more and more difficult to return.

Then the deceitfulness of the heart urges us forward with the delusive idea that there is time enough to repent in old age. But does it say, what indeed is true, that for anything you know, you may die tomorrow? No! and herein is its deceit.

It dwells upon the mercy of God—but is silent upon the subject of his justice.

What think you now of the human heart? Can you question its deceitfulness, or that it is deceitful above all things? How then will you treat it?

Think basely of it. Surely with such a picture before you, you will not talk of the moral dignity of human nature; because this would be to talk of the dignity of falsehood and deceit.

Seek to have it renewed by the Holy Spirit. It is a first principle of true religion, that the heart must be renewed, and here you see the need of it. It is not only the conduct which is bad—but the heart, and therefore it is not only necessary for the conduct to be reformed—but the very nature must be regenerated. It is the heart which imposes upon the judgment, and the judgment which misleads the conduct; and therefore the root of the evil is not touched until the disposition is changed.

Suspect the heart and search it. Treat it as you would a man who had deceived you in every possible way, and in innumerable instances had been proved to be false. Continually suspect it. Always act under the supposition that it is concealing something that is wrong. Perpetually examine it. Enter the house within you; break open every door; go into every apartment; search every corner; sweep every room. Take with you the lamp of Scripture, and throw a light on every hiding place.

Watch the heart with all diligence, knowing that it is the wellspring of everything you do. You would carefully observe every attitude, every movement, every look of an impostor who had fixed his eye upon your property. Thus treat your hearts. Let every thought, every imagination, every desire—be placed under the most vigilant and ceaseless inspection!

Place your heart in the hand of God to keep it. "My son, give me your heart," is his own demand. Give it to him that it may be filled with his love, and kept by his power. Let it be your daily prayer, "Lord, hold me up and I shall be safe; keep me by your power through faith, unto salvation."

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TRANSIENT DEVOTIONS

"The church," said Saurin, "had seldom seen happier days, than those described in the nineteenth chapter of Exodus. God had never diffused his benedictions on a people in a richer abundance. Never had a people more lively gratitude, or more fervent piety. The Red Sea had been passed; Pharaoh and his insolent court were buried in the waves; access to the land of promise was opened; Moses had been admitted to the holy mountain to derive felicity from God the source, and sent to distribute it among his countrymen; to these choice favors, promises of new and greater blessings yet were added; and God said, 'You have seen what I have done unto the Egyptians, and how I bore you on eagles' wings, and brought you unto myself. Now therefore, if you will obey my voice indeed, and keep my covenant, then you shall be a peculiar treasure unto me above all people, although all the earth be mine.' The people were deeply affected with this collection of miracles. Each individual entered into the same views, and seemed animated with the same passion; all hearts were united, and one voice expressed the sense of all the tribes of Israel—'all that the Lord has spoken we will do.'

But this devotion had one great defect—it lasted only forty days. In forty days the deliverance out of Egypt, the passage of the Red Sea, the articles of the covenant; in forty days, promises, vows, oaths, all were effaced from the heart, and forgotten. Moses was absent, the lightning did not glitter, the thunder claps did not roar, and "the people made a calf at Mount Sinai; they bowed before an image made of gold. They traded their glorious God for a statue of a grass-eating ox!" Psalm 106:19-20

Here, my children, was a most melancholy instance of transient devotion. Alas! that such instances should be so common! Alas! that Jehovah should so frequently have to repeat the ancient reproach, and his ministers have to echo, in sorrowful accents, the painful complaint—"O Ephraim! what shall I do unto you? O Judah! what shall I do unto you? For your goodness is as a morning cloud, and as the early dew it passes away."

Nothing, however, is more common than such short-lived religious impressions. Disappointment of the bitterest kind is very frequently experienced, both by parents and ministers, in consequence of the sudden turning aside of those young people, who, for awhile, seemed to run the race that is set before us in the word of God. At one time, they appeared to be inflamed with a holy ambition to win the prize of glory, honor, and immortality; we saw them start with eagerness, and run with speed—but after a while, we met them turning back—leaving us, in the bitterness of our spirits, to exclaim—"You did run well; what hindered you?"

"The religion I am now describing is not the hypocrisy of the pretending Christian, nor is it the backsliding of the real one; it goes further than the first—but does not go so far as the last. It is sincere of its kind, and in that it goes further than hypocrisy—but it is unfruitful, and in that it is inferior to the piety of the weak and backsliding Christian. It is sufficient to discover sin—but not to correct it; sufficient to produce good resolutions—but not to keep them; it softens the heart—but does not renew it; it excites grief—but does not eradicate evil dispositions. It is a piety of times, opportunities, and circumstances—diversified a thousand ways, the effect of innumerable causes—but it expires as soon as the causes are removed."

Cont

[airIam2worship]

"Inconstans" was a youth who had enjoyed a pious education; he developed many amiable qualities, and was often impressed by the religious admonitions he received—but his impressions soon wore off, and he became as careless about his eternal concerns as before. He left the parental roof, and was apprenticed; and his parents having taken care to place him in a pious family, and under the faithful preaching of the word, he still enjoyed all the external means of grace, and still, at times, continued to feel their influence. His attention was oftentimes fixed when hearing the word, and he was sometimes observed to weep. On one occasion in particular, when a funeral sermon had been preached for a young person, a more than ordinary effect was produced upon his mind. He returned from the house of God pensive and dejected, retired to his closet, and with much earnestness prayed to God, resolved to attend more to the claims of true religion, and to become a real Christian. The next morning he read the Bible, and prayed before he left his chamber. This practice he continued day after day. A visible change was produced in his deportment. His seriousness attracted the attention and excited the hopes of his friends. But, by degrees, he relapsed into his former state, gave up reading the scriptures, then prayer; then he reunited himself with some companions from whom, for a season, he had withdrawn himself, until at length he was as unconcerned about salvation as ever.

Some time after this, Inconstans was seized with a fever. The disease resisted the power of the medicine, and baffled the skill of the physician; he grew worse and worse. His alarm became excessive. He sent for his minister and his parents, confessed and bewailed his fickleness. What tears he shed! What sighs he uttered! What vows he made! "O, if God would but spare me this once! if he would but grant me one more trial; if he would but indulge me with one more opportunity of salvation, how would I improve it to his glory, and my soul's eternal interest!" His prayers were answered; he recovered. What became of his vows, resolutions, and promises? The degree of his piety was regulated by the degree of his malady. Devotion rose and fell with his pulse. His zeal kept pace with his fever; as one decreased, the other died away, and the recovery of his health was the resurrection of his sins. Inconstans is at this moment, what he always was—a melancholy specimen of the nature of mere transient religion.

What is lacking in this religion? You will, of course, reply, "Perseverance." This is true. But why did it not continue? I answer—there was no real change of the heart. The passions were moved, the feelings were excited—but the disposition remained unaltered. In the affairs of this life, men are often led by the operation of strong causes to act in opposition to their real character. The cruel tyrant, by some sudden and most affecting appeal to his clemency, may have the spark of pity smitten from his flinty heart—but the flint remaining, the wretch returns again to his practices of blood. The covetous man may, by a vivid description of poverty and misery, be for a season melted to liberality—but, like the surface thawed for an hour by the sun, and frozen again immediately after the source of heat has retired—his benevolence is immediately chilled by the prevailing frost of his nature.

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[airIam2worship]

In these cases, as in that of true religion, there is a suspension of the natural disposition, not a renewal of it. All religion must be transient, by whatever cause it is produced, and with whatever ardor it should, for a season, be practiced—which does not spring from a regenerated mind. It may, like the grass upon the house-top, or the grain that is scattered in unprepared soil, spring up and flourish for a season—but for lack of root it will speedily wither away. Do not then, my dear children, be satisfied with a mere excitement of the feelings, however strong it may happen to prove—but seek to have the general bias of the mind renewed.

You cannot, if you consider only for a moment, suppose that these 'transitory impressions' will answer the ends of true religion, either in this world or in that which is to come. They will not honor God—they will not sanctify the heart—they will not comfort the mind—they will not save the soul—they will not raise you to heaven—they will not save you from hell. Instead of preparing you at some future time to receive the gospel, such a state of mind, if persisted in, has a most direct and dangerous tendency to harden the heart. What God, in His sovereign grace, may be pleased to effect, it is not for me to say—but as to natural influence, nothing can be more clear than that this 'fitful piety' is gradually putting the soul further and further away from true religion.

Iron, by being frequently heated, is hardened into steel; water that has been boiled becomes the colder for its previous warmth; soil that has been moistened with the showers of heaven becomes, when hardened by the sun, less susceptible of impression than before; and that heart which is frequently impressed by pious impressions, without being renewed by them, becomes more and more insensible to their sacred influence.

They who have trembled at the terrors of the Lord without being subdued by them—who have outlived their fears without being sanctified by them—will soon come to that degree of insensibility which will enable them to bear, without being appalled, the most awful denunciations of divine wrath. They who have been melted, from time to time, by the exhibitions of divine love—but have not been converted by it, will come at length to hear of it with the coldest indifference. It is a dreadful state of mind to be given up to a spirit of slumber and a callous heart; and nothing is more likely to accelerate the process than occasional, yet ineffectual religious impressions.

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[airIam2worship]

Can we conceive of anything more likely to induce Jehovah to give us up to judicial blindness and insensibility, than this tampering with pious convictions—this trifling with devotional impressions? These pious emotions which are occasionally excited, are kind and gentle admonitions that he has come near to the soul, with all the energies of his Spirit; they are the work of mercy knocking at the door of our hearts, and saying—"Open to me, that I may enter with my salvation." If they are from time to time neglected, what can be looked for but that the celestial visitor should withdraw, and pronounce, as he retires, the fearful sentence—"Woe unto you—when my Spirit departs from you."

There is something inexpressibly wicked in remaining in this state of mind. Such people are in some respects more sinful than they whose minds have never been in any degree enlightened; whose fears have never been in any degree excited; who have paid no attention whatever to true religion—but whose minds are sealed up in ignorance and insensibility. When people who have taken some steps in true religion return again; when they who have come near the kingdom of God, recede from it; and they who have sipped, as it were, of the cup of salvation, withdraw their lips from the water of life, the interpretation of their conduct is this—"We have tried the influence of true religion, and do not find it so worthy of our reception as we expected; we have seen something of its glory, and are disappointed; we have tasted something of its sweetness, and, upon the whole, we prefer to remain without it." Thus they are like the spies who brought a false report of the land of promise, and discouraged the people. They defame the character of true piety, and prejudice men's minds against it. They libel the Bible, and persuade others to have nothing to do with true religion. My children, can you endure the thought of this?

Mere transient devotions have a great tendency to strengthen the principle of unbelief in our nature. It is not only very possible—but very common for men to sin themselves into a state of despair of God's mercy; and none are so likely to do this, as those who have repeatedly gone back to the world, after a season of religious impression. In our communion with society, if we have greatly offended and insulted a man after many professions of decided friendship and warm attachment to him—we can hardly persuade ourselves to approach him again, or be persuaded to think he will admit us again to the number of his friends. And, as we are prone to reason from ourselves to God, if we have frequently repented, and as frequently returned again to sin, we shall be in great danger of coming to the conclusion that we have sinned past forgiveness—and abandon ourselves to guilt and despair.

I have read of a man who lived without any regard to true religion until he was taken alarmingly ill—when his conscience was roused from its slumber, and he saw the wickedness of his conduct. A minister was sent for, to whom he acknowledged his guilt, and begged an interest in his prayers, at the same time vowing that if God would spare his life, he would alter the course of his behavior. He was restored to health, and for awhile was as good as his word. He set up family worship, maintained private prayer, and frequented the house of God; in short, appeared to be a new man in Christ Jesus. At length he began to relax, and step by step went back to his former state of careless indifference. The hand of affliction again arrested him. His conscience again ascended her tribunal, and in terrible accents arraigned and condemned him. The state of his mind was horrible. The arrows of the Lord pierced him through, the poison whereof drank up his spirits. His friends entreated him to send for the minister, as above. "No!" he exclaimed, "I who have trifled with the mercy of God once, cannot expect it now!" No persuasion could shake his resolution; no representation of divine grace could remove his despair; and, without asking for God's pardon, he died!

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[airIam2worship]

The same despair has, in many other instances, resulted from the sin of trifling with religious impressions.

These pages will probably be read by some, whose minds are under religious concern. Your situation is more critical and important than any language which I could employ, would enable me to represent. If your present concern subsides into your former carelessness, you are in the most imminent danger of being left to the depravity of your nature. God is now approaching you in the exercise of his love, and waiting that he may be gracious. Seek him while he is to be found, call upon him while he is near. The soft breezes of celestial influence are passing over you, seize the favorable season, and hoist every sail to catch the breath of heaven. Tremble at the thought of losing your present feelings. Be much and earnest in prayer to God, that he would not allow you to relapse into unconcern and neglect. Take every possible means to preserve and deepen your present convictions. Read the Scriptures with renewed diligence. Go with increased earnestness, and interest, and prayer, to the house of God. Endeavor to gain clearer views of the truth as it is in Jesus—and labor to have your mind instructed, as well as your heart impressed.

Be satisfied with nothing short of a renewed mind—the new birth. Be upon your guard against self-dependence. Watch against this, as much as against grosser sins. Consider yourself as a little child, who can do nothing without God. Study your own sinfulness in the mirror of God's holy law. Grow in humility; it is not well for a plant to shoot upwards quickly, before it has taken deep root; if there be no fibers in the earth, and no moisture at the root, whatever blossoms or fruit there may be in the branches, they will soon fall off. And in the same way, if your religion does not strike root in humility, and be not moistened with the tears of penitential grief, whatever blossoms of joy or fruits of zeal there may be on the mind or conduct, they will soon drop off under the next sharp gust—or heat of temptation. Take heed of 'secret sinning'. A single lust unmortified, will be like a worm at the root of the newly-planted piety of your soul. Continually remember that it is yet but the beginning of true religion with you. Do not rest here; believe in the Lord Jesus Christ; nothing short of this will save you; without faith, all you have felt, or can feel, will do you no good. You must come to Christ, and be anxious to grow in grace, and in the knowledge of God our Savior.

Some, it is probable, will read these lines, who have had religious impressions, and lost them. Your goodness has vanished like the cloud of the morning; and, like the early dew, has sparkled and then dried up. Sometimes you exclaim, with an emphasis of deep melancholy,

"What peaceful hours I once enjoyed!
How sweet their memory still!
But they have left an aching void
The world can never fill."

cont

[airIam2worship]

        You are not—you cannot be happy. Oh no! the din of pleasure or of business cannot drown the voice of conscience; a pause now and then occurs, when its thunders are heard, and heard with indescribable alarm. Sometimes, in the midst of your pleasures, when all around you is jollity and mirth—you see a spectre which others do not see, and are terrified by a mystic hand which writes your doom upon the wall. From that moment there is no more joy for you. Sometimes you almost curse the hour when the voice of a faithful preacher lodged conviction in your bosom, and half-spoiled you for a man of pleasure and the world. You look with almost envy on those who, by never having been taught to fear God, are wrapped in total darkness, and see not the dim spectres, the half-discovered shapes of mischief, which, in the twilight of your soul, present themselves to your affrighted vision.

        At other times, a little relenting, you exclaim, "O that it were with me as in months past, when the candle of the Lord shined on me. What would I give to recall the sentiments and feelings of those days! Happy seasons! But you have fled. And are you fled forever? Can no power recall you to this troubled mind?" Yes, my young friend, they are all within reach, lingering to return. Fly to God in prayer, beseech him to have mercy upon you. Implore him to rouse you from the slumber into which you have fallen. Beware of the chilling influence of despondency. There is no room for despair. Covet the possession of true religion.

        Search for the cause which destroyed your impressions in the past. Was it some improper companion? Abandon him forever—as you would a viper! Was it some situation unfriendly to godliness which you voluntarily chose—as Lot chose Sodom, on account of its worldly advantages? Relinquish it without delay. Escape for your life, and tarry not in all the plain. Was it some besetting sin, dear as a right eye, or useful as a right hand? Pluck it out, tear it off without hesitation or regret; for is it better to make this sacrifice, than to lose eternal salvation, and endure everlasting torments! Was it self-dependence, self-confidence? Now put your case into the hand of Omnipotence, and call upon God. Ask for the Holy Spirit to renew, to sanctify, and to keep your soul. Learn from your past failure what to do, and what to avoid for the future. Believe the gospel, which declares that the blood of Christ cleanses from all sin. It was saving faith that was lacking, in the first instance, to give permanence to your religious impressions. There was no saving belief, no full persuasion, no practical conviction, of the truth of the gospel. Your religious feelings were like the stream raised by external and sporadic causes—but there was no spring. You stopped short of believing, you made no surrender of the soul to Christ, nor committed yourselves to him, to be justified by his righteousness, and to be sanctified by his Spirit. This do and live!

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[airIam2worship]

DECISION OF CHARACTER IN TRUE RELIGION

How deep, and how just a reproach did the prophet Elijah cast upon the tribes of Israel, when he addressed to the assembled multitudes on Mount Carmel, that memorable interrogation, "How long are you going to waver between two opinions? If the Lord is God, follow him! But if Baal is God, then follow him! But the people were completely silent." 1 Kings 18:21. From this it appears they were in a state of indecision, in reference to the most momentous question in the universe, not wholly satisfied that they were doing right in worshiping Baal, yet not sufficiently resolute to abandon his service. What a criminal, what a degrading, what a wretched state of mind! Not decided whom they would acknowledge to be their God! to whom they would pay divine homage!

But is this state of mind, my dear children, uncommon? By no means. To how many of the youth who attend our places of devotional resort, could we address, with propriety, the same question, "How long are you going to waver between two opinions?" How many are there who can go no further than Agrippa, when he said to Paul, "you almost persuade me to be a Christian." Almost! Only almost persuaded to be a Christian! What a melancholy thought!

In the last chapter you saw in the character of "Inconstans", an instance of this indecision. Did you admire it? Impossible. What was lacking?—DECISION. But what do I mean by decision? "A fixed purpose, not made in haste—but with much deliberation; not in our own strength—but in reliance on the grace of God; without delay, and at all risks, to seek the salvation of the soul through faith in Christ—and to live soberly, righteously, and godly in this present evil world." It includes an inflexible severity of conviction, that this is the one great thing we have in this world to do—and such a concentration of all the energies of our soul in this mighty business, as, to idle spectators, shall put on the appearance of fanaticism. It is such a purpose as subordinates everything to itself.

In opposition to transient devotion—it is permanent; in opposition to fluctuating opinions—it is a fixed, abiding resolution; in opposition to mere occasional acts—it is an indelible character, an indestructible habit. In short, it is faith in opposition to mere opinion and speculation—it is actually receiving Christ instead of talking about him. It is not like the vapor, which, after attracting every eye by its meteoric splendor, vanishes away while yet the surprised and delighted spectator beholds its luminous course—but it is like the shining light which holds on its way in the heavens, and shines more and more unto the perfect day. It is attended with a relinquishment of former associations, former pursuits and pleasures, and the embracing of all such as are on the side of true religion.

We have a fine instance of this decision in the heroic leader of the armies of the Lord, when looking around upon the wavering tribes of Israel, he exclaimed, "Let others do what they will—as for me and my house, we will serve the Lord." Another example, equally splendid, was presented by the great apostle of the Gentiles, when with the perspective of his suffering career before his eyes, he gave utterance to that burst of sublime heroism, "None of these things move me, neither count I my life dear unto me, so that I might fulfill the ministry I have received of the Lord, and finish my course with joy." Similar to this is the language of a decided Christian, "Self-denial, ridicule, rage, mortification, loss—all are nothing to me—so that I may believe the gospel, live in the fear of God, die in his favor, and, through the merits of Christ, be received to everlasting glory."

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[airIam2worship]

It will be proper to state here the reasons why so many that have strong impressions occasionally made upon their minds, are not thoroughly and decidedly engaged in the practice of true religion. Some of these will be found in the chapter "On the Obstacles of Piety," but there are others which are still more specific in reference to the case before us.

There is in many a lack of deep serious consideration. They do not follow up the subject of true religion, even when it has been impressed with some degree of force upon their hearts. When emotions have been excited, they do not cherish them—but go to their usual conversation, company, or business—instead of entering into their closets to examine their hearts, and to apply the subjects they have heard. An officer in the army, when about to embark for the continent, came to a Christian friend, and told him that he had a great many serious thoughts about the state of his soul, and was resolved to lead a new life; "but," said he, "there is such a company I must be with tonight; I wish I could disengage myself from them." His friend of course attempted to dissuade him from joining the party. He, notwithstanding, went to them, forgot all his serious thoughts when there; was drawn into the revelry of the night; the following day went abroad; and the next news his friends heard of him was, that he was killed in action. Thus his vain companions extinguished his serious thoughts, diverted his good resolutions, and by his own consent, robbed him of his eternal salvation.

Another cause of irresolution is, the feeble and uncertain perceptions which many people have of divine and spiritual things. They have a dim view of the truths of Scripture—but they appear like objects in a mist, too indistinct to be made the matter of pursuit. Hence it is of tremendous consequence, that when a young person becomes in any degree serious about true religion, he should instantly betake himself to all proper means for informing his judgment on the nature of true religion. He should read the scriptures with intense application of mind, listen to the preaching of the word with great fixedness of attention, and peruse good books with much seriousness of mind.

The dominion of some one prevailing sin, if cherished and indulged, has a most fatal influence in preventing decision. Herod would do many things—but would not part from Herodias. Felix was moved by Paul's preaching—but he would not give up covetousness. Thus it is with many—they admit the claims of true religion, admire its beauty, are moved by its force, resolve to submit to its influence—but then there is some besetting sin, which, when they come to the point, they cannot be induced to sacrifice. Every plant has some leading root which connects it with the soil in which it grows, on which, more than any of the rest, it is dependent for support and nourishment. So it is in the human heart—there is in most people some prevailing corruption of nature, which, more than any of the rest, holds the heart to an unregenerate state, and to which very particular attention must be paid in the business of true religion. This sin may be different in different people—but whatever it is—it must be destroyed, or it will destroy us!

cont

[airIam2worship]

Fear of persecution operates in many to prevent decision. You are deterred, probably, my children, from giving up yourselves to the influence of piety, by the apprehensions that you shall be called to endure the ridicule of those with whom you have been accustomed to associate, and who, being unfriendly to true religion, will vent their scorn and contempt on those who submit to its claims. It is impossible that I can be so ignorant of the irreconcilable enmity existing, and destined ever to exist, between true piety and the depravity of human nature; or of the usual practice of those who hate true religion, as to promise you an exemption from the sneers of the scorner, if you walk in the paths of wisdom. The only weapons which many are able to wield against Christianity, are sneers. For there is no mind so imbecile, no fool so foolish, as not to be able to laugh—the individual who could no more argue than an infant—or could use the sword or brandish the spear of a Goliath—can shoot out the lip, and cry 'fanatic!'

The power to argue is comparatively rare—but almost every village in the kingdom will furnish a mob of little minds, to follow after true religion as it passes by, and, like the children of Bethel persecuting the prophet of the Lord, to ridicule its venerable form. Never did Satan invent a more successful weapon against true religion than 'ridicule'. By this apparently base and contemptible weapon, he arms all of his drudges.

A morbid sensibility to shame, I am perfectly convinced, has kept not a few young people from piety. They cannot bear the broad, loud laugh, the contemptuous sneer, the witty jest. They cannot endure the attack of the profane, nor the raillery of the impious. They blush, and conceal their secret attachment to piety, as soon as it is assailed. But, my children, where is the dignity or the courage of your mind? Are you indeed convinced of the truth of Christianity and the justice of its claims—and yet allow yourselves to be vanquished by the laugh of folly? What! flee from the enemy of your souls, and surrender your salvation, when he only hisses at you in the skin of a fool! What though the whole world were to unite in scorn—shall this deter you from acting, when God, truth, heaven, the Bible, conscience, salvation, saints, angels, are all on your side? What! when your spirit has plumed her wings of faith and hope for flight to heaven—shall she give up the dazzling object of her high ambition, and cower down on earth, because she is watched and ridiculed by the witling? Or shall her eagle pinions be blown from their lofty course by the scoff of the scorner?

Be DECIDED, and all this base and feeble kind of persecution will soon cease. Before that sublime and unbending decision which dares to be singular, which nothing can divert from its purpose, which nothing can diminish in its ardor, which clings the closer to its object for all the efforts that are employed to detach it from the pursuit; I say before that inflexible spirit, it is astonishing to see how the space clears away, and how soon she is left to pursue her course—while all the tribe of little, pecking, caviling, noisy minds, drop down into their hedges, and leave the eagle to her course.

cont

[airIam2worship]

"This invincibility of decided conviction," says the profoundest and most elegant essayist in the English language, "will often make the scoffers themselves tired of the sport. They begin to feel that against such a man it is a poor kind of hostility to laugh. There is nothing that people are more mortified to spend in vain, than their scorn. A man of the right kind would say, upon an intimation that he is opposed by scorn—'They will laugh, will they? I have no concern about their mirth. I do not care if the whole neighborhood were to laugh in a chorus. I would indeed be sorry to see or hear such a number of fools—but pleased enough to find that they do not consider me one of their stamp. The good to result from my project will not be less, because vain and shallow minds, that cannot understand it, are opposed to it, and to me. What would I think of my pursuits, if every trivial, thoughtless fool could comprehend, or would applaud them. What would I think of myself, if I needed their levity and ignorance for my allies, or would shrink at their sneers?'" (Foster "Essay on Decision of Character")

I would deem it an insult to my readers, to suppose they have not read these essays; and not less so their author, to suppose that they needed my recommendation. I cannot help, however, enjoining on my readers to read the essay from which the above extract is made, with the resolution to seek, and the prayer to obtain all that decision which is there so eloquently described, not only in reference to every good work in general—but to true religion in particular.

My children, think of the importance of the matter to be decided upon—the service of God, the pursuit of immortality, the salvation of the soul—and shall a false shame deter you from the pursuit? Think of the example of Jesus Christ, who, for the joy that was set before him, endured the cross, despising the shame. Look at this divine sufferer, as he is presented to us in the hall of Pilate, when he was made the object of every species of scorn and indignity; and will you shrink from a few sneers and scoffs for HIM? Remember our Lord's most alarming language—"Whoever shall be ashamed of me, and of my words, in this adulterous and sinful generation, of him also shall the Son of man be ashamed, when he comes in the glory of his Father, and with the holy angels." Anticipate, if you can, the shame, the disgrace, the mortification, the torment, of being disowned, rejected, and abandoned by Christ, before assembled worlds—and let that be a preservative against being ashamed of Him now!

It is time now to set before you the evil of indecision, as a motive to induce you to seek after decided convictions.

cont

[airIam2worship]

Indecision is most unreasonable, if you  consider both the IMPORTANCE of the subject, and the means you possess of coming to speedy and right decision. Is it a matter of trifling importance? Yes, if God, and eternity, and salvation, and heaven, and hell, are trifles! If true religion is a trifle, where, in all the universe, shall we find anything that is important? Irresolution here is to be undetermined whether you will be the friend or the enemy of God. Irresolution here is to be undetermined whether you will live in this world under the favor or the curse of Jehovah. Irresolution here is to be undetermined whether in the world to come, you will eternally in the torments of the bottomless pit, or amid the felicities of the heavenly city. Irresolution here is to be undetermined whether you will choose condemnation or salvation.

There is no language which can describe, there is no allusion which can illustrate, the folly of indecision in true religion. The irresolution of a slave, whether he should continue to groan in fetters or be free; of the leper, whether he should still be covered with the most loathsome disease, or enjoy the glow of health; of the condemned criminal, whether he should choose an honorable life, or the most torturing and ignominious death—is not marked with such desperate folly as an undecided state of mind about personal religion. The scripture demands decision, and it demands it in these striking words—"See, I have set before you this day life and good, death and evil; therefore choose."

Yet some are undecided whether they will serve God, their Creator, Preserver, and Benefactor, and inherit eternal life—or yield themselves to Satan, their destroyer, and suffer the bitter pains of eternal death! If the matter were involved in obscurity, as to what was your duty or your interest, there would be some apology—but when both are as clear as the day, the 'folly of indecision' is so palpably manifest, as to entail a most fearful degree of guilt upon the conscience of the irresolute.

cont

[airIam2worship]

Indecision is CONTEMPTIBLE. "Unstable as water you shall not excel," is a character which no one ever pretended to admire. In the ordinary affairs of life, indecision renders a man an object of pity or contempt. "It is a poor disgraceful thing not to be able to answer with some degree of firmness to the questions—What will you decide? What will you do? It is a pitiable thing to see a creature with all the faculties of a rational being about him, so irresolute and undecided, as almost to wish that he could exchange reason for instinct, in order that he might be spared the trouble of thinking, and the pain of choosing. An undecided person is a poor, dependent, powerless creature, that floats like a feather or a ship along the stream of time, belonging to whatever can seize him; and without one effort of resistance, whirled in every little eddy, and intercepted by every little twig."

But how much more disgraceful is this irresoluteness of mind in the affairs of true religion, where there are so many means, and so many motives for coming to a proper conclusion. To be blown about like thistle-down by every wind of doctrine, and carried just wherever the gust or the current impels—is as dishonorable to our understanding as it is detrimental to our salvation.

Indecision is UNCOMFORTABLE. Suspense is always painful. Hesitation as to the steps we shall take, and the conduct we shall pursue, is a most undesirable state of mind; and this uneasiness will be in exact proportion to the importance of the business to be decided, and to the degree of compunction we feel for not deciding upon a course, which, we cannot help thinking, upon the whole, is the right one. The undecided cannot be altogether easy in their present fluctuating state of mind. No! directed one way by conviction, and dragged another by inclination—determining at one time to serve God fully, and at another smarting under the guilt of broken vows; resolved on the Sunday, and irresolute on the Monday; sometimes advancing with courage, and then again retreating with fear and shame—no, this is not the way to be happy. You may as well expect peace on the field of battle, as in the bosom where such a conflict is carried on. Look up to God, and ask for grace to terminate by decided piety the dreadful strife that is carried on in your bosom.

Indecision is DANGEROUS. Consider the uncertainty of life. How soon and how suddenly the King of Terrors may arrest you, and bear you to his dark domain. Some acute, inflammatory disease, in a few days may extinguish life! Or a fatal accident, which leaves you no leisure even to bid adieu to those you love on earth, may hurry you into eternity! And then what becomes of you? In a state of indecision you are unprepared for death, for judgment, for heaven! You are within the flood-mark of Divine vengeance. God accounts all those to be decidedly against him—who are not decidedly for him. There is, properly speaking, no middle ground between regeneracy and unregeneracy, between conversion and unconversion—and therefore he who does not occupy the one—is found within the limits of the other. You are a child of God—or an enemy of God. Whatever may be your occasional relentings, your transient emotions, your ineffectual desires, if you do not become decidedly pious, God will take no account of these things—but treat you, if you die in this state, as one that had decided against him.

Can you then linger—when death and hell do not linger? Can you halt, hesitate, and fluctuate—when death may the very next hour decide the business for you? And, oh! if you should die without decision, what will be your reflections—and what will be ours. How bitterly will you exclaim, "Fool that I was, to let anything interfere with my eternal salvation, to let anything interpose between my soul and her everlasting welfare. Why, why did I hesitate? I saw the excellence of true piety. I coveted the possession of true religion. Often I felt my heart rising to go and surrender unreservedly to God. I wept, I prayed, I resolved—but that accursed lust in which I took pleasure, held me fast—and rather than tear myself from it—I let go the hope of eternal life. I was afraid of a little ridicule, which I ought to have disregarded or despised—and when I seemed near the kingdom, was ruined by indecision. While I hesitated, death seized me, and now I shall be exhibited, by the light of this flame in which I burn forever, a dreadful proof of the folly and the danger of indecision! Woe, eternal woe upon my wretched spirit!"

Spare yourselves, my dear children, these dreadful reflections, this inconceivable torment. Without an hour's delay, resign yourselves to God and the influence of true religion. Decide the doubtful point. Believe and obey!

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