The Life of Duty Part 9

Last Advent told us of the battle of life, the good fight of the faith, and the love of G.o.d strengthening us in the conflict, and promising the crown of victory. Christmas brought us once more the dear, glad, tidings that Jesus is our brother, bone of our bone, and flesh of our flesh. Epiphany showed us our Saviour manifested in our work, in the changed character of a believer who out of weakness is made strong, in the cleansed sinner whose leprosy is healed, in the storm of life made calm. The star of Epiphany led us to Jesus, to hope, to rejoicing, and gladly we offered our gifts, to the King our gold, to the Great High Priest our incense, to the Crucified our myrrh. Lent showed us the sterner side of the life of duty, and brought its lessons of self-denial and self-restraint. Those of us who went out into the wilderness of this world with Jesus, "glad with Him to suffer pain,"

resisting the tempter, found their reward at the glad Easter-tide. The sorrow which had endured for the night of Lent gave place to the joy which came with Easter morning. And so in every Sunday of the year we trace the golden thread of G.o.d's loving mercy lying along the narrow way, the path of duty. If we have tried to keep in that path, then we can look back joyfully over the year that is gone, and for the future we can, like S. Paul, "thank G.o.d, and take courage."

They tell us that the fishermen of Brittany, when going forth on a voyage, offer this prayer--"Save us, O G.o.d, thine ocean is so large, and our little boat so small." That may well be our prayer as we begin another year. "Gather up the fragments." For some of us that will be a sorry task; we are like children crying in the midst of the broken pieces of some costly vase, shattered by our carelessness. The fragments that _remain_! How many remain of the lessons and warnings of the past year? How much of the good seed remains undestroyed by the choking thorn? Some of us made good resolutions last Advent, we started well with the beginning of the Church's year, we girded on our armour, we determined to make a fight for the true faith, and we took a firm stand on the promises of the Gospel. And now nothing remains of those good resolutions except the broken fragments to witness against us and upbraid us. As for the good fight, we have fled from the battle beaten, our s.h.i.+eld has been left disgracefully behind, we have turned ourselves back in the day of battle. My brother, what is that dark stain upon the white robe of your purity? It was not there a year ago.

Last Advent you could look father and mother, aye, the whole world, in the face. And now you have a guilty secret spoiling your life. You may cry with Macbeth--

"Had I but died an hour before this chance I had liv'd a blessed time; for, from this instant, The wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees Is left."

You cannot wash away that stain, even though you could "weep salt oceans from those eyes." To look back mournfully will not help to undo the past. To lament over the fragments of a misspent year, or the memory of broken resolutions, vows unfulfilled, and chances lost, will not bring back "the tender grace of a day that is dead." The thought would be maddening if we did not believe in the Lord Jesus Christ. The knowledge that we cannot recall one lost day, nor alter one past page in our life's story, would bring a remorse cruel as the fabled vulture which ever fed upon the vitals of the chained Prometheus. But thanks be to G.o.d, Jesus says, "He that sitteth upon the throne saith, Behold, I make all things new." Dear brothers and sisters, some of us need to turn over a new leaf, to make a fresh start, how shall we do it? Let us take our secret sin, our secret sorrow, to Jesus now. Let not the sun go down and find us impenitent, unpardoned. Let us no longer go through life like galley slaves, chained and labouring at the oar.

Jesus waits to strike off our chains, He came to preach liberty to the captives. Think of that, you who are yet prisoners, slaves of some sin. Jesus will set you free. As long as you hide your fault you are a slave, you are torn and bitten by remorse, the worm that dieth not, the fire that is not quenched. Tell the story of your sin to Jesus _now_. Never mind how sad, how shameful it is. He is the _same_ Jesus, remember. The same who cleansed the Magdalene, who pardoned the adulteress. Can you, will you, say to-day--

"We come to Thee, sweet Saviour, With our broken faith again; We know Thou wilt forgive us, Nor upbraid us, nor complain.

We come to Thee, sweet Saviour, Fear brings us in our need; For Thy hand never breaketh Not the frailest bruised reed."

"Gather up the fragments that remain, that nothing be lost." Let Advent find us once more fighting the battle from which some had retreated. Let the marks and scars upon our armour teach us our danger, and help us to fight more watchfully, more humbly. Let the mistakes, the weaknesses, the negligences, the ignorances of the past, be warnings to us for the future.

"Saint Augustine, well hast thou said That of our vices we can frame A ladder, if we will but tread Beneath our feet each deed of shame.

Deem not the irrevocable past As wholly wasted, wholly vain, If, rising on its wrecks, at last To something n.o.bler we attain."

Do you remember the Eastern story of the magician, who gave a ring of vast beauty to a certain prince? Not only was the ring set with priceless gems, but it had this wonderful quality. If the king indulged in any evil thought or wish, or devised any sinful act, the ring contracted on his finger, and warned him by its painful pressure.

My brothers, does the ring of conscience press no finger here to-day?

Is there no one here now who says in his heart: "Would to G.o.d that I were as in years past?" If so, cling to the cleansing Hand of Jesus _now_. A well-known Scottish physician tells us that, during a terrible outbreak of cholera, he was summoned to a small fis.h.i.+ng village where the plague had broken out. As they approached the place by boat, they saw a crowd of anxious watchers waiting for the doctor's arrival. Suddenly an old man, of great height and strength, dashed into the water, reached the boat ere it could reach the land, and seizing the doctor in his mighty arms, carried him helpless through the crowd to the bedside of his cholera-stricken grandson.

Brethren, if the plague spot of sin is upon you, seize upon the Hand of the Good Physician, clasp Him in your arms, cry to Him now: "wash me throughly [Transcriber's note: thoroughly?] from my wickedness, and cleanse me from my sin!"

SERMON LXI.

WHAT THE FLOWERS SAY.

(Children's Flower Service.)

PSALM ciii. 15.

"As a flower of the field, so he flourisheth."

Children, have you ever heard of the language of flowers? Now, of course, we know that flowers cannot speak as we can. I wish they could. I think they would say such sweet things. But in one way flowers do talk to us. When you give them some water, or when G.o.d sends a shower of rain upon them, they give forth a sweet smell; I think that the flowers are speaking then, I think that they are saying, "thank you." Let us listen to the preaching of the flowers to-day.

What do they say to us? Well, some say one thing, some another; but there is one thing which all of them say--"trust G.o.d." G.o.d takes care of the flowers, and sends them dew, and rain, and suns.h.i.+ne, and fresh air, and they tell us that the same G.o.d who cares for the flowers cares also for us. And next, I think, all the flowers say to us, "thank G.o.d." See how the daisies in the meadow seem to look up thankfully to G.o.d. Someone says that G.o.d smiles on the earth, and that the earth smiles back again with its flowers. Is not that a pretty thought, children, that the flowers are the smiles of the grateful earth? Next, the flowers say to us, "be contented." They are quite satisfied to grow, and smell sweet, and look pretty, in the place where G.o.d puts them. Now, just as G.o.d plants the flowers in a certain place, some up high on the hills, others down low in the valley; some in the Queen's greenhouse, others in the cottager's garden, so He puts you children in your right place. Be quite sure, my children, that the best place for us is where G.o.d puts us. Have you ever noticed the sweet-scented wall flowers growing on an old stone wall? They have scarcely any earth for their roots, only a little bit between the stones, yet they make the old wall beautiful, and no flower smells sweeter. They teach us to be contented. They seem to say, we have no grand place to grow in, no carefully-prepared bed, only a bit of old wall for our home, but we are quite satisfied, and we mean to make home as bright and sweet as we can. Let us learn the lesson of the wall flower. Let us try to make home bright and happy, and sweet, no matter how poor it is. Another thing which all the flowers tell us is this, "remember that you must die." When the Autumn and Winter come we say the flowers are dead because we cannot see them. But the flowers are not really dead. They are sleeping in the earth till the Spring comes again. G.o.d has put them to bed in the warm ground, and when the proper time comes they will waken up. Just what G.o.d does to the flowers He does to us. One day He will send us to sleep, and take our soul to a safe place in Paradise, whilst our body is put to bed in the earth beneath the soft and pleasant gra.s.s. People will say that we are dead, just as they say the flowers are dead. One day the resurrection morning will come, it will be our spring-time, and G.o.d, who raised Jesus Christ from the grave, will raise us up again.

So you see, children, the flowers tell us not only that we must die, but that we must rise again. What else do the flowers say to us? I think they say, "keep in the suns.h.i.+ne, be happy." You always find that flowers are on the sunny side of things. So ought we to be. A plant cannot grow, and blossom, in a dark cellar. It must have suns.h.i.+ne. So if you want to be G.o.d's children, that is, good children, you must have suns.h.i.+ne in your hearts, suns.h.i.+ne in your faces. Look at the face of an innocent child, one who is gentle, obedient, loving, pure. You will see the face full of suns.h.i.+ne. But look at the face of a child who has done something wrong; who has told a lie, or done some cruel, mean, or dishonest act. There is no suns.h.i.+ne on _that_ face. There is nothing but a dark heavy cloud. The ill-tempered child has no suns.h.i.+ne on his face. He lives down in a dark cellar. The discontented child has no suns.h.i.+ne on his face. He lives down in a black dungeon with Giant Despair. My children, ask G.o.d to keep you innocent; or if you have done wrong, ask G.o.d to forgive you for Jesus Christ's sake, then you will have suns.h.i.+ne, you will be happy.

There is another thing which the flowers say to us--"Be sweet." There is nothing so delicious as to go into a flower garden after a warm shower, and to smell the sweet scents. Well, G.o.d has sent you into the garden of this world to be sweet like the flowers. How can you be sweet? You can be sweet-tempered, sweet-mannered, sweet-spoken.

Sometimes you hear people say that someone has a sweet face. Now that need not mean a pretty face; a person may be pretty, and yet not sweet.

Those who are sweet-tempered show it in their faces. You know how a bunch of flowers in a room makes it sweet and wholesome. Now every good child in a home, or a school, is like a nosegay of blossoms, making the place sweet and wholesome; and every bad, vicious, unruly, child is like the smell which comes from poisoned water. When I used to visit the sailors in their s.h.i.+ps to talk to them about G.o.d, I used to say to them, "Now I want one of you men to be a little pinch of salt in this s.h.i.+p, I want you to keep things sweet. Who will be the little pinch of salt?" You understand what I mean, children? I wanted a good man, who prayed, and read his Bible, to help the others, to try and stop bad talking, to keep things sweet, as salt does. Well, I want each of you children to be G.o.d's sweet flower, and to try to make your home sweet by your gentleness, your good temper, your love. Some children are regular stinging nettles in a home, or a school. They always make people uncomfortable. They sting with their tongues, and they sting with their looks and their tempers. Make up your minds, dear little ones, to be, by G.o.d's help, sweet flowers, not stinging nettles.

And now, before I leave you, let us think what one special flower teaches us. I told you that there is such a thing as the language of flowers, that is, that each flower has its special meaning. Well, what does the rose say? Surely the rose says, "love one another!" Do you know who it is who loves us best, and who has done most for us? Our Lord Jesus Christ. Yes, and it is for that reason, I think, that He is called in the Bible a Rose,--the Rose of Sharon. Whenever you see a rose, think of Jesus, the Rose of Sharon, and remember what He says to you, "Little children, love one another." I will tell you a story about a rose. A little brother and sister lived in a crowded court in a great city. It was a wretched, dirty, ugly, place, where scarcely any suns.h.i.+ne ever came, and where the people were often rough and wicked. Little Willie and his sister knew nothing about green fields spotted with daisies, they had never seen a flower. One day a kind friend took all the poor children living in the court for a drive into the country. I cannot tell you how happy Willie and his sister were when they saw the trees and hedges, which were all new and strange to them. Presently they pa.s.sed a garden in which were growing some sweet-smelling red flowers. Willie had never seen anything half so lovely, and he was anxious to know what the flowers were called, so they told him that they were roses. Well, after a time, when the Winter came, little Willie fell ill. Day after day his sister sat beside him, holding his thin white hand in hers. Often they talked about that wonderful day in the country, where they had seen the roses.

Often, too, they talked about Jesus, and the still more beautiful country where He lived. The children were very ignorant, but they had been to Sunday School, and learnt something about the dear Lord who loves children. One cold, dark day, little Willie was much worse, and he said to his sister--"Oh! I wish I could see a rose once more. I wish you would go and get me one of those roses we saw that day!" So the little sister, who loved him dearly, set out to walk to the place where they had seen the flowers. After a long and weary journey, she came to the field where they had played, and the garden where the roses grew. But the field and the garden were white with snow, and there were no roses there. The little girl was worn out with hunger and fatigue, and she dropped on her knees in the snow, and prayed, and this was her prayer--"Dear Jesus, send me one rose, only one, for little Willie." Just then a carriage came along the road, and the lady who rode in it had a beautiful red rose in her hand, which had grown in a greenhouse. She dropped it from the window, I suppose, by accident, but when the little girl saw it lying on the snow, she thought that Jesus had sent it to her, and took it up lovingly to carry to her brother. But she had no more strength to struggle through the cold night, and when the morning came they found her dead upon the white snow, with the red rose in her hand. That night little Willie, lying alone in the cold, dark, garret, also died. And the writer of this story thinks that when the brother and sister met in the Paradise of G.o.d, the sister, who gave her life for love, carried a beautiful flower in her hand, and said, "Willie, here's your rose." So thinks the writer, and I think so too.

SERMON LXII.

DAILY BREAD.

(Harvest Thanksgiving.)

PSALM lxv. 9.

"Thou preparest them corn."

"Come, ye thankful people, come," and let us thank G.o.d for another harvest. Once more the Father, the Feeder, has given bread to strengthen man's heart, and we turn from the corn stored in the garner, to G.o.d's own garner the Church, where He has stored up food for our souls.

And first of all, my brothers, let us be honest with ourselves. Are we quite sure that we _are_ thankful to G.o.d for the harvest? We have decorated G.o.d's House with the first-fruits of the year, we have met together now to celebrate our Harvest Festival; but is there real _meaning_ in all this? Are we thankful to G.o.d? if not our Festival is a mockery. Let me give you a few thoughts which may help you to be thankful. The first thought is this: the harvest is _G.o.d's_ harvest, not yours. "Thou preparest them corn," is spoken of G.o.d, not of man.

Corn is unlike any other kind of food, it is the direct gift of G.o.d to man in fully-developed state. Other fruits of the earth are given to man in a wild state, and he must improve them by care and cultivation, till the wild vine is turned into the rich wine-producing plant of the vineyard, and the sour crab into the delicious apple. It is not the case with corn. No one, says a writer, whose thoughts I am following, has ever discovered wild corn. Ages ago, when the Pharaohs reigned in Egypt, and the Pyramids were a'building, men sowed just the same corn that you sow to-day. Corns of wheat like our own have been found in the hands of Egyptian mummies which have been dead for thousands of years. The grain which Joseph stored in Pharaoh's granaries, and with which he fed his brethren, was precisely similar to the produce of your own fields. Geologists tell us that there is no trace of corn to be found in the earth before the creation of man. When G.o.d made man He created corn to supply him with food. The old Greeks and Romans had a dim perception of this when they thought that corn was the gift of the G.o.ddess Ceres. You know we call all varieties of corn _cereals_, after that same G.o.ddess. In these days there is, with some, less religion than ever the old heathen possessed. They would shut G.o.d out of the world of Nature, and see in a harvest-field only man's cleverness and energy. Let us rather humble ourselves before G.o.d, and see that it is His Hand which sendeth the springs into the rivers which run among the hills, where all the beasts of the field drink thereof, and the wild a.s.ses quench their thirst; beside them shall the fowls of the air have their habitation, and sing among the branches. Let us believe that it is G.o.d who watereth the hills from above, so that the earth is filled with the fruits of His works; that it is G.o.d who bringeth forth gra.s.s for the cattle, and green herb for the service of men, that He may bring food out of the earth, and wine that maketh glad the heart of man, and oil to make him a cheerful countenance, and bread to strengthen man's heart. Whilst the unbeliever, blinded by his self-conceit, is wors.h.i.+pping his own little stock of knowledge, and neglecting G.o.d, let us be singing our _Te Deum_--"We praise Thee, O G.o.d, we acknowledge Thee to be the Lord."

Here is another thought which will help you to recognise corn as being specially the gift of G.o.d to man. It grows all over the world.

Wherever man can live, corn of one kind or another flourishes. "From the bleak inhospitable wastes of Lapland to the burning plains of Central India, from the muddy swamps of China to the billowy prairies of America, from the level of the sea-sh.o.r.e to the lofty valleys and table-lands of the Andes and the Himalayas, it is successfully cultivated. The emigrant clears the primaeval forest of Canada, or the fern-brakes of New Zealand, and there the corn seed sown will spring up as luxuriantly as on the old loved fields of home." [1] All this should teach us to see in the harvest the result, not of our skill and cleverness, but of the good G.o.d's lovingkindness. Ask yourselves now, my brothers, whether you are truly thankful to G.o.d for this harvest: is your presence here to-day a real act of thanksgiving, or only an idle form?

Among the many curious relics of the past which were dug up in the buried city of Pompeii were some loaves of bread, looking just as they did when they came out of the oven. Think of those loaves baked eighteen hundred years ago, and still preserved as witnesses against that wicked city. G.o.d was good to those people in Pompeii, and prepared their corn, and bread to strengthen their heart, just as He does for us. And they went on thankless and careless in their sin, till the fiery stream overtook them, and that same fire which destroyed them preserved the bread, as a sign of G.o.d's goodness and man's ingrat.i.tude.

There is yet another thought about the corn, which ought to make us feel how dependent we are upon G.o.d for our _daily_ bread. Unlike the gra.s.s which is permanent as a food for cattle, or certain trees which bring forth fruit season by season, corn must be sown annually. Man depends upon the result of each year's sowing for the staff of life.

And we are told that as a fact there is only as much corn in the world in each year as the world can consume in that time. "It is not probable that there was ever a year and a half's supply of the first necessary of life at one time in the world." Thus, as every harvest-time comes round, we are almost looking famine in the face, and then G.o.d opens His Hand and filleth all things living with plenteousness. Rightly indeed do we pray, "Give us day by day our daily bread."

And now let us look at the spiritual meaning of all this. As corn is the special gift of G.o.d to man, so is the gift of grace and pardon.

G.o.d gives us what we cannot obtain for ourselves, does for us what we are powerless to do. As He feeds our bodies with the bread of corn, He feeds our souls with the Bread of Heaven. His Holy Catholic Church all over the world is a great granary stored with precious food. Just as corn grows wherever man lives, so wherever two or three are gathered together in Christ's Name there is He in the midst of them, feeding their souls. The exile in a foreign land can sow his corn seed, and gather the same food as in the fields of home. The same exile can find beneath other skies the same holy teachings, the same blessed Sacraments, the same prayers, as in the Church of his childhood. The bread of earth and the Bread of Heaven are G.o.d's two universal gifts to man. The penitent sinner can kneel at the Feet of Jesus, and find the grace of pardon beneath the skies of England, and India, and New Zealand, alike. The faithful Churchman can come to the Altar and receive the Body and Blood of his Saviour, even the Heavenly Bread to strengthen man's heart, all over the Christian world. As G.o.d gives us everywhere light and food, without which we cannot live, so does He give light and food for our soul. As says a Saint of old (S. Thomas a Kempis), "I feel that two things are most especially necessary to me in this life; prisoned in the dungeon of the body, I acknowledge that I need two things, food and light. Therefore Thou hast given me, a sick man, Thy Body for the refreshment of my soul and body, and hast made Thy Word a lantern unto my feet. Without these two I cannot live well; for the Word of G.o.d is the light of my soul, and Thy Sacrament is the Bread of Life."

My brothers, whilst we thank G.o.d for giving us this harvest of corn, let us still more thank Him for the harvest of spiritual blessing, for the precious grace and mercy which make glad the hearts of hardened sinners, for the anointing of the Holy Spirit which makes our faces s.h.i.+ne with joy and gladness, for the Bread which came down from Heaven, and which strengthens our hearts to be Christ's faithful soldiers and servants.

One last word. The return of seed time and harvest teaches us that we are all sowers, and that the harvest is the end of the world. We seldom reap here the full results of our acts whether they be good or evil. "The evil that men do lives after them," yes, and the good too.

It may seem to some of us who are trying to do our duty, trying to live as G.o.d's servants, that there is no harvest for us. We seem destined to labour in the weary field of the world, and to see no fruit of our labours. Ah! brothers, the harvest is not yet, but it will come, the harvest of the good and of the evil, since--

"We are sowers, and full seldom reapers, For life's harvest ripens when we die, 'Tis in death alone G.o.d gives His sleepers All for which they sigh.

Cast thy bread upon the waters: after Many mornings, when thy head is low, Men shall gather it with songs and laughter, Though thou mayest not know."

[1] Hugh Macmillan's _Bible Teachings in Nature_, to which work I am indebted for the structure of this Sermon.