The Barley Field on Fire

The Barley Field on Fire

A Sermon

(No. 563)

Delivered on Sunday Morning,, April 3rd, by the

Rev. C. H. SPURGEON,

At the Metropolitan Tabernacle, Newington

"Absalom sent for Joab, to have sent him to the king; but he would not
come to him; and when he sent again, the second time, he would not
come. Therefore he said unto his servants, See, Joab's field is near
mine, and he hath barley there: Go and set it on fire. And Absalom's
servants set the field on fire. Then Joab arose, and came to Absalom
unto his house, and said unto him, Wherefore have thy servants set my
field on fire?"–2 Samuel 14:29-31.

YOU REMEMBER the historical narrative. Absalom had fled from Jerusalem
under fear of David's anger. He was after a time permitted to return;
but he was not admitted into the presence of the king. Earnestly
desiring to be restored to his former posts of honor and favor, he
besought Joab to come to him, intending to request him to act as
mediator. Joab, having lost much of his liking for the young prince,
refused to come; and, though he was sent for repeatedly, he declined to
attend at his desire. Absalom therefore thought of a most wicked, but
most effective plan of bringing Joab into his company. He bade his
servants set Joab's field of barley on fire. This brought Joab down in
high wrath to ask the question, "Wherefore have thy servants set my
field on fire?" This was all that Absalom wanted; he wished an
interview, and he was not scrupulous as to the method by which he
obtained it. The burning of the barley-field brought Joab into his
presence, and Absalom's ends were accomplished.

Omitting the sin of the deed, we have here a picture of what is often
done by our gracious God, with the wisest and best design. Often he
sendeth for us, not for his profit, but for ours. He would have us come
near to him and receive a blessing at his hands; but we are foolish and
cold-hearted and wicked, and we will not come. He, knowing that we will
not come by any other means, sendeth a serious trial: he sets our
barley-field on fire; which he has a right to do, seeing our
barley-fields are far more his than they are ours. In Absalom's case it
was wrong; in God's case he has a right to do as he wills with his own.
He takes away from us our most choice delight, upon which we have set
our heart, and then we inquire at his hands, "Wherefore contendest thou
with me? Why am I thus smitten with thy rod? What have I done to
provoke thee to anger?" And thus we are brought into the presence of
God, and we receive blessings of infinitely more value than those
temporary mercies which the Lord had taken from us. You will see, then,
how I intend to use my text this morning. As the pastor of so large a
church as this, I am constantly brought into contact with all sorts of
human sorrow. Frequently it is poverty,–poverty too which is not
brought on by idleness or vice, but real poverty and most distressing
and afflicting poverty too, because it visits those who have fought
well the battle of life, and have struggled hard for years, and yet in
their old age scarce know where bread shall come from, except that they
rest upon the promise–"Thy bread shall be given thee, and thy water
shall be sure." Messengers come to me sometimes as fast as they came to
Job, bearing sad tidings concerning one and another of you. There comes
one–"I entreat your prayers for me, sir: God has been pleased to take
away my wife with a stroke; she now lies in the cold grave." Another
cries, "O sir, my wife is sore sick, and the physician saith that there
is but little hope: pray for her, that she may be strengthened in the
hour of her departure; and for me, that I may be enabled to kiss the
Master's rod." Then comes another–"My son is afflicted; he is to
undergo a painful operation: pray that the surgeon's knife may not be
his death, but that he may be enabled to bear up under it." And when I
have sympathized with a company of sad complaints like these, another
set of messengers will be waiting at the door. How few families are
long without severe trials! hardly a person escapes for any long season
without tribulation. With impartial hand sorrow knocks at the door of
the palace and the cottage. Why all this? The Lord, we know, "Doth not
afflict willingly, nor grieve the children of men" for naught; why can
it be that he employs so many frowning servants, and sendeth out so
often his usher of the black rod? Wherefore can it be? Perhaps I may be
able to give the fitting answer to this very proper inquiry, and it may
be that I may be as serviceable to the afflicted as the jailer was to
Paul and Silas when he washed their stripes.

I shall use my text, first of all, in reference to believers; and then,
with regard to the unconverted. Oh for help from above!

I. First of all, brethren, let us use the text WITH REFERENCE TO
BELIEVERS IN CHRIST.

My beloved brethren and sisters in Jesus Christ, we cannot expect to
avoid tribulation. If other men's barley-fields are not burned, ours
will be. If the Father uses the rod nowhere else, he will surely make
his true children smart. As Paul saith, and as our hymnster hath rhymed
it–

"Bastards may escape the rod,

Sunk in earthly vain delight,

But the true-born child of God,

Must not–would not if he might."

Your Saviour hath left you a double legacy, "In the world ye shall have
tribulation; but in me ye shall have peace." You enjoy peace; you must
not expect that you shall escape without the privilege of the
tribulation. All wheat must be threshed: and God's threshing-floor
witnesses to the weight of the flail as much as any other. Gold must be
tried in the fire; and truly the Lord hath a fire in Zion, and his
furnace in Jerusalem.

But you, beloved, have four very special comforts in all your trouble.
You have, first, this sweet reflection, that there is no curse in your
cross. Christ was made a curse for us, and we call his cross the
accursed tree; but, truly, since Jesus hung upon it, it is most
blessed; and I may now say concerning the cross of affliction, "Blessed
is every man who hangeth on this tree." The cross may be very heavy,
especially while it is green, and our shoulders unused to carrying it;
but remember, though there may be a ton-weight of sorrow in it, there
is not a single ounce of the curse in it. God doth never punish his
children in the sense of avenging justice: he chastens as a father does
his child, but he doth never punish his redeemed as a judge doth a
criminal. It were unjust to exact punishment in their place and stead.
How shall the Lord punish twice for one offence? If Christ took my sins
and stood as my substitute, then there is no wrath of God for me; and
though my cup may be bitter, yet there cannot be a single drop of the
wormwood of Almighty wrath in it. I may have to smart, but it will
never be beneath the lictor's rods of justice, but under the Parent's
rod of wisdom. O Christian! how sweet this ought to be to you! There
was a time when you were under conviction of sin,–when you thought you
would rot in a dungeon or burn at the stake most cheerfully, if you
could but get rid of the sense of God's wrath; and will you now become
impatient? The wrath of God is the thunderbolt which scathes the soul;
and now that you are delivered from that tremendous peril, you must not
be overwhelmed with the few showers and gales which Providence sends
you. A God of love inflicts our sorrows: he is as good when he chastens
as when he caresses: there is no more wrath in his afflicting
providences than in his deeds of bounty. God may seem unkind to
unbelief, but faith can always see love in his heart. Oh! what a mercy
that Sinai has ceased to thunder! Lord, let Jesus say what he will, so
long as Moses is quieted forever. Strike, Lord, if thou wilt, now that
thou hast heard the Saviour's plea and justified our souls.

You have, secondly, another ground of comfort; namely, that your
troubles are all apportioned to you by divine wisdom and love. As for
their number, if He appoint them ten, they never can be eleven. As for
their weight, He who weigheth the mountains in scales and the hills in
a balance, takes care to measure your troubles, and you shall not have
a grain more than his infinite wisdom sees fit. The devil may seem to
be turned loose upon you, but remember he is always a chained enemy.
There is a tether to every trouble, and beyond that tether it can never
stray. Nebuchadnezzar may heat the furnace seven times hotter than
usual, but God's thermometer measures the exact degree of heat; and
beyond it the flame cannot rage, even though a thousand Nebuchadnezzars
should swear themselves out of breath in their fury. Consider
everything that you have to suffer as the appointment of wisdom, ruled
by love, and you will rejoice in all your tribulation, knowing that it
shall reveal to you the loving-kindness and wisdom of your God.

You have a third consolation; namely, that under your cross you have
many special comforts. There are cordials which God giveth to sick
saints which he never putteth to the lips of those who are in health.
Dark caverns keep not back the miners, if they know that diamonds are
to be found there: you need not fear suffering, when you remember what
riches it yields to your soul. There is no hearing the nightingale
without night, and there are some promises which only sing to us in
trouble. It is in the cellar of affliction that the good old wine of
the kingdom is stored. You shall never see Christ's face so well as
when all others turn their backs upon you. When you have come into such
confusion that human wisdom is at a nonplus, then shall you see God's
wisdom manifest and clear. Oh the love-visits which Christ payeth to
his people when they are in the prison of their trouble! Then he layeth
bare his very heart to them, and comforts them as a mother doth her
child. They sleep daintily who have Jesus to make their beds. Suffering
saints are generally the most flourishing saints; and well they may be,
for they are Jesus' special care. If you would find a man whose lips
drop with pearls, look for one who has been in the deep waters. We
seldom learn much except as it is beaten into us by the rod in Christ's
schoolhouse, under Madam Trouble. God's vines owe more to the
pruning-knife than to any other tool in the garden; superfluous shoots
are sad spoilers of the vines. But even while we carry it, the cross
brings present comfort: it is a dear, dear cross, all hung with roses,
and dripping with sweet-smelling myrrh. Rutherford seemed at times in
doubt which he loved best, Christ or his cross; but then, good man, he
only loved the cross for his Lord's sake. Humble souls count it a high
honor to be thought worthy to suffer for Christ's sake. If ever heaven
be opened at all to the gaze of mortals, the vision is granted to those
who dwell in the Patmos of want and trouble. Furnace-joys glow quite as
warmly as furnace-flames. Sweet are the uses of adversity, and sweet
are its accompaniments when the Lord is with his people.

"Mid the gloom the vivid lightnings

With increasing brightness play;

'Mid the thorn-brake beauteous flowrets

Look more beautiful and gay.

So, in darkest dispensations

Doth my faithful Lord appear,

With his richest consolations,

To reanimate and cheer."

But then,–and this is the point to which my text brings me, and all I
have already said is going astray from it,–you have this comfort, that
your trials work your lasting good by bringing you nearer and nearer to
God. This point we will illustrate by the narrative before us. My dear
friends in Christ Jesus, our heavenly Father often sends for us and we
will not come. He sends for us to exercise a more simple faith in him.
We have believed, and by faith we have passed from death unto life, but
our faith sometimes staggers. We have not yet reached to Abraham's
confidence in God; we do not leave our worldly cares with him, but,
like Martha, we cumber ourselves with much serving. We have faith to
lay hold upon little promises; but we are ofttimes afraid to open our
mouths wide though God has promised to fill them. He therefore sendeth
to us. "Come, my child," saith he; "come and trust me. The veil is
rent: enter into my presence, and approach boldly to the throne of my
grace. I am worthy of thy fullest confidence: cast thy cares on me.
Come thou into the sunlight, and read thy title clear. Shake thyself
from the dust of thy cares, and put on thy beautiful garment of faith.
" But, alas! though called with tones of love to the blessed exercise
of this comforting grace, we will not come. At another time he calls us
to closer communion with himself. We have been sitting on the doorstep
of God's house, and he bids us advance into the banqueting-hall and sup
with him; but we decline the honor. He has admitted us into the inner
chambers, but there are secret rooms not yet opened to us; he invites
us to enter them, but we hold back. Jesus longs to have near communion
with his people. This is that which gives him "to see of the travail of
his soul, and to be satisfied." It must be a joy to a Christian to be
with Christ; but it is also a joy to Jesus to be with his people, for
it is written, "His delights were with the sons of men." Now, one would
think that if Christ did but beckon with his finger and say to us,
"Draw nigh, and commune with me," we should fly as though we had wings
to our feet; but, instead thereof, we are cleaving to the dust: we have
too much business; we have too many carking cares; and we forget to
come, though it is our Beloved's voice which calls us to himself.
Frequently the call is to more fervent prayer. Do you not feel in
yourself, at certain seasons, an earnest longing for private prayer?
You have felt as if you could not be at ease until you could draw near
unto God and tell him your wants; and yet, may be, you have quenched
the Spirit in that respect, and still have continued without nearness
of access to God. Every day the Lord bids his people come to him and
ask what they will, and it shall be done. He is a bounteous God, who
sits upon the mercy-seat, and he delights to give to his people the
largest desires of their hearts; and yet, shame upon us, we live
without exercising this power of prayer, and we miss the plentitude of
blessing which would come out of that cornucopia of grace,–prevailing
prayer with God. Ah, brethren, we are verily guilty here, the most of
us. The Master sendeth to us to pray, and we will not come. Often, too,
he calls us to a higher state of piety. From this pulpit I have labored
to stir you up to nobler attainments; I have besought you to rest no
longer satisfied with your dwarfish attainments, but to press forward
to things more sublime and heavenly. Have I not cried unto you,
beloved, and bid you

"Forget the steps already trod,

And onward urge your way."

I am persuaded there are Christians as much in grace beyond ordinary
Christians as ordinary Christians are beyond the profane. There are
heights which common eyes have never seen, much less scaled. Oh! there
are nests among the stars where God's own saints dwell, and yet how
many of us are content to go creeping along like worms in the dust!
Would that we had grace to cleave the clouds and mount into the pure
blue sky of fellowship with Christ! We do not serve God as we should.
We are cold as ice, when we should be like molten metal, burning our
way through all opposition. We are like the barren Sahara, when we
should be blooming like the garden of the Lord. We give to God pence,
when he deserveth pounds; nay, deserveth our heart's blood to be coined
in the service of his church and of his truth. Oh! we are but poor
lovers of our sweet Lord Jesus; not fit to be his servants, much less
to be his brides. If he had put us in the kitchen to be scullions, I
fear we are scarce fit for the service; and yet he hath exalted us to
be bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh, married to him by a
glorious marriage covenant. O brethren! God often calleth us to higher
degrees of piety, and yet we will not come.

Now, why is it that we permit the Lord to send for us so often, without
going to him? Let your own heart give the reason, in a humble
confession of your offenses. O my brethren, we never thought we should
have been so bad as we are. If an angel had told us that we should be
so indifferent towards Christ, we should have said, as Hazael did to
Elisha, "Is thy servant a dog, that he should do this great thing?" If
any of us could have seen our own history written out by a prophet's
pen, we should have said, "No; it cannot be. If Christ forgives me, I
must love him; if he be pleased to make me his own brother, I must
serve him; if I am the recipient of such splendid mercies, I must do
something commensurate with his bounty." And yet, hitherto, here we
have been ungrateful, unbelieving, and even refusing to listen to his
call, or come at his bidding. He has said, "Seek ye my face;" and our
heart did not say, "Lord, thy face will I seek." Because of all this,
because we will not listen to the gentle call of God, there cometh
trouble, just as there came the burning of the barley-field of Joab
because he would not visit the young prince. Trouble comes in all sorts
of shapes. Little doth it matter what form it cometh in, if it doth
answer the purpose of making us obey the divine calling.

Some Christians have their trial in the shape of sickness: they drag
about with them a diseased body all their lives; or they are suddenly
cast upon a bed of sickness, and they toss to and fro, by night and by
day, in pain and weariness. This is God's medicine; and when God's
children have it, let them not think it is sent to kill them, but to
heal them. Much medicine which the physician gives makes the man ill
for a time: he is worse with it than he would have been without it; but
if he be a clever physician, he knows that this is the consequence of
the medicine; and thus he is not at all alarmed by the pain of his
patient, but he expects that all this will work for good, and hunt out,
as it were, the original disease. When the Lord sends us sore sickness,
it for a time perhaps makes our former spiritual infirmities grow
worse; for sickness often provoketh impatience and murmurings against
God, but in due time our proud spirits will be broken, and we shall cry
for mercy. As a file takes off rust, so does sickness frequently remove
our deadness of heart. The diamond hath much cutting, but its value is
increased thereby; and so with the believer under the visitations of
God. I have heard say of many ministers that they preach best after
sickness, till their people have scarce regretted all the pains they
have felt when they have found how savory and full of marrow have been
their words. My brother, if you will not come to God without it, he
will send you a sick-bed that you may be carried on it to him. If you
will not come running, he will make you come limping. If you will not
come while your eyes are bright and while your countenance is full of
health, he will make you come when your eyes are dull and heavy, and
your complexion is sallow and sad. But come you must; and if by no
other means, sickness shall be the black chariot in which you shall
ride.

Losses, too, are frequently the means God uses to fetch home his
wandering sheep: like fierce dogs, they worry the wanderers back to the
shepherd. There is no making lions tame if they are too well fed; they
must be brought down from their great strength, and their stomachs must
be lowered a bit, and then they will submit to the tamer's hand: and
often have we seen the Christian rendered obedient to his Lord's will
by straitness of bread and hard labor. When rich and increased in
goods, many professors carry their heads much too loftily and speak
much too boastfully. Like David, they boast, "My mountain standeth
fast; it shall never be moved." When the Christian groweth wealthy, is
in good repute, hath good health, and a happy family, he too often
admits Mr. Carnal Security to feast at his table. If he be a true child
of God, there is a rod preparing for him. Wait awhile, and it may be
you will see his substance melt away as a dream. There goes a portion
of his estate–how soon the acres change hands! There goes a part of
his business–no profits will ever come to him again in that direction.
That debt yonder, a dishonored bill over there–how fast his losses
come! where will they end? Now, as these embarrassments come in one
after another, he begins to be distressed about them, and betakes
himself to his God. O blessed waves, that wash the man on the rock of
salvation! O blessed cords, though they may cut the flesh, if they draw
us to Jesus! Losses in business are often sanctified to our soul's
enriching. If you will not come to the Lord full-handed, you shall come
empty. If God in his grace findeth no other means of making you to
honor him among men–if you cannot honor him on the pinnacle of
riches–he will bring you down to the valley of poverty.

Bereavements, too,–ah! what sharp cuts of the rod we get with these,
my brethren! We know how the Lord sanctifies these to the bringing of
his people near to himself. How glad we should be to think that Christ
himself once suffered bereavements as we have done. Tacitus tells us
that an amber ring was thought to be of no value among the Romans till
the emperor took to wearing one, and then straightway an amber ring was
held in high esteem. Bereavements might be looked upon as very sad
things; but when we recollect that Jesus wept over his friend Lazarus,
henceforth they are choice jewels, and special favors from God. Christ
wore this ring: then I must not blush to wear it. Many a mother has
been stirred up to a holier life by the death of her infant,–many a
husband has been led to give his heart more to Christ by the death of
his wife. Do not departed spirits, like angels, beckon us up to heaven?
"Come, come away," they say; "this is not your rest. I once could build
upon the same tree, and sing upon the same bough; but now I am taken
from you,–now I rest in heaven. Come hither, thou who wast once my
fond mate–come hither, for all the trees where thou are building are
marked for the axe; therefore come now, and dwell with me!" Yes, we
must look upon our new-made graves in this light, and pray the Lord to
dig our hearts with the funeral spade, and bury our sins as we bury our
departed ones. Trials in your family, in your children, are another
form of the burning barley-field. I do not know, brethren, but I think
a living cross is much heavier to carry than a dead one. I know some
among you who have not lost your children: I could have wished you had,
for they have lived to be your grief and sorrow. Ah, young man! better
that your mother should have seen you perish in the birth than that you
should live to disgrace your father's name. Ah, man! it were better for
you that the procession had gone winding through the streets, bearing
your corpse down to the grave, than that you should live to blaspheme
your mother's God, and laugh at the Book which is her treasure. It were
better for you that you had never been born, and better for your
parents too. Ah! but, dear friends, even these are meant to draw us
nearer to Christ. We must not make idols of our children; and we dare
not do it, when we see how manifestly God shows us that, like
ourselves, they are by nature children of wrath. Sharper than an
adder's tooth is an unthankful child; but the venom is turned to
medicine in God's hand. God's birds would often keep down in the grass
in their nests; but he fills their nests full of thorns, and then up
they fly, and sing as a lark as they mount towards heaven. You must
look upon these family trials as invitations from God–sweet compulsion
to make you seek his face. Many are afflicted in another way, which is
perhaps as bad as anything else,–by a deep depression of spirit. They
are always melancholy; they know not why. There are no stars in the
night for them, and the sun gives no light by day: melancholy has
marked them for her own; but even this, I think, is often the means of
keeping some of them nearer to God than they would be. You know there
are some of our English plants which greatly affect damp, moist places
under trees. If the sun were to shine in their faces they would die.
Perhaps some minds are of the same order. Too many sweets make children
sick, and bitters are a good tonic. A veil is needed for some delicate
complexions, lest the sun look too fiercely on them: it may be, these
mourners need the veil of sorrow. It is good that they have been
afflicted, even with this heavy depression of spirit, because it keeps
them near their God. Then there is that other affliction, the hiding of
God's countenance–how hard to bear, but how beneficial! If we will not
keep near to our Lord, he is sure to hide his face. You have seen a
mother walking out with her little child, when it has just learned to
walk; and as she goes through the street, the little one is for running
sometimes to the right, and sometimes to the left, and so the mother
hides herself a moment; then the child looketh round for the mother,
and begins to cry, and then out comes the mother. What is the effect?
Why, it will not run away from the mother any more: it is sure to keep
hold of her hand afterwards. So, when we get wandering from God, he
hides his face, and then, since we have a love for him, we begin crying
after him; and when he shows his face once more, we cling to him the
more lovingly ever afterwards. So the Lord is pleased to bless our
troubles to us.

Now, Christian, what about all this? Why, just this. Are you under any
sharp trouble now? Then I pray you go to God as Joab went to Absalom.
"Wherefore have thy servants set my field on fire?" "Show me wherefore
thou contendest with me." "Search me, O God, and know my heart; try me,
and know my thoughts; and see if there be any wicked way in me, and
lead me in the way everlasting." Make this a special season of humbling
and heart-searching. Now let every besetting sin be driven out. When
God sweeps, do you search. When you are under the rod, it is yours to
make a full confession of past offenses, and pray to be delivered from
their power in the future. Or, have you no trial to-day, my brother?
Then see if there be not something which may provoke God to send one,
and begin now to purge yourself from all filthiness of the flesh and of
the spirit by the Holy Ghost. Prevention is better than a cure; and
sometimes a timely heart-searching may save us many a heart-smarting.
Let us see to that, then. Or have we been afflicted, and is the
affliction over now? Then, let us say with David, "Before I was
afflicted I went astray; but now have I kept thy word." Let us bless
God for all that he has done, saying "It is good for me that I have
been afflicted;" let us join together in one common hymn of praise for
all the loving-kindness which God has been pleased to show us in the
sharp cuts of his rod. I have said enough, I think, to the Christian,
to work out the little picture before us. God has burned your
barley-field, dear friends: now go to him, and the closer you can
approach to him, and the more firmly you can cling to him, the better
for your soul's health and comfort all your life. At the last, you and
I shall sing to the praise of our afflicting God.

All I meet I find assists me

In my path to heavenly joy;

Where, though trials now attend me,

Trials never more annoy.

Blest there with a weight of glory,

Still the path I'll ne'er forget,

But, exulting, cry, It led me

To my blessed Saviour's seat.

II. A few words–God make them mighty–TO THE SINNER shall form the
second part of our discourse. God also has sent for you. O unconverted
man! God has often sent for you. Early in your childhood your mother's
prayers sought to woo you to a Saviour's love, and your godly father's
first instructions were as so many meshes of the net in which it was
desired that you should be taken; but you have broken through all
these, and lived to sin away early impressions and youthful promises.
Since that you have often been called under the ministry. Our sermons
have not been all shots wide of the mark, but sometimes a hot shot has
burnt its way into your conscience and you have been made to tremble;
but, alas! the trembling soon gave way before your old sins. Hitherto
you have been called, but you refused. The hands of mercy have been
stretched out, and you have not regarded them. You have had calls, too,
from your Bible, from religious books, from Christian friends. Holy
zeal is not altogether dead, and it shows itself by looking after your
welfare. Young man, your shopmate has sometimes spoken to you; young
woman, your companion has wept over you. There are some of you now
present who have been called by the most loving of voices, in
connection with our classes. Both in our Sunday-school and in the
catechumenical classes there are men and women with deep love to the
souls of those committed to them,–tender hearts, weeping eyes,–and
you have been wept over that you might come to Christ; but still all
the agency that has been employed has been up to this moment without
effect; you are a stranger to the God who made you, and an enemy to
Christ the Saviour.

Well, if these gentle means will not do, God will employ other
agencies. Perhaps he has tried them already. If not,–if he intendeth
in the divine decree your eternal salvation,–he will, as sure as you
are a living man, use stronger ways with you; and if a word will not
do, he will come with a blow, though he loveth to try the power of the
word first. You, too, my hearer unconverted and unsaved, have had your
trials. You weep as well as Christians. You may not weep for sin, but
sin shall make you weep. You may abhor repentance because of its
sorrow, but you shall not escape sorrow, even if you escape repentance.
you have had your sickness. Do you remember it, when in the silent
night you heard the watch ticking out, as you thought, your last few
minutes, and foretelling your doom? Do you remember those weary days,
when you tossed from side to side, and did but shift the place and keep
the pain? Man, can you recollect your vows, which you have lived to
break, and your promises with which you lied unto the eternal God? Then
the Sabbath would be your delight, you said, if you were spared, and
the house of God and the people of God should be dear to you, and you
would seek his face. But you have not done so: you have broken your
covenant, and have despised your promise made to God. Or, what is it,
have you had losses in business? You began life well and hopefully, but
nothing has prospered with you. I am not sorry for it; for I remember
it is the wicked who spreadeth himself like a green bay tree, and it is
concerning the reprobate that it is written, "There are no bands in
their death; but their strength is firm. They are not in trouble as
other men; neither are they plagued like other men." I am glad that you
are plagued. I would sooner see you whipped to heaven than coached to
hell. Doubtless many go, like Agag, delicately to their hewing in
pieces, while others go sorrowing to eternal glory. You have had
losses: what are these but God's rough messengers to tell you that
there is nothing beneath the sky worth living for, to wean you from the
breasts of earth and cause you to look for something more substantial
than worldly riches can afford you? And you, too, have lost friends;
may I recall those graves, whose turf is yet so newly laid? May I
remind you of children fair and beautiful in your eyes, taken away from
you despite your tears? Shall I remind you of the parent who sleeps in
Jesus? of a sweet sister who withered like a lily by early consumption?
Shall I bring these thoughts back to you? I would not wish to make your
wounds bleed afresh, but it is for your good that I bid you hearken to
their solemn voice; for they say to you, "Come to your God. Be
reconciled to him!" I do not think you ever will come to Jesus, unless
the Holy Spirit shall employ trials to bring you. I find that the woman
never found her piece of money till she swept the house. The prodigal
never came back till he was hungry, and fain would have filled his
belly with the husks which the swine did eat. I only hope that these
troubles may be blessed to you. Besides this, you have had your
depression of spirit. If I mistake not, I address some who are under
such depressions now. You do not know how it is, but nothing is
pleasant to you. You went to the theater last night. You wished you had
not: it gave you no joy; and yet you have been as merry there as any,
in former times. You go among your companions, and a day's pleasuring,
as they call it, has become to you a very painful waste of time. You
have lost the zest of life; and I am not sorry for it, if it should
make you look for a better life, and trust in a world to come. My
friends, again I say, this is the burning of your barley-fields. God
has sent for you, and you would not come; and now he has sent
messengers who are not so easily refused. He has sent these with
sterner and rougher words, which speak to your flesh, if your spirit
will not hear.

Well, now, what then? If God is sending these, are you listening to
them? My hearer, if God has sent these, have you listened to them?
There are some of you of whom I almost despair. God can save you, but I
cannot tell you how he will do it. Certainly the Word does not seem
likely to be blessed. You have been called and entreated; early and
late we have entreated you. Our hearts have yearned with tenderness for
you, but hitherto in vain. God knows I have been hammering away at the
granite, and it has not yielded yet; I have smitten the flint, and it
is not broken. Some of you all but break the plowshare: you are such
rocks that it seems in vain to plow upon you. As for trouble, I do not
see that that is likely to do you any good; for if you are smitten
again, you will revolt more and more. The whole head is sick already,
and the whole heart is faint. You have been beaten, till from the crown
of the head to the sole of your foot there is nothing but wounds,
bruises, and putrifying sores. You are poor–perhaps your drunkenness
has made you so; you have lost your wife–perhaps your cruelty helped
to kill her; you have lost your children, and you are left a penniless,
friendless, helpless beggar, and yet you will not turn to God! What now
is to be done unto you? O Ephraim! what shall I do unto thee? Shall I
give thee up? How can I give thee up? "How shall I make thee as Admah?
how shall I set thee as Zeboim?" The heart of mercy still yearns after
thee. Return thou! return thou! God help thee to return, even now.

Others of you have not suffered all this in the past, but are just now
enduring a part of it. Let me entreat you, by the mercies of God and by
the blood of our Lord Jesus Christ, that you despise not him who
speaketh unto you. God doth not continue to send his messengers
forever. After he hath labored with you for a time, he will leave you
to cursing. Long-suffering lasts not forever. Mercy hath its day.
Behold, the King runs up the white flag of comfort to-day, and he
invites you to come unto him. To-morrow he may run up the red flag of
threatening; and if that answereth not, if that red flag will not make
you turn, he will run up the black flag of execution, and then there
will be no hope. Beware! The black flag is not run up yet: the red flag
is there now in trials and troubles, which are God's threatenings to
you, bidding you open wide your heart that grace may enter; but if it
cometh to this that the red flag fail, the black flag must come.
Perhaps it has come! God help you with broken heart to cry unto him
that you may be saved, before the candle is blown out and the sun is
set, and the night of the dead is come on without the hope of another
sun rising on a blessed resurrection.

What is the drift of all this? My drift is this: If, now, a word of
mine could make you come to the King this morning–I know it will not
unless God the Holy Spirit compels you to do so by his irresistible
power; but if he would bless it, I would rejoice as one who findeth
great spoil. Wherefore do you stand out against God? If the Lord
intendeth your eternal salvation, your resistance will be in vain; and
how will you vex yourself in after years to think that you should have
stood out so long! Wherefore dost thou resist? God's battering-ram is
too mighty for the walls of your prejudice: he will make them fall yet.
Why dost thou stand out against thy God, against him who loveth thee,
who hath loved thee with an everlasting love, and redeemed thee by the
blood of Christ? Why standest thou out against him who intends to lead
thy captivity captive, and to make thee yet his rejoicing child? "Oh!"
saith one, "if I thought there were such mercy as that, I would yield."
If thou believest in the Lord Jesus Christ, this shall be an evidence
that such mercy is ordained for thee. Oh that the Spirit of God would
enable thee, sinner, to come just as thou art and put thy trust in
Christ! If thou dost so, then it is certain that thy name is written in
the Lamb's book of Life, that thou wast chosen of God and art precious
to him, and that thy head is one on which the crown of immortality is
to glitter forever. Oh that thou wouldst trust Christ! The joy and
peace it works in the present is worth worlds; but oh the glory, the
overwhelming glory which in worlds to come shall belong to those that
trust in Jesus! God give you this morning to cast your souls upon the
finished work of Jesus. His blood can cleanse; his righteousness can
cover; his beauty can adorn; his prayer can preserve; his advent shall
glorify; his heaven shall make you blessed. Trust him! God help you to
trust him; and he shall have all the praise, both now and forever. Amen
and amen.