Lectures to Young People
William B. Sprague, 1830
AWAKING TO TRUE RELIGION
"What must I do to be saved?" Acts 16:30.
The circumstances which led to this momentous inquiry,
were deeply interesting. Paul and Silas had gone into Macedonia, preaching
the gospel; and having come to Philippi, they were arrested by the
magistrates of the city, scourged, and thrown into a dungeon. The jailer
having received a strict charge to keep them safely, thrust them into the
inner prison, and made their feet fast in the stocks. It is one of the
glories of the gospel that it does not restrict its blessings to any
condition in life; that its richest consolations may be enjoyed as well in a
dungeon as in a palace: and hence we find that the blessed Savior appeared
marvelously for these persecuted men. That they would be engaged in prayer,
it were natural to expect; but the walls of their prison are made to echo
not only to the voice of prayer—but of praise; for we are expressly informed
that "they sang praises to God." At this moment there was a great earthquake
which shook the prison, so that the doors were thrown open, and the keeper
awoke in the utmost consternation. Supposing the prisoners to have escaped,
which would have been at the forfeiture of his life, he drew his sword, and
was nearly in the act of destroying himself, when Paul—the same Paul whom he
had just before confined in a dungeon—with much of his master's benevolence,
cries out, "Do yourself no harm, for we are all here." "Then he called for a
light, and sprang in, and came trembling, and fell down before Paul and
Silas, and brought them out, and said, Sirs, what must I do to be saved?"
It is not easy, nor, for my present purpose, important,
to determine, whether the jailer had ever heard the gospel before this time;
whether any conversation had previously taken place between him and the
apostles, which originated these convictions; or whether the light which he
received, was directly communicated at the time by the Holy Spirit. It is
sufficient for us to know that he really became an anxious inquirer on the
subject of his salvation.
It will occur to you, my young friends, that the
preceding discourse was occupied with an examination of some of the excuses,
with which youth are prone to put off the claims of true religion. I would
willingly hope that there are those among you, who have become satisfied of
the worthlessness of these excuses, and have resolved never more to plead
one of them—not even at the bar of conscience. Nay more, I would indulge the
hope that you have not only given up your excuses—but that you have become
impressed with the importance of your soul's salvation; insomuch that when
you heard the text announced, your heart instantly responded to the
sentiment contained in it, as one in which you have the deepest personal
interest. In the hope which I have now expressed, it is my purpose, in the
present discourse, to inquire into the meaning of this momentous question,
with a view to place distinctly before you that state of mind commonly
called CONVICTION OF SIN; that you may be assisted, on the one hand, to
decide upon the character of your pious impressions, and on the other, to
gain such a view of your condition as shall be necessary to lead you to
escape from the wrath to come.
What then is the import of the question contained in the
text—"What must I do to be saved?"
I. I observe, first, it is the language of deep feeling.
There are comparatively few in Christian communities, who
are not ready to give a general assent to the truth of the gospel; and far
the larger part, at least, among ourselves, will not hesitate to avow their
belief of the most humbling of its doctrines. Of the deep depravity of man,
and of their own personal guilt and pollution, they will profess not to
entertain a doubt; and yet the practical influence of this belief is
absolutely nothing. With an avowed conviction that they are constantly
exposed to the miseries of the second death, they go their way, one to his
farm, and another to his merchandise; and yield themselves up to the cares
or the follies of the world, apparently with as much avidity, and as little
apprehension, as if there were no heaven to be gained or lost. Nay, there
are those who not only profess to believe the truths of which I have
spoken—but in words contend earnestly for their importance, in whose hearts
they have never produced a throb of concern, and over whose path they have
never cast a shade of gloom. The truth is, that their belief of them is
merely speculative. There is nothing in it to rouse, or agitate, or subdue
the soul. In spite of it, the sinner may slumber even on the borders of the
world of despair.
Far different is the spirit which prompted the inquiry in
the text, and which discovers itself in the exercises of every convinced
sinner. There is here not only the assent of the understanding—but the
feeling of the heart. The sinner not only speculatively believes his guilt
and danger—but practically realizes it. In the one case, the truths which he
believes, are like objects seen in the mist, or by twilight: in the other,
they resemble objects viewed in the brightness of noon-day. In the one case,
it is as if you were to contemplate some temporal calamity, of which you
regarded yourself in little or no danger: in the other, it is as if you were
to contemplate the same calamity, while you were actually sinking under its
power.
I have said that the question in the text indicates deep
feeling; but I do not mean that it is, in all cases, alike. With some, it is
little more than settled seriousness; with others, it is strong anxiety; and
with others still, it is unmixed agony. This variety of experience may be
referred to a difference in the original constitution of the mind; or in the
previous moral habits; or in the instruction which is communicated; or many
other circumstances, which may, or may not, fall within our observation. But
in every case, the truth is felt, not merely assented to: it seizes
hold of the active principles of the soul, and is not kept locked up in the
intellect.
II. This is the language of strong self-condemnation.
The process by which the sinner becomes impressed with a
sense of his guilt, originates in the new view which he gains of the
divine law. Hitherto, his views of that law have been loose and
vague: he has practically regarded it as taking cognizance only of the
external act; and not improbably has flattered himself that, if he were
decent in his outward deportment, he would thereby yield an obedience to the
law which might be accepted as a ground of his justification. But under the
enlightening influence of the Holy Spirit, his mistakes on this subject are
all corrected; and the law of God, instead of being regarded as little more
than a dead letter, is felt, like the Omniscient eye, to be a Searcher of
the heart; and like the Almighty hand, to operate with a resistless energy.
It is seen, moreover, to be altogether worthy of its author; perfectly
reasonable and just in its requisitions; an admirable transcript of the
moral perfections of God.
Now you easily see how this new view of the divine law
operates to produce conviction of guilt. If the law has its foundation in
everlasting righteousness, and is perfectly holy, just, and good; if it is
that which binds together the moral kingdom of Jehovah, and is an exact
expression of his will in respect to all his intelligent creatures—then how
evil and bitter a thing must sin be, which is the violation of this law: how
deserving of God's supreme abhorrence must be that evil, which pours
contempt upon his character, and insolently tramples upon his authority!
It is in view of the moral excellence of the law,
then, that the sinner discovers and estimates the inherent odiousness of
sin: but in estimating his own personal guilt, he more especially takes into
view the extent of its requisitions; considering it as designed to
control the inner man of the heart; as extending to every thought, and
purpose, and motive, and desire, through every period of man's existence.
How differently does the sinner now estimate the number
of his sins, from what he did before he practically understood the
comprehensive import of God's law! Time has been, it may be, when he
scarcely considered himself a sinner at all; and when, if he had undertaken
to reckon with his conscience, he would have thought only of flagrant acts
of transgression, and would have estimated the guilt even of them chiefly by
their untoward influence upon society. But now he is almost exclusively
occupied in calling up sins of the heart; sins of every day, and hour, and
moment; sins of which the world never took cognizance, and of which, at the
time they were committed, he scarcely took cognizance himself. He sees that
he has been living in constant rebellion against God; that he has steadily
and perseveringly refused a practical acknowledgment of his authority; and
that too against motives of the most tender and affecting import. He charges
himself with the blackest ingratitude; for when he looks back upon his past
life, he sees that he has been continually led by a most gracious hand, and
that blessings have constantly multiplied in his path; and yet he beholds no
monuments of grateful homage; no Ebenezers on which is inscribed "Hitherto
has the Lord helped me."
Perhaps he has been a diligent attendant on the means of
grace; has been regularly at the sanctuary, and it may be has even daily
read the scriptures, and sometimes fallen upon his knees, and taken upon his
lips the language of devotion; and in all this, he may have formerly thought
that he was doing much to commend himself to the divine favor: but now he
sees nothing better in these services, by which he had deceived himself, and
perhaps deceived others also, than the hollow homage of a formalist; and
here, as truly as any where, he reads the sentence of his condemnation. How
many complaining reflections does he find himself to have indulged against
God, because he may have sometimes in mercy blasted his foolish purposes,
or withheld from him something which, if it had been bestowed, would have
ministered only to his destruction! How large a part of all the thoughts
that he has ever had, does he find, on review, to have been vain and
evil; how many of his words have been idle and frivolous; how many of
his purposes have originated in pride or revenge; how many of his
desires have been polluted and groveling; how many actions which
to the eye of man may have appeared praiseworthy and even noble—does he now
perceive to have been dictated not merely by a spirit of forgetfulness of
God—but by a spirit of active rebellion against him. In short, his sins of
omission or commission, of heart or life, appear as numerous as the moments
of his existence; and he feels that an effort to recall them all to
remembrance, were as vain as to attempt to count the drops in the ocean.
But while the convinced sinner dwells with astonishment
on the number of his sins, or rather finds them literally innumerable, he is
equally overwhelmed by a sense of their aggravation. He perceives
that they are not the sins of a heathen, who has never heard of Christ or
salvation; but they have been committed, it may be, in the very brightest
sunshine of gospel day. They have been committed, while the Bible, with all
its solemn warnings, and all its gracious invitations, and all its treasures
of mercy, has been within his reach; while the Sabbath has weekly dawned
upon him, and the sanctuary has opened its doors for him, and the ministers
of Christ have spread before him the provision of the gospel, and have
expostulated with him to attend to the things that belong to his peace. They
have been committed, moreover, in spite of the kind rebukes and earnest
entreaties of pious friendship; in spite of the remonstrances of his own
conscience; in spite of the strivings of the Holy Spirit; in spite of all
the condescension, the agonies, and the intercession of Jesus; in spite of
the offered glories of heaven, and the threatened woes of perdition. The
fact that he has sinned against so much light and love, and that he has
persevered in sinning, when there were so many considerations to deter him
from it, seems to him to stamp upon his guilt a peculiarly aggravated
character.
And then again, he perceives how completely vain and
foolish were the excuses with which he had quieted himself in a sinful
course: he is compelled to give them all to the winds, and to feel that he
stands before God without the shadow of an apology. Does he justify his past
neglect of true religion, on the ground that he had no time to attend to it;
or on the ground that, in attending upon the means of grace, he had done all
that it was in his power to do; or on the ground that there would be a
future more convenient season? No such thing. He feels that his sins have
been altogether voluntary and causeless, and have exposed him most justly
to God's threatened curse.
It is a common case that a sinner in these circumstances
actually believes himself to be the most guilty of all beings, even worse
than the reprobate in hell; for while he can invent apologies for others, he
cannot for a moment admit any for himself. He is not indeed, as some
dreaming speculatists would have it, willing to encounter eternal
perdition; but that he deserves it, is as clear to him as that the
light shines around him amidst the brightness of noon-day. He wonders that
such a wretch as himself is permitted to breathe the air, or enjoy the
light, or walk upon the earth; and it is difficult for him to believe that
his next move will not be to the eternal prison of despair.
I have already intimated that there is, in some respects,
a great variety in the experience of convinced sinners, some being far more
deeply affected than others. But in every case which issues in conversion,
there is not only a general conviction of the evil of sin—but a particular
conviction of personal guilt, and of the justice of the sentence which dooms
to God's everlasting displeasure. This conviction may be acquired suddenly,
or it may be acquired gradually: it may be more or less pungent: but in some
form or other, and in some degree or other, it makes part of the experience
of every sinner, who is brought to a practical knowledge of the excellence
and glory of the gospel.
III. This is the language of earnest solicitude.
Enough has been said to show that the disclosures which
are made to the convinced sinner by the Spirit of God, must render him, in
no small degree, unhappy; and such a state necessarily produces solicitude,
both in respect to the present and the future. It is natural that the sinner
should earnestly desire a deliverance from the burden that now oppresses
him, and from the appalling doom which conscience bids him anticipate in the
next world.
If there were nothing more than his present condition
concerned, there would be good reason why he should long for a change; for
such a condition is always unhappy, and often wretched beyond our most
gloomy conceptions. What Christian, especially what minister of Christ, has
not witnessed cases, in which the sinner in the circumstances which I am
supposing, has been stung by remorse, agitated by terror, convulsed by
agony, to such a degree, that life itself has seemed a burden; and the
aspect of despair has settled upon the countenance; and even the grave has
been longed for, if it might but prove a refuge from the lashes of a guilty
conscience. But where the operations of the Spirit assume a milder form, and
the impressions of guilt are far less pungent, there is still enough in the
sinner's condition to cause him earnestly to desire that he may escape from
it. For he feels that while this burden hangs upon his conscience, the world
is nothing better to him than a prison, overspread with darkness, and hung
round with despair.
But if the sinner is anxious, and with good reason too,
to escape from the miseries of his present condition, much more is he
desirous to escape from the accumulated woes which await the ungodly in
the world of despair. He realizes that there is an awful meaning in the
description which the Bible has given of the future and eternal miseries of
the lost; and he ponders the fearful imagery in which those miseries are
described, until his heart throbs and sinks with apprehension. Here again,
is it strange that he is anxious to escape from this tremendous doom?
Rather, would it not be very strange, if, with such a view of the danger of
his condition, he could fold his arms and lull himself into an indolent
security?
It is not always easy for the sinner in the state which I
am supposing, to analyze the operations of his own mind. And if it is
difficult for him to understand the nature of his emotions, he is still more
perplexed to know in what manner he may obtain peace. Often, the most that
he can say respecting himself is, that there is an intolerable burden
resting upon his conscience; that he knows not which way to look for relief;
that all around him and before him, is impenetrable darkness. And not
unfrequently, the burden of his anxiety is that, with such just occasion for
distress, he feels so little; and while, to all others but himself, he seems
to be on the borders of despair, he imagines that he is utterly
destitute of moral sensibility.
In these circumstances, he adopts, in many respects, a
new course of life. If he has been accustomed to mingle in scenes of levity,
he mingles in such scenes no longer. The Bible, and other pious books, which
he has been used to treat with entire neglect, he reads with most earnest
attention. He rejoices in the opportunity, though he often does it with
great diffidence, to unbosom himself to his minister, or some Christian
friend, and to receive appropriate instruction and counsel. He is often
found in the meeting for prayer and pious conference, and still oftener in
his closet, pouring out the anguish of his heart before God. You may tell
him that a sinner ought not to pray; but the false direction he will not
heed; for though he feels no confidence that he shall be saved, let him do
what he will, yet if he is saved, he is sure that it must be by an
act of God's sovereign grace, and that grace he has no reason to expect, if
he does not supplicate it. His former careless associates, not improbably,
during this period, look on with amazement, and perhaps treat his serious
impressions with ridicule; but what avails all their ridicule with him, so
long as his eyes are open to survey the appalling realities of his
condition?
Do you ask whether, in all this striving of which I have
here spoken, the sinner advances any nearer to the kingdom of God, or to a
regenerate state? I answer, yes, undoubtedly; though I would guard the
answer by an explanation. It is far from being true, that the sinner, by any
effort he can make, does anything in the way of merit towards commending
himself to the divine favor; nor do any of his moral exercises preparatory
to renovation partake of a holy character: nevertheless, these efforts seem
designed, in the economy of God's grace, to prepare him to accept a free
salvation; and though there be nothing of a moral character in the prayers
that are offered previous to conversion, which God can regard with
approbation, yet there is the natural feeling of distress. And who can tell
but that He who hears the cry of the young ravens, may not listen to the cry
of the convinced sinner? To whatever conclusions men may be conducted on
this subject by metaphysical speculation, all experience unites with the
word of God in proving that, though the sinner who is only convinced will as
certainly perish as any other, yet the convinced sinner is, in an important
sense, nearer the kingdom than the careless sinner; not because he has a
particle of holiness—but because he has exercises which, in the order of
nature, are preparatory to a spiritual renovation. If our Lord himself could
say of a mere moral man, that he was not far from the kingdom of God, surely
we need not hesitate to apply the same language to a sinner trembling under
the burden of conviction.
I have now laid before you, my young friends, so far as I
have judged necessary, the exercises and the condition of a sinner, in what
is usually termed a state of conviction. In this situation I must, for the
present, leave him. It is natural to infer,
1. In the first place, from the preceding remarks,
how far you may go, and finally
fall short of heaven. Are you, at this moment, an anxious and
heavy laden sinner? Have your iniquities taken hold upon you, so that you
are not able to look up; and are you trembling under the apprehensions of
Jehovah's wrath? Have you forsaken the haunts of levity, and broken away
from vain companions, and have you taken up the resolution that you will
press forward and enter in at the straight gate? Believe me, so far as this
you may go, and even farther—and yet perish in your sins. All this you may
be today, and the world may have begun to regain its ascendancy over you
tomorrow, and before you are yet scarcely aware of any change, you may find
yourself again in the ranks of the mirthful and careless. Nay, you may
continue in this very state until you die; you may always remain a serious
inquirer for the way to heaven, and may even lie at its very gate, and yet,
after all, may never enter in.
Therefore, I entreat you not to rest satisfied in your
present condition. It would be to no purpose that you should discover that
some distressing worldly calamity was hanging over you, unless the discovery
should lead you to do something to avert it; nor will it be of any avail
that you see yourselves exposed to eternal perdition, unless you actually
make haste to escape from the wrath to come. Let the effect of the
disclosures already made to you by the Spirit of God, lead you to action;
else you will not only perish—but perish with a doom aggravated by the very
fact that you have been the subject of serious convictions.
2. Learn from this subject, that
it is a most solemn thing,
especially for a young person, to be awakened. It is indeed a
solemn thing for any person; because he is thereby brought under the direct
influence of the Spirit of God; and in the result of the Spirit's operation
is probably to be decided the question—whether his immortal soul is to be
saved or lost; whether his path through life is to be cheered by the hopes
and consolations of true religion, and to terminate amid the bright glories
of the upper world, or whether he is to go laboring through this valley of
tears without any substantial support, often disgusted, and never satisfied,
with what the world has to bestow—and finally to sink down under the
withering frown of the Almighty, and be banished from his presence forever!
I say then, that the fearful result which is pending,
renders the case of any awakened sinner peculiarly solemn; but the case of a
young person, in such circumstances, gathers additional interest from the
fact that he is surrounded with peculiar temptations to abandon his
convictions, and return to a habit of carelessness. For in his case there
are mirthful companions to be forsaken, and there are scenes of merriment to
be abandoned, in which, it may be, the individual concerned, has been
specially active; and probably there is the hiss of contempt, or the frown
of indignation, to be encountered, from those who have been accustomed to
greet him as one of themselves. Oh, when I see a young person in these
circumstances, I tremble; because I expect that the decision he is about to
make will be for eternity; and I see much reason to fear that his decision
will be wrong.
3. And this leads me to say, thirdly, that
those youth who dare to trifle
with the serious convictions of their companions, are in the very broadest
part of the road to destruction. They trifle with the
immediate influence of the Spirit of God. They cast contempt upon the most
benevolent work which he ever performs for mortals. They make a direct and
most dreadful attempt to thwart the gracious purposes of heaven, and plunge
an immortal soul into everlasting burnings. If I supposed there were a
single youth before me who bore the character of a scoffer, I would say to
him, Beware—beware how you ever speak lightly again of the work of the Holy
Spirit. And possibly some of you may have been guilty of the essence of this
sin, when you have thought little about it. When you met your brother or
sister, whose countenance wore an aspect of deep concern, and you purposely
threw out some light and careless remark, or perhaps cast a significant
smile, as if in derision, know that that brother or sister felt it at the
heart, as a cruel and cutting rebuke; and know too, that he who takes an
account of all your actions, recorded it as an insult shown to his
authority, and an attempt to counteract the influences of his Spirit. And
when, as you were passing off the threshold of this house, you met some
companion whom you had seen melted under the warnings, or invitations, which
had just been announced, and when you took that companion by the hand and
said, "Come, let us go and talk of the pleasures of the past week, or
project plans of amusement for the week to come,"—know too, that you were
then opposing the operations of the Spirit of God, and aiming a murderous
dagger at the soul of your friend! I say nothing which is not the result of
solemn conviction, when I declare, that I would a thousand times rather my
dearest friend should come and trifle with my last agonies, and dance around
the bed on which my cold and motionless body was stretched, and close my
dying eyes with a loud peal of laughter—than to have him approach me with
ridicule, when my heart was burdened with conviction; for in the one case,
he would only chill the last blood that passes through my veins; in the
other, he might awaken everlasting agonies in my soul.
Finally: I dare not close this discourse without urging
you (though in doing so, I should seem to anticipate my next subject) to
an immediate compliance with the
terms of the gospel: because, if I should be spared to stand
in this place again, to answer the question, "What shall I do to be saved?"
some of you may, before that time, have heard your last sermon, and have
passed into that world where the voice of instruction cannot reach you. I
call upon you then to attend without delay to this momentous concern; to
obey the command of God to give him your heart; and I seem to hear a call in
everything around me, conveying to you a similar admonition. There is a call
from above, which I recognize as coming from the throne of God, and inviting
you to all the glories of his kingdom. There is a call from below, which
seems to come from the abodes of darkness, echoed in groans, and agonies,
and tortures, warning you to beware how you withhold the heart from God
another day. There is a call from within, which bids you take care and not
sacrifice your immortal souls. There is a call in the memory of departed
worldly joys, admonishing you that they are worthless, and bidding you seek
superior bliss. There is a call from the dying bed of the Christian, and the
dying bed of the sinner; the one pointing upward, by way of invitation, to
the glories of heaven; the other downward, by way of admonition, to the
horrors of hell.
But above all, there is a call from the cross of
Calvary—from the Savior in the act of dying for your redemption; and his
language is, "Come unto me, all you who labor and are heavy laden, and I
will give you rest." Mourning sinner, that call is to you—to no mortal more
than you. Away then with all this halting and hesitating, and accept of
Jesus, and your conscience will be at rest; your soul will be full of peace
and hope; and joy will descend from heaven, and take up her dwelling in your
bosom.