A Sermon
(No. 46)
Delivered on Sabbath Morning, October 14, 1855, by the
REV. C.H. SPURGEON
At New Park Street Chapel, Southwark.
"Lord thou hast been our dwelling-place in all generations."–Psalm
90:1.
Moses was the inspired author of three devotional compositions. We
first of all find him as Moses the poet, singing the song which is
aptly joined with that of Jesus, in the Revelation, where it says, "The
song of Moses and of the Lamb." He was a poet on the occasion when
Pharaoh and his hosts were cast into the Red Sea, "his chosen captains
also were drowned in the Red Sea." Further on in his life we discover
him in the character of a preacher; and then his doctrine distilled as
the dew, and his speech dropped like the rain, in those chapters which
are full of glorious imagery, and rich with poetry, which you will find
in the book of Deuteronomy. And now in the Psalms, we find him the
author of a prayer: "A prayer of Moses, the man of God." Happy
combination of the poet, the preacher, and the man of prayer! Where
three such things are found together, the man becomes a very giant
above his fellows. It often happens that the man who preaches has but
little poetry; and the man who is the poet would not be able to preach
and utter his poems before immense assemblies, but would be only fit to
write them by himself. It is a rare combination when true devotion and
the spirit of poetry and eloquence meet in the same man. You will see
in this Psalm a wondrous depth of spirituality; you will mark how the
poet subsides into the man of God; and how, lost in himself, he sings
his own frailty, declared the glory of God, and asks that he may have
the blessing of his heavenly Father always resting on his head.
This first verse will derive peculiar interest if you remember the
place where Moses was when he thus prayed. He was in the wilderness;
not in some of the halls of Pharaoh, nor yet in a habitation in the
land of Goshen; but in a wilderness. And perhaps from the summit of the
hill, looking upon the tribes of Israel as they were taking up their
tents and marching along, he thought, "Ah! poor travelers. They seldom
rest anywhere; they have not any settled habitation where they can
dwell. Here they have no continuing city;" but he lifted his eyes
above, and he said, "Lord, thou hast been our dwelling-place in all
generations." Passing his eye back through history, he saw one great
temple where God's people had dwelt; and with his prophetical eye
rolling with sacred frenzy, he could see that throughout all futurity
the specially chosen of God would be able to sing, "Lord, thou hast
been our dwelling-place in all generations."
Taking this verse as the subject of our discourse this morning, we
shall, first of all, explain it; and then we shall try and do what the
old Puritans called "improve" it; by which they did not mean improve
the text, but improve the people a little in the consideration of the
verse.
I. First, we will try to explain it somewhat. Here is a habitation:
"Lord, thou hast been our dwelling-place;" and, secondly, if I may use
such a common word, here is the lease of it: "Thou hast been our
dwelling-place in all generations."
First, then here is a habitation: "Lord, thou hast been our
habitation." The mighty Jehovah, who filleth all immensity, the
Eternal, Everlasting, Great I Am, does not refuse to allow figures
concerning himself. Though he is so high that the eye of angel hath not
seen him, though he is so lofty that the wing of cherub hath not
reached him, though he is so great that the utmost extent of the
travels of immortal spirits have never discovered the limit of
himself–yet he does not object that his people should speak of him
thus familiarly, and should say, "Jehovah, thou hast been our
dwelling-place." We shall understand this figure better by contrasting
the thought, with the state of Israel in the wilderness; and, secondly,
by making mention of some things by way of comparison, which are
peculiar to our house, and which we never can enjoy if we are not the
possessors of a dwelling-place of our own.
First, we shall contrast this thought, "Lord, thou hast been our
dwelling-place," with the peculiar position of the Israelites as they
were traveling through the wilderness.
We remark, first, that they must have been in a state of great
uneasiness. At nightfall, or when the pillar stayed its motion, the
tents were pitched, and they laid themselves down to rest. Perhaps
to-morrow, ere the morning sun had risen, the trumpet sounded, they
stirred themselves from their beds and found the ark was in motion, and
the fiery cloudy pillar was leading the way through the narrow defiles
of the mountain up the hillside, or along the arid waste of the
wilderness. They had scarcely time to arrange their little property in
their tents and make all things comfortable for themselves, before they
heard the sound of "Away! away! away! this is not your rest; you must
still be onward journeying toward Cannan!" They could not plant a
little patch of ground around their tents, they could not lay out their
house in order, and arrange their furniture, they could not become
attached to the spot of ground. Even though just now their father had
been buried in a place where a tent had tarried for a time yet they
must be off. They must have no attachment to the place, they must have
nothing of what we call comfort, ease, and peace; but be always
journeying, always traveling. Moreover, so exposed were they, that they
never could be very easy in their tents. At one time the sand, with the
hot simoom behind it, would drive through the tent and cover them
almost to burial. On frequent occasions the hot sun would scorch them,
and their canvas would scarce be a preservation; at another time the
biting north wind would freeze around them, so that within their tents
they sat shivering and cowering around their fires. They had little
ease; but behold the contrast which Moses, the man of God, discerns
with gratitude, "Thou art not our tent, but thou art our
dwelling-place. Though we are uneasy here, though we are tossed from
side to side by troubles, though we travel through a wilderness, and
find it a rough pathway, though when we sit down here we know not what
comfort means, O Lord, in thee we possess all the comfort which a house
can afford, we have all that a mansion or palace can give the prince,
who can loll upon his couch, and rest upon his bed of down. Lord, thou
art to us comfort, thou art a house and habitation." Have you ever
known what it is to have God for your dwelling-place in the sense of
comfort? Do you know what it is, when you have storms behind you, to
feel like a sea-bird, blown to the land by the very storm? Do you know
what it is, when you have been caged sometimes by adversity, to have
the string cut by divine grace, and like the pigeon that flies at once
to its own dovecot, have you sped your way across the ether, and found
yourself in God? Do you know what it is, when you are tossed on the
waves, to do down into the depths of Godhead, there rejoicing that not
a wave of trouble ruffles your spirit, but that you are serenely at
home with God your own Almighty Father? Can you, amid all the
uneasiness of this desert journey, find a comfort there? Is the breast
of Jesus a sweet pillow for your head? Can you, lie thus on the breast
of Deity? Can you put yourself in the stream of Providence and float
along without a struggle, while angels sing around you–divinely
guided, divinely led–"We are bearing thee along the stream of
Providence to the ocean of eternal bliss!" Do you know what it is to
lie on God, to give up all care, to drive anxiety away, and there–not
in a recklessness of spirit, but in a holy carelessness–to be careful
for nothing, "but in every thing by supplication to make known your
wants unto God?" If so you have gained the first idea; "Lord, thou hast
been our dwelling-place throughout all generations."
Again, the Israelites were very much exposed to all kinds of noxious
creatures, owing to their residing in tents, and their habits of
wandering. At one time the fiery serpent was their foe. By night the
wild beasts prowled around them. Unless that fiery pillar had been a
wall of fire around them and glory in the midst, they might all have
fallen a prey to the wild monsters that roamed the deserts. Worse foes
they found in human kind. The Amalekites rushed down from the
mountains; wild wandering hordes constantly attacked them. They never
felt themselves secure, for they were travelers through an enemy's
country. They were hasting across a land where they were not wanted, to
another land that was providing means to oppose them when they should
arrive. Such is the Christian. He is journeying through an enemy's
land; every day he is exposed to danger. His tent may be broken down by
death; the slanderer is behind him, the open foeman is before him; the
wild beast that prowls by night, and the pestilence that wasteth by
day, continually seek his destruction; he finds no rest where he is; he
feels himself exposed. But, says Moses, "Though we live in a tent
exposed to wild beasts and fierce men, yet thou art our habitation. In
thee we find no exposure. Within thee we find ourselves secure, and in
thy glorious person we dwell as in an impregnable tower of defense,
safe from every fear and alarm, knowing that we are secure." O
Christian, hast thou ever known what it is to stand in the midst of
battles, with arrows flying thick around thee more than thy shield can
catch; and yet thou hast been as secure as if thou wert folding thine
arms and resting within the walls of some strong bastion, where arrow
could not reach thee, and where even the sound of trumpet could not
disturb thine ears? Hast thou known what it is to dwell securely in
God, to enter into the Most High, and laugh to scorn the anger, the
frowns, the sneers, the contempt, the slander and calumny of men; to
ascent into the sacred place of the pavilion of the Most High, and to
abide under the shadow of the Almighty, and to feel thyself secure? And
mark thee, thou mayest do this. In times of pestilence it is possible
to walk in the midst of cholera and death, singing–
"Plagues and deaths around me fly,
Till he please, I cannot die."
It is possible to stand exposed to the utmost degree of danger, and yet
to feel such a holy serenity that we can laugh at fear; too great, too
mighty, too powerful through God to stoop for one moment to the
cowardice of trembling, "we know whom we have believed, and we are
persuaded that he is able to keep that which we have committed unto
him." When houseless men wander, when poor distressed spirits, beaten
by the storm, find no refuge, we enter into God, and shutting behind us
the door of faith, we say, "Howl, ye winds; blow, ye tempests; roar, ye
wild beasts; come on, ye robbers!"
"He that hath made his refuge God,
Shall find a most secure abode,
Shall walk all day beneath his shade,
And there at night shall rest his head."
Lord, in this sense, thou hast been our habitation.
Again, poor Israel, in the wilderness, were continually exposed to
change. They were never in one place long. Sometimes they might tarry
for a month in one spot–just near the seventy palm-trees. What a sweet
and pleasant place to go out each morning, to sit beside the well and
drink that clear stream! "Onward!" cries Moses; and he takes them to a
place where the bare rocks stand our from the mountain side, and the
red burning sand is beneath their feet; vipers spring up around them,
and thorny brakes grow instead of pleasing vegetation. What a change
have they! Yet, another day they shall come to a place that shall be
more dreary still. They walk through a defile so close and narrow, that
the affrighted rays of the sun dare scarce enter such a prison, lest
they should never find their way out again! They must go onward from
place to place, continually changing, never having time to settle, and
to say, "Now we are secure, in this place we shall dwell." Here, again,
the contrast casts light upon the text: "Ah!" says Moses, "though we
are always changing, Lord, thou hast been our dwelling-place throughout
all generations." The Christian knows no change with regard to God. He
may be rich to-day, and poor to-morrow; he may be sickly to-day and
well to-morrow; he may be in happiness to-day, to-morrow he may be
distressed; but there is no change with regard to his relationship to
God. If he loved me yesterday he loves me to-day. I am neither better
nor worse in God than I ever was. Let prospects be blighted, let hopes
be blasted, let joy be withered, let mildews destroy every thing, I
have lost nothing of what I have in God. He is my strong habitation
whereunto I can continually resort. The Christian never becomes poorer,
and never grows richer with regard to God. "Here," he can say, "is a
thing that never can pass away or change. On the brow of the Eternal
there is never a furrow; his hair is unwhitened by age; his arm is
unpalsied by weakness; his heart does not change in its affections; his
will does not vary in its purpose; he is the immutable Jehovah,
standing fast and forever. Thou art our habitation! As the house
changes not, but stands in the same place, so have I found thee from my
youth up. When first I was cast upon thee from my mother's breast, I
found thee my God of Providence. When first I knew thee by that
spiritual knowledge which thou alone canst give, I found thee a sure
habitation; and I find thee such now. Yea, when I shall be old and
gray-headed, I know thou wilt not forsake me; thou wilt be the same
dwelling-place in all generations."
One thought more in contrasting the position of the Israelites with
ourselves–that is, weariness. How weary must Israel have been in the
wilderness! How tired must have been the soles of their feet with their
constant journeyings! They were not in a place of repose, luxury, and
rest, but in a land of journeying, and weariness, and trouble. I think
I see them traveling, wiping frequently the burning sweat from their
brows, and saying, "O that we had a habitation where we might rest! O
that we could enter a land of vines and pomegranates, a city where we
might enjoy immunity from alarm! God has promised it to us, but we have
not found it. There remaineth a rest for the people of God; O that we
might find it." Christian! God is your habitation in this sense. He is
your rest; and you will never find rest except in him. I defy a man who
has no God to have a soul at rest. He who has not Jesus for his
Saviour, will always be a restless spirit. Read some of Byron's verses,
and you will find him–if he was truly picturing himself–to be the
very personification of that spirit who "walked to and fro seeking rest
and finding none." Here is one of his verses:–
"I fly like a bird of the air,
In search of a home and a rest;
A balm for the sickness of care,
A bliss for a bosom unblest."
Read the lives of any men who have had no gospel justification, or have
had no knowledge of God, and you will find that they were like the poor
bird that had its nest pulled down, and knew not where to rest, flying
about, wandering, and seeking a habitation. Some of you have tried to
find rest out of God. You have sought to find it in your wealth; but
you have pricked your head when you have laid it on that pillow. You
have sought it in a friend, but that friend's arm has been a broken
reed, where you hoped it would be a wall of strength. You will never
find rest except in God; there is no refuge but in him. Oh! what rest
and composure are there in him! It is more than sleep, more than calm,
more than quiet; deeper than the dead stillness of the noiseless sea in
its utmost depths, where it is undisturbed by the slightest ripple, and
winds can never intrude. There is a holy calm and sweet repose which
the Christian only knows, something like the slumbering stars up there
in beds of azure; or like the seraphic rest which we may suppose
beatified spirits have when they before the throne continually bow;
there is a rest so deep and calm, so still and quiet, so profound, that
we find no words to describe it. You have tried it, and can rejoice in
it. You know that the Lord has been your dwelling-place–your sweet,
calm, constant home, where you can enjoy peace in all generations. But
I have dwelt too long upon this part of the subject, and I will speak
of it in a different way.
First of all, the dwelling-place of man is the place where he can
unbend himself, and feel himself at home, and speak familiarly. In this
pulpit I must somewhat check my words; I deal with men of the world who
watch my speech, and are ever on the catch, men who wish to have this
or that to retail–I must be on my guard. So you men of business, when
you are on the exchange, or in your shops, have to guard yourselves.
What does the man do at home? He can lay bare his breast, and do and
say as he pleases; it is his own house, his dwelling-place; and is he
not master there? Shall he not do as he will with his own? Assuredly;
for he feels himself at home. Ah! my beloved, do you ever find yourself
in God to be at home? Have you been with Christ, and told your secrets
in his ear, and found that you could do so without reserve? We do not
generally tell secrets to other people, for it we do, and make them
promise that they will never tell them, they will never tell them
except to the first person they meet. Most persons who have secrets
told them, are like the lady of whom it is said she never told her
secrets except to two sorts of persons–those that asked her and those
that did not. You must not trust men of the world; but do you know what
it is to tell all your secrets to God in prayer, to whisper all your
thoughts to him? You are not ashamed to confess your sins to him with
all their aggravations; you make no apologies to God, but you put in
every aggravation, you describe all the depths of you baseness. Then,
as for your little wants, you would be ashamed to tell them to another;
before God you can tell them all. You can tell him your grief that you
would not whisper to your dearest friend. With God you can be always at
home, you need be under no restraint. The Christian at once gives God
the key of his heart, and lets him turn every thing over. He says,
"There is the key of every cabinet; it is my desire that thou wouldst
open them all. If there are jewels, they are thine; and if there be
things that should not be there, drive them out. Search me, and try my
heart." The more God lives in the Christian, the better the Christian
loves him; the oftener God comes to see him, the better he loves his
God. And God loves his people all the more when they are familiar with
him. Can you say in this sense, "Lord, thou hast been my dwelling
place?"
Then, again, man's home is the place where his affections are centered.
God deliver us from those men who do not love their homes! Lives there
a man so base, so dead, that he has no affection for his own house? If
so, surely the spark of Christianity must have died entirely out. It is
natural that men should love their homes; it is spiritual that they
should love them better still. In our homes we find those to whom we
must and ever shall be most attached. There our best friends and
kindred dwell. When we wander, we are as birds that have left their
nests and can find no settled home. We wish to go back and to see again
that smile, to grasp once more that loving hand, and to find that we
are with those to whom the ties of affection have knit us. We wish to
feel–and every Christian man will feel–with regard to his own family,
that they are the warp and woof of his own nature, that he has become a
part and portion of them; and there he centers his affection. He can
not afford to lavish his love everywhere. He centers it in that
particular spot, that oasis in this dark desert world. Christian man,
is God your habitation in that sense? Have you given your whole soul to
God? Do you feel you can bring your whole heart to him, and say, "O,
God! I love from my soul; with the most impassioned earnestness I love
thee.
"The dearest idol I have known–
Whate'er that idol be–
Help me to tear it from its throne,
And worship only thee!"
O God! though I sometimes wander, yet I love thee in my wanderings, and
my heart is fixed on thee. What though the creature doth beguile me, I
detest that creature; it is to me as the apple of Sodom. Thou art the
master of my soul, the emperor of my heart; no vice-regent, but King of
kings. My spirit is fixed on thee as the center of my soul.
"Thou art the sea of love
Where all my pleasures roll,
The circle where my passions move;
The center of my soul."
O God! thou hast been our dwelling-place throughout all generations."
My next remark is concerning the lease of this dwelling-place. God is
the believer's habitation. Sometimes, you know, people get turned out
of their houses, or their houses tumble down about their ears. It is
never so with ours: God is our dwelling-place throughout all
generations. Let us look back in times past, and we shall find that God
has been our habitation. Oh, the old house at home! who does not love
it–the place of our childhood, the old roof-tree, the old cottage!
There is no village in all the world half so good as that particular
village where we were born! True, the gates, and stiles, and posts have
been altered; but still there is an attachment to those old houses, the
old tree in the park, and the old ivy-mantled tower. It is not very
picturesque, perhaps, but we love to go to see it. We like to see the
haunts of our boyhood. There is something pleasant in those old stairs
where the clock used to stand; and in the room where grandmother was
wont to bend her knee, and where we had family prayer. There is no
place like that house after all! Well, beloved, God has been the
habitation of the Christian in years that are gone by. Christian, your
house is indeed a venerable house, and you have long dwelt there. You
dwelt there in the person of Christ long before you were brought into
this sinful world; and it is to be your dwelling-place throughout all
generations. You are never to ask for another house; you will always be
contented with that one you have; you will never wish to change your
habitation. And if you wished it, you could not; for he is your
dwelling-place in all generations. God give you to know what it is to
take this house in its long lease, and ever to have God for your
dwelling-place!
II. Now I come to improve this text somewhat. First, let us improve it
to SELF EXAMINATION. How may we know whether we be Christians or not,
whether the Lord is our dwelling-place, and will be throughout all
generations? I shall give you some hints for self-examination, by
referring you to several passages which I have looked out in the first
epistle of John. It is remarkable that almost the only scriptural
writer who speaks of God as a dwelling-place, is that most loving
apostle, John, out of whose epistle we have been reading.
He gives us in the 12th verse of the 4th chapter, one means of knowing
whether we are living in God: "If we love one another, God dwelleth in
us, and his love is perfected in us." And again further on, he says,
"And we have known and believed the love that God hath to us. God is
love; and he that dwelleth in love dwelleth in God, and God in him."
You may then tell whether you are a tenant of this great spiritual
house by the love you have toward others. Have you a love toward the
saints? Well, then, you are a saint yourself. The goats will not love
the sheep; and if you love the sheep, it is an evidence that you are a
sheep yourself. Many of the Lord's weak family never can get any other
evidence of their conversion except this- "We know that we have passed
from death unto life, because we love the brethren." And though that is
very little evidence, yet it is such a one that the strongest faith
often can not get a much better. "If I do not love God, I love his
people; if I am not a Christian, I love his house." What! has the devil
told thee thou art not the Lord's? Poor Faintheart, dost thou love the
Lord's people? "Yes," sayest thou, "I love to see their faces, and to
hear their prayers; I could almost kiss the hem of their garments." Is
it so? and would you give them if they were poor? would you visit them
if they were sick, and tend them if they needed assistance? "Ah! yes."
Then fear not. You who love God's people must love the Master. We know
we dwell in God if we love one another.
In the 13th verse is another sign: "Hereby know we that we dwell in
him, and he in us, because he hath given us of his Spirit." Have we
ever had the Spirit of God in us? That is one of the most solemn
questions I can ask. Many of you know what it is to be excited by
religious feeling who never had the Spirit of God. Many of us have
great need to tremble lest we should not have received that Spirit. I
have tried myself scores of times, in different ways, to see whether I
really am a posssessor of the Spirit of God or not. I know that the
people of the world scoff at the idea, and say, "It is impossible for
any body to have the Spirit of God." Then it is impossible for any body
to go to heaven; for we must have the Spirit of God, we must be born
again of the Spirit, before we can enter there. What a serious question
is this: "Have I had the Spirit of God in me? True, my soul is at times
lifted on high, and I feel I could sing like a seraph. True, sometimes
I am melted down by deep devotion, and I could pray in terrible
solemnity. But so could hypocrites, perhaps. Have I the Spirit of God?
Have you any evidence within you that you have the Spirit? Are you sure
that you are not laboring under a delusion and a dream? Have you
actually the Spirit of God within you? If so, you dwell in God. That is
the second sign.
But the apostle gives another sign in the 15th verse: "Whosoever shall
confess that Jesus is the Son of God, God dwelleth in him, and he in
God." The confession of our faith in the Saviour is another sign that
we live in God. Oh! poor heart, canst thou not come under this sign?
Thou mayest have but little boldness, but canst thou say, "I believe in
the name of the Lord Jesus Christ?" If so, thou dwellest in God. Many
of you, I know, say–"When I hear a sermon, I feel affected by it. When
I am in the house of God I feel like a child of God, but the business,
cares, and troubles of life take me off, and then I fear I am not." But
you can say, "I do believe in Christ; I know I cast myself on his
mercy, and hope to be saved by him." Then do not say you are not a
child of God if you have faith.
But there is one more sign whereby we ought to examine ourselves, in
the 3rd chapter, 24th verse: "He that keepeth his commandments dwelleth
in him, and he in him." Obedience to the commandments of God is a
blessed sign of a dwelling in God. Some of you have a deal of religious
talk, but not much religious walk; a large stock of outside piety, but
not much real inward piety, which develops itself in your actions. That
is a hint for some of you who know that it is right to be baptized, and
are not. You know it is one of the commandments of God, that "he that
believeth shall be baptized," and you are neglecting what you know to
be your duty. You are dwelling in God, I doubt not, but you lack one
evidence of it, namely–obedience to God's commandments. Obey God, and
then you will know that you are dwelling in him.
But I have another word by way of improvement, and that is one of
CONGRATULATION. You who dwell in God, allow me to congratulate you.
Thrice happy men are ye, if ye are dwelling in God! You need not blush
to compare yourselves with angels, you need not think that any on earth
can share such happiness as yours! Zion, O how blessed art thou, freed
from all sins! Now thou art, through Christ, made to dwell in God, and
therefore art eternally secure! I congratulate you, Christians, first,
that you have such a magnificent house to dwell in. You have not a
palace that shall be as gorgeous as Solomon's–a mighty palace as
immense as the dwellings of the kings of Assyria, or Babylon; but you
have a God that is more than mortal creatures can behold; you dwell in
an immortal fabric, you dwell in the Godhead–something which is beyond
all human skill. I congratulate you, moreover, that you live in such a
perfect house. There never was a house on earth that could not be made
a little better; but the house you dwell in has every thing you want;
in God you have all you require. I congratulate you, moreover, that you
live in a house that shall last forever, a dwelling-place that shall
not pass away; when this world shall have been scattered like a dream;
when, like the bubble on the breaker, creation shall have died away;
when all this universe shall have died out like a spark from an
expiring brand, your house shall live and stand more imperishable than
marble, more solid than granite, self-existent as God, for it is God!
Be happy then.
Now, lastly, a word of ADMONITION AND WARNING to some of you. My
hearers, what a pity it is that we have to divide our congregation,
that we can not speak to you in a mass as being all Christians. This
morning, I would I could take God's word and address it to you all,
that you all might share the sweet promises it contains. But some of
you would not have them if I were to offer them. Some of you despise
Christ, my blessed Master. Many of you think sin to be a trifle, and
grace to be worthless, heaven to be a vision, and hell to be a fiction.
Some of you are careless, and hardened, and thoughtless, without God,
and without Christ. Oh! my hearers, I wonder at myself that I should
have so little benevolence, that I do not preach more fervently to you.
Methinks if I could get a right estimate of your souls' value that I
should speak not as I do now with stammering tongue, but with flaming
words. I have great cause to blush at my own slothfulness, though God
knows I have striven to preach God's truth as vehemently as possible,
and would spend myself in his service; but I wonder I do not stand in
every street in London and preach his truth. When I think of the
thousands of souls in this great city that have never heard of Jesus,
that have never listened to him; when I think of how much ignorance
exists, and how little gospel preaching there is, how few souls are
saved, I think–O God! what little grace I must have, that I do not
strive more for souls.
One word by way of warning. Do you know, poor soul, that you have not a
house to live in? You have a house for your body but no house for your
soul. Have you ever seen a poor girl at midnight sitting down on a
door-step crying? Somebody passes by, and says, "Why do you sit here?"
"I have no house, sir. I have no home." "Where is your father?" "My
father's dead, sir." "Where is your mother?" "I have no mother, sir."
"Have you no friends?" "No friends at all." "Have you no house?" "No; I
have none. I am houseless." And she shivers in the chill air, and
gathers her poor ragged shawl around her, and cries again, "I have no
house–I have no home." Would you not pity her? Would you blame her for
her tears? Ah! there are some of you that have houseless souls here
this morning. It is something to have a houseless body; but to think of
a houseless soul! Methinks I see you in eternity sitting on the
door-step of heaven. An angel says, "What! have you no house to live
in?" "No house," says the poor soul." "Have you no father?" "No; God is
not my father; and there is none beside him." "Have you no mother?"
"No; the church is not my mother; I never sought her ways, nor loved
Jesus. I have neither father nor mother." "Have you no house, then?"
"No; I am a houseless soul." But there is one thing worse about
that–houseless souls have to be sent into hell; to a dungeon, to a
lake that burns with fire. Houseless soul! in a little while thy body
will have gone; and where wilt thou house thyself when the hot hail of
eternal vengeance comes from heaven? Where wilt thou hide thy guilty
head, when the winds of the last judgment-day shall sweep on thee with
fury? Where wilt thou shelter thyself, when the blast of the terrible
one shall be as a storm against a wall, when the darkness of eternity
comes upon thee, and hell thickens round thee? It will be all in vain
for you to cry, "Rocks, hide me; mountains, fall upon me;" the rocks
will not obey you, the mountains will not hide you. Caverns would be
palaces if you could dwell in them, but there will be no caverns for
you to hide your head in, but you will be houseless souls, houseless
spirits, wandering through the shades of hell, tormented, destitute,
afflicted, and that throughout eternity. Poor houseless soul, dost thou
want a house? I have a house to let this morning for every sinner who
feels his misery. Do you want a house for your soul? Then I will
condescend to men of low estate, and tell you in homely language, that
I have a house to let. Do you ask me what is the purchase? I will tell
you; it is something less than proud human nature will like to give. It
is without money and without price. Ah! you would like to pay some rent
wouldn't you? You would love to do something to win Christ. You can not
have the house then; it is "without money and without price." I have
told you enough of the house itself, and therefore I will not describe
its excellences. But I will tell you one thing–that if you feel that
you are a houseless soul this morning, you may have the key to-morrow;
and if you feel yourself to be a houseless soul to-day, you may enter
it now. If you had a house of your own I would not offer it to you; but
since you have no other, here it is. Will you take my Master's house on
a lease for all eternity, with nothing to pay for it, nothing but the
ground-rent of loving and serving him forever? Will you take Jesus, and
dwell in him throughout eternity? or will you be content to be a
houseless soul? Come inside, sir; see, it is furnished from top to
bottom with all you want. It has cellars filled with gold, more than
you will spend as long as you live; it hath a parlor where you can
entertain yourself with Christ, and feast on his love; it has tables
well stored with food for you to live on forever; it hath a
drawing-room of brotherly love where you can receive your friends. You
will find a resting room up there where you can rest with Jesus; and on
the top there is a look-out, whence you can see heaven itself. Will you
have the house, or will you not? Ah! if you are houseless, you will
say, "I should like to have the house; but may I have it?" Yes; there
is the key. The key is, "Come to Jesus." But, you say, "I am too shabby
for such a house." Never mind; there are garments inside. As Rowland
Hill once said–
"Come naked, come filthy, come ragged, come poor,
Come wretched, come dirty, come just as you are."
If you feel guilty and condemned, come, and though the house is too
good for you, Christ will make you good enough for the house by-and-by.
He will wash you, and cleanse you, and you will yet be able to sing
with Moses, with the same unfaltering voice, "Lord, thou hast been my
dwelling place throughout all generations."