This meant for Jeremiah not only the loss of personal joys and delights, but that his line would be broken off from his father's family. He would be without heir, or future, in the family history. So following meant going yet deeper into the inner personal life, for the sake of God's plan. This giant's strength is revealed in nothing more than in his tear-wet laments over his people. And he gave all this strength to following. He said "Yes" to God's need and request, though it must have taken his very life to say it.

But Ezekiel was asked to do something even beyond this. He was the messenger of God to the colony of Hebrew exiles in Assyria. His accounts of the visions of God reveal a remarkable power of detailed description, and a remarkably strong mentality. Strange to say, these people in captivity are yet harder to reach than were their fathers in their native land. Yet, not strange, for the human heart is the same when it won't open to the purifying of the upper currents of air. Here the man himself literally became the message. He actually lay upon his left side for thirteen months and then on his right side for six weeks longer.

During all that time he ate food that was particularly repugnant, and it was carefully weighed out, and the water as carefully measured out for his use. He had to rise, no doubt, for various reasons, but the bulk of the time for nearly fifteen months he lay out where all could see him. His fellow-exiles, I suppose, looked and wondered, laughed and gossiped perhaps, and then as time wore on, they thought and thought more, and were awed as they began slowly to take in the meaning of this strange message of God. Thereafter Ezekiel was the leader, to whose house the leaders of the colony came, and to whose words they intently listened.

But there was a yet deeper meaning to following than we have found yet. It is a meaning that awes one's heart into amazed silence. He was married. His wife is spoken of very tenderly as "the desire of thine eyes." He was told that she would be taken away out of his life. She would die. That was the great thing. Then he was not to mourn outwardly for her; this was the second thing. He was to be before the people as though the greatest sorrow of his life had not happened. Is it any wonder the people came astonished to know what this meant? The simple brevity with which he tells of the occurrence takes hold of one's heart. "So I spake unto the people in the morning; and at even my wife died; and I did in the morning as I was commanded."[119] There was no questioning, no hesitancy of action, but a simple, prompt obedience, even though his heart was breaking. This was what God asked of him. God needed this in His dealings with these people of His in whom His world-plan centred. How desperate must have been the need that called for such an experience as this! Ezekiel said "Yes" even to this. Surely there was here some of that Calvary meaning, of the secondary sort, of which we have spoken together. Following meant not only giving his personality and life, but now it meant giving what must have been more than life itself.



Through Fire.

To Daniel following meant something essentially different. He was not a messenger to his own people, nor their leader. He was a messenger to the great world-rulers of his time, through the visions he interpreted, and through his unbending faithfulness and purity of life; The thing that stands out largest is the life he lived, a life of simplicity in habit, of purity and consistency, with an unwavering faith in God. God could use him to speak to the great emperors. So he helped God to get His message to men so hard to reach through a human channel.

Following meant a pure life. It was Daniel's insistence on being pure and true that shut him up with the wild beasts. And it was through his unflinching fidelity and persistence that God could send His message anew, in the most public manner, out to all the millions of that great world-empire. Following meant to a marked degree a pure life as the basis of the service rendered. It proved to mean a lions' den, and the power of God overcoming the instincts of ravenous beasts. But clear beyond these it meant that God could reach His world with His message to an unusual extent.

Daniel's three companions helped God by means of a most thrilling experience, a really terrible experience. God had been pleading with the great Nebuchadnezzar through Daniel's message. Now He wants to speak again in a way that will compel attention. He needs these three young men. They consent to be His messengers. It meant going through a terrible ordeal. They simply remained true in their personal devotion to God. This was the thing God needed, and used. Everything of use to God roots down in the life. The personal plea of the great king, and the prospect of a horrible death fail alike to move them. They probably had quite resigned themselves to the fate of being burned alive for the truth. But God had a different purpose. He was thinking about this ruler with whom He dealt so personally and unusually, time and again.

The three men, walking quietly up and down in the seven-times heated furnace in company with a glorious looking person "like a son of the gods"—this was the message God wanted spoken to the ruler He was pleading with. His strangely marvellous power, and His personal regard for His faithful followers—this was what God was trying to say to Nebuchadnezzar. He asked the use of these three young men. Their personal loyalty to Himself even unto death—this was what He wanted. Through this He reached the heart of the man He was after.

The experience of these men is an intensely interesting study. It was a fearful ordeal that they went through. Yet it was wholly mental, and of the spirit. They suffered no pain of body, nor inconvenience. The fire only made them free, burned up the bonds that held them. It took great strength of will, of decision, to stay steady through all the fearful test. Yet nothing happened to their bodies except to help them. God took care of that. They gave Him what He asked. He gave them more than they expected. They probably expected death and were willing. God had a deeper plan He was working out. How glad they must have been that they followed fully, that they didn't disappoint God.

Following meant simply being true, even though the road led through a furnace. God would attend to the furnace. Their part was simply to follow where He led. And our God is needing just such acted messages to-day. He is longing for just such opportunities to reveal His power and love, not merely to us, but through us to His world.

Let us take time for one more of these faithful followers. This time it is a young woman. It is at the most critical juncture of God's plan, thus far. He needed a woman whom He could use to bring His Son, and could use further to mother that Son's early years. All unconsciously Mary of Nazareth and of Bethlehem was fitting into His plan in her life, her simple, pure, godly, personal life. We can understand that God wooed her especially to such a life of heart devotion as a preparation for the after part. And she said "Yes" to all His wooings, never suspecting what was to come of it. You never know how much a simple "Yes" to God may mean, or a "No." You never know how much of service may grow out of the true life. Yet all true service is something coming out of the life.

Then the plan of God was made known to her,—the marvellous plan, yet so simple to Him. And again she said a simple, awed "Yes." She waits only long enough to ask the natural, woman's question as to method. There was no questioning of God's power, what He could do, and would do. It came to mean hurting suspicion, peculiarly hurting to as pure and gentle a soul as she. Apparently this was unavoidable. It speaks volumes for her openness of both mind and heart to God, that she instantly took in Gabriel's meaning, and could take it in that such an unprecedented thing was possible. It would have saved her the cruel suspicion if Joseph had been told beforehand, but the whole probability is that he could not have taken it in that such a thing was possible.

Following meant the glad "Yes" to the early wooing up to a pure devoted life. It meant saying a further "Yes" to the plan of God even though something so unusual, and with it the misunderstanding and cruel suspicion, on the one point most sensitive to a woman, and by the one nearest her. But she said "Yes" both times. She let God have the use of her life for His plan. That was all He asked. That is all He asks. But that is what He asks.

These are a few of the glorious company of followers, the goodly fellowship of those who have helped God in His passionate plan for His world, the noble army of willing ones. But the number is incomplete. The plan is not yet fully worked out. The need is not yet wholly met. It was never more urgent. To-day the insistent voice still comes as of old, asking you and me to follow.

And no one can tell how much his following may mean to God in reaching His world.



The Glory Of The Goal,—Face to Face



"With You Always.".

Have you ever seen Christ? No, I don't mean have you been to some uplifting convention, and been tremendously caught by some talented, earnest speaker, and been swayed by the atmosphere of the hour and place, and felt that all was not just as it should be with you; and then you prayed more, and made some new resolves, or re-made some old ones, and left off some things, and put on some things; I don't mean that, but this—have you ever seen Christ?

No, of course, you don't see Him with these outer eyes. Well, then just what do I mean practically? This—has there come to you a real sense of Himself? of His presence? of the tremendous plea His presence makes? and, possibly, you don't know just how to answer. You say, "I'm not just sure," or "How can I know?" Well, you'll never say it that way, nor ask that question again after the experience has come.

May I tell you a little bit about it? Yet, mark you, only "a little bit." You can never tell another one what it means to see Him. When once the sight has come, every word you utter about it, or Him, seems so lame and weak that you despair of ever being able to let out at your lips what has gotten into you. But let me try, even if lamely, in the eager yearning that it may help you know if, thus far, you have missed seeing Him, and maybe—so much better—help you to see Him. For until you have—well, nothing, absolutely nothing, is worth while.

When you see Him there comes such a sense of His purity that, instantly, you are down on your face in utter despair, because of your own self—your impurity; your lack of purity; the sharp contrast between Him and you. You feel that young Isaiah's outcry in the temple that morning is wholly inadequate. "Unclean lips," is it? Why, the whole thing, from innermost recesses clear through and out, is unclean. Then it dawns upon you that this is really what Isaiah is feeling and trying to express in his "woe" and "undone."

And that vivid sense of contrast between Him and you never grows less, but more acute and deeper. Even when you come to know Him better, and the sweet peace comes with its untellable balm to your spirit, yet you are always conscious of the contrast, and you know that you are not pure; only He is; and all you can do is to keep under the cleansing stream of His blood, very low down.

"Never higher than His pierced feet, Never farther than His bleeding side."

With that comes such a sense of Himself, of His—what word can tell it?—His glory,—which means simply His character, what He is in Himself—that again words can never tell out the sense of your own littleness; no, that is not the word, your own nothingness. And now you recall, with an inner shrinking, how well you have thought of yourself, how much you have talked about yourself and your view of things, perhaps in the language of a properly phrased humility. Now you are dumb. His presence dumbs you. You begin to wonder at the strange self-confidence and self-complacence that have been so common even in your holiest moments and experiences. It seems, in this Presence, as though you could never open your lips again—except to speak of Him.

Then your eyes are drawn more intently to His person,—His face, His wounds. The scars where the thorns tore His great, patient face; the grief-whitened hair, draped above those deep, tender, unspeakable eyes; that strangely rough place in the palm so lovingly outstretched; the spear-scar, the nail-marks in those feet coming over to you,—these grip you. Their meaning begins to come. There's cleansing; yes, blessed fact! there's cleansing from this horrid impurity whose stain you are so conscious of. Yet, what it cost Him! What my impurity forced upon Him! Yes, cleansed; blessed Jesus! What a relief to be cleansed! Yet I must stay under the stream; only so can the sense of relief be continual. And I must stay down on my face at His feet. It is the only place for such as I discover myself to be. Yet what grace to let me stay at His feet!

Have you seen Christ? This is what begins to come when you have—His purity, your contrasted lack; His glorious self, your own nothingness in yourself; His suffering—the price of your cleansing. This is only a beginning, yet a beginning that comes to be the continuous thing.



Closer Acquaintance.

After a little, as you are sitting still in His presence, and have become a bit quieter after that flush of first emotions at seeing Him, you begin to be caught all anew with how lovable He is. This takes great hold of you. I overheard a once-drunken, now thoroughly changed man, up in Scotland, as he was fairly pouring out his heart in prayer in his sweet, broad Scotch,—"Once Thou didst have no form or comeliness to me, but now"—and it seemed as if all the pent-up feelings within rushed at once to flood-tide—"now Thou art the chiefest among ten thousand, and the One altogether lovely." And the high-water mark of the flood was touched on "chiefest" and "altogether."

That first look made you think mostly of your-self—an inner loathing. Now you think of Him. He is so lovable, so true and tender, and patient and pure; again your language gives out, and you feel better content just to look without trying to use words. They're such poor things when it comes to telling about Him. He is so much more than anything that can be said about Him. His will is so wise and thoughtful and far-reaching and loving. Strange how stupid you have been in insisting so strenuously and blindly on having your own way. His plan, His thought about everything concerning you, is so superb. And He asks me to be His follower. What joy! What if the way be a bit rough; it's following Him; that's enough. He calls me to be His personal friend. I can hardly take it in,—His friend? Yes, that's His own word. Well, let any thorns tear because of the narrowing of the road; I'm His friend, man, do you hear? His friend,—do you get hold of that word? What can any thorn thing do against that!

"We" may go hand in hand now,—His is pierced; I feel the scar where our hands touch. But we're together at last, the thing He has been working for. I can feel His presence. I can hear the low music of His voice within. Thorns don't count here. Oh, yes, I feel them; they haven't lost their power to slash and sting,—but—with Him so close alongside!—Wondrous Christ, here I am at Thy feet, Thy glad slave forever. I'm wholly Thine. It's my own choice. I'll never go any other way by Thy grace. This is the second bit that comes, the glad surrender of life to His mastery. Do you know about this? You will, when you've seen Christ.

Then you come to know, without being able to tell just how, that He is not only with you, but within you. At first His presence may have seemed as something outside yourself. You were looking away at some One who was looking at you. And His look at you broke your heart, and made your will, once so strangely strong in itself, now as strangely pliable to His as only a strong will can be. But now He is living within you. You may not be clear just how the change came. But you do know that there's a something which you come to know is a some One, who is within. His presence is peace past understanding, but not past appreciation. There's a longing for His Word, a desire to talk with Him even when you don't want to ask for something, a deep heart-cry for purity, a burning within to please Him. These all seem to come from Him, and at the same time to be satisfied by Himself, even while they remain and increase.

And yet more, while this Presence within seems so quietly real and exquisitely peace-bringing, there is still the outer presence, the One whose presence it was at the first that brought all this change. Two presences, one above, enthroned there; one within, enthroned there; yet they seem the same, as though one personality with two presences had come into your consciousness. There's the Lord Jesus above at the Father's right hand; here's the Holy Spirit within at my right hand,[120] yet in practical effect they are as one, while one's thought is always directed to the Lord Jesus both within and above.

The Presence within makes you think wholly of the Presence above, who yet seems also to be within. You are getting a taste of the practical meaning of the Trinity now, three that in effect are as one. But you are too much taken up with the gladness of it to think about the metaphysics of it. He—whether within, or above, or both—is so much more than words. The experience is so much more than any explanation. You are not concerned about the explanation so long as you can have the sweet experience.



The Final Goal.

This is the third bit that comes when you've seen Christ, the gracious indwelling of the Lord Jesus' other self, the Holy Spirit. But if you have seen Him, you are probably not counting steps nor analyzing processes, but just singing a bit of joyous praise to Him.

Then there's the outer turn; He does that. He draws you to Himself, and yet at the same time sends you away—no, not from Him—for Him, out to the others He hungers after, even as after you. Up, in, out,—so He draws and directs, up to Himself, in by contrast to one's self with a holding hard to Him while looking within, then a sending out to the others. He kindles a fire, He is a fire, drawing, burning, cleansing, warming, then driving you forth, and doing all at the same time. Wondrous fine, this fire of love—of His heart—of Himself. The common word for this is "service." The word doesn't matter much. Service is a good word. But the thing that comes seems so much more than this word seems to contain.

That hand that was pierced, which has been to you so tender and warm, and in its clasp so expressive of this wondrous friendship—that hand now leads you where you had not thought of going. And you go,—aghast almost at first at the radical change in your carefully worked out plans, losing your breath for a moment as you wonder what "they" will think (though "they" never will understand, unless—ah, yes, unless they see Him). That hand reaches in where your life touches others, in the family, the business circle, the social circle, and moulds you over anew in the old relationships, not taking you away from them (though there may be some partings), but making you a new presence in the midst of them.

That hand reaches into your pocket, and your safety-deposit box, in among the title papers and securities, and shakes off the dust and rust, and sends them out on an errand after the others. That fire—Himself—draws all into the smelting-pot. Its alchemy transmutes possessions into lives, redeemed, sweetened, Jesus-touched, Christ-renewed lives, made like Himself. And the sweet music of their new lives comes up into His gladdened ears, and a few of the strains come to cheer you. One may have at first a strange feeling of bareness, for things that we've always clung to as essential have gone out from us to others. But with the outgoing of things has come an incoming of Himself, in greater abundance than we dreamed possible. He, within, completely overbalances what He has sent out from us into use. He—He is everything.

The usual word for all this is "service," a blessed word. Yet service seems to suggest your doing something for Him among others. This is quite different. It is His doing something with you for others. The thing itself is so much more than any word. Christ is so much more than anything you say about Him. The truth is always less than Himself. But one never understands how much that means till he has seen Christ. Have you seen Christ? Then others shall see Him, too, in you, and through you.

This is the glory of the goal—face to face with Himself. It begins now. It is a very real thing. This is a bit of the meaning of that mountain beatitude, "the pure in heart ... shall see God." Yet only he who sees understands what seeing means. The subtle intensity of God's presence cannot be explained, only understood by the purified in heart. Only the opened eyes see.

But this is only a beginning. There will be the far greater glory of the final goal, as we come into His immediate presence, literally face to face. That may be when we are called away from the lower road up to the higher reaches, above the clouds and the blue, the glory-reaches, up where He now sits. It may be by that goal coming nearer, by Himself actually coming on the clouds in great glory, for His own and for the next chapter in His great world-plan. Then we shall be caught up into His presence. Then we shall be fully like Him, for we shall see Him as He is.

And we shall be sharers in His glory, in the Kingdom time of glad earth service. But we shall be thinking only of Himself—face to face.



Footnotes

[1] John i. 1, 2, 14, 18; Colossians i. 15; II Corinthians iv. 4; Philippians ii. 6; Hebrews i. 3.

[2] John xv. 15; Psalm xxv. 14; Isaiah xli. 8; II Chronicles xx. 7; James ii. 23.

[3] Matthew iv. 4; where the emphatic word is "man," standing in contrast with "Son of God" in verse 3.

[4] Acts xvii. 28; Job xii. 10; Daniel v. 23 l.c.; Psalm cxxxix. 1-16.

[5] Philippians ii. 6-8.

[6] Romans xii. 19; Deuteronomy xxxii. 35; Psalm xciv. 1; Proverbs xx. 22; I Peter ii. 23; I Corinthians xiii. 5, second clause.

[7] John xi. 41, 42; xii. 27, 28; Luke x. 21.

[8] Deuteronomy viii. 17, 18.

[9] Matthew v. 3.

[10] John viii. 28, 29.

[11] Genesis i. 26-28.

[12] 1 Philippians ii. 8; Hebrews v. 8; Romans v. 19 l.c.; John x. 18 l.c.

[13] Hebrews ii. 18.

[14] Hebrews xii. 29.

[15] Romans iii. 26, latter half; free reading—"that He (God) might be seen to be just and righteous in forgiving a man's sin when he trusted in Jesus."

[16] Eden: delight.

[17] Genesis ii. 8-20.

[18] Genesis iii. 8, 9

[19] Genesis iv.-vi.

[20] Genesis vi. 6; Deuteronomy v. 29; Psalm lxxxi. 13; Isaiah xlviii. 18.

[21] Mark xii. 1-8; II Chronicles xxxvi. 15, 16—These passages, and many similar, while speaking directly of the one nation Israel, are giving a picture of the heart of God toward all men, and His habit of action. Israel itself was the messenger-nation, whose life was meant to be God's message of love to all the race.

[22] John i. 1-18, especially verses 1-5, 14.

[23] John i. 14 f.c.

[24] Matthew ii. 22, 23.

[25] John i. 19-28.

[26] E. C. Clephane.

[27] Psalm xl. 8 f.c.; John iv. 34; Hebrews xii. 2.

[28] Matthew xi. 28.

[29] Matthew iv. 19, with Luke v. 1-11.

[30] Matthew xi. 29, 30.

[31] John xiii. 31-xvi. 33.

[32] John xx. 21.

[33] Matthew xxviii. 18-20.

[34] John i. 35-42.

[35] Matthew iv. 18-22, with Luke v. 1-11.

[36] Matthew x. 1-5; Mark iii. 14-19; Luke vi. 12-17.

[37] Matthew xvi. 13-28.

[38] Matthew xvi. 24; Mark viii. 34; Luke ix. 23.

[39] Matthew xxvi. 58.

[40] John xxi. 15-19.

[41] Acts v. 41.

[42] I John.

[43] Acts i, 1.

[44] Luke xiv. 25-35.

[45] Mark x. 17-22.

[46] In "Other Sheep," by Harold Begbie.

[47] Luke xiv. 25-35, with Matthew v. 13.

[48] Luke xxi. 28.

[49] Mark x. 17-22.

[50] Acts xxii. 11, with ix. 1-9.

[51] Luke xxiv. 40; John xx. 20.

[52] John i. 19-28.

[53] Romans viii. 34; Hebrews vii. 25.

[54] I John ii. 1; Hebrews ix. 24.

[55] Isaiah xi 2; lxi. 1, with Luke iv. 18-21.

[56] Psalm xxv. 3 f.c.

[57] John iii. 34 f.c.

[58] Isaiah xliv. 3; John vii. 37-39.

[59] Acts viii. 4-8, 26-40.

[60] Matthew v. 42.

[61] Isaiah xxxviii. 17, margin.

[62] Matthew iv. 23; ix. 35.

[63] Luke v. 15, 16. The language underneath here suggests a habitual going aside to pray, as an offset to the work with the crowds.

[64] Matthew xxv. 40.

[65] James i. 2, 3.

[66] Matthew vi. 13.

[67] James i. 13.

[68] Matthew xxvi. 41.

[69] John xiii., xiv.

[70] John xv., xvi.

[71] John xvii.

[72] Lucy Rider Meyer.

[73] Exodus xxxii. 31, 32

[74] Romans ix. 1-3.

[75] II Corinthians iv. 12.

[76] Colossians i. 24.

[77] I Corinthians xv. 3, 4.

[78] Acts i. 1.

[79] Matthew xxvii. 59, 60.

[80] Matthew xxvii. 62, 66.

[81] John xii. 24.

[82] John xii. 20-32.

[83] Isaiah v. 20.

[84] Matthew xvi. 21-28.

[85] John xv.

[86] Hebrews xii. 2.

[87] II Corinthians iii. 18.

[88] Romans viii. 11.

[89] II Corinthians iv. 11. "Dying" in these two passages does not mean being in the process of dissolution, but that the body is subject to death.

[90] Ephesians i. 20, 21; Acts ii. 33; John xiv. 12, 13; Romans viii. 34; Hebrews vii. 25; ix. 24.

[91] Colossians iii. I; Ephesians ii. 6.

[92] Psalm xxii. 8, 9.

[93] Revelation ii. 26, 27; v. 10; xx. 4.

[94] Psalm lxxxiv. 11.

[95] Anonymous, in "Egyptian Mission News," copied from S. M. Zwemer's "Unoccupied Fields of the World."

[96] Hebrews x. 12, 13.

[97] Revelation ii., iii.

[98] Numbers xiv. 24 xxxii. 12; Deuteronomy i. 36; Joshua xiv. 8, 9, 14.

[99] Matthew xvi. 24.

[100] John xii. 26.

[101] John vi. 70.

[102] Matthew xix. 27.

[103] Luke ix. 51-54.

[104] Genesis xvi.

[105] Galatians ii 11-14.

[106] Luke ii. 49.

[107] Zechariah xiv. 4.

[108] Hebrews xiii. 20, 21.

[109] Exodus xxxii. 31, 32.

[110] Romans ix. 1-3.

[111] Psalm xlix. 7.

[112] Genesis iv. 12-16.

[113] Genesis vi. 17, 18.

[114] Hosea i. 2-9; iii 1-3.

[115] Isaiah vii. 3-17.

[116] Isaiah viii. 1-3.

[117] Isaiah xx. 1-4.

[118] Jeremiah xvi. 1-4.

[119] Ezekiel xxiv. 15-19.

[120] Psalm xvi. 8.

THE END