All Saints' Day and Other Sermons

Some may call that a silly answer, only fit for children: but I do not think so.  It seems to me a very rational answer: perhaps a very reverent and godly answer.  A man comes to church for reasons which he cannot explain to himself: just so—and many of the deepest and best feelings of our hearts, are just those that we cannot explain to ourselves, though we believe in them, would fight for them, die for them.  The man who frankly confesses that he does not quite know why he comes to church is most likely to know at last why he does come; most likely to understand the answer which Scripture gives to the question why we come to church.  And what answer is that?  Strange to say, one which people now-a-days, with their Bibles in their hands, have almost forgotten.  We come to church, according to the Bible, to worship God.

To worship.  Think awhile what that ancient and deep and noble word signifies.  So ancient is it, that man learnt to worship even before he learnt to till the ground.  So deep, that even to this day no man altogether understands what worshipping means.  So noble, that the noblest souls on earth delight most in worshipping; that the angels, and archangels, and the spirits of just men made perfect, find no nobler occupation, no higher enjoyment, in the heavenly world than worshipping for ever Him whose glory fills all earth and heaven.  To worship.  That power of worship, that longing to worship, that instinct that it is his duty to worship something, is—if you will receive it—the true distinction between men and brutes.  Philosophers have tried to define man as this sort of animal and that sort of animal.  The only sound definition is this: man is the one animal who worships; and he worships, just because he is not merely an animal, but a man, with an immortal soul within him.  Just in as far as man sinks down again to the level of the brute—whether in some savage island of the South Seas, or in some equally savage alley of our own great cities—God forgive us that such human brutes should exist here in Christian England—just so far he feels no need to worship.  He thinks of no unseen God or powers above him.  He cares for nothing but what his five senses tell him of; he feels no need to go to church and worship.  Just in as far as a man rises to the true standard of a man; just in as far as his heart and his mind are truly cultivated, truly developed, just so far does he become more and more aware of an unseen world about him; more and more aware that in God he lives and moves and has his being—and so much the more he feels the longing and the duty to worship that unseen God on whom he and the whole universe depend.

I know what seeming exceptions there are to this rule, especially in these days.  But I say that they are only seeming exceptions.  I never knew yet (and I have known many of them) a virtuous and high-minded unbeliever: but what there was in him the instinct of worshipping—the longing to worship—he knew not what, the spirit of reverence, which confesses its own ignorance and weakness, and is ready to set up, like the Athenians of old, an altar—in the heart at least—to the unknown God.

But how to worship Him?  The word itself, if we consider what it means, will tell us that.  Worship, without doubt, is the same word as worth-ship.  It signifies the worth of Him whom we worship, that He is worthy,—a worthy God, not merely because of what He has done, but because of what He is worth in Himself.  Good, excellent, and perfect in Himself, and therefore to be admired, praised, reverenced, adored, worshipped—even if He had never done a kindness to you or to any human being.  Remember this last truth.  For true it is; and we remember it too little.  Of course we know that God is good; first and mainly by His goodness to us.  Because He is good enough to give us life and breath and all things, we conclude that He is a good being.  Because He is good enough to have not spared His only begotten Son, but freely given Him for us, when we were still sinners and rebels, we conclude Him to be the best of all beings, a being of boundless goodness.  But it is because God is so perfectly and gloriously good in Himself, and not merely because He has done us kindnesses, yea, heaped us with undeserved benefits, that we are to worship Him.  For His kindnesses we owe Him gratitude, and gratitude without end.  But for His excellent and glorious goodness, we owe Him worship, and worship without end.

There are some hearts, surely, among you here who know what I mean: some here who have felt reverence and admiration for some great and good human being, and who have felt, too, that that reverence and admiration is one of the most elevating and unselfish of all feelings, and quite distinct from any gratitude, however just, for favours done; who can say, in their hearts, of some noble human being: “If he never did me a kindness, never spoke to me, never knew of my existence, I should honour him and love him just the same, for the noble and good personage that he is, irrespective of little me, and my paltry wants.”  Then, even such ought to be our feeling toward God, our worship of God.  Even so should we adore Him who alone is worthy of glory, and honour, and praise, and thanksgiving, because He is good, and beautiful, and wise Himself, and the cause and source of all goodness, and beauty, and wisdom, in all created beings, and in the whole universe, past, present, and to come.  Consider, I beseech you, those glimpses of the Eternal Worship in heaven which St John gives us in the Book of Revelation—How he saw the elders fall down before Him who sat upon the throne, and worship Him that liveth for ever, and cast their crowns before the throne, saying: “Thou art worthy, O Lord, to receive glory, and honour, and power; for Thou hast created all things, and for Thy pleasure they are and were created.”

Consider that—Those blessed spirits of just men made perfect, confessing that they are nothing, but that Christ is all; that they have nothing, but that they owe all to Christ; and declaring Him worthy—not merely for any special mercies and kindnesses to themselves, not even for that crowning mercy of His incarnation, His death, His redemption; even that seems to have vanished from their minds at the sight of Him as He is.  They glorify Him and worship Him simply for what He is in Himself, for what He would have been even if—which God forbid—He had never stooped from heaven to live and die on earth—for what He is and was and will be through eternity, the Creator and the Ruler, who has made all things, and for whose pleasure they are and were created.  Consider that one text.  The more I consider it, the more awful and yet most blessed depths of teaching do I find therein: and consider this text also, another glimpse of the worship which is in heaven.

“I heard a great voice of much people in heaven, singing Alleluia; salvation, and glory, and honour, and power, unto the Lord our God; for true and righteous are His judgments.”  What the special judgment was, for which these blessed souls worshipped God, I shall not argue here.  It is enough for us that they worshipped God, as we should worship Him, because His judgments were righteous and true, were like Himself, proved Him to be what He was, worthy in Himself, because He is righteous and true.  And consider then, again—the text.  Before Him, the righteous and true Being who has created all things for His pleasure, and therefore has made them wisely and well; before Him who reigns, and will reign till He has put all His enemies under His foot; before Him, I say, bow down yourselves, and find true nobleness in confessing your own paltriness, true strength in confessing your own weakness, true wisdom in confessing your own ignorance, true holiness in confessing your own sins.

And not alone merely, each in your own chamber, or in your own heart.  That is the place for private confessions of sin, for private prayers for help; for all the secrets which we dare not, and need not tell to any human being.  They indeed are not out of place here in church.  Those who composed our Prayer Book felt that, and have filled our services, the Litany especially, with prayers in which each of us can offer up his own troubles to God, if he but remember that he is offering up to God his neighbour’s troubles also, and the troubles of all mankind.  For this is the reason why we pray together in church; why all men, in all ages, heathen as well as Christian, have had the instinct of assembling together for public worship.  They may have fancied often that their deity dwelt in one special spot, and that they must go thither to find him.  They may have fancied that he or she dwelt in some particular image, and that they must visit, and pray to that particular image, if they wished their prayers to be heard.  All this, however, have men done in their foolishness; but beneath that foolishness there have been always more rational ideas, sounder notions.  They felt that it was God who had made them into families, and therefore whole families met together to worship in common Him of whom every family in heaven and earth is named.  That God had formed them into societies whether into tribes, as of old, or into parishes, as here now; and therefore whole parishes came together to worship God, whose laws they were bound to obey in their parochial society.  They felt that it was God who had made them into Nations (as the psalm says which we repeat every Sunday morning), and not they themselves; and therefore they conceived the grand idea of National churches, in which the whole nation should, if possible, worship Sunday after Sunday, at the same time, and in the same words, that God to whom they owed their order, their freedom, their strength, their safety, their National unity and life.  And not in silence merely.  These blessed souls in heaven are not silent.  They in heaven follow out the human instinct which they had on earth, which all men (when they recollect themselves, will have), when they feel a thing deeply, when they believe a thing strongly, to speak it—to speak it aloud.  They do not fancy in heaven, as the priests of Baal did on earth, that they must cry aloud, or God could not hear them.  They do not fancy, as the heathen do, that they must make vain repetitions, and say the same words over and over again by rote, because they will be heard for their much speaking; neither need you and I.  But yet they spoke aloud, because out of the fulness of the heart the mouth speaketh; and so should you and I.

And this brings me to the special object of my sermon.  I have told you what (as it seems to me) Worship means; why we worship; why we worship together; and why we ought to worship aloud.  Believe me, this last is your duty just as much as mine.  The services of the Church of England are so constructed that the whole congregation may take part in them, that they may answer aloud in the responses, that they may say Amen at the end of each prayer, just as they read or chant aloud the alternate verses of the Psalms.  The minister does not say prayers for them, but with them.  He is only their leader, their guide.  And if they are not to join in with their voices, there is really no reason why he should use his voice, why he should not say the prayers in silence and to himself, if the congregation are to say Amen in silence and to themselves.  Each person in the congregation ought to join aloud, first for the sake of his neighbours, and then for his own sake.

For the sake of his neighbours: for to hear each other’s voices stirs up earnestness, stirs up attention, keeps off laziness, inattention, and by a wholesome infection, makes all the congregation of one mind, as they are of one speech, in glorifying God.  And for his own sake, too.  For, believe me, when a man utters the responses aloud, he awakens his own thoughts and his own feelings, too.  He speaks to himself, and he hears himself remind himself of God, and of his duty to God, and acknowledge himself openly (as in confirmation) bound to believe and do what he, by his own confession, has assented unto.

Believe me, my dear friends, this is no mere theory.  It is to me a matter of fact and experience.  I cannot, I have long found, keep my attention steady during a service, if I do not make the responses aloud;—if I do not join in with my voice, I find my thoughts wandering; and I am bound to suppose that the case is the same with you.  Do not, therefore, think me impertinent or interfering, if I ask you all to take your due share in worshipping God in this church with your voices, as well as with your hearts.  Let these services be more lively, more earnest, more useful to us all than they have been, by making them more a worship of the whole congregation, and not of the minister alone.  I have read of a great church in the East, in days long, long ago, in which the responses of the vast congregation were so unanimous, so loud, that they sounded (says the old writer) like a clap of thunder.  That is too much to expect in our little country church: but at least, I beg you, take such an open part in the responses, that you shall all feel that you are really worshipping together the same God and Christ, with the same heart and mind; and that if a stranger shall come in, he may say in his heart: Here are people who are in earnest, who know what they are about, and are not ashamed of trying to do it; people who evidently mean what they say, and therefore say what they mean.

SERMON XXV.  THE PEACE OF GOD

Baltimore, U.S., 1874.  Westminster Abbey.  November 8, 1874.

Colossians. iii 15.  “Let the peace of God rule in your hearts.”

The peace of God.  That is what the priest will invoke for you all, when you leave this abbey.  Do you know what it is?  Whether you do or not, let me tell you in a few words, what I seem to myself to have learned concerning that peace.  What it is? how we can obtain it? and why so many do not obtain it, and are, therefore, not at peace?

It is worth while to do so.  For these are not peaceful times.  The peace of God is rare among us.  Some say that it is rarer than it was.  I know not how that may be; but I see all manner of causes at work around us which should make it rare.  We live faster than our forefathers.  We hurry, we bustle, we travel, we are eager for daily, almost for hourly news from every quarter, as if the world could not get on without us, or we without knowing a hundred facts which merely satisfy the curiosity of the moment; and as if the great God could not take excellent care of us all meanwhile.  We are eager, too, to get money, and get more money still—piercing ourselves through too often, as the Apostle warned us—with many sorrows, and falling into foolish and hurtful lusts, which drown men in destruction and perdition.  We are luxurious—more and more fond of show; more apt to live up to our incomes, and probably a little beyond; more and more craving for this or that gew-gaw, especially in dress and ornament, which if our neighbour has, we must have too, or we shall be mortified, envious.  Nay, so strong is this temper of rivalry, of allowing no superiors, grown in us, that we have made now-a-days a god of what used to be considered the basest of all vices—the vice of envy—and dignify it with the names of equality and independence.  Men in this temper of mind cannot be at peace.  They are not content; they cannot be content.

But with what are they not content?  That is a question worth asking.  For there is a discontent (as I have told you ere now) which is noble, manful, heroic, and divine.  Just as there is a discontent which is base, mean, unmanly, earthly—sometimes devilish.  There is a discontent which is certain, sooner or later, to bring with it the peace of God.  There is a discontent which drives the peace of God away, for ever and a day.  And the noble and peace-bringing discontent is to be discontented with ourselves, as very few are.  And the mean peace-destroying discontent is to be discontented with things around us, as too many are.  Now, my friends, I cannot see into your hearts; and I ought not to see.  For if I saw, I should be tempted to judge; and if I judged, I should most certainly judge rashly, shallowly, and altogether wrong.  Therefore examine yourselves, and judge yourselves in this matter.  Ask yourselves each, Am I at peace?  And if not, then apply to yourselves the rule of old Epictetus, the heroic slave, who, heathen though he was, sought God, and the peace of God, and found them, doubt it not, long, long ago.  Ask yourselves with Epictetus, Am I discontented with things which are in my own power, or with things which are not in my own power?—that is, discontented with myself, or with things which are not myself?  Am I discontented with myself, or with things about me, and outside of me?  Consider this last question well, if you wish to be true Christians, true philosophers, and, indeed, true men and women.

But what is it that troubles you?  What is it you want altered?  On what have you set your heart and affections?  Is it something outside you?—something which is not you yourself?  If so, there is no use in tormenting your soul about it; for it is not in your own power, and you will never alter it to your liking; and more, you need not alter it, for you are not responsible for it.  God sends it as it is, for better, for worse, and you must make up your mind to what God sends.  Do I mean that we are to submit slavishly to circumstances, like dumb animals?  Heaven forbid.  We are not, like Epictetus, slaves, but free men.  And we are made in God’s image, and have each our spark, however dim, of that creative genius, that power of creating or of altering circumstances, by which God made all worlds; and to use that, is of our very birthright, or what would all education, progress, civilisation be, save rebellion against God?  But when we have done our utmost, how little shall we have done!  Canst thou,—asks our Lord, looking with loving sadness on the hurry and the struggle of the human anthill—canst thou by taking thought add one cubit to thy stature?  Why, is there a wise man or woman in this abbey, past fifty years of age, who does not know that, in spite of all their toil and struggle, they have gone not whither they willed, but whither God willed?  Have they not found out that for one circumstance of their lives which they could alter, there have been twenty which they could not, some born with them, some forced on them by an overruling Providence, irresistible indeed—but, as I hold, most loving and most fatherly, though often severe—even to agony—but irresistible still—till what they have really gained by fighting circumstance, however valiantly, has been the moral gain, the gain in character?—the power to live the heroic life, which

“Is not as idle ore,
But heated hot with burning fears,
And bathed in baths of hissing tears,
And batter’d, with the shocks of doom,
To shape and use.”

Ah! if a man be learning that lesson, which is the primer of eternal life, then I hardly pity him, though I see him from youth to age tearing with weak hands at the gates of brass, and beating his soul’s wings to pieces against the bars of the iron cage.  But, alas! the majority of mankind tear at the gates of brass, and beat against the iron cage, with no such good purpose, and therefore with no such good result.  They fight with circumstances, not that they may become better themselves, not that they may right the wrongs or elevate the souls of their fellow-men, not even that they may fulfil the sacred duty of maintaining, and educating, and providing for the children whom they have brought into the world, and for whom they are responsible alike to God and to man; but simply because circumstances are disagreeable to them; because the things around them do not satisfy their covetousness, their luxury, their ambition, their vanity.  And therefore the majority of mankind want to be, and to do, and to have a hundred things which are not in their own power, and of which they have no proof that God intends to give them; no proof either that if they had them, they would make right use of them, and certainly no proof at all that if they had them they would find peace.  They war and fight, and have not, because they ask not.  They ask, and have not, because they ask amiss, to consume it on their lusts; and so they spend their lives without peace, longing, struggling for things outside them, the greater part of which they do not get, because the getting them is not in their own power, and which if they got they could not keep, for they can carry nothing away with them when they die, neither can their pomp follow them.  And therefore does man walk in a vain shadow, and disquiet himself in vain, looking for peace where it is not to be found—in everything and anything save in his own heart, in duty, and in God.

But happy are they who are discontented with the divine discontent, discontented with themselves.  Happy are they who hunger and thirst after righteousness, that they may become righteous and good men.  Happy are they who have set their hearts on the one thing which is in their own power—being better than they are, and doing better than they do.  Happy are they who long and labour after the true riches, which neither mobs nor tyrants, man nor devil, prosperity nor adversity, or any chance or change of mortal life, can take from them—the true and eternal wealth, which is the Spirit of God.  The man, I say, who has set his heart on being good, has set his heart on the one thing which is in his own power; the one thing which depends wholly and solely on his own will; the one thing which he can have if he chooses, for it is written, “If ye then being evil, know how to give good gifts unto your children, how much more shall your heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to them that ask Him?”  Moreover, he has set his heart on the one thing which cannot be taken from him.  God will not take it from him; and man, and fortune, and misfortune, cannot take it from him.  Poverty, misery, disease, death itself, cannot make him a worse man, cannot make him less just, less true, less pure, less charitable, less high-minded, less like Christ, and less like God.

Therefore he is at peace, for he is, as it were, intrenched in an impregnable fortress, against all men and all evil influences.  And that castle is his own soul.  And the keeper of that castle is none other than Almighty God, Jesus Christ our Lord, to whose keeping he has committed his soul, as unto a faithful and merciful Saviour, able to keep to the uttermost that which is committed to Him in faith and holiness.

Therefore that man is at peace with himself, for his conscience tells him that he is, if not doing his best, yet trying to do his best, better and better day by day.  He is at peace with all the world; for most men are longing and quarrelling for pleasant things outside them, for which he does not greatly care, while he is longing and striving for good things inside him in his own heart and soul; and so the world goes one way, and he another, and their desires do not interfere with each other.

But, more, that man is at peace with God.  He is at peace with God the Father; for he is behaving as the Father wishes His children to behave.  He is at peace with God the Son; for he is trying to do that which God the Son did when He came not to do His own will, but His Father’s; not to grasp at anything for himself, but simply to sacrifice himself for duty, for the good of man.  And he is at peace with God the Holy Spirit; for he is obeying the gracious inspirations of that Spirit, and growing a better man day by day.  And so the peace of God keeps that man’s heart free from vain desires and angry passions, and his mind from those false and foolish judgments which make the world think things important which are quite unimportant; and, again, fancy things unimportant which are more important to them than the riches of the whole world.

My dear friends, take my words home with you, and if you wish for the only true and sound peace, which is the peace of God, do your duty.  Try to be as good as you can, each in his station in life.  So help you God.

Take an example from the soldier on the march; and if you do that, you will all understand what I mean.  The bad soldier has no peace, just because he troubles himself about things outside himself, and not in his own power.  “Will the officers lead us right?” That is not in his power.  Let him go where the officers lead him, and do his own duty.  “Will he get food enough, water enough, care enough, if he is wounded?”  I hope and trust in God he will; but that is not in his own power.  Let him take that, too, as it comes, and do his duty.  “Will he be praised, rewarded, mentioned in the newspapers, if he fights well?”  That, too, is not in his own power.  Let him take that, too, as it comes, and do his duty; and so of everything else.  If the soldier on the march torments himself with these matters which are not in his own power, he is the man who will be troublesome and mutinous in time of peace, and in time of war will be the first to run away.  He will tell you, “A man must have justice done him; a man must see fair play for himself; a man must think of himself.”  Poor fool!  He is not thinking of himself all the while, but of a number of things which are outside him, circumstances which stand round him, and outside him, and are not himself at all.  Because he thinks of them—the things outside him—he is a coward or a mutineer, while he fancies he is taking care of himself—as it is written, “Whosoever shall seek to save his life shall lose it.”

But if the man will really think of himself, of that which is inside him, of his own character, his own honour, his own duty—then he will say, Well fed or ill fed, well led or ill led, praised and covered with medals, or neglected and forgotten, and dying in a ditch, I, by myself I, am the same man, and I have the same work to do.  I have to be—myself, and I have to do—my duty.  So help me God.  And therefore, so help me God, I will be discontented with no person or thing, save only with myself; and I will be discontented with myself, not when I have left undone something extraordinary, which I know I could not have done, but only when I have left undone something ordinary, some plain duty which I know I could have done, had I asked God to help me to do it.  Then in that soldier would be fulfilled—has been fulfilled, thank God, a thousand times, by men who lie in this abbey, and by men, too, of whom we never heard, “whose graves are scattered far and wide, by mount, by stream, by sea,”—in him would be fulfilled, I say, the words, “He that will lose his life shall save it.”  Then would he have in his heart, and in his mind likewise, a peace which victory and safety cannot give, and which defeat, and wounds, ay, death itself, can never take away.

And are not you, too, soldiers—soldiers of Jesus Christ?  Then even as that good soldier, you may be at peace, through all the battles, victories, defeats of mortal life, if you will be discontented with nothing save yourselves, and vow, in spirit and in truth, the one oath which is no blasphemy, but an act of faith, and an act of prayer, and a confession of the true theology—So help me God.  For then God will help you.  Neither you nor I know how; and I am sure neither you nor I know why—save that God is utterly good.  God, I say, will help you, by His Holy Spirit the Comforter, to do your duty, and to be at peace.  And then the peace of God will rule in your hearts and make you kings to God.  For He will enable you each to rule, serene, though weary, over a kingdom—or, alas! rather a mob, the most unruly, the most unreasonable, the most unstable, and often the most fierce, which you are like to meet on earth.  To rule, I say, over a mob, of which you each must needs be king or slave, according as you choose.  And what is that mob?  What but your own faculties, your own emotions, your own passions—in one word, your own selves?  Yes, with the peace of God ruling in your hearts, you will be able to become what without it you will never be—and that is—masters of yourselves.

SERMON XXVI.  SINS OF PARENTS VISITED

Eversley. 19th Sunday after Trinity, 1868.

Ezekiel xviii. 1-4.  “The word of the Lord came unto me again, saying, What mean ye, that ye use this proverb concerning the land of Israel, saying, The fathers have eaten sour grapes, and the children’s teeth are set on edge?  As I live, saith the Lord God, ye shall not have occasion any more to use this proverb in Israel.  Behold, all souls are mine; as the soul of the father, so also the soul of the son is mine: the soul that sinneth, it shall die.”

This is a precious chapter, and a comfortable chapter likewise, for it helps us to clear up a puzzle which has tormented the minds of men in all ages whenever they have thought of God, and of whether God meant them well, or meant them ill.

For all men have been tempted.  We are tempted at times to say,—The fathers have eaten sour grapes, and the children’s teeth are set on edge.  That is, we are punished not for what we have done wrong, but for what our fathers did wrong.  One man says,—My forefathers squandered their money, and I am punished by being poor.  Or, my forefathers ruined their constitutions, and, therefore, I am weakly and sickly.  My forefathers were ignorant and reckless, and, therefore, I was brought up ignorant, and in all sorts of temptation.  And so men complain of their ill-luck and bad chance, as they call it, till they complain of God, and say, as the Jews said in Ezekiel’s time, God’s ways are unequal—partial—unfair.  He is a respecter of persons.  He has not the same rule for all men.  He starts men unequally in the race of life—some heavily weighted with their father’s sins and misfortunes, some helped in every way by their father’s virtue and good fortune—and then He expects them all to run alike.  God is not just and equal.  And then some go on,—men who think themselves philosophers, but are none—to say things concerning God of which I shall say nothing here, lest I put into your minds foolish thoughts, which had best be kept out of them.

But, some of you may say, Is it not so after all?  Is it not true?  Is not God harder on some than on others?  Does not God punish men every day for their father’s sins?  Does He not say in the Second Commandment that He will do so, and visit the sins of the fathers upon the children to the third and fourth generation; and how can you make that agree with what Ezekiel says,—“The son shall not bear the iniquity of the father.”  My dear friends, I know that this is a puzzle, and always has been one.  Like the old puzzle of God’s foreknowledge and our free will, which seem to contradict each other.  Like the puzzle that we must help ourselves, and yet that God must help us, which seem to contradict each other.  So with this.  I believe of it, as of the two others I just mentioned, that there is no real contradiction between the two cases; and that some-when, somehow, somewhere, in the world to come, we shall see them clearly reconciled; and justify God in all His dealings, and glorify Him in all His ways.  But surely already, here, now, we may see our way somewhat into the depths of this mystery.  For Christ has come to give us light, and in His light we may see light, even into this dark matter.

For see: God visits the sins of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation—but of whom?—of them that hate Him.  Now, by those who hate God is meant, those who break His commandments, and are bad men.  If so, then, I say that God is not only just but merciful, in visiting the sins of the fathers on the children.

For, consider two cases.  Suppose these bad men, from father to son, and from son to grandson, go on in the same evil ways, and are incorrigible.  Then is not God merciful to the world in punishing them, even in destroying them out of the world, where they only do harm?  The world does not want fools, it wants wise men.  The world does not want bad men, it wants good men; and we ought to thank God, if, by His eternal laws, He gets rid of bad men for us; and, as the saying is, civilizes them off the face of the earth in the third or fourth generation.  And God does so.  If a family, or a class, or a whole nation becomes incorrigibly profligate, foolish, base, in three or four generations they will either die out or vanish.  They will sink to the bottom of society, and become miserably poor, weak, and of no influence, and so unable to do harm to any but themselves.  Whole families will sink thus, I have seen it; you may have seen it.  Whole nations will sink thus; as the Jews sank in Ezekiel’s time, and again in our Lord’s time; and be conquered, trampled on, counted for nothing, because they were worth nothing.

But now suppose, again, that the children, when their father’s sins are visited on them, are not incorrigible.  Suppose they are like the wise son of whom Ezekiel speaks, in the 14th verse, who seeth all his father’s sins, and considereth, and doeth not such like—then has not God been merciful and kind to him in visiting his father’s sins on him?  He has.  God is justified therein.  His eternal laws of natural retribution, severe as they are, have worked in love and in mercy, if they have taught the young man the ruinousness, the deadliness of sin.  Have the father’s sins made the son poor?  Then he learns not to make his children poor by his sin.  Have his father’s sins made him unhealthy?  Then he learns not to injure his children’s health.  Have his father’s sins kept him ignorant, or in anywise hindered his rise in life?  Then he learns the value of a good education, and, perhaps, stints himself to give his children advantages which he had not himself—and, as sure as he does so, the family begins to rise again after its fall.  This is no fancy, it is fact.  You may see it.  I have seen it, thank God.  How some of the purest and noblest women, some of the ablest and most right-minded men, will spring from families, will be reared in households, where everything was against them—where there was everything to make them profligate, false, reckless, in a word—bad—except the grace of God, which was trying to make them good, and succeeded in making them good; and how, though they have felt the punishment of their parents’ sins upon them in many ways during their whole life, yet that has been to them not a mere punishment, but a chastisement, a purifying medicine, a cross to be borne, which only stirred them up to greater watchfulness against sin, to greater earnestness in educating their children, to greater activity and energy in doing right, and giving their children the advantages which they had not themselves.  And so were fulfilled in them two laws of God.  The one which Ezekiel lays down—that the bad man’s son who executes God’s judgments and walks in God’s statutes shall not die for the iniquity of his father, but surely live; and the other law which Moses lays down—that God shews mercy unto thousands of generations, as I believe it means—that is, to son after father, and son after father again, without end—as long as they love Him and keep His commandments.

I do not, therefore, see that there is any real contradiction between what Moses says in the second commandment and what Ezekiel says in this chapter.  They are but two different sides of the same truth; and Moses is shewing the Jews one side, because they needed most to be taught that in his time, and Ezekiel showing them the other, because that was the teaching which they needed most then.  For they were fancying themselves, in their calamities, the victims of some blind and cruel fate, and had forgotten that, when God said that He visited the sins of the fathers on the children, He qualified it by saying, “of them that hate Me.”

Therefore, be hopeful about yourselves, and hopeful about your children after you.  If any one here feels—I am fallen very low in the world—here all has been so much against me—my parents were the ruin of me—Let him remember this one word of Ezekiel.  “Have I any pleasure at all that the wicked should die? saith the Lord God: and not that he should return from his ways, and live?”  Let him turn from his father’s evil ways, and do that which is lawful and right, and then he can say with the Prophet, in answer to all the strokes of fortune and the miseries of circumstance, “Rejoice not against me, O mine enemy: when I fall I shall arise.”  Provided he will remember that God requires of all men something, which is, to be as good as they can be; then he may remember also that our Lord Himself says, “Unto whomsoever much is given, of him shall much be required;” implying that to whom little is given, of him will little be required.  God’s ways are not unequal.  He has one equal, fair, and just rule for every human being; and that is perfect understanding, perfect sympathy, perfect good will, and therefore perfect justice and perfect love.

And if any one of you answers in his heart—these are good words, and all very well: but they come too late.  I am too far gone.  I ate the sour grapes in my youth, and my teeth must be on edge for ever and ever.  I have been a bad man, or I have been a foolish woman too many years to mend now.  I am down, and down I must be.  I have made my bed, and I must lie on it, and die on it too.  Oh my dear brother or sister in Christ, whoever you are who says that, unsay it again for it is not true.  Ezekiel tells you that it is not true, and one greater than Ezekiel, Jesus Christ, your Saviour, your Lord, your God, tells you it is not true.

For what happens, by God’s eternal and unchangeable laws of retribution, to a whole nation, or a whole family, may happen to you—to each individual man.  They fall by sin; they rise again by repentance and amendment.  They may rise punished by their sins, and punished for a long time, heavily weighted by the consequences of their own folly, and heavily weighted for a long time.  But they rise—they enter into their new life weak and wounded, from their own fault.  But they enter in.  And from that day things begin to mend—the weather begins to clear, the soil begins to yield again—punishment gradually ceases when it has done its work, the weight lightens, the wounds heal, the weakness strengthens, and by God’s grace within them, and by God’s providence outside them, they are made men of again, and saved.  So you will surely find it in the experience of life.

No doubt in general, in most cases,
The child is father of the man

for good and evil.  A pious and virtuous youth helps, by sure laws of God, towards a pious and virtuous old age.  And on the other hand, an ungodly and profligate youth leads, by the same laws, toward an ungodly and profligate old age.  That is the law.  But there is another law which may stop that law—just as the stone falls to the ground by the natural law of weight, and yet you may stop that law by using the law of bodily strength, and holding it up in your hand.  And what is the gracious law which will save you from the terrible law which will make you go on from worse to worse?

It is this,—“when the wicked man turneth away from his wickedness that he hath committed, and doeth that which is lawful and right, he shall save his soul alive.”  It is not said that his soul shall come in a moment to perfect health and strength.  No.  There are old bad habits to be got rid of, old ties to be broken, old debts (often worse debts than any money debts) to be paid.  But he shall save his soul alive.  His soul shall not die of its disease.  It shall be saved.  It shall come to life, and gradually mend and be cured, and grow from strength to strength, as a sick man mends day by day after a deadly illness, slowly it may be, but surely:—for how can you fail of being cured if your physician is none other than Jesus Christ your Lord and your God?

Oh, recollect that last word.  If you will but recollect that, you will never despair.  How dare any man say—Bad I am, and bad I must remain—while the God who made heaven and earth offers to make you good?  Who dare say,—I cannot amend—when God Himself offers to amend you?  Who dare say,—I have no strength to amend—when God offers to give you strength, strength of His strength, and life of His life, even His Holy Spirit?  Who dare say,—God has given me up; He has a grudge against me which He will not lay by, an anger against me which cannot be appeased, a score against me which will never be wiped out of His book?  Oh foolish and faint-hearted soul.  Look, look at Christ hanging on His cross, and see there what God’s grudge, God’s anger, God’s score of your sins is like.  Like love unspeakable, and nothing else.  To wash out your sins, He spared not His only begotten Son, but freely gave Him for you, to shew you that God, so far from hating you, has loved you; that so far from being your enemy, He was your father; that so far from willing the death of a sinner, He willed that you and every sinner should turn from his wickedness and live.  For that, Jesus the only begotten Son of God, came down and preached, and sorrowed, and suffered, and died upon the cross.  He died that you may live; He suffered that you may be saved; He paid the debt, because you could never pay it; He bore your sins upon the cross, that you might not have to bear them for ever and for ever in eternal death.  Now, even if you suffer somewhat in this life for your sins, that suffering is not punishment, but wholesome chastisement, as when a father chastens the son in whom he delighteth.  All He asks of you is to long and try to give up your sins, for He will help you to give them up.  All He asks of you is to long and try to lead a new life, for He will give you power to lead a new life.  Oh, say not—I cannot—when Christ who died for you says you can.  Say not—I dare not—when Christ bids you dare come boldly to His throne of grace.  Say not—I must be as I am—when Christ died that you should not be as you are.  Say not—there is no hope—when Christ died and rose again, and reigns for ever, to give hope to you and all mankind, that when the wicked man turns away from his wickedness that he has committed, and doeth that which is lawful and right, he shall save his soul alive, and all his transgressions shall not be mentioned unto him, but in his righteousness that he hath done shall he live.

SERMON XXVII.  AGREE WITH THINE ADVERSARY

Eversley, 1861.  Windsor Castle, 1867.