THE DOOMED CITY
by John MacDuff
"Ungrateful sinner! on your future rests
A sadder heritage of guilt and shame,
Who with abounding gospel mercies blest
Dare spurn the Savior's grace and scorn His Name;
Forget not, though His patience now endures,
The heathen's hell will be a heaven to yours!"
"And you, Capernaum, will you be lifted up to the
skies? No, you will go down to the depths. If the miracles that were
performed in you had been performed in Sodom, it would have remained to this
day. But I tell you, it will be more bearable for Sodom on the day of
judgment than for you."—Matthew 11:23, 24.
While following, in the preceding chapters, the Savior's
footsteps on Gennesaret, with no name or spot, in all the favored
region, have we been more familiar than with Capernaum. His ever memorable
sojourn within its walls, is now, however, speedily to terminate. Along with
other Hebrew Pilgrims, He is about to proceed to the City of solemnities
(Jerusalem), in order to celebrate the feast of Tabernacles.
But before He leaves its gates, He must utter in its
hearing a solemn warning—a dreadful denunciation, over unrequited love and
guilty impenitence. He looks down the vista of ages to that solemn day when
cities and their inhabitants shall throng the area of the Great Tribunal,
and when He who holds the balances in His hand will deal out, with unerring
equity, to each and all, their respective sentences.
It is not often that Jesus—the meek, and gentle,
and tender Savior—speaks in accents of stern wrath and upbraiding; we may
well believe He never uttered one needlessly harsh word. When we behold Him,
therefore, as the Minister of Justice, standing with the flaming sword in
His hand, proclaiming "terrible things in righteousness"—"he that has an
ear to hear, let him hear!"
We have these three points brought before us for
consideration in this solemn address of our Lord—
I. Capernaum's Privileges.
II. Capernaum's Neglect.
III. Capernaum's Doom.
I. Capernaum's PRIVILEGES
"And you, Capernaum, will you be lifted up to the skies?" We reject the
interpretation put upon this clause by some of the older writers, that it
has reference to the worldly prosperity of the city as the great seaport of
Gennesaret; still more, another, that the allusion is to its elevated
natural site. It is, undoubtedly, in a spiritual sense Christ speaks. His
reference is to Capernaum's exaltation in unprecedented and unparalleled
religious privilege.
Of all the cities in Palestine, none was in this respect
more exalted (nay, so exalted) as this town of Galilee. Bethlehem was
"exalted" as the scene of the Manger, and of the Seraphim who sang the
advent-hymn of the Prince of Peace. Nazareth was "exalted" as the home of
His youth: imagination loves to watch in this little city, nestling amid its
picturesque hills, the unfoldings of that wondrous Humanity—to follow Him as
He climbed in mysterious boyhood these sunny slopes, or toiled in the lowly
workshop of His reputed father. Jerusalem was "exalted" as the scene of more
thrilling and majestic events. It witnessed the awful termination of the
drama of love and suffering—the Agony; the Cross; the Grave; the
Resurrection.
But if we would select the most instructive
chapter in the Great Biography—that which contains the most thorough
manifestation of the life of Jesus, we must seek it in Capernaum—we must
linger in its streets, or frequent the mountain slopes, which looked down on
its busy waters. It is spoken of emphatically, with reference to Jesus, as
"His own city," the place where He dwelt. For the three most eventful years
of His life He made it His home. Either within or outside its gates, miracle
followed miracle in rapid succession. Bodily disease; sickness;
blindness; palsy; death itself—fled frightened at the presence of the
Lord of life; while the very waves which washed its port had been made a
pathway for a new display of Power, and murmured their tribute to His
Divinity.
Nor was it the WORKS of Jesus alone which this favored
city had witnessed. Hundreds on hundreds would echo the later verdict of the
soldiers and officers, "Never man SPOKE like this man." The noblest of all
His recorded discourses was uttered with Capernaum in view. The rocks, and
ravines, and mountain summits around, had listened to Beatitudes of love and
mercy for which the world had strained its listening ear for 4000 years.
That noble series of Parables, explanatory of the nature of His kingdom, was
spoken as He was moored in a fishing boat by its beach. If we cannot even
now, read these truthful lessons and words of wisdom without profound
emotion, what must it have been to have listened to them, in the living
tones of that living voice, and to have gazed on the countenance of the
Divine Speaker, "fairer than the children of men?"
And even mightier still than word or deed, sermon or
miracle, was, (as we have just noted,) the holy LIFE of this adorable
Philanthropist. What a matchless combination of power and gentleness—of
majesty and humility! How unlike all human greatness—how unlike all human
selfishness! a zeal that never flagged—a love that never faltered—a pity and
compassion which sheltered the wretched, the worthless, the abandoned, and
those "who had no helper." When His public work was done in the city, He was
seen betaking Himself, amid falling twilight shadows, to some neighboring
"mountain apart to pray;" or if bodily fatigue demanded rest, no sooner was
the cry for support heard, than He was seen hurrying back from His solitude
and mountain pillow to afford the needed help.
O favored Capernaum! honored for three long years as the
abode of "God manifest in the flesh." How surpassing your privileges! What
were the boasted glories of earth's proudest capitals, at that moment, in
comparison with this town by the solitary lake of Northern Palestine? What
was Rome, with her imperial eagles, looking down from her seven hills,
exulting in the sovereignty of the world? What was Athens, or Alexandria,
with their schools and systems—their sages and philosophers—looking down
from their haughty pinnacles of intellectual triumph on the subject world of
Mind? What were these in comparison with the honor enjoyed by that city,
within whose honored walls dwelt the Prince of the Kings of the
earth—"Christ, the Power of God, and the Wisdom of God?"
In its streets, or on its hill slopes, or amid the chimes
of its waves, words of mighty import were first heard, which were destined
yet to be borne where the Eagles of Rome had never penetrated. There a
mighty balsam was distilled for the wounds of bleeding humanity,
which the doctrines of Aristotle and Plato had failed, and ever should fail,
to stanch: No wonder, then, that over this His adopted home, His heart
should yearn with deepest emotion. His eye wanders first to the further
towns, lining these same shores, and which were not unfamiliar with His
voice and presence. As He gazes on them with tearful eye, thus He weaves His
plaintive lament: "Woe to you, Chorazin! woe to you, Bethsaida! for if the
mighty works which were done in you, had been done in Tyre and Sidon, they
would have repented long ago in sackcloth and ashes." But He has a deeper
and sterner plaint reserved for another city—a more solemn and emphatic
exclamation: "and you, Capernaum" (I turn now to you, the spot most
favored of all, during my earthly pilgrimage), "and you, Capernaum,
who are exalted to heaven!"
Is it a far-fetched comparison, if we see, in the
privileges enjoyed by this city of Gennesaret, a reflection of our own?
What the region around it proverbially once was among the Hebrews ("a region
and shadow of death"), Britain was to the old world; a land of savage
barbarism and debasing superstition. But to us, as to them, who once "sat in
darkness," light has "sprung up." Cast your eye over the map of the
habitable earth, and what the spot, what the nation in its two hemispheres
so favored as ours? I speak not of our worldly prosperity—our national
glory. I speak not of our enterprise—our science—our arts—our commerce—our
institutions. Regarding all these in their place, we have reason for honest
pride. But I speak of our spiritual privileges, which may well be
prized as a Briton's noblest birthright—the security and conservator of all
the rest.
Look to other countries, on which the Sun of heaven
smiles more brightly and favorably than on our own, yet cursed and
demoralized with horrid rites of impurity and blood—millions bowing to
insensate blocks—yearning souls, feeling the void and worthlessness of their
own barren systems, longing for some nobler panacea than superstition
can give—ten thousand Ethiopians stretching out their unsupported hands to
some better God than their idols of silver and gold.
Look at empires nearer home. The saddest of all sad
features in many of the nations of Europe is, that God's own truth is not
free—that a poor perishing sinner is not permitted to read with his own eyes
that precious Word which was intended to be patent as the air of heaven!
Oh, is it no blessing to turn from this sickening tale of
a benighted world and a benighted Christendom, and see our own land,
with every fetter struck from the limb of thought and action, shining like a
spiritual lighthouse—in the midst of the darkening waves? Is it no blessing
that we can tell of peaceful Sabbaths, and holy ordinances, and unbound and
unforbidden Bibles?—that free as the streams that leap from our mountain
ravines are these precious waters of salvation?—that while myriads of
heathens are passing into a dark eternity, or pining unsolaced in the
bitterness of broken hearts; we can sit by the bedside of the sick, the
forlorn, the bereft, the aged, the dying, and from the leaves of this Holy
Book, light up the faded countenance with the smile of a foretasted Heaven?
May not He who uttered these words of profound solemnity
in the hearing of Capernaum, well look down on this our favored country, and
with solemn and significant emphasis echo the exclamation: "And YOU who are
exalted to heaven!"
II. Consider Capernaum's NEGLECT. He "upbraided"
this city, along with the others, "because it did not repent."
Now it is worthy of note that there is no special or
atrocious sin laid to the charge of this lake-city. During all the period of
our Savior's residence there, we read of no personal insult its inhabitants
offered Him. Nazareth, the town of His childhood and youth, has covered, in
this respect, its otherwise hallowed name and memories with everlasting
reproach. The furious assault its citizens made on the guiltless and
innocent Savior is stated as the reason for His leaving it and coming to
dwell in Capernaum. But in His new home we have the record of no such
ignominious persecution—no such outburst of personal animosity. On the
contrary, He seems there to have been honored and respected. His influence
was great; and the most blinded and obdurate could not shut their eyes to
the fact that a Great Prophet had arisen in the midst of them.
Representatives from all its diverse ranks and offices did him homage;
Publicans from their Custom-house; Fishermen from their nets; Leaders of the
Jewish synagogue; Officers in Caesar's ranks and drawing Caesar's pay—while
the common people heard him gladly.
But what of all this? While there were some (we may hope
many) happy exceptions, with the vast multitude there was continued
indifference, cold and cheerless neglect; with many more, daring
irreligion, and the indulgence of those unblushing vices which, imported
from the Roman capital, had been propagated by an abandoned Court. They
heard His words, but they practiced them not. They owned him as a
Heaven-sent Teacher, but they refused to regulate their lives by His lofty
instructions.
In the neighboring city of Tiberias, that imperial Court
of Herod was located. This unhappy sovereign was himself the type of
hundreds whom the Redeemer had doubtless now in His eye. Herod vaunted no
infidelity. On the contrary, he had been the personal friend of John the
Baptist. He admired the great preacher's unworldly spirit—his deep and
singular earnestness—the novelty and impressiveness of his themes! He
invited him to his palace. He listened to his faithful, soul-stirring
words—and yet all the while that palace was the scene of shameless
profligacy. Herod—this sermon-lover, this Religionist, who could hear the
holiest of mere men preach the doctrine of Repentance—was reveling in guilty
defiance of the laws of God and man. Patiently he heard John so long as he
kept on the great general theme—so long as he allowed him to remain
undisturbed in his own wickedness. But when he became a 'Nathan' to him—when
the faithful, fearless Forerunner hurled the bolt of rebuke at the soul of
his imperial master, and dragged to light his secret lusts, he could
tolerate him no longer. Herodias is retained, and John is sent to exile.
So it was with many in Capernaum. They could follow Jesus
to the heights of the Mount, and listen to His beatitudes. They could stand
for hours on the white sands of the lake as He spoke to them from Simon's
vessel all the words of the kingdom; but when He urged the necessity
of a daily self-denial—a daily bearing of the cross—they were immediately
offended. "This is a hard saying," they said, "who can bear it?" "From that
hour they walked no more with Him." This was their condemnation that light
(the great Light of Life) came to their city, but they loved darkness rather
than light, because their deeds were evil.
Has Capernaum in this respect no parallel and counterpart
in modern times? Alas! alas! Is it not to be feared that now, as then, men
are content with having "a name to live," who are spiritually dead. There
are thousands who come to our churches, who hear the preacher, who assent to
the message, but go back from listening to the tremendous themes of
Death, Judgment, and Eternity, to plunge deep as ever into engrossing
worldliness and sin. The preacher may be heard—his words may fall like
lulling music on the ear, but the gates of the soul are firmly locked and
barred against admission—the Baptist may thunder his rebukes, but some
Herodias, some heart-sin and life-sin, will, in spite of them, be retained
and caressed.
Are there none now reading these words, whom the Savior
would begin (as He did with Capernaum) to "upbraid," because they have
repented not? When His scrutinizing eye looks down, Sabbath after Sabbath,
upon listening audiences throughout our land, all apparently solemn,
sincere, outwardly devout, does He not discern, lurking underneath this fair
external guise, the signs and symptoms of loathsomeness and decay; like the
pure virgin snow covering the charred and blackened ruin, or the emerald sod
muffling the volcano. Ah! sermons will not save us—church-going will not
save us—orthodoxy in creed and party will not save us. Repent! Repent! is
the sharp, shrill call of the Gospel-trumpet. There must be a change of
heart—a change of life—a crucifixion of sin—and with full purpose of heart,
a cleaving unto the Lord who died for us.
Like Capernaum in our privileges, let us see to it that
we be not like Capernaum in our guilt. Better that we had been born among a
Pagan-horde—better that we had been kneeling before shapeless idols,
votaries of dumb clay, or worshipers of the Great Spirit of the fire or the
mountain, than knowing a Savior, and yet rejecting Him—the freeborn citizens
of a Christian land, and yet the enslaved possessors of Heathen hearts!
III. We are called to ponder Capernaum's DOOM.
"And you, Capernaum, shall be brought down to hell."
That this refers to no mere temporal judgment, is plain
from what is immediately added—"It shall be more tolerable," says our Lord,
"for the land of Sodom in the day of judgment than for you." Sodom
was already destroyed. It was the future judgment of both, therefore,
at the great day, to which the reference is made.
No doubt this future and final retribution has had
its significant foreshadowing in a temporal overthrow; for nothing in
all Palestine (no, not the dilapidated walls of Jerusalem itself) is more
striking, than the contrast between Gennesaret as it was, so busy a scene of
traffic and life, with what it is now, a spectacle of loneliness and
desolation. The very site of the ruins of Capernaum, and its sister towns,
is matter of dispute. Jordan, as he rolls past, hurrying his waters to the
Asphalt Lake (the Dead Sea), carries the tidings to its submerged cities,
that that once "Sea of Life," has become a "Sea of Death," like itself.
But as we have said, we must seek for the full meaning of
our Lord's words, not in the grey moldering heaps which strew the shores of
that now silent lake, but in a more terrible scene, when from beneath these
crumbling stones, buried thousands shall rise at the last summons! It
is a solemn and dreadful picture here brought before us. The Angels of
Judgment are commissioned to announce them with their trumpets, and to
gather in before the tribunal, not solitary individuals, but congregated
masses; City is brought to confront City; Capital to confront Capital!
Capernaum is seen to rise from its shroud of ruins! It is
the old earthly home of Jesus that is now conducted to the bar of judgement.
Let the Witnesses be summoned! Three solemn years, like three venerable
forms, come forth from the ancient past. They testify how its streets had
been trodden by the footsteps, its shores had echoed to the voice, its
arraigned thousands had gazed on the mighty works of Him, who, once the
Savior, is now the Judge!
Nor are there lacking individual witnesses to
substantiate this testimony. Hear their evidence. One has to aver: 'I was
stretched on a couch of sickness "ready to die." He came, and by a word
healed me.'
Another—'The foulest of diseases (leprosy) had, from
infancy, tortured my frame, banished me from my fellows. He gave the
mandate. Returning health thrilled through my veins, and those that had
before fled frightened from my presence, beheld in me also a new trophy of
His divinity.'
Another has to tell—'My son was trembling on the verge of
the grave—a look and a word restored him.' Another—'My only daughter was
hushed in that sleep from which human power can effect no awaking. The King
of Terrors had torn her from our side. But the Lord of Life entered our
dwelling, rolled back the gates of death, and gave us back our loved and
lost!'
Material Nature can even be summoned to add weighty
testimony. The mountains whose verdant slopes so often listened to His
voice—the midnight solitudes which heard His prayers for the impenitent—the
grassy meadows where He fed the hungry and compassionated the fainting
multitude—the white sands that bore His footsteps—the very waves that rocked
themselves asleep at His omnipotent "peace, be still." There is a tongue in
every one of them to attest the privileges of the ungrateful city.
And now appears a stranger and more impressive Witness.
It is a witness called from the depths of a tremendous sepulcher. Calcified
rocks with their riven fronts have borne for ages the significant epitaph of
an unexampled overthrow; temple and tower emerge from these abysmal
deeps—the hum of a vast City breaks on the ear! It is SODOM, the doomed
capital of the Patriarchal age—The "City of the PLAIN" confronts the City of
the northern SEA! "Exceedingly wicked sinners against the Lord," what
have you to plead?
'Had we enjoyed,' is the reply, 'the privileges of
Capernaum, we would have repented long ago, in sackcloth and ashes. Had that
voice of majesty and love sounded in our streets as it did in theirs, we
"would have remained until this day"—the brimstone cloud would have
dissolved—the bolts of living fire would have been undischarged—smiling
plains and vineyards would have been where for ages sullen death-waters have
rolled—we might have lifted up our faces unabashed in this hour of judgment.
Lord! Great Judge! to us much was not given—forbid that from us much should
be required!'
What does the Righteous Lord say? 'SODOM! Justice demands
retribution for your crimes—your guilt was not without its aggravations—you
were not left unsupported and unwarned; the voice and the prayers of the
Father of the Faithful ascended for you—a Righteous man testified in your
midst from day to day against your unlawful deeds—yet you would not listen;
the doom of Earth must be confirmed now! City, you were filthy, be
filthy still!'
But YOU, Capernaum! the same Justice demands that far
different be YOUR doom! The guilt of Sodom was guilt contracted in the thick
darkness of the old world—a few broken beams only struggled through the
mists of early day!
But YOU, Capernaum! what city of earth so favored? Your
hills were the first gilded by the beams of the Sun of Righteousness—your
waters were the first to sparkle under His radiance. It was no earthly
prophet or messenger that came and tarried within your walls, summoning you
to repentance! Oh, mightier than all preceding Witnesses, your JUDGE Himself
must now take the place of deposition, and testify against you! I warned
you!—I counseled you!—I lifted up my voice in your streets! Never did I
break the bruised reed, or quench the smoking flax!—I sought to bring forth
judgment to victory. But my pleadings of love fell powerless on impenitent
souls. You knew Your Lord's will, and did not do it! You were exalted to
heaven with privileges—be thrust down to hell for the misimprovement of
them! 'Truly I say to you, It is more tolerable for the land of Sodom in
this the day of judgment than for you!'
It is the same principle which will regulate the
procedure in the Final Day with reference to US. The same great law of
unerring equity will be rigidly adhered to—"From everyone who has been
given much, much will be demanded."
Is there one among us who has trampled on unnumbered
privileges—the lessons of early piety—followed by a manhood of daring
ungodliness, or with whom solemn providential warnings have been guiltily
neglected and scorned? What shall the Great Judge say on that Day of just
retribution? 'Guilty one! Your doom admits of no mitigation! There is
everything to aggravate and nothing to extenuate. I made for years your soul
a very Capernaum. I lingered in it, with My footsteps of mercy plying you
with every motive and every argument to induce you to hear My voice, and
turn at My reproof. I spoke to you in prosperity—by the full
cup; but you drank it unacknowledged. I spoke to you in adversity—by
desolate hearts and swept chambers; but you received the chastisement in
sullen fretfulness, and rushed only deeper into worldliness and sin. See
that Outcast by your side! If the mighty works had been done in his case
that were done in yours, it might have been far otherwise with him. If he
had had your mother's prayers—your paternal counsels—your pastor's
warnings—your solemn afflictions, he might have been clothed before now in
the sackcloth of repentance. But no penitential tear stole down your
cheek—My grace has been resisted—My spirit grieved—My love mocked and
scorned. Truly I say to you, it shall be more tolerable for miserable
thousands throughout eternity than for you!'
We are obviously taught by all this, that there are to be
gradations in future punishment—aggravations of guilt and
degrees of suffering. Of what these are to consist, we cannot tell;
doubtless among them will be the gnawing rebukes and accusations of memory
and conscience, over abused privileges—the bewailing of opportunities and
mercies madly thrown away by us.
In that impressive parable of our blessed Lord,
describing the condition and experience of the lost, one of the saddest
elements in the woe of Dives is unfolded in the reply of Father Abraham—a
reply whose echoes will circulate gloomily through the domains of
despair—"Son, REMEMBER!" Capernaum, remember! you were the honored home of a
Savior you guiltily rejected. Sinner, remember! how that Savior stood and
knocked day by day, week by week, at the gates of your soul—remember! How
you grieved and scorned Him—remember! that parental prayer, that funeral,
that sermon, that lifetime of privilege!
Even on earth, how often do we see how memory and
conscience together can light up a hell in embryo! Not far indeed
from Capernaum, there was an illustration of this in the case of the
imperial tyrant, to whom we have previously alluded. Herod had
guiltily connived at the murder of the most innocent of men, and most
devoted of ministers. The base deed is consummated. But no sooner is it so,
than conscience is roused to its work of retributive vengeance; the image of
the slaughtered prophet haunts his thoughts by day, and scares him in dreams
by night—Herod the king, soon heard about Jesus, because people everywhere
were talking about him. Some were saying, "This must be John the Baptist
come back to life again. That is why he can do such miracles." Others
thought Jesus was the ancient prophet Elijah. Still others thought he was a
prophet like the other great prophets of the past. When Herod heard about
Jesus, he said, "John, the man I beheaded, has come back from the dead!"
It is John reanimated to inflict merited retribution on
his old destroyer! the stern preacher has come from Sheol! he has been sent
from the spirit-world as a minister of vengeance! Conscience sees the
grim spectral shadow flit ominously before him, like the fabled ghosts of
the murdered—all his power cannot bribe it—all his courage cannot charm it
away!
Yes; this is but a foreshadowing of what will terribly
aggravate the sufferings and upbraidings of the lost; some foul deed that
murdered (worse than the body) the soul of a fellow-creature,
will fasten upon the transgressor like the sting of the scorpion, and give
him no rest day nor night. The terrible imagery will track his footsteps,
and traverse, with terrifying form, his path.
I was a traitor to my child, will be the harrowing
thought of one; he might have been in glory but for me! I laid snares for
the innocent, will be the self-reproach of another. I sowed the seeds of
vice in virtuous hearts; they are now piteously upbraiding me as the
author of all their misery! I was the Pastor of a Flock, is the torturing
anguish of a third; but I deceived them with a name to live, I neglected to
tell them of their danger, and urge them to accept the great remedy, and the
voice of my people's blood is crying out against me! We had that Savior in
our offer, will be the wild cry of thousands more, but we rejected His love
and spurned His grace.
Ah, it is this last which was the crime of the Capernaum
sinner, (misimproved privileges), and we fear no guilt will be more general,
no reflections more harrowing, than those arising from its consciousness.
Yes; be assured nothing will be half so terrible as to be confronted with
the charge of abused responsibilities. If he be without sail and rudder, the
castaway on the raft could not be blamed for inability to buffet the storm,
reach the haven, and save his owner's cargo; but a heavy responsibility
would rest on the pilot, who, with fully equipped vessel, a bright sky
above, a favoring breeze, and a safe navigation, permitted her to run
aground, or be dashed on the rocks.
Not only, in the case of abused privileges, is the
responsibility greater, but the ruin is swifter and surer! The very
possession of privileges, if these are unimproved, will only lead to a
greater hardness and impenitency of heart. The sun, and dews, and rains of
heaven, which warm and moisten, and fructify the living blade, or plant, or
tree, accelerate the decay and rottenness of the dead one. As by
familiarity with sin, its native odiousness is worn away—the first
shudder of tender conscience is followed by a duller sense of its turpitude,
then the swift downward descent to perdition. So by familiarity with the
gospel, the urgency and impressiveness of its messages are diminished;
just as the Alpine shepherd can, through habit, sleep undisturbed at the
base of the roaring cataract, or the soldier can hear without wincing the
thunder of the cannon.
God keep us from the sin and danger of being preachers
and hearers, and not doers—having the head enlightened and the soul
unsaved—our privileges only forging the heavier fetter, and
feeding and fanning the hotter flame!
Awake, my Brother, before it is too late, from your sleep
of indifference. God calls on all men, everywhere, to repent. Yours may,
until now, have been the guilt of Capernaum; yours its heavy
responsibilities; but the Savior has not yet stood at the gates of your
heart to utter the last malediction; announcing that you are, through
impenitence, finally given over to judicial blindness! While Capernaum still
enjoyed the Lord's presence, for the vilest sinner within its walls there
was mercy! We entreat you, by the great Day of Judgment—that Day in which
Sodom and Capernaum and we shall together meet—to remain
no longer as you are.
Do not go down to the grave, with your souls unsaved!
Jesus is still lingering on your thresholds. It was the wondrous record of
three years of miraculous works and cures in the Galilean city—"He healed
them ALL;" and He is still the Physician who heals ALL diseases! Soon it
will be too late to rush to His feet; He will have bidden an eternal
farewell to the souls that have rejected Him, or death may have put his
impressive seal on their hopes of pardon. A few more faint "pulses of
quivering light," and your earthly sun will have set forever! The past
may be a sad one—you cannot recall it—you cannot revoke or cancel it—it has
winged its flight before you to meet you at the Judgment. But the future
is yours, and God helping you, the dark and cloudy day may yet have its
golden sunset! Up, and with the earnestness of men resolve to flee sin and
cleave to the Lord, that that dreadful hour may never arrive, in which your
own knell shall thus be rung—"If you, even YOU had known in this your day,
the things that belong to your peace, but now they are forever hidden from
your eyes."
Can I close these solemn thoughts without a word of
incentive and encouragement to God's own people? The text tells us that
there are to be different degrees of punishment in a state of woe; but there
are other passages in abundance, which teach us the cheering corresponding
truth, that there are to be different degrees of bliss in a future
heaven. One star is to differ from another star in glory. There are to
be rulers over five, and rulers over ten cities—those who are to be in the
outskirts of glory, and those basking in the sunlight of the Eternal
Throne!—Is this no call on us to be up and doing?—not to be content with the
circumference, but to seek nearness to the glorious center—not only to have
crowns shining as the brightness of the firmament, but to have a tiara of
stars in that crown? It is the degree of holiness now that will
decide the degree of happiness then—the transactions of time will
regulate the awards of eternity.
And as we have seen that memory will increase and
aggravate the wretchedness of the lost, so will the same purified ennobled
power intensify the bliss of the saved. Ah! with what joy will they
re-traverse life, mark every successfully resisted temptation—every
triumph over base passion and sordid self—every sacrifice made
for the glory of God and the good of man—every affliction they have
meekly borne—every cross they have submissively carried—every
kindly unostentatious deed, done from motives of love and gratitude to
the Savior. Work out your own salvation with fear and trembling. The
Christian life is action; it is not theory—it is not dreamy thought—sickly
sentimentalism. The formula of the great Judge's sentence on the last day to
the Righteous is (not "well thought," or "well purposed," but)—"well DONE;"
to the Wicked—"Inasmuch as you DID it not."
Fellow sinners, washed by the same blood—fellow pilgrims,
traveling to the same eternity—fellow prisoners, who are so soon to stand at
the same Great Judgement—are we ready to meet the summons which may sooner
than we think startle us in the midst of our neglected privileges?—"Go!
Give an account of your stewardship!"