"The Weaned Child"
“Surely I have behaved and
quieted myself as a
child that is weaned of
his mother: my soul is
even as a weaned child”—Psalm
131:2.
There are few lessons taught
in God’s school
more difficult to learn,
and yet, when really
learned, more blessed and
holy, than the lesson
of weanedness. The heart
resembles the vine,
which as it grows, grasps
and unites its feeble
tendrils to every support
within its reach. Or, it
is like the ivy, which climbs
and wraps itself
around some beautiful but
decayed and
crumbling ruin. As our social
affections develop
and expand, they naturally
seek a resting-place.
Traveling, as it were, beyond
themselves,
breathing love and yearning
for friendship, they
go forth seeking some kindred
spirit, some
“second self,” upon which
they may repose, and
around which they may entwine.
To detach from
this inordinate, idolatrous
clinging to the
animate and the inanimate
creatures and
objects of sense, is one
grand end of God’s
disciplinary dealings with
us in the present life.
The discovery which we make,
in the process of
his dealings, of the insufficiency
and insecurity of
the things upon which we
set our affections, is
often acutely painful. Like
that vine, we find that
we grasped a support at
the root of which the
cankerworm was secretly
feeding,—and
presently it fell! Or, like
that ivy, we discover
that we have been spreading
our affections
around an object which,
even while we clung to
and adored it, was crumbling
and falling into
dust,—and presently it became
a ruin! And what
is the grand lesson which,
by this process, God
would teach us? The lesson
of weanedness from
all and everything of an
earthly and a created
nature. Thus was David instructed,
and this was
the result: “Surely I have
behaved and quieted
myself as a child that is
weaned of his mother:
my soul is even as a weaned
child.” It may be
profitable, tried and suffering
reader, briefly to
contemplate this holy state,
and then the way
by which the Lord frequently
brings his people
into its experience.
Every true believer, whatever
may be the
degree of his grace, is
an adopted child of God.
It is not the amount of
his faith, nor the
closeness of his resemblance
to the family, that
constitutes his relationship;
it is the act of
adoption by which his heavenly
Father has made
him his own. If he can only
lisp his Father’s
name, or bears but a single
feature of likeness
to the Divine image, he
is as much and as really
a child of God as those
in whose souls the
lineaments are deeply and
broadly drawn, and
who, with an unfaltering
faith, can cry, “Abba,
Father!” Doubtless there
were many of feeble
faith, of limited experience
and of defective
knowledge—mere babes in
Christ—in the church
to which the apostle inscribed
his letter; and
yet, addressing them all,
he says, “Behold, what
manner of love that we should
be called the
sons of God.” But it is
the character of the
weaned child we are now
to contemplate. All
believers are children,
but are all believers
weaned children? From what
is the child of God
thus weaned?
The first object from which
our heavenly Father
weans his child, is—himself.
Of all idols, this he
finds the hardest to abandon.
When man in
paradise aspired to be as
God, God was
dethroned from his soul,
and the creature
became as a deity to itself.
From that moment,
the idolatry of self has
been the great and
universal crime of our race,
and will continue to
be until Christ comes to
restore all things. In the
soul of the regenerate,
divine grace has done
much to dethrone this idol,
and to reinstate God.
The work, however, is but
partially
accomplished. The dishonored
and rejected rival
is loath to relinquish his
throne, and yield to the
supreme control and sway
of another. There is
much yet to be achieved
before this still
indwelling and unconquered
foe lays down his
weapons in entire subjection
to the will and the
authority of that Savior
whose throne and
rights he has usurped. Thus,
much still lingers in
the heart which the Spirit
has renewed and
inhabits, of self-esteem,
self-confidence,
self-seeking, and self-love.
From all this, our
Father seeks to wean us.
From our own wisdom,
which is but folly; from
our own strength, which
is but weakness; from our
own wills, which are
often as an uncurbed steed;
from our own ways,
which are crooked; from
our own hearts, which
are deceitful; from our
own judgments, which
are dark; from our own ends,
which are narrow
and selfish, he would wean
and detach us, that
our souls may get more and
more back to their
original center of repose—God
himself. In view
of this mournful exhibition
of fallen and corrupt
self, how necessary the
discipline of our
heavenly Father that extorts
from us the
Psalmist’s language: “Surely
I have behaved
and quieted myself as a
child that is weaned of
his mother.” Self did seem
to be our
mother—the fruitful parent
of so much in our
plans and aims and spirit
that was dishonoring
to our God. From this he
would gently and
tenderly, but effectually,
wean us, that we may
learn to rely upon his wisdom,
to repose in his
strength, to consult his
honor, and to seek his
glory and smile supremely
and alone. And O
how effectually is this
blessed state attained
when God, by setting us
aside in the season of
solitude and sorrow, teaches
us that he can do
without us. We, perhaps,
thought that our rank,
or our talents, or our influence,
or our very
presence were essential
to the advancement of
his cause, and that some
parts of it could not
proceed without us! The
Lord knew otherwise.
And so he laid his hand
upon us, and withdrew
us from the scene of our
labors, and duties, and
engagements, and ambition,
that he might hide
pride from our hearts—the
pride of
self-importance. And O,
is it no mighty
attainment in the Christian
life to be thus
weaned from ourselves? Beloved,
it forms the
root of all other blessings.
The moment we learn
to cease from ourselves—from
our own wisdom,
and power, and importance—the
Lord appears
and takes us up. Then his
wisdom is displayed,
and his power is put forth,
and his glory is
developed, and his great
name gets to itself all
the praise. It was not until
God had placed
Moses in the cleft of the
rock that his glory
passed by. Moses must be
hid, that God might
be all.
Our heavenly Father would
also wean us from
this poor, perishing world.
In a preceding
chapter we touched upon
the great snare which
the world presented to the
child of God. It is
true Christ has taken him
out of, and separated
him from, the world; assailed
by all its evils,
and exposed to all its corrupting
influences. The
intercessory prayer of our
Lord seems to imply
this: “They are not of the
world, even as I am
not of the world. I pray
not that you should
take them out of the world,
but that you
should keep them from the
evil.” And O what
an evil does the Christian
find this world to be!
In consequence of the earthward
tendency of his
affections, and the deep
carnality with which the
mind is imbued, things which
God designed as
blessings to soothe and
soften and cheer,
become, by their absorbing
and idolatrous
influence, powerful snares.
Rank is a snare,
wealth is a snare, talent
is a snare, friendship is
a snare. Rank may foster
pride and ambition;
wealth may increase the
thirst for worldly show;
talent may inspire a love
of human applause;
and friendship may wean
the heart from Christ,
and betray us into a base
and unholy
compromise of Christian
profession. Now from
this endangering world our
heavenly Father
would shield, by withdrawing
us. It is not our
rest, and he agitates it;
it is not our portion, and
he embitters it; it is not
our friend, and he
sometimes arms it with a
sword. It changes, it
disappoints, it wounds;
and then, thankful to
expand our wings, we take
another and a bolder
flight above it. Ah! beloved,
how truly may the
Lord be now sickening your
heart to the world,
to which that heart has
too long and too closely
clung. It has been your
peculiar snare; your Father
saw it, and wisely and graciously
laid his loving,
gentle hand upon you, and
led you away from
it, that from a bed of sickness,
or from a
chamber of grief, or from
some position of
painful vicissitude, you
might see its
sinfulness, learn its hollowness,
and return as a
wanderer to your Father’s
bosom, exclaiming
with David, “My soul is
even as a weaned child.”
This weanedness, of which
we speak, often
involves the surrender of
some endeared object
of creature affection. The
human heart is
naturally idolatrous. Its
affections, as we have
previously remarked, once
supremely centered
in God. But now, disjoined
from him, they go in
quest of other objects of
attachment, and we
love and worship the creature
rather than the
Creator. The circle which
our affections traverse
may not indeed be a large
one; there are
perchance but few to whom
we fully surrender
our heart; no, so circumscribed
may the circle
be, that one object alone
shall attract, absorb,
and concentrate in itself
our entire and
undivided love—that one
object to us as a
universe of beings, and
all others comparatively
indifferent and insipid.
Who cannot see that in a
case like this, the danger
is imminent of
transforming the heart—Christ’s
own
sanctuary—into an idol’s
temple, where the
creature is loved and reverenced
and served
lucre than he who gave it?
But from all idolatry
our God will cleanse us,
and from all our idols
Christ will wean us. The
Lord is jealous, with a
holy jealousy, of our love.
Poor as our affection
is, he asks its supreme
surrender. That he
requires our love at the
expense of all creature
attachment, the Bible nowhere
intimates. He
created our affections,
and he it is who provides
for their proper and pleasant
indulgence. There
is not a single precept
or command in the
Scriptures that forbids
their exercise, or that
discourages their intensity.
Husbands are
exhorted to “love their
wives, even as Christ
loved his church.” Parents
are to cherish a like
affection towards their
children, and children are
bound to render back a filial
love not less
intense to their parents.
And we are to “love our
neighbors as ourselves.”
Nor does the word of
God furnish examples of
Christian friendship less
interested and devoted.
One of the choicest and
tenderest blessings with
which God can enrich
us, next to himself, is
such a friend as Paul had
in Epaphroditus, a “brother
and companion in
labor, and fellow-soldier;”
and such an
affectionate friendship
as John, the loving
disciple, cherished for
his well beloved Gaius,
whom he loved in the truth,
and to whom, in the
season of his sickness,
he thus touchingly
poured out his heart’s affectionate
sympathy:
“Beloved I wish above all
things that you
may prosper and he in health,
even as your
soul prospers.” Count such
a friend, and such
friendship among God’s sweetest
and holiest
bestowments. The blessings
of which it may be
to you the sanctifying channel,
are immense.
The tender sympathy—the
jealous
watchfulness—the confidential
repose—the
faithful admonition—above
all, the intercessory
prayer, connected with Christian
friendship, may
be placed in the inventory
of our most
inestimable and precious
blessings. It is not
therefore the use, but the
abuse, of our
affections—not their legitimate
exercise, but
their idolatrous tendency—over
which we have
need to exercise the greatest
vigilance. It is not
our love to the creature
against which God
contends, but it is in not
allowing our love to
himself to subordinate all
other love. We may
love the creature, but we
may not love the
creature more than the Creator.
When the Giver
is lost sight of and forgotten
in the gift, then
comes the painful process
of weaning! When the
heart burns its incense
before some human
shrine, and the cloud as
it ascends veils from the
eye the beauty and the excellence
of
Jesus,—then comes the painful
process of
weaning! When the absorbing
claims and the
engrossing attentions of
some loved one are
placed in competition and
are allowed to clash
with the claims of God,
and the attentions due
from us personally to his
cause and truth,—then
comes the painful process
of weaning! When
creature devotion deadens
our heart to the
Lord, lessens our interest
in his cause, congeals
our zeal and love and liberality,
detaches us
from the public means of
grace, withdraws from
the closet, and from the
Bible, and from the
communion of the saints,
thus superinducing
leanness of soul, and robbing
God of his
glory,—then comes the painful
process of
weaning! Christ will be
the first in our
affections—God will be supreme
in our
service—and his kingdom
and righteousness
must take precedence of
all other things. In this
light, beloved, read the
present mournful page
in your history. The noble
oak that stood so firm
and stately at your side,
is smitten,—the tender
and beautiful vine that
wound itself around you,
is fallen,—the lowly and
delicate flower that lay
upon your bosom, is withered—the
olive branches
that clustered around your
table, are
removed—and the “strong
staff is broken and
the beautiful rod;” not
because your God did not
love you, but because he
desired your heart.
He saw that heart ensnared
and enslaved by a
too fond and idolatrous
affection,—he saw his
beauty eclipsed and himself
rivaled by a faint
and imperfect copy of his
own image, and he
breathed upon it, and it
withered away! “The
day of the Lord of hosts
shall be upon all . . .
pleasant pictures.” When
an eminent artist, who
had concentrated all the
powers of his genius
upon a painting of our Lord
celebrating the last
supper, observed that the
holy vessels arranged
in the foreground were admired
to the exclusion
of the chief object of the
picture, he seized his
brush and dashed them from
the canvass, and
left the image of Jesus
standing in its own
solitary and unrivaled beauty.
Thus deals our
God oftentimes with us.
O solemn words! “The
day of the Lord of hosts
shall be upon all . . . .
Pleasant Pictures,”—all
pictures that veil and
eclipse the beauties of
him who is the
“brightness of the Father’s
glory, and the
express image of his person,”
God will
obliterate.
Filial submission to God’s
will, is, perhaps, one
of the most essential features
in this holy state
of weanedness of which we
speak. “Surely I
have behaved and quieted
myself as a child that
is weaned of his mother.”
There are some
beautiful examples of this
in God’s word. “And
Aaron held his peace.” Since
God was “sanctified
and glorified,” terrible
as was the judgment, the
holy priest mourned not
at the way, nor
complained of its severity,
patient and resigned
to the will of God. He “behaved
and quieted
himself as a child that
is weaned of his mother.”
Thus, too, was it with Eli,
when passing under
the heavy hand of God: “It
is the Lord; let him
do what seems him good.”
He bowed in deep
submission to the will of
his God. Job could
exclaim, as the last sad
tidings brimmed his cup
of woe, “The Lord gave,
and the Lord has taken
away; blessed be the name
of the Lord.” And
David was “dumb and opened
not his mouth,
because God did it.” But
how do all these
instances of filial and
holy submission to the
Divine will—beautiful and
touching as they
are—fade before the illustrious
example of our
adorable and blessed Lord:
“O my Father, if this
cup may not pass away from
me, except I drink
it, your will be done.”
Ah! how did Jesus, in the
deepest depth of his unutterable
sorrow,
“behave and quiet himself
as a child that is
weaned of his mother? his
soul was even as a
weaned child.” Such, beloved,
be the posture of
your soul at this moment.
“Be still.” Rest in your
Father’s hands, calm and
tranquil, quiet and
submissive, weaned from
all but himself. O the
blessedness of so reposing!
“Sweet to lie passive in his
hands,
And know no will but his.”
“God’s love!” It is written
upon your dark
cloud—it breathes from the
lips of your bleeding
wound—it is reflected in
every fragment of your
ruined treasure—it is pencilled
upon every leaf
of your blighted flower—“God
is Love.” Adversity
may have impoverished you—bereavement
may have saddened you—calamity
may have
crushed you—sickness may
have laid you
low—but, “God is Love.”
Gently falls the rod in
its heaviest stroke—tenderly
pierces the sword
in its deepest thrust—smilingly
bends the cloud
in its darkest hues—for,
“God is Love.” Does the
infant, weaned from its
wonted and pleasant
fount, cease from its restlessness
and sorrow
reposing calmly and meekly
upon its mother’s
arms?—so let your soul calmly,
submissively rest
in God. How sweet the music
which then will
breathe from your lips in
the midnight of grief:
“Surely I have behaved and
quieted myself as a
child that is weaned of
his mother: my soul is
even as a weaned child.”
And who can bring you into
this holy position?
The Holy Spirit alone can.
It is his office to lead
you to Jesus—to reveal to
you Jesus—to exhibit
to your eye the cross of
Jesus—to pour into your
heart the grace and love
and sympathy of
Jesus—to bend your will
and bow your heart to
the government of Jesus,
and thus make you as
a weaned child. The work
infinitely transcends a
power merely human. It is
the office and the
prerogative of the Divine
Spirit—the “Spirit of
holiness”—who only can sever
between flesh
and spirit, to bring you
into the condition of one
whose will in all things
is completely merged in
God’s. And what is his grand
instrument of
effecting this? The cross
of Christ! Ah! this is it.
The Cross of Christ! Not
the cross as it appeared
to the imagination of the
Mohammedan Chief,
leading the imperial army
to battle and to
conquest; not the cross
pictured—the cross
engraved—the cross carved—the
cross
embroidered—the cross embossed
upon the
prayer-book, pendant from
the maiden’s neck,
glittering on the cathedral’s
spire, and springing
from its altar: not the
cross as blended with a
religion of Gothic architecture,
and painted
windows, and flaming candles,
and waving
incense, and gorgeous pictures,
and melting
music, and fluttering surplices:
O no! but the
cross—the naked, rugged
cross—which Calvary
reared, which Paul preached,
and of which he
wrote, “God forbid that
I should glory save in
the cross of our Lord Jesus
Christ, by which* the
world is crucified unto
me, and I unto the
world.” Faith, picturing
to its view this cross, the
Holy Spirit engraving it
on the heart in spiritual
regeneration, the whole
soul receiving him
whom it lifts up, as its
“wisdom, and
righteousness, and sanctification,
and
redemption,” gently and
effectually transforms
the spirit, that was chafened
and restless, into
the “meekness and gentleness
of Christ.” O
what calmness steals over
his ruffled soul! O
what peace flows into his
troubled heart! O what
sunshine bathes in its bright
beams, his dark
spirit, who from the scenes
of his conflict and his
sorrow, flees beneath the
shadow and the
shelter of the cross. The
storm ceases—the
deluge of his grief subsides—the
Spirit,
dove-like, brings the message
of hope and
love—the soul, tempest-tossed,
rests on the
green mount, and one unbounded
spring clothes
and encircles the landscape
with its verdure and
its beauty. Child, chastened
by the Father’s
love, look to the cross
of your crucified Savior.
And as you fix upon it your
believing, ardent,
adoring gaze, exclaim—
“Wearily for me you
sought,
On the cross my soul you
bought;
Lose not all for which you
wrought.”
What is your sorrow compared
with Christ’s?
What is your grief gauged
by the Lord’s? Your
Master has passed before
you, flinging the
curse and the sin from your
path, paving it with
promises, carpeting it with
love, and fencing it
around with the hedge of
his divine perfections.
Press onward, then, resisting
your foe resolutely,
bearing your cross patiently,
drinking your cup
submissively, and learning,
while sitting at the
Savior’s feet, or leaning
upon his bosom, to be
like him, “meek and lowly
in heart.” Then,
indeed, shall “I have behaved
and quieted
myself as a child that is
weaned of his mother:
my soul is even as a weaned
child.”
“Quiet, Lord, my froward heart,
Make me teachable and mild,
Upright, simple, free from are;
Make me as a weaned child.
From distrust and envy free,
Pleased with all that pleases You.
“What You shall today provide,
Let me as a child receive;
What tomorrow may betide,
Calmly to Your wisdom leave.
’It is enough that You will care,
Why should I the burden heart.
“As a little child relies
On a care beyond its own;
Knows he’s neither strong nor wise—
Fears to stir a step alone—
Let me thus with You abide,
As my Father, Guard, and Guide.
“Thus preserved from Satan’s wiles,
Safe from dangers, free from fears,
May I live upon your smiles
Until the promised hour appears;
When the sons of God shall prove
All their Father’s boundless love.”