PRACTICAL PIETY by Hannah More, 1811
Chapter 8
THE HAND OF GOD TO BE ACKNOWLEDGED IN THE
DAILY CIRCUMSTANCES OF LIFE
If we would indeed love God, let us acquaint ourselves with Him. God has
assured us in His Scriptures that there is no other way to be at peace. As
we cannot love an unknown God, so neither can we know him, or even approach
a knowledge of Him, except on the terms which He Himself holds out to us.
Neither will He save us except by the method which He has Himself
prescribed. His very perfections, those just objects of our adoration, all
stand in the way of guilty creatures. His justice is the flaming sword which
excludes us from the Paradise we have forfeited. His purity is so opposed to
our corruptions, His wisdom to our follies, that were it not for His atoning
sacrifice, those very attributes which are now our trust, would be our
terror. The most opposite images of human conception are required to show us
who God is to us in our natural state, and who He is to us after we become
regenerate. The "consuming fire" is transformed into essential love.
As we cannot know the Almighty perfectly, so we cannot love Him with that
pure flame which animates glorified spirits. But there is a preliminary
acquaintance with Him, an initial love of Him, for which He has equipped us
by His works, by His word, and by His Spirit. Even in this weak and barren
soil some germs will shoot up, some blossoms will open. That celestial
plant, when watered by the dews of heaven, and ripened by the Sun of
Righteousness will, in a more friendly environment, expand into the fullness
of perfection, and bear immortal fruits in the Paradise of God.
A cold and unemotional person, who longs after the fervent love of the
supreme Being he sees in others, may take comfort if he finds a similar
indifference in his worldly attachments. But if his affections are intense
towards the perishable things of earth, while they are dead toward spiritual
things, it is not because he is destitute of passions, but only that they
are directed toward the wrong object. If however, he loves God with that
measure of feeling with which God has endowed him, he will neither be
punished nor rewarded for the fact that his stock is greater or smaller than
that of his fellow creatures.
In those times when our sense of spiritual things is weak and low, we must
not give way to distrust, but warm our hearts with the recollection of our
better moments. Our motives to love are not now diminished, but when our
spiritual frame is lower, our natural spirits are weaker. Where there is
languor there will be discouragements. But we must press on. "Faint yet
pursuing," must sometimes be the Christian's motto.
There is more merit (if ever we dare apply so arrogant a word to our
worthless efforts), in persevering under depression and discomfort, than in
the happiest flow of devotion when the tide of health and spirits runs high.
Where there is less gratification there is less interest. Our love may be
equally pure though not equally fervent when we persist in serving our
heavenly Father with the same constancy, though it may seem that He has
withdrawn from us our familiar consolations. Perseverance may bring us to
the very qualities the absence for which we have longing, "O tarry the
Lord's leisure, be strong and He shall comfort your heart."
We are too ready to imagine that we are spiritual because we know something
of religion. We appropriate to ourselves the pious sentiments we read, and
we talk as if the thoughts of other men's heads were really the feeling of
our own hearts. But piety is not rooted in the memory, but in the
affections. The memory provides assistance in this, though it is a bad
substitute. Instead of being elated when we meditate on some of the
Psalmist's more beautiful passages, we should feel a deep self-abasement on
the reflection, that even though our situation may sometimes resemble his,
yet how unsuited to our hearts seem the ardent expressions of his
repentance, the overflowing of his gratitude, the depth of his submission,
the entireness of his self-dedication and the fervor of his love. But one
who indeed can once say with him, "You are my portion," will, like him,
surrender himself unreservedly to His service.
It is important that we never allow our faith, any more than our love, to be
depressed or elevated by mistaking for its operations the ramblings of a
busy imagination. Faith must not look for its character to erratic flights
of fantasy. Once faith has fixed her foot on the immutable Rock of Ages,
fastened her firm eye on the cross, and stretched out her triumphant hand to
seize the promised crown, she will not allow her stability to depend on
imagination's constant shiftings. She will not be driven to despair by the
blackest shades of anxiety, nor be betrayed into a careless security by its
most flattering and vivid allurements.
One cause for the fluctuations in our faith is that we are too ready to
judge the Almighty as if He were one of us. We judge Him not by His own
declarations of what He is and what He will do, but by our own low
standards. Because we are too little disposed to forgive those who have
offended us, therefore we conclude that God is not ready to pardon our
offenses. We suspect Him of being implacable, because we are apt to be so.
When we do forgive, it is usually grudgingly and superficially, therefore we
infer that God will not forgive freely and fully. We make a hypocritical
distinction between forgiving and forgetting injuries. But God cleans the
slate when He grants the pardon. He not only says, "your sins and your
iniquities will I forgive," but "I will remember them no more."
We are disposed to emphasize the smallness of our offenses, as a plea for
their forgiveness; whereas God, to exhibit the boundlessness of His own
mercy, has taught us to enter a plea directly contrary to that: "Lord,
pardon my guilt, for it is great." To natural reason this argument of David
is most extraordinary. But while he felt that the greatness of his own
iniquity left him no human resource, he felt that God's mercy was greater
even than his sin. What a large, what a magnificent picture this gives us of
God's power and goodness, that, instead of pleading the smallness of our own
offenses as a motive for pardon, we plead only the abundance of the divine
compassion!
We are told that it is the duty of the Christian to "seek God." Yet it would
be less repulsive to our corrupt nature to go on a pilgrimage to distant
lands than to seek Him within our own hearts. Our own heart is truly an
unknown territory, a land more foreign to us than the regions of the polar
circle. Yet that heart is the place in which we must seek an acquaintance
with God. It is there we must worship Him, if we would worship Him in spirit
and in truth.
But alas, the heart is not a home for a worldly man; it is scarcely a home
for a Christian. If business and pleasure are our natural inclinations, the
resulting emptiness, sloth and insensibility—too often worse than the
inclinations themselves, disqualify too many Christians and make them
unwilling to pursue spiritual things.
I have observed that a common beggar if overtaken by a shower of rain, would
rather find shelter under the wall of a churchyard, than to enter through
the open church door while divine services are going on. It is less annoying
to him to be drenched with the storm, than to enjoy the convenience of a
shelter and a seat, if he must enjoy them at the heavy price of listening to
the sermon.
While we condemn the beggar, let us look into our own hearts; can we not
detect some of the same indolence, reticence, and distaste for serious
things? Do we not find that we sometimes prefer our very pains, vexations
and inconveniences to communing with our Maker? Happy are we if we would not
rather be absorbed in our petty cares and little disturbances. We too often
make them the means of occupying our minds and of drawing them away from
that devout fellowship with God which demands the liveliest exercise of our
rational powers, and the highest elevation of our spiritual affections. It
should be easily understood that the dread of being driven to this sacred
fellowship is a chief cause of that activity and restlessness which sets the
world in such perpetual motion.
Though we are ready to express our general confidence in God's goodness,
what practical evidences can we produce to prove that we really do trust
Him? Does this trust deliver us from worldly anxiety? Does it free us from
the same agitation of spirits which those who make no such profession
endure? Does it relieve the mind of doubt and distrust? Does it fortify us
against temptations? Does it produce in us "that work of righteousness which
is peace," that effect of righteousness which is "quietness and assurance
forever"? Do we commit ourselves and our concerns to God in word merely, or
in reality? Does this implicit reliance simplify our desires? Does it induce
us to credit the testimony of His word and the promises of His Gospel? Do we
not entertain some secret suspicions of His faithfulness and truth in our
hearts when we persuade others in an attempt to persuade ourselves that we
unreservedly trust Him?
In the preceding chapter we endeavored to illustrate how our lack of love
for God is exposed when we are slower to vindicate the divine conduct than
to justify the action of a mere human acquaintance. The same illustration
may express our reluctance to trust in God. If a trusted friend does us a
kindness, though he may not think it necessary to explain the particular
manner in which he intends to do it, we take him at his word. Assured of the
result, we are neither inquisitive about the mode nor the details. But do we
treat our Almighty Friend with the same liberal confidence? Do we not murmur
because we do not know where He is leading us and cannot follow His
movements step by step? Do we wait for the development of His plan in full
assurance that the results will be ultimately good? Do we trust that He is
abundantly able to do more for us than we can ask or think, if by our
suspicions we do not offend Him, and if by our infidelity we do not provoke
Him? In short, do we not think ourselves utterly undone, when we have only
Providence to trust in?
We are ready to acknowledge God in His mercies—no, we confess Him in the
daily enjoyments of life. In some of these common mercies, such as a bright
day, a refreshing shower, or delightful scene, we discover that an
excitement of spirits, a sort of carnal enjoyment, though of a refined
nature, mixes itself with our devotional feelings; and though we confess and
adore the bountiful Giver, we do it with a little mixture of
self-complacency and human gratification. Fortunately He pardons and accepts
us for this mixture.
But we must also look for Him in scenes less animating; we must acknowledge
Him on occasions less exhilarating, less gratifying to our senses. It is not
only in His promises that God manifests His mercy. His threatenings are
proofs of the same compassionate love. His warnings are intended to snatch
us from punishment.
We may also trace His hand not only in the wonderful visitations of life,
not only in the severer dispensations of His providence, but in vexations so
trivial that we should hesitate to recognize that they are providential
appointments, if we did not know that our daily life is made up of
unimportant circumstances rather than of great events. As they are of
sufficient importance to exercise the Christian desires and affections, we
may trace the hand of our Heavenly Father in those daily little
disappointments, the hourly vexations which occur even in the most
prosperous circumstances, and which are inseparable from the condition of
humanity. We must trace that same beneficent hand, secretly at work for our
purification and our correction, in the imperfections and unpleasantness of
those around us, in the perverseness of those with whom we transact
business, and in those interruptions which break in upon our favorite
engagements.
We are perhaps too much addicted to our innocent delights, or we are too
fond of our leisure, our learning or even of our religious devotion. But
while we say with Peter, "It is good for us to he here," the divine vision
is withdrawn, and we are compelled to come down from the mount. Or perhaps
we do not use our time of prayer for the purposes for which it was granted,
and to which we had resolved to devote it, and our time is broken in upon to
make us more sensible of its value. Or we feel a self-satisfaction in our
leisure, a pride in our books or of the good things we are intending to say
or do. A check then becomes necessary, but it is given in a most
imperceptible way. The hand that gives it is unseen, is unsuspected, yet it
is the same gracious hand which directs the more important events of life.
Some annoying interruption breaks in on our projected privacy and calls us
to a sacrifice of our inclination, to a renunciation of our own will. These
incessant tests of our temper, if well received, may be more salutary to the
mind than the finest passage we had intended to read, or the most sublime
sentiment we had fancied to write.
Instead of searching for great mortifications, as a certain class of pious
writers recommends, let us cheerfully bear and diligently receive these
smaller trials which God prepares for us. Submission to a cross which He
inflicts, to a disappointment which He sends, to a contradiction of our
self-love which He appoints, is a far better exercise than great penances of
our own choosing. Perpetual conquests over impatience, ill temper and
self-will, indicate a better spirit than any self-imposed mortifications. We
may traverse oceans and scale mountains on uncommanded pilgrimages without
pleasing God. We may please Him without any other exertion than by crossing
our own will.
Perhaps you had been busying your imagination with some projected scheme,
not only lawful, but laudable. The design was basically good, but the
involvement of your own will might interfere and even taint the purity of
your best intentions. Your motives were so mixed that it was difficult to
separate them. Sudden sickness obstructed the design. You naturally lament
the failure, not perceiving that however good the work might be for others,
the sickness was better for yourself. An act of charity was in your
intention, but God saw that you should have required the exercise of a more
difficult virtue; that the humility and resignation, the patience and
contrition of a sick bed were more necessary for you.
He accepts your plan as far as it was designed for His glory, but then He
calls you to other duties, which were more honoring for Him, and of which
the Master was the better judge. He sets aside your work and orders you to
wait, which may be the more difficult part of your task. To the extent that
your motive was pure, you will receive the reward of your unperformed
charity, though not the gratification of the performance. If it was not
pure, you are rescued from the danger attending a right action performed on
a worldly principle. You may be the better Christian, though one good deed
is subtracted from your catalogue.
By a life of activity and usefulness, you would have, perhaps, attracted the
public esteem. The love of prestige begins to mix itself with your better
motives. You do not, it is presumed, act entirely, or chiefly for human
applause; but you are too concerned about it. It is a delicious poison which
begins to infuse itself into your purest cup. You acknowledge indeed the
sublimity of higher motives, but you begin to feel that the human incentive
is necessary, and your spirits would flag if it were withdrawn. This
yearning for praise would gradually tarnish the purity of your best actions.
He who sees your heart as well as your works, mercifully snatches you from
the perils of prosperity.
Malice in others may be awakened. Your most meritorious actions are ascribed
to the most corrupt motives. You are attacked just where your character is
most vulnerable. The enemies whom your success raised up, are raised up by
God, not to punish you but to save you. We are far from suggesting that He
can ever be the author of evil; He does not excite or approve the attack,
but He uses your accusers as instruments of your purification. Your fame was
too dear to you. It is a costly sacrifice, but God requires it. It must be
offered up. You would gladly embrace another offering, but this is the
offering He chooses. And while He graciously continues to employ you for His
glory, He thus teaches you to renounce your own. He sends this trial as a
test, by which you are to try yourself. He thus instructs you not to abandon
your Christian exertions, but to elevate the principle which inspired them,
to rid it from all impure mixtures.
By thus stripping away the most engaging duties of this dangerous delight,
by infusing some drops of bitterness into our sweetest drink, He graciously
compels us to return to Himself. By taking away the buttresses by which we
are perpetually propping up our sagging self-images, they fall to the
ground. We are, as it were, driven back to Him, who condescends to receive
us, though He knows we would not have returned to Him if everything else had
not failed us. He makes us feel our weakness, that we may resort to His
strength. He makes us sensible of our hitherto unperceived sins, that we may
take refuge in His everlasting compassion.