A Present Religion

A Present Religion

A Sermon

(No. 196)

Delivered on Sabbath Morning, May 30, 1858, by the

REV. C.H. SPURGEON

at the Music Hall, Royal Surrey Gardens

"Beloved, now are we the sons of God."–1 John 3:2.

I SHALL not pretend to preach from the whole of my text this morning,
short though it be. The word "now" is to me the most prominent word in
the text, and I shall make it so this morning. "Beloved, now are we the
sons of God."

It is astonishing how distance blunts the keen edge of anything that is
disagreeable. War is at all times a most fearful scourge. The thought
of slain bodies and of murdered men must always harrow up the soul; but
because we hear of these things in the distance, there are few
Englishmen who can truly enter into their horrors. If we should hear
the booming of cannon on the deep which girdles this island; if we
should see at our doors the marks of carnage and bloodshed; then should
we more thoroughly appreciate what war means. But distance takes away
the horror, and we therefore speak of war with too much levity, and
even read of it with an interest not sufficiently linked with pain. As
it is with war, so it is with death. Death is a frightful thing; he who
is the bravest must still fear before it, for at best it is a solemn
thing to die. Man, therefore, adopts the expedient of putting off all
thoughts of death: it may be very near to him, but he conceives it to
be at a distance, and then the same effect is produced as when war is
at a distance; its horror is forgotten, and we speak of it with less
solemnity. So likewise with true religion; men are constrained to
believe that there is truth in religion. Though there are some
fool-hardy enough to deny it, the most of us in this enlightened land
are obliged to acknowledge that there is a power in Godliness. What,
then, does the worldling do? He practices the same expedient. He puts
religion far away; he knows that its disagreeableness will be
diminished by his believing it to be distant. Hence there has sprung up
in the minds of the unregenerate world a notion that religion is a
thing to be accomplished just at the close of life, and the usual
prayer of an ungodly man, when in the slightest degree pricked in his
conscience, is, "Oh, that I may be saved at last!" He does not feel
anxious to be saved now; religion is a thing for which he has no
appetite, and therefore believing it essential to insure his eternal
welfare, he adopts the alternative of saying, "I hope to have it at
last."

The religion, then, of the present, is not the worldling's religion. He
tolerates that which speaks of eternity; that which deals with dying
beds; that which leads him to look back with a specious repentance upon
a life spent in sin, but not that which will enable him to look forward
to a life spent in holiness. Very differently, however, do we act with
affairs of the present life, for things that are sweet to us, become
the more sweet by their nearness. Was there ever a child who longed for
his father's house who did not feel that the holidays grew more sweet
in his estimation the shorter the time was that he had to tarry?

What man is there who having once set his heart on riches, did not find
his delight in the thought of being rich increase with the nearness of
his approach to the desired object? And are we not all of us
accustomed, when we think a good thing is at a distance, to try if we
can shorten the time between us and it. We try anything and everything
to push on the lagging hours; we chide them, wish that Time had double
wings, that he might swiftly fly and bring the expected season. When
the Christian talks of heaven, you will always hear him try to shorten
the distance between himself and the happy land; he says,–

"A few more rolling suns at most

Will land me on fair Canaan's coast."

There may be many years between him and paradise, but still he is prone
to say,

"The way may be rough, but it cannot be long."

Thus do we all delight to shorten the distance between us and the
things for which we hope. Now let us just apply this rule to religion.
They who love religion love a present thing. The Christian who really
seeks salvation, will never be happy unless he can say, "Now am I a
child of God." Because the worldling dislikes it, he puts it from him,
because the Christian loves it, therefore its very fairest feature is
its present existence, its present enjoyment in his heart. That word
"now" which is the sinners warning, and his terror, is to the
Christian, his greatest delight and joy. "There is therefore"–and then
the sweetest bell of all rings–"there is therefore now no condemnation
to them that are in Christ Jesus;" to the sinner that same idea is the
blackest of all, "He that believeth not is condemned already, because
he hath not believed on the Son of God."

This morning, in God's name, I shall endeavor to plead with men, and
show them the importance of having a present religion. I am quite
certain that this is a habit which is too much kept in the back-ground.
I am sure from mixing with mankind, that the current belief is, that
religion is a future thing, perhaps the wish is father to the thought.
I am certain the ground of it is, men love not religion, and therefore
they desire to thrust it far from them.

I shall commence by endeavoring to show that religion must be a thing
of the present, because the present has such intimate connection with
the future, and to proceed–We are told in Scripture that this life is
a seed time, and the future is the harvest, "He that soweth to the
flesh, shall of the flesh reap corruption; he that soweth to the
spirit, shall of the spirit reap life everlasting." The Scripture often
speaks to us in words like these, "They that sow in tears, shall reap
in joy." It is always supposed in Scripture, that this life is the time
of generating, if I may use such an expression, the life that is to
come, as the seed generates the plant, even so doth this present life
generate the eternal future. We know, indeed, that heaven and hell are,
after all, but the developments of our present character, for what is
hell but this, "He that is filthy, let him be filthy still, and he that
is unholy, let him be unholy still?" Do we not know that in the bowels
of every sin, damnation slumbers? Is it not a fearful truth that the
germ of everlasting torment sleeps in every vile wish, every unholy
thought, every unclean act, so that hell is but a great breaking out of
slumbering lava, which had been so quiet, that while the mountain was
covered with fair verdure, even to its summit, death comes and bide
that lava rise; and down the steeps of manhood's eternal existence, the
fiery flame, and the hot scalding lava of eternal misery doth pour
itself. Yet it was there before, for sin is hell, and to rebel against
God is but the prelude of misery. So is it with heaven; I know that
heaven is a reward, not of debt, but of grace; but still the Christian
has that within him, which forestall for him a heaven. What did Christ
say? "I give unto my sheep eternal life." He did not say, I will give,
but, I give unto them. "As soon as they believe in me, I give them
eternal life," and "he that believeth, hath eternal life, and shall
never come unto damnation." The Christian hath within him the seed-beds
of a paradise, in due time the light that is sown for the righteous,
and the gladness that is buried beneath the black earth for the upright
in heart, shall spring up, and they shall reap the harvest. Is it not
plain then that religion is a thing which we must have here? Is it not
prominently revealed that religion is important for the present? for if
this life be the seed time of the future, how can I expect to reap in
another world other crops than I have been sowing here? how can I trust
that I shall be saved, unless I am saved? how can I have hope that
heaven shall be my eternal inheritance, unless the earnest be begun in
my own soul on earth?

But again, this life is always said in Scripture to be a preparation
for the life to come, "Prepare to meet thy God, O Israel." "They that
were ready went in with him to the supper, and the door was shut."
There is in this world a getting ready for another world; to use a
Biblical figure, we must here put on the wedding dress, which we are to
wear for ever. This life is as the vestibule of the king's court, we
must put our shoes from off our feet; we must wash our garments and
make ourselves ready to enter into the marriage supper of the Lamb.
Somehow, in Scripture, the thought comes out as plain as if written
with a sunbeam, this world is the beginning of the end,–it is the
preparing-place for the future. Supposing you have no religion now, how
will you stand when now is turned into eternity? When days and years
are gone, how will it fare with you, if all your days have been spent
without God and without Christ? Do you hope to hurry on the white
garment after death? Alas! you shall be girt with your shroud, but not
be able to put on the wedding raiment. Do you trust that you shall wash
you and make you clean in the river Jordan? Alas! ye shall breed
corruption in your tomb, but ye shall not find holiness there. Do ye
trust to be pardoned after you have departed?

"There are no acts of pardon pass'd

In the cold grave to which we haste;

But darkness, death, and fell despair,

Reign in eternal silence there."

Or, do ye think that when ye near the borders of the grave, then will
be the time to prepare? Be not deceived. We read in Scripture one
instance of a man saved at the eleventh hour. Remember, there is but
one; and we have no reason to believe that there ever was, or ever will
be another. There may have been persons saved on their dying beds, but
we are not sure there ever were. Such things may have happened, but
none of us can tell. Alas! facts are sadly against it; for we have been
assured by those who have had the best means of judging–those who have
long walked the hospital of humanity–that such as thought they were
dying and made vows of repentance, have almost invariably turned back,
like "the dog to his own vomit and the sow that was washed to her
wallowing in the mire." Oh no; "To-day if ye will hear his voice,
harden not your hearts;" for to-day is the preparing time for the dread
to-morrow–to-day is the making ready for the eternal future.

Let me urge one other reflection here. How are we saved? All through
Scripture we are told we are saved by faith, except in one passage,
wherein it is said, we are saved by hope. Now note, how certain it is
that religion must be a present thing if we are saved by faith, because
faith and hope cannot live in another world. "What a man seeth, why
doth he yet hope for?" Hope cannot exist in that world of realities
where shadows are unknown. How can faith be exercised when we see a
thing? for what a man perceiveth by faith that he realises not by
sense; and although we say "seeing is believing," it is quite certain
that seeing and believing are at opposite poles. Believing is an
assurance of that which we see not, and in confidence of faith waiting
until we do see it; but seeing is sensuous, and the very reverse of
faith. Now if I am to be saved by faith, it is quite certain I must be
saved in a state where faith can be exercised that is in this world;
and if I am to be saved by hope, I cannot be saved by hope in that
world where hope cannot exist; I must be saved here, for here is the
only place where hope can breathe an air that lets it live. The air of
heaven is too bright and pure, too heavenly, too warm. too sweet with
angels' songs, for faith and hope to inhabit. They leave us on this
side of the Jordan; if then we are saved by these I think it
follows–and every one of you must perceive the inference–we must be
saved now, because faith and hope are not things of the future. Oh how
pleasant, if after these remarks we can say, "Yes, it is so; it is even
so, and we rejoice therein, for now are we the sons of God.'"

In the second place, as I have briefly shown the connection between the
present and the future, let me use another illustration to show the
importance of a present salvation. Salvation is a thing which brings
present blessings. When you read Scripture, and alas there are few who
care to read it as they ought in these times, they read anything rather
than their Bibles–when you read Scripture, you will be struck with the
fact that every blessing is spoken of in the present tense. You
remember how the apostle in one of his epistles says, "Unto them which
are saved, Christ power of God and the wisdom of God." He does not say
to them who shall be saved, but to them which are saved. We know too
that justification is a present blessing–"there is therefore now no
condemnation." Adoption is a present blessing, for it says, "Now are we
the sons of God," and we know also that sanctification is a present
blessing, for the apostle addresses himself to "the saints who are
sanctified in Christ Jesus, and called." All the blessings of the new
covenant are spoken of in the present tense, because with the exception
of eternal glory in heaven, they are all to be enjoyed here. I know
this, that I shall be one day, if I am a believer in Christ, more
sanctified than I am to-day–if not in the sense of consecration, yet
still in the sense of purification–but at the same time I know this of
a surety, that when I stand at God's right hand, midst the lamps of
eternal brightness, and when these fingers move with vigor across the
golden strings, and when this voice is filled with the immortal songs,
I shall not be one whit more a child of God than I am now. And when the
white robe is upon me, and the crown upon my head, I shall not be more
justified than I am at the present moment, for it is the doctrine of
Holy Scripture, that

"The moment a sinner believes,

And trusts in his crucified God,

His pardon at once he receives

Salvation in full through his blood."

But the assurance of our possession in these things is a present
blessing also. I will illustrate what I mean by a circumstance which
happened to myself. A lady called upon me in some distress of mind, and
this was her difficulty:–She had, she trusted, been converted to God,
enjoyed great peace of mind, and for a little season was very full of
joy; because she believed that she had been forgiven, and was accepted
in the beloved. Naturally enough, seeking her religious instructor, she
went to the clergyman of the parish, who, unfortunately for her was a
blind guide, for when she began to tell him concerning her joy, he
checked her, by saying, "My good woman, this is all presumption." "Nay,
sir," said she "I trust not; my hope is fixed on nothing else than
Jesus; I repose alone in him." "That is right enough," said he, "but
you have no authority to say you know you are saved; you have no
authority to believe that you are already pardoned." And he told her
that he did not believe it possible for any Christian to be assured of
this except a very few eminent saints, they might hope, that was all;
they might trust but they could never be sure. Ah! methinks he had gone
but a very little way on the road to the kingdom of heaven. He must
have been but a very small infant in Christ, if in Christ at all, to
have told her so. For those of us who have for a few years put on the
Lord Jesus, know of a surety that there is such a thing as infallible
assurance, we know that although there is such a thing as presumption,
there is a distinction which every Christian can easily mark between
the one and the other. Presumption says, "I am a child of God, and I
may live as like. I know I am saved, I need not therefore seek to have
present communion with Christ." But Assurance says, "I know whom I have
believed; I am persuaded that he is able to keep that which I have
committed unto him against that day." And then she meekly bows her
head, and says, "Hold thou me up and I shall be safe, keep me and I
shall be kept; draw me and I will run after thee." Oh! my dear hearers,
never believe that falsehood of the day–that a man cannot know himself
to be a child of God. For if you tell us that, we can refute you with a
thousand testimonies. We have seen the poor, the humble, and the
illiterate, confident of their interest in Christ. It is true, we have
seen them doubt; we have heard their wailings when they could not see
Christ with their heart. Yea we have known the time when the greatest
of God's people have had to tremble, and say–

"Tis a point I long to know,

Oft it causes anxious thought–

'Do I love the Lord, or no?

Am I his, or am I not?'"

But still, God's people may be assured; they may know, by the witness
of the Spirit within, that they are born of God; for doth not an
apostle say, "We know we have passed from death unto life, because we
love the brethren?" "The Spirit beareth witness with our spirits that
we are born of God." I would that we had more Christians who lived in
the enjoyment of full assurance. How precious it is when the milk of
faith settles down, and the thick cream of full assurance can be
skimmed from the surface as marrow and fatness to the children of God.
Religion, then, is a thing of present assurance. A man may know in this
life, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that he is accepted in Christ
Jesus.

Yet I am inclined to think, that the worldly man most of all objects to
present religion, because he does not like its duties. Most men would
be very religious if religion did not entail obligations. Many a free
liver would be a very pious man, if he were not curtailed of a few of
his bottles of wine. Many a loose character would have no objection to
go up to the temple and pray, and subscribe his name to the God of
Jacob, if the gospel did not forbid all uncleanness, and everything
that is lascivious. Many a tradesman would put on the Lord Jesus
Christ, if there were no necessity to put off the old man, if he could
keep his sins and have Christ too–oh, how willing would he be. Indeed,
there are a great many who are so fond of it, that they have tried it.
We know people who are like the Roman Emperor, who believed that Jesus
Christ was God, but thought that all the other strange gods were
likewise to be worshipped; so these people think religion a very good
thing, but think sin a very good thing too, so they set up the two
together, and their whole life is like Janus, two-faced. They look most
comely Christians in the synagogue, but they look most unmistakable
hypocrites if you see them in the market. Men will not direct a single
eye to religion because it curtails license and entails duties. And
this, I think, proves that religion is a present thing, because the
duties of religion cannot be practiced in another world, they must be
practiced here.

Now, what are the duties of religion? In the first place, here are its
active duties, which a man should do between man and man, to walk
soberly and righteously, and uprightly in the midst of an evil
generation. Lightly as some people speak about morality, or against
morality, there is no true religion where there is no morality. Do not
tell me about your orthodoxy, do not come and tell me about your
private prayers and secret piety, if your life be bad, you are bad
altogether. A good tree cannot bring forth anything but good fruit, and
a corrupt tree will bring forth corrupt fruit. There is no questioning
that; what your life is, that you are–for as out of the abundance of
the heart the mouth speaks, so out of the abundance of the heart the
man lives. It is an in vain for you to deprecate so strong a sentiment
as this, and to say, "The best of saints are fallible." I know they
are; I know that even the best of men will sin, but they will not sin
willingly; if they sin publicly, it will be but an exception, their
lives, under the power of Divine grace, will be holy, and pure, and
upright. I believe the devil likes Antinomianism, and he says to the
Romanist, "Preach on, you Priest; I do not mind what you preach, for
you will enter my dominions. You tell people that they may live in sin,
and then procure absolution for a shilling! Fine doctrine that!" And he
pats the priest on the back, and gives him all the Assistance he can.
Then comes there an Antinomian minister into the pulpit. The devil
says, "Ah, though he rails against the Pope of Rome, I like them both,
the one as much as the other." Then how he preaches! he begins
preaching justification by faith alone, and he carries his argument a
step too far, for he begins railing at good works, calls them
legalists, who think it their duty to lead a holy life, and hints with
a smirk and a smile, that the excellent conduct of a man is of little
importance, so long as he believes the truth and goes to his chapel.
"Ah," says the devil, "preach away; I love the two things,
Antinomianism and Popery, for they are two of the finest quacks for
canting souls." Again, I say, "Be not deceived, God is not mocked; for
whatsover a man soweth that shall he also reap." By our works we are
not to be justified, but still by our works we shall be judged, and by
our works we shall be condemned. So saith the Scriptures, and this we
must receive. Religion, therefore, must be a present thing; we need not
talk of walking righteously, and soberly, in the world to come–

"There all is pure, and all is clear,

There all is joy and love."

There will be no duty to discharge between the tradesman and the
customer, between the debtor and the creditor, between the father and
the child, between the husband and the wife, in heaven, for all
relationships shall have passed away. Religion must be intended for
this life; the duties of it cannot be practiced, unless they are
practiced here.

But besides these, there are other duties devolving upon the Christian.
Though it is every man's duty to be honest and sober, the Christian has
another code of law. It is the Christian's duty to love his enemies, to
be at peace with all men, to forgive as he hopes to be forgiven; and it
is his duty not to resist evil, when smitten on the one cheek to turn
the other also; it is his duty to give to him that asketh of him and
from him that would borrow of him not to turn away–he is to be a
liberal soul devising liberal things. It is the Christian's duty to
visit his Master's children when they are sick, so that it may be said
to him at last, "I was sick, and naked, and in prison, and ye visited
me, and ministered to my necessities." Now, if religion be not a thing
for this world, I ask you how is it possible to perform its duties at
all? There are no poor in heaven whom we can comfort and visit, there
are no enemies in heaven whom we can graciously forgive; and there are
no injuries inflicted, or wrongs endured, which we can bear with
patience. Religion must have been intended in the very first place for
this world, it must have been meant that now we should be the sons of
God. For again I repeat it, that the major part of the duties of
religion cannot be practiced in heaven, and therefore religion must be
a present thing.

But, coming near to our conclusion, I believe there are many more
persons who do not like religion for to-day, but who want to have it at
the last, for this reason: they think religion is not a happy thing;
they believe it makes men miserable. They have met with persons with
long faces, they have seen some who were born in stormy weather, and
who seem to have lived all their lives long with a hurricane inside
their hearts, never having one flash of sunlight, nor one pleasant
rainbow across their brow. Many young people imbibe this idea. They
think that surely religion must be a thing that will make men go moping
and melancholy all through this world. In fact, they enter the chapel
sometimes, and they hear the saints singing–and what a sweet hymn it
is–a sorry sweetness in truth!–

"Lord, what a wretched land is this;"

and they go out and say, "No doubt it is, we will have nothing to do
with it." Looking upon religion as medicine which is extremely
nauseous,–if they must drink it, they will put it off to the last;
they will gulp it down with a "Lord, have mercy on me!" and ere its
bitterness is fairly in their mouth, they expect to begin to enjoy its
sweetness in heaven. What a mistake! Religion has its present
enjoyments. I do solemnly affirm to-day, in the face of this
congregation, and before Almighty God, if I were certain that I were to
die like a dog and when I was buried there would be an end of me, had I
my choice of the happiest life a man could lead, I would say, "Let me
be a Christian," for if, as some say, it be a delusion, it is one of
the most magnificent delusions that ever we. devised. If any man could
prove the religion of Christ to be a delusion, the next thing he should
do would be to hang himself, because there is nothing worth living for.
He might well sit down and weep to think he had made a ruin of so
goodly a structure, and dissolved such a pleasant dream.

Ah! beloved, there are present enjoyments in religion. Speak, ye that
know them, for ye can tell; yet ye cannot recount them all. Oh! would
ye give up your religion for all the joys that earth calls good or
great? Say, if your immortal life could be extinguished, would you give
it up, even for all the kingdoms of this world? Oh: ye sons of poverty,
has not this been a candle to you in the darkness? Has not this
lightened you through the dark shades of your tribulation? Oh! ye horny
handed sons of toil, has not this been your rest, your sweet reposer;
Have not the testimonies of God been your song in the house of your
pilgrimage? Oh! ye daughters of sorrow, ye who spend the most of your
time upon your beds–and your couch to you is a rack of pain–has not
religion been to you a sweet quietus? When your bones were sore vexed,
could ye not even then praise him on your beds? Speak from your couches
to-day, ye consumptives, blanched though your cheeks; speak this day
from your beds of agony, ye that are troubled with inumerable diseases,
and are drawing near your last home? Is not religion worth having in
the sick chamber, on the bed of pain and anguish? "Ah!" they heartily
say," we can praise him on our beds; we can sing his high praises in
the fires." And ye men of business, speak for yourselves! You have hard
struggles to pass through life. Sometimes you have been driven to a
great extremity, and whether you would succeed or not seemed to hang
upon a thread. Has not your religion been a joy to you in your
difficulties? Has it not calmed your minds? When you have been fretted
and troubled about worldly things, have you not found it a pleasant
thing to enter your closet, and shut-to the door, and tell your Father
in secret all your cares? And O ye that are rich, cannot you bear the
same testimony, if you have loved the Master? What had all your riches
been to you without a Saviour? Can you not say, that your religion did
gild your gold, and make your silver shine more brightly? for all
things that you have are sweetened by this thought, that you have all
these and Christ too! Was there ever a child of God who could deny
this? We have heard of many infidels who grieved over their infidelity
when they came to die. Did you ever hear of a Christian acting the
counterpart? Did you ever hear of any one on his death-bed looking back
on a life of holiness with sorrow? We have seen the rake, with a wasted
constitution shrivel into a corpse through his iniquities, and we have
heard him bemoan the day in which he went astray. We have seen the poor
debauched child of sin rotting with disease, and listened to her
shriek, and heard her miserably curse herself that she ever turned
aside, to what was called the path of gaiety, but what was really the
path to hell. We have seen the miser too, who has gripped his bags of
gold, and on his dying bed we have found him curse himself, that when
he came to die, his gold, though laid upon his heart, could not still
its achings and give him joy. Never, never did we know a Christian who
repented of his Christianity. We have seen Christians so sick, that we
wondered that they lived–so poor, that we pondered at their misery; we
have seen them so full of doubts, that we pitied their unbelief; but we
never heard them say, even then, "I regret that I gave myself to
Christ." No; with the dying clasp, when heart and flesh were failing,
we have seen them hug this treasure to their breast and press it to
their heart, still feeling that this was their life, their joy, their
all. Oh! if ye would be happy, if ye would be saved, if ye would strew
your path with sunshine, and dig out the nettles and blunt the thorns,
"seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these
things shall be added unto you." Seek not happiness first; seek Christ
first, and happiness shall come after. Seek ye first the Lord, and then
he will provide for you everything that is profitable for you in this
life and he will crown it with everything that is glorious in the life
to come. "Beloved, now are we the sons of God."

Before closing this discourse, I fear that there are a great many of
you who will say, "Well, I care nothing at all about religion. it is of
no avail to me;" No, my friends, and it is very probable that you will
not care about it, until it shall be too late to care. Mayhap you will
go on putting off these thoughts, until the day shall come, when they
will come so thick upon you, that you will not be able to procrastinate
any longer, and then will you in right earnest set about seeking
Christ; but at that hour he will say to you, "Inasmuch as Moab hath
wearied himself upon the high places, and he betaketh himself to my
sanctuary, I will not hear him, saith the Lord." "Strive to enter in at
the strait gate" now, "for many shall seek to enter in, but shall not
be able." Let us fear, lest, having the gospel preached in our ears, we
should neglect and put it off until the last hour has struck, and we
find ourselves without hope, when there is no time to seek a Saviour.

I know where this morning's sermon will be found profitable. It will be
in the case of those who are seeking Christ. Old Flockhart, who used to
preach till within the last few months in the streets of Edinburgh, a
much despised, but a very godly man, used to say, "When I begin my
sermon, I begin by preaching the law, and then I bring the gospel
afterwards; for," he said, "it is like a woman who is sewing–she
cannot sew with thread alone; she first sticks a sharp needle through,
and then draws the thread afterwards. so," he says, "does the Lord with
us; he sends the sharp needle of conviction, the needle of the law,
into our hearts. and pricks us in the heart, and he draws through the
long silken thread of consolation afterwards." Oh! I would that some of
you were pricked in the heart to-day. Remember, there are thunders in
this book; though they are sleeping now, they will wake by-and-bye.
There are in this Bible curses too horrible for heart to know their
full extent of meaning; they are slumbering now, but they shall waken
and when they leap from between the folded leaves, and the seven seals
are broken, where will you flee, and where shall you hide yourselves,
in that last great day of anger? If, then, ye are pricked to the heart,
I preach to you the gospel now. "Today, if ye will hear his voice.
harden not your hearts, as in the provocation." This day look to him
that hung upon the cross. This day believe and live.

And now to illustrate the manner in which rebellious sinners are
reconciled to God, I will relate to you an interesting anecdote from
the life of a soldier. It may picture to your minds the majesty of God
in strewing grace, and the humbling experience of the sinner in
receiving it, and help us to answer that solemn question–"What must I
do to be saved?" My author says, that himself and his comrades of a
certain regiment serving in India, had been without pay for about six
months, and there has strong suspicion throughout the ranks that their
commanding officer had embezzled the money: he was a great gambler, and
they thought it most likely that he had gambled away their pay. They
were determined to seek redress; so all the private soldiers (with the
exception of non-commissioned officers,) agreed that on a particular
morning, when on parade, they should not obey the word of command. The
day arrived, and they carried their design into execution. The regiment
was assembled; the men in companies, headed by their respective
officers, proceeded to the parade ground, and formed into open column.
The commanding officer took his station in front and gave the word of
command. Not one, however, of the privates obeyed. This being the
conduct of the regiment, the commanding officer, with great
self-possession, ordered every tenth man to be confined in the
guard-house. It was done without a show of resistance. After which, all
the privates fixed bayonets, shouldered arms, and marched off–the band
playing and the drums beating alternately–all the way to the residence
of the general, about a mile distant. There they halted, and formed in
line fronting the house, in a most orderly manner. One man from each of
the ten companies then stepped forward, and they proceeded to lodge a
written complaint against the colonel. Having thus fulfilled their
purpose, they marched back, and dismissed; but the next thing was to
release the prisoners, and this they did without any violence being
offered by the guard. Whatever extenuations we may conceive for such
conduct, according to military law it was a heinous crime. The
soldier's duty is to obey; he must not think for himself, but he must
be as a tool in the hands of his superior officers, to do as he is
told, and not to complain. Shortly after this, to the surprise of these
soldiers, the general was seen approaching with a large army of Sepoys,
infantry and cavalry, with field pieces in front. The regiment went out
and respectfully saluted him, forming in line. But this was not what
the general came for. They saw the storm brewing and prepared to fight.
After the two lines had been formed, facing each other, the General
moved out on horseback. and said, "Twenty-second, take the command from
me." They obeyed. He then said, "Order arms." Next–"Handle arms;"–and
last, which was most disgraceful to them–"Ground army" Having thus
disarmed, he ordered his black cavalry to charge upon them, and drive
them from their arms. One more order he gave to those disaffected men,
that they should strip off their accoutrements and lay them on the
ground, and be off to their cantonments. When he had thus disarmed and
dishonored the men, he forgave them.

And now will not this incident fitly represent the manner of God with
sinners, when according to the gospel of our Lord Jesus Christ, he
brings terms of peace and reconciliation to us who are in revolt
against him? He says, "Ground arms, give up your sins, take off your
self-righteousness." He disarms us, dishonors us, and strips on all our
comely array, and then says, "Now I will forgive you." If there be any
one here who has thrown down his weapons of rebellion, and whose fine
ornaments of beauty are stained with shame, let him believe that God
will now forgive him; he forgives those who cannot forgive themselves.
The great Captain of our salvation will pardon those whom he has
humbled. He will have you submit to his will, and though that will may
at first seem imperious to drive you from your quarters, and visit you
with punishment, you shall presently find that his sovereign will is
gracious, and he delighteth in mercy. "Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ
and thou shalt be saved," for thus saith the Word, "He that believeth
and is baptized shall be saved, but he that believeth not shall be
damned."
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