Daily Devotionals - F.W. Boreham
jan - feb - mar - april - may - june
January 1
Assert Thy worship and renown;
O all-redeeming God, come down!
Be of good cheer; I have overcome the world. — John 16:33
What is the victory that overcomes the world? To conquer the world I must have implicit confidence in my ability to conquer the world: faint heart never won... anything. And my implicit confidence in my ability to conquer the world is well grounded. For I have entered into an alliance with One who has already conquered the world! Be of good cheer, I have overcome the world! What He has done once, He can do again!
The faith that conquers the world is no mere
credal faith. I shall never overcome the world by faith in the authenticity
of a record, however sacred; nor by faith in the historicity of a biography,
however sublime. The faith that overcomes is a living faith in a living Conqueror.
I place my hand in His. 'Come, O Thou Conqueror Renowned', I cry, 'and repeat
on the battlefield of my heart Thine ancient and glorious triumphs! In my
daily warfare with the world and the flesh and the devil, let me feel Thee
slaying Thine old-tune foes all over again! By Thine Almighty Power —
the Power by which the worlds were made; the Power of Thy resurrection —
secure in me the victory over everything that cools my affection for Thyself,
over everything that impedes or arrests my spiritual pilgrimage, over everything
that obscures my vision of life's real issues and of life's true goal!'
And He does it! He conquers the world all over again! For this is the victory that overcometh the world, even our faith.
I Forgot to say, p 203
January 2
A speaking likeness
He that hath seen me hath seen the Father. —John 14: 9
Simonides, the sweet singer of Ceos, one day mentioned the name of God in the hearing of Hiero, the tyrant of Syr-acuse. 'God!' blustered the king, 'what do you mean by God? Tell me that!' Taken by surprise, Simonides begged for a day in which to frame his definition. At the expiration of the twenty-four hours the philosopher was as far as ever from a satisfactory solution of his problem ... and when a week had run its course, he threw himself upon Hiero's mercy. 'Your Majesty,' he pleaded, 'I have undertaken the impossible, for, the more I think about God, the less am I able to define Him!'
No man can define God; no man can describe God .;. I shall not attempt to prove the existence of God; why should I? Men have but to open their eyes and survey the wonders of the universe in order to have their inborn conviction immeasurably deepened... And, in any case, there is no sense in proving that there is a God. Scientists claim they find everywhere the footprints of deity. But who wants footprints? I want Him — His very, very self! The only way to prove to one man that another exists is to introduce them to one another. And the only way to prove God to a man is to introduce that man to God. It was to achieve this end that Jesus died upon the Cross.
If I could have my ministry over again, I would talk more about God. Not about His works or His ways, His power or His bounty. But about His very, very self —His omnipresence, His omniscience, His omnipotence; His unutterable goodness, His ineffable holiness, His splendour, His glory, His love. For if I could make men very sure of God, they would soon hurry to that divine Saviour who is able to save to the uttermost those who come unto God by Him.
The Tide Comes In, pp 59-60
January 3
A galaxy of blessings
Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. — Matthew 5:3
Blessed! Blessed! Blessed! Nothing could have been more exquisitely meet and fitting than that the earthly ministry of the Prince of Glory should open in a perfect galaxy of beni-. sons and blessings. Moses preached the first Sermon on the Mount to the accompaniment of thunders and lightnings, and that sermon had left the world under a terrifying condemnation. Jesus, his great antitype, appears; He too ascends the mountain height, the multitudes eagerly following Him. And when, being set, He opens His mouth to speak, He proves that grace has been poured into His lips by letting His first word be a word of benediction: Blessed! Blessed! Blessed!
Now the old world had its own ideas about happiness or blessedness. That old world was divided into two classes — those, on the one hand, who, looking at everything superficially, lived lives of gaiety, frivolity and dissipation; and those who, on the other hand, gave themselves up to the study of philosophy. The supreme aim of both was the same. How to be happy? that was the insistent enquiry. Each of these sections had its own conceptions, its own ideals, its own beatitudes; and both were amazed and astounded when Christ solved the complex problem by pointing out an unsuspected, undreamed-of way to blessedness — a way at which they had neither of them guessed. The materialists said, as the materialists still say, 'Blessed are the rich!' Jesus said, 'Blessed are the poor in spirit? They said, 'Blessed are the merry!' Jesus replied, 'Blessed are the mourners' They said, 'Blessed are the mighty!' Jesus answered, 'Blessed are the meek.' He unfolded the mystic secret. Blessed are the poor in spirit, He said, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
The Heavenly Octave, pp 11-13
January 4
O let me commend my Saviour to you!
Then spake the Lord to Paul, Be not afraid, but speak, and hold not thy peace. — Acts 18:9
John Wesley was a past master in the art of snapping up life's bargains. 'To every one,' says Fitchett in his Wesley and His Century, 'man or woman, rich or poor, with whom he was for a moment in company — he would speak some word for his Master. The passing traveler on the road, the ostler who took the bridle of his horse, the servant of the house, the chance guest at the table — to each, in turn, Wesley uttered some brief, solemn, unpreluded word of counsel, and always with strange effect.' If a boy brought him his runaway mare; if a man restored his lost saddle-cloth; if a traveler stopped him to ask the way, he had a suitable word for each of them. 'I mention this,' says Wesley, in recording some such incident in his Journal, 'in order to show how easy it is to redeem every fragment of time when we feel any love to those souls for whom Christ died.'
On the very last page of that astounding Journal of his, an attempt is made to account for his amazing life-work. 'To one great purpose,' we are told, 'he dedicated all his powers of body and mind; for this he relinquished all honor and preferment. At all times and in all places, in season and out of season, by gentleness, by terror, by argument, by persuasion, by reason, by interest, by every motive and every inducement, he strove, with unwearied assiduity, to turn men from the error of their ways and awaken them to virtue and religion ... He thought no office too humiliating, no condescension too low, no undertaking too arduous...' The opportunity appeared sublime, and he snapped at it with avidity.
I Forgot to Say, pp 74-75
January 5
Two kinds of birthday!
Ye must be born again. — John 3: 7
Every day is somebody's birthday. Yet birthdays are mere records of time, not registers of distance. They are chronometers, riot speedometers. They tell us how long we have been upon the road, not how far we have travelled. It will never do to judge of our progress by the time we have taken. It is possible, like the tortoise, to go a very short distance in a very long while.
But I cannot leave this subject of birthdays without reminding myself that life presents every man with two supreme and indispensable imperatives. It says: Ye must be born! and it says: Ye must be born again! Unless he be born, he simply is not; there is nothing more to be said about him. And unless, having been born, he is born again, he cannot hope to see the Kingdom of God. It is the milestone that must be passed; there is no other way Home. Except ye be converted and become as little children, ye shall not enter the kingdom of heaven. Paul never forgot the milestone that he passed on the road to Damascus. Augustine never forgot that wonderful day in his garden at Milan. Hugh Latimer never forgot that talk with little Bilney in the confessional box. Luther never forgot that scene on Pilate's staircase. Bunyan never forgot the four poor women sitting in the sun. Wesley never forgot how his heart was 'strangely warmed' at Aldersgate Street. Spurgeon never forgot the little chapel at Artillery Street, Colchester.
The man who has passed such a milestone is more than half-way Home, however many years he may yet spend on the road.
The Luggage of Life, pp 14-16
January 6
Philip Melancthon's Text
If God be for us, who can be against us?— Romans 8:31
Melancthon is the most lovable of all the reformers—gentle, winsome, unassuming and scholarly. He was hidden from the public view behind the massive personality of Martin Luther, but he was never for a moment concealed from Luther's view. Luther knew that Melancthon was all gold. The two men were made for each other. 'I am rough, boisterous and stormy,' writes Luther. 'I am born to fight against innumerable monsters and devils: I must remove stumps and stones, cut away thistles and thorns, and clear the wild forests. But Master Philip comes along gently and softly, sowing and watering with joy, according to the gifts which God has abundantly bestowed upon him.'
Like most of us, Philip Melancthon had several Scriptures that were particularly dear to him; but one stood out from all the rest. // God be for us, who can be against us? In his correspondence, in his lectures, and in his table-talk, you will find them quoted more frequently than any others. In the darkest hours of his life, when powerful foes had threatened to destroy him, and powerful friends had scowled upon him and forsaken him, he had solaced himself repeatedly with that reflection. When Luther died, and it seemed as though the sacred cause for which they had contended must collapse, he again drew courage from the same inspired source. And those are the words, in Latin, which you will find inscribed over his study door in the old house at Wittenberg: Si Deus pro nobis, quis contra nos?
Philip Melancthon died in 1560. Exactly a hundred years later, John Bunyan bends over the manuscript of Grace 'Abounding. 'I was brought into great straits,' he tells us. That word came suddenly to me, // God be for us, who can be against us?' When that word has been clearly spoken, nothing else remains to be said.
A Casket of Cameos, pp 97-102
Not self-indulgence, but self-denial
He would not drink of it, and said: My God, shall I drink the blood of these men that have put their lives in jeopardy ? — 2 Samuel 23:17
Under a surge of early memories, David longed for a drink from this particular well. It was not a matter of thirst, or the waters of a nearby-spring could have satisfied him. Toafford him his coveted gratification, his devoted followers risked their lives. But, when they brought the water, the crystalline fluid flashed incarnadine. The clear water seemed I, as red as blood before his eyes. 'He would not drink of it, I but poured it out to the Lord.' And all ages have admired him for his self-denial.
Here, then, is a standard that may divide between legitimate pleasures and illegitimate. It is clear that I have no right to enjoy a pleasure that can only be had at the risk of another man's life. That is a principle of very wide application. Some of us have applied it to the matter of intoxicating liquors. It is manifest that their sale can only be maintained, not merely at the risk but at the ruin of innumerable men and women; we feel, therefore, as David felt; and conclude that we have no moral right to enjoy a pleasure which jeopardizes the lives and homes and characters of others. And if a proposed pursuit will not satisfactorily pass the ordeal of this crucible, it is, at any rate, safer to abjure it. Life consists not in self-indulgence, but in self-denial. It is recorded of St Bernard of Clairvaux that, in all matters of personal indulgence he asked himself three questions: Is it lawful? Is it becoming in me as a Christian? Is it expedient?
Cliffs of Opal, pp 5-6
January 8
There David stands with harp in hand
As master of the quire Is any merry ? Let him sing psalms. — James 5:13
John Broadbanks and I were camping away back in the bush in New Zealand. Before turning in, we each drew from our baggage tiny vest-pocket editions of portions of the Scriptures. Automatically, each glanced at the booklet in the hand of the other. 'Mine is John,' I volunteered. 'I always bring the Psalter,' said John. 'I find that if I read any other book on holiday, my mind starts sermonizing at once. But I find the Psalms devotional without being provocative. I find their music mingling with the songs of the bush birds and the murmur of the waves.'
Breathes there a man with soul so dead that he experiences no little trills of pleasant sensation and cherished recollection whenever some familiar phrase from the Book of Psalms falls upon the ear or rushes to his memory? The Psalms are so exquisitely simple, so artlessly natural and so palpitatingly human that one feels on reading them as a man might feel when, on idly turning the pages of an album, he suddenly confronts his own photograph.
In the course of his deathless allegory, John Bunyan tells us that, when Faithful passed through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, he was terrorized by no hideous demons, and heard no screeching goblins, because he was so happily employed in crooning to himself the Psalms.
Psalms has no great narrative value, like
the historical books, assisting us to an appreciation of ancient happenings;
it has no plot like those in Esther, Ruth and Jonah; it has no profound theological
significance like the gospels and epistles; it does not dazzle us with blinding
apocalyptic visions such as we find in Daniel and the Revelation. But a delicious
atmosphere of peace broods over these pages.
Dreams at Sunset, pp 78-79
January 9
The Conqueror of the World!
Greater is he that is in you, than he that is in the world. — 1 John 4:4
William Penn has set his heart on being the Conqueror of the World! It was a Quaker who fired the young man's fancy with this proud ambition. Thomas Loe was his good angel.; A subtle and inexplicable magnetism drew them together. Penn's father — Sir William Penn — was an admiral, owning an estate in Ireland. When William was but a small boy, Thomas Loe visited Cork. The coming of the Quaker caused a mild sensation; nobody knew what to make of it. Moved largely by curiosity, the admiral invited the quaint preacher to visit him. He did so, and, before leaving, addressed the assembled household. William was too young to understand, but he was startled when, in the midst of the address, a coloured servant wept aloud The boy turned in astonishment to his father, only to notice that tears were making their way down the bronzed cheeks of the admiral. The incident filled him with wonder and perplexity. He never forgot it. It left upon his mind an indelible impression of the intense reality of all things spiritual. As a schoolboy, he would wander in the forests that so richly surrounded his Essex home, and give himself to rapt and silent contemplation. On one occasion, he tells us, he 'was suddenly surprised with an inward comfort'. It seemed to him as if a heavenly glory irradiated the room in which he was sitting. He felt that he could never afterwards doubt the existence of God nor question the possibility of the soul's access to Him.:
His path crossed that of the Quaker at Oxford for the second time. But it was the third time that most permanently affected his destinies, when Thomas Loe re-visited Cork, and preached on the text, 'This is the victory that over-Limeth the world, even our faith.'
A Handful of Stars, pp 10-12
January 10
Comrades at Calvary?
Fill up that which is behind of the afflictions of Christ. — Corrosions 1:24
Where, I wonder, did the three Corinthian makeweights, Stephanas, Fortunatus and Achaicus,* acquire their skill? What was the source of their inspiration?
Is there not a strange and startling passage in which Paul speaks of filling up that which is behind in the afflictions of Christ? Is the atonement, then, incomplete? Was the price paid upon the Cross insufficient? Does the eternal sacrifice need some human make-weight to make it effective? To ask such questions is to answer them. 'It is finished!' the Saviour exclaimed. It was the triumphant cry of the workman who had brought His masterpiece to absolute perfection.
But think again! If Jesus, the Son of God, had died His bitter death on Calvary's tree, and left it at that, would that have saved the world? Of course not. The world at large would never have heard of it. The tragic incident would have passed into oblivion within a year or two. In order that the redeeming sacrifice might be made effective, and the world saved by means of it, it was necessary for the Apostles to suffer and die in proclaiming it, for the martyrs to lay down their lives in defending it, and for missionaries like Xavier and Livingstone and Williams and Chalmers to seal with their blood their testimony to its virtue. Every such death on a foreign shore, every tear shed for the gospel's sake, every jibe or sneer patiently endured out of love for Christ, is an augmentation of the awful tragedy of Golgotha. It is the wonder of wonders that He who died upon the bitter tree to redeem mankind, associates each of us with Himself in that divine and sacrificial work.
Cliffs of Opal, pp 67-68
January 11
Serendipity
That which was written was upright, even words of truth. — Ecclesiastes 12:10
Gilbert West and Lord Lyttelton once undertook to organize a campaign to expose the fictitious character of the Bible narrative. In order to make their attack the more damaging and the more effective they agreed to specialize. West promised to study thoroughly the story of the Resurrection of Jesus; Lord Lyttelton selected as the point of his assault the record of the conversion of Paul. They separated; and each began a careful and exhaustive search for inaccuracies, incongruities, and contradictions in the documents. They were engaged in exposing error, they said, and in searching after truth. Yes, they were searching after truth, and they sought with earnestness and sincerity. They were searching after truth, and they found it. For when, at the appointed time, they met to arrange the details of their projected campaign, each had to confess to the other that he had become convinced of the authenticity of the records and had yielded to the claims of Christ! Here was a search! Here was a find! They sought what they never found, and they found what they never sought. Was the search unsuccessful? Seekers after truth, they called themselves; and did they not find the truth? Like the Magi, they followed a star in the firmament with which they were familiar. But, to their amazement, the star led them to the Saviour, and neither of them ever regretted participating in so astonishing a quest.
Mushrooms on the Moor, pp 71-72
January 12
There is life for a look
Look unto me, and be ye saved. — Isaiah 45:22
It was a snowy Sunday in the middle of last century. As the caretaker fought his way through the storm from his cottage to the chapel in Artillery Street, Colchester, he wondered whether, on such a wild and wintry day, anyone would venture out. He unbolted the chapel doors and lit the furnace under the stove. Half, an hour later the preacher glanced round upon three hundred empty seats. Nearly empty, but not quite, for there were a dozen or fifteen of the regular worshippers present, and there was a boy sitting under the gallery who, intending to worship at a distant sanctuary, had been driven by the storm to shelter in this one. People who had braved such a morning deserved all the help that could be given them, and the strange boy under the gallery ought not to be sent back into the storm feeling that there was nothing in the service for him. And so the preacher determined to make the most of his opportunity, and he did.
The boy under the gallery! A marble tablet now adorns the wall near the seat which he occupied that snowy day. The inscription records that, that very morning, the boy sitting under the gallery was converted! He was only fifteen, and he died at fifty-seven. But in the course of the intervening years, he preached the gospel to millions and led thousands upon thousands into the kingdom and service of Jesus Christ. 'Look to Jesus!' cried the preacher at Colchester that Sunday morning. 'He hangs upon the Cross; He dies —and dies for you!' 'I looked,' said Mr Spurgeon. 'I looked that very moment and was saved.'
Arrows of Desire, pp 42-45
January 13
The divine love-letter
There is nothing hid from the heat thereof. — Psalm 19: 6
In the nineteenth psalm, which Dr Johnson regarded as the pinnacle of perfect poetry, David compares the light that we see with the heat that we feel. David says little about the light of the sun. He extols its heat, and for two reasons:
1. Light is superficial; heat is profound. Light glances on the surface; heat is all-diffusive, all-pervasive, all-penetrating. The light is easily evaded. Put lip the shutters or descend a mine, and you are beyond the sovereignty of the sunlight! But the heat A mile beneath my feet at this moment there reposes a huge unshapely mass of rock that, from the foundation of the world, has been enswarthed in impenetrable darkness. Never for a second has it beheld the light of the sun; yet never for a second has it been hidden from the heat thereof. The fraction of earth's bulk that has ever seen the light of the sun is simply infinitesimal; but, from the core to the crust, there is nowhere a grain of sand or a speck of dust or a drop of water, or an atom of matter of any kind, that is beyond the influence of the sun's all-searching heat. Everything and everybody is affected.
2. The light represents the things that we see; the heat represents the things we feel. And it is by the things that we feel that life is dominated and controlled. In one of the finest passages in Coningsby Lord Beaconsfield shows that all the great epoch-making movements that have convulsed mankind — the siege of Troy, the rise of the Saracens, the Crusades, the French Revolution, have been inspired, not by the reason, but by the emotions. It was not that men's minds were illuminated by a new light; it was that their hearts suddenly glowed with a new passion. The priceless evangel of the New Testament is not a system of philosophy, but a divine love-letter.
The Gospel of Uncle Tom's Cabin, pp 27-29
January 14
No crocus but for winter...
Blessed are they that mourn; for they shall be comforted. — Matthew 5: 4
We love the cloudless hours; yet we love still more the days when snowy clouds fleck the sky —clouds that, irradiated by the westering sun, become a gorgeous pageant of topaz and gold. We love the summer sunshine; yet we love the sweetness of the garden after rain. We love the exquisite rapture of Spring; yet, but for wintertime, we should never know the beauty of the crocus. We like the course of true love to run smooth; yet sweethearts tell us that there is a delicious ecstasy in making-up. Health is never so precious as when it returns to us after the long agony of fever and pain. In the same way, we love the sorrowless and tearless days; and yet life teaches us to love the days when, our souls having been bowed down in deep humiliation, and our cheeks made the channels of scalding tears, the tender Benediction of the mourner's Beatitude has stolen into our hearts.
There is a joy that cometh after sorrow, Of hope surrendered, not of hope fulfilled; A joy that looketh not upon tomorrow, But calmly on a tempest that is stilled. A joy which lives not now in wild excesses, Nor in the happy life of love secure; But in the unerring strength the heart possesses Of conflicts won while learning to endure. A joy there is, in sacrifice secluded; A life subdued, from will and passion free; 'Tis not the joy which over Eden brooded; But that which triumphed in Gethsemane. Only those who have experienced that chastened bliss know the true significance of the second Beatitude.
The Heavenly Octave, pp 30-31
January 15
O lovely peace, with blessings crowned
The Lord bless thee, and keep thee; the Lord make his face shine upon thee, and give thee peace. — Numbers 6:24-6
The Lord make His face shine upon thee and be gracious unto thee! Our minds turn naturally to Jesus, the Saviour, when we think of the Shining Face and the Abounding Grace. There is joy in the presence of the angels over one sinner that repenteth. And where is that joy that the angels witness but in the face of the Highest? The Shining Face and the streams of grace are the triumphs of the Cross.
The Lord lift up His countenance upon thee and give thee peace! I can never recite this clause of the benediction without recalling a simple little happening of long, long ago. Engrossed in a book, I was reclining in a deckchair on the lawn. A toddler was playing on the grass beside me. I had been vaguely conscious of her attempts to attract my attention, but had, I am ashamed to say, ignored them. Presently, however, she came closer and made a direct and pointed approach. 'Lift up your face, Daddy,' she said. 'Sezza wants to see you!'
The uplifted countenance! The child wants to see the Father's face. And is it not the prerogative of the divine Spirit to vouchsafe to me that revelation? And is it not the prerogative of the divine Spirit to instil into my troubled soul the priceless boon of peace?
And so I seem to see the distinctive thought of the Father in the blessing and the keeping. I seem to see the distinctive thought of the Saviour in the Shining Face and the Abounding Grace. And I seem to see the distinctive thought of the Holy Spirit in the unfolding of the Father's countenance and in the ministration of heaven's perfect peace.
A Late Lark Singing, p 15
A minister's visitation
The steps of a man are ordered by the Lord. — Psalm 37: 23
From the time when, fresh from college, I settled at Mos-giel in New Zealand, early in 1895 until. 111928,1 reveled in spending four afternoons a week in ringing people's front-door bells ? -. -. I kept my ears wide open for stories of conversion^ of answered prayer or of some phase of spiritual experience.; Then I would say, 'You must tell that story on Wednesday evening!' (the weekly fellowship). Those who shrank from public speaking, I coaxed into writing a letter that I could read at the meeting. As soon as the speaker had told his story or the letter had been read, I would remark | that I felt sure that others present had enjoyed a similar experience; if so, they must tell us about it. Following this practice, we had some delightful and profitable gatherings.
I set off one afternoon; I knew exactly in which direction I was going, and had made a list of the homes at which I hoped to call. On my way to the tram I suddenly thought of a home in an entirely different direction. No visit to that home was due, and there was, so far as I knew, no reason why my mind should turn that way. But v s i the impression deepened, and, absurd as it seemed, I decided to abandon my programmer and make my way to that home, To my astonishment, the door was answered by a doctor, 'Oh, thank God you've come!' he exclaimed. 'Mr B— has just died very unexpectedly on my hands; Mrs B— is ill in bed, and there's nobody else in the house and no telephone!'
I recall even now the emotion with which, before retiring at night, I would review the visits that I had paid during the afternoon. And, bowed in the silence. I like to think that, in these homes, I myself was not being forgotten.
Arrows of Desire, pp 89-93
January 17
Gospel of the Second Chance
I will restore to you the years that the locust hath eaten. — Joel 2:25
The prophecy of Joel was suggested by the
historic and ^ unprecedented plague of locusts which devastated the entire
land. The very sun was darkened, the fields and vineyards 'were a howling
wilderness, business in the city was paralyzed; even the sacrifices in the
Temple were suspended. In the midst of this awful visitation, the prophet
was commanded to cry: 'Fear not, O land; be glad and rejoice: for the Lord
will do great things. I will restore to you the years that the locust hath
eaten.' And the promise, royally given, was royally fulfilled.
Now if only I could go to that felon's cell, to that drunkard's home, and to a hundred other places that occur to me, with a message like that! And may I not?
Can we not recall saintly and fruitful lives in which the sanctity and the f ruitf ulness were the natural result of memories of former transgression? It was the haunting nightmare of their old sins that drove both Bunyan and Newton to such intense personal piety and to such fervent evangelical zeal. We have known men who, in the days gone by, lived in open and notorious shame. Then came the change, and their faith was a pattern to us all in its exquisite and childlike simplicity. Their faces were radiant. Their testimony was so impressive as to carry conviction to all who heard it, and we felt that God, in His own wise and wonderful way, was restoring to them the years that the locust had eaten.
The Luggage of Life, pp 66-68
January 18
Sow an act and you reap a habit. Sow a habit and you reap a character.
- Charles Reade
Moses knewist not that the skin of his face shone. — Exodus 34: 29
Absent-minded people are the aristocrats of the universe. I have often wished that some wondrous healer could stand beside those poor sufferers who are incurably afflicted with Presence of Mind! Look at poor Andrew Futlerton! He is a well-meaning fellow, but, alas, his thoughts are chained to one theme. It is a very good theme so far as it goes. But it does not go at all; it stands still! and his thoughts never wander. I often wish that he had one little prodigal thought that would take its journey Into a far country, even if, when there, it spent its substance on riotous living. But, like the elder brother of the parable, Fullerton's thoughts all prefer to stay at home.
Absent-mindedness is the masterpiece of Nature, the perfection of Art, and the crowning triumph of Grace. The third claim needs no substantiation. It is serf-evident. The best people in the world are the people who live lovely lives without being conscious of it. They do good without thinking of what they do. They do it absent-mindedly. This, I say, is the crowning triumph of Grace. It only comes with the years. There was a time when every evil thing made its appeal to them, and had to be resolutely resisted. There was a time when every opportunity of extending life's courtesies and kindnesses had to be definitely considered and resolutely embraced. Like a weed in a garden, selfishness had to be diligently uprooted; and, like delicate flowers, the lovelier qualities had to be deliberately planted and jealously cultivated. But with the passage of the years all this became habitual, almost mechanical. Jesus took great care to make His virtues habitual. Ms His custom was, He went up to the synagogue.' He knew that, unless the minor graces became mechanical, the major graces must become impossible.
The Home of the Echoes, pp 87-96
January 19
George Moore's Text
He that heareth my word, and believeth on him that sent me, hath everlasting life. — John 5:24
George Moore did not begin his spiritual pilgrimage until |he was at the zenith of his powers and at the climax of his illustrious career. Before his need of a Saviour pressed itself at all urgently upon him, he had become a partner in his firm, had established his position in life, had been invited by the Lord Mayor of London to become Sheriff of the city, had been offered an important seat in Parliament, and had earned a great reputation for philanthropy.
It was a text that did it. It suddenly occurred to him that he had been confusing the salvation of his soul with the< arrival of certain moods, feelings and sensations. Because the rush of ecstasy had swept in his heart, he had taken it for o granted that God had turned a deaf ear to him. He saw hi mistake. 'I am determined for the future,' he says, 'not t perplex my mind with seeking for some extraordinary in impression, signs, or tokens of the new birth. I believe tt gospel. I love the Lord Jesus Christ. I receive with confidence the promise that He that heareth my word, at believeth on him that sent me, hath everlasting life' I rested implicitly on that promise and entered into peace. He that believeth, says the text. George Moore believe and he kept on believing. In his diary, I come upon such entries as these: 'Every day I feel more and more my o^ unworthiness. I have nothing to rest upon but Christ; : surely that is enough for me!' 'Just as I am, without a plea — a poor, unworthy sinner. Christ takes me as I a without money or price or works. My works are nothing Such a change had the text wrought. (Continued on p 30)
A Casket of Cameos, pp 8
January 20
(continued from p 29)
The text transfigured everything. It even transfigured his philanthropy. He always revelled in giving away his money. 'If the world only knew half the happiness that a man has in doing good,' he used to say, 'it would do a great deal more.' And, when he first began to feel his need of a Saviour, he would add: 'I wish that my faith were as strong as my works I' And when faith came, his works were glorified by its coming ... He felt that it was not enough to give money. He was not content to post cheques to treasurers. In spite of the protests of his friends, he went fearlessly and familiarly among the thieves, tramps and vagrants who herded in London's squalor. 'I feel,' he explained, 'that nothing can reach to the depth of misery but the love of Jesus.' He made his wife promise that, if she was with him when he was dying, she would repeat that text to him.
The carriage is at the door. George Moore, now a man of seventy, is driving off to preside at a meeting of the Nurses' Association. But that speech was never to be delivered. He was knocked down by a pair of runaway horses. Mrs Moore hurried to the inn in which he was dying, and, bending over him, quoted the text in accordance with her promise. Verily, verily, I say unto you, He that heareth my word, and believeth on him that sent me, hath everlasting life, and shall not come into condemnation, but is passed from death unto life. 'He looked wistfully into my face,' says Mrs Moore, 'and told me that he was not afraid: his Saviour would never leave him nor forsake him. Several times afterwards he spoke to me, expressing the same trust. He knew perfectly well that he was dying; but his faith failed not.'
A Casket of Cameos, pp 14-17
January 21
Your labor is not vain in the Lord. — 1 Corinthians 15: 58
I was returning from Dunedin to Mosgiel by the late train, and found myself sharing a long compartment with one companion. The light was too dim to permit of reading; the jolting too violent to permit of sleeping. Then I thought, 'We two have been thrown together for an hour or more in this outlandish way. We shall never see each other again until we meet on the Day of Judgment. What right have I to let him go as though our tracks had never crossed?'
I took the seat facing him, and we soon struck up a pleasant conversation. Then I expressed the hope that we were fellow-travelers on life's greater journey. 'It's strange that you should ask me that,' he said, 'I've been thinking a lot about such things lately.'
'Well,' I said, in taking a farewell of him at Mosgiel, 'you may see your way to a decision as you make your way along the road. If so remember that you need no one to help you. Lift up your heart to the Saviour; He will understand!'
Five years passed. One Monday morning I was seated in the tram for Dunedin. A tall, dark man came through, handing each passenger a pamphlet. He gave me a copy of Safety, Certainty and Enjoyment. As our eyes met, he recognized me. 'You told me,' he said, 'if I saw my way to a decision, to lift up my heart to the Saviour on the road. And I did. I can't speak to people as you spoke to me; but I always bring a packet of booklets with me.' 'You must excuse me,' he went on. 'We are nearly there; and there are two more carriages yet!' And that was the last I ever saw of him. But the memory has often cheered me; many of our daily ministries are much more fruitful than they seem.
My Pilgrimage, pp 157-60
January 22
Sir John Franklin's Text
When thoupassest through the waters, I will be with thee. — Isaiah 43:2
A heap of books and bones —that was all! One after another, no fewer than forty intrepid navigators had invaded the awful solitudes of the Arctic seas in quest of some trace of Sir John Franklin and his gallant men; and this was the tardy and the meager reward of those long, long years of search! Sir Francis McClintock discovered an overturned and dilapidated boat. Underneath it, together with a few guns and watches they found a collection of bones and books. The men had been more than ten years dead. Sir John's last moments had been cheered by the knowledge, which came to him just in time, that the dreamed-of North-West Passage had been proved to be a fact. The other members of the expedition had made an attempt to save their lives by a last-minute dash.
It was the bones that principally interested
their discoverers; it is the books that must principally interest us. For
some of these saturated and frozen volumes were once the personal property
of Sir John Franklin. One of them is a battered copy of Dr John Todd's Student's
Manual. Sir John has turned down a leaf in order to mark a passage that appears
on almost the last page of the book.
'Are you not afraid to die?'
'No!'
'No! Why does the uncertainty of another state give you no concern?'
'Because God has said to me: "Fear not; when thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee...!"'
There, as though his frozen finger pointed to it, stands Sir John Franklin's text.
A Bunch of Everlastings, pp 29-30
January 23
It shall be a jubilee unto you. •
The postman has brought me a letter this morning that affords me peculiar satisfaction. It invites me to return for one notable Sunday to a pulpit in which, long ago, I spent twelve very happy years. 'We are celebrating our Jubilee,' the minister writes, 'and we all want you to be among us!' Our Jubilee! There is music in the very phrase. The word simply means a blare of trumpets. But you may search all the archives of antiquity for any enactment more suggestive than the Jewish law of jubilee. Every fiftieth year — the year that was welcomed with the blast of the silver trumpets — all lands and estates reverted to the possession of those who had owned them fifty years earlier. This important consideration was, of course, taken into account in all sales and purchases of property. The block of land sold immediately after the year of Jubilee would be worth about fifty times as much as the same block sold just as the year of Jubilee was approaching. All persons who, to pay their debts, had sold themselves into slavery during the fifty years, were compulsorily released when the silver trumpets sounded, and, under the laws relating to property, received back any estates which they or their progenitors had possessed when last the jubilee was celebrated.
The effect of such a law was obvious. No family could become excessively wealthy; none could become de-gradingly poor. The year of Jubilee was a year of Redemption; it was a year of Restoration, and it was a year of Emancipation.
Dreams at Sunset, pp 30-31
January 24
A lost opportunity
Lord, I have loved the habitation of thy house. — Psalm 26: 8
The transept of Old St Paul's was as large in itself as many of our existing cathedrals. It was several times struck by lightning; it was once burned almost to the ground and carefully rebuilt; but it held its dominating place in the hearts of Londoners until that memorable fourth of September when the Great Fire made an end of everything. During that week of horror a square mile of buildings was reduced to a black desert of cinders.
Christopher Wren was thirty-four at the time. The conflagration kindled his genius. Jealous for the beauty of the metropolis, he recognized in the disaster a priceless opportunity. Four days after the last flames had been extinguished, he sought an audience of the king and laid before him a comprehensive plan for a new city. Nobody has quite forgiven the short-sighted authorities of that stagnant period for rejecting the scheme so swiftly and brilliantly conceived.* Parts of the plan, including the designs for St Paul's, and for about fifty other churches, were accepted, and the beauty of those completed fragments only tantalizes the imagination of posterity by giving fleeting visions of what might have been. Wren was seeking the spot that was to represent the centre of the dome of his new cathedral, and ordered a workman to mark the exact place. The man glanced around, and hit upon a fragment of a shattered tombstone. The splinter bore one word of the broken epitaph— Resurgaml (I shall rise again!). In that word Wren heard the voice of the ruined cathedral: and the word is not without significance for us as we survey the wreckage of civilization today. A new Spring must emerge from the bleakest Winter; new life springs from death.
The Last Milestone, pp 109-10
January 25
Christ be with me, Christ within me, Christ behind me, Christ before me.
The Kingdom of Heaven is like unto leaven which a woman took and hid in three measures of meal till the whole was leavened. — Matthew 13:33
What did Jesus mean by the three measures of meal? Paul has a good deal to say about my spirit and soul and body; perhaps these are the three measures! Jesus may have meant that, once He is admitted to my life as the yeast is inserted in the meal, my whole spiritual being, my entire intellectual and emotional being, as well as every part of my physical being, will be permeated by His gracious influence and authority. Is the parable designed to indicate that, once Christ is enthroned in my heart, every thought that flits through my mind will be a purer thought, every word that drops from my lips will be a kinder word; every deed to which I set my hand will be a more helpful and unselfish deed?
Three measures of meal! My secret life, my domestic life, my business life! Did He mean that, if His divine grace is given its free course, my inner life will become like a Holy of Holies; my home-life will abound in sweetness and courtesy and charm; whilst my life out in the great world will be in every way worthy of the Holy Name I bear?
A tiny Babe! Who would have dreamed that a tiny Baby, inserted at Bethlehem into those three great measures of meal, the Past, the Present and the Future, could have brought about the salvation of mankind, the conquest of the ages?
Let each of us, bowing his head in reverential awe, pray that his life may be so endued with power from on high that all the world may be the richer and the better for it.
The Tide Comes In, pp 29-31
January 26
Lest that my fearful case should be, Each moment knit my soul to Thee.
Thou hast left thy first love. — Revelation 2:4
Do spoiled children, I wonder, ever grow up to be unselfish, considerate, chivalrous and kind? I only know that the cracked vase can never be mended; the bloom can never be restored to the peach; the bird with the broken pinion never soars so high again.
Yet Jeremiah tells us how he saw the vessel that had been marred in the making pressed by the potter into a lump of clay from which his deft ringers fashioned the shapely vessel of his dreams. I have seen something of the same kind happen again and again.
I have known a man to drift away from his first faith. The fires on the altar of his soul have died down. The vision has faded. The world, the flesh and the devil have been too much for him. Spoiled!
'I feel,' says Donald McFillan, minister of Aberfeldie, in a letter written after he had been thirty years in the ministry, 'that I am doing all that I used to do. Yet something has gone out of my life.' Spoiled! Yet I have known the man who had drifted, to return to his first anchorage; he sought his Saviour afresh and regained the joy of his early faith; and, as they know who have read McFillan's Memoirs, he discovered the real character of his loss and entered upon a period of fruitfulness such as, in earlier years, he had never known.
'Beware,' says Paul, 'lest any man spoil you.' But how, if spoiled, can I regain the treasure I have lost? In reply, Paul points his converts to Jesus, for, he says, 'In Him dwelleth all the fullness of the godhead bodily.' Draw heavily on Him; cleave closely to Him; lean hard on Him; make much of Him; and, the greater the hold that He establishes on your heart, the smaller will be the danger of your being numbered among God's spoiled children.
A Late Lark Singing, pp 79-80
January 27
Jubilee and Evangelism
let Israel hope in the Lord: for with the Lord there is mercy, and with him is plenteous redemption. — Psalm 130: 7
The year of Jubilee was a year of Redemption^ It began on the Great Day of Atonement; When the high priest had donned his garments of snowy white, he took two goats, the one as a sin-offering and the other as a scapegoat; He then solemnly sacrificed the former, and, with its blood, sprinkled the mercy seat and the holy place.; Then, coming forth, he laid his hands on the head of the second goat, confessing over it the sins of the congregation.: And, whilst the people were weeping and lamenting their transgressions, the animal was driven away into the wilderness.; Priest and people watched it vanishing into infinity, and as soon as the scrape^ goat had entirely disappeared, the silver trumpets rang out; sadness gave way to gladness; the year of Jubilee had begun!
The truth typified by all this stands crystal clear. AU our rejoicing is based on redemption.; It is because Christ, the Son of God, once suffered for our sins upon the bitter tree, that our hearts overflow with adoring gratitude.; All the jubilation of the ages is based on the darkness of Gethsemane and the agony of Calvary. Up to the Cross all the world's sins and sorrows went groaning: down from the Cross all its joys come streaming.
A year of jubilee, to be true to its traditions, should be a year of passionate evangelism, a year in which multitudes of stragglers and waverers should be led into the Valley of Decision.
Dreams at Sunset, p 31
January 28
Nor let His eye
See sin, but through my tears Ye shall be sorrowful, but your sorrow shall be turned to joy. — John 16:20
At first blush, the Second Beatitude appears to be a contradiction in terms. 'Happy is the mourner!' If he be happy, how can he mourn? and, if he sincerely mourn, how can genuine happiness be his? Yet it is sublimely possible! To those who, at noonday, walk in green pastures and by still waters, the sky is an unstudded vault of blue; but to those who, from the abysmal depths of a mine, look up through the long shaft at the same sky, it is at that same hour bespangled with sparkling stars. The purity of the lily is never so pronounced as when seen against a dark background; the deep bass notes give verve and grandeur to the song; long absence lends wondrous lustre to the twinkling lights of home. Only the pain-wracked know the blissful tranquility of painlessness; only the watcher through the midnight hours knows how to welcome the dawn; and, similarly, only the mourner can enjoy true blessedness.
In the middle of the nineteenth century a young minister visited Dundee. He was oppressed by the fact that, in spite of diligent study and conscientious labor, his work was not flourishing. He felt that he would like to visit the scene of Robert Murray McCheyne's seraphic ministry. McCheyne had recently died at the age of thirty, yet, before dying, he f had moved Scotland to its very depths. What was the secret of his amazing influence? The old sexton of St Peter's led the youthful enquirer into the vestry. 'Sit down there,' he said. 'Now, put your elbows on the table. That was the way McCheyne used to do:' The visitor obeyed. 'Now, put your face into your hands ... now let the tears flow That was the way McCheyne used to do!'
The Heavenly Octave, pp 42-44
January 29
The heart has reasons which the reason does not know
The Lord did not set his love upon you because ye were more in number than any people ... but because the Lord loved you. — Deuteronomy 7: 7-8
'More than once in an emergency at sea,' said Grenfell, the hero of Labrador, 'I have swiftly decided upon a certain line of action. If I had waited to hem my reason into a corner before adopting that course, I should not be here to tell the tale,' Whether we realize it or not, we do most things because. As Pascal told us long ago, 'the heart has reasons which the reason does not know. It is the heart that feels God, not the reasons.'
Grenfell was questioned as to his faith in immortality, 'I believe in it,' he replied, 'because I believe in it. I am sure of it, because I am sure of it!' Precisely.: We believe because.: And then, on our sure faith, we pile up a stupendous avalanche of Christian evidences! A man loves a woman just because he loves her, and he could not in a thousand volumes give an intelligent and convincing explanation of his preference. And - let me say it in a hushed and reverent whisper — God loves in much the same way. 'The Lord did not set His love upon you because.; -. but because the Lord loved you!' He loved because He loved. He loved because.
I intend, therefore, to proclaim the magnificent verities of the Christian gospel. I shall talk with absolute certainty, and with unwavering confidence, about the sin of man, the love of God, the Cross of Christ. If my message is met with a 'why' or a 'wherefore', I have only one reply — 'Because!' There is nothing else to be said. The preacher lives to tell a wonderful love-story. And a love-story is never arguable. 'God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son!' Why? Because!
Mushrooms on the Moor, pp 109-13
January 30
Sing the goodness of the Lore - Isaac Watt
I will sing with the spirit, and I will sing with the understanding also. — 1 Corinthians 14:15
I want you to peep over this gentleman's shoulder and take a swift glance into the room that he is just about to enter. He is the Right Honorable Arthur Onslow, Speaker of the House of Commons. Having heard that Doctor Isaac Watts is nearing his end, he feels somewhat ashamed of the; circumstance that he has never made it his business to meet so good and so eminent a man. He has therefore made up his mind, before it is too late, to repair the omission.
And here he is! And there, not in bed, but hunched up in his big study-chair, is a tiny, bony, pinch-faced wisp of humanity, almost hidden in the ample folds of a gaily-flowered dressing-gown, and looking for all the world like a little wizened Chinese mandarin! This, if you please, is the greatest hymn-writer of all times,* the man whose songs are destined to be sung by all the churches as long as the language endures!
To his life-long chagrin, he was very small.
He loathed the sight of his diminutive figure whenever he glimpsed it in a
mirror. But in many respects he was a giant! 'He stands absolutely alone,'
said Thomas Wright. 'He has no peer. He is the greatest of the great.' Wright
added that if nothing from his pen has attained to the popularity of Toplady's
Rock of Ages, or is quite so affecting as Cowper's God moves in a mysterious
way, or if he lacks the mellifluence of Charles Wesley or the equipoise of
John Newton, the fact remains that he wrote a larger number of hymns of the
first rank than any other writer.
He was literally a born poet.
A Late Lark Singing, pp 29-31
January 31
The Wafted Fragrance
The grace of the Lord Jesus Christ and the love of (God and the communion of the Holy Ghost be with you all. — 2 Corinthians 13:14
The benediction does not concern itself with the Persons of the Trinity, but with their attributes. It does not say: The Lord Jesus Christ be with you! ... it says, Grace be with you! Love be with you! Fellowship be with you! Pure religion and undefiled consists in personal contact with the divine; and the benediction affirms that, if a man is really in personal and intimate contact with the divine, he will be infected by those exquisite qualities that are the distinguishing traits of divinity.
We are familiar with the Persian fable that tells how a lump of clay, by close contact with a fragrant blossom, became drenched in its perfume. So the man who walks with God will become permeated by the lovely qualities of deity. He cannot enter into rapt relationship with the Lord Jesus Christ without himself becoming gracious; he cannot dwell in the secret place of the Most High ... without himself becoming affectionate, since God is love; and he cannot come under the spell and tutelage of the Holy Spirit without himself becoming wonderfully gentle and approachable and helpful.
A commercial traveler, visiting a little town in Cornwall, heard a siren. Shortly afterwards he detected a most delicious perfume. He glanced around, expecting to see some little plot in which wallflowers and musk, violets and mignonette were luxuriating. Nowhere could he see anything but dusty old warehouses and offices. He met a man with whom he had been doing business earlier in the day and told him of his perplexity; and he explained that the siren was the signal for the girls at the perfume factory to leave for lunch, and, in scurrying up the streets on their way to their homes, they distributed the perfume everywhere!
The Tide Comes In, pp 34-35