Discipline and Other Sermons

Depart from me; for I am a sinful man, O Lord.

Few stories in the New Testament are as well known as this.  Few go home more deeply to the heart of man.  Most simple, most graceful is the story, and yet it has in it depths unfathomable.

Great painters have loved to draw, great poets have loved to sing, that scene on the lake of Gennesaret.  The clear blue water, land-locked with mountains; the meadows on the shore, gay with their lilies of the field, on which our Lord bade them look, and know the bounty of their Father in heaven; the rich gardens, olive-yards, and vineyards on the slopes; the towns and villas scattered along the shore, all of bright white limestone, gay in the sun; the crowds of boats, fishing continually for the fish which swarm to this day in the lake;—everywhere beautiful country life, busy and gay, healthy and civilized likewise—and in the midst of it, the Maker of all heaven and earth sitting in a poor fisher’s boat, and condescending to tell them where the shoal of fish was lying.  It is a wonderful scene.  Let us thank God that it happened once on earth.  Let us try to see what we may learn from it in these days, in which our God and Saviour no longer walks this earth in human form.

‘Ah!’ some may say, ‘but for that very reason there is no lesson in the story for us in these days.  True it is, that God does not walk the earth now in human form.  He works no miracles, either for fishermen, or for any other men.  We shall never see a miraculous draught of fishes.  We shall never be convinced, as St. Peter was, by a miracle, that Christ is close to us.  What has the story to do with us?’

My friends, are things, after all, so different now from what they were then?  Is our case after all so very different from St. Peter’s?  God and Christ cannot change, for they are eternal—the same yesterday, to-day, and for ever; and if Christ was near St. Peter on the lake of Gennesaret, he is near us now, and here; for in him we live and move and have our being; and he is about our path, and about our bed, and spieth out all our ways: near us for ever, whether we know it or not.  And human nature cannot change.  There is in us the same heart as there was in St. Peter, for evil and for good.  When St. Peter found suddenly that it was the Lord who was in his boat, his first feeling was one of fear: ‘Depart from me for I am a sinful man, O Lord.’  And when we recollect at moments that God is close to us, watching all we do, all we say, yea, all we think, are we not afraid, for the moment at least?  Do we not feel the thought of God’s presence a burden?  Do we never long to hide from God?—to forget God again, and cry in our hearts: ‘Depart from me; for I am a sinful man, O Lord’?

God grant to us all, that after that first feeling of dread and awe is over, we may go on, as St. Peter went on, to the better feelings of admiration, loyalty, worship and say at last, as St. Peter said afterwards, when the Lord asked him if he too would leave him: ‘Lord, to whom shall we go? for thou hast the words of eternal life.’

But do I blame St. Peter for saying, ‘Depart from me; for I am a sinful man, O Lord’?  God forbid!  Who am I, to blame St. Peter?  Especially when even the Lord Jesus did not blame him, but only bade him not to be afraid.

And why did the Lord not blame him, even when he asked Him to go away?

Because St. Peter was honest.  He said frankly and naturally what was in his heart.  And honesty, even if it is mistaken, never offends God, and ought never to offend men.  God requires truth in the inward parts; and if a man speaks the truth—if he expresses his own thoughts and feelings frankly and honestly—then, even if he is not right, he is at least on the only road to get right, as St. Peter was.

He spoke not from dislike of our Lord, but from modesty; from a feeling of awe, of uneasiness, of dread, at the presence of one who was infinitely greater, wiser, better than himself.

And that feeling of reverence and modesty, even when it takes the shape, as it often will in young people, of shyness and fear, is a divine and noble feeling—the beginning of all goodness.  Indeed, I question whether there can be any real and sound goodness in any man’s heart, if he has no modesty, and no reverence.  Boldness, forwardness, self-conceit, above all in the young—we know how ugly they are in our eyes; and the Bible tells us again and again how ugly they are in the sight of God.

The truly great and free and noble soul—and St. Peter’s soul was such—is that of the man who feels awe and reverence in the presence of those who are wiser and holier than himself; who is abashed and humbled when he compares himself with his betters, just because his standard is so high.  Because he knows how much better he should be than he is; because he is discontented with himself, ashamed of himself, therefore he shrinks, at first, from the very company which, after a while, he learns to like best, because it teaches him most.  And so it was with St. Peter’s noble soul.  He felt himself, in the presence of that pure Christ, a sinful man:—not perhaps what we should call sinful; but sinful in comparison of Christ.  He felt his own meanness, ignorance, selfishness, weakness.  He felt unworthy to be in such good company.  He felt unworthy,—he, the ignorant fisherman,—to have such a guest in his poor boat.  ‘Go elsewhere, Lord,’ he tried to say, ‘to a place and to companions more fit for thee.  I am ashamed to stand in thy presence.  I am dazzled by the brightness of thy countenance, crushed down by the thought of thy wisdom and power, uneasy lest I say or do something unfit for thee; lest I anger thee unawares in my ignorance, clumsiness; lest I betray to thee my own bad habits: and those bad habits I feel in thy presence as I never felt before.  Thou art too condescending; thou honourest me too much; thou hast taken me for a better man than I am; thou knowest not what a poor miserable creature I am at heart—“Depart from me; for I am a sinful man, O Lord.”’

There spoke out the truly noble soul, who was ready the next moment, as soon as he had recovered himself, to leave all and follow Christ; who was ready afterwards to wander, to suffer, to die upon the cross for his Lord; and who, when he was led out to execution, asked to be crucified (as it is said St. Peter actually did) with his head downwards; for it was too much honour for him to die looking up to heaven, as his Lord had died.

Do you not understand me yet?  Then think what you would have thought of St. Peter, if, instead of saying, ‘Depart from me; for I am a sinful man, O Lord,’ St. Peter had said, ‘Stay with me, for I am a holy man, O Lord.  I am just the sort of person who deserves the honour of thy company; and my boat, poor though it is, more fit for thee than the palace of a king.’  Would St. Peter have seemed to you then wiser or more foolish, better or worse, than he does now, when in his confused honest humility, he begs the Lord to go away and leave him?  And do you not feel that a man is (as a great poet says) ‘displeasing alike to God and to the enemies of God,’ when he comes boldly to the throne of grace, not to find grace and mercy, because he feels that he needs them: but to boast of God’s grace, and make God’s mercy to him an excuse for looking down upon his fellow-creatures; and worships, like the Pharisee, in self-conceit and pride, thanking God that he is not as other men are?

Better far to be the publican, who stood afar off, and dare not lift up as much as his eyes toward heaven, but cried only, ‘God be merciful to me a sinner.’  Better far to be the honest and devout soldier, who, when Jesus offered to come to his house, answered, ‘Lord, I am not worthy that thou shouldest enter under my roof.  But speak the word only, and my servant shall be healed.’

Only he must say that in honesty, in spirit, and in truth, like St. Peter.  For a man may shrink from religion, from the thought of God, from coming to the Holy Communion, for two most opposite reasons.

He may shrink from them because he knows he is full of sins, and wishes to keep his sins; and knows that, if he worships God, if he comes to the Holy Communion—indeed, if he remembers the presence of God at all,—he pledges himself to give up his bad habits; to repent and amend, which is just what he has no mind to do.  So he turns away from God, because he chooses to remain bad.  May the Lord have mercy on his soul, for he has no mercy on it himself!  He chooses evil, and refuses good; and evil will be his ruin.

But, again, a man may shrink from God, from church, from the Holy Communion, because he feels himself bad, and longs to be good; because he feels himself full of evil habits, and hates them, and sees how ugly they are, and is afraid to appear in the presence of God foul with sin.

Let him be of good cheer.  He is not going wrong wilfully.  But he is making a mistake.  Let him make it no more.  He feels himself unworthy.  Let him come all the more, that he may be made worthy.  Let him come, because he is worthy.  For—strange it may seem, but true it is—that a man is the more worthy to draw near to God the more he feels himself to be utterly unworthy thereof.

He who partakes worthily of the Holy Communion is he who says with his whole heart, ‘We are not worthy so much as to gather up the crumbs under thy table.’  He with whom Christ will take up his abode is he who says, ‘Lord, I am not worthy that thou shouldest enter under my roof.’

For humility is the beginning of all goodness, and the end of all wisdom.

He who says that he sees is blind.  He who knows his own blindness sees.  He who says he has no sin in him is the sinner.  He who confesses his sins is the righteous man; for God is faithful and just to forgive him, as he did St. Peter, and to cleanse him from all unrighteousness.

SERMON XIX

A WHITSUN SERMON

Psalm civ. 24, 27–30

O Lord, how manifold are thy works! in wisdom hast thou made them all: the earth is full of thy riches. . . .  These wait all upon thee; that thou mayest give them their meat in due season.  That thou givest them they gather: thou openest thine hand, they are filled with good.  Thou hidest thy face, they are troubled: thou takest away their breath, they die, and return to their dust.  Thou sendest forth thy Spirit, they are created: and thou renewest the face of the earth.

You may not understand why I read this morning, instead of the Te Deum, the ‘Song of the three Children,’ which calls on all powers and creatures in the world to bless and praise God.  You may not understand also, at first, why this grand 104th Psalm was chosen as one of the special Psalms for Whitsuntide,—what it has to do with the Holy Ghost, the Comforter, the Spirit of God.  Let me try to explain it to you, and may God grant that you may find something worth remembering among my clumsy words.

You were told this morning that there were two ways of learning concerning God and the Spirit of God,—that one was by the hearing of the ear, and the Holy Bible; the other by the seeing of the eye—by nature and the world around us.  It is of the latter I speak this afternoon,—of what you can learn concerning God by seeing, if only you have eyes, and the same Spirit of God to open those eyes, as the Psalmist had.

The man who wrote this Psalm looked round him on the wondrous world in which we dwell, and all he saw in it spoke to him of God; of one God, boundless in wisdom and in power, in love and care; and of one Spirit of God, the Lord and Giver of Life.

He saw all this, and so glorious did it seem to him, as he looked on the fair world round him, that he could not contain himself.  Not only was his reason satisfied, but his heart was touched.  It was so glorious that he could not speak of it coldly, calmly; and he burst out into singing a song of praise—‘O Lord our God, thou art become exceeding glorious; thou art clothed with majesty and honour.’  For he saw everywhere order; all things working together for good.  He saw everywhere order and rule; and something within him told him, there must be a Lawgiver, an Orderer, a Ruler and he must be One.

Again, the Psalmist saw everywhere a purpose; things evidently created to be of use to each other.  And the Spirit of God told him there must be One who purposed all this; who meant to do it, and who had done it; who thought it out and planned it by wisdom and understanding.

Then the Psalmist saw how everything, from the highest to the lowest, was of use.  The fir trees were a dwelling for the stork; and the very stony rocks, where nothing else can live, were a refuge for the wild goats; everywhere he saw use and bounty—food, shelter, life, happiness, given to man and beast, and not earned by them; then he said—‘There must be a bountiful Lord, a Giver, generous and loving, from whom the very lions seek their meat, when they roar after their prey; on whom all the creeping things innumerable wait in the great sea, that he may give them meat in due season.’

But, moreover, he saw everywhere beauty; shapes, and colours, and sounds, which were beautiful in his eyes, and gave him pleasure deep and strange, he knew not why: and the Spirit of God within him told him—‘These fair things please thee.  Do they not please Him who made them?  He that formed the ear, shall he not hear the song of birds?  He that made the eye, shall he not see the colours of the flowers?  He who made thee to rejoice in the beauty of the earth, shall not he rejoice in his own works?’  And God seemed to him, in his mind’s eye, to delight in his own works, as a painter delights in the picture which he has drawn, as a gardener delights in the flowers which he has planted; as a cunning workman delights in the curious machine which he has invented; as a king delights in the fair parks and gardens and stately palaces which he has laid out, and builded, and adorned, for his own pleasure, as well as for the good of his subjects.

And then, beneath all, and beyond all, there came to him another question—What is life?

The painter paints his picture, but it has no life.  The workman makes his machine, but, though it moves and works, it has no life.  The gardener,—his flowers have life, but he has not given it to them; he can only sow the seemingly dead seeds.  Who is He that giveth those seeds a body as it pleases him, and to every seed its own body, its own growth of leaf, form, and colour?  God alone.  And what is that life which he does give?  Who can tell that?  What is life?  What is it which changes the seed into a flower, the egg into a bird?  It is not the seed itself; the egg itself.  What power or will have they, over themselves?  It is not in the seed, or in the egg, as all now know from experience.  You may look for it with all the microscopes in the world, but you will not find it.  There is nothing to be found by the eyes of mortal man which can account for the growth and life of any created thing.

And what is death?  What does the live thing lose, when it loses life?  This moment the bird was alive; a tiny pellet of shot has gone through its brain, and now its life is lost: but what is lost?  It is just the same size, shape, colour; it weighs exactly the same as it did when alive.  What is the thing not to be seen, touched, weighed, described, or understood, which it has lost, which we call life?

And to that deep question the Psalmist had an answer whispered to him,—a hint only, as it were, in a parable.  Life is the breath of God.  It is the Spirit of God, who is the Lord and Giver of life.  God breathes into things the breath of life.  When he takes away that breath they die, and are turned again to their dust.  When he lets his breath go forth again, they are made, and he renews the face of the earth.

That is enough for thee, O man, to know.  What life is thou canst not know.  Thou canst only speak of it in a figure—as the breath, the Spirit of God.  That Spirit of God is not the universe itself.  But he is working in all things, giving them form and life, dividing to each severally as he will; all their shape, their beauty, their powers, their instincts, their thoughts; all in them save brute matter and dead dust: from him they come, and to him they return again.  All order, all law, all force, all usefulness, come from him.  He is the Lord and Giver of life, in whom all things live, and move, and have their being.

Therefore, my friends, let us at all times, in all places, and especially at this Whitsuntide, remember that all we see, or can see, except sin, is the work of the Holy Ghost, the Spirit of God.  Let us look on the world around us, as what it is, as what the old Psalmist saw it to be,—a sacred place, full of God’s presence, shaped, quickened, and guided by the Spirit of God, the Lord and Giver of life.

My dear friends, God grant that you may all learn to look upon this world as the Psalmist looked on it.  God grant that you may all learn to see, each in your own way, what a great and pious poet of our fathers’ time put into words far wiser and grander than any which I can invent for you, when he said how, looking on the earth, the sea, the sky, he felt—

‘A presence that disturbs me with the joy
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
And the round ocean, and the living air,
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man:
A motion and a spirit that impels
All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
And rolls through all things.  Therefore am I still
A lover of the meadows and the woods
And mountains; and of all that we behold
From this green earth; of all the mighty world;
Of eye and ear, both what they half create
And what perceive; well pleased to recognise
In nature and the language of the sense
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul
Of all my moral being.’ [1 - Wordsworth’s ‘Ode on Tintern Abbey.’]

‘Of all my moral being.’