THE CALL AND CONSECRATION
"Jesus, I my cross have taken,
All to leave and follow Thee;
Naked, poor, despised, forsaken,
Thou from hence my all shall be;
Perish every fond ambition,
All I've sought, or hoped, or known,
Yet how rich is my condition,
God and heaven are still my own!"
"Then Jesus said to Simon, 'Don't be afraid; from now on
you will catch men.' So they pulled their boats up on shore, left everything
and followed Him." Luke 5:10, 11; Matthew 4:19; Mark 1:17-21
The Sermon to the multitudes we have spoken of in the
preceding chapter being finished, the "Consecration service," the
all-absorbing event of that memorable hour, begins. How is it conducted?
What is the Savior's mode of illustrating solemn truths which are to have
their bearings on the remotest ages of the world? In that great Temple of
Nature—the everlasting mountains its pillars—the arching sky its roof—the
Lord alike of nature and of grace discourses to His disciples and to the
Church of the future by means of an acted parable. He who, at a later
period of His ministry, cursed a fruitless fig-tree on the way to Bethphage,
in order that it might be to all time a standing memorial of the guilt of
hypocritical profession, now makes the humble callings of the fishermen of
Galilee the means of conveying to their own minds, lessons of faith, and
confidence, and hope. He takes the nets they were washing, as exponents of
these great truths, and prepares to make them "Fishers of men."
At the bidding of their Master, after their night of
unsuccessful toil, they had once more launched forth into the deep. The nets
had been lowered—the unrewarded efforts of the long midnight hours were more
than recompensed. So wondrous was the capture, that they had to beckon to
Andrew and John to come to their assistance from the adjoining pier. The net
was discharged of its contents, and both vessels were filled to the point of
sinking with the unprecedented spoil. It is the sequel of the narrative
which is now to engage us, in which three points invite our attention.
I. SIMON PETER'S EXCLAMATION—"When Simon Peter saw it,
he fell down at Jesus' knees, saying, Depart from me; for I am a sinful man,
O Lord."
The feelings of Peter form the natural workings of every
soul which, conscious of its sinfulness, has been brought into visible
contact with its God. He had known of Jesus before as the Holy Youth—the
Teacher sent from God—the Prophet of whom the Baptist testified that He was
"mightier than he." But here he felt the consciousness of a more majestic
Presence still. He sees standing before him the Lord of creation, the owner
of "the fish of the sea, and whatever passes through the paths of the sea."
His feelings are those of trembling Jacob, "Surely the Lord is in this
place; and I did not know it." The finite felt himself in contact with the
Infinite. Faith, love, adoring reverence, and intermingled with all, a
profound abasing sense of worthlessness and guilt, makes this impulsive
apostle humble himself in the dust. In tremulous dread, he is ready to say
with Pilgrim Israel, as they cowered under the blazing peaks of Sinai, "Let
not God speak with us, lest we die."
Very different was his subsequent conduct, when he had
learned, by "perfect love," to "cast out fear." Called to gaze into
profounder depths of his Redeemer's glory—though subsequent nearer and
dearer fellowship tended in no degree to diminish his sense of that gulf,
which must ever be untraversed between the Creator and the creature—the
sinner and the divinely exalted Holy One—nay, though quickened spiritual
sensibilities would tend rather to augment and intensify the sense of
unworthiness and imperfection—yet the terror of this first surprise never
again returns. When we next see him at his Savior's feet, owning Him as God,
there is no trembling accent on his lip as he makes the joyous avowal, "Lord
to whom can we go? You have the words of eternal life; we believe and are
sure that You are the Christ, the Son of the living God, who was to come
into the world."
As years roll over his head, increased familiarity with
his Divine Master only deepens this loving, trustful confidingness; and even
after the Lord had withdrawn from him His visible presence—after the
heavenly veil had shut out His glorified person from the eyes of His
apostle—that fervent soul loved to penetrate the invisible; realizing an
absent Savior, he thus comforted his own heart and the hearts of those to
whom he wrote, "Whom having not seen you love, and in whom, though now you
see Him not, yet believing you rejoice with joy unspeakable and full of
glory."
Why, and how this wondrous change in his feelings? It is
the history of every believer still, when he comes for the first time into
solemn, heart-searching contact with God—when the eyes of his understanding
are enlightened, and the dreadful consciousness passes over the stricken
spirit—"I am a poor, miserable, guilty, condemned being, responsible to One
who is of purer eyes than to behold iniquity." Ah! when life's
long-slumbering atheist-dream has been thus dispelled; when the soul, naked,
unsheltered, guilty, unforgiven, feels itself all in a moment in the
presence of the God with whom, emphatically, "it has to do;" when an
inexorable law flashes conviction and condemnation on a misspent past,
speaking trumpet-tongued of the righteousness of the lawgiver; when a future
of limitless being rises up before him in ghastly reality; impressive and
solemn ciphers, unheeded before, now standing in front of the solitary "unit
of earthly existence;" when the miserable shreds and patches of earthly
goodness and virtue are disclosed in their utter worthlessness—conventional
moralities seen to be but "splendid sins"—sparks of fire of their own
kindling, quenched one after another, and revealing only a darkness more
felt; the awakened sinner, stricken down, helpless, terrified, before this
first revelation of Jehovah, exclaims, with Job, "My ears had heard
of You, but now my eyes have seen You. Therefore I despise myself and repent
in dust and ashes!" He gazes on the great God of Heaven—the Holy One—the
Just One—the Righteous One—but it is out of Christ, and He is a
"consuming fire." "Depart from me," he exclaims in a paroxysm of fear. It is
the feeling of our fallen Parents of old, when, under the fresh
consciousness of their guilt, they fled frightened from their Maker. The
voice which had so lately all music, has now become nothing but terror and
wrath; the flaming cherubim guard the way. Where is the spot in the wide
universe to which that burdened soul would not rush to screen itself from
revealed truth, holiness, omniscience?
But, look! the flaming sword guarding the way to the Tree
of Life is seen quenched with blood. The unbridged gulf of separation has
been spanned; a glorious sunshine bringing peace and rest and consolation,
bursts from that dark and lowering sky. The brief history of that joyful
transformation is thus told—"God is in Christ, reconciling a lost world
to Himself." Yes! that trembling one ventures to lift up his eyes in
these moments of waking agony. He sees One standing by him in mingled
majesty and tenderness, who has magnified that law and made it honorable,
and who, by His doing and dying, has opened up a way of forgiveness to the
guiltiest. The gates of torment are shut; the gates of glory are opened. It
is no longer a "fearful" but a blessed thing "to fall into the hands of the
living God." In trembling transport he exclaims—(not as in the first anguish
of awaking convictions, "Depart from me," but,) "Lord, to whom can I go but
to You?" "Entreat me not to leave You, nor to return from following after
You. Where You go, I will go; where You dwell, I will dwell. Through life I
will pass cheered by Your love; in death I shall be supported by Your
everlasting arms; through all eternity I shall in Your unveiled presence,
rejoice with joy unspeakable and full of glory."
Oh, happy consummation! if, while we are smitten down
by a sense of our unworthiness, we are directed to adoring Gospel views of
Christ, in His person, and offices, and work. Believer! turn your eye
with arrested gaze on this divine Savior. The more you gaze, the more
will terror give way to wonder, love, confidence, and joy! The more you
study His divine character, the more you will understand the divine secret
of repose—"Acquaint yourself now with God and be at peace."
II. We have THE SAVIOR'S ASSURANCE—How gently He speaks!
"Jesus said to Simon, FEAR NOT." It is the same calming word which,
as we shall find in later times, soothed and lulled disquieting
misgivings—dropping like oil on the surging sea—"Fear not, it is I,
do not be afraid." When John found himself gazing on the lustrous
countenance of his Redeemer in Patmos, he fell awe-struck at His feet, "as
one dead." But the whisper of a well-known voice was enough to restore
confidence and joy. It was the same gracious watchword—"Fear not, I
am He who lives, and was dead."
What a sublime antidote to our misgivings! What a balm to
our troubled spirits, these accents of undying and unchanging solace,
stealing like celestial chimes from the upper sanctuary—"FEAR NOT!" Fear
not, poor sinner trembling under a sense of your sin, your great
unworthiness, your black ingratitude. "I have come to seek and to save those
who are lost."
Fear not, faint and weary one, appalled at your own
deep corruptions and guilty estrangements. The temptations and snares of a
seductive world, and that great antagonist, unbelief, ever tempting you to
stray from the living God; "I will make my grace sufficient for you."
Fear not, tempted and tried one, beaten down with a
great fight of afflictions; your garnered earthly blessings swept from you
like chaff in the summer's threshing floor, your household plundered of its
nearest and dearest, and the gaping fissures in your bleeding heart refusing
to be healed or comforted. Fear not, I am better than son or
daughter, or any earthly relative. Heart and flesh may faint and fail, but
God is the strength of your heart, and your portion forever.
Fear not, you who "all you lives were held in slavery
by your fear of death." I once was dead. I have sanctified the grave before
you. I have fought and conquered death in his own territories, and dragged
him in triumph at my chariot wheels. This last enemy may at times, be to you
like a cold ghastly shade moving on the midnight lake. But trust Me, when it
comes, you shall hear amid the storm, a loud Voice mightier than the noise
of many waters; yes, than the mighty waves of the sea—"Fear not, it is I,
don't be afraid."
The Savior, having relieved his servant's fears, proceeds
to unfold the nature and duties, the responsibilities and encouragements,
of the great apostolic work.
How startled must that fisherman of Galilee have been by
the announcement which now fell upon his ears—"From now on you shall
catch men!" Jesus made the mute tenants of the lake that lay in
dead and dying heaps in the net, a living parable and pledge of far vaster
successes. He was to retain his net, but souls were to be the nobler prey.
He was to buffet waves still, but they were to be the waves of human
passion, and ignorance, and crime. He was to hoist his sail still on a more
treacherous sea, but, with a mightier arm than his own guiding the helm, he
would reach the heavenly shore with the unbroken net, and lay at his
Redeemer's feet joyous multitudes rescued from the depths of ruin and
despair.
Commentators have often marked, in the original Greek,
the power and beauty of the word here used by Jesus, and whose full meaning
is so inadequately expressed by the term "catch" in our translation. It
means to catch, not in order to kill and destroy, but to "catch alive," to
catch in order to preserve and perpetuate life, or to raise it to a higher
state of development.
Ah! wondrous encouragement to Peter, and to all who like
Peter are entrusted with the net of the gospel! Ministers of Christ! here is
your high prerogative, to raise the myriads which at the Savior's word you
capture—to raise them from the lower element, "the earth, earthy," to the
higher and nobler and purer element of undying endless LIFE. If the analogy
fails in the case of the humble spoil which then lay on the earthly shore,
it is only that Christ, by the beauty of contrast, may bring out more
vividly the true grandeur of the great commission. It was as if He
had said, "Peter, that net of yours has dragged its multitudes out of their
briny depths, but they struggle and die in this new and hostile element. As
they are cast on the beach, their tiny existence, the ephemeral life I gave
them, terminates forever. But different, far different, is your
embassy. At my command you are to let down your net. Myriads on myriads in
the ocean depths of despair are to be the fruits of your faithful
toil and that of others; and no sooner do they leave their old element of
guilt and depravity, than they begin to breathe a new and nobler life,
immortal as My own."
Would that those of us who are "Fishers of men,"
Ambassadors of Christ, could realize this vast, this incomparable work, with
all its tremendous responsibilities and tremendous results! Death and life
are here confided to us! Our aim is here represented to be, not a mere
external varnishing over with new habits, new tastes, new virtues; but to
effect a change of being. The faithful preaching of the gospel ought
to have for its object a bringing up and out from the deep, dead sea of
nature; elevating to a new heaven-born atmosphere. Oh, LIFE is a solemn
thing!—a solemn word! It is a solemn hour—every parent knows it—when a child
is born into the world—when the first infant cry breaks upon the ear, and
tells that a little inhabitant has been added to the domain of life—a new
heir of an endless imperishable being!
And shall not that be a solemn and momentous event, when,
at the second spiritual birth, the cry of the new creature is heard, "Lord,
save me, or I perish"—when the immortal spirit begins to breathe a new
atmosphere, to share in the very Life of the Almighty who made him, and in
the Resurrection-life of the Savior who redeemed him? You are captured in
the Gospel net, but it is to have life infused, the only thing worth
calling life in a dead and dying world. I repeat it, the Gospel raises to a
higher platform—it raises from the groveling element of fallen sinful nature
to the higher element of grace and glory.
The little seed is in its element when, beneath
the clod, it slumbers in darkness in its clay or mossy bed; but nobler is
its new element, when it springs exultant from its prison house, and,
arrayed in living green, bathes its newborn tints in the glorious sunlight.
The caterpillar is in its native element when, embedded in its
chrysalis state, it lies a torpid and forbidding groveler in its winter
shell; but nobler is its destiny, when on wings of purple and gold it spurns
its tiny sepulcher, and in resurrection attire it speeds from flower to
flower. The earth is one mass of teeming life, living and moving, and
turning on its axis, even when night wraps it in its curtain, and deep sleep
pervades its silent tenantry; but nobler surely is that life, when the sun
lights up with living glory temple and tree, and rock and mountain,
transforming lake and ocean into burnished gold, and man, its high priest,
"goes forth to his work and his labor until the evening."
But what are these compared to the higher Life and Glory
with which the immortal soul is invested, when the Great Spirit, brooding
over its chaos, gives the summons, "Let there be light," "Let there be
Life." Oh, that this might ever be the aim—the end—the glory of all
preaching (perish all other)—to "catch men," not by human power or human
eloquence—the wisdom of words—exalting ourselves at the expense of our
Master—making the cross of Christ of no effect; but in faith and love and
joyful hope, letting down the simple net—it may be with crude untutored
hands, but doing so at the word of Christ, and with longing desire to bring
immortal spirits safely to the heavenly shore, living trophies to cast at
the Great Master's feet!
The ministers of Christ, in handling the gospel net, are
apt at times to be discouraged. They have to mourn like Peter over hours of
unavailing effort—Sabbaths when the net was (as they thought) in faith let
down; but no result of their labors—no owning of their work. Yet we will not
despair. "Nevertheless at Your word we will still let down the net."
Others may resort to other expedients for the
improvement of man, solving the great problem of fretful, careworn,
restless, suffering humanity apart from the gospel. The
philosopher may dream of visionary earthly antidotes; the statesman
may see in some cold, frigid, intellectual training a panacea for human
wrongs; the moralist may discourse on human virtue, and the
self-rectifying power of human goodness; the Socialist may dare to
propound his damning theories as the pioneers of the halcyon reign of
unbounded liberty. But "nevertheless we will let down the net." We have
boldness and confidence that Christ, and Him crucified, and the new life
which this Lord of life has to impart, are the true and only secrets of
peace on earth and good will to men.
See what that gospel has done already! mark its power and
progress ever since that hour when on Tiberias shore Christ spoke this
authoritative word to these humble fishermen! How weak their efforts! how
humble their instrumentality! What! a handful of uneducated men from the
darkest of all the Palestine provinces, and one other converted Jew of
Tarsus; who ever dreamed of these hurling superstition from her
throne—silencing her oracles—demolishing the temples and shrines of
ages—bringing the whole Roman empire, as by a magic touch, to own a
crucified Savior as its God and King?
What can't grace do? Their first motto has been the
motto of every faithful successor in the glorious company of
apostles—"Nevertheless at Your word we will let down the net." The ancestral
splendors of our own ancient ritual is against us; the pomp and pride of
imperial Rome is against us; the learning and philosophy of polished Greece
is against us; the idolatries of Paganism, with their lust and revelry, and
blood, are against us; the heart of corrupted, degraded humanity is against
us—"Nevertheless at Your word we will let down the net."
Rome has conquered by her sword; Greece has rendered
herself immortal by her triumphs of intellect. The Jew, arrogant and
fanatical, boasts of a descent from the world's aristocracy, and proudly
clings to an abrogated ritual. But we, with the humblest instrumentality—an
instrumentality of which the net of lowly fishermen is the befitting type—we
will go forth on our accredited mission, feeling that herein lies the secret
of all success—"Not by might nor by power, but by the Spirit of the Lord God
of Hosts." "It has pleased God, by the foolishness of preaching, to save
those who believe!"
More than this, looking closely at this prophetic
parable, we find that Christ, in calling human agents to be Fishers of men,
not only divinely appoints to the office, and divinely qualifies
for the office, but there is an exquisite significance in the
accompanying act of the catch of fishes. It is a prophetic promise that men
shall be enclosed; that His word shall not return to Him void; that
the net of the kingdom shall not be let down in vain. It is the Lord Himself
giving the pledge, and symbol, and guarantee of success; and we shall find
Him repeating the same with still greater significance, at the close of
all—at His last visit to Gennesaret, before He ascended to glory.
Oh, yes! the letting down of that net, the filling it,
the drawing; it is the Lord's work and not man's. "Neither is he who plants
anything, neither he who waters, but God who gives the increase, that our
faith may not stand in the wisdom of men, but in the power of God." The
great and glorious history of apostolic preaching and ministerial success
for the last 1800 years, may be given in the lofty words of the Psalmist;
they are words that would seem more especially to take their date from the
very hour of which we now speak, when Jesus stood on Gennesaret's shore—when
His omnipotent mandate moved the first wave—this impelling another, and
another, and another still—until the glad gospel waters are now fast
sweeping over the sands of time—"The Lord announced the word—great was the
company of those that proclaimed it. Kings and armies flee in haste; in the
camps men divide the plunder. Even while you sleep among the campfires, the
wings of my dove are sheathed with silver, its feathers with shining gold."
III. Let us observe the DISCIPLES' RESOLUTION—"So they
pulled their boats up on shore, left everything and followed Jesus." Or
as the same incident is recorded in the parallel passage in Matthew's
gospel—"At once they left their nets and followed Him. Going on from there,
He saw other two brothers, James the son of Zebedee, and his brother John.
They were in a boat with their father Zebedee, preparing their nets. Jesus
called them, and immediately they left the boat and their father and
followed Him."
It is a solemn lesson of self-denial we are called
on here to come and learn at the feet of Galilean fishermen. It was, it must
have been for them, a trying hour. At a moment's warning their worldly
all was to be left. The hallowed scenes of youth were around them. Every
rock and ravine—every sheltered nook and bay in that lovely inland sea—they
knew it well. The Bethsaida hamlet, from which childhood was used to rush in
its sunny morning to welcome the father, as his boat scraped the shallows,
after his night of toil in the lake, was full in view. Nay, we are expressly
told, that father's ear listened to the strange summons that implied
separation from him and his home, probably forever. They just had, moreover,
their boats filled to overflowing. Elated with success, which they might
have been perverse enough to attribute to ordinary causes, they never before
had so strong inducement to cleave to their nets and carry on their calling.
And for what were they to exchange their all? It
was to carry a heavy cross! It was to attach themselves to the person
and fortunes of the reputed Son of a carpenter, who was often unable to tell
of so secure a shelter as had the fox of the mountain or the bird of the
forest! Yet they ("immediately") without deliberating—without conferring
with flesh and blood—without reasoning on maxims of expediency—willingly
surrendered that all, and cast in their lot with the despised and rejected
One! "Follow me!" said their Lord; and with cheerful willingness their
boats, homes, friends, were left. "From now on they are fishers of men!"
Did they regret this noble commitment? Were they
sufferers by their self-sacrificing devotion? "Look!" says Peter, on an
after occasion, "we have left all and followed You!" Jesus said in
reply, "I tell you the truth, no one who has left home or brothers or
sisters or mother or father or children or fields for Me and the gospel will
fail to receive a hundred times as much in this present age—and in the age
to come, eternal life!"
Ah! who ever suffered by casting in his lot with a
suffering Savior, and with joyful resolution following Jesus? "Would to
God," said another great follower (unabashed by the regal purple before him
in making his bold avowal)—"would to God," said he, even though the clank of
the chain on his own arm reminded of earthly bonds—"would to God you were
not only almost but altogether such as I am!"
Reader! have you followed—are you following Jesus as did
these His first apostles? You are not called on, thank God, like them to
follow Him in the confiscation of your earthly goods, or in the
relinquishment of your earthly homes. To be a follower of Christ does not
require huge sacrifices—brilliant displays of heroic suffering. I believe
that meek Savior is most honored by those who bear most meekly what I might
call little crosses, who, not in the great battlefield of the world,
but in the quiet of their own homesteads, exhibit the lowly, submissive,
patient spirit of cross-bearing disciples.
Look back on your past life—look even back on a single
year, and can you point to any one action in the course of it, in which you
are conscious of having made some little denial of self, because you
thought that denial would be pleasing to Jesus? Can you tell of some
passion you subdued—some lust you mortified—some kindly deed
you performed, because you believed your Savior would be honored, and you
were thereby doing His will? Can you tell of some sore affliction to which
you bowed in meek and lowly submission, manifesting in your trial patience,
and faith, and unmurmuring resignation, because you thought of an
unmurmuring Savior, and that your own cross was but as dust in the balance
compared with His?
Say, isn't that following of your Lord self-rewarding and
self-recompensing? "If any man serves me," says He, "let him follow Me, and
where I am there shall also My servant be; if any man serves Me, him will My
Father honor!" Even if it be suffering and trial you are called to endure,
what a privilege in this to "follow Jesus." Yes! put the emphasis on
these little words—"Follow Me." "They followed HIM!" Suffering
believer! is it no comfort in the midst of trial to think that you are
following in the very footsteps of a suffering Savior—that you, a poor,
guilty, worthless sinner, are faring no worse than your Lord and Master
did—the stainless, spotless, sinless, and uncomplaining Lamb of God?
Follow Him fully—cast off every impediment—every
lingering sin that would hamper you in His service. Go and show that you
follow Him by your deeds. It was not by tarrying at their nets, or lingering
on the shores, that the disciples manifested their resolve to cast in their
lot with the homeless Christ of Galilee! They did it. Ah! religion is
not contemplation, but action. Religion is not a thing of
mopish sentimentalism, or self-effacing looks, or trite phrases. It is
launching forth into the deep of our own and the world's great necessities.
It is letting down the net for a catch, and then, in conjunction with this
earnest work, rising up and following the example, the footsteps, the
word, the will of Jesus.
Arise, then, let us be going! We may, like the disciples
in that first hour of their calling, be all in ignorance of a veiled and
shadowed future; but, if like them, in the company of the Lord, we may
fearlessly leave our fondest earthly treasures behind us, making but one
conditional prayer, "If Your presence does not go with us, do not send us up
from here." Following Him in His cross we shall at last be sharers
with Him in His glorious crown, and reap the blessing which He
elsewhere promises to His Apostolic band, and through them to all who
inherit a disciple-spirit. "I assure you that when I, the Son of Man, sit
upon my glorious throne in the Kingdom, you who have been my followers will
also sit on twelve thrones, judging the twelve tribes of Israel." Matthew
19:28