At Home

At Home

Timothy Shay Arthur, 1858

A man's walk and life at home — always give the surest test of his profession. At home, few are disguises. The real quality manifests itself without disguise. If a man's wife, children, and servants, show no respect for his religious character — you may be pretty sure that he is self-deceived, or a hypocrite. In other words, that he is trying to get to Heaven by a mere external observance of pious forms, instead of through a denial of self-love, and the cultivation of heavenly affections.

Mortimer Grand had a very pious way with him. He was much inclined to conversation on religious subjects; fond of doctrinal discussions, and much concerned about his neighbors' fidelity in spiritual things. Most people thought him a good man — some a very good man; but the few who came in closer contact, and felt the quality of his business life — held rather a different opinion. They saw that he was, for the most part, eagerly bent on securing personal advantage; and this even to the injury of others.

But it is in his home life that we design testing the religious quality of Mr. Grand. At home, shut out from the world's observation, he could lay off the assumed external, and act in all things just as he felt. If a tyrant in heart — he would act the tyrant. If impatient at light annoyances — he would be impatient. If inclined to selfish appropriation — there was none to prevent his doing as he pleased. He could enjoy the luxury of being himself, from inmost affection, to uttermost act.

The day had closed, and in no very good humor — for all things had not shaped themselves as natural affections desired — Mr. Grand bent his steps homewards. On the way he met a friend. They stopped and exchanged salutations. Mr. Grand's face became almost radiant with smiles as he responded to the remark —

"The good work goes bravely on."

"Bravely and gloriously!" was his reply. "It is, indeed, a time of refreshing from the hand of the Lord. The signs of His presence are everywhere."

Then they shook hands with ardor, and parted. For a little way, the glow of enthusiasm remained with Mr. Grand; then, as home drew near, the warmth of his feelings subsided; and by the time his feet were crossing his own threshold, his state was entirely changed.

"No light in the passage, as usual!" he murmured, fretfully, as he closed the street door behind him.

Even as he spoke, the faint, yellow gleam of a match broke suddenly out of the darkness, and in the next moment the strong glare of a gas lamp blazed around him. It was the work of his wife.

"Humph! it's always so!" growled Mr. Mortimer Grand.

"Yes, it is always so," replied Mrs. Grand, her tone of voice in no way more amiable than that of her husband.

"What's always so?" was demanded.

"Your temper when you come home."

This was severe; and Mr. Grand was irritated, rather than rebuked. So he went stalking upstairs to the sitting-room, and entered among the children like a cloud, instead of a sunbeam. There was a sudden hushing of voices, and a shrinking away at his approach. In the large cushioned rocking-chair, sat little Frances, whose loving heart was always going out in search of love. She lifted her blue eyes to her father's face, as he approached her, with a half-timid, half-hopeful expression. But he merely swept her from the chair with his hand, and sat down without a gentle word or glance of affection.

Dear little tender thing! The roughness and the disappointment were too great for her. Tears came; sobs convulsed her tiny frame; and then passionate grief broke in cries upon the air.

"Take that child from the room!" said Mr. Grand, sternly, as his wife entered.

"What's the matter with her?" inquired the mother.

"It's more than I can tell. She's always crying about something. But, I won't have this noisy din about my ears. It's intolerable."

Mrs. Grand took the child up in her arms, and pressed her head down against her bosom, tenderly.

"What ails you, dear? Stop crying, and tell me." Mrs. Grand pressed her lips to the ear of her child.

"Papa." It was all the little mouth could say.

"Papa, what?" Whispered the mother.

"Papa hurt me," was answered, amid quivering sobs.

And that was just the truth; and just as the child felt it. She did not mean to convey to her mother any impression beyond the truth. Her little heart was hurt.

"That is not so!" And Mr. Grand started to his feet. "How dare you tell a lie!" And he moved rapidly across the room. The frightened child shrank closer to her mother, and hushed her crying. Mr. Grand took hold of her slender arm with the tight grip of passion, and attempted to remove her; but Mrs. Grand would not permit this. She was not going to trust her precious little one to the tender mercies of an angry man, whose hard spirit had bruised hers from the beginning. The result of former contests with his wife, warned Mr. Grand not to persist now; and so, after scowling upon her for some moments, he turned away and went back to his seat in the large rocking-chair, muttering something in an undertone.

For ten minutes Mr. Grand sat without speaking; his chin drawn down upon his bosom, and his countenance wearing a most repulsive aspect. Then he ordered one of the children to be still, in a tone of harsh rebuke. Ten minutes more of moody silence followed.

"If supper isn't ready soon, I shall go off without it!" Mr. Grand spoke suddenly.

"You didn't say you were going out." Mrs. Grand arose and moved towards the door of the room. "If you had, I would have hurried tea."

"Supper ought to have been ready half an hour ago. I've said, a hundred times, that I wished my meals always ready by stroke of the clock."

Mrs. Grand went downstairs, leading Frances, who kept close to her side. Nearly ten minutes more elapsed, before everything was on the table. Before half that time had expired, Mr. Grand had commenced walking the floor of the sitting-room with impatient footsteps.

"Father!" A voice and hand arrested his attention.

"Well, what's wanted?" Mr. Grand stopped and looked down with closer contracting brows.

"Lend me your knife, father, to sharpen this stick?"

"I shall do no such thing. You broke the last knife I had." And Mr. Grand pushed his little son away, who, made angry by the rebuff, crossed the room to where his older brother was writing out an exercise, and from sheer meanness, born of bad feelings, pushed his elbow and caused him to spoil half an hour's work. This outrage could not be borne; the brother turned and struck him in the face. A loud cry followed, when the father, catching up the boy who had dealt the blow, punished him with great severity, and then sent him off, supperless to bed. He made no inquiry — stopped for no investigation; but meted out summary punishment, because that was in closest agreement with his angry feelings.

"When the tea bell rang, at last, he went stalking downstairs, the children following, in a wild scramble.

"Silence!" He demanded in a tone of stern authority, as he sat down to the table. A prayer was then said, when, helping himself, Mr. Grand left his wife to help the children. The toast was a little burnt, and he scolded her; his tea wasn't sweet enough, and he called for more sugar, with a frown; the butter didn't suit his taste, and he spoke so sharply about it to his wife, that tears came into her eyes. After eating, with a good appetite, Mr. Grand left the table, saying, as he did so, that he was going out and wouldn't be home until after ten o'clock.

"Henry!" Mrs. Grand arose from the table, and followed her husband into the passage.

"Well, what do you want?"

"I wish you could stay home this evening. I was going to ask you, particularly."

"Stay at home! What for?" Mr. Grand knit his very flexible brows, as he always did when not pleased.

"Edward is not getting on right at school. He hasn't had his lessons for a week or more, and says he can't learn them. I have tried my best to help him, but the lessons puzzle me. Now, Henry, if you would only give him a little time this evening — you might save him from discouragement and disgrace at school. He says the teacher keeps him in every day, and threatens severer punishment if he is deficient tomorrow. I promised him that I would speak to you about it."

"I've punished him, and sent him to bed, for striking his brother," said Mr. Grand. "I don't wonder that he isn't getting on right at school — if he behaves as badly there as he does at home. The fault, I apprehend, goes deeper than his lessons. I don't believe his teacher is so unreasonable as he makes out."

"But hadn't you better look into the matter? I think Edward is doing his best. He must have been very much provoked, if he struck his brother. He is not troublesome among the children. I wish you would stay at home tonight and look into this matter of his lessons. If there is any injustice towards him, who but his father is competent to protect him?"

"Oh, as to the injustice, I will take all the risk," replied Mr. Grand, indifferently.

"Then you won't stay at home?"

"I can't. I'm going to a missionary meeting."

"Missionary meetings may all be well enough," answered the wife, coldly; "but my opinion is, that your duty tonight is to look after the neglected heathen of your own home."

"Mary, I will not tolerate this!" Mr. Grand spoke sternly. "I know my duty, and am alone responsible for its performance. I wish you would do yours as well. We would then have a better regulated household."

And he went out, shutting the door with a heavy jar. Mrs. Grand sighed, as she walked back, with weary steps, to the dining-room, and took up, with a sad heart, the burden of her duties. Mr. Grand went to the meeting, in which he took a prominent part, and came away at its close with pleasant compliments in his ears, and a feeling of self-satisfaction in his heart — in having been an active co-worker in a great scheme of Christian benevolence.

Of this man's title to the name of Christian, let the reader judge.
 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~
 

We have another and sunnier picture to exhibit, and so pass from the contemplation of one which can only excite unpleasant feelings.

True religion always shows itself best at home; for here disguises are put aside, and the man is seen as he really is.

"You will be at the prayer-meeting tonight, Marston?" said a man to his friend. They had stopped at the corner of a street, and were about to separate.

"Oh, yes. I wouldn't miss one of these Wednesday-night meetings on any account. I enjoy them very much; and gain strength for duty. You will be there?"

"Of course; nothing could keep me away."

"Good evening."

"Good evening. Come early, Marston."

And the two men separated. Both had recently joined the Church, and both were ardent in their new life, almost to enthusiasm.

On his arrival at home, Marston found that preparations for tea were not in a very encouraging state of advancement; so he said, in a cheerful way to his wife, who was going about with a baby in her arms —

"You must hurry up things a little, Anna. This is Wednesday night, you know, and I wouldn't fail being at the meeting on any account. Give Maggy to me. There; now your hands are free. I ought to have come home a little earlier."

The pale, weary-looking wife, smiled on her husband, as she handed him the baby, and said, pleasantly —

"You shall not be late, dear. I will soon have all ready. My head has ached badly all the afternoon, and this has kept me behindhand.

"I'm sorry for that, Anna. Does it ache still?" The husband's voice was full of kind interest.

"Yes; and I feel unusually weak. Hie first warm weather of the season always tries me, you know."

A shadow of concern came over the face of Mr. Marston, as his eyes followed the retiring form of his wife. He was an industrious young man, with only a small salary; and his wife was trying to get along without a servant. They had two children — a little boy four years old, and Maggy, the baby, who had not yet completed her first year.

In a shorter time than the husband had expected, his wife's pleasant voice called him to supper. He gave her the baby as he entered their little dining-room, and she sat down with it in her arms to pour out the tea.

"Does your head ache still?" inquired Marston.

"Badly; but I think a cup of tea will do me good."

"I hope so, indeed. Give baby back to me. I can hold her." And the husband reached out his hands for little Maggy, who, pleased to return, almost leaped into his arms.

"You must take her back, mother," said Marston, rising from the table, in about ten minutes, and reaching the baby to his wife. "It is late, and I must be away, or the prayer-meeting will open before I get there."

"But Maggy, who was very fond of her father, did not wish to leave him; and so struggled, after her mother had received her, and cried to be taken back.

"Papa must go, darling." Marston bent down and tried to soothe the grieving little one. As he did so, Maggy got her arms around his neck, and held on tightly. It took quite an effort to remove them.

As Marston shut the door of his dwelling behind him, and commenced walking rapidly away in the direction of the church, at which the prayer meeting was to be held, he was conscious of an unpleasant pressure upon his feelings. What did this mean? He began at once searching about in his mind for the cause. At first, he could see nothing clearly; but gradually thought went back to the home he had just left, and to his pale, weary-looking wife and children, grieving because he had left them.

"Is this right?" The question came suddenly upon him, and almost arrested his steps.

"I am sorry to leave them alone tonight," he said within himself; "and wouldn't, except for the prayer-meeting. I gain so much strength and comfort in this means of grace, that I feel as if it would be wrong to neglect it."

And so he walked on, but with slower steps, his thoughts still returning to his home, and imagination giving more and more vivid pictures of his wife and children in grief for his absence. At last he stood still.

"I need the blessing I had hoped to receive this evening. The strength, the comfort, the peace," he said, still talking with himself. "But, poor Anna! It is hard for her to be left alone. And she isn't at all well."

"I will go back." He spoke out resolutely, at last; and commenced retracing his steps. "I must not consider myself alone. Perhaps God will give the strength and comfort I need, even if I do not meet tonight with his people."

"Oh, James, is it you?" Mrs. Marston startled at the unexpected appearance of her husband, who saw, as she looked up, that her eyes were wet. "Have you forgotten anything?"

"Yes," he replied, as he stood gazing with unusual tenderness upon her.

"What is it? Can I get it for you?"

"I forgot to stay at home with my wife and children," said the young man.

"Oh, James!" Tears gushed over his wife's face. "And I've come back to remain with them."

Mrs. Marston leaned her aching head upon her husband's shoulder, and sobbed. This unexpected circumstance quite broke down the little self-composure that remained.

"Did you feel lonely?"

"Lonely, sad, and discouraged," she answered. "But you are good and kind; and I am weak and foolish. Go back, James, to the prayer-meeting — I shall feel better now."

"No, darling," said Marston. "I will stay at home to help and comfort my lonely, sad, and discouraged wife; and I think I shall be serving God in this, with a truer spirit of worship than I could possibly feel in any prayer-meeting that I went to, at the sacrifice of a clear home duty."

"How does your head feel now, Anna?" was asked half an hour later, as they sat together, Mrs. Marston with her needle in her hand, and her husband holding both of the happy children in his arms.

"It is free from pain, and I feel so much better. I think your unexpected return has cured me. Aren't I a weak, foolish woman, James? But, after you have been absent all day long, I can't bear to have you go out in the evening. I love so to hear you read to me; and you don't know how much good it always does me!"

Mr. Marston smiled back upon his wife a loving smile. New thoughts were awakened in his mind.

"There are other souls to be cared, for as well as my own," he said, a little while after, as he sat musing on the occurrences of the evening. "The souls of my wife and children. How can I help them on the way to Heaven? By going out to religious meetings — or by staying at home with them? Ah! My duty is clear. I must do right before I can be right. If I endeavor to water the souls of others — God will water my own soul. He has placed these precious ones in my care, and I must be faithful to the high mission."

To think right is the first step towards doing right. While his wife sat at her work, Mr. Marston put his little boy to bed; first talking to him about Heaven, and its pure inhabitants, and then hearing him say his prayers.

"God bless you, my son!" he said in his heart, as he laid on his pure lips, the good-night kiss.

Another new thing in the household of Mr. Marston occurred that evening. As his wife sewed, he read to her, first from religious books, and then from the Bible. When bed-time drew near, he said, in a serious, but gentle voice —

"There are home prayer-meetings, as well as church prayer-meetings; and God has said,

'Where even two or three are gathered together in His name — there He will be in the midst of them.' Shall we not open a prayer-meeting in our house, Anna — a home prayer-meeting? There are two of us here, and God has declared that even with two, He will be present."

"I am not strong enough for duty, Henry. Every day I feel that my strength is but weakness. Pray with, and pray for me, that divine strength will be given."

Mrs. Marston spoke with glistening eyes.

Then they knelt down together, and opened a prayer-meeting in their home; and Marston gathered in the act, more strength and comfort than could possibly have been found at the public meeting, had he gone there in violation of his home duties, and sang and prayed ever so fervently. For right actions, from religious principles, alone bear us heavenwards.

Is God unjust?

Is God unjust?

(Don Fortner)

"Just as it is written: 'Jacob I loved, but Esau I hated.' What then shall we say? Is God unjust? Not at all! For He says to Moses, 'I will have mercy on whom I have mercy, and I will have compassion on whom I have compassion.' It does not, therefore, depend on man's desire or effort, but on God's mercy." Romans 9:13-16

Though God is absolutely sovereign, having mercy on whom He will have mercy and hardening whom He will--He is strictly just, both in bestowing His saving mercy upon His elect, and in the everlasting damnation of the reprobate.

"Therefore God has mercy on whom He wants to have mercy, and He hardens whom He wants to harden." Romans 9:18

FOREVER!

FOREVER!

Arthur Pink, June, 1950
 

The term "forever" and its variants occur very frequently in the Bible — one of the many marks by which it is distinguished from the writings of men. Necessarily and obviously so. Man is but of yesterday, a creature of time; and though he is endowed with an immortal soul, his interests are confined to temporal things, and his energies are devoted almost entirely to the acquirement and enjoyment of the same. With very rare exceptions, until he is quickened by the gracious power of God, the outlook of man is limited to the present. Hence, it is that his writings are confined to those subjects pertaining unto things of time and sense; and if he should turn his thoughts unto "the great beyond" — it is but to dream or indulge in idle speculations.

But not so of the One who gave us being: of Him it has to be said, "From everlasting to everlasting, you are God" (Psalm 90:2). He is the unchanging I am, "The One who is and who was and who is to come!" (Rev 11:17). This excellency of His being is clearly reflected in His Word, for it reveals to us those counsels which He made before the foundation of the world, and acquaints us with things after it is finished. The Bible treats of everlasting realities, and makes known to us our eternal interests and destinies.

The certainty of the DIVINE DECREES: "The counsel of the LORD stands forever, the thoughts of his heart to all generations" (Psalm 33:11). There is no if or but, perhaps or perhaps, about them: all the divine counsels are inviolable and infallibly sure. At the close of time, it will be clearly demonstrated before an assembled universe, that the whole of God's will was fully accomplished: "There are many devices in a man's heart; nevertheless, the counsel of the LORD, that shall stand" (Pro 19:21).

Man's purposes are like himself — fallible and fickle: but God's are firmer than a rock, for they are formed by infinite and immutable wisdom. It cannot be otherwise, for "he is in one mind, and who can turn him? and what his soul desires, even that he does" (Job 23:13). With Him there is "no variableness, neither shadow of turning" (Jam 1:17). None can bribe or induce Him to alter one detail of His eternal plan. No unforeseen contingency can arise, for "known unto God are all his works from the beginning of the world" (Act 15:18). His power is invincible, and therefore, it is impossible for any to thwart Him. He "works all things after the counsel of his own will" (Eph 1:11), so that none of the devices of His enemies can prevent Him — if they could, He would not be the supreme and universal LORD of all.

The perfection of the DIVINE WORKMANSHIP: "I know that, whatever God does, it shall be forever — nothing can be put to it, nor anything taken from it: and God does it, that men should fear before him" (Ecc 3:14). God's works are like Himself — incapable of improvement, perfect. "O LORD, how great are your works!" (Psalm 92:5). The execution of them may be opposed (as Saul "kicked against the goads" Act 26:14), but they cannot be obstructed by any created power. Since there be no deficiency in them, nothing needs adding; since there be no excess, nothing needs to be taken away.

"And all men shall fear, and shall declare the work of God; for they shall wisely consider of his doing" (Psalm 64:9). While the immediate reference in Psalm 33:11 was to God's decrees, this one is to the execution of them. His covenant is "ordered in all things, and sure" (2 Samuel 23:5). The work of Christ is a "finished" one, so that none can add to or diminish from it. God's promises are all "Yes" and "Amen." His sentence of justification will never be reversed. Pardoned sins will never be remembered by Him. The miracle of regeneration is durable. The graces which God works in us "abides" (1 Corinthians 13:13). Well may we exclaim, "Marvelous are your works; and that my soul knows right well" (Psalm 139:14).

The IMMUTABILITY OF THE SAINTS' STANDING: "For by one offering he has perfected forever those who are sanctified" (Heb 10:14). That is a wondrous and blessed statement, yet one which the faith of few of God's people lays hold of. It makes known the present and perpetual acceptance of the Church unto God. It tells of what the efficacious sacrifice of Christ has secured for all His people: not merely the putting away of their sins, not only obtaining for them immediate access to God, but also securing such a perfect standing before Him that they may draw near in full confidence. All the excellence of Christ's sin-atoning sacrifice, is upon them. His infinite merits have been imputed to them, and therefore, does God view them with the utmost satisfaction and delight.

The word "perfect" here means "completed or consummated" and refers not to anything subjective, but objective. Likewise, "sanctified" here signifies not an experiential but a relative one, having the force of "hallowed." As another has said, "The sanctification of Hebrews 10 is as complete and permanent, as the justification of Romans 5, admitting of neither addition nor diminution." This sacrificial "perfection" of Christians is irrevocable and cannot be lost, for it rests on something outside of themselves.

"Perfected forever": contrary to all our sense of unworthiness and unfitness for such blessing and glory, it must be believed if our hearts are to be kept in peace. Yet, while rejoicing in the same, we shall be forever humbled by the remembrance that it is all of grace and gift, and that we have no part in it except as the objects of God's love and the recipients of His favor. Let us rest on the finished work of Christ, and express our gratitude in lives which honor Him.

The permanency of the MEDIATORIAL OFFICE: "You are a priest forever after the order of Melchizedek" (Psalm 110:4). Only in the God-man, is the chasm between the creature and the Creator bridged; and therefore, His mediatorial office is to be exercised not only throughout this time-state, but eternally.

That office is threefold: prophetical, priestly, and kingly. No doubt, there will be a great change of method in the exercise of that office in Heaven; yet exercised it will be. Though the knowledge of His glorified saints will be vastly increased, they will not be infallible, but in need of teaching still; and as Revelation 7:17 assures us: "For the Lamb who is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of waters."

Though sinless, perfectly holy, yet the merits of Christ are the foundation of their eternal standing before God; and they will still need the great High Priest to present their praises unto God.

As for His kingship and government of them, even on the new earth, it is "the throne of God and of the Lamb" (Rev 22:1): "God is supreme, but the Lamb administers the power and authority of the throne" — Walter Scott (1796- 1861). "Christ shall be the means and way of communications between God and His glorified saints forever" — John Owen (1616-1683).

The durability of the DIVINE CLEMENCY: "O give thanks unto the LORD; for he is good: for his mercy endures forever" (Psalm 136:1). This injunction is repeated in the two following verses, so that we have therein a call to laud the Triune Jehovah; and in each instance, for the same reason. Special thanks are due unto Him for His perpetual benignity unto them, for even at the Redeemer's return, this characteristic will be exercised by Him — "Looking for the mercy of our Lord Jesus Christ" (Jude :21); "The Lord grant unto him that he may find mercy of the Lord in that day" (2 Timothy 1:18). No less than twenty-six times in this psalm occurs the refrain, "For his mercy endures forever." Numerous examples of the same are cited: in putting forth His power in cleaving a way through formidable obstacles for the deliverance of His people, in providing for them in their wilderness journey, and in giving them a rich heritage.

The utter hopelessness of the lost: "To whom is reserved the blackness of darkness forever" (Jude 13). This in no way clashes with the foregoing, but rather supplies a confirmation, for the separation and banishing of the wicked unto their own place is an act of mercy unto the saints. Equally so is it an act of divine justice on the wicked: since they "loved darkness rather than light" (John 3:19), it is fitting that the darkness should be their final and dismal abode. This "blackness of darkness" seems to be a parallel expression with the "outer darkness" of Matthew 8:12 — remotest from God, who is the Fountain of light.

Thus, it expresses first their eternal exile from God — "punished with everlasting destruction from the presence of the Lord" (2 Thessalonians 1:9).

Second, as "light" is a figure of life and blessing, so is darkness of wretchedness and woe.

Third, the utter remedilessness of their condition — unrelieved by a single ray of hope: after millions of years, their suffering no nearer an end than it was at the outset. "This is the Hell of Hell, that, as the torments thereof are without measure — so they are without end!" — Thomas Manton (1620-1677).

The perpetuity of the saints' bliss: "I will dwell in the house of the LORD for ever" (Psalm 23:6). This is in marked and blessed antithesis from the "punished with everlasting destruction from the presence of the Lord" (2 Thessalonians 1:9), which constitutes the doom of the lost.

Their respective eternal portions are contrasted at every point:

The wicked enjoy "the pleasures of sin for a season" (Heb 11:25); we shall participate in those "pleasures at God's right hand," which are "for evermore" (Psalm 16:11).

Agents of Satan seize their souls at death; ours are carried to Heaven by the angels.

They shall be raised "to shame and everlasting contempt" (Dan 12:2); we in "honor and glory" (1 Peter 1:7).

To them it shall be said, "Depart from me, you cursed" (Mat 25:41); to us, "Come, you blessed of my Father" (Mat 25:34).

They "shall be tormented day and night forever and ever" (Rev 20:10); we shall "ever be forever with the Lord" (1 Thessalonians 4:17; Rev 22:5).

NEVER!

NEVER!

Arthur Pink, May, 1950
 

The word never means "at no time, in no degree," yet, paradoxical though it seems, it is one of the emphatic and dogmatic terms of Scripture, as its occurrences show. It is both interesting and instructive to observe the different connections in which it is found in the Bible. They are of considerable variety. Some of them are inexpressibly blessed unto God's children; others should evoke terror in those who are strangers to Him. What a fearful contrast is there between "Hell and destruction are never full" (Pro 27:20) and "David shall never lack a man to sit upon the throne" (Jer 33:17). And between "For you have made of a city an heap; of a defenced city a ruin…it shall never be built" (Isa 25:2) and "The God of Heaven set up a kingdom, which shall never be destroyed" (Dan 2:44)! It is by such graphic antitheses that the truth is presented more impressively. Set over against the complaint of the elder son to his professed father, "You never gave me a young goat" (Luke 15:29), is the promise of Christ, "He who comes to me shall never hunger" (John 6:35). Let us now take a closer look at a few of the verses in which this term is found.

"Ever learning, and never able to come to the knowledge of the truth" (2 Timothy 3:7). Here is the "never" of a fruitless quest, and alas, there are many engaged in such. It is a sad thing that one may acquire much theological knowledge, be well versed in the writings of God's most honored servants, and sit regularly under sound preaching — and yet have no saving acquaintance with the truth! It is a still more solemn fact that one may spend considerable time daily not only in reading God's Word, but in diligently studying the same, and yet attain unto no spiritual and experiential knowledge of the truth. The scribes and Pharisees are a case in point, and there are many in Christendom today who are in a like state.

Why is this? What is the explanation of this fruitless quest? It is because such souls are not taught by the Spirit of God, and unless He is our Instructor, all our efforts are, spiritually speaking, in vain. It is because they are unregenerate, and therefore devoid of spiritual discernment: the Lord has not given them "a heart to perceive, and eyes to see, and ears to hear" (Deu 29:4). Where such is the case, the mind is "corrupt" and the truth is resisted, as 2 Timothy 3:8 goes on to show.

"Never man spoke like this man" (John 7:46). That is the "never" of unique utterance. Everything connected with Christ was unique. His birth was unparalleled, so were His character and conduct, His mission and miracles, His death and resurrection. His speech was no exception, His enemies being witnesses, for that testimony in John 7:46 was borne to Him not by His apostles, but by the officers sent by the scribes and Pharisees to apprehend Him. But instead of arresting Him, they had themselves been arrested and awed by what they heard from His lips.

In like manner, those who listened to Him teaching in their synagogue were astonished, and asked, "Whence has this man this wisdom, and these mighty works?" (Mat 13:54). And before the end, so baffled were His critics by the profound solutions which He returned to their riddles that "no man was able to answer him a word, neither dared any man from that day forth ask him any more questions" (Mat 22:46).

And why was it that "never any man spoke like" He did? (John 7:46). Because He was more than man — man's Creator. In Him "are hid all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge" (Col 2:3). It was the truth incarnate Who tabernacled among men. It was God speaking "by his Son" (Heb 1:2), and therefore are we commanded to "hear him!" (Mat 17:5).

"He who believes on me shall never thirst" (John 6:35). That is the "never" of an unfailing supply. But let us first note that these words point a most solemn contrast between the satisfying portion of the believer — and the experience of the Savior upon the Cross. Near the close of His awful sufferings there, Christ cried, "I thirst" (John 19:28). He made reference to a far more acute pang than any bodily one. It was not mere physical thirst to which He alluded: rather was it to the anguish of His soul. During the three hours of darkness, the face of God had been turned from Him, and He was left alone — "forsaken" — as He endured the fierce fires of God's outpoured wrath. That cry told of the severity of the spiritual conflict as He yearned for communion again with the Father. In that sense, the Christian will never thirst. Nor will he as he did when convicted of his lost state and dire need. Nor will Christ ever allow him to be so parched spiritually, as to have no moisture in him. He will indeed pant after a fuller knowledge of Christ, but that is more an evidence of deepening desire after holiness. "His soul's desires are longing ones, not languishing; a desiring thirst he has for more and more of God, but not a despairing thirst" — Matthew Henry (1622-1714).

"And in my prosperity I said, I shall never be moved. LORD, by your favor you have made my mountain to stand strong" (Psalm 30:6-7). That is the "never" of carnal security. It throws not a little light on the latter part of David's life, and also shows us what foolish ideas even saints may entertain. This psalm was probably written (see verse 1) after his deliverance from Saul's persecuting malice, when he was peacefully settled upon the throne. The LORD had wrought mightily and rendered him victorious over the enemies of Israel, and after the fierce storms there followed a great calm. David now felt quite secure from danger, and in his rashness, imagined all his troubles were ended. He indeed ascribed his prosperity unto the LORD; but to compare his present state to a mountain which stood strong, savored of pride; and to declare he would never be moved was the language of self-confidence. The sins into which he fell, and his flight from Absalom, demonstrated his error. "Let us beware lest the fumes of intoxicating success get into our brains, and make fools of us also" — Charles Spurgeon (1834-1892). Neither a continuance of outward prosperity, nor inward peace, is anywhere promised us absolutely; yet how apt we are to say, "Tomorrow shall be as this day" (Isa 56:12). Let us "rejoice with trembling" (Psalm 2:11), and seek grace to heed that warning, "Let him that thinks he stands, take heed lest he fall" (1 Corinthians 10:12).

"And I give unto them eternal life; and they shall never perish, neither shall any man pluck them out of my hand" (John 10:28). That is the "never" of eternal security. The ones to whom such safety is divinely assured are — as the immediate context shows — those who "hear" (heed) Christ's voice, who are "known" (approved) by Him, who "follow" Him (and not their own natural inclination); and thus, their preservation is neither mechanical nor one apart from their own concurrence. From the divine-grace side of things, "they shall never perish," because the Redeemer has given to them eternal life, because He has undertaken "to save them to the uttermost that come unto God by him" (Heb 7:25), because they are gripped firmly by Omniscience: "All his saints are in your hand" (Deu 33:3). From the human-responsibility side of things, they shall never perish, because the LORD causes them to take to heart the solemn warnings and admonitions of His Word; and thereby avoid the things which would destroy them, because He gives them a spirit of prayer and dependence upon Him, which delivers them from ruinous self-confidence; because He moves them to feed on His Word and obtain spiritual strength; because He brings them to comply with His precepts, and thus leads them safely Home along the way of practical holiness.

"I never knew you: depart from me, you who work iniquity" (Mat 7:23). This is a word to graceless professors, and is the most solemn "never" in all the Bible, for it is that of divine repudiation, and sounds the eternal doom of those to whom it is uttered. Christ is here heard speaking in the Day of Judgment to many who boasted that they had preached and done many wonderful things in His name.

Jesus' words do not signify that He was unacquainted with their persons or not cognizant of their performances, for the remainder of the verse shows that He had penetrated their disguise and knew them to be workers of iniquity. Instead, it means that He did not accept or approve of them, that He refused to own them as His. When it is said, "the LORD knows the way of the righteous" (Psalm 1:6), it means that He is pleased with the same. "The Lord knows those who are his" (2 Timothy 2:19) imports that He loves them. "I never knew you" (Mat 7:23): neither in the eternal counsels of God, nor while you were in the world, had I any affectionate regard for you; at no time did I view you with favor. To the contrary, you were an offence: "Depart from me." Highly esteemed in the churches — yet objects of abhorrence to the Holy One.

"I will never leave you, nor forsake you" (Heb 13:5). Here we have the most blessed and comforting "never," for it is that of the abiding companionship of Christ, which ensures His continual provision and protection. Living as we are in a world where all is "change and decay" — ourselves unstable and unreliable — how thankful we should be that there is One whose care may ever be counted upon. The power of this companion is illimitable, His wisdom infinite, His faithfulness inviolable, His compassion immutable.

And why will He never desert one of His own? Because He loves him, and love delights to be near its object. Because he can do nothing to kill or even chill that love, for He foreknew his every sin when first setting His heart upon him. Because of His covenant engagement: "I will not turn away from them, to do them good" (Jer 32:40). Therefore, we should fear no want, dread no trial, nor view death with any trepidation.

My deliverer!

My deliverer!
(James Smith, "The Love of Christ! The Fullness, Freeness, and Immutability of the Savior's Grace Displayed!")

"I am poor and needy; come quickly to me, O God. You are my help and my deliverer; O Lord, do not delay!" Psalm 70:5

How frequently are we poor Christians involved in dangers and difficulties, from which we cannot extricate ourselves! Surrounded as we are by enemies and evils--this can be no wonder. But how are we to be delivered? To whom are we to look for relief and rescue? To Jesus alone, who is emphatically "The Deliverer!"
He has power--and will exert it!
He has wisdom--and will employ it!
He has merit--and will apply it,
for the deliverance of all who call upon Him to do it.

He delivers . . .
  from sin,
  from Satan,
  from dangers,
  from damnation!

He delivers . . .
  freely,
  frequently,
  and effectually.

He has delivered . . .
  Joseph from the evil designs of his brethren,
  David from the hand of Saul,
  Daniel from the lions, and
  multitudes in every age, from eternal Hell.

He delivers from all evils--and from the most determined foes!

David celebrated his delivering mercy when he sang, "For you, O Lord, have delivered my soul from death, my eyes from tears, my feet from stumbling--that I may walk before the Lord in the land of the living!" Psalm 116:8-9

How sweetly encouraging is this--to view Jesus as our present deliverer in every season of trouble, and in all circumstances of danger--to know that He is ready to arise for our rescue, and appear for our deliverance.

What need we to fear? Why should we indulge our gloomy apprehensions? He has already conquered every foe, and whenever He appears--all flee before His face. There is . . .
  such majesty in His countenance,
  such terror in His frown, and
  such love in His heart toward His people--
that whenever He appears on their behalf--all their enemies melt away like snow, and depart as a midnight dream!

O gracious Deliverer of Your people, deliver my soul from . . .
  the power of sin,
  the influence of the world,
  the force of temptation,
  the deceitfulness of my own heart,
  and the designs of all my foes!
Keep me by Your mighty power, through faith, unto salvation!

"The Lord is my rock, my fortress and my deliverer; my God is my rock, in whom I take refuge. He is my shield and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold!" Psalm 18:2

"He is my loving God and my fortress, my stronghold and my deliverer, my shield, in whom I take refuge--who subdues peoples under me!" Psalm 144:2

The Humbled Pharisee

The Humbled Pharisee

Timothy Shay Arthur
 

"What was that?" exclaimed Mrs. Andrews, to the lady who was seated next to her, as a single strain of music vibrated for a few moments on the atmosphere.

"A violin, I suppose," was answered.

"A violin!" An expression almost of horror came into the countenance of Mrs. Andrews. "It can't be possible."

It was possible, however, for the sound came again, prolonged and varied.

"What does it mean?" asked Mrs. Andrews, looking troubled, and moving uneasily in her chair.

"Dancing, I presume," was answered, carelessly.

"Not dancing, surely!"

But, even as Mrs. Andrews said this, a man entered, carrying in his hand a violin. There was an instant movement on the part of several younger members of the company; partners were chosen, and before Mrs. Andrews had time to collect her suddenly bewildered thoughts, the music had struck up, and the dancers were in motion.

"I can't remain here. It's an outrage!" said Mrs. Andrews, making a motion to rise.

The lady by whom she was sitting comprehended now more clearly her state of mind, and laying a hand on her arm, gently restrained her.

"Why not remain? What is an outrage, Mrs. Andrews?" she asked.

"Our hostess, Mrs. Burdick, knew very well that I was a member of the church!" Mrs. Andrews manner was indignant.

"All your friends know that, Mrs. Andrews," replied the other. A third person might have detected in her tones a lurking sarcasm. But this was not perceived by the individual addressed. "But what is wrong?"

"Wrong! Isn't that wrong?" And she glanced towards the mazy wreath of human figures already circling on the floor. "I could not have believed it of Mrs. Burdick; she knew that I was a professor of religion."

"She doesn't expect you to dance, Mrs. Andrews," said the lady.

"But she expects me to sanction the sin and folly, by my presence."

"Sin and folly are strong terms, Mrs. Andrews."

"I know they are, and I use them advisedly. I hold it a sin to dance!"

"I know wise and good people who hold a different opinion."

"Wise and good!" Mrs. Andrews spoke with strong disgust. "I wouldn't give much for their wisdom and goodness — not I!"

"The true qualities of men and women, are best seen at home. When people go abroad, they generally change their attire — mental as well as bodily. Now, I have seen the home-life of certain ladies, who do not think it sin to dance — and it was full of the heart's warm sunshine; and I have seen the home-life of certain ladies who hold dancing to be sinful — and I have said to myself, half shudderingly: "What child can breathe that atmosphere for years, and not grow up with a clouded spirit, and a fountain of bitterness in the heart!"

"And so you mean to say," Mrs. Andrews spoke with some asperity of manner, "that dancing makes people better? That dancing is, in fact, a means of grace?"

"No. I say no such thing."

"Then what do you mean to say? I draw the only conclusion I can make."

"One may grow better or worse from dancing," said the lady. "All will depend on the spirit in which the recreation is indulged. In itself, the act is innocent."

Mrs. Andrews shook her head.

"In what does its sin consist?"

"It is an idle waste of time."

"Can you say nothing worse of it?"

"I could, but delicacy keeps me silent."

"Did you ever dance?"

"Me? What a question! No!"

"I have danced often. And, let me say, that your inference on the score of indelicacy is altogether an assumption."

"Why everybody admits that."

"Not by any means."

"If the descriptions of some of the midnight balls and assemblies that I have heard, of the waltzing, and all that, is true — then nothing could be more indelicate — nothing more injurious to the young and innocent."

"All good things become evil, in their perversions," said the lady.

"And I will readily agree with you, that dancing is perverted, and its use, as a means of social recreation, most sadly changed into what is injurious. The same may be said of church going."

"You shock me!" said Mrs. Andrews. "Excuse me, but you are profane!"

"I trust not. For true religion — for the holy things of Christ — I trust that I have the most profound reverence. But let me prove what I say, that even church going may become evil."

"I am all attention," said the incredulous Mrs. Andrews.

"You can bear plain speaking."

"Me!" The church member looked surprised.

"Yes, you."

"Certainly I can. But why do you ask?"

"To put you on your guard — nothing more."

"Don't fear that I cannot bear all the plain speaking you may venture upon. As to church going being evil, I am ready to prove the negative against any allegations you can advance. So speak on."

After a slight pause, to collect her thoughts, the lady said:

"There has been a protracted meeting in Mr. Baxter's church."

"I know it. And a blessed time it was."

"You attended?"

"Yes, every day; and greatly was my soul refreshed and strengthened."

"Did you see Mrs. Eldridge there?"

"Mrs. Eldridge? No indeed, except on Sunday. She's too worldly-minded for that."

"She has a pew in your church."

"Yes, and comes every Sunday morning because it is fashionable and respectable to go to church. As for her religion, it isn't worth much, and will hardly stand her at the last day."

"Why Mrs. Andrews! You shock me! Have you seen into her heart? Do you know her purposes? Judge not, that you be not judged — is the divine injunction."

"A tree is known by its fruit," said Mrs. Andrews, who felt the rebuke, and slightly colored.

"True; and by their fruits shall you know them," replied the lady. "But come, there are too many around us here for this earnest conversation. We will take a quarter of an hour to ourselves, in one of the less crowded rooms. No one will observe our absence, and you will be freed from the annoyance of these dancers."

The two ladies quietly retired from the drawing rooms. As soon as they were more alone, the last speaker resumed.

"By their fruits you shall know them. Do men gather grapes of thorns, or figs of thistles? Let me relate what I saw and heard in the families of two ladies during this protracted meeting. One of these ladies was Mrs. Eldridge. I was passing in her neighborhood about four o'clock, and as I owed her a call, thought the opportunity a good one for returning it. On entering, my ears caught the blended music of a piano, and children's happy voices. From the front parlor, through the partly opened door, a sight, beautiful to my eyes, was revealed. Mrs. Eldridge was seated at the instrument, her sweet babe asleep on one arm, while, with a single hand, she was touching the notes of a familiar air, to which four children were dancing. A more innocent, loving, happy group, I have never seen. For nearly ten minutes I gazed upon them unobserved, so interested that I forgot the questionable propriety of my conduct, and during that time, not an unkind word was uttered by one of the children, nor did anything occur to mar the harmony of the scene. It was a sight on which angels could have looked, nay, did look with pleasure. The music was suspended, and the dancing ceased, as I presented myself. The mother greeted me with a happy smile, and each of the children spoke to me with an air at once polite and respectful.

"'I've turned nurse for the afternoon, you see,' said Mrs. Eldridge, cheerfully. 'It's Alice's day to go out, and I never like to trust our little ones with the chambermaid, who isn't over fond of children. We generally have a good time on these occasions, for I give myself up to them entirely. They've read, and played, and told stories, until tired — and now I've just brightened them up, body and mind, with a dance.'

"And bright and happy they all looked.

"'Now run up into the nursery for a little while, and build block houses,' said she, 'while I have a little pleasant talk with my friend. That's good children. And I want you to be very quiet, for dear little Eddy is fast asleep, and I'm going to lay him in his crib.'

"Away went the children, and I heard no more of them for the half hour during which I stayed. With the child in her arms, Mrs. Eldridge went up to her chamber, and I went with her. As she was laying him in the crib, I took from the mantle a small porcelain figure of a kneeling child, and was examining it, when she turned to me. 'Very beautiful,' said I. 'It is,' she replied. 'We call it our Eddy, saying his prayers. There is a history attached to it. Very early I teach my little ones to say an evening prayer. First impressions are never wholly effaced; I therefore seek to implant, in the very dawning of thought, an idea of God, and our dependence on him for life and all our blessings, knowing that, if duly fixed, this idea will ever remain, and be the vessel, in after years, for the reception of truth flowing down from the great source of all truth. Strangely enough, my little Eddy, so sweet in temper as he was, steadily refused to say his prayers. I tried in every way that I could think of to induce him to kneel with the other children, and repeat a few simple words; but his aversion thereto was unconquerable. I at last grew really troubled about it. There seemed to be a vein in his character that argued no good. One day I saw this kneeling child in a store. With the sight of it, came the thought of how I might use it. I bought the figure, and did not show it to Eddy until he was about going to bed. The effect was all I had hoped to produce. He looked at it for some moments earnestly, then dropped on his little knees, clasped his white hands, and murmured the prayer I had so long and so vainly striven to make him repeat.'

"Tears were in the eyes of Mrs. Eldridge, as she uttered the closing words. I felt that she was a true mother, and loved her children with a high and holy love.

"And now, let me give you a picture that strongly contrasts with this. Not far from Mrs. Eldridge, resides a lady, who is remarkable for her devotion to the church, and, I am compelled to say, lack of charity towards all who happen to differ with her — more particularly, if the difference involves church matters. It was after sundown; still being in the neighborhood, I embraced the opportunity to make a call. On ringing the bell, I heard, immediately, a clatter of feet down the stairs and along the passage, accompanied by children's voices, loud and boisterous. It was some time before the door was opened, for each of the four children, wishing to perform the office, each resisted the others' attempts to admit the visitor. Angry exclamations, rude outcries, ill names, and struggles for the advantage continued, until the cook, attracted from the kitchen by the noise, arrived at the scene of contention, and after jerking the children so roughly as to set the two youngest crying, swung it open, and I entered. On gaining the parlor, I asked for the mother of these children.

"'She isn't at home,' said the cook.

"'She's gone to church,' said the oldest of the children.

"'I wish she'd stay at home,' remarked cook in a very disrespectful way, and with a manner that showed her to be much fretted in her mind. 'It's Mary's day out, and she knows I can't do anything with the children. Such children, I never saw! They don't mind a word you say, and quarrel so among themselves, that it makes one sick to hear them.'

"At this moment, a headless doll struck against the side of my neck. It had been thrown by one child at another; missing her aim, she gave me the benefit of her evil intention. At this, cook lost all patience, and seizing the offending little one, boxed her soundly, before I could interfere. The language used by that child, as she escaped from the cook's hands, was shocking. It made my flesh creep!

"'Did I understand you to say that your mother had gone to church?' I asked of the oldest child.

"'Yes, ma'am,' was answered. 'She's been every day this week. There's a protracted meeting.'

"'Give me that book!' screamed a child, at this moment. Glancing across the room, I saw two of the little ones contending for possession of a large family Bible, which lay upon a small table. Before I could reach them, for I started forward, from an impulse of the moment, the table was thrown over, the marble top broken, and the cover torn from the sacred volume!"

The face of Mrs. Andrews became instantly of a deep crimson. Not seeming to notice this, her friend continued.

"As the table fell, it came within an inch of striking another child on the head, who had seated himself on the floor. Had it done so, a fractured skull, perhaps instant death, would have been the consequence."

Mrs. Andrews caught her breath, and grew very pale. The other continued.

"In the midst of the confusion that followed, the father came home.

"'Where is your mother?' he asked of one of the children.

"'Gone to church,' was replied.

"'O dear!' I can hear his voice now, with its tone of hopelessness — 'This church-going mania is dreadful. I tell my wife that it is all wrong. That her best service to God, is to bring up her children in the love of what is good and true — in filial obedience and fraternal affection. But it avails nothing.'

"And now, Mrs. Andrews," continued the lady, not in the least appearing to notice the distress and confusion of her over-pious friend, whom she had placed upon the rack, "When God comes to make up his jewels, and says to Mrs. Eldridge, and also to this mother who thought more of church-going than of her precious little ones, 'Where are the children I gave you?' which do you think will be most likely to answer, 'Here they are, not one is lost?'"

"Have I not clearly shown you that even church-going may be perverted into an evil? That piety may attain an inordinate growth — while charity is dead at the root? Spiritual pride; a vain conceit of superior goodness, because of the observance of certain forms and ceremonies — is the error into which too many devout religionists fall. But God sees not as man sees. He looks into the heart, and judges his creatures by the motives which rule them."

And, as she said this, she arose, the silent and rebuked Mrs. Andrews, whose own picture had been drawn, following her down to the mirthful drawing rooms.

Many a purer heart than that of the humbled Pharisee, beat there beneath the bosoms of happy maidens, even though their feet were rising and falling in time to bewitching melodies.

You do not know what a day may bring forth!

You do not know what a day may bring forth!

(James Smith, "Ignorance of the Future" 1856)

"Do not boast about tomorrow, for you do not know what a day may bring forth!" Proverbs 27:1

We are totally ignorant of the future!
It may be prosperous--or it may be adverse.
We may suffer much from sickness--or we may enjoy sound health.
We may meet with accidents--or we may be graciously preserved from them.
We may be losers by calamity or wicked men--or God may set a hedge about us, as He did about Job.
We may be bereaved of our children, other near relatives or dear friends--or we may be summoned by death to appear before God ourselves!

We do not know what our lot may be in future. We are profoundly ignorant of it. But all is arranged--and arranged by our good, gracious, and infinitely wise God. Nothing is left to 'chance'.

Whatever may happen in the future, into whatever circumstances we may be brought--we should exercise confidence in God, hope still in His mercy, and plead earnestly at His throne of grace, believing that He has . . .
  ordered all things in His love,
  arranged all in His infinite wisdom, and
  will overrule all for our ultimate good!

"My times are in Your hands!" Psalm 31:15