by John Angell James, 1825
THE ANXIETY OF A
CHRISTIAN PARENT FOR
THE SPIRITUAL WELFARE OF HIS CHILDREN
My Dear Children—
Never did I pass a more truly solemn or interesting moment than that in
which my first-born child was put into my arms, and when I felt that I was a
father. A new solicitude was then produced in my bosom, which every
succeeding day has tended to confirm and strengthen. I looked up to heaven
and breathed over my babe the petition of Abraham for his son—"O! that
Ishmael might live before you!" Recognizing, in the little helpless being
which had been introduced into our world, a creature born for eternity, and
who, when the sun shall be extinguished, would be still soaring in heaven—or
sinking in hell, I returned to the closet of private devotion, and solemnly
dedicated the child to the God who had given me the precious blessing; and
earnestly prayed that whatever might be his lot in this world—he might be a
partaker of true piety, and numbered with the saints in glory everlasting.
During the days of your infancy I and your godly mother
watched you, with all the fondness of a parent's heart. We have smiled upon
you when you were slumbering in healthful repose; we have wept over you when
tossed with feverish restlessness and pain; we have been the delighted
spectators of your childish playfulness; we have witnessed with pleasure the
development of your intellectual powers, and have often listened, with
somewhat of pride, to the commendations bestowed upon your person and
attainments. But amid all, one deep solicitude took hold of our minds, which
nothing could either divert or abate; and that was, a deep concern for your
spiritual welfare—for your religious character.
You cannot doubt, my children, that your parents love
you. In all your recollections, we have a witness to this. We have, as you
know, done everything to promote your welfare; and, so far as was compatible
with this object, your pleasure also. We have never denied you a
gratification which our duty and ability allowed us to impart; and if at any
time we have been severe in reproof, even this was 'a dreadful form of
love'. We have spared no expense in your education—in short, love, an
intense love, of which you can at present form no adequate conception, has
been the secret spring of all our conduct towards you; and, as the strongest
proof and purest effort of our affection, we wish you to be partakers of
true piety. Did we not cherish this concern, we would feel that amid every
other expression of regard, we were acting towards you a most cruel and
unnatural part.
Genuine love desires and seeks for the objects on which
it is fixed the greatest benefits of which they are capable; and as you have
a capacity to serve, and enjoy, and glorify God by true religion, how can we
love you in reality, if we do not covet for you this high and holy
distinction? We would feel that our love had exhausted itself upon trifles,
and had let go objects of immense, infinite, eternal consequence—if it were
not to concentrate all its prayers, desires, and efforts in your personal
true religion.
Almost every parent has some one object, which he
desires, above all others, on behalf of his children. Some are anxious that
their offspring may shine as warriors; others, that theirs may be surrounded
with the milder radiance of literary, scientific, and commercial fame.
Our supreme ambition for you is, that whatever situation you occupy, you may
adorn it with the beauties of holiness, and discharge its duties under the
influence of Christian principles. Much as we desire your respectability
in life (and we will not conceal our hope that you will occupy no base place
in society), yet we would rather see you in the most obscure, and even
menial situation, provided you were partakers of true piety, than behold you
on the loftiest pinnacle of the temple of fame, the objects of universal
admiration—if, at the same time, your hearts were destitute of the fear of
God. We might, indeed, in the latter case, be tempted to watch your
ascending progress, and hear the plaudits with which your elevation was
followed, with something of a parent's vanity; but, when we retired from the
dazzling scene to the seat of serious reflection, the spell would be
instantly broken, and we would sorrowfully exclaim—"Alas my son, what is all
this, in the absence of true religion—but soaring high, to have the greater
fall!"
You must be aware, my dear children, that all our conduct
towards you has been conducted upon these principles. Before you were
capable of receiving instruction, we presented ceaseless prayer to God for
your personal piety. As soon as reason dawned, we poured the light of
religious instruction upon your mind, by the aid of pious books and
conversation. You cannot remember the time when these efforts commenced. How
often have you retired with us, to become the subjects of our earnest
supplications at the throne of grace! You have been the witnesses of our
agony for your eternal welfare. Have we not instructed, warned, admonished,
encouraged you, as we laid open to your view the narrow path which leads to
eternal life? Have we not been guided by this object in the selection of
schools for your education, companions for your recreation, books for your
perusal? Has not this been so interwoven with all our conduct, that, if at
any time you had been asked the question—"What is the chief object of your
parents' solicitude on your account?" you must have said, at once—"For my
being truly pious." Yes, my children, this is most strictly true. At home,
abroad, in sickness and in health, in prosperity and in adversity—this is
the ruling solicitude of our bosoms.
How intently have we marked the development of your
character, to see if our fondest wishes were likely to be gratified. We have
observed your deportment under the sound of the gospel, and when you have
appeared listless and uninterested, it has been as wormwood in our
cup—while, on the other hand, when we have seen you listening with
attention, quietly wiping away the tear of emotion—or retiring pensive and
serious to your closet, we have rejoiced more than they which find great
spoil. When we have looked on the conduct of any pious youth, we have
uttered the wish, "O that my child were like him!" and have directed your
attention to his character, as that which we wished you to make the model of
your own. When, on the other hand, we have witnessed the behavior of some
prodigal son, who has been the grief of his parents, the thought has been
like a dagger to our heart, "What if my child should turn out thus!"
1. Now, we cherish all this solicitude on OUR OWN
account.
We candidly assure you that nothing
short of this will make us happy. Your piety is the only thing that will
make us rejoice that we are your parents. How can we endure to see our
children choosing any other ways than those of wisdom—and any other path
than that of life? How could we bear the sight, to behold you traveling
along the broad road which leads to destruction, and running with the
multitude to do evil? "O God, hide us from this sad spectacle, in the grave,
and before that time comes, take us to our rest." But how would it embitter
our last moments, and plant our dying pillow with thorns, to leave you on
earth in an unconverted state; following us to the grave—but not to heaven.
Or should you be called to die before us, and take possession of the tomb,
how could we stand at "the dreadful post of observation, darker every hour,"
without one ray of hope for you, to cheer our wretched spirits? How could we
sustain the dreadful thought, which in spite of ourselves would sometimes
steal across the bosom, that the very next moment after you had passed
beyond our kind attentions—you would be received to the torments which know
neither end nor mitigation? And when you had departed under such
circumstances, what could heal our wounds—or dry our tears?
Should you become truly pious, this circumstance will
impart to our bosoms a felicity which no language could enable me to
describe. It will sweeten all our communion with you, establish our
confidence, allay our fears, awaken our hopes. If we are prosperous, it will
delight us to think that we are not acquiring wealth for those who will
squander it on their lusts—but who will employ it for the glory of God when
we are in dust. Or if we are poor, it will cheer us to reflect, that though
we cannot leave you the riches of this world, we see you in possession of
the favor of God, a portion which, after comforting you on earth, will
enrich you through eternity. My dear children, if you are anxious to comfort
the hearts of your parents, if you would fulfill our joy, if you would repay
all our labor, concern, affection, if you would most effectually discharge
all the obligations which you cannot deny you owe us—Fear God, and choose
the ways of true religion—this, this alone will make us happy.
2. We cherish this solicitude on behalf of the CHURCH,
and the cause of God.
We see every year conveyed to the tombs of their fathers,
some valued and valuable members of the Christian church. We are perpetually
called to witness the desolations of the 'last enemy' in the garden of the
Lord. How often do we exclaim over the corpse of some eminent Christian and
benefactor, "Departed saint, how heavy the loss we have sustained by your
removal to a better state! Who now shall fill up your vacant seat, and bless
like you both the church and the world?" My children, under these
bereavements, to whom should we look but to you? To whom should we turn but
to the children of the kingdom, for subjects of the kingdom? You are the
property of the church. It has a claim upon you. Will you not own it, and
discharge it? Must we see the walls of the spiritual house mouldering away,
and you, the rightful materials with which it should be repaired, withheld?
We love the church, we long for its prosperity, we pray for its increase,
and it cannot but be deeply distressing to us to witness the ravages of
death, and, at the same time, to see the lack of true religion in those
young people whose parents during their life filled places of honor and
usefulness in the fellowship of the faithful.
We are anxious for your being pious that you might be the
instruments of blessing the world by the propagation of true religion.
The moral condition of the world is too bad for description. If it be ever
improved—it must be done by Christians. True piety is the only real reformer
of mankind. A spirit of active benevolence has happily risen up, rich in
purposes and means, for the benefit of the human race. But the men, in whose
bosoms it now lives and moves, are not immortal upon earth; they too must
sleep in dust, and who then shall succeed them at their post and enter into
their labors? Who will catch their falling mantle, and carry on their
glorious undertaking for the salvation of millions? If it ever be done, it
must be done of course by those who are now rising into life. The
propagation of true religion to the next generation, and to distant nations,
depends on you, and on others of your age. While I write, the groans of
creation are ascending, and future ages are rising up to plead with you,
that you would bow to the influence of true religion, as the only way of
extending it to them.
3. But we are chiefly anxious, after all, on YOUR OWN
account.
My children, the concern which we feel on this head, is
far too intense for language. Here I may truly say, "poor is thought, and
poor expression." If piety were to be obtained for you only by purchase, and
I were rich in the possession of worlds, I would beggar myself to the last
farthing to render you a Christian—and think the purchase cheap! "Godliness
is profitable for all things, having the promise of the life that now is, as
well as that which is to come." As I shall have more than one chapter on the
advantages of piety, it will not be necessary to enlarge upon them here, any
further than to say, that true godliness will save you from much present
danger and trouble, promote your temporal interests, prepare you for the
darkest scenes of adversity, comfort you on a dying bed, and finally conduct
you to everlasting glory. The lack of true piety ensure the reverse of all
this. Sooner or later such a destitution will bring misery on earth, and be
followed with eternal torments in hell.
What then, my children, are all worldly acquirements and
possessions, without true piety? What are the accomplishments of taste, the
elegancies of wealth, the wreaths of fame—but as the fragrant and
many-colored garland which adorns the miserable victim about to be
sacrificed at the 'shrine of this world'? Authentic genius, a vigorous
understanding, a well-stored mind, and all this adorned by the most amiable
temper and most pleasing demeanor, will neither comfort under the trials of
life, nor save their lovely possessor from the worm that never dies and the
fire that is never quenched. Oh no—they may qualify for earth—but not for
heaven. Alas! alas! that such estimable qualities should all perish for lack
of that piety which alone can give immortality and perfection to the
excellences of the human character!
Can you wonder, then, at the solicitude we feel for your
personal true religion, when such interests are involved in this momentous
concern?