George H. Morrison's Old And Beautiful Devotions

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Counting the Cost - Page 3
by George H. Morrison

The Secret of Calm Persistence

I have been struck, too, in studying the Scriptures, to note how the great men there learned to count the cost. They were not suddenly dragged into the service. There was no unthinking and unreasoning excitement. God gave to everyone of them a time of silence before their high endeavor. It was as if He laid His hand upon them and said, "My child, go apart for a little, and count the cost." Moses was forty days alone with God. Elijah was in the wilderness alone. Paul, touched by the finger of the Lord whom he had persecuted, took counsel of no flesh, but departed into the loneliness of Arabia. Moses, Elijah, Paul—yes, even Simon Peter going out into the night—were learning the deep lesson of our parable. And whenever I read of the temptations of Jesus, and of how the Spirit of God drove Him apart, and how Satan came and showed Him all the kingdoms, and taught Him a less costly way to sovereignty than by the sweat of Gethsemane and the water and blood of Calvary—whenever I read that and recall how He stood fast, I feel that our Savior had counted the cost Himself. We shall never understand the calm persistence of the glorious company of martyrs and of saints till we go back to that quiet hour at the beginning when they faced every difficulty, weighed every cross, forecast the future, looked at life whole, and then, having counted the cost like reasonable men, took up their stand upon the side of God. A blind acceptance may be justifiable sometimes. But the great hearts were never led that way.

Now I want you to join that reasonable company. I do not know that that is popular doctrine, but I want to get the young men back to the Church of Christ again, and I am willing to risk unpopularity for that. "Come, let us reason together," saith the Lord. "Sit down and count the cost," says Jesus Christ. I do not ask any man to become a Christian blindly. It is the most reasonable act in the whole world. For the sake of a saved life and of a rich eternity you ought to make that reckoning immediately.

____________________

George H. Morrison Devotions

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June 26

The Lost Sheep and the Lost Coin - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

What man of you, having an hundred sheep, if he lose one of them, doth not leave the ninety and nine in the wilderness, and go after that which is lost, until he find it?... Either what woman having ten pieces of silver, if she lose one piece, doth not light a candle, and sweep the house, and seek diligently till she find it?— Luk_15:4-8

"There Is Something Astonishing in the Christian Religion"

In the Catacombs at Rome there is no more familiar painting than that of the Good Shepherd with the straying sheep. Sometimes the other sheep are at His feet, gazing up at Him and at His burden; sometimes He is portrayed as sitting down, wearied with His long and painful journey; but always there is a great gladness in the picture, for the painter had felt, in all its morning freshness, the wonder of the seeking love of God. I trust we shall never lose that sense of wonder. "Let men say what they will," wrote Pascal, "I must avow there is something astonishing in the Christian religion." And there is nothing in it more astonishing than this, that God should have come to seek and save the lost. It is that glad news which lights up all our lesson. It is that truth which, like some strain of unexpected music, makes these two parables a joy forever. We shall never know, till all the books are opened, how much sinful and despairing men have owed to the story of the lost sheep and the lost coin.

He Seeks Them One by One

Now as we read these two parables together, one of the first things to arrest us powerfully is the worth of single souls. It was one sheep the shepherd went to find. It was for one coin the woman searched the house. If a score, say, of the flock had gone missing, we could better understand the shepherd's action. And we might excuse the bustle and the dust if five of the ten coins had rolled away. The strange thing is that with ninety and nine sheep safe, the shepherd should break his heart about the one. The wonder is that for one little coin there should be such a hunt and such a happiness. It speaks to us of the worth of single souls. It tells us of the great concern of God for the recovery of individual men. We are all separated out, and separately loved, by Him who counteth the number of the stars. I have looked sometimes at the lights of a great city, and tried to distinguish one lamp here and there; and I have thought what a perfect knowledge that would be, if a man could discriminate each separate light. But God distinguishes each separate heart. He knows and loves and seeks them one by one. And I can never feel lost in the totality, when I have mastered the chapter for today. I am not one of many with the Master. With Him, souls are not reckoned by the score. I stand alone. He has a hundred sheep to tend, I know it; yet somehow all His heart is given to me.

No Cost Is Too Great

Again this truth shines brightly in these parables: no toil or pains are grudged to win the lost. When the shepherd started after his straying sheep, he knew quite well it was a dangerous errand. He was going to face the perils of the desert, and he took his life in his hand in doing that. True, he was armed; but if a band of robbers intercepted him, what chance had one man of coming off the victor? And who could tell what ravenous beasts lay couched between the shepherd and his vagrant charge? A hireling would never have ventured on the quest. He would have said, "There is a lion in the way." But this shepherd was not to be deterred; he risked all danger; nothing would keep him back, if only he might find and save the lost. The woman, too, was thoroughly in earnest. She spared no pains to get her piece of silver. She lit her candle and she swept the house, till the whole household grumbled at the dust, and charged her not to fuss about a trifle. But the trifle was no trifle to her; and she persisted and swept until she found it. Do you not see what that is meant to teach us? God spares no pain or toils to win the lost. Do you not see where all that is interpreted? It is in the life of our Lord Jesus Christ. He, like the woman, was passionately earnest, till all His household—His own: the Jewish people—murmured at Him in their hearts and hated Him. And He, like the shepherd, ventured on every danger, and for His sheep's sake, took the road to Calvary. No pains, no sorrows, were ever grudged by Him who came into the wilderness to save; and He has left us an example, that we should follow in His steps.

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The Lost Sheep and the Lost Coin - Page 2
by George H. Morrison

Where Are the Lost?

I want you, too, to mark this in our lesson: there is loss in the house as well as in the desert. It was in the wilderness that the sheep was lost. It was far from the fold with its protecting wail. But the coin was not lost in any wilderness—it had not even rolled into the street. It was still in the house; it was within the walls; it was lying somewhere on the dusty floor. So there are multitudes of men lost in heathendom; lost to the joy of the Gospel and the hopes of God in the far countries where Christ was never known. But are there not multitudes who, like the piece of silver, stamped with God's image, coined for useful service, are lying lost and useless in the house? They have been born and nurtured in a Christian country, they are encircled by Christian care and love, they are within the walls of the church visible, they have heard from childhood the message of the Gospel; yet they have never yielded their lives to the Redeemer; within the walls of the homestead they are lost. Are there no lost coins in your home? Give God no rest till by the light of His Spirit they are found.

For What Are They Found?

Note, lastly, in a Word, this joyful truth: the sheep, when found, was carried by the shepherd. He did not drive it before the flock. He did not commit it to the charge of any underling. He laid it rejoicingly on his own shoulders, and on his own shoulders bore it home. When the coin was found it was restored to service; it became useful for the woman's need. But when the sheep was found it was upheld in the strong arm of the shepherd, till the perils of the desert were no more. So everyone who is saved by Jesus Christ is saved to be of service to his Lord. There is some little work for him to do, just as there was for this little piece of silver. But he is not only found that he may serve. He shall be kept and carried like the sheep. He shall find himself borne homeward by a love that is far too strong ever to let him go. It is only when we are leaning upon Christ that we are able to win heavenward at all. He alone keeps us from falling, and can present us faultless before the presence of God's glory, with exceeding joy.

____________________

George H. Morrison Devotions

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June 27

The Two Petitions of the Prodigal

A certain man had two sons: And the younger of them said to his father, Father, give me the portion of goods that calleth to me. And he divided unto them his living— Luk_15:11-12

Father, Give Me

I wonder if my readers ever noticed that the prodigal made two petitions to his father. The first was: "Father, give me." "Give me the portion of goods that falleth to me." The son was growing weary of the home. He felt acutely that he was missing things. The world was big, and the days were going by, and he was young, and he was missing things. It is always bitter, when the heart is young, and the world is rich in visions and in voices, to dwell remote, and feel that one is missing things. The fatal mistake the prodigal made was this—he thought that all that he wanted was far off. He thought that the appeasing of his restlessness lay somewhere over the hills and far away. He was destined to learn better by and by; meantime he must have every penny for his journey, and he came to his father and said, "Father, give me." Mark you, there is no asking of advice. There is no consulting of the father's wishes. There is no effort to learn the father's will in regard to the disposition of the patrimony. It is the selfish cry of thoughtless youth, claiming its own to use just as it will: "Father, give me what is mine."

Father, Make Me

So he got his portion and departed, and we all know the tragic consequences, not less tragic because the lamps are bright, and the wine sparkling, and the faces beautiful. The prodigal tried to feed his soul on sense; and the Lord, in that grim way of His, changes the cups, the music, and the laughter into the beastly routing of the swine. Then the prodigal came to himself. Memories of home began to waken. He lay in his shed thinking of his father. Prayers unbidden rose within his heart. And now his petition was not "Father, give me." He had got all he asked, and he was miserable. His one impassioned cry was, "Father, make me." "Father, make me anything you please. Make me a hired servant if you want to. I have no will but yours now. I am an ignorant child and you are wise." Taught by life, disciplined by sorrow, scourged by the biting lash of his own folly, insistence passed into submission. Once he knew no will but his own will. He must have it, or he would hate his father. Once the only proof of love at home was the getting of the thing that he demanded. But now, "Father, I leave it all to thee. Thou art wise; I have been very foolish. Make me—anything thou pleasest."

Insisting on Nothing, He Got Everything

And surely it is very noteworthy that it was then he got the best. He never knew the riches in the home till he learned to leave things to his father. When he offered his first petition, "Father, give me," the story tells us that he got the money. He got it, and he spent it; in a year he was in rags and beggary. But when the second petition, "Father, make me," welled up like a tide out of the deeps, he got more than he had ever dreamed. "Bring forth the best robe and put it on him." He got the garment of the honored guest. "Bring shoes and put them on his feet, and a ring and put it on his finger." All that was best and choicest in the house, the laid-up riches of his father's treasuries were lavished now on the dusty, ragged child. Insisting on nothing, he got everything. Demanding nothing, he got the choicest gifts. Willing to be whatever his father wanted, there was nothing in the house too good for him. The ring, the robe, the music and the dancing, the vision of what a father's love could be, came when the passionate crying of his heart was, "Father, make me"—anything thou pleasest.

I think that is the way the soul advances when it is following on to know the Lord. Deepening prayers tell of deepening life. Not for one moment do I suggest that asking is not a part of prayer. "Ask, and it shall be given you." "Give us this day our daily bread." I only mean that as experience deepens we grow less eager about our own will, and far more eager to have no will but His.

Disciplined by failure and success, we come to feel how ignorant we are. We have cried "Give," and He has given, but sent leanness to our soul (Psa_106:15). And all the time we were being trained and taught, for God teaches by husks as well as prophets, to offer the deep petition, "Father, make me." He gives, and we bless the Giver. He withholds, and we do not doubt His love. We leave all that to Him who knows us, and who sees the end from the beginning. Like the prodigal, we learn a wiser prayer than the fierce insistence of our youth. It is, "Father, make me"—whatso'er Thou pleasest.

Christ's Prayer

Might I not suggest that this was peculiarly the prayer of the Savior? The deepest passion of the Savior's heart rings out in the petition, "Father, make Me." Not "Father give Me bread, for I am hungry; give Me angels, for I stand in peril." Had He prayed for angels in that hour of peril, He tells us they would have instantly appeared. But, "Father, though there be scorn and shame in it, and agony, and the bitterness of Calvary, Thy will be done; make Me what Thou wilt." How gloriously that prayer was answered, even though the answer was a cross! God made Him (as Dr. Moffatt puts it) our wisdom, that is our righteousness and consecration and redemption. Leave, then, the giving in His hands. He will give that which is good. With the prodigal, and the Savior of the prodigal, let the soul's cry be, "Father, make me."

____________________

George H. Morrison Devotions

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June 28

Coming to Oneself - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

When he came to himself— Luk_15:17

You Are Not Yourself While Unrepentant

In a few graphic touches Jesus delineates the kind of life the prodigal had been leading. With characteristic delicacy He does not give details. He leaves it for the elder brother to do that. We have the picture of a young man wasting his time and money—and what is worse than that, wasting his life—and like most young men who think to live that way, finding plenty of both sexes to join him. He is self-willed, self-indulgent, riotous—and we are just on the point of calling him contemptible. We are just on the point of thinking how to one like Jesus the prodigal must be infinitely loathsome. When suddenly a single phrase arrests us, and opens a lattice into the mind of Christ, and makes us suspend judgment on the prodigal. "When he came to himself"—when he became himself—then in his years of riot he was not himself. It was not the prodigal who was the real man. The real man was the penitent, not the prodigal. He was never himself until his heart was breaking, and the memories of home came welling over him—till he cried, "I will arise and go to my father, and say unto him, Father, I have sinned."

Sin Is Madness

I may note in passing how we have caught that tone in the kindly allowances we often make. This parable has not only influenced thought; like all the parables it has also affected language. When someone whom we love is cross or irritable, we say of him, "He's not himself today." When one whom we have known for years does something unworthy, we say, "Ah, that's not himself at all." And what is that but our instinctive certainty that man is more than his vices or his failures, and that if you want to know him as he is, you must take him at the level of his best. It was always thus that Jesus judged humanity. He was a magnificent and a consistent optimist. He never made light of sin, never condoned it. To Him it was always terrible and tragic. But then the sinner was not the real man; sin was a bondage, a tyranny, a madness; and it was when the tyranny of sin was broken that a man came to his true self.

He Left Home to Find Himself

I would remark, too, about this prodigal, that his one object in leaving home was just to find himself. When he went away into the far country, he imagined he was coming to his own. Life was intolerable on that lonely farm. There was no scope there for a young fellow's energy. And why should he be eating out his heart when the thousand voices of the world were calling him? And youth was short, and he must have his day; and he wanted to go and sound life to the deeps. So in the golden morning of desire he went away to the far country. It was impossible to realize himself at home. He would realize himself now, and with a vengeance. He would live to the finest fibre of his being, and come to his own in the whole range of manhood. And then, with the exquisite irony of truth, Christ shows him beggared and broken and despairing, and tells us that only then, when he was dead, did he come to his true self. It is not along the path of self-willed license that a man ever reaches his best and deepest self. To be determined at all costs to enjoy is the most tragical of all mistakes. We come to ourselves when we deny ourselves; when life has room for sacrifice and service; when the eyes are lifted to the love of heaven, and the heart is set upon the will of God.

Jesus Rebukes Peter for Not Being Himself When He Tried to Dissuade Jesus from the Cross

That our text was no chance expression of the Master's we may gather from many Gospel passages. Think for example of that memorable hour when Jesus was journeying to Jerusalem. Our Lord had begun to speak plainly of His death, drawing the veil from the agony of Calvary; and it was all so shocking and terrible to Peter, that Peter had taken Christ to task for it. "Far be it from Thee, Lord; this never shall befall Thee. While I have a sword to draw they shall not touch Thee." And then the Lord flashed round on His disciple, and said to him, "Get thee behind me, Satan." Only an hour before he had been Peter—"Thou art Peter, and on this rock I build." That was the true Peter, moved of God, kindled into the rapture of confession. But this was not Peter, though it was Peter's voice. It was something lesser and lower than the rock. Possessed by a spirit unworthy of his highest—"Get thee behind Me, Satan." In other words, Peter was not himself then, anymore than the rioting prodigal was himself. There were heights in him that no one saw but Christ. There were depths in him that none but Christ had fathomed. And the glory of Christ is that in these heights and depths, and not in the meaner things that were so visible, He found the real nature of the man on whose confession the church was to be founded. It is easy to measure Peter by his fall. It is easy to measure any man by failure. Vices are more visible than virtues, and form a ready-reckoner of character. But not by their worst does Jesus measure men; not by their lowest and their basest elements. Through fall and sin and denial, "Thou art Peter"—until at last he was Peter in very deed.

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Coming to Oneself - Page 2
by George H. Morrison

We Are Responsible for Our Actions Even When We Are Not Ourselves

Of course in such a hopeful, splendid outlook there is no lessening of responsibility. A man is not less guilty for his failures, because they do not represent his real manhood. I have seen children playing with one another, and one would slap the other and say, "I never touched you." And when the other said, "You did, I saw you," the reply was, "It wasn't me, it was my hand." There is not a little in the maturer world of that ungrammatical and infant hypocrisy. It is so easy to make excuses for ourselves, and to say, "We were ill—we were worried—it was not really me." But perhaps in all the circle of bad habits, there is no habit more fatally pernicious than the habit of making excuses for ourselves. We should always have excuses for our neighbors. We should never have excuses for ourselves. To palliate and condone our own defections is the sure way to rot the moral fibre. A man should make allowances for everybody, for we know not what is the secret story; but heaven help the man, and help his character, when he begins to make allowance for himself. You will note that the prodigal made no excuses. He never said, "Young men must be young men." He never said, "My passions are my heritage, and you must make some allowance for warm blood." What he did say was, "Father, I have sinned—I have been a selfish and good-for-nothing reprobate"; and it was then, when his worst was in his own eyes, that his best was in the eyes of Christ. In spite of His wonderful sympathy and pity, there is a note of intense severity in Christ—"If thy right hand offend thee, cut it off. If thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out"—and in every life that is inspired by Christ there must be the echo of that same severity, urging itself not against any brother, but against the wickedness on its own bosom. I never find Jesus making any allowance for the man who makes allowance for himself. Just in proportion as you are stern with self, will the Redeemer be merciful with you. Not through the meadows of easy self-excuse, but down by the very margin of despair, does a man come, as came the prodigal, to the reach and the reality of manhood.

Christ Wants to Make Us Ourselves

I would further remark that when He was on earth that was one great aim of Jesus' toil. It was not to make men and women angels. It was to make men and women their true selves. They could do nothing without faith in Him, and therefore He was at all pains to quicken that; but away at the back of their dawning faith in Him, was His magnificent and matchless faith in them. "Ye are the light of the world; ye are the salt of the earth"—did you ever hear such wild exaggeration? All this for a little company of rustics, provincial, unlettered, undistinguished? Ah yes, but under the warmth of such a faith in them these natures were so to grow and so to ripen, that every syllable of that audacity was to prove itself literally true. The boys at Rugby used to say of Dr. Arnold, "It would be mean to tell him a lie, he trusts us so." All that was best in them began to germinate under the influence of Dr. Arnold's faith. And if it was so under the trust of Arnold, what must have been the influence of Christ, when a man felt that he was trusted by those eyes that saw into the depths. Christ aimed at more than making people better; His aim and object was to make them themselves. He saw from the first hour all that was hidden in Simon and Matthew, Lazarus and Mary. And then He lived with them, and showed what He expected, and hoped undauntedly and never wearied, until at last, just like the prodigal, they came to their true selves. It took far more than their faith in Christ to do that. It took the superb faith of Christ in them. The sheep was still a sheep though in the desert. The son was still a son although a prodigal. And it was this—this faith of Christ in men—that drew them to their highest and their best, as a flower is drawn into its perfect beauty by the gentle influence of the summer sun.

When We Are Ourselves, We Are Free

And that is the reason why the follower of Christ is the possessor of the largest freedom. The nearer a man is to being himself, the nearer is he to sweet liberty. We go into certain companies, for instance, and we speedily feel that we are not at home there. What is the word we use to express that? We say we are constrained—that is, imprisoned. But by our own fireside, and among those who love us, we are not constrained, we have a perfect liberty; and at the basis of that social liberty there lies the fact that there we are ourselves. It is the same in the deeper world of morals. When we are ourselves, then are we free. It is not freedom to do just as we please in defiance of all the laws that girdle us. Freedom is power to realize ourselves; to move unfalteringly towards the vision; and the paradox of Christianity is this, that that comes through obedience to Christ. Think of the schoolgirl practicing her music. Is not that the weariest of bondage? Is this the happy face we saw so lately, flushed with the eager merriment of play? But set down the musical genius at the instrument, and get him to interpret some great master, and the thoughts which he utters are the master's thoughts, and yet he is magnificently free. The child is in bondage, the genius is at liberty. The child is unnatural; the genius is himself. The child is slaving under an outward law. The genius has the spirit of the master. And "if any man have not the spirit of Christ," then, says the Scripture, "he is none of His." "When he came to himself." My brother and my sister, the pathway to that is coming to the Savior. Jesus believes in you, and in your future, and in a best that is higher than your dreams. Respond to that splendid confidence tonight. This very hour say, "I will arise." The past is disgraceful; but the past is clone with. Thank God, there will be a different tomorrow

____________________

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
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(The goal of Rick Meyer is to distribute excellent Bible Study
Software to every country on earth in their own language FREE
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June 29

Homesickness of the Soul - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

And when he came to himself, he said, "How many hired servants of my father's have bread enough and to spare, and I perish with hunger!'— Luk_15:17

A Little Light on a Dark Subject

A very fresh and delightful American writer, John Burroughs—a man who often reminds us of our own Richard Jefferies—has given us in one of his books a most illuminative and suggestive paper on Carlyle. Mr. Burroughs visited Carlyle in London—his essay is called "A Sunday in Cheyne Row"—and with great tenderness, and wisdom, and literary skill he has recorded his impressions of the visit. Now I am not going to speak of Mr. Burroughs, nor am I going to preach about Carlyle; but there was one phrase in that essay that seemed to me very memorable: "homesickness of the soul." "A kind of homesickness of the soul was on Carlyle,'' says Mr. Burroughs, "and it deepened with age."

That, then, is the topic on which I wish to speak. My subject is the homesickness of the soul. I want to take the thought that the soul is homesick, and use it to shed a little light on dark places. Perhaps we shall proceed more comfortably together if I divide what I have to say under two heads. (1) Under this light we may view the unrest of sin. (2) Under this light we may view the craving for God.

Under This Light We May View the Unrest of Sin

It is notable that it was in this light that Jesus viewed it, in the crowning parable from which we have taken our text. The prodigal was an exile; he was in a far country. It was the memory of his home that filled his heart. There are conceptions of the awakened sinner that make him the prey of an angry and threatening conscience. And I know that sometimes, when a man comes to himself, he can see nothing and hear nothing in the universe but the terrors and judgments of a sovereign God. But it was not terror that smote the prodigal deep. It was home, home, home, for which his poor soul was crying. He saw the farm, bosomed among the hills, and the weary oxen coming home at eventide, and the happy circle gathered round the fire, and his father crying to heaven for the wanderer. His sorrow's crown of sorrows was remembering happier things. He came to himself, and he was homesick.

Now I think that Jesus would have us learn from that that wickedness is not the homeland of the soul, and that all the unrest and the dissatisfaction of the wicked is just the craving of his heart for home. We were not fashioned to be at home in sin. We bear the image of God, and God is goodness. The native air of this mysterious heart is the love and purity and joy of heaven. So when a man deliberately sins, and all the time hungers for better things, it is not the hunger for an impossible ideal; it is the hunger of his soul for home. Ah! do not forget that you can satisfy that hunger instantly. Now, out of the furthest country, in a single instant of time, you may come home. We are not like the emigrant in the far west of Canada longing for Highland hills he will not see for years. God waits. Christ says, "Return this very hour." "Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow."

In that very fascinating little volume by Charlotte Yonge, in which she narrates the history of the Moors in Spain, there are few pages more enthralling than those in which she tells the story of Abderraman. Abderraman was the first Moorish Khalif in Spain. He was an Eastern, bred by the Euphrates. There was no great beauty in the scenes where he spent his childhood. And his Spanish home, in the old city of Cordova, seems to have been a fairy palace of delight. Yet among all the groves and towers and fountains of fair Cordova, Abderraman was miserable—it was banishment. And when he got a palm tree from his Syrian home, and planted it in his Spanish garden, one of the old ballads of the Arabs tells us that he could never look at it without tears. Do you not think that the children of Cordova would mock at that? It was their home, and they were very happy. They could not understand this Oriental, unhappy and restless among the garden groves. And my point is that you will never understand the soul's unrest, amid the exquisite delights of sense and sin, unless it is hungering for another country, as Abderraman hungered for his Syrian dwelling. It is not facts, it is mysteries, that keep me from materialism. I believe in the cravings of the human heart, and they overturn a score of demonstrations. If I were a creature of a few nerves and fibbers only, I should be very happy in my Cordova. But we were made in goodness, and we were made for goodness; and the native air of the soul is love and truth; and we shall always be dissatisfied, always be homesick, if we are trying to live in any other land.

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[nChrist]

Homesickness of the Soul - Page 2
by George H. Morrison

This thought, too, helps us to understand why men cover evil with a veil of goodness. It is just the longing of the exile or of the emigrant to give a homelike touch to his surroundings. Why do you find an Inverness in Canada? Because men and women from Inverness went there. And why do you find a Glasgow in Canada? Because it reminded these Glasgow men of home. Do you know what James Chalmers of New Guinea—the greatest soul on the Pacific, as Stevenson called him—do you remember what he called the first bay he discovered in New Guinea? He called it lnveraray Bay. I do not think he would ever have dreamed of that name had he not been born and spent his boyhood by Loch Fyne. And when I see men taking the names of goodness and labeling their vices and their sins with them, when I note how ready we all are to use a kindly term for some habit or frailty that is most unkindly, I think that it is the soul telling where it was born, confessing unconsciously that it is a little homesick, and trying to give a homelike touch to the far country, just like James Chalmers with his Inveraray Bay.

And we can understand the loneliness of sin when we remember this homesickness of the soul. The man who is homesick is always lonely. It does not matter how crowded the streets are; the city may be gay and bright and brilliant, but all the stir of it, and all the laughter of it, and all the throng and tumult of the life of it will not keep a homesick man from being lonely. Nay, sometimes it intensifies his loneliness. It is made more acute by the contrast of the crowd. It is not in the quiet spaces of great nature, it is among the crowds whom you will meet today, that the bitterness of loneliness is found. Now sin is a great power that makes for loneliness. Slowly but surely, if a man lives in sin, he drifts apart into spiritual isolation. And the strange thing is that the sins we call social sins, the sins that begin in fellowship and company, are the very sins that drive a man apart, and leave him at last utterly alone. That loneliness is homesickness of the soul. It is the heart craving for home again. God grant that if in this house there be one man who is drifting away on a great sea of wretched self-indulgence, from wife and child or mother and sister and friend—God grant that, drawn by the love of Christ, he may come home!

Under This Light We May View the Craving for God

We often speak of heaven as our home, and in many deep senses that is a true expression. If in heaven we shall meet again those whom we loved and lost, and if boys and girls will be playing in the streets of Zion, I have no doubt that heaven will be a homelike place. But in deeper senses heaven is not our home, or if it is, it is just because God is there. In the deepest sense our home is not heaven, but God. Do you remember how Wordsworth put it in his glorious "Ode on the Intimations of Immortality from Childhood"? I think a lesser poet would have written it thus, "Trailing clouds of glory do we come from God, who is our home."

Our God, our help in ages past,

Our hope for years to come,

Our shelter from the stormy blast,

And—our eternal home.

God is the true home of the human soul.

Do you see, then, the meaning of that craving for God that is one of the strangest facts in human history? You would have thought that in a world like this, so full of interest, color, music, and delight, mankind would have lived in contentment without God. But the Book of Psalms is filled with that passionate craving—"As the hart pants after the water-brooks." And if the Book of Psalms has lived through chance and change, and been cherished when ten thousand volumes are forgotten, it is largely because it gives a voice in noblest poetry to this unappeased hunger of mankind. We do not crave for God because He is glorious. We do not crave for God because He is sovereign. We are just homesick, that is the meaning of it. We crave for God because He is our home.

Now this homesickness of the soul for God is one of our surest proofs of God. It is an argument more powerful than any that philosophy affords to convince me that there is a God. We are all grateful when a prince of science like Lord Kelvin tells us he is forced to believe in a directive power. But in a day or two you will have someone writing to the Times denying the validity of that induction. But no one denies that souls still pant for God. And hearts today and here still thirst for Him, as truly as the exiled psalmist did. And unless life be a sham, and unless we were born and fashioned to be mocked, there cannot be homesickness without a home. I crave for food, and mother earth holds out her hands to me and says, "Yes, child, there is food." I crave for happiness; and the shining of the sun, and the song of birds, and the sound of music, and the laughter of children come to my heart and say to me, "There it is." I crave for God. And will the universe reverse its order now? Will it provide for every other instinct, and call the noblest of them all a mockery? It is impossible. Without a home, homesickness is inexplicable. My craving for God assures me that God is. All other arguments may fail me. When my mind is wearied, and my memory tired, I forget them. But this one, knit with my heart, and part and parcel of my truest manhood, survives all moods, is strong when I am weak, and brings me to the door of God my home.

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[nChrist]

Homesickness of the Soul - Page 3
by George H. Morrison

One of the saddest letters in all literature is a letter written by the poet, David Gray. David Gray was born eight miles from Glasgow; he went to the Free Church Normal in this city. His honest father would have made a preacher of him, but God forestalled that by making him a poet. Well, nothing would satisfy David but he must go to London. He suffered much there and fell into consumption. And this is one of his last letters home:—"Torquay, Jan. 6, 1861. Dear Parents,—I am coming home—homesick. I cannot stay from home any longer. What's the good of me being so far from home and sick and ill? O God! I wish I were home never to leave it more! Tell everybody that I am coming back—no better: worse, worse. What's about climate, about frost or snow or cold weather, when one's at home? I wish I had never left it .... I have no money, and I want to get home, home, home. What shall I do, O God! Father, I shall steal to you again, because I did not use you rightly .... Will you forgive me? Do I ask that? I have come through things that would make your hearts ache for me—things that I shall never tell to anybody but you, and you shall keep them secret as the grave. Get my own little room ready quick, quick; have it all tidy, and clean, and cozy, against my homecoming. I wish to die there, and nobody shall nurse me except my own dear mother, ever, ever again. O home, home, home!"

I will arise and go unto my Father. Thank God we need no money for that journey. Is there not one reader who has been far away, who is going to come home—to God—this very hour?

____________________

George H. Morrison Devotions

Dist. Worldwide in the Great Freeware Bible Study package called
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(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.)
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[nChrist]

June 30

The Prodigal Son

And he arose, and came to his father. But when he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and had compassion and ran, and fell on his neck, and kissed him— Luk_15:20

The Tenderness of Jesus' Words

A friend of mine was on one occasion visiting one of our seaport hospitals. It chanced that at the time of her visit two Russian sailors were lying ill there; both of them rough, wild men who had led a wandering and riotous life. With a silent prayer to God that He would guide her to some suitable passage of Scripture, she read to them the parable of the prodigal son. And great was her wonder when she looked up from her book, and saw tears streaming down the sailors' cheeks. They had never heard the parable before. It broke on them freshly with its matchless music. It touched some of those secret chords that had lain silent through many a sinful year. And my friend used to say that she never realized the reach and the tenderness of Jesus' words, till she read them, without note or comment in that ward. Is there no danger in a too familiar Bible? Have we not read and read again such passages as these, till we have almost ceased to feel the wonder of them? It is a heavenly mind, said Thomas Boston, that is the best interpreter of Scripture.

Self-Will Leads to Misery

Now first let us note how self-will leads to misery. Like many another child of other countries, this younger son chafed at the bonds of home. He wanted to live; he wanted to see the world; it was intolerable for a young fellow like him to be pent up in that lonely farm. His heart was away, long before he left. He had really wandered before he ever set out. So he came to his father and he got his portion; and without a thought of the sore hearts at home, he started lightly for the far country. I daresay the sun had never shone so brightly, and the world was never so magical, so intoxicating, as on that morning when he left the farm. Now he had burst the shackles, now he was going to be free—and before long, instead of being free, he found that he had made himself a slave. It was a sweet slavery for a little while; but the sweetness passed and the degradation came. Then (for troubles never come singly) there broke out a great famine in the land, until at last there was nothing left for him but to take service with some citizen and feed his swine—and you know what degradation that was for a Jew. It was to this that his self-will had brought him. He longed to be free, and he was free to starve. It was a strangely different world, out with the swine, from the world that had danced before him when he started—and he had no one to blame for it except himself. He had been self-willed, and now he was self-made. There was a way that had seemed right in the man's eyes, and he was finding that its end was death.

It Was the Prodigal's Want That Turned His Heart Homeward

Again mark that it was the prodigal's want that turned his heart homeward. In his days of pleasure he had forgotten his home. Life sped so merrily when money was plentiful, that he hardly ever gave a thought to his father. And had his portion only lasted long enough, he might have been forgetful till he died. But the day came when he began to be in want, and on the back of his hunger memory revived. He had never known the value of his home till he was homeless in a stranger's field. But he knew it then; he saw it clearly then. His need set everything in its true light. And then urged by his destitution, and spurred by these happy visions of love and plenty, he was thrilled by the strong purpose to return. Had he sat still and only dreamed of home, he would have been the victim of remorse. When he rose up and started out for home he was the subject of genuine repentance. For repentance, says the catechism, is a saving grace, whereby a sinner out of a true sense of his sin, and apprehension of the mercy of God in Christ doth, with grief and hatred of his sin, turn from it unto God, with full purpose of, and endeavor after, new obedience.

The Father's Love: Strong and Deep

Then note how strong and deep the father 's love was. The prodigal had well-nigh forgotten his father, but the father had never forgotten his younger son. He never waked in the morning but it flashed on him that perhaps the wanderer would come home today. His heart had given a strange leap many a time when he spied a distant figure on the hill. But always it was another disappointment and a stronger entreaty arose in the evening prayer. But today there was no disappointment. However ragged and haggard and way worn, he would have recognized that figure in a thousand. They say that love is blind, but the love of the prodigal's father was not so. His love, then, was unchanging, ever watchful; but it was more, it was generous, royal, forgiving. There is the kiss of peace; there is the noble welcome; there is never a whisper of "I told you so." I think that if the elder brother had met the prodigal, he would have sneaked him round and in by the back door. But the love of the father wishes no concealment; the whole house must be sharers in the joy. Is not that worthy of the name of love ? Do you not say such love is wonderful? Yet that is the picture of the love of God when He pardons and welcomes and blesses you and me.

The Unbrotherliness of the Elder Brother

Note lastly how unbrotherly the elder brother was. He was almost unworthy to have such a father. He took the feasting as a personal insult: he cannot call him brother—"this thy son." You might have thought he would have been glad to get him home. Instead of that he was angry at the welcome. And he who loveth not his brother whom he hath seen, how shall he love God whom he hath not seen? The younger brother had been selfish once; but the elder brother was selfish all along. The younger brother had a broken heart; the elder brother knew not his need of one. The younger brother, through bitterness and famine, had realized the priceless worth of love; but the elder brother, with everything he wanted, was loveless still. God keep us from the narrow and nasty spirit! May we all grow brotherly, and never elder-brotherly. And we shall never do that if in every evening prayer, amid all the joy and thanksgiving of grateful hearts, we whisper seriously, "Father, I have sinned, and am no more worthy to be called Thy son."

____________________

George H. Morrison Devotions

Dist. Worldwide in the Great Freeware Bible Study package called
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(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.)
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[nChrist]

July 1

The Elder Brother

Now his elder son was in the field— Luk_15:25

Seeing beneath the Regularities

There is not a little that is excellent in the character of the elder brother, and our Lord, with His eye for what is fine, is careful to bring that into the picture. For instance, the man was diligent—he was getting back from the field when all this happened. The prodigal was returning from debauchery: he was returning from his work. He had been busy on the farm since early morning, keeping a watchful eye on everything, and now at twilight he was getting home. Not only was he diligent; he had also been a pattern of obedience. He could assert, with a perfectly clear conscience, that he had never transgressed against his father. In all such excellent attributes of character he was immeasurably superior to the prodigal, and that the Master freely recognizes. The strange thing about Christ is how He gets below these outward regularities. He pierces through the ordering of habit into the secret spirit of the heart. And how He does that here, till we see the real man, and feel that we should know him if we met him, is one of the most arresting things in Scripture.

Unappreciative of His Privileges

To begin with, we see him as a man who was utterly unappreciative of his privileges. He was the kind of person who always bears a grudge. Every day he had his father's company, and the blessed society of home. His father's love was round about him constantly, and everything the father had was his. Yet in the midst of all that wealth of privilege the man had walked with an ungrateful heart—thou never gavest me a kid. When anyone breaks out like that, it is not so extemporaneous as it seems. It is the boiling over, in some heated moment, of what has long been simmering in the heart. That is the worst of many a bitter word, with its sometimes irreparable consequences, that reveals, as in a flash of lightning, what has been festering in the hidden soul. Thou never gavest me a kid—the thought had been there through many a long day. One trifling little thing had been withheld, and it had turned the music into discord. With lavish hand the father had given everything—all that I have is thine—and the man had been brooding on one thing never given. Are there not many people just like that? God has been wonderfully good to them; but because some one thing has been withheld they bear a grudge, and have the bitter heart. And yet they may be industrious and diligent, and obedient to the daily calls of life, just like the elder brother in the parable.

Hardened toward His Brother

Again our Lord reveals him as a man who was utterly hardened toward his brother. He was diligent and obedient—but hard. There is one exquisite touch which makes that plain—the word brother is never on his lips. He does not say, "My brother has returned"; he says, "This thy son is come again"—and sometimes a word (or the absence of a word) lights up the hidden chambers of the heart. The prodigal was his father's son; nothing on earth could alter that relationship. "Thy son"—the word was uttered with a sneer, and a sneer may be deadlier than a sword. But brother—the word had died out of his speech, because the love it carries had died out of his heart—the prodigal no longer was his brother. He had ceased to be his brother long ago. He had ceased when he became a prodigal. The elder had no kinship with the junior. His heart had no room for ne'er-do-wells. Yet with that unbrotherly and hardened heart (as the Lord is so careful to remind us) the man was a pattern of industry and diligence. How searching is the eye of Christ! How unerringly He sees the deeps! I suppose the Pharisees thought that they were models, till the Lord revealed what was hidden in the darkness. And sometimes, in the strict performance of our duties, He gives us also a little glimpse of that, and we cry, "God be merciful to me a sinner."

Out of Sympathy with His Father

Again we see this man, for all his excellencies, utterly out of sympathy with his father. His attitude to the younger brother involves that. Of whom had the father been thinking every day? He had been thinking of the prodigal. He had been praying for him—he had been longing for him—he had been watching for him through the weary months. And always beside him was his elder son, with his heart utterly hardened to the prodigal—father and son a million miles apart. The real prodigal was the elder brother. He was farther away than was the ne'er-do-well. Between him and the father's loving heart there stretched a quite immeasurable distance. Yet he was at home, and under the same roof, and in his father's presence every day, while the prodigal was in an alien land. How often we light on that in human life! Two may be near each other, and yet far away. Two may wake and sleep in the same dwelling, yet be more distant than if oceans parted them. And that is what Jesus felt about those Pharisees, to whom this parable was spoken—they were so near and yet they were so far. Sitting in the very seat of Moses, they were strangers to the loving heart of God. Thronging the Father's House, they shared not the Father's yearning for the prodigal. Yet were they diligent, scrupulous, exact—earnest toilers in the field of Scripture—just like the elder brother of the parable.

The Father Loved the Unlovable Elder Son

In closing, we should never forget that the father loved that elder son. He was not lovable, but the father loved him. Did he run (exquisite touch!) to meet the prodigal? He acted similarly with the elder brother. He left the song and dance to go and find him. He could not leave him, embittered, in the darkness. And when he found him—he, the Eastern father whose prerogative was to command—he stooped in fatherly yearning and entreated him. Then follows that charming touch of Jesus, for the father did not call him son. He called him child—so is it in the Greek—and child is a word of tenderest affection. Doubtless the prodigal was far more lovable—ne'er-do-wells are often very lovable. This elder brother (like many other people) was just a little difficult to love. And the triumph of the art of Jesus is not that He makes the father love the prodigal, but that He makes him love the elder brother. What Jesus teaches is that that is God. His love embraces folk who are not lovable. So mighty is it that it sweeps into its circuit folk who are very difficult to love. "For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish."

____________________

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]

July 2

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

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

An Inexhaustible Parable

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

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

He Could Not Understand His Father's Ways

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

He Was Indignant with His Brother

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

======================See Page 2

[nChrist]

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

He Trusted the Reports of Others

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

He Missed What He Most Needed

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

He Missed the Joy

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

He Missed a Chance to Serve

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

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George H. Morrison Devotions

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July 3

Our Duty Toward Our Equals - Page 1
by George H. Morrison

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

The Elder Brother's Duty toward His Younger Brother

The moral failure of the elder brother is very significant in one respect. It was a failure in the sphere of duty to an equal. As a son he had given every satisfaction, and with a good conscience he insists on that. Faithfully, and with creditable patience, he had served his father for these many years. Probably, too, no fault could be found with him in his practical management of the estate, nor in his conduct toward the servants on the farm. Toward his superiors—for in Jewish eyes the superiority of fatherhood is great—toward his superiors he was all that could be wished for. Toward his inferiors he was blameless, and no fault attaches to him there. The point to be noted is that where he failed, and failed in a shocking and contemptible way, was in his duties toward his equals. True, one was older and the other younger; one had the privileges of the first-born. Yet were they brothers, born of the same mother, sharers together of the home of infancy. And this was the point of failure in his life, not his duty to superiors or to inferiors, but his duty to one whose birth and upbringing put him on the platform of equality. I want to talk with you for a little on our duties toward our equals.

The Comparative Silence of the New Testament on Our Duty to Our Equals

Now it will at once occur to you, hearing that theme, how little is said of it in the New Testament. On the matter of our duty to our equals, the New Testament is comparatively silent. It speaks to us, not infrequently, of the duty which we owe to our superiors. Men are to reverence those who sit in Moses' seat; they are to render unto Caesar the things which are Caesar's; they are to pray for kings and all who are in authority. It speaks constantly of our duty to inferiors. That is one great theme of the New Testament. Everywhere, with all variety of appeal, that is insisted on and urged. But as we read the Gospels and Epistles we gradually become aware of a strange silence—it is the silence, the comparative silence of the Gospel, on the matter of our duty to our equals. That does not mean that such duties were of little consequence to the men who have given us our New Testament. It means that there were certain causes, which inevitably put the emphasis elsewhere. Let me suggest three of these causes to you.

The Causes for Such Silence: The Stress on Christian Humility

In the first place, there was that new humility which was present so powerfully in Christian character. Working in the heart of the newborn, it did not suggest equality at all. However glad was the good news of the Gospel, however it cheered and comforted the world, one of its first effects on human hearts was to deepen the sense of personal unworthiness. And this deep feeling of personal unworthiness so colored every estimate of self, that men were readier to deny than to assert their equality with anyone whatever. When Peter, overpowered and awestruck, cried, "Depart from me, O Lord, for I am a sinful man"; when Paul, in the ripeness of his vast experience, thought of himself as just the chief of sinners, you have a frame of mind that was widespread, and was the peculiar creation of the Gospel, and yet a frame that was far from ready to assert equality with anybody. Similarly, the only greatness in the kingdom lay in being a servant in the kingdom. It was to him who took the lowest place that Christ promised the blessing and the honor. And Paul, preaching what he practiced, as he ever practiced what he preached, bade his readers "in lowliness of mind esteem the other better than themselves." Now in all this there is no denial of the fact that we all have our equals. The Gospel is always true to human nature, and that is one of the facts of human nature. But you will readily understand how men, dominated by a new-born humility, were not in a mood to give immediate prominence to the duties which imply equality.

The Causes for Such Silence: The Stress on Compassion

The second reason is to be found in this—in the Gospel message of compassion. That was so new, so new and so amazing, that for a little it obscured all else. There may be elements in the ethic of the Gospel which were familiar to the older world. That is exactly what we should expect, since God has never left Himself without a witness. But there was one thing in the Gospel which was new, and set it apart from all the thought of ages, and that was its magnificent insistence on the need and the blessing of compassion. For the first time in the world the grace of pity was placed in the very center of the virtues. For the first time tenderness of heart was made a manly and a noble thing. And such was the thrill of this discovery, and the power it gained over the hearts of men, that it dimmed the thought of duty towards equals. It was the Christian's mark to be compassionate —to help the poor, to cheer the solitary. He went to the least and lowest of mankind, in the great love wherewith His heart was burning. And you cannot wonder that that great enthusiasm, so utterly unknown in paganism, pushed into the background, as it were, the statement of our duty towards equals.

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Our Duty Toward Our Equals - Page 2
by George H. Morrison

The Causes for Such Silence: The Stress on the Indwelling Christ Who Has No Equal

But there is another reason, not opposed to these, yet standing just a little apart from them. It is the fact that Christian morality is so vitally dependent upon Christ. Paul never thought of morals by itself. He never spoke of isolated ethics. For him to live—in every realm of life—for him to live was Christ. To be like Christ was his idea of goodness; to be in Christ his idea of glory; to follow in the steps of Christ was his compendium of all morality. Now the very foundation of the Church was this, that Jesus Christ had no equal. "Thou art the Christ, the Son of the living God"—it was on that foundation that the Church was built. Neither in heaven above nor on earth beneath had Jesus Christ a duty to His equal. Now of course it does not follow that we have none, because our incomparable Lord had none. To assert that would have been blasphemy. But you can understand how to men, for whom Christ was all and in all, the subject of duty towards equals was not one that would be largely handled. It is in these ways we must explain the comparative silence of Scripture on the subject. It is not because in the eyes of the Apostles the matter was one of subordinate importance. It is because they were enthralled by the new joy that had come to them in the new message of the Gospel, a message of One who though He was rich, yet for our sakes became poor.

Duties to Our Equals Are Hard to Perform

Now probably there are no duties harder to perform, as there are none more beneficial to the character, than the duties we owe to our equals. It is not always agreeable or easy to fulfil our duty to our inferiors. Nor is it always agreeable or easy to live towards our superiors as we ought. But perhaps in the whole range of duty that which makes the most severe demands upon us, is not our duty to inferiors or superiors, but is our duty to our equals. Let me recall one or two facts which indicate how commonly men fail here.

Failures of Our Duties to Our Equals: In the Family Circle

In the first place, we may see it in the narrow compass of the family circle. There are many—it is to be feared—many homes where the spirit of the elder brother still survives. Take each member of the circle separately, and you find each to be amiable and useful. One may be in an office—one a nurse—one a diligent visitor to the poor. And all these duties they faithfully fulfil, working for those set over them most loyally, or cheering, by the word and deed of comfort, the poor who are entrusted to their charge. No fault can be found with them in these relationships. They fulfil them with every satisfaction. But is it not sometimes the case that these brothers and sisters are far from being a united family? The one thing that it seems impossible for them to do is to live harmoniously together, or to share in the mutual and happy confidences which lie at the basis of a happy home. In other words, the duties which they fail in are just the duties I am speaking of today. Towards their superiors they are faithful and diligent. Towards their inferiors they are tender-hearted. But where they fail is in the family circle, where all are on the level of equality, and where the only duties that have place are the duties that we owe towards our equals.

Failures of Our Duties to Our Equals: Among Those Who Have a Common Calling
In the second place, we witness the same thing in the larger area of a common calling. It is notorious how little sympathy there often is between those who are brothers in vocation. I have heard a doctor say more unkind things about a brother doctor than about any other person in the world. I have heard one literary man decry another in a way no reader would ever dream of doing. And "depend upon it," said a well-known friend to me the other day, "the nastiest things ever said about us are some of the things said by our brother-ministers." Now send that doctor out among his patients, and he may be the very soul of skilful kindness. Watch that minister visiting the poor, and he may do it with the most genuine sympathy. It is not with inferiors that the strain comes—it is not there that duty is most difficult—it is in the circles where all stand alike, and are on the social footing of equality. I think that even in the band of the disciples we may discern the truth of this. The last lesson which they seem to have learned was the lesson of living harmoniously together. It was not so difficult to be loyal to Jesus. It was not so difficult to bless the poor. But what was difficult, right to the very end, was to live together without quarrelling.

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