Christian Love,
or the Influence of Religion upon Temper
By John Angell James, 1828
EXAMINATION &
HUMILIATION
SELF-EXAMINATION is the
duty of every Christian, not merely that he may ascertain whether his faith
be genuine—but whether it be sufficiently 'operative'. It ought not to be a
frequent and undecided question with anyone, "Am I in reality a child of
God?" But it should be a constantly recurring inquiry, "Is there any one
branch of pious obligation, which, through the deceitfulness of the human
heart, I do not feel? or through a criminal heedlessness, I habitually
neglect?" The object of self-examination, with a believer, is to supply
those defects in his graces, and to put away those remains of his
corruptions, which, though they may not prove that he has no piety, prove
that he has less than he ought to have. For this purpose, he should often
bring his actions and his motives to the standard, and try his whole
profession; what he does—which he should not do; as well as what he does not
do—which he should do.
If we are to exhort one another daily, lest any of us be
hardened through the deceitfulness of sin, we surely ought to examine
ourselves daily for the same reason. Our guilty self-love is perpetually
attempting to throw a veil over our sinful infirmities—to hide their
criminality from our view; and thus to keep us in a state of false peace by
keeping us in ignorance. Against this deceitfulness of our heart, we can
only be guarded by a frequent and close examination of our whole selves.
A frequent examination of our hearts and conduct is
necessary, because of the multitude of our daily sins—which
are often so minute as to escape the observation of a careless and
superficial glance—and so numerous as to be forgotten from one day to
another; and so, they either do not come into our notice—or pass out of
recollection. And therefore they should be summed up every evening, and
repented of, and forgiven, before we compose ourselves to 'sleep'—that
nightly returning harbinger, and monitor, and image, of approaching death.
The advantages of frequent examination are so many and so great, as to
recommend the practice strongly to all who are deeply concerned about the
welfare of their souls—by this means, we shall not only detect many lesser
sins which would otherwise be lost in our attention to greater ones; but we
shall more easily destroy them, and more speedily revive our languishing
graces; just as a wound may with greater facility be cured while it is yet
fresh and bleeding.
"Sins are apt to cluster and combine, when either we are
in love with small sins, or when they proceed, from a careless and
unconcerned spirit, into frequency and continuance. But we may easily keep
them asunder by our daily prayers, and our nightly examinations, and our
severe sentences; for he who despises little things, shall perish little by
little." A frequent examination of our actions will tend to keep the
conscience clear, so that the least dirty spot will be more easily seen; and
so tender that the least new pressure will be felt—for that which comes upon
an already blotted page is scarcely discerned—and that which is added to an
already great accumulation is hardly seen or felt. This, also, is the best
way to make our repentance pungent and particular. But on this subject we
shall have more to say shortly.
If self-examination be neglected for lack of opportunity,
it is plain that those, at least, who have their time at their own command
and disposal, are far too deeply involved in the business of the world, and
the labyrinths of care—no man ought to allow himself to be so taken up in
looking into his secular pursuits, as to have no time to look into the state
of his soul; and to be so greedy after gain, or so intent upon the objects
of an earthly ambition—as to be careless about examining whether we are
growing in grace, and increasing in the riches of faith and love—reveals a
mind which either has no true religion at all, or has reason to fear
that it has none.
But besides that 'general review' of the conduct of the
day, which we should take every evening; a portion of time should be
frequently set apart for the purpose of instituting a more minute and
exacting inquiry into the state of our personal piety; when, taking in our
hand the Word of God, we should descend with this 'candle of the Lord' into
the dark and deep recesses of the heart, enter every secret chamber, and pry
into every corner, to ascertain if anything is hiding itself there, which is
contrary to the mind and will of God. Many standards will be found in the
Scriptures, all concurring with each other in general purpose and
principles, by which this investigation of our spirits should be conducted.
We now propose 'the law of love'.
On these occasions of introspection, we should inquire
how far our faith is working by love. I will conceive of a professing
Christian who has set apart a portion of time, say on a Saturday evening,
before he is to partake of the Lord's supper on the next day; or on a
Sabbath evening, when he has received the sacramental memorials of the
Savior's love—to examine into the state, not only of his conduct—but the
frame and temper of his spirit. He is anxious to know how far he is living
so as to please God. We can imagine him, after having read the Scriptures,
presenting his fervent supplications to God, in the language of the
Psalmist, and saying, "Search me, O God, and know my heart; test me and know
my anxious thoughts. Point out anything in me that offends you, and lead me
along the path of everlasting life." Psalm 139:23-24
He now enters upon the business of self-examination; and
the subject of inquiry that evening is the frame of his heart towards his
fellow creatures, the state of his mind in reference to the law of love, the
measure of his love, and the infirmities of his temper. Hear his holy
colloquies with himself—"I have no just reason, thanks be to sovereign
grace! to question whether I have received the fundamental doctrines of the
Gospel. I believe my creed is sound, nor have I any serious ground for
suspecting the sincerity of my faith, or the reality of my conversion—my
conduct, too, so far as the estimate of man goes, has, through the help of
God, been free from open immorality. And though I may without presumption
say that I love God, yet I am covered with confusion that my love is so weak
and lukewarm. But my solemn business at this time is to examine into the
state and measure of my Christian love; for I am persuaded that whatever
knowledge, or faith, or seeming raptures, or supposed communion with God, I
may lay claim to—I am but a very imperfect Christian, if I am considerably
deficient in love. Taking the apostolic description of this lovely virtue, I
will bring my heart to the test.
"Do I, then, love, in the biblical sense of the word? Is
my heart a partaker of this disposition? Is the selfishness of my corrupt
nature subdued, and made to give way to a spirit of universal benevolence;
so that I can truly say, I rejoice in the happiness of others, and am
conscious of a continual benevolent sympathy with all others, and of a
perpetual flowing of good-will to all creatures? Do I feel as if my own
happiness were receiving constant accessions from the happiness of others;
and that my soul, instead of living in her own little world within—an alien
from the commonwealth of mankind, indifferent to all but herself—is in union
and communion with my race? In short, do I know the meaning of the apostle's
emphatic expression, 'He who dwells in love, dwells in God, and God in him?'
But let me descend to particulars.
"What do I know of the
PATIENCE
of love? Can I suffer long, or am I easily
provoked? Am I patient under provocation; restraining my anger; keeping my
wrath in subjection under the most provoking insults, amid the basest
ingratitude, and the most irritating scorn? In my communion with my brethren
in Christ, am I quick to take offense by any real or supposed slight or
impertinence? Am I so jealous of my own dignity, so sensitive and irritable,
as to be roused to anger by any little offense, and transported to wrath by
more serious provocation? Am I revengeful under injuries; brooding over them
in silence, cherishing the remembrance, and reviving the recollection of
them, waiting for an opportunity to retaliate—and rejoicing in the
sufferings which come upon those that injure me? Or am I easily conciliated,
most forward to forgive, and ever ready to return good for evil? How have I
acted since my last season of self-examination in these particulars? Let me
call to recollection my conduct, that I may see how far I have practiced the
duty, and exhibited the excellence of Christian meekness.
"Love is KIND." Is kindness—universal, constant,
operative kindness—characteristic of my conduct? Is the law of kindness on
my lips, its smile upon my countenance, and its activity in my life? Or am I
uncivil and uncourteous in speech, frowning and repulsive in my demeanor,
grudging and unfrequent in acts of generosity? Have I the character among my
neighbors and acquaintance, of a man who can be always depended upon for a
favor, when it is needed? Or, on the contrary, am I by general report a very
unlikely person to lend a helping hand to a person in necessity? Are there
any instances of unkindness which I can now call to remembrance, which have
brought dishonor upon my reputation, guilt upon my conscience, reproach upon
the cause of true religion, and for which, therefore, I ought to seek the
pardon of God through Christ?
"Love does not ENVY." Am I subject to the tormenting
influence of that truly diabolical temper by which a person is made
miserable in himself, and to hate his neighbor or rival on account of that
neighbor's or rival's eminence? Am I so truly infernal in my disposition as
to sicken and pine at the sight of the success or happiness of others—and to
cherish ill-will on that account towards them? When I hear another praised
and commended, do I feel a burning of heart within, and an inclination to
detract from their fame, and to lower them in the estimation of those who
applaud them? And do I secretly rejoice when anything occurs to lessen and
lower them in public opinion, or to strip them of those distinctions which
render them the objects of public dislike? Or do I possess that true spirit
of love, which constrains me to rejoice with those who rejoice, to feel
pleased with their prosperity, and to consider their happiness as an
accession to my own? Have I indeed, that benevolence which delights so truly
in felicity, as to make me glad at seeing it in the possession of an enemy
or a rival?
"Love does not BOAST. Love is not PROUD." Is this
descriptive of my spirit, in reference to my own attainments and
achievements? Am I lowly in my own eyes, clothed with humility, modest in
the estimate I form of myself, and all that belongs to me? or am I proud,
vain, or ostentatious? valuing and admiring myself on the ground of any
personal, civil, ecclesiastical, or spiritual eminence? Am I fond of
exciting the admiration of others towards myself—and obtaining their
applause? Or am I content with the approbation of my own conscience, and the
smile of God? Do I wish to make others feel their inferiority, and to suffer
under a mortifying sense of it? Or do I, from the most tender regard to
their comfort, conceal, as much as possible, any superiority I may have over
them; and make them easy and happy in my company? Do I indulge in haughty
airs—or maintain a kind affability and an amiable humility?
"Love does not behave UNSEEMLY." Is it my study not
to give uneasiness and offense, by anything unsuitable to my age,
sex, rank, station, and circumstances; anything crude, rough, impertinent,
or improper? Or am I continually disturbing the comfort of those around me,
by inappropriate and unsuitable behavior?
"Love is not SELF-SEEKING." Am I habitually
selfish—anxious only for my own gratification, and building up my own
comfort—to the annoyance or neglect of others? Am I indulging a stingy,
covetous disposition—feasting upon luxuries, and refusing to minister to the
relief of human misery, according to the proportion in which God has blessed
me? Or am I diffusing abroad my substance, considering that I am only a
'steward' of what I hold, and must account for it all? Am I overbearing and
intolerant in discussion and debate—wanting others to sacrifice their views,
in order that I may have everything my own way? Or am I willing to concede
and yield, and disposed to give up my own will to the general opinion, and
for the general good?
"Love thinks no evil." Am I suspicious, and apt to
impute bad motives to men's conduct? Or am I generous and trusting—prone to
think the best that truth will allow? Am I censorious and critical? Do I
feel more in haste to condemn than to excuse—and more eager to blame than to
exonerate?
"Love does not rejoice in iniquity—but rejoices in the
truth." What is my disposition towards those who are my opponents? Do I
delight in, or mourn over their faults? Do I so love them, as to be glad
when by their regard to truth and righteousness, they raise themselves in
public esteem; and to be sorry when they injure their own cause, and give me
an advantage over them by their errors and sins? Have I made that high
attainment in virtue and piety, which leads me to delight in the
righteousness of a rival, even when it exalts him? Or am I still so
destitute of love as to say, in reference to his faults, 'Ah! so would I
have it?'
"Love BEARS all things." Am I prone and
anxious to conceal the failings of others—or to expose them?
"Love BELIEVES all things." Am I credulous of
whatever is to the advantage of a brother?
"Love HOPES all things." Where the evidence is
not enough to warrant belief, do I indulge an expectation and desire that
further knowledge may explain the matter favorably?
"Love ENDURES all things." Am I willing to make any
exertion, to bear any hardship, to sustain any reasonable loss—for the peace
and welfare of others? Or am I so fond of ease, so indolent, so selfish, as
to give nothing but mere ineffectual wishes for their comfort and
well-being?
"What measure of holy love have I, of that love which
puts forth its energies in such operations as these? Do I so love God, and
feel such a sense of his love to me, as to have my soul transformed into
this divine disposition? Does the love of Christ thus constrain me? Am I so
absorbed in the contemplation of that stupendous display of divine
benevolence, that unparalleled manifestation of infinite mercy, which was
made in the cross of the Son of God, as to find the selfishness of my nature
melted, and all its enmities subdued, by this most amazing and transporting
scene? I feel that without love, I cannot have entered into the meaning and
design, the moral force and beauty, of the great atonement; that I can have
no disposition which properly corresponds to that magnificent and
interesting spectacle. I see that knowledge is not enough, that belief is
not enough, that ecstasy is not enough, that hope is not enough; that, in
fact, nothing can come up to the demands, to the spirit, to the design, of a
religion which has the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ for its central
object, and grand support, and distinguishing glory—but a temper of
universal and practical benevolence. Have I this? If so, how much of it?"
Such should be the subject of diligent and frequent
examination to every professing Christian.
HUMILIATION should follow
examination. The act of humbling and abasing ourselves before God, is a part
of the duty—not only of sinners, when they make their first application to
the mercy-seat for pardon—but of believers through every successive stage of
their Christian career. As long as we are the subjects of sin—we ought also
to be the subjects of contrition. We may, through sovereign grace, have been
justified by faith, and have been brought into a state of peace with God—but
this does not render a very humbling sense and confession of our sins, an
exercise inappropriate to our state—any more than it is inconsistent with
the relationship of a child to humble himself before his father for those
defects in his obedience, which, though they do not set aside his sonship,
are unworthy of it.
"If we say we have no sin," says the apostle, "we deceive
ourselves, and the truth is not in us." This language applies to believers,
and not merely to unconverted sinners; and so does that which follows—"If we
confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to
cleanse us from all unrighteousness." The most perfect assurance of hope
does not release us from the duty of abasing ourselves before God; and if an
angel were sent to assure us that we are in a state of acceptance with
heaven, we would still lie under obligation to cultivate a contrite and
penitential frame of mind. Sin, and not merely punishment, is the ground of
humiliation. It is the most detestable selfishness to imagine that because
we are freed from the penal consequences of sin, we are under no obligation
to lie low in the dust. With what unutterable disgust we should look upon
the individual, who, because his life had been spared by royal clemency,
when it might have been taken by national justice, acted after his pardon as
if that very pardon had entitled him to forget his crime, and live as
carelessly and as confidently as he would have done had he never sinned. A
pardoned sinner—and no believer is anything more—should ever be a humble and
self-abased creature in the sight of God.
The subject we are now upon shows us what cause there is
for humiliation before God. This frame of mind should not be founded upon,
or produced by, mere general views of our depraved nature—but by particular
apprehensions in reference to sinful practice—as long as our confessions are
confined to mere acknowledgments of a depraved nature, our convictions of
sin are not likely to be very deep, nor our sorrow for it very pungent. Such
confessions will usually sink into mere formal and sorrowless
acknowledgments of transgression. It is by descending to details—it is the
lively view and deep conviction of specific 'acts of transgression', or
specific 'defects in virtue', that awaken and sharpen the conscience, and
bring the soul to feel that godly sorrow which works repentance. One
distinctly ascertained 'act of transgression', or 'defect in
virtue'—especially if it be much dwelt upon in its extent, and influence,
and aggravations—will do more to humble the soul, than hours spent in mere
general confessions of a depraved nature.
There are many things, on the ground of which no
self-abasement can be felt by the Christian who is walking in any degree of
pious consistency. He cannot confess that which he really has not been
guilty of—he cannot be humbled on account of any act of open immorality, for
he has committed none. In reference to actual vice, he is to be thankful,
not humble. He is to be humble, indeed, that he has a nature capable of it,
if left by God; but he is to be thankful that he has not been permitted thus
to disgrace himself. It is sometimes to be regretted that good people, in
their public confessions of sin, are not more definite than they are, and
that they do not express the particular sins for which they seek forgiveness
of God. Without using language that seems applicable to adultery, and
robbery, and drunkenness—our defects in all Christian graces are so numerous
and so great, that there is no degree of humiliation which is too deep for
those defects and omissions, of which the holiest man is guilty before God.
And we have no need to go beyond the subject of this treatise, to find how
exceedingly sinful and vile we must all be in the sight of God. Let us only
call to remembrance the truly sublime description which the apostle has
given us of the divine nature, and to which, of necessity, we have so often
referred, "God is love"—infinite, pure, and operative love; let us only
recollect his wonderful patience, his diffusive kindness, his astonishing
mercy even to his enemies—and then consider that it is our duty to be like
him—to have a disposition which in pure, patient, and operative benevolence,
ought to resemble his; that this was once our nature, and will be again, if
we reach the celestial state; and surely, in such a recollection, we shall
find a convincing proof of our present exceeding sinfulness.
Let it not be replied that this is subjecting us to too
severe a test. By what test can we try our hearts—but the law of God? What a
proof is it of sin, when we find that the instances in which we have
committed it are so numerous, that we want to get rid of the law by which it
is proved and detected! O, what a fallen nature is ours, and how low has it
sunk! We are not now examining it in its worst state, as it is seen among
Pagans and savages, or even the best of the heathen; nor as it is seen in
the worst parts of Christendom; nor as it appears in the best of the
unrenewed portions of mankind—no! but as it is exhibited in the church of
Christ—in the enlightened and sanctified portions of the family of man.
Must we not, after this survey, exclaim with the
Psalmist, "Who can understand his errors? cleanse me from secret faults!"
Who can carry in his bosom a proud heart, or on his brow a lofty demeanor?
Who can look with delight upon his poor, starveling graces, and doat with
fond and pharisaic eyes upon his own righteousness? Who is not stripped at
once, in his own view, of all pride in his imperfect virtues, and presented
to his own contemplation in the naked deformity of a poor, sinful, and
imperfect creature, who has no ground for pride—but most ample and
abundant cause for the deepest humiliation? Let the men who value themselves
so highly on the ground of their moral dignity, and who are regarded by
others as almost sinless characters, and who feel as if they had little or
no occasion for the exercises of a penitential frame of mind; who pity as
fanaticism, or scorn as hypocrisy, those humble confessions which Christians
make at the footstool of the divine throne; let them come to this
ordeal, and try themselves by this standard, that they may learn how
ill-grounded is their pride, and how little occasion they have to boast of
their virtue! Would they like that any human eye should be able to trace all
the movements of their hearts, and see all the workings of envy, and
jealousy, and wrath, and selfishness—which the eye of Deity so often
sees there? Say not that these are only the infirmities of our nature, to
which the wisest and the best of the human race are ever subject in this
world of imperfection; because this is confessing how deeply depraved is
mankind, even in their best state. Can envy, and pride, and selfishness, and
jealousy, and revenge—be looked upon as mere peccadilloes, which call for
neither humiliation nor grief? Are they not the seeds of all those crimes
which have deluged the earth with blood, filled it with misery, and caused
the whole creation to groan together until how? Murders, treasons, wars,
massacres—with all the lighter crimes of robberies, extortions, and
oppressions—have all sprung up from these vile passions.
What need, then, have we all of that great sacrifice
which takes away our sin! And what need of a perpetually recurring
application, by faith and repentance, to that blood which speaks better
things than the blood of Abel, and which cleanses from all sin! What cause
have we to repair nightly to the throne of grace, that we may obtain mercy;
and daily, that we may find grace to help in time of need! With the eye of
faith upon the sin-atoning offering that was presented to Divine justice by
the Son of God upon the cross, let us continually approach the awful majesty
of heaven and earth, saying "God be merciful to me a sinner!"
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