George H. Morrison's Old And Beautiful Devotions

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May 10

Sleep and Death - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

The damsel is not dead, but sleepeth— Mar_5:39
This thy brother was dead, and is alive again— Luk_15:32

Death as a Fact and What Christ Thought of It

I wish to speak for a little while on some of our Lord's references to death. I wish to discover in what light He viewed that dark experience of our mortality. You will observe I am not asking your attention to the question of the life beyond the grave. That is another theme. But here we shall look at death just as a fact, as joy and sorrow and love and hate are facts, and ask what our Savior has spoken about that. For those of us who believe in Christ as Lord, it is supremely important to discover that. But I venture to think it is scarcely less important for those of you who take a lower view. For the words of Jesus Christ, whoever Christ was, have influenced the world and altered history in a way as profound as it is unapproached. When you think, whoever Jesus was, of the tremendous influence of His words, when you think that they will still be winged when yours and mine are dead, it becomes the duty of every thoughtful person, who makes any pretence to the balance of true culture, to give the words of Christ his first attention. It is important to know what Plato thought of death. It is important to know what Hegel thought of death. But for men and women living in a world that has felt the terrific impact of Christ's words, to know what Christ has said on such a theme is the primary duty of intelligence.

Jesus Spoke Little of the Fact of Death

Now when we study Jesus with this end in view, there is one thing which immediately impresses us. It is that Jesus in His ministry spoke comparatively little about death. Familiar with it in the home at Galilee, for Joseph had died when Jesus was still there; lighting oftentimes in boyish wanderings on ghostly sepulchres among the hills, there is no sign that He brooded upon death, nor let it color His imagination, nor that He lived, as men have sometimes lived, with the shadow of death forever by His side. That He spoke much of the life beyond the grave is a fact, of course, which nobody disputes. There is indeed a powerful school today which interprets everything in terms of eschatology. But of the fact of death— that shrouded enemy which lays its icy hand on all humanity— of that He spoke comparatively little. Now that at once separates Jesus from those Stoical teachers who were already beginning to take the ear of Rome. For they, as Bacon has so wisely put it, made death more terrible by dwelling on it so. They thought to conquer death by gazing at it, till familiarity should beget contempt, and instead of contempt there came a haunting terror on the men and women of the Roman Empire. A similar thing has happened more than once in the long story of the Christian Church. Inspired by the passion of asceticism, men have feasted their eyes upon the grave. And the singular thing is that when we turn to Jesus, with whom the story of the Church began, you find wonderfully little of all that. Whatever Jesus feasted His eyes upon, He never feasted them upon the grave. You can never imagine Him a mediaeval saint, clasping a human skull within a charnel-house. But you can always imagine Him among the fields, feasting His heart upon the bending corn, and on the innocent merriment of little children, and on the first glimmerings of human love.

Jesus Speaks Little of Death in Spite of Its Universality

This comparative silence grows more notable when you bear in mind two considerations. The first is the old familiar commonplace that death is a universal thing. There have been teachers who have avoided universal themes and loved to handle exceptional experiences. Some of our finest plays, like Hamlet, deal with experiences of the rarest kind. But Jesus deliberately chose the universal, and dealt with what is common to humanity, and touched with the finger of a son of man the strings that God hath put on every harp. The sorrows He soothes are universal sorrows; the joys He shares in are universal joys. The questions He answers are universal questionings; the hopes He kindles are universal hopes. Yet here is death, the universal leveler, stealing with equal foot to every door, and Jesus speaks very little about that.

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Sleep and Death - Page 2
by George H. Morrison

Jesus Speaks Little of Death in Spite of Its Significance to Himself

The other consideration which makes the silence notable is the significance to Christ of His own death. That His own death was profoundly important in His eyes no unbiased reader of the Gospels can deny. When He was deeply stirred He spoke of it. It was the one topic of the transfiguration. He watched with eagerness for every sign of readiness that He might unfold its meaning to the twelve. And yet though He saw the coming of the cross, and knew that His triumph was to include a grave, the theme of the grave was rarely on His lips. Even when death was standing on the threshold, it did not form the theme of His discourse. It is not death that moves with awful mien through the glorious discourse of the upper chamber. It is a message more gladdening than death—it is the music of celestial joy—it is tidings of peace that the world cannot give, and at its darkest cannot take away. On that night on which He was betrayed, the shadow of death was on the heart of Jesus. On that night, under the olive trees, He cried, "If it be possible, let this cup pass from Me." Yet on that night, with the finger of death upon Him, the talk of Jesus was no more of death than in the glad days when He had watched the lilies, and taken the little children in His arms.

His Silence Could Not Be Interpreted as Indifference

Now that is very suggestive and significant, and it clearly calls for some interpretation. Let me dismiss in passing one interpretation which might possibly occur to certain minds. It might occur to some that this reserve of Jesus was only the superior silence of indifference. It might seem that Jesus spoke little about death, because He scorned the very thought of death. But I venture to say that if you take the Gospels, and study the story of the Master there, you will dismiss that supposition as untenable. When you and I are silent on a matter, it does not necessarily mean we are indifferent. Sometimes the subject of which the heart is fullest is that on which the lips are strangely still. And as there are thoughts that lie too deep for tears, so are there thoughts that lie too deep for utterance, and men detect them not by any speech, but by a look, or a handclasp, or a tear. Now think of Jesus at the grave of Lazarus, when He was face to face with death. Look at Him—what is that upon His cheek?—it is the dewy glistening of tears. And then a bend of the road reveals the sepulchre, and there is death, in ravage and in victory, and Jesus groans in spirit and is troubled. Whatever else that means, there is one thing that it emphatically means. It means that Jesus, indifferent to so much, was not indifferent to the final tragedy. He wept; He groaned in spirit; He was troubled. He shared in the anguish of the orphaned heart. Whatever His silence, it was not the silence of a serene and philosophic scorn.

Jesus Spoke of Death as Sleep

Dismissing that, then, we may advance a little if we remember Jesus' favorite name for death. I think there can be little question that the familiar name of Christ for death was sleep. I do not insist on the raisings from the dead, though they at once suggest a waking out of sleep. I do not insist on that, though all these raisings at once suggest the thought of sleep to me. But I keep close to Christ's recorded sayings, on two occasions when He confronted death, and on both of them He spoke of death as sleep. Entering the darkened home of Jairus, He said, "The maiden is not dead, but sleepeth." Learning the news that Lazarus was gone, He said at once, "Our friend Lazarus sleepeth." And these expressions, springing from the heart, and of an authenticity that none can question, tell me that Jesus spoke of death as sleep.

He Did Not Speak of Death as Sleep Poetically

But now it will occur to you at once that this is a thought common to all poetry. I know indeed no literature in the world where death is not spoken in terms of sleep. You will find it in the philosophy of Greece, and you will light on it in the poetry of Rome. The Jews were perfectly familiar with it, for they spoke of their dead as sleeping with their fathers. Dante accepts it as a commonplace; Chaucer speaks of the living and the sleeping; and Shakespeare tells us in words that are immortal how our little life is rounded with a sleep. Now the question I want to ask is this: was our Lord talking as a poet talks? Was He simply using a poetic figure when He said, "The maiden is not dead, but sleepeth"? I have been led to think, for reasons I shall give you, that Christ was not talking as a poet talks, but was using language of intense reality. I certainly hold that Jesus was a poet. I think He was a poet to His fingertips. If poetry be simple, sensuous, and passionate, there never was speech more poetical than His. And yet, granting all that without reserve, I am constrained to think that when Christ spoke of death as sleep, men felt that He spoke, not in poetic figure, but in sober earnestness and truth. Let me suggest to you this one consideration, based on the passage at hand.

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Sleep and Death - Page 3
by George H. Morrison

If I Were the One to Call Death Sleep

Suppose I were called, as I am often called, to a home that was under the shadow of bereavement. Suppose that a daughter of twelve years old were dead, and that I went in gently to where the body lay. What words would rise more naturally to my lips, when I had drawn the napkin from the brow, than just the words "How peacefully she sleeps"! They have risen to my lips a score of times, and never once were they misunderstood. I have said them to fathers, to mothers, to brothers, and to sisters, and found I was only uttering what they felt. There is never a trace of misinterpretation there is always immediate and full response—when in the presence of the quiet dead we whisper that the little life is rounded with a sleep. But now suppose I turned to the sorrowing father, and said with a glowing eye, She is not dead! Suppose I turned to him, and with tremendous earnestness said, "I tell you she is not dead, but sleeping." First he would look at me with incredulity; then it would flash on him I was beside myself, and then, in the frantic unsettlement of grief, the house would echo with derisive laughter.

Those Who Heard Him Knew He Meant What He Said about Death Being But Sleep
I want you to remember that that is exactly what happened to our Lord, and that such conduct is utterly incredible if Christ was speaking as a poet speaks. The Jews were far more poetical than we are, and they loved metaphor and all poetic imagery, and they were perfectly familiar from their literature with the figure of death as the last sleep. And yet when Jesus stood beside the dead, and said what all of us have said, "She sleepeth," somehow they utterly misunderstood Him, and heaped on Him the insult of derision. Others had come to Jairus' house that morning, and had said gently, "How peacefully she sleeps." And the father and mother, looking on their loved one, had understood at once that kindly sympathy. And then came Christ, and said, She is not dead—I tell you she is not dead, but sleeping—and Him they laughed to scorn. That scorn to me is utterly inexplicable if Christ was speaking in poetic metaphor. There must have been something in His eye and tone that challenged the plainest evidence of sense. They felt instinctively that in the mind of Christ their little daughter was not dead, but living, although her eyes were closed, and all her fingers motionless, and there was not a quiver of breath upon her lips. In other words, this was not death to Christ, and every hearer felt He meant it so. Whatever death was in the thought of Jesus, it was not this ceasing of the heart to beat. And that is why these lovers of all imagery, who would have understood us had we said she sleeps, poured upon Him their frenzy of derision.

For Christ Spiritual Death Was More Real Than Physical Death. Hence the Latter He Called Sleep

And so am I gradually led to the conviction that this was not what Jesus meant by death at all. In the habitual thought of that supreme intelligence, death was something darker and more terrible. It was not death to Him when the silver chord was loosed, nor when the pitcher was broken at the fountain. It was not death to Him when the strong men bowed themselves, and when the daughters of music were brought low. All that was life, though it was life asleep, in the mighty arms of the eternal God, and death was something more terrible than that. The maiden is not dead, but sleepeth; but— this my son was dead and is alive again. The maiden is not dead, but sleepeth; but— let the dead bury their dead. The maiden is not dead, but sleepeth; but— he who believeth upon Me, though he were dead, yet shall he live. Christ did not find the dead in Jairus' house, nor in any sepulchre among the Galilean hills. He saw the dead where men and women were— in the synagogue and in the market and the home. And so Christ does not find the dead where the flowers are withering on the grave, but here where men are, and where women are, who have a name to live and yet are dead. If half the anguish of the open grave were felt for those who are living useless lives, if half the tears that fall upon the coffin fell upon hearts that are frivolous or obdurate, not only would we be nearer Christ in His deepest thought about humanity, but we should know more than we have ever known of the joy that cometh in the morning. For love and faith and prayer are powerless to bring again the dear one who is lost. No lifting heavenward of anguished hands will give us back again the one we loved. But "this my son was dead and is alive again"—and there is music and dancing in the home tonight, and there is joy in heaven, where the Father dwelleth, over one sinner that repenteth.

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George H. Morrison Devotions

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May 11

The Thoughtfulness of Jesus

He commanded that something should be given her to eat— Mar_5:43

The Manifestation of the Divine and Human Jesus

This is an exquisite and charming instance of the thoughtfulness of Jesus. Such a detail would never have been given had this been a story of the imagination. Jairus and his wife would forget everything in the excitement of having their daughter back again. Probably they would betake themselves to prayer, for God comes very near in life's great hours. And as for the disciples who were present such an awe would rest upon their hearts that they could only be silent and adore. In that environment of awe and wonder, in that moment of spiritual exaltation, when the power of God was manifestly present, and the chamber vibrated with heaven, it is an exquisite and charming touch, which even genius could never have imagined, that Jesus ordered the maid a little food. Great miracles are apt to seem remote. They are transacted in an alien atmosphere. They often carry the guise of unreality in their aloofness from our common days, and then there comes quite unexpectedly, some little homely and familiar incident, which is wonderfully helpful to our faith. Such is the thoughtfulness of Jesus here. It touches that chamber with reality. It clothes the Son of God with the vesture of the Son of Man. It was divine power which conquered death and commanded the maiden to arise. It was the thoughtfulness of a loving human heart which commanded that something be given her to eat.

In the Busy Life He Remembered the Details of Love

The thoughtfulness of Jesus grows more wonderful when we remember certain aspects of His ministry. It was, for instance, as the Gospels show us, one of constant movement and excitement. In quiet and uneventful lives there is always a margin for remembering. The slowly passing hours give ample leisure for the thoughtfulness of loving hearts. But when the days are broken and the life unsettled by the throng and pressure of activities it is always difficult to find a place for the little thoughtful services of love. Such thoughtfulness in a career of movement call for steady mastery of life. They demand a spirit that knows interior rest though every day be broken into fragments. It is one thing to be thoughtful when "time as it passes has a silken sound"; it is another when the storm is up. Now the mark of the whole ministry of Jesus is an unceasing and absorbing movement. How constant are the calls upon Him! How broken and crowded are His days! And one must remember that, and the pressure of it all, on that pure spirit of His, familiar with eternity, to feel aright the wonder of His thoughtfulness.

Purpose Motivated Thoughtfulness

Again one must not forget that Jesus' ministry was controlled and dominated by a mighty purpose. The pondering mind will recognize at once how that heightens the value of His thoughtfulness. When life is dominated by some exalted purpose it is very apt to be blind to little things. The runner has not leisure for the flowers that may be blossoming beside the track. Absorption in a single aim gives vision for everything within that aim, but often blindness to everything without it. How many men, absorbed in making money, miss the delight of daily wayside kindnesses! How many, in a burning zeal for holiness, ignore the trifles for which hearts are yearning! It is a rare thing when any man or woman, with a single passion burning in the heart, has a heart at leisure from itself for "little nameless unremembered" services. Now Jesus was not a happy dreamer. He did not wander unconcerned across the world. He had a baptism to be baptized with, and He was straitened till it was accomplished. And the beautiful thing is that in a life like that, intense with the intensity of heaven, He had a heart that always was at leisure for the fragrant things that blossom by the road. He did not miss the lilies. One who misses the lilies misses God. He did not miss the weed upon the hedgebank, nor the play of children, nor the widow's mite. And in Jairus' house, where the power of God was present, and everyone was hushed in wondering awe, He commanded that something be given the child to eat.

He Thought of Others in Spite of His Own Suffering

Lastly, one should remember that His was a life of suffering and sorrow. The sky was sometimes black as pitch for Him, and His soul sorrowful even unto death. One hears people speak sometimes as if suffering had a sanctifying power. Suffering in itself has no such power. Its native virtue is to make us selfish. All suffering, unless the grace of God be working, tends to contract the soul and to impoverish the treasury of life. How hard it is to think of other people when pain is laying its grip on every thought! How often suffering folk are selfish folk, and can talk and think of nothing but themselves! It is one of the triumphs of the grace of God when anyone who has to suffer sorely has a heart at leisure for those little kindnesses that sometimes mean far more than gold or silver. Now was ever sorrow like unto His sorrow? His suffering was far worse than yours or mine, for He was sinless, and nobody can fathom the capacity for suffering in sinlessness. Yet right through His ministry, from first to last, what deep unselfish thoughtfulness for others! It shames us while it lifts us heavenward— the thoughtfulness of Jesus.

____________________

George H. Morrison Devotions

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e-Sword by Rick Meyer: http://www.e-sword.net/downloads.html
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(The goal of Rick Meyer is to distribute excellent Bible Study
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May 12

What Jesus Learned at His Trade

Is not this the carpenter?— Mar_6:3

We Learn from Our Trades

Every man learns certain lessons from the trade in which he is engaged. Nobody is unaffected by his business. The farmer is very different from the sailor, because the one is a farmer and the other is a sailor. Each has his own outlook upon things; each dwells in his own universe. As you can often tell a man's profession by certain indications in his body, so also by indications in his soul. Now we are faced with the great fact that our blessed Savior was a carpenter. Through His youth, and on to the age of thirty, Jesus was the Carpenter of Nazareth. And we may be certain, from all we know of life, that these years of carpentering would leave their mark on the public ministry of after days. They would suggest much; they would give Him certain insights; they would impress certain truths upon His mind. It was not alone in the house and in the field that He was gathering material for His teaching. He was learning things, just as we all learn them, in the quiet discharge of daily duty, which were to help Him when everything was changed. Never forget that Jesus was a poet, just as His life was God's most perfect poem. Every common task at which He wrought would flash out into diamonds of significance. The village shop was not only full of logs; for Him it was also full of parables, as was His mother's kitchen, and the garden, and the fields.

As a Carpenter the Lord Learned from a Log. How Much There Can Be Hidden

One truth I reverently think that He would learn was how much may lie hidden in a thing. Picture the waggoner delivering a tree that had been ordered by the Carpenter of Nazareth. The Carpenter would begin to work it up; He would lop off the branches and the twigs; He would saw it into planks and blocks; He would use it for the orders He was executing. And by and by, round His little workshop, would be ranged the various things that He had made—a plough, a chair, a wooden bowl or platter. What! a plough hidden in that tree— that rough, gnarled creature of the forest? And platters and bowls (to feed the children with) hidden in that swaying tree? Then the Poet-Carpenter would halt a moment, and dream, and say quietly to Himself, "Ah, how much may lie hidden in a thing." Did He forget that when carpentering days were over? Was not that one glorious secret of His hopefulness? He saw the Kingdom in a mustard seed. He saw the citizen of heaven in a child. He saw, as no one else has ever seen, how much lay hidden in the human heart, and in the lives and characters of common men.

It Takes Pains and Time to Transform a Thing

Another truth I believe that He would learn is what pains it takes just to transform a thing. That would be deeply graven on His heart. Picture a farmer coming to the shop and asking the Carpenter to make a plough. An Eastern plough was a very simple thing. The farmer would sit there till it was made. "Friend," the Carpenter would say to him, "my ploughs are not manufactured while you wait. It is a long and weary business making ploughs! See that tree? I have got to transform that tree. I have got to change that tree into your plough. Who can tell what faults and flaws are in it? Leave Me alone. I have to wrestle with it." With such material, so rude and so intractable, one thing the Carpenter would learn was this: that pains and patience go to all transforming. Was that forgotten when carpentering days were over? Think of the first disciples. Not in one hour did Simon become Peter. John was not made an apostle "while you wait." There is nothing more wonderful in history than the long, patient, and persistent way in which the Lord transformed these followers of Galilee. In a single instant He could heal the leper. In a single instant He could raise the dead. It took many a thousand weary instants to transform Simon into Peter. And what more beautiful training for that ministry than to be sent of God until the age of thirty to toil as the lowly Carpenter of Nazareth. Perhaps one day, when things were very difficult, and the disciples were like wayward children, Jesus espied a plough that He had made, and remembered all the pains that it had cost Him. And then He would thank His Father that He had been a carpenter, for if it took all these pains to make a plough, how infinitely more to make a Peter. We are all in the hands of One who was a carpenter. That is a fact we never should forget. He is a thorough workman. He never spares Himself. He is eager for perfection in His workmanship. And some day, when His work on us is over, and we are perfected in His own perfect way, we shall say, "Is not this the Carpenter?"

The Finest Things Are Made of Hardest Wood

Then, lastly, might He not learn in carpentering that the finest things are made of hardest wood? It was cedar-wood that was demanded for the paneling of palace or of temple. Did He smile, I wonder, when He noticed that? Did he recognize the deeper meaning of it? And was He recalling the old days in Nazareth when He deliberately selected Paul? Hard as cedar, injurious, a persecutor, the bitter and savage foe of every Christian—but finest things may be made from hardest wood. Do you know anyone who is what is called a hard case—anyone who has resisted every pleading—some member of your flock, or some wild lad you try to teach on Sundays? Have faith. Someday he will be won. The cedar will adorn the temple yet. And then you will say, quietly and adoringly, "Is not this the Carpenter?"

____________________

George H. Morrison Devotions

Dist. Worldwide in the Great Freeware Bible Study package called
e-Sword by Rick Meyer: http://www.e-sword.net/downloads.html
Full Featured - Outstanding - Completely FREE - No Strings Attached

(The goal of Rick Meyer is to distribute excellent Bible Study
Software to every country on earth in their own language FREE
of charge, and that goal gets closer by the day.)
____________________

[nChrist]

May 13

The Ministries of Leisure - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

Come ye yourselves apart into a desert place, and rest a while— Mar_6:31

Rest Helps Us See Things in Their Right Perspective

Most of us, at this season of the year, are looking forward to a time of leisure. We are hoping to get away for a brief space into the quiet and beauty of the country. A period of rest is not a luxury. A period of rest is a necessity. It is part of the constitution of our nature which can never be disregarded with impunity. It is not to be spoken of apologetically, as something of which we are half ashamed. It is to be spoken of with perfect frankness, as part of the wise ordering of God. There are people who tell you they do not need a holiday. Such people are always to be pitied. They are like men with some malignant trouble, who tell you that they do not need a doctor. It is one thing to need a thing; it is quite another to feel the need of it; and perhaps there is no man who so needs a holiday as the man who assures you that he does not want it. We need a holiday that we may rest, and we need a holiday that we may see. There is nothing so fatal to a kindly vision as an unceasing and unvarying routine. To understand anything we must not only look at it; we must learn the art of looking away from it; and holidays are given us for that end, that we may see things in their right proportions. That is one of the ministries of sleep, which is among the most blessed of all holidays. It is one of the ministries of convalescence, when we are getting better from an illness. And it is meant to be one of the ministries of summer, and of the rest that summer brings to us— come ye apart, and rest a while. Now what I want to do is this— I want to examine this rest of the disciples. I want to see what were the elements of the leisure to which they were invited by Christ. And I want to see that, not from curiosity, but from the most practical of motives; for it will teach us, as nothing else can do, how to enjoy the very best of holidays.

A Rest the Disciples Earned

Well, in the first place, this was a rest which the disciples had very richly earned. They had flung themselves heart and soul into their work, and now they were thoroughly ready for vacation. You could never imagine a man like Simon Peter doing his business in a halfhearted way. You could never imagine John, with his deep soul, scamping anything to which he put his hand. And now they were back again, Peter and the others, from a work which had been incredibly exacting, and the first thing which Jesus saw was this, that His disciples had richly earned a holiday. There are masters who never awake to that. There are congregations who never awake to that. There are husbands who never seem to notice that their wives might be the better for a rest. But Jesus Christ was very quick to notice it. He saw that they were exhausted and forspent. His workmen had richly earned their leisure, and everything must cease till they had had it.

Some of the Best Gifts We Cannot Earn

Now, some of the best gifts we cannot earn. They are given us freely from the hand of God. We cannot earn the sunshine or the morning, or the lights and shadows on the Highland hills. But I want to say that no one deserves a holiday, and certainly no one will enjoy a holiday, unless by faithful and conscientious toil he has honestly and fairly earned it. I dare say we are all apt to envy those whose lives are one continuous holiday. We think it would be heaven to live as they do, and spend the year in following the sun. But I question if in all humanity there are any such poor and miserable creatures as those who have nothing else to do save to chase the sunshine across Europe. I put that question to a doctor once, an English doctor in the south of France. His patients were entirely drawn from that class, and I asked him if they were happy people. I shall not soon forget the look he gave me, nor the ring of scorn that was in his voice—"Happy," he said, "happy? It's the most miserable business under heaven." When it's all work it is but sorry work, and when it's all holiday it is but sorry holiday. If you want a good companion for your holiday, get a man who is a giant-worker. Wholehearted toil gives a whole-hearted holiday; gives it a freedom and a happy conscience; and the man to avoid for a holiday as you would avoid sin, is the man with an uneasy conscience.

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The Ministries of Leisure - Page 2
by George H. Morrison

Rest in Fellowship with Others

Again, the rest to which they were invited was a rest of mutual intercourse. Come ye apart, said Christ, all of you together, and we will go into a desert place. When Christ went up the Mount of Transfiguration, He took but three of His disciples with Him. When He entered the chamber where Jairus' daughter lay, it was the same three, and they alone, who were so privileged. But here, in the happy interval of rest, there was no such setting apart of any three; they were all to mingle, in their short vacation, in mutual and loving intercourse. When Jesus sought His rest, He went alone. He was alone, and yet not alone. He stole away to the quiet mountain side, and lifted up His heart under the stars. But when He said to the twelve, "Come ye apart," He knew it was best that they should not be alone. He did not call them to the rest of solitude, but to that of sweet and happy fellowship. Now do you know why He acted so? Well, this, I take it, was the reason for it. They were becoming strangers to each other, in their separate missions of evangelizing. They were losing the sweet touch of real comradeship. They were drifting a little into isolation. It was inevitable in their engrossing work; but none the less it was regrettable.

There are times for all of us when it is good to go out and be alone. There are seasons when the best of all society is the secret company of one's own heart. There are times when other voices are impertinence, when other faces are a harsh intrusion, when the deepest craving of our mysterious being is to be alone with self and God. All that is true, and he who has never felt it is either very shallow or very wicked. All that was understood by Jesus Christ, and for it He has made full provision. And yet remember that in our city life, with its constant pressure and absorbing work, there is another side to a true holiday. You talk about the companionship of towns. Do not forget the loneliness of towns. There is far more fellowship in little places than in the jostle and the crowd of Babylon. We hardly see each other in the city, we have so little time for social intercourse. And nothing is easier in the city than for friendships to become little else than names. It is in view of that we get our holidays. A holiday is not selfish, it is social. It is the golden opportunity of God to put our tattered friendships in repair. It gives us leisure to approach each other, and mingle with a freedom that is sweet, and feel, what here we are so apt to lose, the warmth and the reality of brotherhood. How little time some of you businessmen give your wives and children! Some of you hardly know your children, and some of your children hardly know you. Now use your holiday to put that right. Give them your leisure, and be happy with them. Begin to play the father for a little, which is a different thing from playing the fool.

Rest in the Fellowship of Nature

Then, once again, the rest they were invited to was a rest in the fellowship of nature. "Come ye apart into a desert place." Now do not associate with that word desert the scenery which it commonly suggests. When you say desert, you picture the Sahara, or some rocky and barren wilderness. But it was not to such a desert that they went. It would not have been like Christ to lead them there. It was a desert because it was deserted, that is, it was remote from human life. I have no doubt it was a place of beauty, and the sunshine slept upon the hills around them. And overhead there were the fleecy clouds, and far off there was the shimmer of the sea. And it was full of rest, and full of healing, with only the murmur of the brook for music, and the stirring of the wind among the lilies only intensified the deep repose. Christ knew every nook among these hills. He had wandered among them since He was a boy. Where the grass was greenest He had dreamed His dreams, and read the writing of His Father's hand. And now, looking upon His wearied twelve, He thought of one choice spot He had long loved, and He said, "Come ye apart and rest awhile." For Him, there had been rest in nature. For them, there was to be rest in nature. Taught by the breeze, the mountain and the stream, they were to come to their true selves again. They were to bathe in that deep and mighty silence that spreads itself out beyond the noise of man. They were to let the peace of lonely places sink with benediction on their souls.

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[nChrist]

The Ministries of Leisure - Page 3
by George H. Morrison

The Beauty and Peace of Nature Remain Unchanged for Us

Many things are changed since Jesus walked and taught in Galilee. But one thing is still utterly unchanged, and that is the beauty and the peace of nature. Still are the stars shining in the sky. Still are the flowers waving in the fields. Still do the great white clouds go drifting by, in the glory of the summer afternoon. And if these had a ministry for wearied men who moved in the fellowship of Jesus Christ, remember that they have that ministry for you. Do not despise it, or call it sentimental. Jesus Christ was never sentimental. Do not imagine you can do without it. Have done with toiling for a little season. Open your heart, and let the peace steal in. You will be twice as fit for every task, when for a little you have let God do everything.

A Rest in Which He Had a Share

Again, the rest to which they were invited was a rest in which He had a share. Christ did not say to them, "Go ye apart"; He said to them, "Come, for I am coming too." It might have been natural for Him to wait behind, that there might be someone to carry on the work. He might very well have said, "I cannot come with you; my presence is demanded in the towns." But Christ did not say that— He did not tarry— He knew that rest without Him would be mockery; and so when the disciples had their holiday, Jesus was their holiday-companion. None of them thought that He would spoil their holiday. None of them wished that He had stayed behind. None of them dreamed that their freedom would be marred, because their Master was in the midst of them. On the contrary, they rejoiced to have Him, and they felt that their cup was running over now; and they were happier, and the world more beautiful, because Christ was their holiday-companion.

Now, is it going to be so with you? That is the question which I want to ask. There are people whose one aim upon a holiday seems to be to forget Christ altogether. They never leave their fishing rods at home. They often leave their religion at home. They seldom pray, seldom read their Bible, seldom give a thought to Jesus Christ. They pack their boxes with a hundred things which no one will ever possibly want; and then discover when the Sabbath comes, that they have forgotten to put in the Bibles. Such people when at home are decent churchgoers. On holiday, they seldom go to church. If they do, it is to the fashionable church, where of course there is a wonder of a preacher. I do not doubt he is a first-rate preacher, but what I do most seriously doubt, is whether they ever would have discovered him had he been minister of the dissenting chapel. You call it tolerance. I call it snobbery, and snobbery in religion is contemptible. And you have no idea how hard it makes things for the minister whose church you never enter, and whose only fault is that he has been true to the communion for which his fathers suffered. I believe better things of you. I believe you will take Christ with you when you go. It will not dim the sunshine; it will not spoil the laughter; it will not mar the beauty nor the peace. Nay, on the contrary, it will increase it all, and make it the happiest holiday you ever had. There is no one with such a title to be happy as the man who has the companionship of Christ.

Rest Which Fitted Them for Better Service

Then lastly, the rest that they were called to was a rest which fitted them for further service. It was not "Come ye apart and rest forever"; it was "Come ye apart and rest awhile." As a matter of fact, it did not last long. Our holidays at the longest never last long. They had hardly reached the quiet of the hills when their congregation was wanting them again. But it was long enough to make them men; to give them strength and vision for their duty; and if a holiday has not that effect, I for one would write it down a failure. Of course I know that it is often hard to take up the dreary round again. It is hard to leave the freedom and the sun for the office desk or for the schoolroom. But that will pass, as it has passed before, and we shall settle to our familiar task, and it is then we shall discover if our leisure has been honorably used. Memories will awake in winter days of quiet places where the sun was shining. Friends will meet us in the thick of work, and they will be different because they knew us then. Love will be kinder in the city home; father, mother, and children will be nearer, because of the long hours they spent together when the summer wind was in the grass. God grant to all of us a time of rest that will make us better when November comes! God grant to all of us new power for service, drawn from the riches of a happy holiday! It is that which is in the heart of Christ, as He looks down on us and on our city, and says in prospect of the July days, "Come ye apart, and rest awhile."

____________________

George H. Morrison Devotions

Dist. Worldwide in the Great Freeware Bible Study package called
e-Sword by Rick Meyer: http://www.e-sword.net/downloads.html
Full Featured - Outstanding - Completely FREE - No Strings Attached

(The goal of Rick Meyer is to distribute excellent Bible Study
Software to every country on earth in their own language FREE
of charge, and that goal gets closer by the day.)
____________________

[nChrist]

May 14

The Evident Christ - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

He could not be hid— Mar_7:24

It Was Impossible to Conceal Christ

Jesus was in retirement at this time. He had sought seclusion in the coasts of Tyre. It was perilous for Him to be seen just then, and the hour of His cross had not yet come. The tetrarch Herod had become suspicious. The Pharisees made no concealment of their hatred. The people who were so enthusiastic lately had taken deep offence at Jesus' teaching. And our Lord, recognizing the danger in all this, withdrew for a time to a half-heathen territory, where occurred that exquisite and precious incident—the visit of the Syrophenician woman. Now there was one thing which deeply impressed the disciples there. It was the impossibility of concealment for their Master. Quietly He had stolen away. No vision of Messiah stirred these villagers, for they were pagans and outside the covenant. Yet even there Jesus could not be hid— there were hearts which recognized Him as the Christ— and it was that which made so deep a mark on the watchful minds of the disciples. It is very probable that as the years went on that thought would grow in meaning for the twelve. John would recall it on the shores of Patmos; Peter amid the crowds of Babylon. And when they were wearied out with opposition, or crushed by the might and mockery of heathendom, it would come to them sometimes like cheering music, that Christ could not be hid. On that thought I wish to speak. I want to show you how grandly true it is. Firstly, we shall consider Jesus in the flesh. Secondly, Jesus in the world. Thirdly, Jesus in the heart.

Jesus in the Flesh

First, then, considering Jesus in the flesh let us dwell for a moment on His lot. It would be hard to imagine any lot that offered a surer promise of obscurity. He was the child of a secluded village— a village that was not held in much repute. There He lived and there He humbly labored till He was some thirty years of age. And so deep was the retirement of these years, so void of rumors of the coming glory, that Nathanael, who belonged to Cana in the neighborhood, seems never to have heard a whisper of Him. Most men who are to come to greatness are on the road to it before the age of thirty. They have left their native village long ere that; they are out in the world and battling with its powers. But at thirty Christ was still at Nazareth, still toiling for His daily bread there, still acting as a father to His brothers, for His mother Mary was a widow now. Wealth is able to open many doors, but in the cottage at Nazareth there was no wealth. Influence is powerful in advancement, but what influence had a village carpenter? Learning can beat a way through every barrier, and bring a man into the court of kings, but to the laborious learning of His day, Jesus was utterly indifferent.

Have you ever thought again how much in Jesus' character seemed to promise nothing but obscurity? I say that with the utmost reverence— you all know what our Lord means for me. There is not a trace in Him of lust of power, so often the characteristic of the great. If He had ever felt it He had crushed it down, as you may read in the Temptation narrative. There is not a sign in Him of any passion for fame— the spur that the clear spirit doth raise, as Milton puts it. And as for ambition, if He were ambitious, ambition should be made of sterner stuff. Christ was gentle. Christ was tenderhearted. Christ was compassionate to all the failures. And when men would have made Him a king He slipped away. He had a habit of slipping away from demonstrations. And He loved solitude, and lowly life, and the quiet beauty of pasture and of hill. And He was never happier than with His own, where the waves were lapping on the shore. There were men who became powerful then as now by taking the lead in patriotic movements. Christ never once identified Himself with any popular or patriotic movement. He stood apart a little from them all; went His own way in sunshine and in shadow; and, with a character of perfect poise, kept at the heart of all a perfect love. It is not usually characters like that which break through every barrier of concealment. It is men who are determined and aglow; who are intense even to narrowness. And it seems to me that the very poise of Christ, and His meekness, and the beauty of His love, are just the elements we might have reckoned on as making for the shelter of obscurity.

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[nChrist]

The Evident Christ - Page 2
by George H. Morrison

Yet we all know that that was not the case. Jesus could not be hid. No prophet who ever lifted up his voice created such intense interest as Jesus. Wherever He went, crowds hung upon His steps. Wherever He was known to be, crowds gathered. He was talked of in the castle of the Herods. He was the conversation of the cottage. And there were some who loved Him, and there were some who scorned Him, and there were some who wished Him dead; but there were none who could be quite indifferent. And it was not just His miracles that did it, though His miracles deepened the impression. Nor was it just the wonder of His speech, although the charm of it was irresistible. It was the feeling, born they knew not how, and spreading mysteriously and steadily, that here was One who stood apart from all, and in whose being were unfathomed depths. You will never understand the life of Christ until you waken to that great impression. There was something about Him that suggested God, and men, detecting it, were awed. It shone through every veil that wrapped Him round— poverty, lowliness, suffering, and death— till those who loved Him knew, nothing could ever hide the Christ of God.

Jesus in the World

So much then about Jesus in the flesh; now shall we think of Jesus in the world? Our text is as true of the big world of Rome as it had been of the little world of Palestine. You know how powerless one often feels on entering a great city as a stranger. That is often a moment of great loneliness, and of an overwhelming sense of insignificance. And I think the apostles must have felt like that when they went out from the land of their nativity, and entered the cities of the Roman Empire, carrying the simple message of the Christ. Everywhere around them was philosophy, and they were ignorant of all philosophies. Everywhere were temples to the gods, and the only temples they had were themselves. Everywhere they were confronted with a powerful faith which was rooted in an immemorial past, and they had to preach the happenings of yesterday—the death of Jesus and the resurrection. Roman patriotism was against them, for every patriot clung to the old gods. Pride was against them, for it was intolerable that one should worship a Jew who had been crucified. And immorality was rampant everywhere, and superstition was a tremendous power, and every act of soldier or of emperor was interpenetrated with ancient ritual. What chance had Jesus in a world like that? He had an excellent chance of being buried. Roman historians made so little of Him that they could not even spell His name correctly. It was a gallant sight to see those eastern preachers carrying the message of their Christ abroad; but everyone was certain that in a dozen years Jesus Christ would be buried in oblivion.

Yet the fact is, that is what never happened. The strange thing is, Jesus could not be hid. In the might of a power that was the power of God, Jesus rose conspicuous in Rome. They tried to hide Him by ignoring Him, but Jesus can never be ignored. They tried it by awful persecution, but persecution was powerless to do it. They tried to hide Him in the cloak of ridicule, wrapping Him in the motley of derision; but the more they tried it, taunting Him with folly, the more He silently showed Himself a King. His name became familiar in the markets. It was whispered by the soldiers in the camp. Where no philosopher had ever entered, Christ entered with His power and His peace. Until at last to the remotest west, and from the cottage to the court of Caesar, there was not a woman but had heard of Calvary, and not a man but knew the name of Jesus. Explain it as you will, these are the facts. That is what happened on the stage of history. Out of an obscurity like night, Christ rose into the gaze of every eye. And it just means that Jesus in the world was the very Jesus who had lived in Galilee. In Rome and Lyons, as in the coasts of Tyre, Jesus could not be hid.
And is not the same thing eminently true as we survey the ages till today? The verdict of all the centuries is this, that there is that in Jesus which is irrepressible. I have seen a rock cleft into twain by a seedling-birch that rooted in the crannies. A seed had fallen, and the spring had quickened it, and it rent its prison-house and rose in beauty. And so in the ages has it been with Christ— He has been buried out of sight a thousand times, and a thousand times when hope was almost dead, the world has learned that He could not be hid. That is the meaning of the Reformation, when Christ stepped forth again out of the darkness. That is the meaning of every revival, when Christ is uplifted and every eye beholds Him. That is the meaning of all social effort, which is so earnest in our land today; for it is Christ who is moving in it all, and He cannot be hid. We have had, in the generation that is passing, an unparalleled criticism of the Bible. Did it not seem as if Christ were to be hid in the clouds of dust from the critics' chariot-wheels? Yet to how many of us Christ is nearer now, and His grace more real, and His love more wonderful; to how many the Bible is a more precious book, because it is the avenue to Him. Science has been powerless to hide Him, though it has lengthened time by millions of years. Astronomy has been powerless to hide Him, though it has cast the earth out of her central place. It is to Christ's ideals we still are working. It is by Christ's standards that we still are judging. It is in Christ's Spirit that we still are hoping for the weakest and the worst of human kind. Heaven and earth have passed away since Galilee, yet every letter you write, you date from Jesus. Commerce is vast and intricate and keen, yet commerce ceases the day when Jesus rose. On every hospital Christ is written large. On every orphanage His name is graven. Through every provision for friendless and for fallen, the pity of His heart is shining still. Think what you will of Christ, there is the fact, that history has been powerless to hide Him. You cannot avoid Him; He confronts you everywhere; He is magnificently and universally conspicuous. And yet this Christ was very meek and lowly, and shrunk from popularity and clamor, and was never happier than with His own, where the waves were lapping on the beach.

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[nChrist]

The Evident Christ - Page 3
by George H. Morrison

Jesus in the Heart

And now in closing, and in a word or two, shall we think of Jesus in the heart? In the heart within as in the world without, Jesus cannot be hid. Of course there is a very real sense in which, when He is ours, He is concealed. He is our life— and can you fathom life? Can you find its secret in the tiniest weed? Search for it, and it lurks within the shadows. Probe for it with the lancet, and it dies. Of every flower which blossoms that is true; and it is true of every Christian man. There must always be a secret in religion— something you cannot tell to anybody. The secret of the Lord is with them that fear Him—always a secret between Him and you. And so the Christian has a hidden life, and it is fed by thanksgiving and prayer, and no one shall ever know how deep it is, until the day when secrets are revealed.

But if Christ in the heart is always hidden thus, it is just as true that He cannot be hid. If Christ be in you, everything is possible, except to hide Him from the light of day. You can never crush Him down and keep Him so. If you can do it, it is not the Christ. The power of the resurrection is within you, and it is mightier than human weakness. Slowly the Master will reveal Himself, like a root out of a dry ground, until at last, over the field of character, there is the swaying of branches in the wind. In one He will be seen in added strength; in another, in unexpected tenderness. One will be filled with a desire to serve; another with a new desire to pray. And some will walk in a new path of rectitude; and some will cease to fret and become happy; and some will no longer be rebellious, but will take up their cross, and be at peace. We may never be aware of what is happening. Moses wist not that his face shone. We shall cry to the last day we live, "God be merciful to me a sinner!" Yet if we trust Him, and if we long to be like Him, and if we have taken Him to be our own, Christ will use us, and He will not be hid in us, any more than in the coasts of Sidon.

____________________

George H. Morrison Devotions

Dist. Worldwide in the Great Freeware Bible Study package called
e-Sword by Rick Meyer: http://www.e-sword.net/downloads.html
Full Featured - Outstanding - Completely FREE - No Strings Attached

(The goal of Rick Meyer is to distribute excellent Bible Study
Software to every country on earth in their own language FREE
of charge, and that goal gets closer by the day.)
____________________

[nChrist]

May 15

The Category of Genius - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

Whom do men say that I am?— Mar_8:27

Impossible to Think of Christ as Genius

Among all the recent answers to this question, there is one that has obtained peculiar prominence. It is the answer that describes our Lord in terms of spiritual or religious genius. As one man has a genius for poetry, and another a genius for mathematics, so are we told today in many quarters that Jesus had a genius for religion. What Shakespeare was within the realm of poetry, and Newton or Kepler within that of science, that, though more conspicuously perhaps, was Jesus in the realm of religion. Now of course there is an element of truth in that, for the one passion of Jesus was religion. It filled His heart; it colored all His life; it was the source of all He said and did. Yet if there be one thing that is growing clearer to me, as I study the mind of Christ in Scripture, it is that the category of genius, as we call it, is quite inadequate to the historic Jesus. I beg to remind you that no man is at liberty to construct a Christ out of his inner consciousness. The one valid procedure for the student is to examine every fact the sources give him. And I wish to show you, if I can, that if a man will only do that seriously, it becomes impossible to think of Christ as genius.

The Achievements of a Genius Can Be Separated from the Personality

Well, in the first place it is a mark of genius that it is separable from its own achievements. This, I think, is not an accident; it is an essential and universal feature. The history of genius is nothing else than the long struggle to liberate its powers. It is the effort to work into expression the forces that are tumultuous within. It is the passion to body out the soul, in block of marble or in word of beauty, which shall live on and be a joy to men when the creator is sleeping in his grave. You can get all the enrichment of a play like Hamlet though you know nothing about William Shakespeare. You can possess the truth of the law of gravitation though you never heard the name of Isaac Newton. You can learn the wonders of modern astronomy, and the interactions of the solar system, though you live in an ignorance as deep as midnight of the life-story of Copernicus. That is the characteristic of all genius. It displays its powers in an external medium. Touched from heaven with the creating impulse, it says, "Let there be light, and there is light." And so the Madonna is a joy forever, though Raphael be but the shadow of a name; and Hamlet feeds us as with the bread of angels, though Shakespeare be inscrutable and still.

You Cannot Separate Jesus' Words and Works from Himself.

Now the moment you turn to the historic Jesus, you are faced by something absolutely different. There is not the faintest suggestion in the records that Christ was struggling to liberate His powers. The one thing you can never do with Christ is to separate His achievement from Himself. His revelation was His personality, and it is through that that He has blessed the world. You can separate the Iliad from Homer, and you can separate Hamlet and Macbeth from Shakespeare, but you can never separate the Redeemer's triumphs from the personality of the Redeemer. The one impression you do not get in Christ is that of forces struggling to express themselves. Christ was not struggling to express Himself; Christ was the expression of the Father. And He was that, not by the way of toil, such as writes anguish on the brow of genius, but naturally and beautifully and constantly, as in the lake is the reflection of the sun. Now I suggest that whatever you call that, it is a misuse of words to call it genius. To talk of Shakespeare and of Raphael and of Christ is to betray an ignorance of data. Think for a moment of what you mean by genius, taking it at its richest and its best, and you will find that it is hopelessly inadequate to cover the fact of the historic Lord.

Genius Varies in Degrees

In the next place, I ask you to observe that genius is a matter of degrees. In one man it is a flame of splendor, and in another it is a tiny spark. There are poets, for instance, of whom we say that undoubtedly they have a touch of genius. Well-nigh every Scottish countryside has had its poet with a touch of genius. There was a touch of genius in Walter Watson, a touch of genius in Hugh Macdonald, a touch of genius in fifty I could name to you, who have sung and sorrowed and suffered at our doors. On some men genius lays her hand so lightly that the touch of her fingers is almost imperceptible. Others she grasps into her straining arms, and breathes her very soul upon their lips. And so at the one extreme you have these gentle souls who have lilted beside innumerable waters, and at the other you have a Dante or a Milton. They are more than talented, these differing men; they are brothers in the gift of genius. Separated by a thousand differences, they are all kindled by a common fire. The humblest maker of a genuine lyric is a true citizen of that immortal kingdom where Chaucer and Spenser and Dryden are the peers, and one who was born by the Avon is the king. Genius, then, has its less and has its more. It is capable of compression and expansion. In one life it is shining as the sun; in another it is gleaming as a star. And all this, mark you, in perfect independence of any theory of what genius is, for we are not discussing that, but taking it in its common acceptation.

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[nChrist]

The Category of Genius - Page 2
by George H. Morrison

Jesus Stands Alone as Unique in History

Now when you study Jesus Christ in Scripture, one impression becomes overwhelming. It grows upon you that He stands alone, in incommunicable, solitary grandeur. The one thing you can never do with Christ is to regard Him as belonging to a class. The one thing that is utterly incredible is that of Him there should be less or more. You may talk of the goodly fellowship of the martyrs, and of the glorious company of the apostles, but over against us all— confronting us— there stands, alone, the person of our Lord. No man cometh to the Father but by Me— no man knoweth the Father but the Son. I am the way— I am the truth— I am the life— he that believeth on Me shall never die. That is not a case of less or more, my brother, that is absolute truth or it is falsehood, and to say that other men can share in that is to say what is irreverent and ridiculous. You may find shadowing of the virgin birth in many a story of the old mythologies. You may find parallels to every word of Jesus in the literatures of India or of Rome. But the inexplicable thing is this, that, when every religion has been ransacked, the deepest impression made by Christ on men is that of an incommunicable grandeur. In the unconditional obedience He demands— in His unparalleled and stupendous claims— in His immediate knowledge of the Father— in the absence of the least consciousness of sin in Him— I say that there is a historic fact which is not only different in degree, but is absolutely different in kind from anything that the world has ever seen. Now we are not discussing what we shall call it; we are simply discussing what we shall not call it. And I suggest that if words have any meaning, whatever we call it we shall not call it genius. And we shall not speak of Shakespeare and Christ again as if they stood upon a common platform. Over against us all, including Shakespeare, there stands forever the figure of our Lord.

Genius Is Notoriously Unhappy

In the next place, I ask you to observe that genius is notoriously unhappy. It is a dowry that is wet with tears, and wrapped in the sable coverings of anguish. Even in the common relationships of life we know how often genius is unhappy. There is such quivering sensibility in genius, that only the grace of God can give serenity. And if you are looking for a happy home, where the wife wakens with a singing heart, you know, if you are students of biography, that it is rarely in the dwellings of genius that you find it. Yet, after all, that is not the deepest of it; the sorrow of genius is a deeper thing. It is the sorrow of the heart that has seen heaven, and yet cannot climb the ladder to the throne. It is the craving of the soul for the ideal; the haunting of visions that are unrealized; the torture, after years of striving, of an imperfect mastery of one's material. When he has poured himself into his best, the genius feels that there is still a better. When he has wrought out his crowning toil, he is still haunted with a sense of failure.

No Sense of Failure Ever Possessed Jesus

And the singular thing about Jesus Christ is this, that no such sense of failure ever touched Him, though He had a task to do so mighty that beside it that of the artist is but play. You never find Jesus craving for the ideal; you find Him always living in the ideal. You never find Him yearning for a better; you find Him always dwelling with the best. You never find Him, when His day is over, crying "Alas, what a failure I have been"; you find Him crying gloriously "It is finished." My brother, if I know anything of genius, most emphatically that is not genius. It is a fact, and genius is a fact, but the two facts belong to different worlds. And he who will have it that Jesus was a genius, has either very hazy thoughts of genius, or else, what is far more deplorable, has very hazy thoughts of Christ.

Genius Makes Us Conscious of Our Distance

Another feature of genius is this, that it always makes us conscious of our distance. Indeed to me that seems one of its essential elements. When I meet with a man of ordinary talent, I am not conscious of any great remoteness. However able my honored brother be, he does not impress me as aloof from me. But whenever I am face to face with genius, even if it only be a spark of genius, then immediately I feel a separation. The life I know best is of course the preacher's life, and that has always been my experience there. When I listen to an average preacher, I am not greatly distressed about my sermons. But when I listen, on some rare occasion, to a preacher of real spiritual genius, then, not as a man but as a minister, I go home miserable and in despair. It is too high for me, I cannot attain unto it. I want to be silent and never preach again. I want to take these sorry sheets of mine, and burn them, and have done with them forever. Such is the feeling that genius creates, a strange disabling sense as of a distance, leading us to feel that all is useless, and bringing us to the margins of despair.

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[nChrist]

The Category of Genius - Page 3
by George H. Morrison

Jesus Made People Feel Very Near Him in Spite of His Uniqueness

I need hardly tell you that in the presence of Christ men never have been conscious of that feeling. The more they have felt His infinite transcendence, the more they have felt that in Him they had a brother. He is nearer to us a thousand times than Dante. He is nearer to us a thousand times than Shakespeare. In our intensest moments, when the deeps are calling, He is nearer to us than our hands and feet. "Come unto Me and I will give you rest," and men in their multitudes have come to Him. The poor have come, and the prodigals have come, and the waifs and strays and wreckage of humanity. Yet I never read amid all that broken earthenware of one who was overwhelmed with Jesus' distance, but I have read of thousands who have cried, "Christ is mine, praise God, and I am His." My brother, whatever you call that, it does not occur to me to call it genius. That is not the impression genius makes, so far as I have any knowledge of the matter. I know how a man feels when faced by Plato. I know how a man feels when faced by Shakespeare. And I know emphatically it is not thus he feels when he is faced by the Lord Jesus Christ.

Genius Evokes Wonder and Not Worship as Jesus Does

And so that leads me to my closing thought, that genius evokes wonder and not worship, and all through the ages worship and not wonder has been faith's final attitude to Christ. From first to last, in the New Testament, Christ is the object of adoring worship. Confronted by no august tradition, the apostles found themselves bowing at His feet. And from that day on to this, every believer in his holiest hours has carried all that he has found in Jesus into the heart of the eternal God. Seeking God's will, he has followed Christ's will; listening for God's voice, he has heard Jesus' voice. The love revealed on the cross is not man's love to him: it is the love that harbors in the heart of God. Until, not as a matter of reasoning, but by sheer power of spiritual impression, he has bowed down and worshipped at Christ's feet. The matter was never more beautifully put than in that exquisite story about Charles Lamb. You remember how Lamb and his friends one evening were talking about people they would like to have met. And one said he would like to have met Chaucer, and another brought up the name of Sir Thomas Browne. And at length that sacred name was mentioned— the name which is above every name. And there was a pause, and then Lamb said, in his slow, gentle, and stammering way, "If Shakespeare came into the room we should all stand up, but if He came in we should all kneel." Saint Charles!—as Thackeray once called thee— thou hadst the right of it with that dear heart of thine. There in a single sentence is the difference, felt always, yet not always uttered. Yes, if Shakespeare came into our midst, we should all stand up, we students, to acclaim him; but if HE came in, we should all kneel.

____________________

George H. Morrison Devotions

Dist. Worldwide in the Great Freeware Bible Study package called
e-Sword by Rick Meyer: http://www.e-sword.net/downloads.html
Full Featured - Outstanding - Completely FREE - No Strings Attached

(The goal of Rick Meyer is to distribute excellent Bible Study
Software to every country on earth in their own language FREE
of charge, and that goal gets closer by the day.)
____________________

[nChrist]

May 16

So Near and Yet So Far - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

Thou art not far from the kingdom of God— Mar_12:34

Difficult to Estimate Crowds and Distances

There are two things which it is very difficult for the uninstructed eye to gauge, the one is the dimensions of a crowd, and the other is the measurement of distance. So much depends on the clearness of the air, and so much on the intervening landscape, that the most accurate observer may find himself at fault when estimating distances in unfamiliar places.

Difficult Also to Estimate How Near You and Others Are to the Kingdom of God
Now as it is in the material world, so is it in the spiritual world. There is nothing harder than to gauge with accuracy how near a man may be to the kingdom of God. I believe there are many whom we think very near it who as a matter of fact are far away. I believe there are many who seem to us far away who in the sight of God are very near. And as this should make everyone of us more earnest, for some may be farther from God than we imagine, so should it make everyone of us more hopeful, for some may be nearer Christ than we conceive. We are often in error in such measurements, and therefore in charity we should avoid them.

Christ Was Never in Error in Judging Others

But of this be sure, that Christ was never in error, never miscalculated in these finer judgments; and here we have Him saying of a scribe, "Thou art not far from the kingdom of God." I want to examine this deeply interesting case. I shall give you some signs that the scribe was near the kingdom. And I do pray that the spirit of Jesus Christ may bring the word right home into your hearts, that one here and another there may say, "Lord is it I, and is it I?"

Signs That This Scribe Was Not Far from the Kingdom of God.

Let us note then some of the signs that this scribe was not far from the kingdom of God. And in the first place, and in a general sense, this is true as a plain fact of history. This scribe was a Jew, trained in the Jewish faith, familiar with the doctrine of the kingdom. He lived in Palestine, in the providence of God, at the very time when Jesus Christ was there. Often would he have seen Him in the streets, often would he have listened to Him talking, and no man could be so near the King without being near the gateway of the kingdom. He was not an African, like Simon of Cyrene, with an ocean between his home and that of Jesus. He was not, like Lydia, a European, born in another continent from Christ. He lived within a stone's-throw of the Master; he studied the very books the Master loved; and doubtless among the followers of Jesus were some whom he would call his friends.

Now there are none of you of whom similar things might not be said. By birth and upbringing and Christian nurture, you are not far from the kingdom of God. It is near you whenever you hear the Gospel. It is near you in every Christian character. The influences of that kingdom are around you; its activities are incalculable in this city. In the providence of God you have been born here, where there is an open Bible and a Christian church— and it may have come even nearer you than that. You may have had a mother who was a saint of God, or a father who was an exemplary Christian; you may have a sister within your home today whose religion you would never dream of doubting. And therefore remember, however vile you be, however foolish or prayerless or unclean, if you want to return you have not far to travel; you are not far from the kingdom of God.

He Had a Great Admiration for the Lord

Again this scribe was not far from the kingdom because he had a great admiration for the Lord. I think we can see, if we read the passage closely, how very warmly this man admired the Master. Probably he had listened to Christ before, and had been deeply stirred by what he heard. Dissatisfied with all his weary studies, there was that in Christ which made him dream of peace. But now, as he heard the discussion with the Sadducees, and saw Christ's masterly handling of these skeptics, all other feelings, dim and ill-defined, gave place to a great and glowing admiration. Had he been a little man his spite would have rejoiced to see his rivals the Sadducees confuted. Had he been a blind and bitter pedant of the schools, he would have been angry at any triumph of the Carpenter. But there was something noble in this scribe— something that lifted him above all petty feeling— he felt he was in the presence of a Master, and was filled with warm and lively admiration. Now whenever a man feels that, I want to say he is not far from the kingdom. You are not a Christian when you admire Christ Jesus, but you are nearer His kingdom than when you jest and sneer. And if I speak to any young man who can say from his heart he admires this man of Nazareth, I urge you to take one other step, just because you are so near the gate. We are not saved by admiring Jesus Christ. We are saved by loving Him and serving Him. It takes something mightier than admiration to pierce to the very deeps of a man's being. But admiration is so akin to love, and is so truly its herald and its harbinger, that if you truly and morally admire Christ, you are not far from the kingdom. Not far, yet on the wrong side of the gate. That is the infinite pity of it all. "O the little more and how much it is; and the little less, and what worlds away." And therefore I appeal to you who are so near, because you so admire the Son of Man, to take the last step of full surrender that you may have the blessing of the free.

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