Delivered On Lord's-day Morning, April 23rd, 1871, by
C. H. SPURGEON,
At the Metropolitan Tabernacle, Newington
"And when they came to Marah, they could not drink of the waters of
Marah for they were bitter: therefore the name of it was called Marah.
And the people murmured against Moses, saying, What shall we drink? And
he cried unto the Lord, and the Lord showed him a tree, which when he
had cast into the waters, the waters were made sweet."–Exodus
15:23-25.
WHAT A SUDDEN CHANGE from the sound of the timbrel to the voice of
murmuring! You saw the maidens dancing three days ago, and you little
dreamed that they would make part of yonder clamorous throng who
surround the servant of God, and cry, "What shall we drink?" Such are
the changes of our outward conditions and of our inward feelings, so
fickle and so mutable is man. What is there that can be rested upon in
this mortal life? We say to-day, "My mountain standeth firm, I shall
never be moved;" to-morrow, terra firma there is none, and we are
tossed upon a stormy sea. Our life is like an April day, the sunshine
alternates with the shower; or like each day of all the year, the
morning and the evening are needful to complete it. Quick on the heels
of light treads the darkness, followed with equal haste by light again.
The sun's rule, at this golden hour, is but temporary; he must abdicate
in favor of the usurping stars, but they, in their turn, must give way
before his lordly presence yet again. This world, which is our inn,
owns to the sign of the "chequers"–the blacks and whites are
everywhere. We can be sure of nothing between here and heaven of the
things which are seen; but of this we may be certain, that underneath
all the outward change there is the immutable love of God towards his
people, and that, after all, the change lies only in the seeming
things, not in the things which truly are; for the things which are not
seen are eternal and changes come not there; it is but in the things
which are seen that the change occurs. Let us set the less store by
earth, because its fashion abides not. Let us prize heaven more,
because it cannot fade.
I. The text directs your attention, first of all, to THE EVILS OF THE
WILDERNESS. We need not spend much time in thinking of these evils,
because they throw themselves in our way often enough; and the tendency
of our mind is unduly to exaggerate them. Notice that the perils and
trials of the wilderness occur very early in the pilgrim life. It is a
notion, I have no doubt, of very young Christians who still have the
shell upon their heads and are scarce hatched, that their trials are
over now that they have become winged with faith; they had far better
have reckoned that their trials have begun with tenfold force, now that
they are numbered with the servants of the Most High. Whatever else
comes not to thee, O servant of God, this will surely be fulfilled, "In
the world ye shall have tribulation." "What son is he whom the Father
chasteneth not?" Some privileges are not common to ail the adopted, but
the privilege of chastisement is universal to all true sons. It is the
token of bastardy if the rod be escaped, but scourging, is the sure
pledge of paternal love. I say, however, that these trials come very
soon. Israel was no sooner across the Red Sea than they went three days
into the wilderness of Shur, but found no water; and on the third day,
when they did arrive at a fountain, they found worse than no water, for
it was so brackish, so altogether unfit for drinking, that though they
thought they would have drunk anything, they could not possibly drink
this. What, in three days, must they that sang unto the Lord because he
triumphed gloriously, nauseate the water for which their thirst makes
them pant? In three days shall they be reduced to such straits that
they must drink or die, and yet feel that they should die if they were
to drink of such nauseous streams? Ah yes, with some of us our delight
at conversion was very great, our exhilaration at finding the Savior
was something never to be forgotten, and yet only a day or so after we
were stumbled with great temptation, amazed at the discovery of the
evil of our hearts, or tried by the coldness of our fellow Christians,
or the cruelty of the outside world, so that we found we had come to
Marah. And this was all the severer trial, because some of us had found
a degree of pleasure in the ways of sin, and now it stumbled us to find
sorrow in the ways of God. When Israel was in Egypt, they drank of the
river Nile. No ordinary water that. To this day the dwellers on the
banks of the Nile assert that the water has a peculiar taste not to be
discovered in any other stream, and they prefer the waters of the Nile
to all the waters in the world besides. What a change from the
sweetness of the Nile to the bitterness of Marah! Did not the
suggestion rise in their hearts, "It was better with us in the bondage
of Egypt, with water in abundance, than it is now in the liberty of the
wilderness with the bitterness of Marah?" The devil tempted some of us
at the very first by saying: "See what you have got by being a
Christian. While you were as others are, your mind had mirth; now you
have come out and followed the Crucified, you have lost the liveliness
of your spirits, the brightness of your wit–that which made life worth
having is taken away from you." Young Christian, is that your case
to-day? Be not stumbled, neither believe the enemy. Man, it were better
to die at Marah free, than live a slave by the sweet Nile. Even men
that know not the Spirit of God have felt it were better to die free
than live slaves, and truly to be a slave to Satan is so degrading a
thing, that if this mouth were for ever filled with Marah's bitterness,
yet were it better to be so than to be enchanted with the pleasures of
sin. Yet these early trials are very severe, and need much grace lest
they cause us great mischief.
Secondly, these evils assume varied shapes. You noticed that for the
first three days in the wilderness they found no wafer; that is one
trial. But the next day, or at the end of the third day, they found
water. Now they thought their trial was over: alas! it had only changed
its shape. They found water, but it was too bitter to drink. Do not be
in a hurry to change your trials, dear friends. We have heard of some
who have repined that they had no children, and, like Rachel, their cry
was, "Give me children, or else I die." Ere long they have had children
who proved to be far worse than none. Better no son than an Absalom. We
have known those who were in good health, but discontented because they
had no wealth; they have gained wealth at last, but with an injured
constitution, they have had no power to enjoy it. If we could choose
our trials, we might well remember the wisdom of the old philosopher,
who told the people oppressed by a tyrant to be content with his
tyranny, "for," said he, "it is with oppressors as with mosquitoes, let
those suck which are now upon you, for if you drive those off, the
fresh ones which will succeed them will be hungrier than those that are
there now: better be content with the tyranny you have, than seek a new
one." It is much the same with the trials we now feel you will get used
to them by degrees: they will spend their force. Desire for a change of
trials may only be a wish for a worse affliction, for whether was the
worse, to have no water, or to have the water and to find it to bitter
that you could not drink it?
Yet when God changes the trial be well satisfied that it should be
changed. You may anticipate, Christian, that you will have your trial
changed: indeed, you must reckon that it is so. I mean, that if today
it is smooth sailing with you, though yesterday waves rolled mountains
high, it is only a change of trial you are now tried by prosperity,
which may prove to be a more severe test for you than adversity. Is the
wind balmy, blows it from the south? Is it but another trial for thee,
be sure of that, for they who have withstood the northern blast and
grown the ruddier and stronger for its influence, have often grown
faint and weary under softer airs. Watch thou in all things, thy trials
are with thee constantly; the crucible is changed, the fire still
burns.
Note again, that as the trials of the wilderness came soon, and assumed
various shapes, so often do the trials of the Christ touch very vital
matters. They found no water, or finding it, it was bitter. It is not
said they found no wine–a small trial indeed; it is not said they
found no milk, yet might the infant children have been sorely troubled
by such a want; but they found no drinkable water. Here was a denial of
an essential of life. They must have water, it was no luxury, it was a
necessity; with the hot, burning sand beneath them reflecting the
fierce heat of a cruel sun, not to have water in the wilderness is to
feel an urgent necessity producing a terrible pain. God may touch us,
and probably has done so or will, in points most vital. To be tried in
the loss of some of your superfluities, my brethren, is but little; but
to lose even the little that you had to live upon, to be brought to
straitness of bread, this is real tribulation. To have the hand put
forth to touch your bone and your flesh, this is affliction. Believe
me, our virtues and graces look very fine, and we think much of them
until they undergo that ordeal, but that test often takes from them
their gloss and beauty; we find how great our weakness is when the very
marrow of our bones seems to be a den in which pains, like robbers,
hide themselves. God may touch you in the most beloved object of your
heart. It is not one child that is taken out of many, but the only one;
it is not a friend, or distant relative, but the partner of your bosom
is laid low. Do not wonder if the trial affects you greatly, and comes
home to your soul and heart. It is one of God's determinations that
trials shall not be mock trials with his servants, and the grace given
shall not be imaginary, but true. God never plays at chastening his
children. No trial for the present seemeth to be joyous, but grievous.
By the blueness of the wound the heart is made better; if it do not
bruise, it doth not benefit. Very much in proportion to the bitterness
felt will be the benefit that will come of it. They found no water. O
my God, to what straits dost thou reduce thine own people; thine own
people who carry with them the title-deeds of a land that flows with
milk and honey! Jordan and Kishon are theirs, and yet they find only
Marah to drink while they are here; thine own people for whom thou hast
appointed that they shall dwell in a land of brooks and rivers of
water, where they shall sit every man under his vine and fig-tree;
these, thy darlings, whom thou hast brought out with a high hand and an
outstretched arm, are brought to the extreme of poverty, and the little
that they have has often a bitter taste infused into it.
Notice once again, there is a reason why the earthly mercies which
supply our necessities must be more or less bitter. When Israel
received water out of the rock it was not bitter, but this water came
out of the sand. To this day in the desert water is found in different
places, but where it oozes up from a sandy bed it is almost without
exception so brackish and bitter, by reason of the sand, that it is not
fit for human drinking; and even the camels, unless they are sore
pressed, turn away from it with great aversion. The sand has tainted
it, the flavour of earth has got into the blessing. So it is with most
of our blessings; by reason of our sin and infirmity too much of the
flavour of earth enters into the gift of heaven. Our common mercies,
when we receive them direct from heaven as God gives them, are mercies
indeed–cool, flowing streams that gush from the rock of his favor; but
we are so apt to trace them to the creature, so ready to look upon them
as derived from earth instead of coming from heaven; and just in that
proportion may we expect to find bitterness in them. What can you hope
for in a wilderness, but productions congruous to it? Canaan! who looks
for bitterness there? Is it not the land that flows with milk and
honey? Sweet land, when shall we reach thee? Thy sweetness is but
congruous to thyself: But here, in this wilderness, where we have no
continuing city, who looks for the streams of Lebanon? who hopes to
find Canaan's fruits in the wilderness of Sin? As well seek to gather
from the briny sea the sweet fruits of the palm or the luscious
clusters of the vine, as hope to find, amidst these changing scenes,
comforts that shall be all comfortable and joys that shall be all
joyous. No, they will be comforts, but they will be often embittered;
they will be joyous somewhat, but the earthy flavour in them will make
us remember that this is not our rest.
I know not that I ought to detain you longer with these evils of the
wilderness. I do not feel it is wrong to speak of them, for we do not
mention them with any view of discouraging those who have set out on
pilgrimage; we are not like those who hold up their hands and say, "The
lions, the giants, the dragons; young pilgrim, you will never reach the
land of promise;" but yet we would imitate the Savior, who said to the
follower who thought he could follow him whithersoever he might go,
"Sit down, and count the cost." There are trials for you, ye followers
of Christ, if there are none for others–peculiar trials for you,
peculiar joys ten thousand times outweighing them, but yet peculiar
griefs, new griefs of a new life of which it will be a blessed thing to
have been a participant; but there they are, and we will not deceive
you. For you there will be Marahs that others may not know, and for you
there will be long thirsts where others drink to the full;
nevertheless, we will take Christ and his reproach, Christ and his
Marah, rather than the world with its sweetness, for with every
drawback that is supposable to Christ Jesus, he is better than the
world with all the additions that can be invented by the sons of mirth.
II. Thus much on the first point, the evils of the wilderness. Now,
secondly, THE TENDENCY OF HUMAN NATURE. The people murmured against
Moses, saying, "What shall we drink?" Do not say "human nature," says
one; say, "the tendency of Jewish nature." Ah, but if anything, I would
prefer the people in the wilderness to any other: rest assured that
they were no worse than we are. They are an example to us of what our
heart is; and whatever we see in them we have but to watch a little,
and we shall see it all in ourselves. It was not Jewish nature that God
proved in the wilderness so much as human nature at its very best
estate. Assuredly, the tendency of human nature is to murmur. They
murmured, complained, found fault. A very easy thing, for the very word
"murmur," how simple it is, made up of two infantile sounds–mur mur.
No sense in it, no wit in it, no thought in it: it is the cry rather of
a brute than of a man–murmur–just a double groan. Easy is it for us
to kick against the dispensations of God, to give utterance to our
griefs, and what is worse, to the inference we drew from them that God
has forgotten to be gracious. To murmur is our tendency; but, my dear
brethren and sisters in Christ, do we mean to let the tendencies of the
old nature rule us? Will we murmur? O that we might have grace rather
to say with Job, "Though he slay me, yet will I trust in him!" Shall a
living man complain? Have we not received so much good from the hands
of the Lord that we may well receive evil without rebellion? Will we
not disappoint Satan, and overrule the tendency of the flesh, by saying
in the might of God's Spirit, "The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken
away; blessed be the name of the Lord." I know we are apt to say,
"Well, that is human nature," and when we have said it is human nature,
we suppose we have given a very excellent excuse for doing it. But is
human nature to rule the divine nature? You, believer, profess to be a
partaker of the divine nature. Let the superior force govern, let that
which cometh from above be uppermost, and put the lower nature down;
let us eschew murmurings and complainings, and magnify and adore the
God who lays our comforts low.
Observe–and this is worthy of note–that the murmuring was not
ostensibly against God. They murmured against Moses. And have you ever
noticed how the most of us, when we are in a murmuring vein, are not
honest enough to murmur distinctly against God. No: the child is dead,
and we form a conjecture that there was some wrong treatment on the
part of nurse, or surgeon, or ourselves; we lay our hold on that for
which there may not be a shadow of proof, and the murmuring is upon
that point. Or we have lost money, and have been brought down from
opulence to almost poverty; then some one person was dishonest, a
certain party betrayed us in a transaction by failing to fulfill his
part; all the murmuring is heaped on that person. We deny, perhaps
indignantly, that we murmur against God; and to prove it we double the
zeal with which we murmur against Moses. To complain of the second
cause is about as sensible as the conduct of the dog, which bites the
stick with which it is beaten. It owes no anger to the stick, but to
the person who uses it. Is there evil in the city and the Lord hath not
done it? Whoever is the instrument, the Lord overrules. In our heart of
hearts our rebellion is against the Lord himself. We have not quite
honesty enough to rail against God openly and avowedly, and so we
hypocritically cover up our repining against him by murmuring against
some person, occasion, or event. "If I had not happened to go out on
such an occasion I might not have had that cold and been laid aside."
Thus we blame an accidental circumstance, as if it were not part of the
divine arrangement. Is this complaining of the second cause better than
railing against God? I trow not, for, in very deed, it is railing
against God, and it is, in addition, an injustice to the second cause,
so made a butt of. When Pharaoh bade the Israelites make bricks, and
gave them no straw, there was injustice; but when the Israelites
gathered around Moses and virtually told him that he ought to supply
them with water, it was much the same thing. Whence should this man
have water to give them to drink? How could he sweeten Marah? They knew
right well that it was not possible for him to open a well for them in
the wilderness; they complained, I say, in their hearts, really against
God, but they added to this the hypocrisy and the injustice of veiling
their murmuring against the Most High by an unjust and clamourous
complaint against his servant Moses. Stop thy tongue, my brother; cease
thy cavilling against this and that, against him or her; for be sure
that thou art doing injustice to thy fellowman as well as a wrong to
thy God.
Once more, while we speak of this tendency in human nature, I want you
to observe how they betrayed an utter unbelief of God. They said unto
Moses, "What shall we drink?" They meant by it, "By what means can God
supply our want of water?" What a question! They were at the Red Sea,
and God cleft the intervening gulf in twain, through the depths thereof
they marched dryshod; there is Marah's water–shall it be more
difflcult for God to purify than to divide? To sweeten a fountain–is
that more difficult than to cleanse a sea? Is anything too hard for the
Lord? A great miracle had been wrought; had they but considered it, and
exercised even the lowest degree of faith, they must have seen that he
who could work such a miracle as they had seen could work yet another;
and they might joyously have stood at Marah's brink, and have sung, "He
who cast Pharaoh and his chosen captains into the Red Sea, and
delivered his people, can give his chosen drink, therefore sing we,
Spring up, O well, and let thy waters be sweet and clean." O that they
had faith in God but as a grain of mustard seed, and they would have
seen great things, and glorified his name. Do you blame them? Do so;
blame them much, but include yourselves in the censure. How often has
it been so with us? We have said, "I will never distrust my God after
this memorable deliverance, this singular display of his power has
slain my unbelief;" yet a new trial has occurred, and our faith, where
was it? Had the Son of Man himself been on the earth with those quick
eyes to discern the faith which he himself creates, could he find faith
in us in the hour of tribulation? Be humbled as ye see yourselves in
this mirror. Behold your instability, which is as water. How like to
reeds shaken with the wind are we; or like to meteors, which flash
across the brow of night, to leave the darkness denser than before. How
soon is the glory of our confidence spent, and the excellence of our
faith withered. Hold thou our feet in life, great God, or we shall soon
be silent in darkness.
III. Now, thirdly–and may divine help, the help of the Holy Ghost be
given me–I will speak upon THE REMEDY OF GRACE. I have shown you the
evils of the wilderness and the tendency of nature: it is delightful to
behold the remedy of grace. First, if thou wouldst have Marah's
bitterness healed, take the case in prayer to God. God begins by making
us begin. The people complained to Moses; Moses took the complaint to
his Master. In all trials, the surest way to a remedy is prayer. In
heavenly pharmacy, prayer is a catholicon; it healeth all things.
Prayer, which overcomes heaven, will certainly never be overmatched on
earth. Neither men nor devils can stand against prayer: it smites them
hip and thigh like another Samson. The bow of prayer returns not empty;
it is swifter than an eagle, it is stronger than a lion. Take thy case
to God, O heir of trouble; unroll Rabshakeh's letter before the Host
High, and the Lord will silence his revilings. Half the work is done
when it is brought before God in supplication.
Note, next, that as soon as we have a prayer God has a remedy. The
remedy is near at hand; but we do not perceive it till it is shown us.
"The Lord showed him a tree." The tree had been growing for years on
purpose to be used. God has a remedy for all our troubles before they
happen to us. A delightful employment it is to notice how God
forestalls himself; how long before we reach the encampment, if there
be the bitter well, there is also the healing tree. All is ready
between here and heaven. He that has gone to prepare a place for us by
his presence, has prepared the way to that place for us by his
providence. But, brethren, though for every trouble in this mortal life
there is a remedy, you and I do not always discern it. "The Lord showed
him a tree." I am persuaded that for every lock in Doubting Castle
there is a key, but the promises are often in great confusion to our
minds, so that we are perplexed. If a blacksmith should bring you his
great bundle of picklocks, you would have to turn them over, and over,
and over; and try half of them, perhaps two-thirds, before you would
find the right one; ay, and perhaps the right one would be left to the
last. It is always a blessing to remember that for every affliction
there is a promise in the word of God; a promise which meets the case,
and was made on purpose for it. But you may not be always able to find
it–no, you may go fumbling over the Scriptures long before you get the
true word; but when the Lord shows it to you, when it comes with power
to the soul, when the heart can grasp it, and cry, "Ay, that is the
word, my Master; indeed and of a truth that is the precious truth which
can sweeten my sad discomforts," oh, what a bliss it is! All glory be
unto the Holy Ghost, who to this day is ever ready to show unto his
praying servants the sweetening tree when they come to the bitter
streams.
Now that remedy for the healing of Marah's water was a very strange
one. Why should a tree sweeten the waters? I do not suppose there was
any natural efficacy in the tree, although that would not be altogether
impossible, since there are trees, so travelers tell us, which have
been used in the sweetening of waters. There is in South Africa a
certain river, which water cannot be drunk until branches of a certain
tree are placed in it, and then the bitterness which is in the stream
is deposited at the bottom, and the water becomes drinkable. The thing
is not unnatural nor altogether necessarily supernatural, though I
think in this case it was supernatural, for there are no trees found
now in the wilderness of Shur that would have the effect of sweetening
brackish waters. This was no doubt a miraculous incident, and it was
also meant to teach us something. The fruit of the tree of knowledge of
good and evil was eaten by our first parents and embittered all; there
is a tree of life, the leaves of which are for the healing of the
nations. Blessed is he that eats of this tree of life; it shall take
away from him the bitterness which the first forbidden fruit brought
into the world. A tree is a living thing: may we not learn that there
are living principles in true religion which will sweeten our
adversities? Mere doctrines may not, but living principles will; these
cast into our troubles will assuage our grief.
Best of all, may not this tree cut down be an emblem of the Savior? A
glorious tree indeed was he, with spreading branches, and top reaching
to heaven–but he must suffer the axe for our sakes; and now, to-day,
contemplating his atoning sacrifice, and by faith resting in him, the
troubles of life and the troubles of death are sweetened by his dear
cross, which, though it be a bitter tree in itself, is the antidote for
all the bitterness that comes upon us here and hereafter.
That remedy was most effective. When they cut down the tree, and put it
into the water, it turned the water sweet–they could drink of it; and
let me assure you, that in the case of our trouble, the cross is a most
effective sweetener. Shall I put the tree into the water for a minute,
and then ask you to drink Have you been suffering pain, or any other
form of tribulation? I will lay the cross asoak in it for a minute, and
your first reflection will be–"In all this that I am called to suffer
there is not even a single particle of punishment for my sin; God has
punished Christ, consequently he cannot punish me: to punish two for
one offense would be unjust, therefore there is nothing penal in all
that I am suffering." I do not know of any reflection more consoling
than this, that my sorrow is not laid on me by a judge, nor inflicted
on me as the result of divine anger. There is not a drop of wrath in a
riverful of a believer's grief. Does not that take the bitterness out
of affliction and make it sweet? And then the reflection goes further.
Since Christ has died for me, I am God's dear child; and now if I
suffer, all my suffering comes from my Father's hand–nay, more, from
my Father's heart. He loves me, and therefore makes me suffer; not
because he does not love, but because he does love does he thus afflict
me. In every stripe I see another token of paternal love. This it is to
sweeten Marah's waters indeed.
Then will come the next reflection–that a Father's love is joined with
infinite wisdom, and that, therefore, every ingredient in the bitter
cup is measured out drop by drop, and grain by grain, and there is not
one pang too many ever suffered by an heir of heaven. The cross is not
only weighed to the pound but to the ounce ay, to the lowest
conceivable grain. You shall not have one half a drop of grief more
than is absolutely needful for your good and God's glory. And does not
this also sweeten the cross, that it is laid on us by infinite wisdom,
and by a Father's hand?
Ravishing, indeed, is the reflection in the midst of all our grief and
suffering, that Jesus Christ suffers with us. In all thine affliction,
O member of the body, the Head is still a sharer. Deep are the
sympathies of the Redeemer, acute, certain, quick, infallible; he never
forgets his saints.
All the while the Lord lays his chastening hand upon his servants they
may be cheered by this reflection, that in this he is making them
conformable unto Christ. What should they know of Gethsemane if they
had no sweat of pain? What should they know of the passion if they
never had to cry, "I thirst," or "My God, my God, why hast thou
forsaken me?" They were poor scholars in the school of Christ's
sufferings if they endured no sufferings themselves; and it is a
blessed thing, a sweet thing to drink of his cup, and to be baptised
with his baptism.
Moreover, when the child of God is in his right state, it is always
enough for him that his condition is the result of his Father's will.
Is it God's will? Is it Christ's will? Then it is my will. How could I
dare to wish anything to be otherwise than divine love appoints?
I do not know but what it will become sometimes to the Christ a subject
of joy that Marah is bitter. For suppose Marah had been sweet, then,
Moses had not prayed to God, and then the tree had not been cut down,
and they had never known the power of God to sweeten bitter waters. It
must be an awful thing to live an unafflicted life on earth. You say it
must be a very delightful thing. I have no doubt it may be from some
aspects; but a person who has had no sickness, how can he have a
sympathetic heart? What service can he render in cheering the people of
God? If you never had any trials, I should suppose, unless something
very extraordinary happened, that you would become harsh, and untender;
I am afraid some would grow brutal, coarse, hard of heart. Who wishes,
where others have to suffer, to claim an immunity from a blessing which
brings rich consolations with it, and works eternal benefits? Beloved,
this is ever one thing that sweetens Marah that it afterwards bringeth
forth the comfortable fruits of righteousness. Our trials are not sent
to us alone and by themselves; there is a quantum suff. grace sent with
them, by which they are made available as means to sanctify us, and
make us meet to be partakers of the inheritance of the saints in light.
I will not keep you much longer upon this point, but I must notice,
that while I have shown you that the remedy is very efficacious, it is
something more than efficacious: it is transcendant. The water was
bitter, but it became absolutely sweet. The same water that was bitter
became sweet, and the grace of God, by leading us into contemplations
that spring out of the cross of Christ, can make our trials themselves
to become pleasant to us. It is a triumph of grace in the heart when we
not only acquiesce in trouble, but even rejoice in it. "We glory in
tribulations also: knowing that tribulation worketh patience." It is a
grand thing when we can truly say that as to the rod of the covenant we
would not escape it if we might. It becomes in the judgment of wisdom
so good a thing to be tried, that though we would not seek it yet we
accept it with something more than readiness, and the bitter thing
becomes sweet to us.
Let me say, and have done with this part of the subject, that the
remedy which is suggested to us by a spiritualizing of text, is
efficacious for all trials, and will be found especially so for the
bitter waters of death at the last. With all that can be said about
death it is not a pleasant subject for contemplation, and needs to be
viewed in connection with covenant consolations. Certain brethren buoy
themselves up with the hope of escaping death by the second Advent. I
am not certain that they are wiser than David who did not hope to omit
the valley of the shadow of death, but trusted that he should fear no
evil therein, because the rod and staff would be his stay. The death of
Christ robs death of its terrors. The prospect of the resurrection and
the certainty of immortality make us say, "Surely the bitterness of
death is past!"
Be it remembered, that if the cross avails to sweeten all the
bitterness of our mortal life, and even the last bitterness of death,
it is assuredly available this morning to sweeten the bitterness of our
present sorrow. Did you drink the quassia-cup this morning before you
came here? Do you feel desponding at this moment, my brother, my
sister? Go to your Savior at once, view him suffering on your behalf,
behold the completion of your reconciliation to God, mark the security
of your soul through the finished work of your glorious Surety, take
down your harps from the willows, put away your ashes, ask the Lord to
anoint you with the oil of joy instead of mourning, and even at the
waters of Marah lift up your song again, and let the timbrel still be
heard. "Sing unto the Lord, for he hath triumphed gloriously: Marah's
bitterness hath he turned to sweetness, he hath cut down the mighty
tree which he gave for us, and which yielded itself to the axe for us,
and into the bitter stream the tree is cast, and now henceforth, O
Marah, thou art sweet indeed." Did you come here this morning as Naomi
when she returned to her city and said, "Call me not Naomi, call me
Mara: for the Almighty hath dealt very bitterly with me." Ah, when she
dandled on her knee and held in her fond bosom the child of Ruth and
Boaz, the joy of her old age, she was glad to think the neighbors had
not changed her name, and she was willing enough to be called Naomi
still. Call not yourself Marah, but remember the new name which the
Lord hath named upon you. The bitter pool itself call it not Marah; be
not so ready to affix names of sad memorials, your griefs are apt
enough to gall your memory; do not aid them to sting you. Call the well
by another name; forget Marah, and remember Jehovah Rophi, the Lord
that healeth both thee and the waters. Record the mercy rather than the
sorrow, and give thanks unto the Most High.
Now, in closing, somebody will say, "This is a very curious missionary
sermon." Yes, but you see I did not appoint the missionary sermon for
to-day: my brethren did that, and certainly I did not arrange my own
sickness, so as to make it fall on this day. How can I dance to the
sound of the timbrel when I am feeble and sad? If I had the choosing of
my own state of health and mind, I would have the choosing of my own
texts, and make them always suitable to the occasions as they arise;
but I am obliged to preach what I can preach, and as I know pretty well
the flavor of Marah, and a little about the sweetness which the healing
tree can give it, I can only tell you what I know by experience.
But it is a good missionary sermon for all that. Let us show you how.
Here is A SUGGESTION OF COMPASSION.
Brethren, all the world over, the heathen have trials, bitternesses,
woes. I said that Christ have peculiar woes, but the dark places of the
earth have direr sorrows. Some nations are devastated with war; others
are tormented with diabolical customs and rites: their actions even
towards themselves through their superstition are brutal. I may well
liken the world that lieth in darkness to a thirsty caravan gathered
around Marah's well where the water is too bitter to drink. Oh, the
woes, the woes of mankind! High are the Andes, lofty the Himalayas, but
the woes of the sons of Adam are higher, huger still. The Ganges and
the Indus, and other mighty streams, pour their floods into the ocean;
but what mighty deep could contain the torrents of human grief? A very
deluge is the sorrow as well as the sin of man. And, my brethren, the
heathen know nothing of the healing tree, the tree cut down of old,
which still hath power to sweeten mortal misery. You know it, you have
your trials, and you surmount them by the appeals you make to your
Lord, and by the power of his consolations; but alas! these sons of
darkness have your griefs, and more, but they have not your Comforter.
For them the deluge, but not the ark; for them the tempest, but not the
refuge. And you are so sure that you have that which would cheer them:
no doubt passes across your mind as to the gospel. These are wavering
times in which some professors, and even some teachers, almost believe,
that the gospel is but one theory of many, and will have to stand its
test, and, in all probability, will fail as many human systems of
thought have done. You think not so; you believe that God's gospel is a
verity, a revelation of Jehovah Heaven and earth may pass away, but not
his word, his Christ, his decree, his covenant. You know that you have
a tree that can heal the bitter fountains. No doubt comes across your
mind as to that: what then? By common humanity, much more by the tender
movements of the grace of God upon your souls, I conjure you present
this remedy to those who need it, and who need it so much. Will
anything suffice as a substitute for it? Is there anywhere on earth
another healing tree beside that which fell beneath the axe at Calvary?
Are there other leaves for the healing of the nations? On the
seven-hilled city of Rome, grows there a tree that can heal man's
diseases? No; it is a deadly upas. Cut it down, and burn the very roots
thereof. Amongst the fancies of idolatry are there any inventions of
man that can cool his fevered brow and sooth his griefs? Does
Mohammedanism offer hopes for eternity that can light up the grave to
an awakened sinner? Are there thoughts of bliss in idolatry calculated
to cheer the sepulcher? All religions answer, "Comforts are not in us."
It is only at the cross, it is only by Jesus crucified that the world
can be healed. Hitherto little has been accomplished compared with our
desires; and in contrast to our ambitions, next to nothing; but faith,
darting beyond the things that are seen, flying into the
presence-chamber of God, can behold him writing with the eternal pen,
"All flesh shall see the salvation of God;" and she is sure that the
tree will sweeten the waters yet. Come, brethren, let your faith prove
itself by your works. Help to-day–to-day, by your gifts; help
to-morrow–to-morrow, by your prayers. Help, some of you, by
consecrating yourselves to mission labor. There is a prayer I mean to
continue to offer until it is answered, that God would pour out on this
church a missionary spirit. I want to see our young men devoting
themselves to the work, some that will not be afraid to venture and
preach Jesus Christ in the regions beyond. I have not much faith in
missionary societies; it gets less, I must protest, each year; yet we
must never put aside one instrumentality until we have a better ready.
If the Lord would send the living fire through the churches of England,
if he would send from on high a divine impulse, we should see starting
up here and there men who would say: "Here are we: send us." The Spirit
of God will say, "Separate me Paul and Barnabas for the work," and when
this is done I look to see far happier days.
We have sweetened the waters a little; no more the suttee burns; the
African is free; the slave-ship crosses no more the deep. In some
regions exterminating wars have ceased; the white dove of peace flies
where the raven of war was seen. Glory be to God. A few leaves cast
into the waters have done this. Let us bear a whole Christ and a whole
gospel amongst the nations, and lay the tree in this Marah, until at
last the whole world shall drink of the sweet waters of divine love,
and God shall be all in all. God bless you, beloved, for Jesus' sake.
Amen.
PORTION OF SCRIPTURE READ BEFORE SERMON–Exodus 15.